Chapter 5: Moon Beyond the Veil
"Beneath still skies where morning breaks, unseen,
A hidden mark stirs realms between."
---
While the schemes were being woven and stages were staged behind closed doors and in faraway lands, in another corner of Lianfeng Sect...
Wei Yehan's footsteps were soundless against the white jade path, his pale blue robes drifting with the early morning breeze like petals on a pond. He wasn't headed anywhere in particular. Around him, the lotus ponds shimmered with dawnlight, the mist curling like breath from sleeping dragons. Insects buzzed lazily, birds chirped with morning restlessness, but it all seemed... far away.
He stopped beneath a flowering magnolia tree. The branches curved low overhead, white blossoms opening slowly to the sun. A perfect place, quiet and forgotten—for now.
With no one around, he sighed and lifted his left hand, palm up.
At first, nothing.
Then the air shifted.
Something shimmered faintly across his skin—not flame, not lightning, not any spiritual aura known to the five elements. It was like a ripple across the surface of a dream. In his palm, a circular mark flickered into being, as if inked by starlight. For a moment, it pulsed—not just light, but space itself curving inward, impossibly deep.
Not even he knew what it was. The first time it had appeared, he was thirteen and had collapsed by a riverbank, feverish and delirious. Since then, it came and went—only under specific skies, in strange silences, in moments when the veil of the world felt thin.
It didn't hurt.
But it never felt quite real either.
Wei Yehan tilted his head, regarding the mark with mild curiosity, the way one might examine a spider's web glistening in morning dew. Beautiful. Fragile. Impossible.
"Still here, huh?" he murmured. "Even among all these dragons and phoenixes."
The mark pulsed once more, then vanished—leaving nothing but smooth, unblemished skin.
He lowered his hand and turned, hearing voices echo faintly from the Hall in the distance.
The sects were moving their pieces. The game had begun.
But Wei Yehan? He was something else entirely. A stone placed not by a player, but by the board itself.
And someday, the board would have to reckon with it.
---
By mid-morning, Wei Yehan had returned to the Lotus Fragrance Courtyard. The world had shifted minutely since dawn, though only he seemed to notice. Courtyard chatter had already turned to the newly announced groupings for the Spirit Assessment Ceremony. Whispers trailed through corridors like wind.
Group Seven was the talk of every corner—the heirs of four great sects placed together. Some called it fortune. Others, a setup for rivalry. Few saw it as balance.
The first gathering came quietly. A courtyard lined with smooth flagstones and low hedges of tea blossom served as their meeting ground. Morning haze still clung to the corners, and dew sparkled on the leaves like crystal dust.
Jian Qingzhou of Yunjian Sect arrived first, his long sleeves fluttering as he stretched and yawned, as though this were all a casual stroll. Yue Chenxiao followed, precise and silent, nodding politely to the others. Feng Yusheng came last, dressed in ceremonial robes, quiet as snowfall.
Wei Yehan was already there, lounging on a low stone bench with a stalk of bamboo between his fingers, which he had borrowed from who-knows-where. "Gentlemen," he said, grinning, "are we to spar, recite poetry, or simply stare meaningfully at each other until enlightenment strikes?"
Jian Qingzhou laughed. "I vote for the staring. Very profound."
Feng Yusheng gave him a look. "I vote for silence."
Yue Chenxiao smiled faintly, folding his hands. "Perhaps we can achieve all three."
They began light forms—basic drills meant more to warm spirit channels than test skill. But under the surface, each disciple measured the others. Blades sheathed, tempers hidden, but eyes sharp.
And then it came.
A flicker. A chill.
The morning wind shifted. The air buzzed with a momentary dissonance, as though some invisible string had been plucked.
Wei Yehan paused mid-step. His hand twitched toward his left palm, but the mark didn't return.
Feng Yusheng turned his head sharply, gaze lifting toward the distant sky. Jian Qingzhou paused, glancing around as if searching for the source of the unease. Only Yue Chenxiao closed his eyes, brow furrowing.
"Did anyone else feel that?" Jian Qingzhou asked.
"An imbalance in the spiritual current," Yue Chenxiao murmured. "Brief. But wrong."
"Could just be nerves," Wei Yehan offered lightly. "We are, after all, gathered for judgment."
Feng Yusheng didn't reply. He was still staring into the distance, unreadable.
---
Elsewhere—far beyond the sect walls, in a forgotten shrine choked with ash and vines—the circle of robed figures stirred restlessly beneath the broken gaze of a long-fallen deity.
"It flared again," one rasped. "The mark responds. The veil is weakening."
"We must find him."
"And if we do not?" another snarled. "The seal will break of its own accord. The Spirit Realm will bleed into this one."
"Then let it. Let the heavens tear. We were promised the border would fall."
One figure remained silent, running a single blackened finger along the altar stone. The corrupted sigils etched into its surface glowed faintly—like old wounds.
"He is among them," the silent one finally said. "The boy with the mark. The key."
A cold hush followed.
"Send it, then," one hissed. "Send the whisper. The realm will reach for him. And when it does... we shall be waiting."
---
By afternoon, meeting concluded. The members of Group Seven dispersed, each returning to their own corners with more questions than answers.
Wei Yehan lingered near the magnolia tree again, arms folded, eyes half-lidded.
He raised his left hand once more.
No mark came.
But he felt it. Watching. Waiting.
From beyond the veil.
A breath of wind stirred the magnolia blossoms.
He whispered, "Still watching, are you?"
No answer came.
Only silence. But it was not empty.
Not anymore.
"What are you doing here, alone?"
The voice was calm, deep, and unmistakably real—cutting through the silence like a ripple across still water.
Wei Yehan didn't flinch, though his eyes shifted—slow, deliberate—toward the source of the voice.
Feng Yusheng stood at the edge of the courtyard path, his dark robes still bearing the scent of mountain wind and incense from the hall. Sunlight caught faint on the silver embroidery along his sleeves, but his gaze remained shadowed, unreadable.
Wei Yehan offered a wry half-smile. "I could ask the same. Didn't you already returned to your courtyard?"
Feng Yusheng didn't answer at first. He walked closer, his boots making no sound over the jade tiles. The magnolia tree swayed slightly as if acknowledging his presence. For a moment, he said nothing—just stared at Wei Yehan's left hand, now hanging loosely at his side.
"There's something strange in the air this morning," he murmured, voice low. "It clings to this place."
Wei Yehan didn't deny it. "Maybe the blossoms are blooming too early."
Feng Yusheng's gaze flicked upward—toward the curling mist, the shifting sky, the way even the birds had gone quiet.
"Or maybe something's stirring that shouldn't be."
A long pause stretched between them. Wind slipped through the branches overhead, and magnolia petals fluttered down like soft warnings.
Then Feng Yusheng's voice softened. "You should be careful where you linger, Wei-gongzi."
Wei Yehan arched a brow. "Are you warning me... or offering protection?"
Feng Yusheng's lips lifted faintly, though it wasn't quite a smile. "If I were offering protection, you'd already be standing behind me."
And with that, he turned to leave, his silhouette dissolving into the shifting light of the courtyard.
Wei Yehan watched him go.
Then, very softly, almost to himself, he said,
"Some shadows don't stay behind."
The breeze whispered in reply, and far beyond the veil, something listened.