BLACKWOOD
Taotao had questions. They grew more insistent by the moment, tangled with anger and something far more volatile beneath it. Yet fear held him in place, tightening around his chest, warning him not to speak too freely.
Even so, he resisted his nerves. Surely, this was not a time for silence. The urge to lash out rose sharply, to demand explanations, to throw blame where it felt deserved. For a fleeting instant, he imagined himself shouting, letting the weight of everything he had endured spill out without restraint.
Instead, he forced himself to remain composed.
A single glance at the figure standing at arm’s length was enough to check his impulses. What remained, when all else had been suppressed, was a single question.
“When will she wake?”
The words came out softer than he intended, stripped of the force he had nearly given them. That question, in its own way, was the only thing that mattered after all.
Songhe regarded him without any visible change in expression. The matter was not a simple one. He had never before applied the bead technique to ordinary mortals, and while Taotao had returned without apparent injury, his body intact and his mind outwardly stable, that alone did little to settle the unease beneath Songhe’s calm façade.
“She is very exhausted. That is all,” Songhe said at last.
The answer was deliberately incomplete. Whatever uncertainty remained was not allowed to show.
Taotao exhaled slowly, closing his eyes as he did. His tension eased, but in its absence, something else slipped in. Memories of what they had endured began to surface, creeping into his thoughts.
He rose abruptly from his seat, the motion lacking intention so much as control, and began to pace.
After a few turns, he stopped.
“Will she be fine when she wakes up?”
Songhe did not respond. He did not turn to look at him.
The silence stretched.
It took only a few breaths for Taotao to recognize that the question had crossed from concern into something closer to challenge. And that realization came with a tightening in his chest.
He bowed his head in apology, careful, regretful.
“I spoke out of turn.”
Songhe gave no indication that he had heard him.
The absence of a response carried its own weight.
After a moment, Taotao returned to his seat, his movements quieter now, more contained.
Only then did Songhe speak again.
“Whatever harm the fox spirit inflicted,” he said, his tone even, “remains within my power to mend. That is a promise I have already made.”
There was no emphasis in the words, no attempt to reassure beyond their plain meaning. They were offered as fact, not comfort.
His gaze shifted slightly, though it did not fully settle on Taotao.
“If you wish, I can remove the memories.”
“You can do that?” The question slipped out before he could weigh it.
Songhe did not answer.
Taotao’s gaze shifted.
Nana lay where she had been placed, her form unnaturally still, her breathing shallow but steady. There was no trace of what she had endured upon her face, only a familiar peace.
“Yes,” Taotao said. “Take them away. I don’t want her to remember any of it.”
After a brief pause, he added more carefully, “But not me. One of us has to remember.”
Songhe regarded him in silence for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away. From within his sleeve, he produced a talisman and handed it to Taotao.
“Place this beneath her headrest. When she wakes, she will remember nothing of the past seven days.”
Taotao stepped forward and accepted it with both hands, bowing deeply.
Songhe left the room without another word.
In the courtyard, Fa Hai sat across from a young boy at a low table. Between them lay a Go board, its surface marked by a grid worn smooth with use. A handful of black and white stones rested in shallow bowls, and a long cane lay within reach at his side.
The boy, no older than six, leaned forward in intense concentration. His small fingers hovered uncertainly over the board as he considered his next move, brows drawn tight, his entire attention consumed by the quiet lesson before him.
Fa Hai watched without interruption until he sensed Songhe’s presence. He turned from the game and rose to approach.
“You are leaving?” he asked.
“Yes. I have an urgent matter to attend to,” Songhe replied.
Fa Hai inclined his head in acknowledgment.
For a moment, they stood in silence, each understanding more than was spoken.
Songhe spoke again.
“I have troubled you with this matter. For that, I offer my apology.”
His gaze shifted toward the interior of the residence.
“Fa Hai, see that they recover with ease.”
“I understand.”
Songhe reached into his sleeve and withdrew a heavy pouch, placing it into Fa Hai’s hands. Its weight spoke plainly of its contents.
“Give this to the young man before they depart,” he said.
Fa Hai accepted it without question.
“Yes.”
Songhe gave a slight nod and turned away, leaving the courtyard to its quiet and the lesson yet unfinished.
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* * * * * *
When Songhe arrived at He Yu Zōng, he went directly to the Azure Heart Tower—the grand pagoda that crowned the heights of the Jingshen Spire. Within its tiers lay the ancestral shrine of the Qiang clan.
The air within the shrine was still, carrying the persistent scent of aged Jìzǔ Xiang. Ancestral tablets stood in neat succession, each bearing a name that had once shaped the sect in ways no longer fully remembered, yet never diminished.
Before them, Songhe paused.
He selected a stick of incense, lit it, and allowed the flame to take before extinguishing it. A thin trail of smoke rose steadily as he stepped forward and placed it among the others.
Then, without hesitation, he lowered himself and prostrated.
He maintained the position, his posture exact, as though nothing beyond those walls bore any urgency that could intrude upon the moment.
When he lifted his head, the incense stick he had lit had already burned down, its line of smoke completely faded.
He rose, turned, and departed.
Outside the pagoda, Songhe found Shen Yulan, Lady Qiang’s personal attendant, waiting at a distance.
At the sight of him, she bowed deeply.
“Immortal Songhe,” she greeted, “Lady Qiang Lian requests an audience with you at Bixia Ge.”
Songhe inclined his head in agreement.
Shen Yulan stepped aside and led the way.
At Bixia Ge, stone paths wound between trimmed shrubs and low trees, their arrangement balanced around a small pavilion, secluded enough to discourage intrusion.
Qiang Lian was already there.
She stood with composed posture, though a trace of unease remained. When Songhe entered, she straightened and offered a formal greeting.
“Elder Songhe.” She bowed lightly.
He returned the greeting with a slight inclination of his head.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, as if to occupy the space that had yet to settle, Qiang Lian gestured toward the table and instructed the attendants to prepare tea. The order was carried out without delay. Cups were placed and the tea was poured. When the attendants withdrew, the garden returned to its prior stillness.
They drank in silence.
Qiang Lian did not immediately raise the matter that had brought them together; there was a subtle restraint in her bearing, as if she were measuring the weight of her words before committing to them—and finding, for the moment, no suitable opening.
Songhe observed this without turning his gaze directly upon her. He did not interrupt the silence prematurely, nor did he allow it to linger without end.
At last, he set his cup down.
“The fire that broke out at my residence was no ordinary event,” he said, his tone even, neither defensive nor explanatory. “Now that it has run its course, that matter is concluded.”
The words settled into the space between them.
Qiang Lian gave a small, acknowledging sound. “Mm.”
After a brief pause, she asked, “There were no casualties?”
It was a careful question, shaped not by doubt but by responsibility. Reports had already reached her, fragmented and incomplete, yet consistent in one detail: Songhe had housed two mortals within his residence.
“There were none,” Songhe replied.
Qiang Lian inclined her head slightly, accepting the response as given.
For a moment, Songhe thought the matter had ended there.
It had not.
“There is another detail,” she said after a pause. “A report was submitted concerning a presence detected near your residence during the fire. It was described as malevolent in nature. When our people moved to intercept it, it withdrew and entered the Blackwood.”
She did not rush her words or weigh them down with unnecessary emphasis.
“We did not pursue it further. Investigations are ongoing to determine how such a presence came to be within the Jingshen Spire.”
Songhe remained silent. The implication was clear enough. The Blackwood was not the place from which such a presence had come. And much less a place from which it could return.
“Then I will go to the Blackwood.”
Qiang Lian regarded him quietly, her composure fracturing for the first time. Shock barely reached her face, yet something in her expression shifted as she understood the weight of his words.
She had been married into the Qiang family for sixty years, yet even after all that time, she remained unfamiliar with the mysteries of that place. The daring, reckless young disciples who entered never returned. If anything about the Blackwood was certain, it was this: no one who entered ever came back.
Qiang Lian allowed the silence to settle for a moment longer before letting the matter pass without pressing it. When she spoke again, her tone was relaxed as she turned to more practical concerns.
“The reconstruction of the residence has already been commissioned. With your approval, it can begin immediately. In the meantime, you are welcome to stay at Bixia Ge.”
For the first time, Songhe raised his gaze to meet hers, and he smiled.
He understood at once that the offer carried more than simple courtesy. It would place him within reach, within view, under the quiet scrutiny of the sect’s authority.
“Thank you for the offer, Lady Qiang,” he said. “But that will not be necessary.”
Qiang Lian inclined her head slightly, accepting his answer without comment.
The conversation had reached its natural end.
After a moment, she set her cup aside.
“I have troubled you,” she said, rising from her seat.
Songhe did the same.
“There is no trouble.”
He inclined his head once more, then turned and departed.
* * * * * *
Songhe paused at the threshold of the Blackwood, his gaze resting on the dense expanse before him. This was not unfamiliar ground. He had crossed into it once before, and the memory of that passage had never quite loosened its hold. It was precisely because of that memory that he had never expected to return.
And yet, here he stood.
He stepped forward.
The assault was immediate.
His body strained as an unseen force seized him and pulled in opposing directions. It was a tearing that did not touch flesh, but something deeper—less defined, and all the more vital. It allowed no time to adjust.
Songhe did not retreat. He resisted.
Pain answered in full, rising from deep within his chest, surging upward, dividing his awareness as though his mind was being forced apart.
For a man such as Songhe, who had long since passed beyond ordinary thresholds of pain, this sensation was… almost refreshing.
A thin line of blood slipped from his nose, trailing to his lips.
He lifted a hand and wiped it away, his gaze settling briefly on the crimson stain on his fingertips.
His brows furrowed as he considered: this was the second time he had bled within the span of a single year, month—and on both occasions, it was for the same little fox.
As the thought lingered, a faint smile touched his lips.
It vanished as quickly as it came.
Songhe turned his attention forward once more, his gaze moving across the forest stretching before him in layered shadow. Distance held little meaning here, yet he measured what he could. So long as his footing held, his will endured, and his awareness remained unbroken, he could withstand the loom’s assault for four hours at most.
Beyond that, there would be no return.
“Ling Feng,” he spoke.
The name carried a quieter intention, shaped by something close to concern. Twenty-four hours had already passed since the fox spirit’s crossing. Songhe paused, and in that moment, he became aware of something unfamiliar.
A feeling rose in his chest, threading itself through the splitting pain. It felt unlike duty, calculation, or the distant echo of obligation that drove him.
This was narrower. More personal, and he did not have a name for it.
Yet the thought formed all the same, quiet and uncertain.
Perhaps, this was what a father feels for his child.
The idea lingered.
Songhe stepped deeper into the forest, knowing with a clarity he could not ignore that after twenty-four hours, he might already be too late.