( Cries and whisper )
Upstairs, the corridor had fallen into a strained quiet.
The two disciples stood guard at Zhang Wei's door like unmoving statues, their gray robes drawn neat again, belts tightened, sleeves secured. Their earlier disorder had been corrected—but not their tension. Their eyes remained sharp, shifting between the hallway and the staircase, every footstep, every creak of wood registered.
The air itself felt heavier here.
Then—
A sound.
Soft at first.
A shift.
A scrape.
The older of the two disciples straightened immediately, his hand tightening near the hilt at his waist.
"…Did you hear that?"
The younger one nodded, already stepping closer to the door.
Another sound followed.
Not loud.
But wrong.
A faint, uneven rustle… followed by something like a stifled breath.
The older disciple didn't hesitate.
"You—go. Inform the elders."
The younger froze for only a fraction of a second before nodding and turning, his steps quick but controlled as he rushed down the corridor.
The remaining disciple pushed the door open.
—
The room was no longer still.
The window—previously latched—was now slightly ajar, the wooden frame creaking softly as a sudden gust of wind forced its way inside. The curtain lifted and fluttered wildly, snapping against the wall like a restless spirit.
Cold air flooded the space.
The faint scent of herbs and burnt fabric was now mixed with something sharper.
Metallic.
Unmistakable.
"…Young Master—?"
The disciple stepped in—
And froze.
By the window stood Zhang Wei.
Unsteady.
Dazed.
His figure seemed almost swallowed by the pale light spilling through the opening. His soft purple robe, loosely tied, shifted with the wind, the thin fabric clinging and lifting in uneven waves. His long white hair, threaded with faint strands of color, was caught in the current, lifting and falling like drifting silk.
He looked unreal.
Like something caught between waking and dreaming.
But that wasn't what held the disciple still.
It was his arm.
Raised slightly.
Bare.
And red.
At first glance, it looked like nothing more than flushed skin—
Until the disciple's eyes dropped.
The wooden floor beneath him was stained.
Not heavily.
Not yet.
But enough.
Small droplets.
Trailing.
Leading back to him.
"…What—"
Zhang Wei moved.
Slowly.
As if only just becoming aware of himself.
His gaze, unfocused until now, drifted downward.
To his wrist.
Where the skin had been opened.
Not deep—but enough.
A thin line.
Still bleeding.
He stared at it.
Blankly.
As though it belonged to someone else.
The wind surged again, brushing past him, lifting his sleeve slightly higher, exposing more of the red-streaked skin.
The disciple took a step forward, his breath catching.
"Young Master, stop—!"
Zhang Wei's head tilted faintly.
His eyes lifted.
They were unfocused.
Clouded.
His lips parted slightly—
And then—
A sound.
A cry.
Not loud.
Not sharp.
But raw.
It slipped from him like something fragile breaking.
A sound so soft it might have been swallowed entirely by the wind—
Had anyone not been close enough.
—
Downstairs—
The atmosphere remained deceptively calm.
Sang Sang and her sister sat together at one side of the room, their presence drawing more attention than comfort.
Sang Sang's peach robe had been adjusted again, the soft layers now falling neatly around her as she sat upright. Her hands rested gently over her sister's, fingers interlocked—not just for reassurance, but restraint.
Her eyes were lowered.
Covered partially by her lashes.
To anyone watching—
She looked like a blind beauty.
Quiet.
Helpless.
Easy.
But beneath that lowered gaze—
Her eyes were narrowed.
Sharp.
Listening.
Every word.
Every movement.
Every shift in tone around them.
The girl beside her in lavender sat closer than before, her posture tense, shoulders drawn inward. Her beauty was softer, more fragile—and the way she stayed close only made her seem more vulnerable to those watching.
And they were watching.
Men at nearby tables leaned back in their seats, their gazes lingering too long.
Some didn't even bother hiding it.
"…The sisters aren't bad either…"
"…That one—she doesn't even look up…"
"…Blind, maybe?"
"…Even better."
A low chuckle followed.
The disciples stationed nearby shifted subtly, their bodies angling just enough to block direct paths, hands resting near their weapons, their expressions no longer neutral.
Protective.
Alert.
Dangerously so.
Even the inn staff had begun to notice.
A server approached once—then slowed.
Then stopped.
His polite smile faltered under the weight of the tension surrounding the group. He bowed slightly, placing down fresh tea with careful hands, but his eyes flickered between the sisters and the watching guests.
He understood.
This was not a table to linger near.
—
"Elders—!"
The sudden call broke through the low hum of the room.
A disciple rushed forward, breath uneven but controlled.
Zhang Lin and Zhang Lie turned immediately.
"What is it?" Zhang Lin asked.
The disciple didn't hesitate.
"Something happened upstairs."
That was enough.
Both brothers moved instantly.
Zhang Lin's robe flared slightly with the sudden motion, the dark fabric sweeping behind him as he turned sharply toward the stairs. Zhang Lie followed just as quickly, his steps heavier, faster, his expression already darkening.
The elders followed without question.
Behind them—
A few guests leaned forward.
Watching.
Interested.
Some even smirked.
"…There it is…"
"…Knew it wouldn't stay quiet…"
"…That kind of boy… trouble follows."
Soft snickers spread.
Low.
Knowing.
As if they had been waiting for this moment.
—
Sang Sang rose slowly.
Her hands slipped from her sister's, though her posture remained composed.
To others—
She was still that same quiet, blind beauty.
But as her head turned slightly toward the stairs—
Her expression changed.
Her eyes narrowed fully now.
Cold.
Aware.
This place…
Was not safe.