Qiyao's eyes lingered on the shrine.
Qiyao's eyes lingered on it. Once, villagers must have lit incense here, praying for safe harvests or protection from wandering spirits. Now, only silence remained. He felt the weight of that silence settle on his shoulders, a mirror of his own past.
The capital seemed a world away. Yet it followed him still.
As he walked, fragments of memory pressed against his mind like shards of broken glass. The voice of a minister whispering betrayal. The sound of a decree, cold and merciless, condemning him to leave. The image of his own hand clutching a brush, writing petitions that no one would ever read.
Qiyao's jaw tightened. The forest had no walls, but still he felt confined. The further he walked, the heavier the chains of memory seemed to grow.
A gust of wind swept through, lifting the edges of his robe. He stilled, listening.
It was only the forest. Only the wind. But for a fleeting heartbeat, he thought he heard it again—the faint trace of a flute drifting on the air.
He turned his head sharply toward the grove behind him. Nothing but rustling leaves answered.
Qiyao stood there, caught between disbelief and unease, before pressing forward once more. His steps grew quicker, though his expression betrayed nothing.
The trees began to thin. The bamboo gave way to shorter pines, then to open earth. Lights flickered faintly ahead—lanterns swaying on wooden posts, marking the edge of the village.
The sound of the night changed as he drew nearer. Crickets faded, replaced by the distant bark of dogs, the muffled buzz of human voices, the creak of an oxcart wheel turning lazily on its axle. The faint scent of smoke and broth reached his nose, grounding him back in the world of the living.
Qiyao straightened his shoulders, his stride neither hurried nor hesitant. The grove was behind him now, but its shadow lingered still.
Soon, he would step into Zhuyin Village ...…..
The entrance appeared at the end of the dirt road: two leaning willow trees, their branches tied with faded red ribbons. Beyond them stretched a cluster of modest homes with tiled roofs and low wooden fences. Lanterns swayed from tall poles, their warm glow trembling in the breeze. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, carrying the faint scent of broth and firewood.
Children's laughter drifted faintly across the lane. A group of them darted past, barefoot, chasing a wooden hoop down the road. One small boy nearly stumbled into Qiyao's path before his mother hissed sharply and pulled him away. The woman lowered her eyes quickly, whispering an apology, though she did not quite look at him.
It was not hostility. Not exactly.
But it was the cautiousness of people who had lived too long with whispered stories.
Qiyao's boots pressed steadily against the earth. Villagers looked up as he passed—an old man with a pipe at the corner of his lips, a pair of women washing greens in a basin, a drunk swaying out of a tavern door. All paused. All stared a moment too long. Then their voices dropped, pitched low, carrying words he was not meant to hear.
"…not from here…"
"…that face, too noble… not a farmer's son…"
"…walking from the bamboo grove at this hour, heaven help us…"
Qiyao did not react. He had long grown used to being the subject of mutters. Court halls had echoed with sharper daggers than these village whispers.
Ahead, the road curved toward the pond at the heart of Zhuyin. Its waters reflected the moon in trembling silver, broken by the drift of lotus leaves. Wooden planks formed a small pier at one edge, where two fishermen sat with nets, talking in low tones. One of them looked up as Qiyao passed, eyes narrowing slightly, before turning back to his companion with a hurried murmur.
Qiyao's gaze lingered briefly on the pond. The reflection of the moon rippled, restless, as though some unseen hand had stirred the water. His lips pressed thin before he turned away.
The inn stood just beyond, lanterns lit at its door. Its signboard swung gently, the painted characters half-faded by years of rain. Warm light spilled from within, accompanied by the smell of fried scallion cakes and the low drone of voices.
Qiyao stepped inside.
Conversation dipped for the briefest moment, a ripple across still water, before resuming in hushed tones. Farmers in coarse robes hunched over bowls of noodles. A pair of traders argued over the price of silk. At the corner table, three men nursed wine cups and whispered about the fear again.
"…last night, I swear I heard it. Near the grove. A tune that chilled the bones…"
"…bah, nonsense. It's just wind through bamboo…"
"…then why does it sound like crying?"
The words brushed Qiyao's ears, but he moved on without pause.
When Shen Qiyao stepped into the inn, the hum of chatter faltered. Eyes turned—curious, cautious, measuring the stranger with jade at his waist. Whispers stirred, but Madam Xu, sharp-eyed as always, swept forward with a practiced smile. that faltered only for an instant beneath his bearing.
"Traveler," she greeted. "It's late to be arriving. You'll be wanting a room?"
Qiyao inclined his head. His voice, when it came, was quiet but firm. "One room. And a meal, if it's no trouble."
"No trouble at all." She gestured quickly, leading him toward a table near the far wall. "Sit, sit. You must be tired from the road."
He lowered himself gracefully, placing his bundle—small, plain, carrying almost nothing of the man he once was—beside him.
In short time, a meal was set before him: steaming rice, stir-fried greens sparkly with garlic, a bowl of clear soup with floating slices of radish. Simple fare, yet fragrant.
Qiyao ate slowly, each bite measured, though his thoughts were far from the food. Around him, the inn's whisper continued—villagers exchanging gossip, laughter breaking, chopsticks tapping bowls. And threaded through it all, always, the half-whispered legend:
The flute in the bamboo grove.
He set his chopsticks down, eyes lowering briefly. The taste of the forest lingered stronger than that of any dish.
When Madam Xu returned with the room key, he accepted it silently and followed her up the creaking staircase.
The chamber was small but neat: a low bed with a quilt of faded indigo, a desk by the window, a lantern flickering gently on its stand. Through the paper window, the moonlight spilled, painting pale shapes of bamboo swaying in the distance.
Qiyao placed his bundle on the desk. He did not unpack. Instead, he stood a long while at the window, watching the forest he had just left. His reflection ghosted faintly across the glass.
And though no sound reached his ears now, in his chest, the echo of the flute still hummed.
The lantern's glow caught the edge of pale jade at his waist—a coiling dragon, carved with rare precision, suspended on dark silk. With each breath, it swayed, striking lightly against his hip with a delicate chime.
Any villager's eye would recognize such a thing. Not for its exact carving — too fine, too rare — but for what it meant. Jade was a treasure that common folk would never wear, not without years of saving or a gift beyond imagining. And jade of that purity, with carving so precise… that was a mark of bloodline, of privilege.
Qiyao touched it briefly, fingers curling around the cool stone, before letting it fall again. He did not remove it. Even here, even in the past, some ties could not be broken.
From below, faint voices carried through the wooden beams—two men, wine-loosened, whispering as they climbed the stairs. Their tones dropped low, yet not enough to escape his ear.
"…did you see? That jade, hanging at his side… a man like that doesn't belong in Zhuyin."
"…who knows what brings him here? Maybe trouble. Haven't we enough with that cursed …. Ful...?"
"…hush. Don't let him hear you. Men with faces like that never walk alone, even if they look it."
Their voices faded, but the tension they carried lingered in the air.
Qiyao lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, the quilt dipping beneath his weight. His posture remained straight, as if the silence of the room pressed too closely against him. He had spent years teaching his face stillness, his body control. Yet now, when the inn had grown quiet and only the cicadas sang faintly beyond the window, his hand rose once more to brush the jade at his side.
Its cool surface carried no warmth, yet his chest stirred with something he could not name. Perhaps it was memory. Perhaps it was the echo of music still tangled in his heart.
He lay down at last, though sleep did not come easily. The room smelled faintly of ink and wood smoke, the sound of the forest a distant murmur beyond the walls. His lashes lowered, but his mind did not still.
And when sleep finally claimed him, his dreams were not of the past nor court halls. They were of silver light trembling across water. Of bamboo whispering secrets in the dark. And of a flute's song—haunting, tender, always just beyond reach.
And then…
The morning…..
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