Chapter 6 - The Edge of the Storm 

Ungrateful Heroics in the Forest Trial

The forest deepened the further Lin Ye wandered. The tall pines that framed Baizhu's outer trails gave way to ancient trees—twisting, colossal things whose roots rose like dragon spines from the ground. Their tangled canopy cast long, swaying shadows, darkening the forest floor and filtering the light into dim ribbons of gold and green.

He paused beside a crooked pine, half-swallowed by moss, where he had first caught sight of the Shuilan young master. The bark scratched his back as he leaned out to peer ahead, eyes sharp with suspicion and wonder.
“Where did he go?” Lin Ye whispered, frowning. “No one moves that fast.”
He scanned the forest again, but it was empty—just wind brushing through the branches and mist curling at ankle height.
“…Did I imagine that?” he muttered, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Was it even him? Or just some forest spirit messing with me?”

For a moment, he turned to leave. “I should go back. Spirit beasts don’t catch themselves.”
But he didn’t move.
“One last look for that Shuilan master,” he muttered. “Just in case I didn’t imagine him.”
And with that, he slipped past the mossy pine and into the deeper forest.

Farther in, the trees grew denser, and the air felt heavier. The sun barely reached the ground here, blocked by layers of shadowed leaves. Vines dangled like threadbare curtains between trunks, and moss muffled every footstep. It smelled of bark and distant rain.

There—just ahead.
Lin Ye froze, half-hidden behind a fallen log.
Xuan Luo stood alone in the clearing, motionless.
His robes were pale white, embroidered with faint gold—untouched by dirt or forest debris, as if even nature itself refused to cling to him. He hadn’t moved—not once—since Lin Ye had arrived. Only the faint flutter of his sleeve betrayed that he was still breathing.

Then—his fingers twitched.
Lin Ye’s eyes narrowed.
There—something stirred.
A pulse. Not in the forest… but beneath Xuan Luo’s skin—or so it seemed. A flicker of black shimmered, brief as a heartbeat, passed through his chest like a shadow rippling through the folds of his white robe.

Lin Ye’s brow furrowed. His protection talisman burned suddenly against his chest—hot, like a warning flame. The same heat he hadn’t felt since…
“That’s… not normal,” he muttered. “That’s not good spiritual energy.”

He watched, unsure whether to call out or stay hidden.
Xuan Luo’s eyes had gone strange—clouded, unfocused.
Then, slowly, he began to walk.
One step. Then another. His gait was smooth, silent—too silent. As if sleepwalking. Or controlled.

Lin Ye’s heart skipped.
“Wait—where is he going?” he breathed, leaning forward. “That’s the cliff path…”
Below the rising trail, the land dropped sharply into a deep ravine veiled in mist. Sharp rocks and twisted roots lined its edge like the teeth of some sleeping beast.
“What is he doing? He’s not even looking where—”

Lin Ye hesitated, panic warring with doubt.
“What if I’m wrong? What if he’s fine and just… meditating while walking dramatically? Ugh, I don’t even know him. He’s not Mu Fan. He’s not Shen.”
Still, his feet moved.

And just as Xuan Luo neared the edge, his body tilted forward—
Lin Ye lunged.
His hand shot out, grabbed Xuan Luo’s arm, and yanked hard.
They both stumbled back from the ledge.

Lin Ye, breathless and scraped up, stood close enough to the young master to see every fine line of his face, every thread of gold stitched into his collar. But he didn’t let himself look—not directly.
Xuan Luo’s eyes were still clouded, unfocused… but even like that, he looked composed. Distant. Like a painting that hadn’t yet dried—elegant, untouchable, and not quite real.
Lin Ye kept his gaze turned, as if staring would make something break.

And then—he realized he was still holding Xuan Luo’s arm.
His fingers, clenched in panic a moment ago, were now gripping silk sleeve and warm skin.
Lin Ye blinked. Froze.
“Oh no.”
He let go immediately, hands jerking back as if burned. His face flushed, ears going red.
“…Great,” he muttered, half to himself. “I just grabbed a sacred immortal. This is fine. Totally fine.”

Too close.
He swallowed hard.
This wasn’t like dragging Mu Fan from a tree, or slapping his cousin awake.
Xuan Luo wasn’t someone you got close to. He wasn’t someone anyone touched since his arrival—at least, not without consequence.

For a moment, Lin Ye said nothing, face twisted in a mix of panic and awkward realization. Every inch of him screamed, move, say something, run, do anything.
But before he could speak—
A faint trail of black mist rose from Xuan Luo’s chest… and vanished.
Lin Ye froze.
“What… was that?”

Xuan Luo’s eyes cleared—bright and sharp again, like mist burned off by sunlight.
But he said nothing.
He just stared at the ravine… then slowly angled his head toward Lin Ye.
A pause.
Then—a nod. Brief. Almost imperceptible.
No words. No thanks.
Just a quiet acknowledgement… and then Xuan Luo turned, composed as ever, and began to walk away.

Lin Ye blinked after him.
“…What. Just. Happened?”
He looked down at his hands, still tingling from the contact, then back at the figure retreating into the trees.
“I save a guy from falling off a cliff, and all I get is a nod?”

He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated.
“…Unbelievable. Mysterious forest ghost boy nearly walks off a cliff and he's acting like it's just another normal day. Seriously?!"

Lin Ye’s voice cracked through the thick forest air, half-shout, half-plea.
“Hey! Wait—maybe I just saved you first, didn’t I?!”

His face twisted into that classic mix of frustration and disbelief—the sort of exaggerated expression that said I don’t even know what’s happening but I’m not letting go.
He took a step forward, then another, fingers twitching as if to grab Xuan Luo’s sleeve.

But the young master didn’t slow down. Not a glance back. His pale robes drifted through the mist like a ghost’s whisper.
Lin Ye’s voice dropped to a breathless, desperate murmur.
“Do you even hear me?”

Xuan Luo’s back remained turned, but deep inside, something flickered—a hesitation, like he wanted to respond, to say something.
Maybe even to thank him. But the words never came.
Yet the shadow that pulsed beneath his skin tightened like chains around his spirit. His curse, the darkness that gnawed at his energy, held him back—aching sharply at the mark on his chest, a pain he couldn’t ignore.
He did not want to explain.
So he kept walking. Silent. Resigned.

Lin Ye blinked, cheeks flushed from running, heart pounding.
“That’s exactly what I expected.”
He stared after him, mouth open.
“Wow. A whole nod. Be still my heart.”

And as Lin Ye walked, he kept glancing toward the cliffside.
His expression softened as he stared after Xuan Luo.
Even now, something didn’t feel right.
Something lingered in that moment—off, cold, like an echo still humming through the trees.
(The feeling that even though everything looks calm now, something is still wrong. A trace of what happened hangs in the air—like spiritual residue or a warning.)

—Later—
Lin Ye scowled and stomped after the fox again, muttering under his breath:
“Rescue the guy from death and all I get is a chin tilt. What’s next? He’ll gift me a cloud to sleep on?”
He pulled a leaf out of his hair with a snap, and still not believing, added:
“These noble types really think gratitude’s a weakness…”