The night had sunk into its deepest hours,
a slim new moon hanging low like a curved hook.
Layers upon layers of mountains rolled endlessly into the dark, each ridge swallowed by the next, as if some wild beasts lay hidden within that boundless, breathless silence.
The Jinyi Guards, dressed in their flying-fish uniforms with embroidered-spring blades at their waists, rode tall steeds at full speed. They were only a dozen or so, yet hooves hammered the gravel with such force that dust billowed behind them like a collapsing tide.
At their head rode Nathaniel Lennox. He looked to be around twenty, his brows sharp with a natural hero’s air, though softened by a gentleness that kept him from seeming overbearing. As the sole son of Princess Lennox, granted the title of Marquis of Anping by Emperor Redmond and holding the rank of Deputy Commander of the Jinyi Guards, he oversaw both the Southern and Northern Pacification Bureaus.
The mountain path wound in twists and turns, rising and falling.
After pushing through a thick stretch of forest, a wide clearing—more than a hundred paces across—opened before them. At its center stood a temple with red walls and gray tiles, old yet dignified, surrounded by patches of green grass and scattered blossoms.
Nathaniel Lennox tugged lightly on the reins. His stallion lifted its forelegs and neighed sharply before landing in a steady halt. Nathaniel swung off the horse in one fluid motion. Under the faint, cold moonlight, his bright eyes reflected a calm clarity.
“Orchid Hermitage.”
He looked up at the wooden plaque hanging above the gate and read the name softly.
A breeze swept through. The bronze bells hanging from the upturned eaves trembled and chimed crisply, “ding ding dang dang.”
“Master Lennox,” said Christopher Sterling, the Thousand‑Household Commander of the Fourteenth Office in the Golden Citadel, “we’ve been riding hard for two days. Both men and horses are about spent. Why not rest here for the night and continue at first light?”
Nathaniel scanned the quiet surroundings, a faint frown forming. “A lone temple in a place like this… something feels off.”
Christopher planted his hands on his hips, speaking casually. “What’s strange about it? Monks stay away from crowded places. Temples in the wilderness aren’t rare. And look—the place isn’t run‑down at all. Must still have worshippers coming by.”
As they spoke, the temple gate creaked open.
An elderly monk stepped out from the shadows, his beard and brows completely white. He wore a coarse robe and carried a small wind lamp in his hand.
“Honored officers, this poor monk failed to welcome you sooner. Please forgive my negligence.”
Christopher cupped his hands politely. “Greetings, Master. Night travel forced us past the last post station. Might we trouble your temple for a night’s lodging?”
The old monk lowered his gaze, smiling gently. “All beings cross paths for a reason. If fate brings you here, then please—follow this poor monk.”
“Many thanks, Master.”
Christopher Sterling was just about to stride into the temple when Nathaniel Lennox lifted a hand and stopped him.
“Hold on.”
Christopher raised his brows in surprise. “Young Marquis, what’s the matter?”
Nathaniel’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze darkening bit by bit. It felt as though faint strands of black mist twined around the whole temple, refusing to disperse. Even the old monk’s frail back looked wrong—too light, too floaty—his steps drifting as if he were slipping through the air instead of walking on solid ground.
“There’s something off about this place. Best stay alert.”
Christopher burst out laughing. “Young Marquis, did that case back in Zhenjiang scare you silly? You’re starting to see killers everywhere. Relax, we’ve got more than a dozen sturdy brothers here. Just this tiny shrine, a couple monks—they won’t stir up any real trouble.”
Nathaniel, gentle and steady by nature, never flaunted his status despite his noble birth and the authority he carried in the Jinyiwei. Christopher, raised in a family of warriors, had a fiery temper and a proud streak. After years in the Jinyiwei, he knew Nathaniel well enough not to fear him. Being a few years older, he’d long gotten used to speaking without much filter.
Christopher waved his hand and called back to the others. “Come on, brothers! We’ve been gnawing on dry rations for days—my mouth’s about to split from the salt. Let the old master fix us something warm for once…”
The Jinyi guards, tired from long travel, perked up at the thought of real food and a decent night’s sleep. Weariness hit them all at once, and they clustered around Christopher, eager to head in.
Nathaniel sighed quietly and followed.
The old monk led them across a small courtyard and into a side hall. He slid open the wooden door, then stepped aside with a slight bow. “Honored sirs, please enter.”
The hall was nearly bare. A few meditation cushions lay scattered on the floor. Oil lamps burned faintly in the four corners, each flame no bigger than a bean. Their flickering light stretched the guards’ shadows across the stone floor—bent, broken, shivering with each tremor of the flame.
“Christopher, look. There are murals on the wall.”
One of the guards pointed.
Christopher stepped up quickly. The west wall, dull and gray, was painted with colorful figures—women of all shapes and postures, vivid enough to look alive.
He rubbed his chin and let out a lewd chuckle. “What kind of temple is this? Women painted on the walls? Still, they’re real pretty. Prettier than the girls in Yi Hong Courtyard.”
The guards slung arms over each other’s shoulders, laughing crudely, tossing around vulgar jokes. One even stepped right up to the mural and stroked a painted cheek. “Eyes soft as silk, chest like warm jade. A real treasure, this one.”
Christopher smacked him on the head—half scolding, half amused. “Look at you, spouting cheap verses. Has it really been that long since you’ve touched a woman? Falling in love with a wall painting now?”
No sooner had he said this than—bam!
The wooden door slammed shut behind them, the sudden crash echoing through the empty hall, jolting every man inside.
Christopher Sterling looked annoyed and muttered, "What the hell is going on?"
He strode forward, grabbed the door handles with both hands, and yanked hard. No matter how much force he used, the wooden doors stayed tightly shut, fitting together without even a sliver of a gap.
"This is damn freaky."
He ground out the curse under his breath, irritation simmering in his chest.
"Heeheehee."
"Ahahaha."
The laughter of women drifted through the side hall, sometimes close, sometimes far, lilting and sweet, echoing off the walls until it made one’s scalp prickle.
The Jin Yi guards looked around, eyes darting, but the place was empty. After a long moment, someone finally muttered, "Don’t tell me this place is haunted…"
Christopher Sterling panicked and roared toward the door, "Open the door! Old monk, hurry up and let us out, or I swear I’ll skin you alive and grind your bones to dust!"
"Christopher, quiet. You're wasting your breath."
The sudden voice stunned him. He turned toward Nathaniel Lennox, who had been silent ever since they entered Orchid Hermitage. The weak flicker of the dying fire didn’t reach him; he stood in the shadows, his face hidden. All that could be seen was his lean, straight figure, like a stalk of bamboo—calm, upright, and unbending.
"Young Marquis…"
Before Christopher could finish, a wave of ash-grey mist surged in from every direction. It spread fast, swallowing the floor, rising in the blink of an eye to everyone’s calves.
The Jin Yi guards, trained as they were, reacted even through their fear, quickly falling into a defensive stance.
The mist moved like living vines, sprouting thick hooks that lashed out without restraint. The moment they coiled around the guards, a biting cold seeped through skin and into bone. The men struggled hard, twisting with all their strength, but the more they fought, the tighter the mist bound them.
Strangely enough, the mist-vines seemed afraid of Nathaniel Lennox. When the hooks brushed against him, they recoiled instantly, like they had touched burning coals, shrinking back in a wilted retreat.