The taste of stale, gritty tea was a grounding sensation, a bitter anchor in the sea of his own confusion. Wei Yuan sat at the great-ink stained desk, the cold of the wood seeping through the sleeves of his robes. He had spent the morning in a state of meticulous, quiet panic, examining every scroll and inkstone for some sign, some hint of what had transpired. His own home had become a crime scene, and he was both the detective and the primary, amnesiac suspect.
His gaze fell upon the sealed iron box again. It sat on the floor, a lump of silent, defiant iron, its surface cool and unyielding to his touch. It gave no clues. The cryptic note he'd found—The ink is not enough. The blood is too thin.—was tucked away in his sleeve, a constant, crinkling reminder of the madness that had claimed his memory.
A heavy, deliberate footstep sounded on the stone path outside.
Wei Yuan's heart seized. He shot a desperate glance around the room, a frantic inventory of his own deception. The bloodstains were gone, scrubbed away with a wet rag until his knuckles were raw. The cryptic note was hidden. The box… the box was too heavy to move, too conspicuous to cover. It was a glaring piece of evidence he had no explanation for.
The footsteps stopped. A deep, familiar voice called out, a voice that resonated not in his memory, but in the very marrow of his bones.
"Yuan'er? Are you awake?"
His father.
Wei Yuan's throat went dry. He forced himself to take a slow, steadying breath, schooling his features into a mask of weary calm. He had practiced this in the polished surface of an inkwell, the faint, distorted reflection of a stranger he was learning to inhabit.
"Enter, Father," he called out, his voice a fraction too tight.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, admitting a slice of the gray morning light and the towering figure of Wei Feng. His father was a man built of stern lines and quiet authority, his robes immaculate, his gaze sharp. He carried none of the scholar's stoop; his posture was that of a man who bore the weight of his lineage with unbending pride.
"You look pale," Wei Feng stated, his eyes sweeping the room before settling on his son. It was not an expression of concern, not yet. It was an assessment. "Old Man Ji said you fainted. Some nonsense about over-exertion."
Wei Yuan's mind raced. He's already spoken to Ji. What did the old man say? How much does he know?
"I was… practicing a new calligraphy style," Wei Yuan lied, the words feeling clumsy and foreign on his tongue. "I pushed myself too hard. The meridians…" He deliberately let the sentence trail off, gesturing vaguely to his chest, hoping the known truth of his "curse" would serve as a sufficient explanation.
His father's gaze was relentless. It wasn't the warm look of a concerned parent, but the scrutinizing stare of a master artisan examining a flawed piece of porcelain.
"The Branch Purge is in two weeks," Wei Feng said, his tone flat. "This is no time for fainting spells. Wei Tian has already consolidated his Marrow Cleansing. The other branches are sending their best. They see this as an opportunity to finally eclipse the main family." The name 'Wei Tian' hung in the air, heavy with unspoken comparison.
Wei Tian. The Son of Heaven. The name surfaced from the fog, a title representing the orthodox path, the golden child of the clan. A baseline against which he was constantly measured and found wanting.
"I will be ready," Wei Yuan said, the words a hollow promise even to his own ears. He felt like an imposter, a poorly rehearsed actor pushed onto a stage he didn't understand. Every word from his father was an interrogation, a test of his memory and his composure.
Wei Feng did not seem convinced. He took a step into the room, his boots making a soft, authoritative sound on the wooden floor. His eyes, which had been fixed on Wei Yuan, now drifted, conducting a slow, methodical sweep of the Pavilion. They lingered on the inkstone, the neat stack of practice scrolls, the faint, lingering smell of ozone that Wei Yuan hadn't been able to scrub away. Wei Yuan held his breath, every muscle tensed.
Then his father's gaze fell upon the iron box.
The silence that followed was different. It was heavy, charged. Wei Feng's face, which had been a mask of stern disapproval, now held a flicker of something else. Something Wei Yuan couldn't name. It wasn't surprise. It was a flicker of… recognition?
He knows what it is. The thought was a shard of ice in Wei Yuan's gut. This wasn't just a strange artifact his other self had found; it was something connected to his family, to his father.
"What is this?" Wei Feng asked, but his tone was wrong. It lacked genuine curiosity. It was the sound of a man asking a question to which he already suspected the answer.
Wei Yuan's mind spun, desperately fabricating a plausible lie. "A… a paperweight. Old Man Ji found it in the lower archives. It's heavy. Good for holding down the larger scrolls."
It was a weak explanation, pathetically so. A paperweight the size of a man's head, made of solid, unadorned iron?
Wei Feng didn't call him on the lie. He simply stared at the box, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He took another step closer, his shadow falling over the dried bloodstain on the floor. He didn't seem to notice it, or if he did, he gave no sign. His focus was entirely on the box.
"The Branch Purge," Wei Feng said again, his voice now lower, more intense. "It is not just a contest, Yuan'er. It is a judgment. The Elders will be watching. They will look for any sign of… deviation."
Deviation. The word struck Wei Yuan like a physical blow. It was too specific, too pointed.
His father turned his gaze from the box back to him. The look in his eyes was no longer just stern. It was laced with a deep, unsettling fear. It was not the fear of a father for his son's health, but the fear of a man staring at a volatile, unpredictable weapon.
"Your mother… she would not have wanted this for you," Wei Feng said, his voice suddenly raw with an emotion that felt genuine, yet misplaced. "She believed the Arts were a refuge, not… not a path to this."
This? What is "this?" The ritual? The amnesia? Or something else entirely? Wei Yuan felt as if he were trying to decipher a conversation where he'd only heard every third word.
"I am fine, Father," he managed to say, his voice strained. "Just tired."
"Tired," Wei Feng repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. He took a deep breath, his composure returning like a mask being lowered back into place. "Rest. But do not neglect your practice. Whatever you are doing, whatever new 'style' you have found… be careful. There are some histories that are best left undisturbed."
He turned without another word and walked out, his broad back a wall of unspoken secrets. The heavy door closed, plunging the room back into its dim solitude.
Wei Yuan remained frozen for a long time, the echo of his father's last words ringing in his ears. There are some histories that are best left undisturbed.
It wasn't a warning. It was a confirmation.
His father knew. He didn't know the specifics—the ritual, the blood, the backlash—but he knew that Wei Yuan had been meddling with something forbidden, something connected to the clan's history, something tied to that silent, ominous iron box.
His concern wasn't for his son's health; it was for the consequences of his son's actions. Wei Yuan was no longer just a detective trying to solve the mystery of his own mind. He was a conspirator, and he had just realized that his own father might be a silent, fearful party to the crime.
He looked at the iron box, no longer just a clue, but a focal point of a family's hidden, terrifying secret. The weight of the impending Branch Purge felt heavier than ever, not just a test of strength, but a crucible that threatened to burn away his carefully constructed facade and reveal the monster—or the heretic—hiding beneath. The investigation had just begun, and the list of suspects now included the man who had just left the room.