The pilgrim path to Red Willow Pass wound like a scar across the mountain's shoulder, steep and weather-beaten. Shi Yan walked it with Xiao Lan asleep on his back, swaddled in his old meditation shawl. She hadn't spoken in two days, but her breathing had grown deeper, calmer. Her nightmares, for now, had quieted.
The path was too quiet.
No birds. No insects. Just the creak of leather and rope, and the whisper of an old wind that had seen too much.
Shi Yan felt it in his chest before he saw him.
A pressure.
Like the world exhaling.
He stood ahead in the center of the trail, arms folded, saffron robes clean and crisp, as if the mountain had dressed him itself.
Fo Sheng.
Once a brother.
Now a hunter.
Shi Yan stopped walking.
"You followed me," he said quietly.
"No," Fo Sheng replied. "I waited."
There was no warmth between them. Just memory.
Fo Sheng had been the Temple's golden disciple—flawless form, flawless faith, and flawlessly loyal to the doctrine. Where Shi Yan had questioned, Fo Sheng had obeyed. Where Shi Yan had bled, Fo Sheng had meditated. But they had shared a childhood, shared a thousand silent mornings in prayer and training.
Now, they shared only silence.
"I heard what you did in Stone Lantern," Fo Sheng said. "You're still using the techniques."
"I saved lives."
"You took five more."
Shi Yan's jaw clenched. "They were bandits."
"Does that cleanse your karma?"
He knew what this was.
Fo Sheng hadn't come to talk.
He'd come to test.
He slid Xiao Lan gently down against a tree trunk. "Stay," he whispered.
Fo Sheng stepped forward into a ready stance—Crane Bows to the River.
Shi Yan answered with Iron Root Stance, but did not raise his fists.
"You refuse again?" Fo Sheng asked, eyes narrowing.
"I'm not your enemy."
"You were the Temple's shame. I swore I'd find you when I was strong enough to make you answer."
Shi Yan still didn't strike.
The first blow came like thunder. Fo Sheng's Palm of Quiet Reproach struck air as Shi Yan swayed aside. The ground cracked beneath him. The second blow came faster, aiming for Shi Yan's temple—he blocked it with his elbow, redirected the force into the earth.
Three strikes. Four.
Shi Yan didn't counter.
He endured.
Until finally, Fo Sheng paused—panting, sweat at his brow, disbelief in his voice.
"You won't fight back?"
"You already know the truth," Shi Yan said quietly. "That's why you're angry."
Fo Sheng looked shaken. Not because Shi Yan had resisted—but because something inside him had cracked.
"I saw the Abbot's scroll," Fo Sheng whispered. "There was no order for your exile."
Shi Yan's heart stopped.
"What?"
"I was in the archives. Studying the Temple's old punishments. Your scroll—your sentencing—wasn't there. Only a sealed letter, with no name, but bearing the Temple's lesser seal. The kind only used by elders… or exiled monks."
Shi Yan stepped forward. "Who wrote it?"
Fo Sheng shook his head. "The ink was burned. Deliberately. But someone didn't want you exiled."
He stepped back.
"I don't know what happened that night, Shi Yan. But I no longer believe the version they taught us."
He turned to go, but left one final word over his shoulder.
"If you're seeking truth, go to the Monastery of Hollow Echoes. Speak the old mantra. See who answers."
After Fo Sheng vanished into the trees, Xiao Lan approached slowly.
She pointed at Shi Yan's palm—trembling.
He steadied himself. Sat beneath the tree.
"You saw him fight?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Does he scare you?"
A pause.
Then a shake of the head.
Shi Yan looked at his hands again. For the first time in years, he wondered if they weren't meant to destroy—but to reveal.