The storm had passed, but inside Shi Yan's chest, the thunder lingered.
After his confrontation with the Black Lotus assassin, whose dying words cast doubt upon the Temple itself, Shi Yan and Xiao Lan continued their quiet journey eastward—toward a town known as Yanzhou Crossing. It was once under Shaolin's protection.
But now?
Now the people crossed the road when they saw his robes.
On the town's edge stood a burned-out shrine. What was once a meditation hall was now just ashes and twisted incense holders. Shi Yan stepped into the ruin, pressing his palm to the scorched stone.
A mural remained—half-charred, barely legible—but familiar.
It showed the Circle of Dharma, flanked by the Five High Monks of the Central Order. Only four remained.
The fifth had been wiped clean—not by fire, but scraped away deliberately.
"That one was Master Yao," an old voice said behind him.
Shi Yan turned.
A beggar approached, leaning on a wooden cane, eyes milky with age but sharp with recognition. His ragged sleeves hid a Shaolin prayer bead bracelet, half-broken.
"You know the old ways," Shi Yan said carefully.
"I kept them," the man answered. "Until they were taken."
He introduced himself only as San Shu—once a gatekeeper at the Southern Hall of Records. Cast out not for sin, but for asking questions.
"Master Yao was the only one who questioned the inner council's shift. He believed someone had stolen a scripture that gave them power they didn't earn. The next month, he 'retired' in silence. A week later, the shrine burned."
San Shu gave names:
• Master Yuan Lin, reassigned to silent retreat after speaking against the Abbot's decisions.
• Sister Zhen, removed from public teaching for opposing the Temple's alliance with foreign nobles.
• A dozen monks whose disappearances were called "transfers" or "enlightenment journeys."
Shi Yan's stomach twisted.
"They silenced anyone who asked where the true power was going," San Shu said.
"They made us believe the corruption came from outside. But rot doesn't start at the gates, Yan. It starts in the heart of the altar."
As the wind stirred ashes through the empty shrine, Shi Yan closed his eyes.
The Abbot never ordered your exile.
The Temple never questioned your guilt.
No one—not one—had ever asked why.
Until now.
Xiao Lan tugged at his robe. She pointed to a faint black mark on the stones: a lotus petal, drawn upside down.
Even here, the Black Lotus watched.
But Shi Yan now wondered…