The familiar scent of the training hall—old wood, weapons oil, and dried sweat—did nothing to soothe the frantic unease coiling in Chenwei's gut. He stood before his master, Zhao Tiansheng, having just concluded his report. He had tried to be precise, to lay out the events at the gorge in a clear, logical sequence, but he knew his voice had been tight with a passion he couldn't suppress.
Master Zhao remained silent for a long moment, his broad figure seated comfortably. He took a slow, deliberate sip of tea, his eyes watching Chenwei over the rim of the cup. The silence stretched, amplifying the frantic beat of Chenwei's own heart. He had laid bare a conspiracy, a supernatural horror, and the deeply unorthodox methods of a senior disciple. He waited for the explosion, the righteous anger that should have followed.
Finally, Zhao set the cup down with a soft click. "So," he began, his voice rumbling with an infuriating calm. "The great Wen Yuhan, the man you have been watching so diligently, is not the flawless jade pillar you had imagined him to be. A terrible shock for you, I'm sure."
A hot wave of frustration washed over Chenwei. This. He was starting with this. "Master, this is not a matter of my imagination. This is about his actions."
"Is it?" Zhao asked, raising a thick eyebrow. "It sounds to me like you're upset he didn't handle things the way a hero in a ballad might. You expected him to charge in shouting about honor, but instead he used his head. Is that the problem, boy? His methods weren't romantic enough for you?"
The word 'romantic' struck Chenwei like a physical blow. The disgust was so sharp, he felt it in the back of his throat. "He knows things a righteous man should not know!" Chenwei insisted, his voice rising. "He named that blight without hesitation. He recited the vile, sacrificial ritual required to summon it as if he were discussing a passage from a classic text! He was not horrified, Master. He was… interested."
"And I suppose you would have preferred he were ignorant?" Zhao countered, his tone reasonable in a way that set Chenwei's teeth on edge. "He is a disciple of the Sect Master, trained in high-level sorcery. It is his duty to study such things, to know the nature of our enemies. His knowledge saved your lives. Or has your disappointment clouded your memory of that fact?"
"But the lies!" Chenwei pressed, feeling like he was speaking a different language. "The cover story! He would grant martyrdom to that monster—the one who committed that atrocity!"
"And what was your plan, Chenwei?" his master asked, leaning forward slightly. "To tell the truth? To announce to the world that the fiancée of our third heir ran off with a paid mercenary, and that her handmaiden was a soul-stealing demon? Think of the shame. Think of the scandal. Wen's plan, for all its stink, serves the living. It protects Lianyi's reputation, and it ensures the real handmaiden's family will be compensated for their daughter's 'heroic sacrifice.' Your truth serves only your own ideals."
Chenwei felt trapped. Every logical point his master made felt like another bar in a cage, a cage built from Wen Yuhan's own twisted reasoning. He couldn't articulate the deep, instinctual wrongness he felt, so he fell back on the only thing he knew for certain. "He is not righteous. His mind is… twisted."
Zhao Tiansheng let out a long, heavy sigh. It was the sound of a man who had heard enough teenage drama to last a lifetime. "Alright, boy. I've heard you." He stood up, his towering frame casting a shadow over Chenwei. "I don't like politics either. Give me an honest enemy I can kill with a sword. It's cleaner. But this is not a clean problem. And Wen, for all his coldness, is the one best equipped to handle it."
He fixed Chenwei with a look that was both stern and, infuriatingly, sympathetic. "Which is why you will be working with him."
Chenwei's head snapped up. "What? Master, no. I refuse. I cannot—"
"You will," Zhao said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Think of it, Chenwei. He is the mind—cool, calculating, able to see the dozen ways a snake can bite you before it even leaves its den. You," he pointed a thick finger at Chenwei's chest, "are the sword—direct, unwavering, a lodestone for what is honorable. He is yin, you are yang. He can see the path through the darkness, but you are the one who will make sure he doesn't lose his way while walking it. You two are a necessary, if infuriating, balance."
He began to pace. "The Sect Master has authorized an internal investigation into this assassination attempt, led by Wen Yuhan. You are assigned as his partner. His strategy, your sword. That is the order."
"I cannot work with a man I believe to be a venomous snake," Chenwei said through gritted teeth.
"Good," Zhao said with a sharp nod. "Then keep your eyes open for his fangs. But you will do it." He stopped in front of Chenwei again, and his expression softened into the one Chenwei hated most—the look of a man who thought he understood everything.
"Maybe this is for the best, boy," he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. "Nothing kills a foolish infatuation faster than being forced to see the person every day, warts and all. All this pining from afar has clearly exhausted your mind. Perhaps working closely with him will finally cure you of it."
There it was. The real reason, laid bare. Chenwei stared at his master, a wave of helpless, suffocating despair washing over him. He had brought a warning of a diabolical mastermind, of a conspiracy that threatened the soul of their sect. His master had heard the incoherent, obsessive ramblings of a jilted youth and prescribed this partnership as a form of crude therapy.
The misinterpretation was so complete, so absolute, that he had no words left to fight it. He was utterly and completely alone in this.