The air in the clearing, once beautiful, was now heavy with a grim stillness. Chenwei stood a few paces back, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, a gesture that was less for defense and more for comfort in the unsettling quiet. His gaze was fixed not on the single piece of rotted bone that Little Zha had unearthed, but on the man kneeling beside it. Wen Yuhan examined the grim discovery with an expression of calm, dispassionate focus, as if he were studying a peculiar rock rather than the last mortal remains of a murdered woman.
"The spirit's anchor to this world will be faint, tied only to these last mortal remains," Wen murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. He produced a stick of black, solemn-looking incense from his robes and lit it. A scent both sweet and sorrowful filled the air. He then drew a small, silver knife. "But a trace of life can call to a trace of death." Without ceremony, he pricked his thumb and let a single, perfect drop of his own blood fall onto the bone.
The blood sizzled, vanishing not with a hiss of heat, but with a silent absorption, as if the bone itself had thirsted for it. The air grew colder. The dappled sunlight seemed to dim. From the blighted patch of earth, a faint, shimmering light began to rise, coalescing into the form of a young woman.
She looked solid, real, dressed in the modest robes of a senior handmaiden. Her face, a gentle oval with kind eyes, was almost identical to that of the assassin. The similarity was so profound it made Chenwei's stomach twist. He watched as the spirit looked around, her expression one of profound confusion, as if waking from a long and terrible dream.
"Where…?" she began, her voice a whisper of wind through leaves. Her eyes found the three men, and her confusion curdled into a dawning terror. Her form flickered violently. "No... not you... he said..." Her eyes widened, a spectral rage beginning to burn within them. She shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that was not physical, but spiritual.
"He stole it!" she wailed, her hands flying to her own face. "He stole my skin!"
As the scream reached its peak, her appearance dissolved. For a horrifying instant, the image of the serene handmaiden was replaced by a gory, skinless visage, a monstrosity of raw muscle and weeping terror.
Chenwei reacted without thinking. His sword was half-drawn from its scabbard, his entire being screaming at him to strike down the abomination, to put an end to the horrific sight.
"Sheathe your sword, Junior Brother," Wen's voice cut through the air, cold and sharp as a shard of ice. He hadn't moved, hadn't even flinched. He simply put a hand on Chenwei's arm, his grip surprisingly firm. "We are here to talk to her, not to fight her. She is the victim."
Chenwei froze, his blade half-drawn, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked from Wen's unnervingly calm face to the flickering spirit, which had now reverted to its whole, if weeping, form. He reluctantly slid his sword back into its sheath, his hand trembling slightly.
Wen turned his attention back to the ghost, his voice softening into a tone of gentle, reasonable persuasion that made Chenwei's skin crawl. "Liu Yan," he said, using the name he had somehow divined from the ritual. "Your story must be told. Justice cannot be served if you lose yourself to rage. Focus. Tell us what happened. Tell us who did this to you."
He speaks to her with such practiced ease, Chenwei thought, his disgust a bitter taste in his mouth. How many tormented souls has he soothed and manipulated like this?
The spirit of Liu Yan wavered, her sobs subsiding into shuddering gasps. "I… I was a handmaiden, in service to the House of Lin," she began, her voice faint. "My life was… quiet. Ordered. We rise before the sun, we see to the young mistress's needs, we manage the household accounts… there is always work. Always duty." She looked down at her spectral hands. "It is an honorable life. But it is a small one."
She looked up, her eyes distant with memory. "Then… he arrived. A guest at a neighboring estate. A musician. He was… handsome. His music was beautiful." She trailed off, lost in the memory.
"This musician," Wen prompted gently. "Did he have a name?"
"He called himself Feng," she whispered. "He said he was a traveling artist, that my lady's gardens were an inspiration to him." Her form flickered again, this time with a ghostly blush. "He… he sought me out. In secret. In the evenings, by the carp pond. He said… he said I was more beautiful than any of the noble ladies. That my grace was not the studied grace of the court, but something real."
She paused, a fresh wave of sorrow washing over her. "He praised… he praised my hands, for their skill in embroidery. He praised my voice, when I would hum a tuning note for him." Her voice broke. "And my skin… he was always talking about my skin. How it was like flawless white jade. How it glowed in the moonlight."
The detail was so gruesome in retrospect that Chenwei felt a chill that had nothing to do with the ghost's presence.
"He was so kind," Liu Yan continued, her narrative fracturing as the pain returned. "He promised me… a new life. Away from the servitude, the endless duties. He said we would run away together. He asked me to meet him here. In this clearing." Her voice grew stronger, the sorrow burning away into pure, hot rage. "He said it was romantic! He brought a picnic! A lie! It was all a lie!"
Her form flickered violently again, threatening to shift into the skinless horror. "He stole my face!"
"Focus, Liu Yan," Wen said, his voice still calm, cutting through her hysteria. "His face. What did he look like? Your memory is the weapon that will bring him down. Give us our weapon."
The spirit shuddered, her form stabilizing. He is not comforting her, Chenwei realized with a sickening certainty. He is sharpening a tool.
"He was… not like the men of the sect," she finally said, her voice trembling. "Rougher. A scar, here," she touched her own spectral cheek. "His eyes were… like a feral dog's." The description matched the rogue cultivator perfectly.
"He attacked me," she whispered, the horror of the memory making her translucent. "The pain… the knife… I thought he was killing me. But it was worse. He was… he was peeling… No! No!" She dissolved into incoherent, spectral sobs.
Wen let her weep for a long moment before speaking again. "He took your skin, Liu Yan. And with it, he trapped your soul." He produced a complex, mystical-looking compass from his sleeve, its needle spinning wildly. "This is a vessel. Your Qi, your very essence, is still bound to the skin he stole. I need you to possess this compass. Guide its needle. Lead us to the one who wears your face."
The idea was monstrous. Chenwei stepped forward. "This is wrong," he said, his voice low and firm. "You would use her tormented spirit as a tool? The dead must be allowed to rest."
Wen turned to him, his eyes filled with a cold, withering pity. "And we should let her murderer walk free for the sake of your principles?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Besides, she cannot rest. Not until her skin is found and destroyed by righteous fire. It acts as a Soul Anchor. A corporeal chain that binds her to this world in agony. The very magic the assassin used to steal her identity now prevents her from ever finding peace."
He turned back to the weeping spirit. "Helping us is the only way you can be free."
Chenwei was silenced, outmaneuvered by a logic that was as cruel as it was undeniable. He was trapped. To argue further would be to argue for the handmaiden's eternal torment.
He watched as Wen held out the compass. The spirit of Liu Yan looked at it, then at Wen, her spectral form trembling. With a final, sorrowful sigh that felt like a winter wind, she flowed into the device. The compass flared with a brief, sad, silver light, and the needle, which had been spinning madly, suddenly shot around to point due north, quivering with a desperate, vengeful energy.
They had their direction. And Chenwei had never felt more like an unwilling accomplice to a desecration in his life.