"I'm not going mad," was the first sentence to escape Shenyan's mouth after he heard the voice.
Shenyan pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, hard. The midday sun still streamed through the window, warming the floor in golden patches. He wasn't dreaming. He wasn't hallucinating. He could still smell the faint traces of broth from breakfast. The brush he'd dropped earlier still lay on the floor beside the half-finished painting.
And yet—
"Do you want a miracle?"
There it was again. Calm. Deep. Not loud, but vast—like a whisper spoken across a canyon, echoing from somewhere beyond the reach of mortal thought. It didn't feel like it was in his ears. It was in him.
He sat up, heart thudding, eyes darting around the empty chamber. "Nope," he muttered. "Nope, absolutely not. I just—slept too long. Maybe I'm still dreaming. Maybe Mo Yuren slipped something into my food. That little—"
"You are not dreaming, Bai Shenyan."
His blood ran cold.
The voice was patient, slow, and—worst of all—certain. Not a question, not a suggestion. A statement.
Shenyan's chest tightened. He backed up until his shoulders hit the wall. "Okay. Okay. Rational thinking. I'm awake. It's daytime. I have not consumed anything suspicious—unless Yuren's herbal tonic counts. No sign of fever. Therefore…"
"…therefore you believe your senses deceive you."
He froze.
The words had no malice, no mockery. Just a soft, measured cadence that cut through the haze of his thoughts. It felt like the voice already knew what he was going to think. As if it had always been with him.
"What… what are you?" Shenyan whispered, his voice hoarse.
There was a pause. A silence that stretched not with emptiness, but with expectation. Then:
"I am what remains when all else fades. I am what answers when no one else listens. I am the one who sees potential where others see failure."
A chill crept down Shenyan's spine.
He wanted to laugh. To cry. To scream that this was absurd. But instead, he whispered, "Why now?"
Another pause.
"Because you are finally ready to listen."
Shenyan ignored the voice and hugged his knees to his chest, eyes scanning every corner of the room. "Okay. I hear a voice. Definitely not my own. So, obviously... I'm possessed. Or cursed. Or—wait. Are you a ghost? Please don't tell me you're a ghost."
No response.
"An evil spirit, maybe?" Shenyan pressed, glancing toward the doorway. "A particularly polite one? Are you here to make me gnaw off my own arms in my sleep or just whisper creepy stuff until I cry?"
A sigh filled the space—not a sound, but a presence, brushing against his thoughts like the wind brushing across a quiet lake.
"You think I am an evil spirit?"
There was something delicate in the tone. Almost amused. But then—
"How dare you?"
The words were smooth as silk but carried the weight of a mountain. Shenyan flinched. A sudden, quiet gust swept across the room, though the windows were closed. The flame in the incense burner quivered.
Then the voice seemed to catch itself.
"Ahem."
A pause.
"Let me rephrase. I am not… an evil spirit. I am not here to torment you. And no, I am not Mo Yuren in a very elaborate prank."
"That's exactly what Mo Yuren would say if he was the one doing this," Shenyan muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. "Honestly, it's his tone. Way too calm. Creepy calm."
"Everything will be fine, Shenyan."
The voice had shifted again—gentle, quiet, wrapping around his panic like warm silk. Comforting. Sincere.
That made it worse.
Shenyan huffed. "You say that now. Next thing I know, you'll be telling me I'm the chosen one and I have a great destiny or some nonsense."
A chuckle echoed faintly through his mind.
"You jest. But in time, you will understand."
"Fantastic," Shenyan said dryly, rolling his eyes. "Mysterious prophecy voice. This is peak nightmare."
Still, a part of him—just one—paused. Because as absurd as it was, there was something steadying in the way the voice spoke. Not just its tone, but the certainty beneath it. Like whoever it was… knew something he didn't.
He scowled. "I'm still ninety percent sure this is all Yuren's fault."
"Of course you are," the voice replied with what almost sounded like fond exasperation. "Shall I begin?"
Shenyan blinked. "Begin what? The haunting? The possession? The slow descent into madness?"
A long pause.
"…You're trying my patience."
"I haven't even done anything yet!"
"You exist," the voice said flatly. "That appears to be enough."
Shenyan opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Wait, are you insulting me inside my own head?"
"I am not inside your head," the voice said, exasperated. "Well, technically I am, but not in your head. Not in your dumb, tragically underutilized head."
"…Wow," Shenyan muttered, shoving his hands through his hair. "Okay. Rude. I don't even know you and you're already dragging my intelligence like it's your hobby."
A loud, audible groan reverberated inside his mind. It wasn't human—it was deeper, heavier, the kind of groan that might make mountains shift or temples crack.
"Oh, heavens, they truly gave me you. Out of all the vessels in the world, they gave me this one. A perfect outer shell wasted on a walking feather duster."
"Vessel?" Shenyan snapped. "Do I look like a bowl to you? Or perhaps a nice porcelain teapot?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of a cracked liquor jar,". the voice muttered.
Shenyan gasped. "You take that back."
"Make me."
"Oh, so we're doing that now."
A short silence passed between them, heavy with the weight of all the things neither of them wanted to say. Then Shenyan stood abruptly.
"Right. I'm leaving."
"Where are you going?"
"Far away from whatever divine nonsense you are," he grumbled, yanking open the chest by his bed and pulling on his outer robe. "I don't know what kind of celestial joke this is, but I refuse to be the center of it."
He grabbed his cloak and his mask from its stand—a smooth piece of lacquered wood, painted with a silver crescent across the eye. Familiar. Safe. It slid over his face like armor. And just like that, the careless boy became the prince again.
Outside, he could already hear the shuffle of footsteps.
The palace staff were starting their rounds.
"Your Highness?" someone called from behind him.
"I'm well," Shenyan called back, voice calm, princely, bored. "I just need some air."
He moved to the window and slipped out onto the balcony. From there, it was a short drop into the garden—and freedom, at least for the moment.
"You're going to run?" the voice said, unimpressed. " From me?"
"I'm not running," Shenyan sniffed, leaping lightly to the ground below. "I'm dramatically withdrawing while going to see a friend."
"Such dignity. Very regal."
"Oh...do the honor and wound me with sarcasm."
"Gladly."
Shenyan stumbled, nearly faceplanting into a hedge.
"You—you can't say things like that!"
The voice sighed. "And you can't be this idiotic. Yet here we are."
Shenyan huffed and pushed through the garden path, weaving toward the outer gates, always moving with the quiet ease of someone used to disappearing when no one was watching.
"I swear," he muttered under his breath, "if this is some cursed retribution for breaking that jade dragon in the ancestral hall, I already apologized—"
"This has nothing to do with your clumsy mortal accidents," the voice snapped. "You're here because you were chosen. Selected. By forces beyond your reckoning."
Shenyan paused. "So… like a divine lottery?"
The voice made a noise like it was dying.
"I hate you."
"Too late," Shenyan said cheerfully. "You're already stuck in my dumb, cracked-liquor-jar brain."
--------
Shenyan moved quickly beneath his hooded robe, weaving past shuttered stalls and snoring dogs. He didn't stop until he reached a modest residence tucked near the back of the southern ward—familiar, warm, and a little bit crooked like its owner.
Yuren's house.
He raised his fist to knock—then paused.
"You're going to ask for help?" the voice drawled inside his skull. "From this person?"
"Yes," Shenyan muttered under his breath. "He's my friend. He's smart. Unlike some of us."
"Oh, wonderful. A scholar who reads too much and bathes too little. What could possibly go wrong?"
"I swear," Shenyan whispered through clenched teeth, "if you keep talking, I will walk into a temple and beg a monk to exorcise me."
"You're welcome to try," the voice said sweetly. "They'll weep at the first whisper of my presence. Or melt. Either outcome is appealing."
Before Shenyan could retort, the wooden door creaked open.
A sleepy Yuren blinked at him, ink smudged on his cheek, a scroll still clutched in one hand. "Shenyan? You look like you ran from an angry concubine."
"I need help," Shenyan said simply.