The courtyard behind the pill refining hall was silent at dusk—except for the quiet clatter of vials, the occasional cough of smoke, and the sighs of failure from junior alchemists.
Li Shen sat at the edge of the garden, folding a tattered piece of parchment. Not studying. Not observing. Just folding.
A crane. Then a second.
To anyone watching, he was just another disciple wasting time.
But beneath the bench, hidden by shadow, a thread of spiritual essence stretched—thin as spider silk—toward the building's foundation.
Toward a glyph.
It had taken him four days to find it. Three nights to decode it. One hour to realize the ward was not protecting the alchemy hall from intruders.
It was tracking someone inside.
He had seen the threads—it was a binding loop, centered on Disciple Mei Lin, the hall's quietest assistant and the only one who never spoke during lectures.
Others ignored her. She worked. She bowed. She left.
But Li Shen had seen how her spiritual thread bent unnaturally—tugged, rather than flowing freely. He knew that feeling now. It was the mark of a tethered soul.
Someone was experimenting on her.
Tonight, he would end it.
He pressed his finger to the crane's wing and whispered, "Fold."
The word was both sound and command. The thread beneath the bench snapped, but not with force—with precision. One glyph on the ward twisted. Another unraveled. The binding thread released.
Far inside the building, Mei Lin gasped—so softly, even those near her didn't hear.
But Li Shen saw the change immediately.
Her shoulders straightened. Her eyes focused. Her steps lost that subtle, forced rhythm.
The spell had been broken.
And no one knew.
Later that night, as the moon crested over the courtyard, a knock came at Li Shen's door.
Soft. Measured.
He opened it to find Mei Lin standing with a jar of refined lotus balm and a bundle of clean robes.
"I brought these," she said. "You left the duel with blood on your collar three days ago."
Li Shen accepted them with a nod.
Silence stretched.
She didn't leave.
Finally, she asked, "Why?"
He met her eyes—calm, unreadable.
"There was a thread around your will," he said. "I don't like knots I didn't tie."
A long pause.
Then, very quietly, she said, "I remember things now. Things I shouldn't. Places I was taken to… while I slept. Needles. Seals. Faces behind spirit masks."
Li Shen said nothing.
She took a breath, and added, "If you're ever in danger, send for me."
He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
She turned to leave.
"Because you cut what others ignored. That makes you dangerous. And dangerous people," she said, glancing back, "shouldn't be alone."
Then she was gone.
From a rooftop nearby, an old man in plain robes exhaled a slow breath. His name was Wei Ran, once a war cultivator, now a quiet observer for the Sect Leader.
He whispered into the slip of paper in his hand.
"Target demonstrates subtle cause-thread manipulation. Has begun deploying technique to alter external patterns—acts of calculated mercy. Style resembles pre-Dawnfell sub-weaving theory. Recommend continued surveillance. But do not provoke."
The paper folded itself, caught fire, and vanished into the wind.
Li Shen, unaware he was seen, stood by his window and stared at the moon.
The web was forming.
But he was not the fly.
He was the weaver.