The Lingering Drops (4)

Three days later, Cold Dew arrived.

Before dawn had fully broken, lead-gray clouds pressed low against the horizon, smothering every trace of daylight. The wind still carried a hint of summer heat as it swept through the Profound Heaven Sect's upturned eaves and bracketed roofs. It brushed the copper bells beneath them, drawing out a mournful whimper, as though someone were weeping softly in the dark.

On ordinary days, purple qi curled around the mountain gate, and spirit birds occasionally beat their wings among the pines and cypresses. It looked every bit an immortal mountain beyond the mortal world. Today was different. An indefinable air of menace spread like an invisible net, sealing the entire Profound Heaven Sect within it.

The pine needles had lost their usual easy spread. The spirit birds folded their wings and hid in their nests, refusing to show their heads. Even the disciples assigned to sweeping moved with the lightest steps. Now and then, one would stare into space, lost in thought so completely that the broom in their hands stopped moving.

Inside the main chamber of Clear Parasol Hall, dozens of bronze candle stands lined both sides. Their flames flickered, casting shifting light across the coffered ceiling and the carvings on the pillars.

The hall was crowded with figures—all the sect's elders who were present on the mountain, along with more than a dozen direct disciples, had gathered there.

The elders, who usually attended to their own duties and rarely assembled in one place, now sat on rosewood chairs along the sides or stood beside the corridor pillars. The direct disciples formed neat rows according to when they had entered the sect, standing with hands lowered off to one side of the hall.

Young and old alike held their breath and kept silent. Even