Crazed Whisperer

Chapter 4: What are you?

The warmth of the room settled in, creating a quiet lull as Xuan Jing lay on his bed, the rhythmic patter of rain on the window slowly blending with the deep breathing of the cat. Just as his mind was beginning to drift, a loud knock at the door broke the peace, echoing through the room with an urgency that snapped Xuan Jing back to the present.

He sat up, frowning slightly. Wei Lin wouldn’t knock like that—it was too abrupt, too insistent. Xuan Jing glanced at the cat, which had perked up at the noise, its ears twitching. The knock came again, and this time, there was a voice, slightly muffled by the door.

“Master Xuan, it's urgent,” the voice called, unfamiliar, anxious. “There’s… something you need to see.”

Xuan Jing stood, moving towards the door, his bare feet making no sound on the cold wooden floor. He opened the door to find one of the guards standing there, the man’s face pale, his eyes wide. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if unsure whether to proceed, before finally speaking.

“There’s been… an incident at the gates, sir. You should come,” the guard said, his gaze darting briefly towards the end of the hallway, his voice low, almost as if he feared being overheard.

Xuan Jing’s eyes narrowed, and he felt a flicker of irritation. He was not fond of being interrupted in his sanctuary, but something in the guard’s expression made him pause. Without a word, he nodded, grabbing a dry hoodie from a chair and pulling it over his head before stepping out into the hallway. The guard turned, leading the way down the dimly lit corridors, the air heavy with the tension of whatever awaited them.

The house was quiet, almost eerily so, and as they made their way through the halls, Xuan Jing could hear the distant murmur of voices, growing louder as they approached the front of the residence. The doors to the entrance hall were slightly ajar, and beyond them, Xuan Jing could see the silhouettes of several figures, gathered in the dim light.

The guard pushed the door open fully, revealing a group of servants and guards standing near the entrance, their faces etched with concern. At the center of their focus was someone—no, something—that was sprawled across the polished marble floor, water pooling around it.

It was a man, dressed in tattered clothes, his hair matted with mud and rain. His skin was pale, too pale, and even from where he stood, Xuan Jing could tell that something was wrong. The man wasn’t moving, his eyes open but unseeing, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. The air in the room felt heavy, a cold draft seeping through the open doors behind them.

Xuan Jing stepped closer, his gaze scanning the scene, his mind already working. One of the guards stepped forward, his face tight with unease. “He appeared out of nowhere, sir,” he said, his voice hushed. “We found him just outside the gates, collapsed like this. He… doesn’t have any identification, and…” The guard trailed off, his eyes darting to the man’s face before quickly looking away.

Xuan Jing’s gaze shifted to the man’s face, and he felt a strange chill run through him. The man’s eyes were wide open, his pupils blown, but it wasn’t just the emptiness in them that was unsettling. There was something else—a dark, swirling pattern that seemed to pulse beneath the surface, like ink spreading through water.

He crouched down, studying the pattern more closely. It looked almost organic, like veins, branching out from the man’s eyes and disappearing beneath his collar. Xuan Jing frowned, reaching out to touch the man’s neck, his fingers brushing against the cold, clammy skin. There was no pulse, no warmth, nothing to indicate that the man had ever been alive.

“Take him away,” Xuan Jing said quietly, standing up, his gaze still fixed on the body. “And seal the gates. No one comes in or out tonight.”

The guards exchanged uneasy glances, but they nodded, moving to follow his orders. As they lifted the body, Xuan Jing turned, his mind racing. There was something deeply wrong about this—something that went beyond just a stranger appearing at their gates. He could feel it, an instinctual sense of unease that settled in his gut.

“Master Xuan,” Wei Lin’s voice came from behind him, soft but steady. Xuan Jing turned to see his servant standing there, his head slightly tilted, his expression as calm as ever, though there was a tightness around his mouth that suggested concern. “Shall I inform your father?”

Xuan Jing shook his head, his eyes narrowing. “No. Not yet.” He didn’t want to involve his father—not until he understood what was happening. He turned, moving towards the staircase, his steps deliberate. “Prepare the study. I need to look into something.”

Wei Lin nodded, his closed eyes following Xuan Jing’s movement, a hint of something unreadable passing across his features. “As you wish, Master Xuan.” He turned, heading towards the study, his scarf trailing behind him as he moved with a quiet efficiency.

Xuan Jing paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back down at the entrance hall. The body was gone, the servants already scrubbing the floor, their movements hurried, almost frantic. The rain continued to pour outside, the wind howling against the walls of the house, and for a moment, Xuan Jing felt an inexplicable sense of dread.

He turned away, his jaw tightening. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to end here. He could feel it—something dark, something ancient, was stirring, and it had just found its way to his doorstep. And whether he liked it or not, Xuan Jing knew that he was already tangled in its web.

The study was quiet, the air thick with the scent of old books and ink. Xuan Jing stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the shelves that lined the walls, filled with tomes and scrolls, a collection his family had gathered over generations. He moved to the desk, where Wei Lin had already set out a stack of books, their worn covers hinting at their age.

“What do you think it was?” Wei Lin asked softly, his voice barely breaking the silence. He stood by the window, his hands folded in front of him, his head slightly turned towards Xuan Jing.

Xuan Jing didn’t answer immediately, his fingers brushing over the spine of one of the books. “Something that shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, his voice low. He opened the book, his eyes scanning the faded text, his mind racing. There were stories—old stories, myths that spoke of beings that walked between worlds, creatures that fed on the essence of life itself. He had always thought them just that—stories. But now...

He glanced up at Wei Lin, his expression unreadable. “Whatever it is, it’s not human. And it’s not done yet.”

Wei Lin nodded, his lips pressing together in a thin line. “Then we should be prepared,” he said quietly.

Xuan Jing didn’t respond, his eyes already looking out at the moon before Sighing he turned around walking back to his chambers.