「克己复礼为仁.」
"To master oneself and return to ritual — this is true virtue."
— Confucius, Analects, Book 12
At dawn, the riverbank lay quiet and cool.
A veil of mist drifted low above the water, blurring the shoreline. Slowly, it began to lift, revealing a wooden platform that stretched deep into the riverbed.
At its edge stood a priest — tall, young, clad in ceremonial robes of deep indigo, embroidered with golden threads in the shape of flowing waves and swimming fish.
Gao Weiyuan.
A breeze stirred the hem of his robe, lifting long strands of peach-colored hair that danced lightly in the air. But the priest himself remained still — only the soft chime of thin bells around his ankle rippled over the water, gathering yang energy into his presence.
His skin, pale and almost translucent, lent his face an otherworldly beauty — as if sculpted by the heavens.
The riverbank was full.
The entire village had gathered — in silence, as if the Heavens themselves had commanded it. No one spoke aloud. Only hushed whispers passed from lip to lip, fearful of breaking the sacred stillness.
"The imperial priest himself has come…"
"The river will surely show mercy now…"
They were preparing for the ancient rite of the River Bride. The girl had already been dressed in her wedding gown — red silk, pearl hairpins, incense—everything like a real wedding.
Only this time, the bride was marrying the river itself.
The river spirit did not demand a simple life. It required love, freely given and never returned. If the spirit accepted the bride, the river would be appeased, and the village granted a decade of peace.
The village elder — a wiry man with harsh features — stepped forward, straightened his back with a crack, and declared in a loud voice, trying to drown out the girl's wrenching sobs:
"Heaven knows who has strayed from the path. But we — we must offer a vow to the river spirit."
The crowd stilled, eyes turning to the delicate figure in bright crimson. Her face, carefully painted, was smeared with tears. Her hands trembled. Her wide eyes searched the crowd, desperate for a trace of mercy — but no one met her gaze. No one dared share her sorrow.
Off to the side, her younger sister struggled in the grip of an elder, her voice hoarse from screaming:
"Father, please—stop this! Mei Ling can't swim!"
Her last words drowned in the father's hand as he clamped it over her mouth and pulled her close, his face carved with cruel resignation.
The bride's mother did not attend the ceremony. She remained at home, as if hiding the family's disgrace: her eldest daughter had spent the night with her closest friend, breaking both village law and the will of the gods. That same night, the elder had offered only one solution to appease the river spirit—and the father had not hesitated.
From behind the shuttered windows of the family's home, a thin stream of incense smoke curled into the sky — a mute sign of the mother's presence, expressed in the only way she could. She sat before the ancestral tablet. The red sealing ribbon binding her daughter's name to the family line had been removed — a silent renunciation. She could no longer cry. Even the incense rose soundlessly, pale and grieving, through the open windows.
On the platform, Weiyuan slowly sank to his knees, unrolling a length of white silk before him — the soul's path.
Then he rose and, according to ancient law, bowed to the four directions:
To the East — to the spirits of water.
To the South — to the ancestors.
To the West — to the Heavens.
To the North — to the Lords of the Underworld.
He scooped water from a bowl, and as the drops touched the silk, they bloomed like dew on a lotus petal.
Then the priest began to recite the nine-part hymn:
"O River, within you lie a hundred paths—
May you hear the breath of those who stand before you."
The girl flinched, sobbing louder now, shaking her head in mute pleading, eyes darting from face to face for help. No one moved.
Weiyuan lifted his arms, and his fingers traced intricate, flowing shapes in the air — symbols that faded as soon as they formed, as if woven from mist. The air itself seemed to thicken, bending to his will. From his wrists trailed ribbons — white and blue, the emblems of water and spirit — streaming behind his gestures like the tail of a prayer.
"The bell rings — the offering is made.
Let sorrow sink into your depths and fade…"
Weiyuan never looked away from the girl's face. He could feel his insides twisting with pain and revulsion for the role he was forced to play. Since childhood, he had been told: "You are the vessel of the ritual. Without you, order collapses."
He hated those words now — and still, he spoke:
"The peach tree blossoms — its time is brief…"
The words came automatically. As if he were once again in the temple, a boy of ten, reciting before his master.
"The lotus blooms — the fallen flower drifts…"
His thoughts drifted backward, to a night long ago — he and his brother, standing by the river, watching the stars mirrored on its surface. His brother had asked if they would ever be free to choose their own fate. Weiyuan hadn't answered. He had only gripped his brother's hand tighter, afraid to promise something he couldn't give.
And now, once more, he stood with the weight of hundreds on his shoulders and a stranger's life in his hands.
"Youth is tender — the thread is cut…"
Even numbed by the morning chill, the priest's hands moved with sacred precision, as though the cold had no power over him.
"Let dark waters swallow fate…"
The girl was being gently pushed toward the edge of the wooden platform.
Her sobs turned shrill, hysterical. She dropped to her knees, clutching at the hands in the crowd, desperate to stay.
Weiyuan did not flinch. He held himself still by force of will, locking his voice inside his throat.
The village elder held a ribbon — soaked in chicken's blood, wrapped with a strand of the girl's hair. He set it ablaze.
Without a word, he tossed it into the river.
The smoldering thread glided over the surface, glowing faintly — a sign that the spirit now claimed her life.
A raft drifted from the bank, carrying the girl deeper into the current. She trembled atop it, clutching the wet planks. Each time the raft tilted, a choked cry escaped her lips.
With trembling fingers, Mei Ling reached up to her crown — delicate, golden, encrusted with pearls.
She clung to it for a moment, as if trying to hold on to life itself, then drew a shuddering breath and set it gently on the damp wood.
The sound of jewelry falling struck the silence like a funeral bell, making those on shore shudder and cast down their eyes.
Mei Ling hastily removed her heavy earrings, bracelets, jeweled pins.
Only one ornament remained in her hair — a thin, curved hairpin inlaid with a jade leaf.
Her mother had given it to her. She had worn it at her own wedding.
Each piece left on the raft was an offering, yes — but also a desperate attempt to lighten the weight, to give herself even a sliver of hope.
The red outer robe, heavy with dew, slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet in a waterfall of crimson.
She stood in only her underdress — a disgrace to her family, to the village.
Weiyuan spoke again:
"Your rage is deep — your wrath immense.
We offer blood, that you may be still."
…If he broke the rite now, the river might claim even more lives. He had never been given a choice. He never had…
He dipped his hands into the bowl of water and raised them skyward. Drops ran down his fingers — and at that moment, a sound echoed from the depths.
A bell. As if it had rung from the bottom of the river itself. It resonated through the bones.
Weiyuan closed his eyes for just a moment, feeling a dull ache bloom within his chest. Behind his lids: a memory. A moonlit night. The moss-covered roof of the temple. Cool wind, the scent of jasmine. He and Weimin had slipped away from evening prayers, climbed to the rooftop, and lay staring up at the sky. His brother had reached for the moon, smiling faintly.
"If we left now — just left — would they even look for you?"
On the shore, the younger sister tore free from her father's arms. Her voice cracked into a rasp:
"Mei Ling! No! Don't—please!"
But no one heard her. The villagers stood like statues — bound by superstition, fear, and the terror of divine punishment. Some turned away. Some buried their faces in their hands. Some whispered prayers under their breath, trying to shut out the horror, the shame.
"Spirits of water, accept our vow.
Let the river fall silent, and light return."
Mei Ling stepped to the raft's edge. Her feet were bare and pale as ice.
A child tugged on his mother's sleeve — a small boy in a blue jacket with a ribbon on the arm.Too young to understand, yet old enough to feel that something was wrong.
He pressed close to her and whispered:
"Mama… where is she going?"
The woman turned sharply from the river, dropped to her knees, and pulled the child into her arms, hiding his face in the folds of her skirt.
Mei Ling gave a cry of agony and leapt into the freezing water. She thrashed, trying to swim — but the soaked fabric wrapped around her limbs, clinging to her skin, dragging her under.
The red gown billowed, swelling and spreading beneath the surface like a flower in bloom. Life unfolding in the moment of its end.
Terror twisted her face. She choked, spluttered, gasped for breath — and swallowed water.
"Blood is your peace, fruit your shade —
Within the womb of the wave, the day dissolves."
Her crimson skirts erupted in bubbles, blooming around her like blood-soaked lotus petals.
Her scream vanished in the current — a convulsed gasp became her final breath, the last sound she would ever tear from an indifferent Heaven.
The crowd watched in silence as the red stain sank into the dark river. The water drank deeply, ravenous, consuming the offering.
Weiyuan forced his eyes open. He had to finish the rite. He lowered his hands toward the surface — not touching it, only enclosing it with his fingers as if cupping the soul of the ritual.
Then, with the final verse, he spoke:
"The mountains are silent. And so are the skies.
Now, quietly, the river flows…"
He looked at the river as if speaking to it without words. At times, his gaze pierced the mist, and in those moments it seemed the current itself coiled like a serpent answering its summoner. His voice faded. The water darkened, but its rage receded — the current slowed, the banks withdrew, revealing more earth than before. Silence hung suspended.
Then a cry shattered it — raw, piercing, tearing through the illusion of ritual calm. The younger sister had broken free. She fell to her knees in the mud near the shore, her face contorted in grief and horror, voice rasping into a howl: "It should've been me!" she screamed, arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hold her soul inside. "Me! I was the one with Yulan! I was…"
…Two silhouettes beneath the cherry tree…
The cry struck the crowd like thunder, but only a few faces twitched. Most looked away, dropped their gaze, clung tighter to their prayers of gratitude and relief.
…One wore a loose boy's tunic, the other a plum blossom crown. Their laughter rolled like wind over grass. Fingers entwined…
The father didn't move. His eyes had gone hollow. He understood. But it was too late. He looked like a burned-out tree — roots still in the soil, but the crown long turned to ash.
…A touch became an embrace, arms wrapped gently around a waist, hesitant, like a first time. A breath, warm and quickened, brushed against skin. Petals tangled in their hair — red blossoms woven into strands…
The red stain of the girl's skirts was dissolving beneath the river's surface. Then, suddenly, where Mei Ling had vanished, the water stirred — and from its depths, a soft, shimmering light began to rise. It wasn't bright, but wavering, like moonlight suspended in shadow. It pulsed like the breath of a sleeping beast, spread across the riverbed, and rippled outward from where the girl had sunk. The riverbank reflected pale, and the villagers' faces were lit with a ghostly sheen.
Someone whispered, "The river… answered." The crowd echoed it. Some fell prostrate. Others raised their arms to the sky. No one wanted the truth. Only Weiyuan remained still, alone at the edge, where the river swallowed the last threads of the girl's gown. Strips of silk, half-drowned in silt, drifted like water weeds — like hands still reaching to the surface.
Something nudged against the bank by his foot — a delicate, curved hairpin with a jade leaf.
* * *
The priest returned to the order by evening. His wooden house was carved into the cliffside. From one wall, a thin stream of water seeped, forming a trickle that ran into a basin carved by years of flow. The water here was always cold, always clean. Beneath the floorboards, the soft murmur of the stream echoed faintly — so close that during the flood season, it would rise to cover the lower steps, leaving behind dark waterlines.
Weiyuan, in a gesture completely uncharacteristic of him, let the ceremonial robes fall to the floor. Silk slid onto the planks and crumpled in a shapeless heap. The embroidered waves and golden fish glimmered faintly in the light of the lantern. He stepped out of the pile with quiet grace. A bell chimed faintly at his ankle, still drawing in yang.
He sank to the floor, leaning his back against the cold wall. His peach-colored hair was loose, the ends damp, clinging to his cheek. He lifted a bowl of strong pine-resin wine to his lips and drank — without tasting, without pause.
And that's how his brother found him.
A man of the same height, same posture, same face — as if a reflection in water. Two drops caught in identical motion. But the expression differed — his was alive, defiant, with a shadow of irony that had long since died in the priest.
Weimin entered without knocking, as he always did. He said nothing at first — just paused in the doorway, gaze sweeping across the discarded robe, the meticulous stitching, the gold-thread curls at the collar. His eyes passed to Weiyuan, to the bowl in his hand, to the bell still trembling from a careless movement.
He stepped forward.
"Another river bride?" he asked calmly.
Even his voice was the same — deep, a little languid, with an edge sharp enough to cut silk.
The priest drank in silence, not acknowledging him. His movements were ceremoniously slow, as if the ritual still hadn't ended — only now it was wine instead of water.
The jade cup trembled slightly in his fingers, catching the lantern's reflection against the wall.
Weimin leaned against a wooden column, arms crossed.
"And you pretended again that this is fine?" he asked, voice unchanged — still deep, still slow, but honed like a blade.
"Would it be better if another priest fumbled the prayer?" Weiyuan murmured, not turning his head. "And another girl had to die?"
The bell on his ankle gave a faint chime as he moved his foot.
"Oh, I see," Weimin scoffed, straightening. He walked across the room barefoot over lacquered wood, stopping near the incense niche. "So now you're the only one who can kill properly?"
He picked up a sandalwood stick, rolled it between his fingers, then set it back without lighting it.
Silence followed. The stream below the floor gurgled gently, as if something within it was breathing.
Weimin came closer.
Weiyuan still sat slumped against the wall, rotating the cup in his hand. The silk ribbons once bound tightly to his wrists now hung limp, like severed threads.
"Is it really that bad?" Weimin asked softly.
"I don't care anymore," the priest replied without looking up.
Weimin sat down beside him — not on the cushion, not on the mat, but right on the floorboards, still warm from the day's sun. His elbow brushed the edge of Weiyuan's robe, and the cloth slid from the priest's shoulder, as if it, too, had grown tired of pretending to be sacred. His skin glowed in the dim light — pale as parchment. Neither of them noticed.
A chill raised goosebumps on his exposed arm. Priests were often stripped — for ablutions, for offerings, for rites. And always, no one dared touch them.
"That's why you haven't eaten in three days," Weimin said.
"It's the law of the rite," Weiyuan answered after a pause.
"The rite is over," his brother reminded him.
Weiyuan didn't reply. He only lifted the bowl again and drank — a long, greedy pull, as if trying to seal away the filth of the day.
"They killed the wrong girl," he said at last.
He pulled a delicate golden hairpin from his sleeve — the one with the jade leaf. Metal caught the lantern light and flashed like sunlight striking water.
With a sharp flick, he hurled the pin across the room. It clattered on the floor, rolled in a circle, and came to rest right at the edge of the basin.
The priest slowly lowered his head. His knees were trembling. The bell rang again.
"You weren't the one who chose her," Weimin said sharply. "You didn't push her into the river. Your role is to guide. And that's what you did."
"Yes," Weiyuan replied simply. "I did."
Weimin shifted, planting his back firmly against the wall, as if rooting himself in the stone.
"And now you drink," he muttered. "Is that part of the ritual too?"
"Oblivion," the priest whispered. "It's cheaper than the mercy of the Heavens."
"You're not short on gold," Weimin replied dryly.
Weiyuan didn't even smile.
They fell into silence again. The only sounds were the quiet gurgle of the stream below and the occasional muted chime of the bell at his ankle.
"Do you remember the one who sang as they led her away?" Weiyuan asked softly. "She jumped too. But with a smile."
"I don't want to remember," Weimin replied shortly.
"She knew how to swim," the priest added, almost inaudibly.
He said nothing more. Weimin frowned, but held his tongue. He simply stayed there — breathing heavily, as if even the silence weighed too much.
The floor beneath them gave a subtle tremor. A faint vibration passed through the boards — the wards had been triggered. Someone had crossed the threshold.
Weimin turned, glancing toward his brother.
Weiyuan leaned against the wall, fingers still clenched around the bowl. He reached for the jug and raised it to his lips. No more measured sips — he drank straight from the heavy clay vessel, head tilted back, throat working. A droplet slipped down his neck, catching the light at his collarbone.
He didn't care who had come. He wasn't going to rise.
"I'll get it," Weimin said quietly, pushing up from the floor.
He leaned over, reaching into his brother's hair, where the golden pin had caught on a strand. It jingled softly in his fingers. Without a word, he slid it into his own hair.
His gaze dropped to the scattered robes. Among them, the outer mantle stood out — deep indigo with embroidered fish, glinting like light in dark water. He picked it up, shook it out, and began to dress.
He slipped it on, tied the sash carelessly, the ends crossed at random.
"Your knot's crooked," Weiyuan murmured without opening his eyes.
"Don't care," Weimin muttered.
"Come here," the priest said — softly, but with no warmth.
Weimin scowled, but obeyed. He knelt on one knee with a performative sigh.
Weiyuan reached out, his hands precise and practiced. He smoothed the shoulder fold, untied the belt, retied it — even, centered, secure. Adjusted the collar. Straightened the pin in his brother's hair. For a moment, he studied his face — then gave a small nod.
Weimin said nothing. He rose and walked out — steady, deliberate — as a priest would.
"Bracelet," Weiyuan reminded him.
"Ugh, fine…" Weimin muttered.
He turned sharply, crossed to the bedside cabinet, pulled the door open. From its depths he took a thin bronze anklet adorned with tiny bells — an exact match to the one still chiming softly on his brother.
Priests never removed these. Not at night. Not alone. Not even when falling asleep in the middle of meditation.
Weimin frowned, sat down, and fastened the bracelet to his leg. The metal was cold, unsettling. The bells rang — precise and quiet.
When he stepped outside, his footsteps echoed as if the real priest had walked away. And beneath the temple's vaults, in the hush of incense and murmured prayers, no one noticed the substitution.
And no one — not that day, nor any day after — would suspect that the priest who blessed the rites, who led souls across the veil, did not live alone.
Gao Weiyuan had a twin brother.
"We weren't expecting visitors," Weimin muttered, pulling the door open.