Deep within the Tianmu Mountains, beyond the reach of major trade routes and imperial edicts, lay Bai Mu Cun – White Wood Village. Its name derived from the unique, pale timber harvested from the ancient forest that cloaked the surrounding slopes, a wood prized for its unusually fine grain, its resistance to warping, and its almost luminous quality when expertly carved and polished. For generations, the village’s identity and livelihood were inextricably bound to this wood. Its inhabitants were not farmers or merchants, but artisans – carvers whose intricate work adorned temples, graced the studies of discerning scholars, and brought quiet beauty to everyday objects like combs, boxes, and furniture. Their most renowned creations, however, were small, exquisitely detailed figures – depictions of immortals, auspicious beasts, village guardians, and scenes from folklore – carved with a skill that seemed to breathe a subtle life into the pale timber. Presiding over this tradition, the undisputed master whose skill set the standard, was Elder Tong Lin.
Elder Tong, now nearing his eightieth year, was a figure seemingly carved from the very wood he worked. His face was a landscape of deep lines etched by decades of intense focus, his hands gnarled like ancient tree roots yet capable of movements of astonishing precision and delicacy. His workshop, smelling perpetually of fragrant wood shavings, tung oil, and the faint metallic tang of sharpening stones, was the heart of the village. Apprentices, including his own grandson, Tong Jian, learned their craft under his exacting gaze, striving to emulate the almost preternatural life he coaxed from the pale timber. His figures were famed not just for their detail, but for a certain lingqi – a spiritual resonance, a feeling of quiet presence that made them seem more than just carved wood.
But in the past year, a subtle yet profound change had begun, centered around Elder Tong and his most recent creations. His skill, always remarkable, seemed to transcend its previous limits, achieving a level of intricate detail and lifelike expression that was almost unnerving. Figures emerged from his workshop faster than ever before, each a masterpiece of technical brilliance. Yet, these new carvings felt different. They lacked the quiet, benevolent lingqi of his older work. Instead, they possessed a watchful stillness, an intensity in their tiny carved eyes that felt less like artistry and more like… awareness. The wood itself, usually warm and responsive, felt strangely cold, resistant, yet yielded to his tools with unnatural ease.
Elder Tong himself was also changing. Instead of slowing with age, he worked with a feverish, tireless energy that belied his years. He spent longer and longer hours locked in his private workshop, often working through the night by the light of oil lamps, foregoing meals and sleep. His apprentices rarely saw him now, receiving instructions through curt notes left outside his door. When glimpsed, he appeared gaunt, his skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, his eyes burning with an obsessive, almost manic light. He seemed consumed by his craft, driven by a force that energized his hands while simultaneously draining the life from his face.
His grandson, Ah Jian, felt the wrongness most acutely. He lived with his grandfather, tending to his meagre needs, managing the workshop’s outer affairs, and trying, often failing, to learn at the master’s side. He saw the impossible intricacy of the new carvings, felt the cold stillness emanating from them. He witnessed his grandfather’s physical decline juxtaposed with his frantic, unnatural energy. He heard the old man muttering late at night, not just technical notes about carving, but strange, fragmented conversations, seemingly addressed to the wood itself – pleas for guidance, promises of service, arguments with an unseen presence about 'taking too much'.
Disturbing incidents began to occur. Carvings left finished on the workbench overnight would be found slightly altered – a hand gesture changed, an expression subtly shifted from serenity to a silent scream, tiny details added that Ah Jian swore weren't there before. Tools would vanish from locked cabinets, only to reappear weeks later inexplicably embedded within a block of raw pale wood waiting to be carved. The atmosphere in the workshop grew heavy, cold, charged with a silent, watchful energy that made Ah Jian’s skin crawl. He started having nightmares filled with whispering wood grain and the feeling of unseen, wooden eyes watching him in the dark.
He tried to speak to his grandfather, expressing concern, suggesting rest. Elder Tong reacted with uncharacteristic fury, accusing Ah Jian of jealousy, of lacking the dedication required for true artistry, before retreating back into his locked workshop, the sound of frantic carving resuming almost immediately. Ah Jian felt a growing dread that his grandfather wasn't just obsessed; he was possessed, enslaved by the very wood he sought to master.
Remembering tales told by travelling monks who occasionally commissioned carved sutra covers – stories of a wandering Taoist named Xuanzhen skilled in dealing with imbalances of spirit, craft, and nature – Ah Jian made a desperate decision. Leaving a note for his grandfather, he slipped away from the village, undertaking the arduous journey through the mountains, seeking the Taoist’s aid.
Xuanzhen, who was indeed meditating at a remote temple several valleys away after resolving the matter of the Silent Temple Bell (Chapter 51), received the anxious young apprentice. He listened intently as Ah Jian described the unnaturally lifelike carvings, his grandfather's obsessive energy and physical decline, the whispering wood, the strange occurrences, and the specific pale timber harvested from a particular ancient grove deep in the mountains – a place Ah Jian called the 'Whispering Grove', traditionally approached only after purification rites and with offerings left for the forest spirits.
Xuanzhen recognized the dangerous confluence of factors: intense artistic obsession, potent natural materials sourced from a potentially sacred site, neglected rituals, and the draining of life force. It suggested an awakening, likely inadvertent, of a powerful Mu Jing (Wood Spirit) residing within the unique timber of the Whispering Grove. Elder Tong's obsessive focus and disregard for the traditional rites had likely created an opening, allowing the ancient spirit, perhaps dormant for centuries, to influence him, guiding his hands to create vessels for its own energy while feeding on his vitality. The carvings weren't haunted by external ghosts; they were extensions of the awakened Wood Spirit itself, imbued with its cold, watchful consciousness, conduits draining energy back to the source.
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"Wood holds memory, Ah Jian," Xuanzhen explained gravely. "Ancient trees, especially those in places of strong natural qi, develop a spirit, a consciousness over centuries. The pale wood your grandfather uses comes from such a place. By harvesting it without respect, by pouring his own unbalanced obsession into it, he has likely awakened the Mu Jing and become entangled with it. His skill increases because the spirit guides his hands, but it drains his life in return. The carvings are 'Unsleeping Wood', never truly inert, carrying fragments of the spirit's awareness."
Understanding the urgency – Elder Tong's life force was clearly being rapidly depleted – Xuanzhen agreed to return with Ah Jian immediately. They travelled back swiftly, arriving at Bai Mu Cun as twilight painted the sky in shades of violet and grey.
The village felt subdued, the usual sounds of carving tools absent. A heavy silence hung in the air, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and unspoken fear. The workshop door was closed, but faint scraping sounds could be heard from within Elder Tong's private chamber. Ah Jian hesitated, fear clear on his face.
Xuanzhen placed a calming hand on his shoulder. "Courage. We must break the connection before it consumes him entirely."
He pushed the door open gently. The sight within was both tragic and terrifying. Elder Tong sat hunched over his workbench, illuminated by a single flickering oil lamp. He was skeletal, his skin stretched like parchment over bone, yet his hands moved with blinding speed, carving an intricate figure of a forest deity from a block of the pale wood. The wood itself seemed to glow faintly, and the air around him shimmered with distorted qi. He was murmuring constantly, a stream of technical jargon mixed with pleas and promises addressed to the wood. The nearly finished figure on the bench already possessed that unnerving, watchful stillness, its carved eyes seeming to follow them as they entered. The cold, draining energy was almost suffocating.
"Grandfather!" Ah Jian cried out.
Elder Tong didn't react, his focus absolute, locked onto the wood, his connection to the Wood Spirit complete. Xuanzhen knew direct intervention could be dangerous, potentially causing psychic backlash. He needed to disrupt the connection, calm the agitated spirit within the wood, and ground the chaotic energy.
He instructed Ah Jian to quickly gather specific items from the workshop stores: coarse salt (for purification), shavings from ordinary pine wood (a grounding, balancing wood energy), and a small metal bowl or gong. While Ah Jian searched, Xuanzhen stepped further into the room, positioning himself between Elder Tong and the doorway, creating a subtle energetic barrier.
He began a low, resonant chant, invoking the balancing principles of the Five Phases, specifically using Metal energy (through sound and intent) to control and soothe the dominant, agitated Wood energy. Ah Jian returned with the items. Xuanzhen took the metal bowl and, using a small wooden striker, began tapping out a rhythmic, penetrating frequency designed to disrupt psychic bonds and calm agitated spirits.
The effect was immediate. The pale wood on the workbench pulsed erratically. Elder Tong faltered in his carving, crying out as if in pain, clutching his head. The whispering quality in the air intensified, swirling around them, filled with confusion and anger. The finished carvings around the room seemed to vibrate faintly.
"Hold steady, Ah Jian!" Xuanzhen commanded, increasing the intensity of the chime-like rhythm. "Sprinkle the salt and pine shavings in a circle around your grandfather and the workbench!"
Ah Jian, overcoming his fear, quickly created the circle, visualizing it as a boundary of purification and grounding. Xuanzhen continued his chanting and the rhythmic striking, focusing his intent on separating Elder Tong's qi from the Wood Spirit's influence, soothing the spirit's agitation, urging it back towards dormancy. He visualized the parasitic connection fraying, dissolving.
Elder Tong thrashed weakly, caught between the spirit's grip and the ritual's influence. The pale wood figure he was carving cracked suddenly down the middle with a sharp report. The intense energy in the room lessened abruptly. Elder Tong collapsed forward onto the workbench, unconscious but breathing raggedly. The cold, draining pressure vanished, replaced by the ordinary scent of wood and oil, though the silence felt heavy, exhausted.
Xuanzhen rushed to the old master's side, checking his pulse, gently channeling calming, restorative qi into him. He was severely depleted, but the immediate psychic bond was broken.
In the days that followed, Elder Tong remained weak, recovering slowly, his memory of the preceding months hazy, filled with fragmented images of whispering wood grain and an overwhelming compulsion to carve. The carvings created during his obsession lost their disturbing intensity, becoming merely intricate, lifeless wood once more. Xuanzhen worked with Ah Jian to ritually cleanse the workshop and neutralize the remaining affected carvings, advising that the wood harvested aggressively from the Whispering Grove should not be used until balance was fully restored.
The final step required a journey to the Whispering Grove itself. Xuanzhen, accompanied by Ah Jian and a frail but determined Elder Tong (supported by his grandson), made the trek deep into the mountains. The grove, when they reached it, felt ancient, sacred, yet undeniably disturbed. The oldest trees radiated a cold, weary energy. Xuanzhen led them in a formal ritual of apology and appeasement. They made offerings of pure water, rice wine, and incense. Elder Tong, his voice weak but sincere, spoke words of deep regret for his disrespectful harvesting and obsessive demands, acknowledging the spirit's power and asking forgiveness. Xuanzhen performed rites to soothe the Mu Jing, reinforcing the natural boundaries, chanting for balance and peaceful coexistence, visualizing the spirit settling back into its long slumber, its energy harmonizing with the forest once more.
A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the clean scent of pine and damp earth. The oppressive coldness lifted, replaced by the deep, quiet peace of an ancient forest at rest.
They returned to Bai Mu Cun, leaving the Whispering Grove to heal. Elder Tong, freed from the draining influence, slowly regained some strength, though the experience had aged him profoundly. He focused now on teaching Ah Jian, emphasizing not just skill, but the crucial importance of respect for the materials, the spirits of place, and the delicate balance required in their sacred craft.
Xuanzhen departed the village, reflecting on the subtle life force inherent in ancient wood and the dangers of artistic obsession untempered by reverence. The Unsleeping Wood served as a potent reminder that nature held deep consciousness, and exploiting sacred resources or pouring unbalanced human energy into creation could awaken forces best left undisturbed, leading to a dangerous symbiosis where the creator becomes consumed by the very spirit they sought to master. True artistry, he knew, required not just skill, but a conversation with the material, a partnership built on respect, lest the wood itself begin to whisper demands the carver could not refuse.
