The air in Bianjing hung thick and humid that summer, smelling of damp earth, coal smoke, and the thousand scents of the Grand Canal. Down the cramped, winding alley known as Scholar's Lament Lane – a name bestowed with the weary irony only generations of failed examination candidates could muster – lived Wen Ruo. His small, rented room was crammed with scrolls, brushes worn down to nubs, and the ghosts of aspirations that seemed to evaporate with the morning mist off the nearby Bian River.

  Wen Ruo was young, barely twenty summers, but the lines of frustration were already etching themselves around his eyes and mouth. He possessed a keen mind, a heart full of the classics, yet his brushstrokes remained stubbornly mediocre, his essays competent but never brilliant. The Imperial Examinations, the golden ladder dangling tantalizingly before every scholar in the Great Song, felt less like an opportunity and more like a sheer cliff face he could never scale. Night after night, he’d toil by the flickering oil lamp, the characters blurring before his tired eyes, the silence broken only by the scuttling of unseen things in the walls and the distant cries of street vendors closing up shop.

  His younger sister, Wen Lian, managed their meager household. She was barely sixteen, practical and sharp-eyed where her brother was lost in poetic dreams and scholarly despair. She saw the thinning of his face, the deepening shadows beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped a little lower each time he returned from another fruitless session comparing his work to that of the celebrated masters at the local academy. She mended his worn robes, stretched their scant copper coins, and offered quiet words of encouragement that felt increasingly hollow even to her own ears.

  The change began subtly, after Wen Ruo visited the sprawling Xiangguo Temple market, a chaotic symphony of bartering merchants, chanting monks, and curious onlookers. He hadn’t intended to buy anything, merely to escape the oppressive confines of his room. But tucked away in a dusty corner, amidst chipped pottery and tarnished bronze mirrors, sat an inkstone. It was unusually dark, almost unnaturally black, carved from a stone he didn’t recognize. Its surface was smooth, cool to the touch despite the sweltering day, and seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Faint, almost imperceptible carvings coiled around its edges – shapes that hinted at archaic script or perhaps the scales of some deep-water creature. It wasn’t ornate or valuable by conventional standards, yet Wen Ruo felt an inexplicable pull, a strange resonance humming beneath his fingertips. The stall owner, a wizened old man with eyes like cloudy jade, named a price so low it was almost dismissive. Wen Ruo paid, clutching the inkstone as if it were a long-lost treasure.

  That night, something shifted. As Wen Ruo ground fresh ink, the water seemed to meld with the stone in a way it never had before. The ink produced was impossibly black, rich and lustrous, flowing from his brush tip with an uncanny smoothness. And the words… the words came pouring out. Ideas that had previously eluded him now sprang forth fully formed. His calligraphy, once hesitant and uneven, transformed into strokes of breathtaking elegance and power. He wrote through the night, fueled by an energy he hadn’t felt in years, the scratch of his brush on paper the only sound in the sleeping city.

  Wen Lian noticed the difference immediately. The next morning, Wen Ruo emerged from his room not haggard, but strangely energized, his eyes gleaming with an almost feverish light. He showed her the pages he had filled – essays of startling insight, poems that sang with a newfound depth. She praised his work, genuinely impressed, yet a sliver of unease lodged itself in her heart. There was something… intense about his focus, an unnatural sheen to his success.

  Days turned into weeks. Wen Ruo’s output became prodigious. His tutors at the academy, initially skeptical, were now lavishing him with praise, predicting great things for him in the upcoming provincial exams. He spent nearly all his waking hours hunched over the dark inkstone, writing, writing, writing. He ate little, slept less, and grew increasingly withdrawn. The initial energetic gleam in his eyes morphed into a hollow, obsessive stare. His skin took on a pale, almost translucent quality, and his already slender frame seemed to shrink further within his robes. He became irritable, snapping at Wen Lian if she interrupted his flow, guarding the inkstone with a possessive jealousy that bordered on paranoia.

  The chill began to permeate the room, even on the hottest days. It wasn’t just the stone itself anymore; the air around Wen Ruo’s desk felt unnaturally cold, stagnant. Wen Lian, bringing him a bowl of congee he rarely touched, would feel goosebumps rise on her arms as she approached. She tried talking to him, expressing her concern about his health, the frantic pace of his work.

  “Brother, you must rest,” she pleaded one evening, finding him hunched over, his breathing shallow. “You look unwell. This… this isn’t natural.”

  He looked up, his eyes seeming to focus from a great distance. “Natural?” he scoffed, a dry, rasping sound. “Mediocrity is natural, Lian. Starvation is natural. Failure is natural. I’ve finally found the key, the source! Why would I rest now?” He gestured wildly at the scrolls piling up around him. “This is genius, Lian! Don’t you understand? Soon, the Wen family name will be spoken with respect in the highest courts!”

  His gaze dropped back to the inkstone, his fingers caressing its cold, smooth surface. A faint smile touched his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It was a smile that sent a deeper chill down Wen Lian’s spine than the unnatural cold of the room. She saw it then – he wasn’t just working hard; he was being consumed.

  Desperate, Wen Lian started asking around, discreetly inquiring about physicians known for treating strange afflictions. Most offered herbs for fatigue or tonics for weak constitutions. But then, an old woman selling charms near the Dragon Pavilion mentioned a traveling Daoist priest, a man named Xuanzhen, said to have uncanny insight into matters that defied ordinary explanation. He wasn’t attached to any major temple, she said, but sometimes lodged at the quiet Jade Spring Monastery outside the city walls, helping common folk with troubles both mundane and… otherwise.

  Clutching the few coins she had saved, Wen Lian made the journey the next day. The Jade Spring Monastery was a haven of tranquility after the city's clamor. She found Xuanzhen meditating beneath an ancient ginkgo tree in the courtyard. He wasn't what she had expected. He wasn't ancient and wizened, nor imposing and stern. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, with calm, clear eyes that seemed to see more than just the surface. His blue Daoist robes were simple, clean, and he moved with a quiet grace.

  He listened patiently as Wen Lian, voice trembling initially but steadied by his serene presence, recounted her brother’s sudden brilliance, his alarming decline, the obsessive attachment to the inkstone, and the chilling atmosphere in his room. She spoke of her fear, her helplessness, the feeling that something unseen was draining the life from Wen Ruo.

  Xuanzhen asked few questions, but they were precise. When did Wen Ruo acquire the inkstone? What did it look like? Did his personality change suddenly or gradually? Had he complained of specific dreams or sensations? He listened intently to her answers, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration.

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  Finally, he nodded slowly. “The flow of Qi can be disrupted by many things, within and without,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “Ambition itself can forge strange paths. I will come and see your brother.”

  Xuanzhen arrived at Scholar's Lament Lane as dusk began to settle, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet that seemed incongruous with the oppressive feeling emanating from Wen Ruo’s dwelling. The moment he stepped over the threshold, Xuanzhen paused. Even Wen Lian, standing beside him, could feel the difference – the air was heavy, cold, and carried a faint, almost metallic scent, like old blood mixed with ink.

  Wen Ruo was, as expected, at his desk. He barely looked up as they entered, his brush flying across a fresh sheet of paper. The room was even colder than Wen Lian remembered, the shadows seeming to pool and deepen in the corners, clustering particularly thick around the scholar and his inkstone. The stone itself sat like a black hole on the desk, absorbing the lamplight, seeming darker than any natural substance should be.

  Xuanzhen didn’t speak immediately. He let his gaze drift around the room, observing the stacks of scrolls, the scattered brushes, the untouched food tray. His eyes lingered on Wen Ruo, noting the unnatural pallor, the sunken cheeks, the almost skeletal thinness of his wrists. He could feel the scholar’s Qi – it was erratic, flickering like a guttering candle flame, yet paradoxically bound to an intense, cold energy signature emanating powerfully from the inkstone.

  “Brother Wen,” Xuanzhen said softly, his voice cutting through the scratching of the brush.

  Wen Ruo flinched, startled, his brush skittering across the paper, leaving an ugly black smear. He looked up, annoyance flashing in his hollow eyes. “Who… who are you? Lian, I told you I am not to be disturbed!”

  “This is Daoist Master Xuanzhen, brother,” Wen Lian said timidly. “I… I was worried about you.”

  “Worried?” Wen Ruo laughed, that same dry, unsettling sound. “I am on the verge of greatness! There is nothing to worry about.” He turned back to his paper, dismissing them.

  Xuanzhen stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the inkstone. He could almost see the faint, shimmering tendrils of energy extending from it, subtly entwined with Wen Ruo’s life force. “A remarkable stone,” Xuanzhen commented, his tone neutral. “Ancient. It carries… a deep thirst.”

  Wen Ruo froze. Slowly, he turned his head, suspicion and a flicker of fear replacing the annoyance in his eyes. “What do you know of it?”

  “I know that some vessels hold more than just ink,” Xuanzhen replied, meeting the scholar’s gaze. “Some hold echoes. Memories. Hungers.” He took another step closer, his hand subtly forming a diagnostic mudra hidden in his sleeve. The cold intensified, pushing against him like a physical force. “This one hungers for brilliance. For the spark of creation. For life itself.”

  A tremor ran through Wen Ruo. He clutched the edge of the desk. “It… it helps me,” he stammered. “It gives me clarity. The words… they flow like never before.”

  ‘And pays a price he does not yet comprehend,’ a voice seemed to whisper, not aloud, but directly into the minds of those present. It was cold, ancient, and utterly devoid of malice, yet profoundly unsettling in its alien detachment. It seemed to emanate directly from the inkstone.

  Wen Lian gasped, stumbling back. Wen Ruo flinched violently, pressing his hands to his temples.

  Xuanzhen remained steady, his eyes narrowed on the stone. “You offer a bargain, spirit?”

  ‘A symbiosis,’ the mental voice corrected smoothly. ‘I provide the vessel with unparalleled insight. Access to knowledge lost to time. The very answers he seeks for his examinations. In return, I draw sustenance. A small tithe of Qi. The excess energy of his thoughts, his creativity.’

  “You are draining his life force,” Xuanzhen stated flatly. “Look at him. He is fading.”

  Wen Ruo looked down at his own trembling, paper-thin hands as if seeing them for the first time. A wave of dizziness washed over him.

  ‘Life is fleeting regardless,’ the spirit countered, a chilling pragmatism in its silent tone. ‘He burns brightly now. Is not a short, brilliant flame preferable to a long, dim flicker of mediocrity? He desires fame, success. I provide the means. A fair exchange.’

  “Fair?” Wen Lian cried out, finding her voice. “Look at him! It’s killing him!”

  ‘He chose,’ the spirit replied simply. ‘And he can choose to continue.’ It directed its attention back to Wen Ruo, a wave of intoxicating inspiration washing over the scholar, promising insights, glory, the Emperor’s favor. ‘Think, Wen Ruo. The examinations are near. With me, you are assured success. Without me…’ The implication hung heavy in the air – a return to failure, obscurity, the crushing weight of his former despair.

  Wen Ruo was shaking, caught between the terrifying allure of the offered power and the dawning realization of its cost. He looked from the inkstone to Xuanzhen, his eyes pleading.

  Xuanzhen knew this wasn’t a simple case of malicious possession. The spirit, likely an ancient entity bound to the stone, operated on a different, colder logic. It wasn’t driven by evil, but by its own nature, its own need to survive, offering a Faustian pact cloaked in mutual benefit. Destroying it might be possible, but the backlash could harm Wen Ruo further. Severing the connection required more than just force; it required breaking the scholar’s own desperate attachment to the power it offered.

  “The path to true achievement is through discipline and understanding, Wen Ruo, not by consuming your own vital fire,” Xuanzhen said, his voice firm but calm. He drew a simple, potent talisman from his sleeve – one designed not for destruction, but for clarification and severance. “This power is borrowed, and the interest is too high. You must choose to release it.”

  He stepped forward, holding the talisman before him. The air crackled. The inkstone seemed to pulse with a deeper darkness, the cold intensifying to an almost painful degree. The silent voice screamed in their minds, a wave of pure, desperate hunger and rage, promising power, threatening oblivion.

  Wen Ruo cried out, torn by the conflicting forces. But looking at his sister’s terrified face, at the calm certainty in the Daoist’s eyes, and feeling the profound, life-draining chill emanating from the stone he had treasured, a flicker of his old self, the self that valued life and connection over hollow glory, finally broke through the intoxicating haze.

  “No…” he whispered, the word barely audible but firm. “No more.”

  As Wen Ruo uttered his refusal, Xuanzhen pressed the talisman onto the surface of the inkstone. There was no explosion, no dramatic flash of light. Instead, there was a profound silence, a sudden cessation of the mental voice, a rapid receding of the unnatural cold. The oppressive weight in the room lifted. The inkstone still sat there, dark and ancient, but the palpable aura of hunger, the sense of a lurking intelligence, was gone. It felt… dormant. Inert. Just a piece of old stone once more.

  Wen Ruo collapsed back in his chair, gasping as if he had been holding his breath for weeks. Color slowly began to return to his face, though he looked utterly exhausted, drained to his very core. The scrolls around him, filled with brilliant prose and poetry, suddenly seemed alien, their luster faded.

  Xuanzhen retrieved his talisman, now slightly scorched. He looked at the inkstone, then at Wen Ruo. “The connection is severed. The spirit sleeps, for now. But the vessel remains potent. It would be wise to bury it deep, where it cannot tempt another hungry soul.”

  Wen Lian rushed to her brother’s side, tears of relief streaming down her face. Wen Ruo leaned against her, weak but lucid, the obsessive gleam in his eyes replaced by a profound weariness and a dawning horror at how close he had come to extinguishing himself.

  As Xuanzhen prepared to leave, Wen Ruo looked up at him, shame and gratitude warring in his expression. “Master Xuanzhen… my work… it will all be gone?”

  Xuanzhen paused at the door, looking back at the young scholar. “The brilliance born of borrowed fire fades when the fuel is withdrawn,” he said gently. “But the discipline you learned, the effort you expended… that remains yours. True mastery is built stone by stone, not seized in a fever dream. The path is harder, but it is your own. Walk it with balance.”

  He gave a slight bow and stepped out into the now truly darkening lane, leaving the siblings huddled together in the quiet room, the silence broken only by Wen Ruo’s ragged breathing and the distant, comforting sounds of the living city reclaiming the night. The chill was gone, but the memory of the ink pool’s unnatural depth, and the price of the genius it offered, would linger long after.