Warmth. Warmth? What was that… truly?
Had he ever known it—not simply in the fleeting touch of skin or the illusion of sunlight, but in the marrow of his bones, in the core of his soul? It was a distant sensation now, no more than a forgotten memory blurred by frost and pain.
The darkness that held him was not the kind one finds beneath moonlight. It was ancient and absolute, a void that clung to his every breath like tar, pressing down with such weight that even time seemed to cease.
Yet the pain remained. Not dulled, not numbed. The pain was sharp, persistent—a dagger that twisted with every shallow inhale. His skull pulsed with it, like thunder trapped in flesh, bitter and relentless.
But then—light.
Faint and wavering. Not the blinding fire of noon, but a trembling flame, like a candle struggling in the wind. In that light, something surfaced.
A vision. A small house nestled in green hills. The scent of freshly boiled rice, of incense curling through a sun-warmed hall.
Tiny hands—his own, once untouched by the sword. Arms wrapped around him, warm, steady, strong. They lifted him without hesitation, pressed him into a chest that beat softly with a rhythm not unlike song. A laugh—low and loving—followed, brushing past his ear like spring breeze.
That warmth. Was it a dream? He could not see the faces clearly. Only soft voices, tender laughter, a smile that shone with the brilliance of the sun. He blinked—
And it was gone. In its place—blood.
The coppery stench clogged his nose. Crimson soaked the ground. The soft voices were silenced, replaced by the gurgle of breathlessness. The same arms that once held him were now shattered, lifeless. Their faces veiled in shadow, obscured even in death.
He stood there. Small. Still. A child soaked in red. Then came another figure.
Huang Tian-zun. The man once revered as the Father of All Elements. His mentor. His Emperor. His betrayer.
And then—Jing Yao Sect. The elegant white halls glimmering under sunlight, the jade inlays on stone paths, the silver waterfalls running through meditation gardens. That too, once felt like home. But home was a lie long buried.
He had been given another chance. Brightjade Peak had been haven, hearth, discipline. He'd followed the rules, believed in merit, in righteousness.
But even rules could not protect him from fate. Even gods could lie.
His fifteenth birthday. The day the Heavens recognised him—cursed him.
He had tried, truly tried, to remain honourable, his actions pure. But after that day, the warmth was gone. His name, once spoken with reverence, now whispered with fear. People did not see the pain in his gaze, only the weight of his shadow.
He had become a weapon… a vessel for power… a cage for something older than death. And so he had learned to forget.
The wind shifted.
Within the darkness of his dream, the scene bent like bamboo in a storm. Now he stood atop a peak, where the clouds brushed the earth, where the wind spoke in languages lost to men. Snow fell around him, though the sky was clear. Beneath his feet, the cliff edge vanished into mist.
And before him—
A dragon. Colossal. Ancient. Its body coiled like rivers through the heavens. Scales blacker than obsidian shimmered with violet light. Its eyes—piercing, mournful, eternal—locked with his.
He felt no fear. He had once believed this creature is his greatest curse. The spirit sealed within him, the mark on his hand, the reason the world rejected him. But now… Now he questioned everything.
Who had chained whom? Was the dragon truly the monster? Or was it the people, the emperors, the masters who had tried to break what they could not control?
He reached out, slow and uncertain. His fingers hovered just above the creature's brow. He could almost feel the warmth of its breath. It did not flinch. Its gaze softened.
And then—searing pain. White-hot agony erupted through his arm, and with a gasp, his eyes flew open.
Reality surged in.
The weight of his body crashed into him all at once. He shot upright with a strangled groan, clutching his skull as the world spun. Every muscle burned. His limbs felt bound in invisible chains, heavy with exhaustion. His breath was ragged, his skin slick with cold sweat.
A dream.
No—a memory.
He blinked hard, his vision slowly clearing. A modest room came into view. Woven reed mats on the floor. A wooden table, simple yet sturdy, with two steaming cups resting upon it. Curtains swayed gently in the breeze, letting in the fading light of sunset. The golden hues kissed the edges of the room like a blessing he didn't feel he deserved. This must be an inn.
His robes were folded neatly on a side bench. His sword, Xuemie, leaned quietly against the wall—still in its sheath, yet humming faintly with cold energy. The veil still covered his face. His gloves—intact. Safe. For now.
He lowered his head, exhaling a slow, trembling breath. His body was whole, if barely. His memories were sharp, if unwelcome. But how had he gotten here?
He remembered the forest. The cursed mist. The shrieking Jiangshi. The disciples—too young, too reckless. The pain. The—fur? His eyes shifted.
There, curled at the foot of his bed, was a small creature. No larger than a folded cloak, its fur soft and snowy white. Its tail was long and curled, delicate ears twitching slightly in slumber.
A fox.
Gui Shuang stilled. The little creature blinked up at him, luminous amber eyes glimmering like twin lanterns in the dusk. A soft rustle of fur, a twitch of its tail. Silent. Watching. It stood no taller than his shin, and yet, in that instant, he found himself frozen.
A fox spirit. Rare. Coveted. Revered.
Fox spirits were treasured among spiritual beasts for their versatility—capable of sensing emotion, healing wounds, spying across great distances, or delivering fatal strikes with elegant cunning. They were both loyal companions and formidable guardians. In certain sects, it was said that those who could tame a fox spirit would one day command the hearts of all beasts.
And yet… Gui Shuang had never once laid eyes on one. Not like this. Not in flesh and breath.
The fox tilted its head at him, tail flicking once, as though bemused by his hesitation. His throat tightened. "What was it doing here?" More importantly—what was he supposed to do?
Whoever this spirit belonged to was no ordinary cultivator. Foxes didn't appear at the whims of novices. A spirit like this implied power, prestige… danger. He could not afford attention. Not from a sect. Not from anyone. Not now.
The man once called Chen Zhao had long buried that name, hidden it beneath the veil of exile, frost, and years of silence. His aura had shifted, his cultivation altered beyond recognition by the Abyss. His steps were quieter, his sword colder. But his face… that had not changed. And that alone made him vulnerable.
He stood slowly, fingers brushing across the pale silk of his robes. His movements were precise, mechanical—muscle memory etched from a lifetime of war and training. He fastened the belt around his waist, clipped his fan to his sash, and drew Xuemie to rest once more at his hip. His veil—loose from sleep—was adjusted carefully until his face was once more hidden in shadow.
The fox only watched.
He moved toward the door—then hesitated. Better not to risk it. No telling who else might be in the inn. Gui Shuang took a step toward the window. The inn was quiet—no noise from the hallway. No sound of voices. No flicker of hostile qi. A clean escape.
The window creaked faintly beneath his fingers as he lifted it, judging the drop. Manageable. He braced his palm against the sill, one leg slipping over the edge—
"Senior, are you awa—?"
The door swung open. Gui Shuang turned his head sharply, mid-climb. A young man stood in the doorway, holding a bowl of steaming porridge. His emerald robes marked him as a disciple—embroidered with the familiar qilin and crane of Ling Shou Sect. His jaw dropped.
"S-Senior?! What are you doing?! You barely survived and now you seek death?!" The bowl slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor with a muted crash.
Gui Shuang did not move. His hand remained on the window frame, one leg already outside. His expression, hidden beneath the veil, betrayed nothing. Only the faint twitch of his brow gave him away.
The boy rushed forward as if to stop him. Too slow.
Gui Shuang dropped silently from the ledge, landing with a whisper of motion on the soft grass below. He turned back briefly and gave a courteous bow from the shadows.
"This one thanks you for your assistance."
The youth leaned out the window in stunned silence, hands gripping the frame, clearly unsure whether to scold or chase.
Gui Shuang turned toward the trees, already calculating his route. One more step and he would vanish again, slipping back into the forest like mist between trees. But fate, as ever, had a cruel sense of humour.
A tug. Something soft and gentle gripped the hem of his robes. He froze mid-step.
The fox. It had followed him. Again. Its tiny jaws clamped gently onto his outer robe, pulling—no malice, no force, just a quiet insistence.
Gui Shuang stared down at it. His chest constricted. He didn't understand. He'd never had a spirit beast. Never dared to bond with one. Never trusted himself with something so innocent. So alive. He didn't know how to read them. What they felt. What they needed. He didn't know how to return affection—or worse, accept it.
The soft patter of footsteps approached from behind. The same youth appeared around the corner, breathless but smiling. Gui Shuang sighed.
"Can you take it away?" he asked flatly, eyes still fixed ahead. "I don't want to harm it."
The words were spoken with no visible emotion, yet somehow, they were gentler than he intended. As if the concern had slipped through the cracks of his mask.
The youth blinked, caught off guard—but his expression softened almost immediately.
"There's no need to worry, Senior. That's just little Mei—my Shizun's spirit companion. She cannot be harmed by mortal means." He crouched down gracefully and scooped the fox into his arms. It didn't resist.
Only then did Gui Shuang realise he'd been holding his breath. The boy cradled the creature like an old friend, brushing its ears with quiet affection.
"Are you… afraid of animals, Senior?" he asked carefully, not unkindly. "You're not from these lands, are you? You seem unfamiliar with spirit beasts."
Gui Shuang shook his head, silent. The boy studied him, curious but not pressing. After a long pause, Gui Shuang found his voice again.
"What is your name, young cultivator?"
The youth straightened and gave a proper bow—elegant, respectful, as though he'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
"This humble one is Wen Mu, disciple of Ling Shou Sect, spiritual partner to the Deer spirit."
Gui Shuang dipped his head in return. "Gui Shuang. My thanks for your care. And… for the medicine."
He turned once more, intent on vanishing into the forest before the questions began. But Heaven had not finished testing him. His brow twitching in visible irritation. Why was this encounter stretching endlessly?
"Honoured cultivator," came a voice from behind—low, smooth, and too gentle to ignore. Gui Shuang's breath caught. "You displayed remarkable strength in defending my disciples within the forest, striking down an ancient beast with such ease—and yet you depart so soon, while still wounded?"
Chen Zhao turned his gaze toward the speaker—and immediately regretted it. The figure approaching wore robes that burned into his memory like a branding iron. They were not green like the disciples'—not even the ones of high elders. The figure that approached moved with the weightless grace of moonlight. White robes, embroidered in gold with heavenly beasts, flowed behind him like river silk. At his hip was a sword—untouched, unthreatening. A decoration of jade and silver rested in his hair. His fox spirit curled lazily at his feet.
Gui Shuang's throat tightened. He knew those robes. Chen Zhao's eyes widened behind his veil, pupils shrinking. That fabric—it mocked him. It haunted him. He had buried it in snow and blood, vowing never to see it again.
Not just by memory—by blood. He had once sworn his life to those threads. Had worn them with pride. Had shed them with hatred.
And now, they stood before him again, worn by another.
His heart did not race. His breathing did not falter. He felt nothing—or rather, he willed himself to feel nothing. But if emotion could breach his icy shell, it would be dread. No… more than dread. A clawing need to flee.
Still, clinging to decorum like armour, he lowered his head and spoke with as much calm as he could summon. But his soul—his soul recoiled.
He bowed low, speaking through ice, "This one understands your words, Master," he replied, voice steady but distant. "But time does not grant me the courtesy of rest. Please forgive me for declining further hospitality." He was hoping the other would allow him to slip away into obscurity once more.
"No need for such formalities," the white-robed man replied with a warm smile. "You're a foreign cultivator—your bravery deserves acknowledgment. I merely wish to repay your aid. May I at least offer you a proper dose of medicine? And… perhaps, guidance on your journey?"
Chen Zhao finally dared to lift his gaze, observing the speaker fully now. The man was youthful, perhaps close to his own age. His long hair was tied into long ponytail with a golden ribbon and a jade ornament tucked on top. His eyes—shining with amber and gold—held a playful, unreadable glint. The man seemed light, composed, yet... undeniably dangerous.
Yun Ling, Chen Zhao realised. The fox-eyed jade of the Capital. Trusted by Yan Rui himself. At least that was what locals said. He had seen portraits. Heard whispers. Heard bitter laughs at rumours of his charm. As soon as he descended from the mountain. The old man in Qi Ling Valley treated him with information about this cultivator as well. He did not know the man or what he was capable of. It was, indeed, the safest for Zhao to keep his distance.
"Your generosity is too great, Master," Chen Zhao replied, voice measured—each word carefully balanced, like a blade held steady at the edge of a cliff. "But I could not dare delay any command that bears the Emperor's seal. I shall take my leave swiftly."
The man before him, robed in white and gold, only stepped closer, soft amusement tugging at the corners of his lips.
"And yet," Yun Ling said, voice low and lilting, as if playing a melody he alone could hear, "the Emperor's hand also protects those who walk a righteous path. To reward virtue and offer shelter is no less a duty than to uphold law. If you require transport, or assistance to reach your next destination... it would wound my conscience to let you leave unattended."
He spoke with the poised charm of a court scholar and the elegance of a fox who'd never known a trap he couldn't spring. Too clever, too composed—Chen Zhao's war-honed instincts prickled. This man was not to be underestimated.
"… If you insist, Master," he said at last, though his tone grew noticeably colder, "then I shall accept your medicine. For now."
He gave a curt nod. His gaze flickered to the fox still nestled in the crook of Yun Ling's arm, the soft creature watching him with unsettling curiosity, like it knew something he didn't.
"Wen Mu," Yun Ling called without turning his head, his voice gently rising into the garden air. "Did you deliver the medicine I prepared?"
From the hallway, Wen Mu appeared—ever dutiful, his emerald robes slightly dishevelled in the breeze. He bowed low. "Forgive me, Master. I brought it to the guest room, but by the time I entered, Senior Gui was already… leaping from the window. I could not stop him."
Yun Ling's laughter rang out like chimes catching a passing breeze. So light. So unburdened. Too light. Too light-hearted for someone of his position. Chen Zhao stared. This was the Emperor's right hand?
"I'll prepare another," Yun said, still smiling. "Please, wait inside. Night falls early in this valley—and mischievous spirits love curious souls."
Reluctantly, Chen Zhao complied, allowing himself to be guided back into the quiet guest room. He told himself it was only for a few moments longer. He would leave before dawn. He must.
Inside, the air was warm and perfumed faintly with cinnamon and woodsmoke. A teacup sat untouched on the lacquered table, steam curling from its surface in soft ribbons. The cushions were embroidered with peach blossoms. He remained seated, back straight, hands folded, veil firmly in place. Every second stretched long.
And then—a knock.
The door creaked open, revealing Yun Ling, now without his outer robe, sleeves rolled slightly, a porcelain flask in one hand and that same tranquil smile on his lips.
"Yun Ling," he offered casually, as if they were already old acquaintances, "courtesy name Jingran."
He crossed the room with a calm elegance, as though his feet barely touched the floor. "You've been tainted by residual evil qi," he explained, setting the flask down before him. "If your headache worsens, or your hand begins to throb again… drink this. It may not purge everything, but it will ease the discomfort."
Chen Zhao gave a shallow nod, taking the flask. "You have my thanks once again, Your Highness."
Yun Ling waved him off with a flick of his sleeve, already pouring himself tea. "We're far from the capital. Titles are burdens I've gladly left behind for the time being." He leaned forward slightly, chin resting on one hand, as the fox hopped daintily onto his lap and curled into a ball of snow-coloured fur. "May I ask where you're headed?"
Chen Zhao hesitated. "Qing Ye Pavilion."
A simple answer. But Yun Ling's smile faltered, just for a flicker of a second. It was almost imperceptible—but Chen Zhao saw it.
"That's quite far," the white-clad said smoothly. "You must have journeyed a long way. Rest here tonight. We can escort you tomorrow—"
"There is no need. I travel alone," Chen Zhao cut in quietly.
"Of course," Yun Ling replied, gaze unwavering. "Still... we happen to be going in the same direction."
The room held a strange tension. Light and shadow curling around unsaid things. A pause.
Then Yun Ling tilted his head, studying the faint outline of Chen Zhao's face behind the veil. "Pardon my curiosity, but... the veil?"
"A family tradition," Chen Zhao answered flatly.
"Ah," Yun Ling said, accepting the answer with a nod. "We respect such customs. Still… I must ensure the safety of this land. We know little of you or your homeland. You've helped us, yes, but I hope you understand the caution."
Chen Zhao met his gaze evenly. "Have I committed a crime? Do I emit malice or carry an evil aura? Have I harmed anyone unjustly?"
Yun Ling blinked, caught off-guard.
"If not," Chen Zhao continued, "then as per your sect's codex, I am free to travel without interference. But should I violate it, you may place your eyes on me for as long as you wish."
The silence hung briefly.
"You're quite familiar with our codex for a foreign cultivator," Yun Ling said with mild amusement. "Yet you wish to enter a highly protected sect territory. May I ask why?"
Chen Zhao did not flinch. "The Thousand Scrolls Hall. I have business there."
"What kind of business?"
"A private matter."
Another pause. The fox on Yun Ling's lap stretched, yawned, and blinked at Chen Zhao.
"Are you afraid of spirits?" Yun Ling asked suddenly.
"No."
"Then you may hold her."
"That's not—"
But Yun Ling was already rising. In one smooth motion, he placed the fox gently into Chen Zhao's lap. She nestled there with alarming comfort. He froze. Every muscle in his body locked, as though even the smallest motion might disturb the balance of the universe.
"She won't bite," Yun Ling said with a faint smile. "She's rather fond of you, in fact. Mei can help soothe unsettled qi. She'll stay with you tonight—consider it part of your recovery."
Chen Zhao stared down at the soft bundle of white fur curled against his chest. He did not move. He did not breathe. He was used to steel. To frost. To silence. Not... this.
Yun Ling was already halfway to the door. He paused, one hand on the frame, and glanced back.
"I'll retrieve her in the morning," he said, smile touched with something unreadable. "Rest well, Master Gui. You've done enough for one day."
Then the door shut quietly behind him. Leaving Chen Zhao alone.
*
Chen Zhao sat motionless in the quiet room, the weight of silence pressing around him like a second skin. His gaze remained fixed on the fox curled against him, her snowy fur rising and falling with each shallow breath. His thoughts were anything but still. An ancient beast defeated, his spiritual energy not yet replenished, and now—him. Of all people. A ripple of tension coiled deep in his spine.
He didn't know if it was exhaustion keeping him from sleep or the fear of what dreams might rise if he let go. Still, his fingers moved unconsciously through the fox's fur, smoothing between its ears, trailing down the spine. The gesture felt too natural. Too gentle. And it frightened him more than the blade of any enemy.
The moon had risen high above the valley, casting its argent light through the window. It bathed the floor in rivers of silver, stretching long shadows across the wooden walls. The rustling of the trees outside and the rhythmic chirping of cicadas filled the night air like a quiet, eternal hymn.
And still, within these walls—peace. That... unsettled him more than any battle ever could.
His back rested against the carved headboard, shoulders taut beneath his slightly loosened robes. His veil remained in place, as always. He could not afford even the smallest slip. Not now. Not when one wrong breath might tear apart three decades of silence.
'Soaring Cloud'. Fitting, for someone who walked through life so lightly, so gracefully, yet whose gaze pierced like a blade through fog. The memory of that playful smile made his brow twitch again. Too dangerous, that one. Too sharp beneath the softness. The fox stirred, curling tighter into him. He glanced down.
"Why are you so trusting?" he whispered. "You should know better."
Mei yipped softly, tail flicking like a lazy brushstroke across his arm, unconcerned with his warnings. As if to say, I do know better.
Outside the door, footsteps approached. Too light for a grown man. Too controlled for an innkeeper. Knock.
"Senior Gui?" came the youth's voice, muffled through the wooden door. "May I… bring you supper?" A pause.
"…Come in."
The door opened with a soft creak, and Wen Mu stepped in with a tray balanced between both hands. His movements were careful, reverent, as though afraid to disturb the stillness that hung in the room like mist.
"The Master said you shouldn't sleep on an empty stomach," he said, setting the tray gently beside the tea set.
The meal was simple—rice porridge steamed faintly, glistening with sesame oil; a side of crisped greens in vinegar and garlic; two lotus buns, warm and sweet with red bean filling. It wasn't grand, but it was nourishing. Thoughtful. Chen Zhao said nothing at first. His eyes lingered on the steam curling upward. The gesture... it was kind. Too kind.
He looked up slowly, gaze locking with Wen Mu's. "Is there something else?"
Wen Mu hesitated. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides before he bowed again. "Forgive me, Senior… but are you truly unaffiliated? Not from any of the Great Sects?"
Chen Zhao tilted his head slightly. Not with offence—but something close to amusement.
"I walk alone," he replied. "I have no sect. No clan. No banners to fly."
Wen Mu looked as though he wanted to speak further, but bowed low instead. "Thank you again. Ling Shou Sect will remember your aid. If ever you return, you will not be turned away."
A moment later, he was gone. The door clicked shut. And once again, silence returned.
Chen Zhao slowly stood, walking to the table. He removed one glove, and pale skin met moonlight. The faint tracery of black veins coiled beneath the surface—a reminder of the curse etched into his soul, a brand that no water nor fire could cleanse.
He stared at it. Quiet. Empty. He clenched his fist. How long must he carry this burden? He unscrewed the lid of the porcelain flask. The scent of crushed lotus root and bitter cooling herbs wafted upward—soothing, real. Yun Ling had not lied. It would ease the storm.
With slow precision, he poured it into a cup and drank. The feeling of the fluid spread through his chest, dulling the pulse in his temples, settling his limbs. Not fire. Not passion. Just… a still lake beneath winter frost. Just enough to hold the pieces together.
Mei stirred and leapt softly back onto his lap. He did not protest.
"…Persistent little thing," he murmured.
Just as he reached for the lotus bun, a gust of wind blew through the window. A whisper. A cold chill. His hand froze mid-air. He turned.
From the open window, mist had begun to curl into the room like fingers—soft, formless, yet undoubtedly malevolent. The scent of spiritual rot clung to it. Chen Zhao's entire body stiffened. He reached slowly for his sword – Xuemie.
The blade gleamed faintly in the dim light, hunger pulsing in its core. The fox on his lap growled—quiet but sharp. The mist thickened, and from it, a low voice echoed—one he had not heard in years, but that chilled him to the bone.
"...You still live?"
He rose in a flash, veil fluttering with the sudden movement, sword raised and pointed toward the swirling mist.
That voice. That qi. That stench. Impossible. It was a ghost. Not a phantom born of resentment—but a ghost of his past, given shape.
"No…" he whispered. "You shouldn't be here."
The fox leapt from his lap and stood before him, body tensed, spiritual light forming faintly around its fur. Its little body glowed like a warding talisman, holding back the advancing dark.
The voice laughed, echoing through the mists. "You think hiding in this land would protect you? That veil hides your face, but not your sin…"
His breath caught. He wanted to move—but he couldn't. That voice held him fast, as though wrapped in invisible chains.
But then—
The mists were suddenly cut clean in two, sliced by a ripple of pure gold light. A sword's cry. A flash of golden qi, and then, a figure appeared in the doorway, robes fluttering like heavenly banners.
"Zhi!" the fox yipped joyfully, scampering back to Yun Ling's side as the man stepped forward, his own sword half-drawn.
"I leave you alone for one hour, and you invite ghosts for tea?" Yun Ling asked, eyes narrowed, though his voice was still maddeningly playful.
Chen Zhao's breath trembled. Yun Ling's presence was like sunlight piercing storm clouds.
He raised a hand. "Stand aside," Chen Zhao muttered. "This is mine to face."
But Yun Ling only shook his head, stepping beside him. "We protect those within our walls, Master Gui. Let this ghost speak its grievance—then I'll cut it down."
Chen Zhao's lips tightened behind the veil. This… was getting out of hand.
He understood hatred. He had earned his share of curses. He had taken lives, failed people, left scars he could not undo. But this spirit—this twisted soul, formed not from his cruelty, but from its own agony… Who had done this to them? Who had left this soul so broken, so filled with rage?
Zhao's head throbbed. He staggered, clutching his forehead, pain blooming from within his skull like knives scraping across bone. No. He couldn't let this escalate. He couldn't drag Yun Ling—or any innocent soul—into this blood-soaked thread of his past.
The spirit hadn't attacked yet. It lingered, howling in silence, waiting for something. A wish, unfulfilled.
Zhao's hand moved, subtly. He reached for Yun Ling's sleeve, pushing him aside with a silent apology. With his other hand, he flicked open his fan. Wind burst forth, stirring the mists violently, and the room was consumed in a shroud of smoke and shadow. Hidden within it, he activated a short-lived protective ward—enough to shield Yun Ling.
Then he vanished.
He sprinted toward the window and leapt, cloak trailing behind him like a falling petal. The spirit followed. They ran. For nearly an hour, Chen Zhao did not stop.
He ran—not out of fear, nor weakness, but out of necessity. Every step took him farther from the inn, farther from Yun Ling, farther from the shadows of his past clawing up from beneath his feet.
The forest blurred into streaks of colour around him. The air stung his lungs with each breath, sharp and iron-laced. He pushed past branches that scratched at his arms, boots slipping across dew-drenched roots, blood pounding in his ears.
Behind him, the village—its kind voices, golden lanterns, and unfamiliar safety—was swallowed by the encroaching mist. Like a dream that had never truly belonged to him.
Eventually, the ghost that had followed him—its voice thick with malice and memory—fell away. Its presence faded, like breath against cold glass, vanishing into the hush of the early morning wind.
Only silence remained. And a soul worn thin.
Dawn began to bleed softly across the horizon. A pale wash of pink and gold painted the sky, timid and tentative, like a child's first brushstroke across parchment. The stars retreated, and the moon, so bright only hours ago, withdrew behind silver clouds. Light crept slowly across the world—but it did not reach him.
Zhao stumbled at last onto a wide, empty road—one that stretched out toward nowhere. The land was open here. Grass bowed gently on either side of the path, dew clinging to its blades like a scattering of crystal tears. Thin trees dotted the fields in elegant isolation, unmoving in the stillness.
He inhaled sharply, once—twice—and dropped to his knees.
His chest ached, not from exertion, but from the space that had long since hollowed within him. His breathing came shallow, ragged, as though his lungs had forgotten how to hold in anything but pain.
He pressed one hand lightly to his sternum. He couldn't feel. Not joy. Not warmth. Not even sorrow.
Once, long ago, he had held emotions like sacred offerings. Now they passed through him like wind through bamboo—leaving no trace behind, only an ache where something used to live.
He could remember what joy looked like. He could name what warmth meant. But they existed now as distant constellations in someone else's sky—visible, but never reachable.
What remained instead were the shards of heavier things. Rage. Regret. Loneliness.
But even these did not come like thunder. They arrived like knives. Not loud, not fast—but cruel, deliberate. Pain was the only thing his body still recognised. The greater the emotion, the deeper the agony. As if the world itself punished him for daring to feel. That was the price he had to pay.
His hand fell to the black silk that bound his left hand. Beneath it, the ring where his dragon companion slept pulsed faintly—silent, curled tight like a child hiding from a storm.
The bond between them, though forged in power, had frayed in recent days. The beast, too, was exhausted. It bore his wounds. It carried his rage. It shared his silence.
Chen Zhao exhaled, slow and deliberate, then bent forward in a deep, formal bow. His forehead touched the damp soil. The grass tickled his brow. The scent of morning earth, rich and untouched, seeped into his lungs.
And into the wind, he whispered—
"I do not know who wronged you." The breeze stirred the hem of his robes. "Who shattered you so cruelly… left you drifting between realms with nothing but hate to bind your soul."
His voice cracked, but he did not stop.
"But I swear—on the last breath of my vow, on what remains of my name—I will not let you vanish in vengeance."
A shiver passed through the earth beneath him, faint but real.
"When all else is settled… when the blades are sheathed and the lies have fallen away… I will give you rest. I will fulfil your last wish. I will uncover your truth."
He paused. And then—
"I am sorry… that I failed to see it before. That I left you to suffer alone. I am sorry… my dear Shizun."
For a long time, he remained bowed—frozen in that posture, a disciple before a spirit, a man before a grave that did not exist. Then, slowly, his body rose, knees trembling from more than fatigue. He brushed the dirt from his black-and-blue robes. The damp grass left stains that he did not wipe away. His veil shifted gently in the breeze, hiding the ache that flickered across his features. His path was not yet over.
And so—without witness, without fanfare—he turned toward the winding road.
And walked forward.
---
22. Mei (魅) - 'Charm' / 'Allure' / 'Spirit'; Yun Ling's fox.
23. Wen Mu (文穆) - 'Cultured and Reverent'; wielder of Deer spirit.
24. Yun Ling (云凌) - 'Soaring Cloud'; birth name.
25. Jingran (敬然) - 'Serene Reverence' / 'Quiet Honour'; Yun Ling's courtesy name.
26. The Thousand Scroll Hall (千卷楼) – a great library on the Qing Ye territory, said to have answers and cures for everything ever existed, has chronicles of the whole nation.