The storm had not abated by dawn.
By the time the bells of Linshui's outer temples tolled faint and hollow through the swirling flurries, the city lay buried — white drifts piled in the alleys, silence draped over rooftops like a funeral shroud.
From his chair, Li Qiong watched faint light bleed through the shutter slats. A candle burned low on the table. Steam rose thinly from the basin at his side.
On the bed, the girl stirred.
Her breath hitched faintly, then steadied.
Fingers twitched beneath the blanket. Eyelids fluttered.
And then she woke.
At first, her gaze was empty — swimming, unfocused. Then her pupils sharpened, drawn to the lone figure sitting at the table.
Li Qiong did not move to greet her.
He only met her eyes for a breath, then turned back to the shutters, watching snow whip through the streets below.
Her lips parted, dry and cracked. A whisper escaped her:
"…who…"
Her voice failed her halfway through.
He let her choke on the silence before answering.
"Someone," he said evenly. "who saved you."
Her brow furrowed faintly.
"I…"
"You don't remember," he continued. "That poison eats the nerves, clouds the mind. What you do remember is dark. Confusion. Sounds."
She flinched as though struck.
His tone never wavered.
When she tried to speak again, he interrupted her.
"I found you," he added. "I pulled you from a place predetermined your destiny. You owe me nothing — yet. But you're alive because of me."
Her confusion deepened — but the seed was planted.
Her eyes dropped, but she nodded faintly.
That was enough.
The market was quieter that morning, yet no less treacherous.
Snow muffled the usual roar of Linshui's bazaars, but danger lurked all the same.
Li Qiong walked the alleys as though he'd lived in them all his life — knowing which vendors were spies for sects, which beggars hid blades under their rags, which talisman stalls sold hidden treasures to the ignorant.
By the time his boots were soaked through, he found what he was looking for.
An old woman squatted in the lee of a shuttered shrine, her tray of "junk" glinting faintly under drifting snow.
It was there he spotted it — swaddled in black silk, half‑buried in dust — a dagger that thrummed faintly against his palm the instant he picked it up.
Cold Iron Daggers.
Soul‑Binding Needles. Seven‑Star Blood Jade.
She named a price.
He paid half.
And walked away.
The snowstorm quieted by late afternoon, leaving the world outside cloaked in white silence.
In the upper room of the Luo River Inn, the faint scent of warm buns and sweet rice cakes wafted through the air.
She startled when he entered, then tried to straighten her back.
Min sat upright on the bed now, the thin blanket still wrapped loosely around her shoulders. Her delicate fingers hovered for a moment over the simple plate Li Qiong had set down, before finally picking up a steamed bun.
She bit into it timidly — and then more eagerly, chewing quietly, her pale cheeks finally gaining a faint touch of color.
Li Qiong sat across from her, silent as ever, his hands folded loosely on the chair. He watched her eat as though she were some small, half‑wild creature — a rabbit venturing into a garden.
Her movements were quick and cautious, and though she tried to be composed, there was something oddly… endearing about the way her lips puffed with steam and her wide eyes darted between bites.
For the first time since the night before, she saw his expression softened.
She caught his gaze mid‑bite and froze, cheeks flushing.
She lowered the bun and murmured, "…I must look foolish."
He shook his head faintly. "You look hungry."
She hesitated, then continued eating — though she kept glancing at him, as if weighing whether to speak further.
When the plate was nearly empty, she finally set the last cake down and straightened her robe.
Her hair clung damp to her cheeks, her hands still weak as they clutched the blanket.
"I am… Min He," she said softly, smoothing a fold of her sleeve.
Her voice carried the faint, cultured lilt of a noble daughter. And she looked the part now, even sitting in a shabby inn: her white robes, though wrinkled, were fine‑woven; a single blue jade hairpin gleamed in her dark hair like a sliver of sky against snow.
Anyone with eyes could see she was not an ordinary girl.
"I…" she hesitated before continuing. "…am a great‑granddaughter of the Patriarch of Soaring Crane Sect."
Her chin lifted ever so slightly at that, though her fingers fidgeted against the blanket.
Across the table, Li Qiong merely inclined his head.
"Li Qiong," he said simply. "A wandering cultivator."
For a moment she looked almost startled.
"Just… that?" she asked.
His lips quirked faintly at the corner. "Just that."
She searched his eyes for something — doubt, ambition, malice — but found nothing. His gaze was clear. Unsullied, in its own strange way.
That night, after she had finished her dinner and lain back on the bed, she watched him in the dim light of the single candle.
He sat at the table, head bent over parchment, his brush moving in steady, deliberate strokes.
From behind, he looked almost like a scholar — calm, composed, wise beyond his years.
In the soft glow of the candle, even his face, so cold at first glance, seemed… almost beautiful.
Yet not once did he turn to look at her.
No one at Soaring Crane — nor any man she'd ever met — had ever looked at her like that. Not with lust. Not with pity. Not even with admiration. He simply… looked.
Somehow, that unsettled her more than any greedy stare.
And yet… it eased something, too. In her memory, she felt herself relax in the presence of a man. Her fingers loosened their grip on the blanket. Her breathing evened out.
She drifted off, the faint scratch of his brush the last sound she heard.
For the first time, she slept comfortably — without fear, without suspicion, without doubting the intentions of the one who shared her room.
At the table, Li Qiong wrote without pause, his mind already far ahead of the girl sleeping behind him.
Another step, he thought.
Tomorrow.
Another step.