The night refused to sleep.
Rain had come and gone hours ago, but the scent of wet earth still clung to the air. The shutters rattled faintly against the wind, and the candle on the low table had burned itself down to a trembling stub, its light dancing over the worn floorboards of the inn room. The silence was not pure — it carried the faint, uneven rhythm of Wen's breathing beside him.
Li Rong lay awake, eyes open to the wavering shadows across the ceiling. His pulse still beat too fast. The metallic tang of blood — that smell — seemed lodged in his memory even after washing his hands twice. Every blink returned flashes of it: the sudden glint of steel under torchlight, Ji'an's sharp cry, the assassin's eyes wide and empty, the spray of crimson that had painted the cobblestones.
He had never seen death like that before. In the world he came from — the one he still sometimes dreamt of — death came quietly, hidden behind hospital curtains or spoken in digital words on a glowing screen. But here it was loud. Hot. Wet. Real.
He turned his head. Wen slept on his side, one arm bent under the pillow, the other draped loosely across Li Rong's waist, fingers curled against the blanket. Even in sleep, there was tension in him — the kind that came from years of battle and watchfulness. A faint scar crossed his shoulder like a pale thread in moonlight. The rhythm of his breath should have soothed Li Rong; instead, it made his throat ache.
He thought, How can he sleep after all that?
And then, softer, How many times has he lived through worse?
The fight replayed behind his eyes: Ji'an's dagger flashing; the sudden blur of dark robes; Wen's calm, fluid violence. No hesitation, no wasted movement. When the last attacker fell, Wen had stood among the bodies like something carved from the night itself — breathing hard, eyes burning, face unreadable. Only when he had turned and seen Li Rong shaking did a hint of softness return.
It's over, Wen had told him, voice low. Don't look.
But Li Rong had looked anyway.
Now, in the dim warmth of the inn room, his stomach twisted at the memory. Fear, pity, awe — none of the words were enough. He wanted to be strong beside Wen, not a trembling scholar who flinched at the sight of blood. Yet he could still feel the tremor in his hands, the helplessness that gnawed at him.
You came to this world to live differently, he reminded himself. To build, to heal, not to kill.
But even that thought rang hollow. Because this world did not allow innocence for long.
A small shift of weight drew him back — Wen murmured in his sleep, the faintest sound, his hand tightening against Li Rong's side. The gesture was wordless, protective even in dreams. Something tender stirred inside Li Rong, a pulse of warmth amid the cold memories. He reached up, hesitated, then let his fingers brush the back of Wen's hand.
The warmth of that skin steadied him. But it also deepened the ache.
He wanted to tell Wen everything — the impossible truth of who he was, where he had come from. The nights before he woke in this body, the flashes of another sky filled with towers of glass and noise, the knowledge that none of this — not even his own name — had begun here. But how could he speak it? Wen had seen enough madness in his lifetime; he did not need another ghost confessing to being from a world of machines and forgotten gods.
He would think I'm cursed, Li Rong thought. Or lying.
And worse — If he believes me, what then? Will he look at me and see only strangeness?
He exhaled slowly. Outside, the wind sighed through the eaves. He could almost hear the faint drip of rain from the roof, a rhythm that matched his restless thoughts.
Wen shifted again, breath hitching faintly as though trapped in some half-dream of the fight. Li Rong's heart clenched. Carefully, he turned, lifting a corner of the blanket to cover Wen's shoulder. His fingers grazed the edge of that old scar, the one that cut across his ribs like lightning. So many times he's bled for others, Li Rong thought. And still he carries himself as if his body belongs to the world, not to himself.
"Wen," he whispered into the dark, knowing there would be no answer. "You keep walking through storms as if you were made for them… but how long can anyone survive that way?"
His own voice sounded strange in the quiet, small and foreign. The candle guttered once, twice, then went out, leaving only the gray gleam of moonlight seeping through the shutters.
He lay there listening — to Wen's heartbeat, to the murmur of night insects outside, to the echo of steel meeting flesh that would not leave his mind. He tried to breathe the way Wen did: steady, controlled. But each inhale caught on the weight in his chest.
You're afraid, a small, cruel voice whispered. Afraid not of dying, but of belonging here.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered the first day he arrived in this world — the strange clarity of colors, the scent of mountain air, the ache of being alive in a body that wasn't his own. Since then, he had learned to adapt, to blend, to play the role of the quiet herbalist with clever ideas. Yet tonight, after the blood and chaos, the distance between him and this world yawned wide again.
He thought of Ji'an — calm even while binding his own wound, muttering something about "too clean a kill" and "professional hands." The words had lodged in Li Rong's mind, heavy with implication. These assassins weren't mere thieves or rebels. They moved with purpose. They were trained.
And then there was the emblem.
He had glimpsed it as one of the bodies was dragged away — a medallion half-buried in the mud, marked with twin serpents twined around a central flame. Something in the design had struck him like a blow to the chest. He had seen that symbol before. Not in this world, but in the flashes of the old one — etched on an ancient artifact in a museum exhibit, glowing faintly behind glass. The Order of the Twin Serpents, the plaque had read. Secret society. Origin unknown.
Could that be coincidence? Or had his arrival pulled threads tighter than he realized?
A faint tremor ran through him. He turned slightly, gaze tracing Wen's sleeping profile — the strong line of his jaw, the faint shadow of exhaustion beneath his eyes. Wen carried his secrets like armor. And Li Rong carried his like poison.
If I tell him, it will change everything, he thought. But if I don't… will it kill us both?
He remembered the way Wen had stood after the fight, sword dripping, breath harsh. There had been something almost otherworldly about him — as if the bond between them amplified not just their emotions, but the shadows behind them. When their eyes met then, Li Rong had felt a pulse of energy, an echo of the soul-bond flaring in recognition.
What if he felt what I saw? What if he knows?
He pressed a palm over his heart, feeling the faint throb there. It pulsed in strange rhythm, as though not entirely his own. The bond had deepened since the ritual; sometimes, when Wen was near, he could feel emotions not his — quiet griefs, sharp flashes of pain, a longing too vast for words. Tonight, though, it felt heavier, darker. As if something inside Wen was bracing for what was still to come.
The wind rattled again. Somewhere outside, a horse whinnied — the night guard changing post. Li Rong turned toward the window. The faintest trace of dawn touched the sky, bruised and pale.
Tomorrow we leave again, he thought. Further from the mountains, closer to whatever fate has waiting.
He closed his eyes, forcing his thoughts to quiet. But sleep would not come. Instead, memories folded over themselves — the glint of the emblem, Wen's hand steady on his arm, the phantom taste of fear at the back of his throat.
Slowly, he eased out from beneath Wen's arm and sat up. The wooden floor was cold under his bare feet. He crossed to the table, found the medallion Ji'an had left there as evidence. It lay dull in the half-light, twin serpents coiled around a flame.
He traced the engraving with one trembling finger. A shiver ran through him. The flame seemed almost to shift under his touch, as though alive.
Behind him, Wen stirred in his sleep. "Li Rong?" His voice was rough with fatigue.
Li Rong froze. "Go back to sleep," he whispered. "It's still early."
A quiet hum of acknowledgment, and the sound of Wen's breathing steadied again. Li Rong looked once more at the medallion and thought, This world is not done revealing its secrets.
He replaced it carefully, extinguished the dying ember in the brazier, and returned to bed. Wen's arm found him in sleep again, drawing him close, wordless and protective.
Li Rong lay still, watching the faint gray of dawn seep through the shutters. Somewhere beneath the fear, a new resolve stirred — thin, trembling, but real.
Whatever truth binds us — worlds, fate, or blood — I will uncover it, he vowed silently. Even if it burns.
Outside, a cock crowed. Inside, the bond between them pulsed once — bright, uneasy — before quieting into the rhythm of the waking day.