Morning light spilled through the paper windows of the county inn, soft and gold, brushing across the rough grain of the floorboards. The faint scent of steel and cedar still lingered — traces of oil from Wen's blade, and the smoke from last night's hearth. Somewhere below, a hawker's distant call drifted through the fog: the sound of ordinary life daring to continue after chaos.
Wen sat cross-legged by the table, sharpening his sword with slow, even strokes. Every motion was measured — not the mechanical discipline of habit, but the quiet grace of someone for whom survival had long since become ritual. Each rasp of metal over whetstone whispered of battles fought, names buried, and the unspoken weight of those who never returned.
Li Rong lay on his side beneath the thin quilt, pretending to sleep. His eyes, half-lidded, watched the man across the room — the way his arm flexed, how the blade caught the morning light and scattered it like silver rain. There was a stillness about Wen, a calm so absolute it felt unnatural.
How can someone hold so much silence without breaking?
Li Rong's heart beat quietly beneath the thought.
He closed his eyes again, but the images of last night's blood refused to fade: the glint of knives, the spray of crimson, the awful sound of bodies falling in the dark. He'd seen wounds before — in books, in stories, in sterile illustrations from another life — but never the heat of it, never the scent that clung to the air and skin afterward. It was different when you were close enough to hear the last breath leave someone's chest.
Wen paused mid-motion, the whetstone stilling in his hand.
"You didn't sleep much," he said softly, without turning. "Was it the fight?"
Li Rong hesitated, then answered, voice low and flat, "It's the smell of blood. It doesn't leave easily."
The blade sang one last note as Wen set it aside. He turned, and for a moment his expression softened — no longer the soldier, no longer the hunted man. Just someone tired, watching another soul wrestle with the same ghosts he had long since stopped naming.
"You'll get used to it," he murmured, sitting beside the bed.
Li Rong opened his eyes and met his gaze. "But I don't want to."
A silence unfolded between them — fragile, intimate. Beyond the window, the town stirred awake, unaware that in one small room, two men sat suspended in the space between battle and breath, neither quite ready to reach for the day.
---
The door burst open with a gust of cold air and the unmistakable scent of smoke.
Ji'an entered in a flurry of motion — sleeve torn, hair a little wild, carrying the restless energy of someone who had already run through half the town before breakfast.
"Morning, gentlemen," he drawled, tossing a folded paper onto the table. "Next time you pick a county to rest in, maybe choose one without assassins?"
Wen didn't look up. "I'll consult the map of peaceful deaths next time."
Li Rong bit back a smile. Even after blood and chaos, Wen's sarcasm remained sharp enough to draw its own kind of comfort.
Ji'an flopped into the chair opposite. "You joke, but the bodies weren't even cold when the city watch came sniffing. Whoever sent them wanted your head on a pike before sunrise."
Wen reached for the folded paper, unsealing it with one precise motion. The wax cracked like bone.
A cipher, lines and curves in coded shorthand. Ji'an leaned forward, tapping a smudge of soot on the edge. "Found that on one of them. Burned emblem on his sheath, too."
Li Rong froze mid-motion. "An emblem?"
Ji'an nodded. "Twin blades crossing a crescent. You've seen it?"
The question fell like a stone into still water. Li Rong's pulse stumbled.
"I—" His throat tightened. "Yes. I think so. I've seen that symbol before."
He could feel Wen's gaze settle on him, heavy and quiet.
"Where?" Wen asked.
Li Rong's tongue felt thick, the words lodged somewhere between truth and memory. "I… can't remember. Not clearly."
The silence that followed was long enough to measure breaths. Ji'an's brow furrowed, but Wen only nodded slowly, eyes narrowing with the weight of unspoken thought.
And inside, Li Rong's heart whispered what his mouth could not: I do remember. I saw it in a history that shouldn't exist here. In a world that's not this one.
---
By noon, the fog had thinned to a pale shimmer. Wen and Li Rong stepped out into the street. The town buzzed faintly — hawkers calling, carriages creaking, the smell of rice cakes and wet stone in the air. It should have felt safe, ordinary. But Li Rong still saw shadows in every alley.
Wen stopped at a small food stall and bought two steamed buns. Without asking, he handed one over.
Li Rong blinked. "You always act as if you're fine."
"And you," Wen replied evenly, "always act as if you can't decide whether to run or stay."
The words struck too close. Li Rong stared down at the bun, fingers tightening around the warmth.
For a while, they ate in silence. Then, his voice came small, uncertain:
"Wen… if one day you learned that the person beside you wasn't who you thought they were…"
Wen's head turned, gaze sharp as a blade drawn halfway. "Then I'd ask why they stayed."
Li Rong swallowed. The air seemed to still. Would you still ask that if you knew I don't belong here?
He wanted to tell him — about the other world, about waking up in another's body, about the guilt that never stopped clawing at him. But the words withered under Wen's steady gaze, his calm too heavy, too kind.
Wen didn't press. He only said, quietly, "Whatever storm you carry, don't face it alone."
The rest of the walk passed in silence — not cold, but cautious, as though both feared that one wrong word might break something precious.
---
By late afternoon, the three of them gathered again at the inn. Ji'an had spread the decoded parchment across the table, weighed down by a teacup and Wen's sheathed dagger.
"It's partial," he said, gesturing to the inked scrawl. "But the message mentions a name — General Xu's old loyalists. The ones who vanished after your family fell."
The room seemed to tilt slightly. Wen's jaw tightened. "They're dead."
"Apparently not," Ji'an said grimly. "Or someone wants us to think they're not. The emblem — it's theirs."
Li Rong's stomach twisted. The name Xu tugged at something in his memory — an ancient chronicle, a forgotten campaign… A record I read years ago, but not here. Not in this life.
His head lowered, voice soft. "So that's where I saw it…"
Ji'an looked between them, sensing the tension but continuing. "If they're back, it means someone's funding them. And I don't think it's a coincidence that they struck right after we arrived."
Wen crossed his arms, face unreadable. "We move carefully. No open confrontation until we know the extent."
Ji'an scowled. "Carefully? We're sitting ducks! The whole county's whispering about last night. You're famous again."
Wen's tone was cold. "I've been famous for dying. Let's keep it that way."
Li Rong stepped forward, his voice softer but firm. "Then what about me?"
Ji'an grinned, unable to resist: "You? The scholar's become the general's shadow. Dangerous combination."
Wen shot him a look sharp enough to silence. "He stays with me."
Ji'an raised both hands in mock surrender. "So now you care more about one scholar than your own head?"
"My head," Wen said quietly, "is already lost. His isn't."
Li Rong turned away, heart tightening at the rawness beneath those words. He busied himself gathering the papers, though his hands trembled faintly. Ji'an noticed but said nothing, only exchanging a knowing glance with Wen.
---
Evening came softly, as though afraid to disturb what remained of the day. The candlelight flickered against the walls, painting shifting gold over shadow and scar alike.
Wen sat by the window, rewrapping the hilt of his sword. Li Rong watched him from the bed, eyes distant. The events of the day circled endlessly in his thoughts — the emblem, the blood, the words he'd almost said and couldn't.
"Wen," he said suddenly, voice low. "If the past could be rewritten, would you still walk this path?"
Wen didn't answer at first. The leather strip paused in his hand. When he finally spoke, it was quiet — almost tender.
"If I didn't, I wouldn't have met you."
The candle flame bent in the draft. Li Rong turned away quickly, pretending to adjust the blanket, but his hands trembled.
He lay down, staring at the ceiling, thoughts spinning like tangled thread. If he knew what I really am… if he knew the body I wear isn't mine… would he still look at me that way?
Sleep came fitfully. Somewhere between waking and dream, the emblem burned behind his eyelids — the twin blades crossing the crescent, glowing as though alive.
In his dream, it turned.
And then, it opened —
like an eye.
Watching.