The familiar scent of aged ink and paper lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of sandalwood and incense leading from the burner that was positioned near the window seal, the delicate wisps of smoke had long since dissipated, the stick having burned down to ash a while ago, untouched and unmoved throughout the entire night.
Dust motes danced in the pale golden sunlight that slowly trickled through the latticed window, spilling into the small room with a warmth that felt almost apologetic for its intrusion. The light moved like honey across the worn floorboards, casting elongated shadows that stretched and swayed along the walls—a silent performance that gave away the hour: it was only early morning, that hushed time when the world hadn't yet fully awakened.
A sharp gasp echoed throughout the room, and suddenly, He Renxiao shot up from his warm bed. He Renxiao stared at his covers disorientedly, his breath quick and frantic like fog in early moon light. Slowly, as if moving through water, He Renxiao shifted his gaze to examine his hands more closely.
They appeared soft and gentle in the morning light—almost delicate, with smooth skin unmarred by calluses. It was wrong. These weren't his hands. His hands were rough, hardened by years of endless swordplay, scarred by countless battles and the cruel grip of suffering. These hands belonged to someone else. Someone he used to be.
A nightmare. He'd had a nightmare.
That in itself wasn't uncommon—his sleep had been plagued by demons both real and imagined for longer than he cared to remember. But this time felt different. This one clung to him like a ghostly haze, seeping into his very bones, wrapping around his consciousness with spectral fingers that refused to let go. And yet, try as he might to grasp at the fragments, to pull them into focus and understand what had terrified him so completely, the dream slipped through the cracks of his memory like water through trembling hands, leaving behind only the echo of fear.
Though he couldn't remember a single image, a single moment from the nightmare, the terror it left behind was undeniable—a visceral thing that made his skin crawl and his heart race.
His fingers continued to tremble as they clutched at the sheets, and it was only then that he realized they were damp. Dampened by his tears.
When had he been crying? He touched his face with shaking fingers and felt the wet tracks still fresh on his cheeks. Everything felt surreal—like he was still trapped in the claws of whatever had haunted him, even though his bedroom remained unchanged around him. The same walls, the same furniture, the same faint scent of sandalwood.
He groaned, pressing his hand against his head that stung with an unbearable headache.. He took a moment to stabilize himself, and then when he felt he was ready, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His muscles protested with every movement as if he had endured a beating the day before.
A low groan escaped his lips as he pressed both hands against his temples, where a headache bloomed with unbearable intensity. It felt as though someone had driven iron spikes through his skull, the pain radiating outward in pulsing waves that made his vision blur at the edges. He sat there for a long moment, breathing slowly through his nose, trying to stabilize himself against the onslaught of sensations.
When he finally felt somewhat ready—or at least, as ready as he would ever be—he swung his legs over the edge of the bed with deliberate care.
His muscles protested with every movement, screaming as if he had endured a severe beating the day before. His shoulders ached, his back throbbed, even his legs felt leaden and sore. It made no sense.
As his bare feet made contact with the cool wooden floor, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him like a rogue wave, forcing the world to tilt dangerously. The room spun in a nauseating circle, and he had to grip the bed's edge with both hands until his knuckles turned white, holding on as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality. He waited, breathing shallowly, until the spinning gradually slowed and finally stopped.
He growled low in his throat, a sound of pure frustration. The sensation was uncomfortable and therefore unwelcome, like an unwanted guest who refused to leave. He already knew, with the certainty of someone who had lived through too many terrible days, that today was going to be horrible.
The sensation puzzled him deeply. He couldn't recall engaging in any physically demanding activities recently—no training sessions, no sparring matches, no night hunts. So why did his body feel as though it had been put through a gauntlet?
Strange fragments of memories flickered through his mind like scattered fireflies—the figure of Mo Shuyi, a heated discussion, voices raised in anger or perhaps desperation, the flash of a jade pendant, and then... nothing. The fact he couldn't remember was both frustrating and concerning. He Renxiao often prided himself on his sharp mind and careful attention to detail, qualities that had served him well throughout his cultivation journey. These gaps in his memory, these blank spaces where important moments should reside, were more than upsetting. They were terrifying.
Rising slowly from the bed once more, moving with caution this time so as to not cause another dizzy spell, his gaze flickered across the room and landed on a bronze mirror hanging on the far wall. It was an old piece, the metal dulled with age.
He approached it hesitantly, each step feeling heavier than the last.
His reflection revealed a face he recognized as his own, the same dark crimson gold eyes, the same straight nose, the same curve of his lips. Yet somehow it was different. Perhaps it was the exhaustion that had settled into his features like sediment at the bottom of a river. Dark circles shadowed the skin beneath his eyes, telling the tale of restless nights he couldn't remember experiencing.
When he was younger, he often refused to sleep and spent most of his time practicing his swordplay and his martial art techniques. He was often scolded by his peers for it, but he didn't care. Just so long as he progressed.
His inner robes were wrinkled and askew, as if he had tossed and turned violently in his sleep, fighting invisible demons. His hair, usually bound in a neat, disciplined braid, had partially come undone, with several strands falling loose around his face and shoulders.
But most importantly, most disturbingly—that face wasn't his.
Well, it was—but it wasn't. Not how he remembered it. It was a face he recognized, certainly—a face from his memories, from a time long past. It reminded him of the young cultivator he used to be, the boy who stayed up day and night practicing forms and studying texts, desperately trying to become the best, to prove his worth. Possibly to his sect. Possibly to his Shizun. Possibly to himself.
It wasn't the face that He Renxiao had grown accustomed to seeing every morning, that was for sure—Instead, before him hovered the youthful vision of a boy, unblemished and full of innocence. This boy was undoubtedly him, but in a time when he was no more than fourteen years old. Those eyes that stared back at him with a mixture of curiosity and naivety, a stark contrast to the hardened gaze he carried now.
He hesitated, taking in the impossible scene before him with a growing sense of confusion that bordered on panic. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, trying to find a logical explanation.
And then, just as suddenly as the confusion had come, a wave of certainty washed over him, cold and absolute.
With a quiet, resigned sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, he realized the only possible explanation: he must be dreaming again.
After enduring years of torment at the hands of Mo Shuyi—years of physical pain, emotional manipulation, and systematic destruction of everything he had once been—He Renxiao had become painfully, intimately accustomed to the endless cycle of suffering. He knew its rhythms, its patterns, its cruel variations.
But this morning, it appeared that perhaps Mo Shuyi had already carried out his threat, fulfilling his promise in a way that he wouldn't have to experience it anymore. Has Mo Shuyi truly ended his life?
Time seemed to stretch in that silent room, each second feeling like agony. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at this point. The truth, whatever it was, remained uncertain, leaving him stuck in a fragile limbo. And in that moment, he could only wait and wonder what cruel fate he truly had.
The fight he'd had with Mo Shuyi hadn't seemed deadly at the time—at least, that's what he had thought at first, in those initial moments of shock and adrenaline. But the memory of cold steel sliding between his ribs remained vivid, sharp and clear in a way that few other memories
were. Something like that was definitely unforgettable, even with his other memories being hazy and fragmented.
He had been stabbed, yes—he could remember the sensation with perfect clarity, the way the blade had felt as it pierced his flesh, the strange hot-cold feeling that had spread through his chest. But it hadn't seemed like a mortal wound at the time. The blade hadn't struck his heart or any major organs, or so he had convinced himself in those hazy moments when blood pooled beneath him, spreading across the ancient stones in a crimson tide that reflected the moonlight.
The wound itself would have been survivable for the proud cultivator he once was—the He Renxiao who possessed a strong golden core and advanced healing abilities. A stab wound, even a serious one, could be overcome with proper treatment and spiritual energy.
So it made sense that he had become weak—maybe even too weak to have challenged Mo Shuyi in the first place. The realization came too late, as most important realizations do, arriving only after the consequences had already unfolded.
He wanted answers. Needed them like drowning men need air, like dying men need water. Though deep down, as he watched the shadows crawl across the walls of his room while the sun climbed higher in the sky outside, he didn't think he would ever receive the closure he sought. At least not here, in this strange place between living and whatever came after. This liminal space that felt neither fully real nor entirely dream.
He Renxiao shook his head sharply, as if trying to physically dislodge the dark thoughts, and turned away from the mirror before him. Being here, staring at this impossible reflection, reminded him too much of the horrible memories that he had fought so hard to push down, to conceal, to bury so deep they could never resurface. To get rid of entirely, though he'd never succeeded.
But he guessed there was no point in fighting them now. If this was death, if this was some kind of afterlife or final dream before oblivion, then the walls he'd built around those memories served no purpose anymore.
While he was here—wherever "here" was—he might as well let himself fall into the delusion and explore this old sect like he once did.
Like he was still that fifteen-year-old He Renxiao that even he himself sometimes wished he could be again, wished he had never stopped being. That sweet, While he was here, he might as well let himself fall into delusion and explore this old sect like he once did. Like he was still, again, that 15 year old He Renxiao that even he himself sometimes still wished he were so long ago. That sweet, kind, but temperamental and elegant boy, said to be as pure as a lotus blossom in muddy water.
Now, He Renxiao knew he wasn't that boy anymore. But he wanted to be. And he figured he could be, at least here. Lucid dreams were common for him.
Not Alarming. Not shocking. Always calm, but never this quiet..
He Renxiao went to his closet and pulled out a set of robes. If he was in a dream, he might as well live it to the fullest.
He didn't grab anything too special. Since his sect didn't have specific uniforms and primarily just wanted royal blue, sky blue, light blue or navy blue colored robes back then, he had always worn his usual navy blue robe with laced sleeves and blackish blue belt that clipped at the waist.
He Renxiao was technically one of the young masters of the sect, though he didn't exactly know his father, the sect leader, well.. He had no family, his mother having passed on when he was young and his twin brother going with her. He didn't remember much about them, other than the fact she worked at a brothel, and made him and his brother pretend that they were her younger 'sisters' to bring in more clients, while elsewhere hiding them in a bunker she made herself.
Back then, if others knew that he had been her son, then her life would have been ruined. Not only because he was a boy, but also because she was a brothel maiden.. Or became a brothel maiden after he was born.. So he didn't blame her for that. He didn't even remember her face. But he did know that she was gorgeous. At least that's how Lan Qiang had told him to remember his mother as…
Of course, his father hadn't been in the picture at the time either. According to Li Chengyuan, his father, he had been in love with his mother before the brothel, and she had run away there for whatever reason.. To protect their child..
When it happened though, He Renxiao's mother had asked..
The man had been intoxicated at the time and, assuming the infant to be a girl based on what he'd been told, chose the name "He Renxiao"—a milk name, a childhood name, meant for a little girl. The character "Ren" from his mother's own name, "He Ren," combined with "xiao" meaning small or little. A little version of Madame He.
He Renxiao had never truly gone by any other name. He had a real name—yes, but he preferred He Renxiao, in remembrance of his late mother.. He may not have been a 'little girl' but he had a heart—he loved his mother—she loved him. He wished he still had that little family..
With a small sigh in memory of that time, He Renxiao turned his attention to reality—or dream reality that was, and just as he was going to continue on his way, he stopped in his tracks when he saw the robes he had grabbed.
He Renxiao couldn't help but smile. Gods how he missed it.. The intricate design to the beautiful matching ribbon that tied up half his hair while the rest was twisted right back in a neat braid, just like it normally was.
It had been years since he had last seen that intricate robe with the laces– the first time that Mo Shuyi had.. 'Taken' him, those robes had been ripped apart by that mutt and if he were to have guessed, burned along with his Shizun's while Mo Shuyi took what he wanted. He was given only white inner robes to wear, which was quite frankly humiliating.
He Renxiao gave up on the idea of the ribbon in his hair at the last moment, though.. It made him look too.. What's the words.. Proper? It just didn't look right on him. Not anymore at
least.. Being defiled by Mo Shuyi all that time ago made He Renxiao feel so.. Weak.. He didn't need it. Being reminded of those times felt wrong, but it was what he was used to.
Slipping off his current clothes, He Renxiao looked back at the mirror, looking at the scars that mirrored his body.
It was stupid, but even sometimes He Renxiao missed those scars. Not because he liked them—he definitely hated them, but.. It symbolized something more than the tragic events that caused them now.. He had used a spell to clear them in his early life to hide that part of his past.
At some point, He Renxiao finished putting on his new robes and turned to the door once more. He had no idea what time it was but.. Oh well.
He Renxiao gave one last stretch before opening the door, his body still aching from the effort. He wasn't sure why he could feel it though. However, right as he opened the door, a familiar face was met with his own.
It startled He Renxiao so badly that he actually yelped, stumbling backward several steps before his legs hit the edge of his bed. He caught himself just before falling, hands grasping at the bedframe for balance, his heart hammering in his chest.
"Xiao-Shidi! Where were you? You made me worried sick!"
The voice was paranoid and high-pitched with concern, belonging to the familiar face that He Renxiao now recognized as Jing Peishi—one of the five other disciples that He Renxiao knew in their sect outside of the others that trained under Lan Qiang alongside him. Jing Peishi was slightly older, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with a round face that made him look younger than his years and a tendency toward anxiety that manifested in excessive worrying about his fellow disciples. He was a disciple of the Pei Ming Elder, Liu Shibao.
Of course. He Renxiao mentally kicked himself. He'd had no way of knowing that he'd been late for morning lessons since this was a dream and he had only just... arrived? Manifested? Whatever the proper term was for appearing in one's own subconscious recreation of the past.
Does that make this a nightmare? he wondered with dark humor. Great. Even in a dream, I'm late to morning lessons. Shizun would have never let me hear the end of it, that's for sure.
He Renxiao cleared his throat, trying to compose himself, deliberately avoiding eye contact as his attention returned fully to the present moment. It was probably best not to dwell on the metaphysics of his situation. "Sorry to worry you, Shi-Shixiong," he said, using the proper address for a senior martial brother. "I just wasn't feeling well."
He Renxiao felt a sudden flood of emotions crash over him like a wave—grief, nostalgia, longing, loss, all tangled together into something almost unbearable. Jing Peishi gently held his cheek with one hand, tilting his face slightly to examine him with a hard, concentrated expression that was pure concern.
It was a type of concern that He Renxiao had missed so dearly it physically hurt.
In the past—the real past, not this dream—Jing Peishi had been one of the first people to die. One of Mo Shuyi's earliest victims when everything had gone wrong, when the kind senior
brother they'd all known had transformed into something monstrous. Seeing him now, alive and worried and so beautifully, heartbreakingly normal, obviously meant everything.
It was more than He Renxiao could process. The sudden flood of emotions was just too stimulating, too overwhelming, and he couldn't handle it. His eyes burned with tears he refused to let fall.
"I'm alright now, Shi-ge, thank you," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. A gentle smile graced his lips as he spoke—the same practiced, fake smile he had perfected over years of hiding his true feelings. He took Jing Peishi's hands in his own, feeling their warmth, and slowly, gently moved them away from his face. The contact was too much. Too real. Too painful.
"If you say so, Shidi," Jing Peishi mumbled, looking down at his abnormally short junior martial brother with lingering concern. He had no idea about the turmoil raging inside He Renxiao's mind, no concept of the significance this moment held. "Well," Jing Peishi shrugged, his gaze turning toward the end of the hallway where they stood, "do you want to join us in the food pavilion? Mo Shuyi said he would get us all some soup to share."
At the mention of that name, He Renxiao visibly gulped, his body going rigid. The discomfort must have shown clearly on his face because Jing Peishi immediately noticed.
"Shidi, are you sure you're alright?" Concern flooded back into Jing Peishi's voice, stronger than before. "Perhaps I should still take you to see your Shizun. You're so pale..." He took a step closer, reaching out once more to touch He Renxiao's forehead, to verify that he was truly okay.
But before his hand could make contact, He Renxiao suddenly slapped it away—more aggressively than he'd intended, the sharp sound of skin on skin echoing in the hallway.
"I'm fine! I don't need to see Shizun!" The words came out as a snap, harsh and defensive, born from years of habit. After everything he'd endured, He Renxiao had learned to be firm, to be aggressive when necessary, to put up walls and defend himself.
It was so different from his younger self, who had been all too kind and obedient, maybe even naive and trusting to a fault.
It showed how much a person could change over a small period of time—or in this case, how much suffering could warp someone's fundamental nature.
He wondered distantly why he was so scared of physical contact, why even gentle touches from people who cared about him felt threatening.
The look Jing Peishi was giving him—dumbstruck, hurt, confused—didn't make anything better. If anything, it made He Renxiao feel worse. He watched his senior brother's expression crumble slightly, saw the way Jing Peishi froze in place, and it made He Renxiao stop in his tracks as well.
He suddenly felt terrible, guilt washing over him in waves. He realized with painful clarity that he was no longer the other He Renxiao, not the Renren Xiao of the past. Not the little
boy who cried over nothing, who just wanted to be protected by his older sect siblings and live happily ever after in a world that made sense.
That boy was gone, and even in a dream, he couldn't fully resurrect him.
He didn't have a chance to fix it, though. He couldn't make things right again—couldn't take back the harsh words or the violent gesture. If there was just a small chance of actually finding himself amidst the chaotic wreckage of his life, of reclaiming some piece of who he used to be…
He Renxiao reached out toward Jing Peishi, his hand quivering visibly in the space between them. He needed to apologize, to explain, to somehow bridge the gap his reaction had created.
But Jing Peishi didn't move. He just continued to stare at He Renxiao like a deer caught in lantern light, frozen and uncertain. Then, suddenly looking deeply uncomfortable, he shifted his gaze downward to the wooden floor beneath them, unable to meet He Renxiao's eyes.
He suddenly felt bad and realized that he was no longer the other He Renxiao, not Renren Xiao, not who he was in his past… The little boy who cried over nothing, just wanting to be protected by his older sect siblings and live happily ever after..
He didn't have a chance to fix it.. He couldn't make things right again– If just a small chance, of actually finding himself amidst this chaotic life of his..
He Renxiao reached out to Jing Peishi, his hand quivering, realizing he needed to fix what he had done. Jing Peishi didn't move and instead continued to stare at him like a deer in headlights before suddenly looking uncomfortable and shifted his gaze towards the wooden floor that was covered with a rug beneath them.
"You're not acting normal either.. Maybe..." Jing Peishi cut himself off as he heard footsteps approaching. He lifted his head and waited for the figure of who was coming to appear before he stepped aside.
"Did you two fall down the stairs or something? It's been ten minutes since I left, and Mei-Mei and I have been waiting for at least fifteen."
The voice sent ice through He Renxiao's veins.
He was suddenly frozen, his entire body going rigid as if turned to stone. His expression transformed into one of pure fear, eyes going wide, breath catching in his throat. Of course he had already come to the conclusion that he would more than likely see him again in this dream—his nightmares were plagued by visions of that very man, after all—but not so soon! Not before he'd had time to prepare himself, to build up his defenses!
He Renxiao turned his head with the slow, reluctant movement of someone approaching an executioner's block. His gaze met one he wished desperately he would never have to see again, even in death.
Mo Shuyi.
He looked so different from the monster He Renxiao remembered. This was Mo Shuyi as he had been before everything went wrong—young, handsome in a sharp-featured way, with
eyes that held concern rather than cruelty. His hair was neatly tied back, his robes immaculate, his posture relaxed. He looked like someone's protective older brother, not like the person who would eventually destroy everything and everyone He Renxiao loved.
He was an actual disciple under Lan Qiang, alongside Mo Ran and Nan Feng
"Shidi—are you sick?" Mo Shuyi asked, pausing as he came to stand before his two martial siblings. He looked genuinely concerned about He Renxiao's health, his brow furrowed as he took in the younger boy's pale complexion and frightened expression.
The concern didn't look right on him. Not to He Renxiao, who knew what this face would eventually become capable of. After everything that had happened, everything Mo Shuyi had done, seeing him act like a caring senior brother felt fundamentally wrong, like watching a wolf pretend to be a dog.
"No, I just..." He Renxiao gulped, his throat suddenly dry, and took an instinctive step backward, away from the two senior brothers before him. "I'm not feeling good. I'll take some medicine and see you at evening lessons—"
"Evening lessons?" Mo Shuyi's voice sharpened, taking on an edge of frustration. "Xiao'er, you've missed half the day already—and we all know how you get when you're sick. No matter how many times you say you'll take medicine, you never actually do. You will not be going to evening lessons like this."
But just as He Renxiao was about to speak up in his own defense, to protest that he was fine and didn't need to be coddled, a hand reached out with surprising speed and grabbed his wrist.
Before he could process what was happening, before he could pull away or resist, that stupid mutt Mo Shuyi was dragging him down the hall, his grip firm and unyielding. They were heading straight toward the Gentle Snow Pavilion, located near the Divine Truth Pavilion where their Shizun lived and worked.
Mo Shuyi made an annoyed sound low in his throat, a growl of frustration at his stubborn junior's resistance.
His grip was tight but warm—not painful, actually somewhat gentle despite its firmness. Under other circumstances, from another person, it might not have been unwelcome. It was the grip of someone who cared, who was worried, who wanted to help.
But in He Renxiao's eyes, knowing what he knew, having experienced what he'd experienced, everything about this contact was unwelcome. Everything else around them seemed to stop, to fade into insignificance. His Shixiong was actually caring for him, showing concern and affection, and some buried part of He Renxiao was half-tempted to give into the moment, to let himself believe it was real and safe.
Until he remembered where Mo Shuyi was taking him.
The Gentle Snow Pavilion. The place where, in another timeline, Mo Shuyi had violated Lan Qiang countless times. The place where so much suffering had occurred behind closed doors while the rest of the sect remained oblivious.
"Mo Shuyi! Wait, stop! Seriously, I'm just not feeling good—there's no reason to bother Shizun—!" He Renxiao tried to protest, pushing down any and all doubt, tugging desperately at his wrist in an attempt to free himself from Mo Shuyi's grasp.
But it was to no avail. The older boy didn't budge, his grip remaining firm as he continued pulling He Renxiao along. Mo Shuyi rolled his eyes at his junior's protests, clearly viewing this as typical stubborn behavior rather than genuine distress.
All He Renxiao could do was grumble in frustrated annoyance, his feet stumbling to keep up with Mo Shuyi's longer strides.
Behind them, Jing Peishi followed gingerly, his footsteps hesitant, as if he wasn't entirely sure he should be accompanying them. As if following felt foreign to him, like he wasn't meant to be part of this particular scene.
"Come on, Ren-Ren'er," Mo Shuyi said, using the affectionate diminutive that made He Renxiao's heart clench painfully. "You know better than anyone that even a little fever will have you bedridden for weeks." His tone was deep and somber, genuinely unhappy that He Renxiao was acting in such reckless ways, just allowing himself to fall ill without proper care.
And he had a point, really. He Renxiao had been a sickly child—a consequence, he assumed, of growing up in the entertainment district where disease spread easily and proper nutrition was scarce.
The sect had only just managed to build up his constitution to the point where he wasn't constantly sick, one illness flowing into the next without pause. And now he wanted to be reckless with his health? To ignore warning signs and push himself?
It was stupid. Irresponsible. Mo Shuyi had thought so even back then, when he'd actually cared about his junior's wellbeing.
Come to think of it, Mo Shuyi had always been protective of He Renxiao, even before... before everything changed. Even in the very beginning, when He Renxiao had first joined the sect.
He Renxiao's head continued to spin as Mo Shuyi hauled him toward the Gentle Snow Pavilion, his thoughts a chaotic mess of past and present, memory and current experience. When they reached the door, Mo Shuyi knocked with a confidence that suggested familiarity—not quite like a resident, but like someone who visited often enough to feel comfortable.
This obviously infuriated He Renxiao. In their past life—or future life, depending on how you looked at it—Mo Shuyi had violated Lan Qiang relentless times in that very room, behind that very door.
The Pavilion had become a place of horror, tainted by violence and betrayal. Seeing Mo Shuyi act 'friendly' in any way, shape, or form toward their Shizun felt sickening, even though
this was the past, even though this version of Mo Shuyi hadn't done those things yet and might never do them in this dream.
But this was just a dream, He Renxiao reminded himself firmly. None of this was real. It couldn't hurt him. It was just his mind processing trauma, creating scenarios, playing with possibilities.
When the Pavilion door opened, the tall, elegant figure of their Shizun appeared, and He Renxiao's breath caught for an entirely different reason.
When the Pavillion door opened, the tall, elegant and beautiful older male, the disciples Shizun, stood there with a dumbstruck look on his face. He hadn't expected 3 disciples to show up at his Pavillion after classes were over and he was working.
Lan Qiang stood in the doorway with a slightly dumbstruck expression on his beautiful face, clearly not having expected three of his disciples to show up at his private residence after morning classes had already ended. He was in his mid-thirties, though he looked younger, with the kind of timeless beauty that came from high cultivation.
The years of stress had yet to weigh on him. His hair was partially up in an intricate style, and he wore simple but expensive robes in pale blue and white.
Lan Qiang rubbed his eyes tiredly, and there was ink smudged on one of his fingers—he'd clearly been writing or drawing. "What is it you three require?" His voice carried a note of impatience, though anyone who knew him well could hear the underlying affection. "I'm busy working."
Despite his words, he had always been happy to see his disciples. His gaze traveled over the three of them before settling on his youngest disciple, and his elegant brows furrowed in concern.
"Li Meiling, where were you during morning lessons?" he questioned, his tone sharpening slightly. He was certain he hadn't seen the boy at practice, which was highly unusual. He Renxiao never missed morning lessons—he was typically one of the most dedicated students.
Lan Qiang seemed to be in a better mood than usual today, which was fortunate given the circumstances. Perhaps he'd made progress on whatever project had been occupying his time.
"Shizun, we're sorry to bother you," Mo Shuyi spoke up respectfully, loosening his grip on He Renxiao's wrist slightly—but not enough that the younger boy could actually escape. "But Xiao'er is sick. You know how he gets when he's ill... Is there any way you could use a healing spell to help him?"
Lan Qiang raised one elegant eyebrow, his arms crossing over his chest as he regarded the scene before him with mild skepticism. He watched as He Renxiao continued to struggle in Mo Shuyi's grip like a puppy desperate to be put down, twisting and pulling with determined futility.
"He seems quite alright to me," Lan Qiang commented dryly, tilting his head.
But then his sharp eyes caught the details his initial assessment had missed—the unnatural pallor of He Renxiao's skin, the slight tremor in his hands, the dark circles that shouldn't be there on someone so young. His expression softened immediately, concern replacing amusement.
"Bring him in," he said, his voice gentling. "I'll examine him properly."
Lan Qiang turned and walked back into his Pavilion, leaving the door open for the disciples to follow. The interior was exactly as He Renxiao remembered—elegant and organized, with scrolls and books neatly arranged on shelves, a low table for tea ceremonies, and the ever-present scent of ink and paper. Before it had been trashed and ruined by Mo Shuyi himself.
Mo Shuyi wasted no time, practically dragging his poor little Shidi into the Gentle Snow Pavilion with single-minded determination. He Renxiao stumbled along, still trying futilely to pull free, his heart hammering for reasons he couldn't fully articulate. Bringing up the rear was Jing Peishi, quiet and observant as always.
"Come here, Renren Xiao," Lan Qiang said gently, positioning himself beside a large metal desk that was littered with various papers, brushes, ink stones, and what appeared to be metal components for some kind of device. This must be the 'project' he'd mentioned, whatever it was.
The name 'Li Meiling' was actually He Renxiao's given name—his proper, formal name that had been bestowed upon him in a ceremony when Lan Qiang had officially accepted him as a disciple.
And even then, Lan Qiang was, too, the one who saved him. He had many reasons to be thankful to him, and that's why he cared so much for him, but he'd never willingly go by that name.
It didn't mean anything bad or a offensive, but He Renxiao was never one to forgive and forget, he liked holding onto the past, good memories, the very little he had, so he liked the milk name of 'He Renxiao' rather than the given name of 'Li Meiling'. His fellow disciples respected this.. However, He Renxiao was too scared to correct Lan Qiang after the first time.
He Renxiao made his way to Lan Qiang, memories once again sinking in as the man's hand ghosted over his forehead, then his cheeks.
He Renxiao remembered all the times that he wanted nothing more than to be in the arms of that same man countless times over, all in the past now. He Renxiao shifted uncomfortably.
"He's really warm.. Here, let's do this." Lan Qiang said, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife to meat. Always so protective of his young disciple he treated like his own..
He grabbed He Renxiao's hand and used some spiritual energy to perform a healing spell on that little puppy-like disciple of his. The spiritual energy surged and flowed around He Renxiao, casting a calm and oddly enlightening feeling over He Renxiao. He Renxiao let out a sigh of relief, letting himself relax and just let the moment pass over him like a tidal wave.
Of course—He Renxiao hadn't actually been sick. Just tired, and was probably warm because he liked sleeping under his blankets and all 15 of his pillows.
"Do you feel any better?" asked Lan Qiang, letting go of He Renxiao's wrists, to which He Renxiao nodded.
"I do, thanks to Shizun."
Lan Qiang sighed, placing a hand on He Renxiao's head in a gentle pat of reassurance, a habit he developed when he was still young due to being the oldest in his family.
"Alright then, on your way you go then. Take it easily, Ling'er." Lan Qiang said with a tired tone of voice. And thus the disciples all turned to leave, not wishing to bother their Shizun anymore unless his good mood would spoil.
"Wait!" Called a voice from behind, causing the disciples to stop. "Renren Xiao, make sure not to get sick again, yeah? Get some rest and eat something. Only the gods know how
long ago you've eaten." That worried undertone to Lan Qiang's voice reminded He Renxiao of when he was still a child, crying and alone as that very same man lifted him in his arms and took him away from all the hurt, being no older than the age of 19 at most.. It brought a smile to He Renxiao's lips.
"Of course, this disciple will." And with that, the little puppy Shidi led the way out of the Gentle Snow Pavillion, in a better mood.
Maybe this dream wouldn't be so bad after all.
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Down at the dining hall, Nan Fang sat at a table, waiting for the other disciples patiently. He Renxiao had totally forgotten about the whole 'soup' thing. But he had to admit, he was definitely hungry. He hadn't exactly realized it due to the excitement of 'dreaming of the past.' nor did he know how he was even hungry—that must have meant he in his real body was hungry.
As the A'lu dining hall came into view, He Renxiao began to gradually get more and more ed. Even though He Renxiao knew deep down that this was a dream, he was still happy he could see those he had lost one last time before he met his end.
Once the three entered A'lu hall, at the small table designated for Lan Qiang's disciples sat a little girl, maybe about the age of 12.
"Shimei!" He Renxiao purred, running and going to hug her tight. She hugged back, a giggle escaping her lips.
"I guess you're feeling better then?" She asked, letting him go.
"A lot better now." He Renxiao responded, a grin still gracing his lips.
He Renxiao never thought he'd be able to hug Nan Fang like this ever again.. She had been his only sect sister and the first to die within the small group of disciples He Renxia came to be close with, and He Renxiao missed her hugs the most. She was the sweetest little girl He Renxiao had ever met. She deserved better than what Mo Shuyi had done to her.
"Let's eat, yeah?" Mo Shuyi said, bringing over the still, surprisingly, hot and large bowl of soup over to their table designated for Lan Qiang's disciples.
"Yeah—Of course." He Renxiao said, straightening up as he suddenly found it informal to act like this in front of his fellow disciples.
He Renxiao had never really liked spicy foods.. Not that he couldn't handle them, just didn't like them. So the soup was perfect—It looked to be chicken soup. It was great because the disciples all seemed to love this kind of soup the way it was, since Mo Shuti often made it when they were on missions together to fill their bellies.
Mo Shuyi reached for one of the small glass bowls of which he had collected and placed neatly on the edge of the Yin Yang elder's table before he had left to find Jing Peishi and He Renxiao as well as that whole incident with their Shizun and He Renxiao being sick.
"You get the first bowl, Shidi."
Mo Shuyi said, using the spoon to pour a generous amount of the soup into the bowl and then handed it over to He Renxiao.
He Renxiao just sort of stared at first when Mo Shuyi handed him the bowl of soup. He knew that he hadn't always been cruel.. He had once been He Renxiao's loving and caring Shixiong, his brother, a mentor in the cruel life that He Rexiao had created for himself..But the thought still lingered in his mind—of how Mo Shuyi had hurt him and their teacher so many times– shattering his core, defiling them both—it was all so wrong..
He Renxiao wasn't even sure if he was alive. At this point, he could just be reliving his life because the gods said so.. It didn't really matter.. But that didn't make it hurt any less.
He Renxiao shook his head and tried to push the gloomy thoughts away, taking the bowl and grabbing some chopsticks and a spoon to eat with.
He sat down and began to eat with a happy little purr. It hadn't been his intention to get all sentimental, even if it was just in his mind. He wanted to forget it all, but he knew it would never be that easy..
So, the small male ate his soup with quiet content while everyone laughed and talked together.. It was like the good old days, except none of it was real..
He Renxiao couldn't help but feel lost in that moment as he just let himself drift in the moment.. Because he knew this wouldn't last forever. A last coax till the end of his life– his last chance to see his Shixiong for who he used to be, not who he was now.. To see Shizun.. And He Renxiao was ready to be free..