He stood at the threshold now, where the forested path gave way to stone roads and the fragrance of plum wine and lantern oil drifted from faraway homes.
Though many cultivators had seen him already, Zhao still hesitated. The veil was gone. His face, no longer shielded, bore too many echoes of the past. There were elders still alive who would recognise him. Disciples who had heard the tales. Merchants who remembered the ceremonies from decades ago.
He sighed, his eyes scanning for something—anything—to disguise himself. A scarf, a ribbon, even a vendor's cloth. Worst case, he would cut into his own sleeve, though he hated the thought of such indignity.
Just as his fingers reached for the seam of his robe, a finger tapped his shoulder.
"Looking for this?" a voice whispered at his ear, soft as silk and twice as smug. Yun Ling, of course.
Chen Zhao turned, breath stilling. The younger man stood close—too close—holding out two familiar objects between graceful fingers: a blue forehead ribbon, newly embroidered with silver thread, and a veil of soft fabric, mended and pressed.
His veil.
"You... fixed it," Chen Zhao murmured, surprise flickering behind his gaze as he reached for it.
Yun Ling pulled it back with a coy smile, eyes dancing like fox fire. "Not for free, of course."
Chen Zhao's brow twitched. "What is it you want this time?"
Yun Ling leaned in, his tone dropping into playful mischief. "Company."
"We're already travelling together," Chen Zhao deadpanned.
"I meant the better kind," Yun Ling replied with a dramatic sigh, stepping into his space with a fluid grace only a man born of clouds and schemes could carry. "We've eaten half-rotted berries in the forest, slept on jagged rocks, fought ancient beasts, and I haven't seen even a single lantern since. Wouldn't it be nice to enjoy a proper town? Just one stroll. A cup of wine. Some incense. Maybe watch the sky for once, instead of running from it?"
Chen Zhao sighed long, slow, and exasperated. "You're more clingy than a tail on a dog."
Yun Ling only laughed. "Mm, but I'm far more charming."
Without waiting for permission—as he often didn't—Yun Ling stepped behind him and lifted half of Zhao's dark hair. His fingers were gentle, precise. The silver-threaded ribbon was tied with elegance into place, followed by the veil, drawn and fitted beneath the knotted topknot with deft familiarity.
"There," he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair behind Zhao's ear with the back of his knuckle. "Much better. Handsome again. Mysterious again."
Chen Zhao gave him a sideways look of unimpressed suffering. Yun Ling's smile widened like someone who'd just won a round he never needed to play.
"The Dragon Lantern Festival begins in three days," Yun Ling added as they began to walk toward the city's edge. "Crowds. Music. Wine. Firelight. And all the sects will send their senior disciples to show face. Even Jing Yao Sect."
Chen Zhao tilted his head, the silver bells of his veil catching the dusk light. "A celebration… means distractions."
Yun Ling's grin turned sharp. "Exactly. While they chase shadows beneath lanterns, we slip through the smoke."
As they stepped through the quiet archway into the outer city, twilight spilled across the stone-paved streets like molten gold. A soft breeze swept the air, thick with the mingling scents of incense, plum blossoms, and roasted chestnuts from nearby stalls. Red and saffron paper lanterns floated gently from rooftops, flickering like fireflies in suspended motion, casting shifting shadows that danced across worn walls and polished doors.
Gentle music drifted on the wind—stringed zithers, bamboo flutes, the delicate clink of bronze chimes swaying with the rhythm of almost festival joy. Practising. Children raced past with laughter trailing behind them, wielding wooden toy swords as if they were noble heroes from tales of old. Vendors called out offers for spirit-candies and fortune scrolls, their voices cheerful against the hum of life in bloom.
A clear, narrow river flowed parallel to the main road, lined with smooth stone and carved railing. Petals—delicate magnolia and pale plum—floated down its current like forgotten wishes. The soft gurgle of water over stone echoed gently, a sound so familiar, so achingly gentle, that it made Chen Zhao pause mid-step. His eyes followed the river's path.
The lights. The sound of children's laughter. The warmth of atmosphere. The weight of lantern glow across stone. The perfume of flowers thick in the dusk air.
For a single breath, it made him forget. Forget who he had become. Forget who he had lost.
And then—he stumbled.
"Senior!" Wen Mu gasped, reacting instantly, his hand shooting out to catch Zhao's arm.
The moment froze. All motion on the street slowed—eyes turned. Pedestrians blinked in surprise. A few gasped softly behind their sleeves.
He tripped? Chen Zhao? Once the jewel of Jing Yao Sect, the Lotus Sword of the East, praised as the reincarnation of the founder himself, the Celestial Light of Morning... tripped? Even Yun Ling blinked, one hand half-raised, as though unsure whether to reach out or laugh.
For the briefest of seconds, Zhao's face betrayed him—his mouth tensed, his brows furrowed with quiet horror. Then, like water returning to calm, his expression fell back into place. Stoic. Distant. Unshaken. He coughed once—lightly, gracefully—and moved away from the riverside, adjusting his pace as if nothing had happened.
Wen Mu leaned toward Qingge and whispered, barely suppressing awe, "Did… did you see that? He actually tripped."
"He's human after all…" Qingge murmured reverently.
Behind them, Yun Ling smirked, eyes sharp with mischief. He had seen everything. No, it wasn't a ghost. Not a demon. Not a trap hidden in the cobblestones that startled the heavenly cultivator.
It was a fish.
A koi fish—fat, golden-orange, bobbing lazily beneath the bridge with its mouth gaping wide, eyes round and eternally unblinking. Zhao had gone pale as rice paper.
Yun Ling almost burst into laughter on the spot. That—that—was the mighty Chen Guang Xian's weakness? Koi?
A memory stirred—an old one. A younger Zhao hiding behind his Shizun's robes when the pond was too close. That same stiff, blank face marred by the smallest hint of panic when fish swam too close to his boots.
Even decades later, even with death and blood on his hands and frost in his bones… any sight of a fish could undo all of Zhao's legendary poise in a single heartbeat.
Zhao cleared his throat, recovering with a dignity that could make statues weep. "Let's restock supplies while we're in the city," he said, voice clipped but steady.
"An excellent idea, Zhao-xiong," Qingge offered quickly, as if to save him.
"Yes! And maybe spiritual beast potions? Or seeds?" Wen Mu added, eyes already drifting toward the market.
Yun Ling pointed casually across the street. "You see that tavern? That's where we'll meet." He handed over several silver coins without concern. The rest he tucked into his sleeve.
"Don't wander far," Zhao added, before he could stop himself. "And don't take too long."
The juniors paused. That… that almost sounded like concern.
Zhao blinked, caught in his own words. "Why did I say that? They are not mine," he reminded himself. "They are not my disciples."
Still, as the boys darted off into the market, their laughter rising once more, Zhao fell into step beside Yun Ling again. Their footsteps echoed softly against the dusk-dappled stone path, in rhythm with the music and fading light.
"I never thought I'd see Zhao-xiong nearly fall over a koi fish," Yun Ling said, voice soft with delight.
Zhao turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing beneath the veil. "Say another word," he said coldly, "and I will drown you in that river."
Yun Ling pressed a hand to his heart and grinned. "You'll have to catch me first."
Zhao sighed deeply, fingers tightening briefly on the hilt of his fan before he turned away.
Above them, lanterns flickered gently in the wind. The laughter and life of the town faded behind them as they walked forward—two shadows in the evening light.
One running from his past. The other, as it was the most natural thing in the world, walking two steps behind… just close enough to catch him if he stumbled again.
And somewhere, in the depths of an old shrine hidden beyond the city's walls, a scroll waited. A name was written on it in ink that had long since dried. One truth, sealed in silence.
That was all that mattered now.
The tavern Yun Ling had pointed out was nestled beneath the sweeping boughs of an old willow tree, its silver-green fronds cascading like a curtain of silk across the tiled eaves. Beneath the tree's tranquil shade, a wooden sign carved with elegant strokes swung gently in the breeze. Its characters read: Moon-leaf House.
Faint notes of a guqin drifted from within, slow and melancholy, paired with the scent of warm rice, plum wine, and stir-fried lotus root. The sound stirred something in Chen Zhao's chest—quiet longing, a memory of something half-lost. He paused at the entrance, casting a last glance down the lantern-lit path where the juniors had scampered off like fox cubs chasing the wind.
"They'll be fine," Yun Ling murmured beside him, brushing past with the ease of someone who belonged in every room he entered. "Unless you think a wild herb will bite Wen Mu."
Zhao didn't answer. His veil fluttered as he followed silently, as if the wind itself hesitated to touch him too closely.
Inside, the tavern was warmly lit and inviting, steeped in a kind of quiet merriment. Rows of low lacquered tables stretched across the polished floor. Townsfolk and cultivators alike sat in relaxed clusters—some deep in conversation, others already flushed with drink beneath the rising festival moon.
Lanterns hung from carved ceiling beams like sleeping stars, their glow soft and golden. The walls were panelled in cedar and ivory wood, decorated with ink paintings of cranes, rivers, and swords in flight. Nothing opulent—just lived-in warmth, the kind of space where even ghosts might pause to listen.
They chose a table near the back, half in shadow, half within the circle of a paper lantern's light. It was a position that afforded vision of every door and enough distance to be overlooked.
Soon, a young waitress approached, dressed in petal-pink robes, her hair pinned with a small lotus comb. Her eyes widened the moment she saw Chen Zhao—his veiled face, his night blue robes embroidered in subdued silver, the quiet dignity in his posture. She bowed, holding a scroll of silk.
"Honoured guests," she said, voice careful and sweet. "Would you like to see our menu, or shall I recommend tonight's special? The sweet lotus wine is—"
"Something light," Zhao interrupted gently, his tone like cool water.
"And a pot of osmanthus tea," Yun Ling added from where he lounged, elbow on the table, chin in his palm. His smile was the curve of a cat basking in the sun. "Something to suit my companion's... delicate stomach."
Zhao's gaze flicked to him, sharp as a drawn blade. "I can tolerate spice."
"Mn," Yun Ling mused. "I was referring to your tolerance for people. But we can test both."
The girl giggled, blushing down to her collarbone. "I—I'll return shortly."
She fled in a flurry of sleeves, nearly tripping over her own hem.
Zhao sighed, adjusting his outer robe with quiet precision. "We're not here to attract attention."
"We never are," Yun Ling said lazily. "It just follows us like an overfed puppy."
Zhao tapped a finger once against the tabletop—an old habit. Rhythm to match thought. "We'll need a map of the procession paths. Timing for the sect entrances. Shift rotations. Disguises, if we're to enter the pavilion unnoticed."
Yun Ling raised an eyebrow. "You do realise you make planning an infiltration sound like reciting a poetry scroll."
"It's not so different. Both require structure and restraint."
"Ah," Yun Ling sighed happily. "Then I must be the ink splash ruining your calligraphy."
"You're not ink splash," Zhao replied dryly, though something in his voice softened. "You're the brush that writes on its own."
Yun Ling smiled—slow and fox-like. "I'll take that as affection."
"I meant it as a warning."
"That too."
The waitress returned, more composed this time, bearing a tray. She poured the osmanthus tea first—fragrant and golden—and laid out delicate dishes: stir-fried lotus root glazed in plum sauce, silken tofu in ginger broth, and dumplings so translucent one could see the fillings within—mushroom, pickled radish, and, tucked at the edge, fish.
"Pardon, esteemed guests," she said, lowering her voice. "If you're staying for the Lantern Festival, the town square is the heart of it all. The Sect processions start at dusk, but the main performance—the dragon dance and blessing—is on the second night."
"Will the Jing Yao elders attend?" Zhao asked, voice soft.
"Oh, yes!" she nodded. "The Head Disciple always recites the peace blessing before the dance begins. And the Sect Leader—if he appears—is usually watching from the temple terrace."
Zhao's fingers paused at the rim of his cup. He looked to Yun Ling. "The terrace would offer a clear vantage," he murmured.
"And I do love a scenic view," Yun Ling said, eyes gleaming with quiet mischief.
The waitress smiled, bowed once more, and departed. They ate in silence for a while. The lanterns shifted in the breeze. Somewhere outside, firecrackers snapped like stars waking.
Zhao pushed aside the plate of fish dumplings untouched. Of course, Yun Ling noticed.
"You could just admit it," he said, resting his cheek in his palm. "That you're terrified of anything that swims."
"I'm not terrified," Zhao muttered.
"Ah. It's cultivator-grade tactical avoidance, then."
Zhao ignored him and refilled his teacup. Yun Ling leaned lazily against the lacquered frame of the table, his head tilted slightly as he regarded the man across from him with a look that balanced somewhere between mischief and curiosity.
"You're calmer here," he remarked softly, his tone light as falling snow. "Is it the city's rhythm? The mountain air? Or are you simply pretending not to care?"
Across from him, Zhao did not lift his cup at once. The shadows from the hanging lanterns danced across his face, half-veiled, eyes cool and unreadable. "What would Ling-gongzi know of calm?" he asked dryly.
"I am always calm," Yun Ling replied, reaching with graceful fingers to place a dumpling onto his plate. "Like a fox waiting to steal a chicken. Very peaceful."
"You mean lazy," Zhao said, tone flat.
"I prefer the term aesthetic," Yun Ling replied with a sigh, as if wounded by the accusation.
But before Zhao could answer, the shoji door creaked slightly—barely a whisper—and both turned their heads. Wen Mu and Qingge entered with the enthusiasm of returning heroes, arms full of wrapped parcels, satchels, and a cloth pouch tied neatly at the top.
"Zhao-xiong!" Wen Mu beamed, proudly offering the herb pouch. "We got everything!"
"Except the spiritual beast tonic," Qingge muttered, exasperated. "Wen Mu got distracted by roasted chestnuts."
"I regret nothing," Wen Mu said firmly, munching on one of the chestnuts in question, his cheeks puffed like a chipmunk.
Zhao inclined his head slightly, a rare but honest sign of approval. "Good. Then eat. Rest. Tomorrow we scout the festival routes before dawn."
Yun Ling stretched languidly, like a cat beneath sunbeams. "And tonight," he said, "we enjoy the peace. For once."
"Until you ruin it," Zhao added, without even looking up.
"Who, me?" Yun Ling placed a hand dramatically over his chest, as if wounded by the very notion. "I am the living embodiment of restraint."
Zhao didn't bother to answer. Instead, a dumpling flew across the table. It bounced neatly off Yun Ling's sleeve with an almost musical thup, leaving behind a faint mark of sauce.
"Zhao-xiong!" Wen Mu gasped, caught between horror and barely suppressed laughter.
But Yun Ling only raised a brow, grinning slowly, wolfishly. "Ah," he drawled, reaching for his cup, "so you do have a sense of humour."
Zhao sipped his tea, utterly impassive. But his silence no longer felt that cold. Only measured. Still keeping his distance.
The moon had risen high now, slipping silver light through the intricately carved lattice of the Moon-leaf House windows, painting soft patterns across the dark wood floors. The tavern below was alive but not unruly—the mellow hum of stories, soft music from a wandering flute player, the warmth of wine and approaching celebration filling the night.
Their meal had long ended, though Yun Ling had, with persuasive charm and a casual promise to pay later, ordered a small jug of Snow Petal Wine. The pale liquor shimmered faintly in its ceramic bottle, glowing faintly like first frost under lantern light. When poured, it caught the air with the fragrance of winter plum and distant snowfall.
Zhao had not refused it. He sat now cross-legged, veil still in place though slightly loosened, his expression calm… but no longer sharp. The wine had softened the corners of his gaze, made the line of his shoulders less tense, the mask of vigilance ever so slightly cracked.
Then—without sound—Mei, the little fox spirit, leapt down from her usual perch. Silent as starlight, she padded to Zhao's side and curled at his knee, her white fur gleaming faintly in the flickering firelight.
Zhao blinked. He glanced down at her. Slowly. Cautiously. Then, after a moment of indecision, as if the movement might offend some ancient rule, he reached down. His fingers brushed soft fur. Mei leaned into the touch with a self-satisfied yawn.
And then—Zhao picked her up. Not awkwardly. Not coldly. With care. With reverence. He pulled the little fox to his chest and—held her.
Not just held. Hugged.
Yun Ling, mid-sip, nearly choked on his wine. There was something so unexpectedly pure about the moment. Zhao, the veiled cultivator carved from frost and iron, holding a soft, glowing spirit beast in his arms like a lost child reunited with something precious. Mei's eyes blinked slowly. Her tail flicked lazily. She looked unbearably smug.
Yun Ling set his cup down, watching the scene unfold with delight barely masked behind narrowed lashes.
"Oh, I see how it is," Yun Ling drawled, resting his chin in his hand as he peered over the rim of his teacup. His voice was light, but the curve of his lips suggested a very particular kind of wounded drama. "All this time, I thought we were forming something—an alliance of mutual respect, perhaps even the early stirrings of affection and trust. And yet here we are. I've been replaced. Usurped. By my own spirit beast."
The white fox, nestled contentedly in Zhao's lap, blinked up at its master with unbothered innocence.
Yun Ling narrowed his eyes. "Traitor," he muttered under his breath. "Absolute, unrepentant traitor."
"I am not drunk," Zhao murmured suddenly, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.
Yun Ling leaned in a little, one brow raised. "Did anyone say you were?"
Zhao frowned slightly, as if needing to clarify the matter to the air itself. "I'm not."
"Of course not," Yun replied solemnly. "You're merely embracing my fox like a long-lost lover and nuzzling your face into its fur because… clearly, this is a solemn cultivation ritual."
Zhao glanced down at the creature in his arms. The fox blinked once again—serene, radiant, entirely unbothered. He cleared his throat.
"…It's soft," he admitted at last.
Yun Ling choked on a laugh. "Heavens above. This truly is the best night of my life."
"I could be meditating," Zhao said, deadpan.
"Ah, is this a new method I haven't heard of before? 'Fluffy Embrace Meditation'? Reaching enlightenment through cuddles?"
Without a word, Zhao gently tucked the fox's tail more securely around its body, as if cocooning it for warmth. His movements were careful, precise. Reverent.
"It's keeping my hands… safe and soft," he said, almost defensively.
"Oh, naturally. Heaven forbid you use your sleeves like a common mortal," Yun murmured, lips twitching.
Zhao did not respond. He only shifted a little closer to the fire, his arms curled protectively around the sleeping fox spirit as though it were his only tether to a world constantly slipping from his grasp.
Yun Ling watched him from across the table, amusement softening into something gentler—less teasing, more tender.
"I could lend her to you," he said lightly. "Permanently, even. You'll owe me a favour, of course."
Zhao shot him a look sharp enough to flay a mountain. "No."
"Not even a small favour? Something modest? Like letting me braid your hair while you sleep?"
Zhao narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. The fox snored delicately.
Yun smiled wider. "You're holding my fox, Zhao-xiong. That's practically a vow of eternal loyalty in my sect."
"I'll return it."
"But will you?" Yun asked. "You look like you're about to build her a nest and write poetry about the tragedy of our doomed love triangle."
Another long silence passed. Then, softly, Zhao murmured, "It's… softer than I thought it would be."
Yun Ling's teasing faded into a faint, wistful smile. His voice dropped a note lower—quiet, warm.
"You're allowed to want warmth," he said. "Even if it comes with fur and a smug face."
Zhao didn't reply. But he didn't let go either. Yun reached forward and refilled both their cups with a steady hand. He held his out, palm up, the porcelain catching the flicker of the firelight.
"To soft things," he said, voice gentle now. "Even for swords forged in ice."
Zhao's gaze lifted, dark eyes meeting Yun's across the space. The silence stretched like silk between them. After a breath, he raised his own cup and clinked it gently against Yun's.
The fox shifted, its tail brushing Zhao's wrist with practised elegance. Zhao simply adjusted it again, tucking it with the care of someone who didn't quite know how to hold comfort—but didn't want to let it go.
"I'm still not drunk," he said, quieter now.
"Of course you aren't," Yun replied with a lilt. "You're just cradling my fox like a lonely immortal looking for rebirth."
"I will stab you," Zhao said, voice flat.
"And that," Yun grinned, "would only make me want to go further."
*
The fire dimmed. Outside, the distant echoes of flutes and laughter from the waning festival faded like dreams dissolving at dawn. Candlelight danced across the wooden walls, casting soft golden shadows against the lines of Zhao's face—half in shadow, half in peace. And somewhere between one breath and the next, the warmth of the wine began to slip away.
Chen Zhao blinked slowly. Then again. The world was the same—but… different. Sharper. Clearer. Less like a dream and more like a memory he wasn't supposed to be in.
And then he realised. There was fur on his cheek. He was holding something soft and… breathing.
The white fox was still nestled in his lap, sprawled like it owned the heavens, completely at ease and unapologetically smug. His arms were around it. Actually wrapped around it like he was trying to keep it from being blown away by the wind. His fingers were tangled in its silken fur.
He was…
"…what the hell," he whispered.
A strangled, muffled laugh cut through the quiet warmth of the tavern room. Zhao's head snapped up sharply, like a startled hawk.
Across the table, Yun Ling was leaning back, almost falling completely on the floor, one elegant hand pressed over his mouth, eyes glinting beneath the soft glow of lantern light. That glint—mischievous, glittering like moonlight on the edge of a blade—was unmistakable.
"Oh no," he gasped, voice trembling with poorly restrained laughter. "Don't stop now. I was beginning to believe you'd formally adopted it."
Zhao stiffened. Every muscle in his body locked like coiled steel. Very slowly—reluctantly—he looked down and released the small white fox nestled in his arms. The spirit blinked lazily at him, stretched its lithe body with a wide, satisfied yawn, and curled up again, unfazed by the emotional catastrophe playing out above it.
"I…" Zhao began, his voice hesitant, uncharacteristically uncertain. Then, nothing. Silence.
Yun Ling, ever the opportunist, pounced like a fox to an unattended scroll. "Please," he said with mock gravity, lowering his hand to reveal a grin sharp as it was delighted. "Finish that thought, Zhao-xiong."
"I was keeping it warm," Zhao muttered at last, each syllable falling with the weight of disgrace.
"In your arms. For half the evening. While gently stroking its back. Like a lonely scholar cradling the last remnant of a lost love."
Zhao reached for his teacup. Found it empty. Set it down with excessive care.
"I was just cold," he said stiffly, knowing even as he spoke that it was a useless defence.
"Oh, absolutely," Yun Ling agreed with mock sincerity, resting his chin on one hand. "That's why you nuzzled it. Twice."
Zhao's fingers curled into the hem of his sleeve.
"And whispered to it," Yun Ling continued, eyes alight with unspeakable glee. "What was it again? 'You're softer than clouds'?"
"Yun-daren," Zhao said through gritted teeth, "stop talking."
"I will not. This is divine punishment for every time you've glared at me for breathing too loudly."
The flustered look in his eyes was blooming up. Slow, traitorous, and, beneath the flickering firelight, painfully visible.
Yun Ling leaned in, his voice lowering—just slightly. "Honestly," he said, the teasing softening into something more genuine, "I don't blame you. If I'd known that all it took to melt that glacial composure of yours was a little wine and one soft creature, I would've arranged this meeting long ago."
"I wasn't melted."
"You were molten," Yun Ling corrected without hesitation. "I was about to pen a poem and name it after your blush."
That did it. Zhao rose in a sharp motion, robes whispering around his legs like wind off a cliff. The fox, thoroughly undisturbed, hopped back onto the table, curled into itself once more, and resumed napping as if nothing in the world could trouble it.
"I'm going to check on the juniors," Zhao muttered.
"Do tell them," Yun Ling called sweetly after him, "that their silent and stoic shixiong is feeling rather emotionally available tonight."
Zhao didn't grace that with a response. His footsteps vanished down the corridor like a scolding breeze through old pine. Yun Ling exhaled slowly, the grin lingering even as he reached to refill his teacup. He glanced down at the fox spirit curled beside him.
"You," he whispered, scratching behind its ear, "have done more diplomatic work in a single evening than the Emperor's entire envoy. I owe you dried plums and three nights of belly rubs." The fox licked its paw smugly.
Outside, the moon hung high in the ink-black sky, its silver light tracing the rooftops with cold beauty. In the far-off distance, the first testing bursts of fireworks echoed through the dark, scattered like blossoms across the silence. The Dragon Festival would begin soon. The heavens were stirring.
But in that moment, only one dragon burned.
He walked alone through the cobbled streets of the old border town, his steps slow, each footfall measured. Lanterns swayed overhead, casting trembling golden halos onto stone walls. The wind carried the scent of broth, sandalwood incense, damp earth, and distant river reeds — smells he had once known in childhood, now bittersweet with memory.
His breath was finally steady, but his thoughts refused to fall quiet. He clicked his tongue, the sound sharp against the silence. "How disgraceful." He had let himself grow too soft back at the tavern—too vulnerable. The flush of wine still prickled faintly beneath his skin. He was never one to indulge, even less so with someone like Yun Ling beside him. A man so slippery with words, so gilded in charm, you never knew where his sincerity ended and performance began. How shameful. In front of that man—of all people.
Yun Ling. Cunning and gilded like a fox spirit in finest mask. Smiles like silk, eyes like knives, words like incense smoke that clung even after fire. And yet…
Chen Zhao's hand rose to his face, fingertips brushing against his temple where a headache had begun to bloom. The curse within him—his tether to the sleeping dragon spirit—always stirred when he let himself reach inside too deeply.
Anger. Shame. Loneliness. Longing.
All of it made the seal throb like a wound reopening.
He tucked his hands back into his sleeves, posture straightening as he resumed his walk. The embroidered edge of his robe gleamed beneath the moonlight, silver threads catching like frost upon mountain stone.
He had been surrounded by others for too many days now. Even if they kept their distance—especially from him—Yun Ling remained persistent, always around, always watching. And perhaps… perhaps that was what made it so dangerous.
It wasn't that he disliked him… but being alone was safer. Simpler. After all, his path was not meant to include anyone else.
The outskirts of the town embraced Chen Zhao like a mourning shroud—soft, familiar, but laced with a sorrow that never truly left. With each step, the golden glow of lanterns and distant laughter faded, until only the whisper of the wind remained, threading gently through the tall grass. Somewhere near the bend of the river, fireflies blinked between the magnolia trees, their faint glow flickering like fallen stars—ephemeral, beautiful, and vanishing far too soon.
The scent of the magnolias lingered in the cool night air—sweet, thick, and haunting. He walked beneath them in silence, the silver edge of moonlight catching in his hair like strands of frost. His boots made no sound over the stone path, but his chest echoed loud in his ears.
Only honoured guests may pass through Jing Yao Sect on the day of the festival.
The waitress's words came back to him, soft and careful, but weighted with truth. That gave them three days. Just three.
The Magnolia Temple stood on the rear edge of the sect's territory—isolated, like a forgotten ornament hidden behind veils of protocol and prayer. If there were secrets buried there, someone would be guarding them. Zhao knew this well. Nothing sacred was ever left unguarded in a land like this.
It would take more than prayer to find the truth. Second night of the festival... He exhaled slowly, letting the breath leave him like smoke curling into a still sky.
They would need to move precisely. Someone would need to observe the guards by daylight—record their habits, the paths they walked, the moments they faltered. Others would walk the shadows by night, trailing whispers and flickers of light, committing every shift of the wind to memory. It was tedious. Exhausting. But necessary.
Necessary if he was to reach that place. Necessary... if he was to face it.
His steps paused near the edge of the bridge, where the river caught the moon's reflection and shattered it across the ripples like broken porcelain. He tilted his head skyward, eyes unreadable, as if tracing constellations long forgotten. His fingers trembled faintly at the memory that surfaced—unbidden, unrelenting.
His Master. His Shizun.
The only light that had ever warmed him in the darkness.
The one whose smile had first taught him to breathe, whose words had once steadied his soul when the world threatened to devour it.
"What lies beneath that shrine… what did you leave for me, Shizun?"