Meanwhile.
Chen Xinyu woke with the distinct sensation of a spirit beast drumming mercilessly on his skull.
His mouth was dry as sun-baked earth. His eyes hurt as if sand had been poured beneath the lids. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—ornate carvings that spoke of wealth and pleasure.
He sat up slowly, cradling his forehead with one trembling hand. The sheets smelled faintly of perfume and wine, an intoxicating mixture that made his stomach turn. His robes were slightly crooked, disheveled in ways that suggested struggling. His hair was a catastrophic mess.
"...What the hell happened."
Fragments of last night came back like glass glinting in muddy water—Hua Ling's voice cutting through wine-fog, the taste of sweet alcohol turning bitter, soft candlelight painting everything in gold, someone's hand grabbing his collar with desperate strength—
His ears turned red as summer roses.
He looked around with growing panic. No sign of the prince. No sign of anyone, actually—just empty luxury mocking him.
He quietly poured himself a cup of cold tea from the bedside table. Took a slow sip. Winced at the bitter aftertaste.
Then he stood, dusted himself off with mechanical precision, and left without ceremony.
There was no need to say goodbye. He didn't belong here anyway—had never belonged anywhere, really.
So he walked.
Back to the sect. Back to quiet days that felt like slow suffocation. Back to the place where he wouldn't have to think about moonlit balconies or hands that tried to catch him when he stumbled toward the abyss.
Back to the path that would, someday, inevitably end in blood.
---
Night fell over the sect like ink spilled across pristine silk, staining everything it touched. The wind was sharp and dry, curling through the treetops and rustling fallen leaves along the stone paths like whispered secrets. Light from paper lanterns flickered faintly across tiled roofs and painted corridors, creating dancing shadows that seemed almost alive. Most disciples had long since returned to their chambers—some giggling over gossip like conspirators, others silently brewing tea or tending to their swords under lamplight with religious devotion. A few dared sneak beneath moonlight to meet secret lovers beneath the old peach trees that no longer bloomed but still remembered spring.
At the edge of the inner sect, near Lan Xueyao's courtyard, the room that belonged to Chi Ruyan was still bright with burning candles.
Inside, her quarters were elegant—refined silks hanging from the walls like captured clouds, calligraphy scrolls lining the space with her own precise strokes that spoke of years of cultivation, and incense burning softly in a white porcelain bowl that cost more than most disciples earned in a year. Chao Chao knelt by the tea tray, pouring her mistress a fresh cup of osmanthus tea with practiced hands.
But Chi Ruyan didn't drink. She sat perfectly still as carved jade, staring at nothing and everything. Her mind was far from the warmth of her chambers—lost in darker places.
Yesterday, she had followed Hua Ling.
She told herself it was curiosity, just a passing impulse born of restlessness. But she had followed him all the way to the city, to that vulgar, perfume-choked pleasure house where common people sought common pleasures.
She had stood in shadow like a ghost, watching him with Chen Xinyu—helping that boy stand when he swayed with wine, letting him drag him close, hearing him called "Ling Ling" with drunken intimacy that cut deeper than any blade. Watching them alone together, wrapped in a fragile closeness she had never been allowed, not even once in all their years.
She had nearly drawn her sword then and there.
But she didn't. Her brother's warning echoed in her ears like a curse she couldn't break.
*"Let him lower his guard. Our purpose matters more than your jealousy."*
Now, she sat cold, silent, hollow as a temple bell that would never ring again. The only sound was the wind pressing against the windows like invisible hands seeking entry.
She stood suddenly and pushed the tea aside with violent force. "I'm going to see him," she said to the empty air. Chao Chao didn't try to stop her—knew better than to try.
---
In the training courtyard, the sharp sound of a sword slicing air broke the silence like shattering glass. Even at this ungodly hour, Hua Ling had not stopped his practice. He moved like the cold moon itself—flashing steel, precise steps that left no wasted motion, and unyielding force that could split mountains.
Chi Ruyan watched him from the courtyard's entrance, breath caught in her throat. His robes clung to his skin with sweat, his hair undone slightly with a few strands brushing his cheek like lover's fingers. He looked like something unreachable—beautiful, distant, not quite human but more than mortal.
"What do you want?" Hua Ling asked without even looking at her, continuing his forms. His tone was frost itself.
She lowered her head in submission. "Nothing of consequence. Just wanted to watch you."
He did not answer, only resumed his routine with renewed intensity. The whistle of the blade cut through the quiet again like a scream.
She sat down on a nearby rock, hands folded in her lap like a supplicant, watching as though she were waiting for something—something from long ago to return and make everything right again.
After some time passed like sand through an hourglass, she spoke again, softly. "Do you remember when we were children? We used to sneak into the main hall during the realm gatherings, hide behind the columns like little thieves. One time we got caught. Uncle scolded us so harshly. I cried so hard you gave me your handkerchief."
Hua Ling paused. His blade stilled mid-air as if time itself had frozen. Then, slowly, with deliberate care, he sheathed it.
"That was a lifetime ago," he said, voice carrying the weight of years. "Why dredge up the past now?"
"Because I never forgot," she said, her voice barely audible above the wind. "Not a single moment that had you in it."
He stared at her for a long moment with unreadable eyes. Then, in a voice both distant and tired as winter itself, he replied, "It's cold. Go inside before you catch your death."
She stood, fists clenched at her sides until nails drew blood. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she held her composure with iron will until she was alone again. As she walked away through shadow and moonlight, tears fell freely, soaking into her sleeves like rain into parched earth.
"Brother... you're wrong," she whispered to the uncaring night. "Heart does matter. Love does matter."
---
The wind deepened its howl like a beast crying out.
In another courtyard, Lingque paced like a restless spirit denied entry to the afterlife, biting the skin around her thumb until it bled divine blood. Lu Rourou sat on a bench nearby, her feet swinging slightly with childlike innocence.
"Jiejie, you're going to wear a hole through solid stone. He's not a child. He'll come back," Rourou offered gently.
"I should've followed him. Should've dragged him back by the collar like a disobedient puppy," Lingque muttered with self-recrimination.
Just then, Rourou shot up and pointed at the bridge with excitement. "Jiejie! Look!"
Under the silver moonlight's blessing, a lone figure walked slowly toward them—Chen Xinyu, looking half-drowned in shadows and sorrow. His robes were creased like wrinkled paper, hair messy as bird's nest, eyes dull from lack of sleep and too much thinking. He didn't so much walk as drift like a ghost uncertain of its purpose.
Lingque stormed over with divine fury. "Where the hell were you?!"
He blinked slowly. "Out."
"OUT?! You—!"
She struck him on the arm. Hard. Again. And again with increasing force.
"OW—stop that!"
"You scared the hell out of me! Disappearing like that—didn't even leave a note! I thought you jumped into a well, you absolute bastard!"
Xinyu swatted her off with irritated movements. "You're not my mother. Stop treating me like I'm ten years old."
"We're contracted, idiot!" she screamed with genuine fear underneath fury. "I die if you die! Of course I care!"
He pushed her aside with a grunt. "Tired. Move."
The door slammed behind him with finality.
Rourou, speechless for once, sniffed the air delicately. "He reeks of wine."
Lingque groaned with divine exasperation. "So that's what this is about. Drunken bastard."
---
The next morning arrived with sharp sunlight and a biting breeze that promised winter's approach. Disciples hurried through the courtyards, robes flapping like birds' wings seeking shelter. In the main lecture hall, Elder Zhong tapped the attendance scroll with his fan in rhythmic precision.
"Shen Yao."
"Present!"
"Yan Zheng."
"Here."
"Lan Xueyao, Lu Rourou, Hua Ling..."
Each called name was answered in turn with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
Then came the pause that stretched like rubber.
"Chen Xinyu?"
Silence.
"Chen Xinyu?"
Still no response but echoing emptiness.
Elder Zhong sighed with the weariness of someone who'd seen this pattern too many times. "That's the third time this month."
Hua Ling's gaze dropped to the floor, expression unreadable as ancient stone.
Shen Yao leaned toward Yan Zheng conspiratorially. "He's skipping again."
Yan Zheng replied coolly with barely concealed irritation, "He'll pay for it eventually."
Shen Yao grinned with malicious delight. "We drag him out ourselves. Let him get scolded by Shizun. See if he dares act like a ghost again."
And so, beneath the quiet hum of discipline and duty, another storm began to stir—slow and inevitable as seasons changing, carrying with it the scent of blood and revelation that would soon tear their world apart.