The night was a polished shard of obsidian, reflecting light only to conceal it. Above the dark ridges of the hills, the full moon hung swollen and low, its pale face veiled in a thin halo of frost-bright mist. Beneath its gaze, the Ghost Market breathed into being, as if the world itself exhaled into shadow, creating a space suspended between mortality and memory. The air quivered with a quiet expectation, the kind that whispered of secrets better left unspoken and of debts yet unsettled.
No road led to it; no mortal map could fix it to the earth. One step between shadowed pines, and the world shifted. The air changed—cooler, thinner, threaded with the scent of burned sandalwood and the metallic tang of rain that had never touched the ground. The canopy above closed, dark as lacquer, with only the occasional thread of moonlight breaking through to illuminate the mist curling like smoke around gnarled trunks. Lanterns swayed on unseen breezes, each shedding a light too pale for oil, too warm for moonlight. Their glow fell across cobblestones that seemed to form themselves beneath wandering feet, and the market seemed alive, watching, breathing, waiting, as if it were a creature older than the hills themselves.
Xu Liang paused just within the threshold, his breath a slow plume in the chill. Layers of ruqun and over-robe whispered against each other as he adjusted his stance, eyes scanning the stalls that emerged like memories given shape. Sellers in robes of antiquated cut leaned on lacquered counters displaying jade amulets that pulsed faintly with trapped whispers; bundles of dried lingzhi darker than midnight; folded silk scrolls bound with red cord, the seals still warm from a calligrapher's brush. Every object seemed to hum with latent purpose, a subtle energy resonating in harmony with the cadence of his own heart.
He knew this place, not from personal visits, but from the stories preserved in sect records. A bazaar that answered to neither Heaven nor Court, open only beneath the exact weight of the full moon. Here, all trades were possible. All debts remembered. Contracts inked in blood, barter made with shadows, nothing was forbidden, and everything exacted a price, sometimes one not immediately apparent.
Behind him, Wei Zhen stepped through, his boots making no sound on the stone that had not existed a moment ago. His hand brushed the hilt of his jian, an unconscious motion more than readiness to strike. The weapon was a part of him, as intrinsic as breath, poised with restrained energy and lethal patience. Rong Yue followed last, his robe's outer layers adjusted to the masculine cut expected of a royal son in public, but the moon's glow softened the severity of his jawline, hinting at the other self folded carefully beneath—a self that rarely surfaced, even among trusted courtiers.
The crowd was not mortal. Pale-faced merchants whose eyes reflected light like water; masked figures whose voices rustled like dead leaves; a child-sized being with hair that floated upward as though she walked underwater. Their movements were subtle, almost imperceptible, but each carried a rhythm of its own, distinct from human gait. The air shimmered faintly around each, as if the market itself resisted the gaze of Heaven, and every glance exchanged carried weight, every nod a silent acknowledgement of hidden covenants.
Xu Liang's breath caught—not a gasp, but the subtle hitch of a body starting to betray itself. Wei Zhen's head tilted slightly, eyes catching the tension in Xu Liang's shoulders, the pale edge of his skin beneath high cheekbones. The frost flower poison was silent to all others, but to Xu Liang, its grip was relentless: cold fingers creeping through lungs and meridians, reminding him with every inhale that time was slipping like water through a cracked vessel.
"I'll walk the outer rings," Xu Liang murmured, eyes fixed on a row of talisman vendors whose brushes moved of their own accord, painting seals in silver ink. "See what lies at the edges." His voice, though quiet, carried over the faint susurration of unseen fans and the rustle of fabric that seemed unanchored to any body.
Rong Yue inclined his head. "We'll go deeper. The cure will not be among the surface stalls." Smooth words, but a shadow of urgency darkened them. His eyes, sharp and discerning, swept over the market as if calculating the unseen currents of power threading through every object and figure.
Wei Zhen's hand tightened on his sword hilt, hesitation flickering in his gaze before he said, "Stay where the lantern light falls. I'll find you." His tone was firm, protective, and tempered with the knowledge that shadows could conceal more than mere absence of light—they could conceal peril, and the Ghost Market had more than its fair share.
Xu Liang's lips curved in a faint, knowing smile—neither promise nor refusal—and he slipped between two incense sellers, his figure folding into the crowd like a brushstroke dissolving into mist. Every step was measured, every breath a quiet negotiation with the poison within him. His fingers brushed over stalls as he passed, absorbing the textures, the smells, the faint tremors of life trapped in objects. Each amulet, each scroll, each dried herb seemed to whisper its own story, and Xu Liang's trained eyes missed nothing, committing patterns and anomalies to memory with the ease of a scholar reading a well-worn text.
---
The Ghost Market stretched in layers like a painting unrolling before them. The nearer stalls sold charms and herbs rare but not impossible; deeper in, the offerings grew stranger. Empty porcelain masks smiled without mouths. Bronze mirrors reflected the room but not the face standing before them. Small cages held birds with feathers that glimmered like liquid mercury. The air seemed heavier here, as if secrets themselves had substance, pressing lightly against the skin, demanding recognition.
Wei Zhen moved half a pace behind the Prince, scanning each corner, each stallkeeper's hands. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flitted from detail to detail, noting movements and gestures that might betray intention. Rong Yue, despite his rank, moved with the effortless poise of one accustomed to both court and stage, eyes sweeping and lingering without invitation. Whispers of ancient bargains drifted along the air like smoke, curling around Xu Liang in invisible coils, reminding him that every object, every interaction, carried a price not always paid in coin.
"What exactly are we looking for?" Wei Zhen asked low, voice solid, grounding, anchoring Xu Liang in the present despite the swirling strangeness around them.
"An herb they call xuehan cao," the Prince replied, his tone steady, the cadence of nobility undercut by the urgency in his eyes. "It grows only in the shadow of the frost realm and only blooms under moonlight. Ground with phoenix's tear and bound by talisman, it can draw the frost poison from the meridians."
"And if it's here?" Wei Zhen's question carried a weight, unspoken yet understood.
"Then we bargain," said the Prince, gaze fixed forward. "With whatever it costs." The thought remained unspoken, but heavy: if it was not here, Xu Liang's remaining weeks would collapse into days, the slow erosion of life compressed into the inevitability of mortality.
---
Meanwhile, Xu Liang drifted between the outer stalls, drawn to the smallest details: the grain of age in a carved bi disc, the faint scent of baizhi root beneath a pile of river-stone amulets. Each observation was a meditation, each careful step a way to steady the mind against the creeping frost poison. He watched Wei Zhen and the Prince from afar—not in suspicion, but with a quiet, steadfast affection that was its own kind of prayer. In this strange liminal space, human emotion was a fragile flame, and Xu Liang nurtured it carefully, knowing how easily it could be extinguished.
He noticed the Prince's shoulders stiffen when a vendor leaned too close, the subtle shift of Wei Zhen's body to intercept even the brush of fabric from strangers. Vigilance without flourish. Protection without performance. A language spoken through posture, glance, and the smallest gestures of care.
Rong Yue glanced back once, eyes locking with Xu Liang's across the crowd. A fragile thread of reassurance, a curve of a smile stretched through shadow. Xu Liang returned it with a slow dip of his head, a silent echo of trust, an acknowledgment that even in this market of phantoms and bargains, their bond remained a tether to the tangible, a thread stronger than poison, stronger than fear.
---
The night deepened. The moon climbed higher, and the market's pulse quickened. Somewhere, a gong sounded—low, resonant, a vibration that settled in bones, unspooling threads of tension like silk from a spool. Xu Liang slowed. Beneath the hem of his robe, the poison climbed like ice in veins. Invisible. Unseen. Unforgiving. But Wei Zhen reappeared at his side with a suddenness that made the cold recede, at least a fraction, as if the warmth of companionship could fend off the creeping frost.
His hand closed around Xu Liang's, not the rigid formality of court, but a warm, steady fold of fingers that asked no permission. The heat startled against the creeping chill, and Xu Liang did not pull away. The touch was both anchor and shield, a quiet defiance of mortality and danger, a silent pact that neither would face the coming trials alone.
No words passed. But in that grasp was a promise: I will not let you face this alone. Xu Liang let his gaze linger a heartbeat longer than etiquette allowed before inclining his head in silent thanks, the weight of trust and fear entwined in the night around him. The market hummed softly around them, a living organism of shadow and memory, and for a brief moment, the world felt less uncertain, less cruel, even as the poison continued its quiet work, and the hunt for the cure drew them deeper into a night that would remember them long after their passage.