The bell's toll was followed by silence, thick enough to smother the market's restless murmur. Then the crowd began to part, not in a rush, but in a slow, reverent unweaving, as though an unseen tide had shifted beneath their feet. The air itself seemed to bend, heavy with expectation, carrying the scent of incense and aged paper lanterns, mingled with the sharp tang of iron and spice from distant stalls. Dew-slicked cobblestones reflected fragments of lantern light, broken like scattered jewels across the ground. Every footfall, every whisper, was swallowed by the anticipation that trembled like a living thing in the dark.
But not all eyes were on the center of the market. Shadows moved differently here, too deliberate, too aware. Between the stalls, tucked behind draping silks and the folds of merchant tents, figures lingered: watchers in dark cloaks, fingers brushing against hidden daggers or the hilt of a short blade, eyes sharp as flint. They were silent, moving as if they were part of the night itself, studying the three travelers and the space around them with careful calculation. Some were sect operatives, others independent spies, and all carried secrets that might unravel in the wrong moment.
Rong Yue's gaze flicked over the market edges almost unconsciously. A slight movement behind a stall, a shadow that lingered too long, a subtle shift in the patterns of the lanterns—every detail was logged in the back of his mind. He felt the pulse of unease in the air, a gnawing that told him Xu Liang was being watched, measured, perhaps even hunted. He kept his expression calm, but his fingers brushed ever so slightly against the hilt of his dagger beneath his sleeve, a silent promise to intervene before any harm could touch them. He had followed Xu Liang through frost and fire, and though he would never admit it aloud, he would not allow this fragile, moon-blooded moment to be sullied by anyone's treachery.
From the center of the market's deepest shadows, he emerged.
The Ghost King.
His robes were black as wet ink, trimmed in the pale shimmer of jin si thread. The silk moved like water around him, brushing the ground without sound, seeming to absorb what little light remained and turn it into a shadow that pulsed and breathed as if alive. A crown of moon-pale bone rested against the sleek fall of his hair, delicate yet commanding, fragile as frost yet weighty with authority. And his eyes—those eyes—when they lifted, caught the light as if holding two fragments of the moon itself, cold and unblinking, drawing the gaze like a lodestone. Every person who dared to look too long felt the faint pressure of scrutiny, as if the King were sifting through their soul, weighing its worth.
Xu Liang rose slowly from his seat, spine straight, hands folded in shoufu. His expression did not change, but something in the air between them trembled, a subtle ripple of tension that made the hairs along the nape of the neck lift. The Ghost King's gaze found him unerringly, skipping past Rong Yue and Wei Zhen as if they were shadows themselves—mere echoes in the periphery of attention.
"My moon," he said.
The words were low, velveted, yet heavy, pressing into the silence like a stone dropped into still water. The merchants nearest them bowed their heads as if in deference, voices caught mid-thought, breath stalled in chests tight with awe or fear. Wei Zhen's shoulders tightened imperceptibly, a subtle shift betraying the ripple of unease coursing through him. He scanned the edges of the market, measuring threats in the quiet, calculating the precise moment he might need to intervene. Every glance, every twitch of the Ghost King's robe, was a potential danger. His hand itched toward the vial even before it was offered, a preemptive shield against the deadly frost that coursed through Xu Liang's veins.
Rong Yue's eyes narrowed, sharp as obsidian, his stillness a careful mask over the flicker of possessive unease that sparked in his chest. He could feel the frost within Xu Liang, the slow and creeping poison that no mortal touch could soothe. And he could feel Wei Zhen's presence beside him, a steadying weight. Together, they were a triad of unspoken devotion, bound not only by circumstance but by a shared determination to keep Xu Liang safe at any cost.
Xu Liang's voice was steady, measured, and firm, betraying none of the storm that ran behind his calm. "You mistake me for someone else, Bixia. We have never—"
"I made no mistake," the Ghost King interrupted, his lips curving faintly. The smile was subtle, almost human, but it carried the chill of midnight frost. "Even if your memory is silent, mine is not. The moon does not forget the river that once held its reflection."
The crowd had melted away entirely now, leaving only the three of them and the figure in black. The emptiness felt unnatural, a void of sound and motion, like the market had been a stage and the audience removed mid-performance, leaving only the actors and the shadows. Lantern light flickered across the cobblestones, catching in puddles that mirrored the pale crown on his head. Each reflection quivered, uncertain whether it belonged to reality or to some dream conjured in the mind's eye.
He came closer, each step deliberate. The soft rustle of silk against stone was the only sound, and it seemed amplified in the hollowed silence. When he stood before Xu Liang, he reached into his sleeve with the elegance of a predatory creature, withdrawing a vial no longer than a finger, stoppered with carved jade. The liquid inside shimmered faintly red-gold, a hue that made the heart beat faster, as though sunlight had been trapped in blood and molten light.
"This," he said, holding it between them, "is my blood. It will not cure the frost flower poison, but a single drop every two days will still the ice in your veins. You will live longer… long enough, perhaps, to find the one thing that will save you."
Xu Liang's eyes flickered toward the vial, the delicate curve of its glass catching the moonlight, painting spectral reflections on his skin. A subtle warmth ran through his chest, not from hope, but from the awareness of the precariousness of life, like standing on the edge of a blade. He felt the pulse of frost within his veins, a subtle, relentless ache that whispered of time running out, and the knowledge that this gift—fragile, dangerous—was a tether to survival, not salvation.
"What is your price?" Xu Liang asked.
The Ghost King's smile deepened almost imperceptibly. "Only that you take it from my hand, and that you remember whose lifeblood keeps yours from freezing."
Wei Zhen's eyes flicked to Xu Liang, noting the faint tremor of the fingers holding the vial. Do not falter, he thought silently. Do not let fear take root. I will shield you. Always. He stepped closer, fingers brushing against the hilt of his sword beneath the folds of his robe, ready to cut through anyone foolish enough to intervene.
Rong Yue's gaze cut to Xu Liang, and in that glance, a thousand thoughts passed: if the frost claimed him, what use was a world of victories? If danger came from the shadows, he would not hesitate to stand in front of it. Their lives were intertwined, and this moment—this delicate, perilous gift—was too precious to risk. He could feel the beat of Xu Liang's pulse, uneven and fragile, and a tight coil of determination formed in his chest.
Wei Zhen stepped forward, the faint rasp of his sword at the scabbard's mouth an unspoken warning. The blade gleamed in the lantern light, a whisper of menace against the fragile pulse of the moment. "And if he refuses?"
"Then the frost will have its feast before the next moon's rise," the Ghost King replied mildly, as if discussing the weather. His eyes, still fixed on Xu Liang, held a weight that made every heartbeat seem audible.
Rong Yue's hand twitched, almost imperceptibly, but he caught himself. The act would be unnecessary, perhaps even reckless. His gaze softened as he watched Xu Liang, his protective instinct warring with the need to trust him to accept the gift. Wei Zhen stood like a silent sentinel, and together, they formed an unspoken barrier between Xu Liang and the perils that lurked unseen.
Rong Yue's hand brushed slightly against Xu Liang's wrist as the vial passed from the Ghost King. Not a touch of fear, not of weakness, but a quiet promise: he would not let harm come to him. Xu Liang allowed himself a small exhale at the gesture, leaning subtly into the reassurance. Wei Zhen's gaze remained vigilant, tracking every shadow in the market periphery.
He bowed, shallow enough to acknowledge the gift without granting fealty. "Your generosity is noted."
The Ghost King's eyes softened, but only slightly. His attention was precise, deliberate, the faintest hesitation betraying that he weighed something unspoken. "There are other matters you should note as well," he said. "The Four Calamities are stirring. One has already loosened its chains, and the others strain against theirs. Before the year's end, they will walk the land again."
Xu Liang stilled, the vial now a weight in his palm, both literal and metaphorical. "Which walks now?"
"The Devouring Sea," the Ghost King murmured, his voice like silk sliding over stone. "The tide is rising. You have seen its herald already, though you may not have recognized it."
Hidden among the merchant stalls, a figure noted the exchange with careful attention, hand hovering over a concealed dagger. Another scribbled in a tiny, leather-bound notebook, recording every word. A third leaned against a wooden post, eyes flicking between the trio and the shadows beyond, sensing the ripples in the delicate web of market politics. They were watchers, but their knowledge was not meant for protection—it was meant for leverage, and for some, profit.
Rong Yue's jaw tightened imperceptibly. Let them watch, he thought. Let them calculate. They will learn nothing, not of Xu Liang's strength, not of what binds us together. Wei Zhen's hand rested near the vial, a subtle but clear warning to any who might try their luck. They would pay if they dared.
Without another word, the Ghost King turned and began to walk back into the shadows from which he had come. Each step seemed to absorb light, drawing darkness behind him like a cloak, leaving only the faintest trace of moonlight glinting on the edges of his robes. The crowd re-formed behind him, sealing his passage as though he had never been there, their presence a silent testament to the ephemeral intrusion of the supernatural into the mundane.