In the inner halls, disciples moved with hushed steps, worry in their eyes rather than anger. The world outside remained calm but uneasy—like breath held.
Nie Xiaohuan walked the court at dawn, petition scrolls in hand. He listened to requests: recruits asking for rites, cultivators asking for guidance, small villages needing protection from wolves or bandits near the border. None accused the Sect Leader—people spoke of concern, of weariness, of prayers that Ling Xiuyuan might rise again.
An elder spoke in the Hall of Ancestors, voice soft: "Without Master's commands, the sect drifts. Strength is more than legend." Another nodded: "But we cannot force him. He is still here, yet distant." No anger, only the ache of absence.
Nie Xiaohuan was called away that afternoon, to meet envoys from border clans. He greeted Xiuyuan before leaving. "Rest, Master," he said. "I will return before lanterns." Xiuyuan said nothing.
The courtyard was silent, the only sound the soft crunch of snow underfoot. Inside, the room was dim, lit by a single lantern casting long shadows on the wooden floor. The air was cold, but the warmth of the hearth provided a comforting contrast.
Mingyue entered quietly, carrying a bundle of freshly laundered robes. He placed them gently on the low table beside the bed where Xiuyuan lay. The Sect Leader's eyes were closed, his face pale and drawn. The weight of his sorrow seemed to fill the room, a presence more palpable than any physical ailment.
Without a word, Mingyue began his task. He moved with practiced ease, folding the old robes with care, smoothing out the wrinkles as if each crease held a memory. The scent of lavender from the freshly washed fabric mingled with the faint aroma of incense, creating an atmosphere of tranquility.
Xiuyuan's eyes fluttered open, and he watched Mingyue's every movement. There was no judgment in his gaze, only a quiet observation. His lips parted as if to speak, but no sound emerged. Instead, he simply watched, his eyes following Mingyue's hands as they worked.
Mingyue noticed the gaze but did not acknowledge it. He continued his task, unhurried and gentle. He reached for the new robes, holding them up to the light to inspect their quality. The fabric was soft, the stitching precise. He turned back to Xiuyuan, who had shifted slightly, his body language a silent request.
With a deep breath, Mingyue approached the bed. He helped Xiuyuan sit up, supporting him as he adjusted the pillows behind him. The Sect Leader's body was light, fragile, as if the weight of his responsibilities had drained him not only of energy but of substance.
Mingyue carefully removed the old robes, folding them neatly before setting them aside. He then dressed Xiuyuan in the new garments, his hands steady despite the intimacy of the task. The robes slid over Xiuyuan's skin like water, the fabric whispering against his body.
Throughout the process, Xiuyuan remained silent, his eyes never leaving Mingyue's face. There was a depth in those eyes, a complexity that words could not capture. Mingyue met his gaze briefly, his own emotions a swirl of empathy and something deeper, something unspoken.
Once Xiuyuan was dressed, Mingyue stepped back, his hands resting at his sides.
The room was quiet when Nie Xiaohuan returned. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the cold that had seeped in through the cracks of the wooden walls.
His gaze soon fell upon his master sitting at the desk.
Ling Xiuyuans's face was flushed, eyes half-lidded, and a cup of wine rested precariously in his hand. The liquid had spilled over, staining the silk robes beneath him. The sight struck Xiaohuan deeply.
Ling Xiuyuan— who had not properly eaten or drunk anything for seven long years—sat slumped in his usual chair by the window. The table bore a small, almost empty wine cup, and drops stained the front of Xiuyuan's worn robe.
Nie Xiaohuan's breath hitched. The sight stirred a silent tempest of emotions inside him. Anguish, confusion, and a simmering anger all fought for dominance, but Nie Xiaohuan bowed his head respectfully and stepped forward.
Careful and practiced, he reached for the wine cup, setting it aside with gentle hands. Ling Xiuyuan's eyes were glazed, unfocused, but his frail form trembled slightly with the remnants of the drink's heat. Nie Xiaohuan took a clean cloth and began to wipe the spilled wine from his master's robes, the liquid seeping slowly into the fabric like spilled blood.
"Master..." his voice was soft, yet steady, betraying none of the turmoil he felt inside.
Ling Xiuyuan did not respond at once. His fingers twitched feebly, but then, almost without warning, they wrapped around Nie Xiaohuan's arm, pulling him close. The old disciple's heart clenched as the broken man's head rested briefly against his chest.
For a moment, Nie Xiaohuan stood still, the weight of those seven years pressing down on him. Then, in a faint, almost trembling whisper, the broken voice spoke a name that shattered the fragile calm:
"Liuxian…"
The name fell like a stone in the deep well of Nie Xiaohuan's heart. Anger flared—how could his master still cling to a ghost from seven years past? Sadness swelled—how deeply this loss had corroded the man he had sworn to protect.
Yet, beneath it all was a profound worry that held him steady.
Slowly, Nie Xiaohuan drew away, his hands gentle as he supported Ling Xiuyuan's trembling shoulders. The scent of wine lingered faintly, and the weakness in Xiuyuan's frame was unmistakable. His master was close to fainting.
With utmost care, Nie Xiaohuan lifted the broken man, feeling how fragile he had become. The journey to the bed was slow and quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of fabric and the steady thump of a faltering heartbeat.
He laid Ling Xiuyuan down, tucking a thick blanket around him with reverent hands. Though Nie Xiaohuan detested the bitterness of wine, he knew this rare indulgence might coax his master into a needed sleep, offering a moment's reprieve from the torment that plagued him.
As he straightened, Nie Xiaohuan cast one last glance at the man who had once ruled with the strength of a mountain. Now, he was a shadow wrapped in sorrow and memory.
Quietly, he closed the door behind him and stepped into the dimming light of evening.