The morning air was cool and thin, like a silk veil drawn gently over the peaks. A pale mist drifted across the mountaintops, and the courtyard remained hushed, as if it too had fallen into mourning with its master.
In the quiet of Ling Xiuyuan's chamber, the scent of wine had faded, leaving behind only silence and the faint trace of sorrow. The blanket covering his frame was slightly disheveled, disturbed by restless sleep. He stirred faintly, his brow furrowing, as if caught between dream and waking.
A soft knock echoed at the door.
Before Xiuyuan could fully rouse, the door slid open, and Mingyue stepped inside with a porcelain bowl of warm porridge in his hands. He moved carefully, each step deliberate — respectful, almost soundless.
The morning light spilled gently across his face.
Xiuyuan's breath caught in his throat.
That face.
He blinked, and for a moment, time warped — the years folded inward, and he was no longer a hollow man, but the Ling Xiuyuan of seven years ago. In his mind, he saw a boy with a sword on his back and mischief in his eyes, kneeling outside the study after another reckless mistake. He saw a thousand memories that shattered like glass the moment Mingyue's voice broke the spell.
"Master Ling," Mingyue said softly, bowing low. "Nie-shixiong said you might be hungry this morning. I've brought porridge."
"Mingyue," Xiuyuan's voice rasped, dry from sleep and silence.
Mingyue paused. "Yes, Master?"
Xiuyuan's gaze did not move. It lingered on Mingyue's profile — the curve of his cheek, the fall of his hair, the shape of his mouth when he spoke. Every line was a ghost.
"Where are you from?" Xiuyuan asked, though his voice cracked with something deeper than curiosity.
Mingyue straightened, holding the bowl with both hands. "From the northern provinces, near the river valley. I was sold to the sect two months ago."
Northern provinces. Not where Liuxian was born.
Xiuyuan nodded slowly, though his eyes did not soften.
"You look like someone I knew," he said.
Mingyue's fingers tightened briefly around the bowl. "So I've been told."
Silence stretched between them like a frozen lake.
"Come here," Xiuyuan said, his voice a low murmur. "Let me see you."
Mingyue hesitated, but obeyed. He stepped forward and knelt beside the bed, lifting the bowl slightly.
Xiuyuan leaned forward. The scent of his robes — faintly herbal, faintly like winter — brushed past Mingyue's cheek as he reached out, hand trembling. His fingers brushed Mingyue's chin, tilting it gently upward.
The eyes were different.
Liuxian's eyes had always been like fire under ice — untamed, laughing even when scolded. Mingyue's eyes were calm. Still. Obedient.
But the shape of his lips. The curve of his nose. The softness of his voice when he said "Master."
They were too alike. It was a cruelty the heavens had crafted with delicate hands.
"Am I really wrong?" Xiuyuan whispered, as though saying it to himself.
Mingyue looked down.
And still, Xiuyuan's hand did not move away.
There was a pause, one that felt like the space between breath and heartbreak.
Then — "I dreamed of him last night," Xiuyuan murmured. "He stood in the rain. I called his name, but he only smiled and walked away."
Mingyue did not reply.
Xiuyuan finally withdrew his hand, folding it into the blanket, retreating as if ashamed of the moment's weakness.
"You may leave" he said softly.
Mingyue nodded. "Yes, Master."
He stood and placed the bowl carefully on the table, then turned to leave.
Just before he slid the door closed, he hesitated — just for a moment — and glanced back.
Xiuyuan sat upright in the bed, eyes closed, face turned toward the tomb that still stood beyond the window.
Mingyue said nothing. He closed the door behind him and left..
The mist had begun to burn away, thinning under the pale gold of the autumn sun.
Mingyue had completed his morning duties without pause — sweeping the rear courtyards, polishing the incense stands, delivering tea to the west wing.
"Hah! Everything is done!" He sighed and smiled proudly.
Now, he walked silently along the narrow path that led past the outer training grounds, carrying a bundle of scrolls to the pavilion.
He might have passed by unnoticed.
But below, in the clearing where the earth was worn smooth by years of footwork and swordplay, Nie Xiaohuan stood among the outer disciples, calling out forms with a voice as clear and sharp as drawn steel.
"Again," Xiaohuan said, stepping through the ranks. "Widen your stance, Hu Ming. Watch your balance. Jinwei, don't throw your weight before your blade."
The disciples moved as one, a line of flowing robes and glinting blades catching the morning light. Their motions were not yet elegant — but the effort was there. Even from the path above, Mingyue could feel it: the hum of discipline, the heat of focus, the life of the sect as it once had been.
He paused.
His gaze lingered for a breath too long.
And Xiaohuan looked up.
Their eyes met across the small rise. A faint wind moved between them, quiet and expectant.
Nie Xiaohuan narrowed his eyes, then turned to the disciples.
"Take five."
He walked toward the slope.
Mingyue straightened, hands still cradling the scroll bundle, ready to bow and excuse himself — but Xiaohuan was already waving him down.
"Come here." Xiaohuan said.
Mingyue obeyed without a word, descending the steps to the lower field.
Xiaohuan held out a practice sword — light, worn from use, dulled at the edge but still bearing weight and balance.
"Take it."
Mingyue looked at him, surprised. "I… I don't know how to fight."
"I didn't ask if you did." Xiaohuan's voice was calm, but something beneath it was taut. "Just hold it."
Reluctantly, Mingyue placed the scrolls down on a flat stone and took the sword.
It was heavier than he expected.
Xiaohuan stepped back, raising his own blade with fluid ease. His stance was relaxed, but ready. His gaze sharp. Watching.
"Strike me," he said.
Mingyue hesitated. "Shixiong Nie…"
"Strike."
Mingyue drew a shallow breath and moved — unsure, slow, stiff in his grip. The sword wavered in the air as he swung. Xiaohuan caught the blade with the side of his own and deflected it easily.
"Again."
Mingyue tried. Another clumsy move — faster this time, but off-balance. Xiaohuan stepped aside, turned, and swept his foot lightly across the ground. Mingyue stumbled, lost his footing — and fell hard onto his side.
A hush fell across the courtyard. The disciples nearby paused, eyes turning.
Xiaohuan looked down at Mingyue, his sword lowered.
And in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "You're not him."
The words cracked something open in the air. Not cruel. Not even cold. Just… true.
Xiaohuan blinked, as if waking from a momentary trance.
Then he stepped forward and extended a hand.
Mingyue stared at him, then took it. Xiaohuan pulled him up gently, brushing dust from his sleeve.
"I'm sorry," Xiaohuan said, quietly. "That was uncalled for."
Mingyue bowed his head. "It's all right, shixiong."
He returned the sword, bowed again, and picked up the scroll bundle from the stone.
Without another word, Mingyue turned and left, continuing down the path he'd been walking before, as if nothing had happened.
Behind him, the training field remained quiet.
Until the whispers began.
"Who is he?"
"Isn't he the new servant?"
"He looks just like…"
"I thought he was—"
"Shh. Don't let Master Nie hear you."
But Xiaohuan wasn't listening.
His gaze remained fixed on the path Mingyue had taken, brows furrowed beneath the sunlight.