Mo Qingyun's sword was the last thing Xie Ren saw.
Not the sky. Not the faces of the jeering crowd. Just the cold, perfect steel of Clear Sky, poised above his heart like a lover's final kiss. The blade was a mirror, and in it, he saw his own face pale, bloodied, and stupidly trusting.
They called him a traitor. They whispered of demonic pacts and forbidden power. The Second Elder's voice droned on about evidence and justice, but it was just noise. The only betrayal that mattered stood above him, holding the sword.
His sworn brother.
"You're a monster, Xie Ren," Mo Qingyun said. His voice wasn't angry. It was worse. It was empty. As if he were discussing the weather. "Monsters must be put down."
A monster. Xie Ren had killed for him. Bled for him. Taken a poison dart meant for his back just last month, and the scar still ached on cold nights. He had given this man his loyalty, his trust, his heart. And in return, he was being labeled a monster.
"Look at me," Xie Ren rasped, his voice thick with blood. He forced his head up, meeting Mo Qingyun's gaze. He didn't see justice. He didn't see regret. He saw a stranger wearing the face of the only person he'd ever truly called a friend.
For a flicker of a second, he thought he saw something—a tightening around Mo Qingyun's eyes, a microsecond of hesitation. Hope, foolish and desperate, flared in his chest.
Then, Mo Qingyun's expression hardened into granite. The hope was crushed.
"I trusted you," Xie Ren whispered. The words were a curse. A final, pathetic plea to a universe that had already decided his fate.
Mo Qingyun didn't answer. He raised the sword higher, the sunlight catching the flat of the blade, momentarily blinding Xie Ren.
This was it. The end of the White Serpent. Not in a glorious battle against a demon lord, but on his knees, executed by the man he loved.
*Fine.*
A cold, venomous calm washed over him, extinguishing the pain and the fear. If this was how he died, then he would not die a loyal dog. He would die a serpent, fangs bared to the last.
*If there is another life,* he thought, his consciousness narrowing to a single, burning point of hatred, *I will never stand beside you again.*
*I will not stand below you, or behind you, or near you.*
*I will become the shadow that haunts you. The poison in your cup. The lie that unravels your perfect, righteous world.*
*This is my vow.*
Mo Qingyun drove the sword down.
It wasn't a clean cut. It was a brutal, crushing impalement. The steel tore through his ribs, a searing, white-hot agony that ripped a silent scream from his soul. He felt his heart—a heart that had beat for this man—pierce itself on the very steel he had once admired.
The world dissolved into a red haze. He was falling, falling into an abyss of his own blood.
The last thing he heard before the darkness took him was Mo Qingyun's voice. It was quiet, almost inaudible, as if he were speaking to himself.
"…Forgive me."
*Never.*
***
Xie Ren woke up screaming.
No sound came out. It was a silent, soul-shattering scream that tore through his mind as his body jackknifed off the bed. He was choking, gasping, his hands clawing at his chest, frantically searching for the gaping, fatal wound.
His fingers met the rough, undamaged fabric of a disciple's sleeping robes. And underneath it, smooth, whole skin.
He froze. His breath hitched in ragged, painful bursts. He wasn't dead. The pain was gone, but the memory of it was a physical presence, a phantom limb of pure agony. He could still feel the cold steel lodged in his heart.
He stumbled out of bed, his legs trembling so badly he nearly collapsed. He lurched towards the water basin in the corner, his movements clumsy, foreign. He looked down.
The face staring back was his, but it was a ghost. It was younger. Softer. The sharp, predatory lines that years of fighting and killing had carved around his eyes were gone. He looked… innocent. The look of a disciple who had yet to have his heart carved out of his chest.
Three years.
He was three years in the past. Before the mission. Before the framing. Before he'd ever earned the name White Serpent.
His gaze slid from his own reflection to the window.
To the courtyard below.
And the world stopped.
There. He was there.
Mo Qingyun.
Training as he always did, his movements a fluid, deadly dance of power and grace. The morning sun caught the silver hilt of Clear Sky, and the sight of that sword sent a bolt of pure, undiluted terror and rage through Xie Ren's system. His vision swam. The phantom pain in his chest intensified, a knife twisting in his soul.
*He's alive. He's right there.*
The urge to grab a weapon—to leap out the window and drive a blade through that perfect, serene face—was so overwhelming it made him dizzy. He wanted to see that beautiful face contort in pain. He wanted to be the one holding the sword this time.
He took a shuddering breath, forcing the bloodlust down. No. That was what a fool would do. He had been a fool once. He would not be one again.
With a single, deliberate movement, Xie Ren turned his back on the window. He turned his back on Mo Qingyun. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, harder than facing any demon, harder than dying. It was a rejection of his entire past, of the man he had been.
*This time, you are nothing to me.*
*And I will be the death of you.*
***
The morning training duel was a ritual. And the main event was always the clash between the sect's two best disciples: the Sword Saint and his shadow, Xie Ren.
A crowd was already gathered, buzzing with anticipation. Senior Sister Lin Qiuya stood with her arms crossed, her sharp eyes missing nothing. From a nearby pavilion, the Second Elder, Zhao Ming, watched with a benevolent smile, his gaze like a physical weight on Xie Ren's back.
They were all waiting for the show. The fierce competition, the dazzling swordplay, the dance of dragon and serpent.
Mo Qingyun stood in the center of the sparring circle, his posture relaxed but radiating an aura of absolute command. "Xie Ren," he called, his voice crisp. "Your turn."
Xie Ren walked into the circle. He didn't strut. He didn't glare. He walked with the measured steps of a disciple trying his best to be mediocre. He drew his practice sword, the feel of the simple, well-worn blade a stark reminder of how far he had yet to climb again.
He took his stance.
It was garbage.
It was the most basic, by-the-book form taught to initiates on their first day. His feet were positioned wrong. His guard was low. It was an invitation to be cut down.
A ripple of confusion went through the crowd. Lin Qiuya's brows furrowed. Zhao Ming's smile thinned.
Mo Qingyun's eyes narrowed, his relaxed posture vanishing. He saw it instantly. This wasn't an off day. This was a performance. A deliberate display of incompetence.
Xie Ren attacked first. It wasn't an attack. It was a clumsy, telegraphed thrust aimed at Mo Qingyun's shoulder. An opening so wide it was an insult.
Mo Qingyun parried with a flick of his wrist, the clang of their blades echoing in the stunned silence. "What is this?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.
Xie Ren didn't answer. He pressed the "attack," his movements becoming even more sluggish, even more predictable. He was leaving himself wide open. A gift-wrapped target.
Mo Qingyun disarmed him in three moves.
The practice sword spun from Xie Ren's grip and clattered to the ground. The silence was absolute. No one could believe what they had just witnessed. The White Serpent, disarmed like a novice.
Mo Qingyun stood before him, his face a thundercloud of fury and confusion. He was not angry at the loss. He was angry at the insult. "Xie Ren," he growled, his voice a low warning. "Explain yourself."
Xie Ren looked down at the sword on the ground. Then he looked up, his eyes meeting Mo Qingyun's for the first time that morning. They were empty. Cold. Devoid of the fire and rivalry Mo Qingyun was used to.
"I lost," Xie Ren said. His voice was flat. Lifeless. He turned and walked away without a backward glance, leaving the Sword Saint standing alone in the center of the circle, fuming and utterly bewildered.
The game had changed. And Mo Qingyun didn't even know they were.