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Chapter Text

Shen An moved with elegance, his blade whispering through the air in perfect arcs. The Hong Meng Sword gleamed faintly in the soft golden light of the Bu Zhou Sect, though his eyes could not see it. A cloth was tied securely around them, forcing his other senses to guide him. He listened, not just to the rustling of the trees or the chirping of distant birds, but to the silence that filled the spaces between. 

Every movement was deliberate, each strike an act of balance between force and grace. He flowed like water, seamless and unyielding. The trees around him seemed to sway in rhythm with his motion, their rustling leaves a quiet applause for his mastery. 

But his mind was elsewhere. 

As Shen An brought his sword to a halt, its tip dipping toward the ground in a final, poised stance, he let the stillness settle over him. For a moment, he simply stood, his breathing calm, his focus inward. And then, carried by the faintest rustle of the wind, he could almost hear a giggle from behind him, the whispering voice of one boy in particular: bold, teasing and endlessly vibrant.

Shen An’s lips parted, his voice barely above a whisper. “A-Xing…” 

The name lingered in the air, and for a fleeting moment, it was as though he could feel the warmth of that presence again, just behind him. 

“Leader Shen!” 

The sharp voice jolted him from his reverie. A disciple approached, his hurried footsteps breaking the spell of stillness. “The elders request your presence in the council hall.” 

Shen An hesitated, giving himself a single breath to let the moment slip away. He pulled the cloth from his eyes, revealing a gaze that was calm yet distant, like a still pond hiding its depths. Sliding his sword into its sheath, he gave a small nod. 

“I’ll be there shortly,” he said, his tone steady. 

With measured steps, he began the walk to the grand hall, his mind still lingering in the past—a past filled with laughter, a bold voice, and a name that refused to fade. 

***

Years Ago, in Anning Village

The afternoon sun spilled golden light over the small training ground near the edge of Anning Village. Young Shen An, barely ten years old, stood tall in the clearing, a cloth tied firmly over his eyes. His wooden practice sword trembled slightly in his grip as he tried to calm his breathing. 

“Listen, Shen An. Feel the world around you,” his father’s instructions echoed in his mind. 

He planted his feet, focusing on the soft rustle of leaves, the chirp of birds, the gentle whistle of the wind as it brushed his face. Slowly, he lifted his sword, preparing for his next move. 

In the bushes nearby, Xiao Ru Xing, A-Xing to the people who knew him, crouched low, his bright eyes fixed on Shen An. He was two years younger and much smaller, his hair sticking up in unruly tufts, and his tunic barely hanging together after a morning of climbing trees. A-Xing loved watching Shen An train—it was fascinating. But even more, he loved distracting him. 

With an impish grin, A-Xing tiptoed out of the bushes, moving closer with exaggerated quiet. As Shen An raised his sword, his face etched with fierce concentration, A-Xing cupped his hands around his mouth and whispered, just loud enough to be heard: 

“Boooo~!” 

Shen An’s head tilted slightly. 

“Woooo…” A-Xing tiptoed closer, putting on a mockingly deep and ominous tone. “The ghost of your wooden sword is here to haunt you!” 

With a sharp swipe of his wooden sword, Shen An turned toward the sound, missing A-Xing entirely. A-Xing burst out laughing and darted forward, poking Shen An’s shoulder lightly before retreating with the speed of a rabbit. 

“Caught you!” A-Xing declared, standing a safe distance away, hands on his hips. 

“A-Xing!” Shen An yanked off the blindfold, his face flushing pink. “I’m training! You can’t just—” 

“You’re training to fight ghosts?” A-Xing teased, his voice sweet and full of laughter. “Because you’re terrible at it.” 

“I’m not—” Shen An started, then stopped, huffing in frustration. “You’re distracting me!” 

“Maybe because you’re always so serious,” A-Xing said, padding closer with a cheeky grin. “Your sword looked like it was flopping around like a fish. You almost hit a tree! Or was that the ghost?” 

Shen An glared, though his lips wavered between a frown and a smile. “Why don’t you try training blindfolded?” 

“Me?” A-Xing’s eyes widened in mock horror as he plopped down onto the grass. “No thanks! Too boring. Besides, I’m much better at watching you look silly.” 

Shen An sighed heavily and sat beside him, placing the sword carefully on the ground. “You’re impossible.” 

“But fun,” A-Xing replied, grinning as he leaned back on his elbows. He tilted his head to look at Shen An, his voice softening. “Hey, An-ge… You’ll be really strong someday, right?” 

Shen An blinked at the unexpected shift in tone. “Of course,” he said firmly. “Why?” 

A-Xing shrugged, his grin fading into a small, thoughtful smile. “I dunno. Just feels like you’re meant to be strong, you know? Like you’ll protect everyone.” 

Shen An looked at A-Xing, surprised by the quiet sincerity in his voice. For once, A-Xing wasn’t teasing. “I’ll protect you, too,” Shen An said after a pause, his voice quieter than usual. 

A-Xing’s face lit up with that familiar mischievous smile. “Good! Because I’m going to get into lots of trouble.” 

Shen An groaned, leaning back in the grass with a muttered, “I already regret it.” 

But he didn’t really. Not as A-Xing laughed beside him, his voice bright and carefree, filling the space with a warmth Shen An would carry with him long after that day.

A-Xing suddenly sprang to his feet, brushing grass off his tunic with quick swipes. His mischievous grin returned in full force as he pointed toward the dirt path leading back to the village.

“Race you back to the village, An-ge!” he declared, bouncing on his heels like a rabbit ready to sprint.

Shen An sat up, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll trip and fall before you get halfway there,” he said dryly, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Not if I’m faster than you!” A-Xing shot back, sticking out his tongue. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and dashed off, his laughter echoing through the trees.

***

“I told you to wait A-xing!” Shen An shouted, his voice breaking with indignation.  

“Then move faster!” A-Xing called back, laughing. 

Shen An grumbled but picked up his pace, nearly tripping on the uneven ground. When he finally caught up, A-Xing was waiting for him at the edge of the village, his hands on his hips. 

“See? You’re not so fast, even with all that fancy training.” 

“I’d like to see you try wearing these robes and running,” Shen An shot back, tugging at the heavy fabric. 

A-Xing’s laughter rang out, bright and carefree. “Maybe if you came here more often, you’d learn how to climb trees and run like me.” 

Shen An rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. Despite their differences—Shen An’s disciplined upbringing as the son of a noble family and A-Xing’s carefree life as a village boy—they were inseparable. 

The two boys wandered through the village, past houses with straw-thatched roofs and small gardens. The villagers greeted them warmly, some offering Shen An fresh fruit or small trinkets, which he politely declined. 

Eventually, they reached the center of the village, where A-Xing’s parents stood waiting. His father, Xiao Jian, was a stern but kind man, and his mother, Mei Lan, had a gentle smile that could put anyone at ease. 

“You’re late,” Xiao Jian said, though his tone was more amused than reproachful. 

“Blame An-ge,” A-Xing said, grinning. “He’s the slow one.” 

Shen An glared at him. “You didn’t wait for me!” 

Mei Lan chuckled, kneeling to meet their eye level. “Boys, enough bickering. Shen An, your parents are kind to let you visit so often. I hope A-Xing hasn’t been too much trouble.” 

Shen An shook his head. “Not at all, Aunt Mei. He’s… entertaining.” 

A-Xing beamed at the subtle compliment. 

Behind them, Xiao Jian’s expression grew serious. He glanced toward the mountains, where the Bu Zhou Sect loomed like a guardian over the region. “A-Xing, take Shen An to the meadow. Your mother and I have work to do.” 

The boys exchanged a glance. Shen An noticed the way Xiao Jian’s hand rested protectively on the medallion hanging from his neck—a simple piece of metal etched with an intricate pattern. Shen An had seen it countless times but never asked about it. He assumed it was just another of the village’s superstitious charms. 

***

A-Xing led Shen An to the meadow, their laughter echoing through the open fields. They practiced sparring with wooden swords, A-Xing’s wild and unpredictable movements clashing against Shen An’s careful precision. 

“You’re getting better,” Shen An admitted begrudgingly as A-Xing managed to disarm him for the first time. 

“Of course! You’re not the only one who trains, you know,” A-Xing said, puffing out his chest. 

Their laughter filled the air, carefree and unburdened by the weight of the future. But then, the peace shattered. 

A sudden, ear-piercing commotion erupted from the direction of the village. Screams. Cries for help. The distant clatter of something heavy falling. The boys froze, their playful sparring forgotten. 

“What’s happening?” A-Xing whispered, his wide eyes reflecting the growing chaos. 

“Let’s go!” Shen An said, already sprinting toward the village. 

The two boys raced through the tall grass, their hearts pounding as the noise grew louder. As they reached the edge of the village, the scene unfolded before them: homes engulfed in flames, villagers running in every direction, their faces twisted in fear. The once-familiar streets were now a storm of chaos. 

In the frenzy, Shen An and A-Xing were separated. 

“A-Xing!” Shen An shouted, his voice barely audible above the clamor. He pushed through the crowd, scanning the faces around him. Panic clawed at his chest as he dodged fleeing villagers, his small frame jostled by the rushing bodies. 

“A-Xing, where are you?!” 

Finally, he spotted him. A-Xing stood frozen in the middle of what was once a beautiful garden, his gaze locked on something Shen An couldn’t see. Without thinking, Shen An bolted toward him, relief flooding his veins. 

“A-Xing!” he called out, reaching for his friend. 

But just as their hands were about to meet, a deafening crack split the air. An unseen force surged between them, a pulse of raw, unrelenting power. Shen An barely had time to react before the force hit him square in the chest, sending him hurtling backward. 

***

Present Day 

As Shen An stepped into the council hall, the memories of those simpler times faded, replaced by the weight of duty. The elders spoke of increasing unrest in the region, of strange occurrences near the old village of Anning.

Shen An’s heart tightened. He hadn’t visited the village in years—not since the attack that had shattered his childhood. Not since A-Xing had vanished into the chaos, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions. 

Chapter Text

The Grand Council Hall of Bu Zhou Sect loomed like a fortress of heaven, its structure hewn into the jagged cliffs of the sacred Bu Zhou Mountain. Gleaming white jade made up its walls, polished so finely that they seemed to glow with an inner light, while towering columns bore the weight of the heavens, carved with ancient martial arts scripts that whispered of untold power and history. Every step within the hall resonated with a muted echo, as though the very stones carried the weight of countless decisions made within these hallowed walls.

Shen An stood at the center of the chamber, his posture erect, his expression calm. Yet, beneath the cool exterior, he felt the invisible weight of the room pressing down on him—a gravity born of the seven pairs of eyes fixed upon him.

Seated in a crescent around a massive stone table were the seven Royal Elders, figures of unmatched authority in the martial arts world. Clad in robes of deep azure and gold, each elder exuded a commanding presence. Their faces, as carved and unyielding as the mountains themselves, betrayed no emotion save for the occasional flicker of judgment in their eyes.

At the center sat Elder Yan, thin and sharp as the blade of a longsword. His hawk-like gaze bored into Shen An as he spoke, his voice a balance of calm wisdom and cutting authority.

“Leader Shen,” Elder Yan began, each word measured, “the Bu Zhou Sect has long been the guiding star of the martial arts world. It is a sanctuary of discipline, a bastion of knowledge, and the pillar upon which the balance of all cultivators rests. As its leader, you do not simply guide your disciples—you safeguard the unity of our realm.”

Shen An bowed deeply, his white robes pooling around him like ripples on a still lake. “Elder Yan,” he replied with a calmness honed by years of training, “it is the honor of my life to serve the sect and uphold its principles.”

“Then heed this,” Elder Yan continued, his tone hardening like steel. “The realm is plagued by a shadow that cannot be ignored. Duan Ru Xing—the so-called Dark Lord—moves against the light of our world. His path is one of destruction, chaos, and defiance of all martial arts laws. As the leader of Bu Zhou Sect, it is your duty to bring him to justice.”

A ripple of tension moved through the chamber as Elder Hua, a woman with sharp, foxlike features, leaned forward. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair, her voice laced with barely concealed anger.

“This man,” she spat, “this monster—who had defiled the sacred grounds of the neighboring Yunhai Sect, left our disciples broken, and…” She paused, her gaze softening just slightly before hardening again. “And killed Master Li Feng.”

At the mention of his master, Shen An’s fingers curled imperceptibly. Yet his expression remained steady, the only sign of turmoil the faint flicker in his eyes.

A guard stepped forward, bearing a scroll that Elder Yan gestured toward. With a deft movement, the scroll was unfurled across the table, revealing illustrations and writings that painted a grim picture.

Shen An stepped closer and studied its contents. Drawings of shattered artifacts, torn Sect banners, and most damningly, the blackened sigil scorched into the ground—a mark associated with Duan Ru Xing’s dark techniques. The scroll also detailed the accounts of survivors, each testimony painting the same picture: a figure cloaked in inauspicious dark blue, wielding power that consumed everything in its path. The chamber fell into a tense silence.

Elder Yan’s voice shattered it. “Shen An, as the Protector of the martial arts world, will you fulfill your duty and eradicate this threat?”

Shen An’s bow deepened. “As the leader of Bu Zhou Sect, I swear to stop Duan Ru Xing and ensure that no other sect suffers as we have.”

The elders exchanged satisfied glances, their silent approval heavy with expectation. Shen An turned to leave, the weight of their judgment settling upon his shoulders. But as he crossed the threshold of the hall, a shadow lingered in his mind.

This was not just a mission of duty—it was personal.

***

The mountain path outside the council hall was quiet, the wind carrying the scent of pine and snow. Shen An was joined by two of his closest companions: Ji Ren, the ever-watchful strategist, and Li Chuan, a steadfast swordsman who had stood by Shen An since their earliest days as disciples.

“You’re brooding,” Ji Ren remarked, breaking the silence with his trademark smirk. His white robes fluttered in the wind, and his sharp eyes glimmered with mischief. “Come on, Shen An, tell me—did the elders pile the entire martial arts world on your shoulders again?”

Shen An’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. “It’s nothing I can’t bear.”

“Of course, of course,” Ji Ren said with mock solemnity. “You’re Shen An, after all. Protector of the realm, hero of ballads yet to be written. But…” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What if it’s not so black and white?”

Shen An stopped in his tracks, his gaze piercing. “Speak plainly.”

Ji Ren hesitated, then shrugged. “I do not mean that he’s innocent—far from it. But rumors have a way of growing bigger than the truth. You know how the sects are. One whisper of rebellion, and suddenly, you’re the next great villain of the martial arts world. What if this is more complicated than we think?”

Li Chuan frowned, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade. “Ji Ren, don’t speak nonsense. This man killed Master Li Feng. That alone demands retribution.”

“Retribution,” Ji Ren echoed softly, his gaze distant. “Perhaps. But I wonder—what drives a man to such extremes?”

Shen An remained silent, his thoughts swirling. Ji Ren’s words unsettled him, planting seeds of doubt he dared not water. For now, his path was clear: protect the realm, avenge his master, and restore balance.

But the shadow of Duan Ru Xing loomed large, and Shen An could not shake the sense that the darkness held more than destruction—it held answers.

***

As the sun sank into the embrace of the western mountains, its golden rays painted the sky in hues of crimson and amber. Shen An stood by a secluded pond, its surface as still as a polished mirror save for the ripples born of Ji Ren's idle stone-skipping. The faint chirp of crickets rose in the cooling air, blending with the soft plinks of stones meeting water. Beneath the shade of a gnarled tree, Shen An leaned against the rough bark, the legendary Hong Meng Sword resting at his side, its gleaming hilt catching the last rays of sunlight.

Ji Ren’s voice broke the tranquil silence, light yet perceptive. “You wear that look again, Shen An,” he said, his hand poised mid-throw as he glanced over his shoulder.

Shen An shifted slightly, meeting Ji Ren’s gaze with a raised eyebrow. “What look?”

Ji Ren smirked faintly, though his eyes were sharp, studying Shen An like a puzzle to be solved. “The look of a man ready to march into the abyss, torch in hand, because someone dared to say, ‘Good luck.’”

A faint sigh escaped Shen An’s lips as he tilted his head back against the tree. He said nothing, his silence carrying more weight than any words might.

The plop of a stone skipping three times across the water broke the stillness before Ji Ren abandoned his pastime and came to sit beside Shen An. “So,” he said, his tone quieter now, “what burdens your thoughts this time?”

“Duan Ru Xing,” Shen An answered, his voice steady but filled with unspoken determination.

At the name, the casual ease that surrounded Ji Ren dissolved. His brows furrowed, and his lips tightened. “I meant no offense earlier, Shen An. My words were careless. I know what he did—what he took from you. I had no right to speak so freely.”

Shen An shook his head, brushing off the apology. “Your words are yours to give. I will not silence you, Ji Ren.”

Ji Ren’s gaze dropped to the pond as he sat in contemplative quiet. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice tinged with hesitation. “My words… they weren’t spoken without reason. I was saved once, by none other than Duan Ru Xing. It’s a debt that leaves me conflicted even now.”

The confession was like a sharp breeze cutting through Shen An’s steady composure. His brows knit together. “Saved by him? How could that be?”

Shen An exhaled slowly, letting the tension ebb away. “No matter, what is important is that Duan Ru Xing has wrought too much harm. This is not about my past or even my pain. It is for the Bu Zhou Sect, for my master, and for those who have suffered beneath his shadow. Justice must prevail.”

Ji Ren studied him, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then he sighed, the weight of his own uncertainties evident in his voice. “Just remember not to lose yourself in this fight, Shen An. You are more than just a sword for the sect. You are still a man—a protector, yes—but also Shen An. Master Li Feng would have reminded you of that.”

Shen An said nothing, his stoic silence revealing nothing of the storm brewing within. Together, the two walked away from the pond as the night deepened, Ji Ren’s parting words lingering like a faint echo in Shen An’s thoughts. Shen An’s mind drifted to the past—a memory so vivid it felt like stepping into another life.

The training hall of the Bu Zhou Sect was a grand structure, its wooden floors polished smooth from centuries of use. At its center stood Master Li Feng, his robes pristine white and his presence serene as a calm lake. In his hand, he held the Hong Meng Sword, its blade gleaming with an inner light. With reverent grace, he extended it to Shen An, the gesture both an offering and a challenge.

“Shen An,” Li Feng began, his voice low but filled with authority, each word deliberate. “You carry within you great strength, but strength without direction is a storm that destroys all in its path. True power is born of understanding your purpose. We cultivate not to stand above others but to protect what must be safeguarded. This is the path of the Bu Zhou Sect.”

A younger Shen An, eager and wide-eyed, nodded with fervor. He reached for the sword with hands that trembled—not with fear, but with awe. In that moment, he had resolved to embody the wisdom and strength of his master, to carry forth his teachings and honor the sacred duty of their sect.

But now, that memory was a cruel echo, its warmth turned to an aching void.

***

The golden light of dawn spilled over the mountain peaks, bathing the Bu Zhou Sect in a tranquil glow. The sect stood as a fortress of serenity above the world, its stone pathways meandering through lush gardens and beneath ancient pavilions.

Shen An sat cross-legged on a wooden platform perched on a cliff’s edge, a zither resting on his lap. His fingers moved deftly over the strings, coaxing a melancholy melody that drifted into the crisp morning air.

Li Chuan, his longtime companion, lounged nearby, his robes carelessly draped and his hair bound in a haphazard knot. He smirked as he listened, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You’re off,” Li Chuan declared, sitting upright. “Twice now you’ve struck the wrong string. Don’t lie and say you’re not distracted.”

Shen An’s hands paused mid-note. “I’m not” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

Li Chuan laughed, his tone light but probing. ““Let me guess—memories of the past? Or perhaps you’re brooding over the council’s warnings again?”

Shen An remained silent, his gaze fixed on the distant peaks.

Li Chuan’s expression darkened. “You’re thinking about your hunt. Don’t tell me you’re thinking about what Ji Ren said. Remember Shen An, Duan Ru Xing is the dark lord who once threw our sect into chaos, the one who—”

“Killed my master,” Shen An interrupted, his voice steady but taut. “I know. But why? Why would Duan Ru Xing strike against us? What does he stand to gain?”

Li Chuan’s expression hardened. “Some evils require no reason, Shen An. Don’t waste your energy trying to make sense of it.”

Shen An’s fists clenched as he stood. “Enough, Li Chuan. I have made my choice. If he’s the person responsible then I will stop him. No matter the cost.”

Li Chuan watched him for a long moment before sighing. “Then may your resolve be unshakable.”

***

Beneath the pale glow of a lantern swaying gently in the evening breeze, Shen An’s steps slowed as he approached the small alcove nestled beside his quarters. The faint flicker of light illuminated the area, casting soft shadows that danced against the stone walls. A delicate, high-pitched meow greeted him, breaking the stillness, followed by the faint rustle of straw.

“Shan Yao,” Shen An murmured, his voice uncharacteristically tender as his gaze softened.

In the woven basket lined with finely woven blankets, an orange-furred cat lay nestled, her sleek coat gleaming under the lantern’s glow. Her bright amber eyes opened slowly, fixing on Shen An with a gaze that carried an air of regal indifference. Her tail flicked lazily, the subtle motion imbued with the haughty elegance of one who considered herself a queen in a realm of mortals.

“Have you been waiting for me?” Shen An asked, lowering himself gracefully to kneel beside her basket.

Shan Yao stretched languidly, her slender frame arching as her claws extended, kneading the soft fabric beneath her. The action was slow and deliberate, a silent declaration that she was unbothered by Shen An’s absence. She yawned then, her tiny fangs gleaming like polished pearls, before settling her gaze back on him with an expression that could only be described as mild disdain.

Shen An’s lips twitched into a rare smile. “I suppose not. You’ve probably been napping all day.”  he teased, his calloused fingers reaching out to brush over her fur.

Shan Yao responded with a low purr, the soft vibration rising from her chest as she leaned into his touch. Her tail curled gracefully around her body, her amber eyes half-lidded as if granting him permission to attend to her.

For a fleeting moment, Shen An felt the weight of the world ease from his shoulders. The heavy burden of responsibility—the council’s decisions, the looming shadow of Duan Ru Xing, the unrelenting ache of his master’s absence—faded into the background. Here, in the quiet alcove, there was only Shan Yao, her warmth a balm against the cold void that had grown within him.

Without warning, Shan Yao rose from her basket and leapt gracefully onto Shen An’s lap, settling herself there with the nonchalance of one who expected to be obeyed. Her tail wrapped around her paws, and she fixed him with a piercing stare, her amber gaze steady and unwavering.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” Shen An said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’ll be some time before I return.”

The cat blinked slowly, her expression as inscrutable as ever.

“I mean it,” he continued, his tone turning lightly admonishing. “While I’m gone, no sneaking into the kitchens, and no terrorizing the junior disciples. They’re still recovering from the last time you ambushed them.”

Shan Yao flicked her tail once, unimpressed, her purring unbroken.

Shen An sighed, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “What am I to do with you?”

His fingers moved rhythmically over her fur, the gentle motion grounding him in the present. His thoughts drifted briefly to the day he first found her—a scrawny kitten huddled near the sect gates, her fur matted and her meows fierce despite her frailty. The other disciples had urged him to leave her be, but her defiant glare had stirred something within him. Against their protests, he had taken her in, and since then, Shan Yao had been his steadfast companion, her quiet presence a reminder of life’s simpler joys amidst the storm of chaos.

‘A-xing would have adored you’ he thought to himself.

A faint knock broke the stillness. Shen An looked up to find Ji Ren leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and an eyebrow quirked in bemusement.

“Spending your last evening with a cat?” Ji Ren remarked, his tone a mix of teasing and disbelief.

“She’s better company than most,” Shen An replied evenly, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Ji Ren smirked. “Fair point. But the others are looking for you. Li Chuan is going over the route again, and Elder Fei insists on performing some ritual for your journey. You know how it is.”

“I’ll be there shortly,” Shen An said, his gaze returning to Shan Yao.

Ji Ren lingered for a moment, his expression softening. “You spoil that furball. What will she do without you?”

“She’ll manage,” Shen An answered, his voice steady. “Shan Yao always finds a way.”

With a slight nod, Ji Ren turned and left, leaving Shen An alone once more.

Shan Yao tilted her head, as if sensing the heaviness in his heart.

“I’ll come back,” Shen An murmured, his voice resolute despite the uncertainty that loomed ahead. “No matter how long it takes, I’ll return to you.”

Gently, he lifted Shan Yao from his lap and placed her back into her basket. She let out a soft meow of protest but did not resist, her amber eyes tracking his movements. He reached for a small bundle of dried herbs he had prepared earlier, tucking it beside her blanket—a soothing mixture to help her rest in his absence.

“Rest well, Shan Yao,” he whispered, his tone carrying a promise.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, the weight of his duties returned, pressing against him like an old, familiar cloak. But the quiet moments shared with Shan Yao lingered in his mind, a fleeting fragment of peace to carry with him as he faced the storm ahead.

Behind him, the orange cat curled into her basket, her purring a soft, steady hum against the silence, as if her presence alone could anchor him no matter how far he traveled.

***

Chapter Text

***

The village of Yuanzhi was quiet in the golden light of late afternoon, the air carrying the faint aroma of freshly baked bread and blooming wildflowers. Children laughed as they chased each other through the narrow alleys, while vendors called out cheerful bargains from their stalls. It was a picture of peaceful simplicity—until the bandits arrived.

The tranquility shattered as a small group of armed men stormed into the southern quarter of the village. Their faces were rough and weathered, their eyes gleaming with opportunistic malice. They overturned market stalls and ransacked homes, their crude laughter mingling with the terrified cries of villagers.

When Shen An arrived at the edge of Yuanzhi, he immediately noticed the disturbance. Though the heart of the village remained untouched, smoke from toppled cooking fires and the muffled sounds of chaos painted a clear picture of what was happening.

He stepped into the fray without hesitation, his white robes as pristine as the snow on distant peaks. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, and his steady gaze scanned the scene with an unshakable calm.

A boy stumbled into the street, clutching a bundle of vegetables. One of the bandits lunged toward him, a rusty blade gleaming in his hand. Shen An moved in an instant, crossing the space like a gust of wind.

The bandit froze, Shen An’s sword pointed directly at his throat. The blade shimmered faintly, its aura subtle yet commanding. The boy gasped and scrambled back, clutching his bundle tightly.

“Leave the boy,” Shen An said, his voice as smooth as flowing water yet sharp as the edge of his blade.

The bandit hesitated, eyes darting to his companions. The leader of the group—a burly man with a scar bisecting his brow—stepped forward, a crooked grin on his face. “And who are you to give us orders? A wandering cultivator? This is none of your business.”

Shen An’s gaze never wavered. “I make it my business when innocents are harmed.”

The leader’s grin faded, replaced by a sneer. “You think you can stop us on your own?” He raised his weapon and motioned for his men to attack.

Shen An’s response was a blur of motion. His sword flashed in the sunlight, its edge cutting through the air with a sound like a singing bowstring. The first bandit lunged, but Shen An sidestepped with fluid grace, the flat of his blade striking the man’s wrist and sending his weapon clattering to the ground.

Another charged from behind, aiming to catch him off guard. Shen An didn’t even turn. His sword moved like a living thing, catching the incoming blade and disarming the attacker in a single, effortless sweep.

Each movement was precise, each strike calculated. The Hong Meng Sword Technique was more than a display of skill—it was an art form. The blade danced with a rhythm of its own, deflecting strikes, incapacitating attackers, and neutralizing threats without inflicting unnecessary harm.

One by one, the bandits fell back, clutching bruised wrists and nursing shallow cuts. None dared approach again, not when faced with the impenetrable wall of Shen An’s mastery. The leader growled in frustration, hefting his sword and charging.

Shen An met him head-on, their blades clashing in a burst of sparks. The leader pushed forward, his brute strength evident, but Shen An’s movements were as fluid as water, his sword a seamless extension of his will. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the leader’s weapon spinning into the dirt.

Before the man could react, Shen An’s blade hovered a hair’s breadth from his throat. “Take your men and leave,” Shen An commanded, his voice low but unyielding. “If you harm another innocent, you won’t leave with your lives.”

The leader’s bravado crumbled. He stumbled back, barking orders for his men to retreat. The bandits fled, their swagger replaced by hurried steps and fearful glances over their shoulders.

As the chaos subsided, villagers began emerging from their homes. A woman hurried to gather the boy who had nearly been attacked, pulling him into a protective embrace. An elderly man approached Shen An, bowing deeply. “Thank you, honored cultivator. You’ve saved us from much worse.”

Shen An inclined his head. “I am glad you’re safe. Has anyone heard of a man named Duan Ru Xing?”

The villagers exchanged uneasy glances before one of them spoke up. “There have been whispers, cultivator. Some travelers spoke of a man by that name passing through the Ningzhou forests. They say he’s dangerous, stirring trouble wherever he goes.”

Shen An’s expression darkened, his grip tightening briefly on the hilt of his sword. “Thank you. I’ll see to it that he doesn’t harm anyone else.”

As the villagers began restoring order to the disrupted quarter, Shen An lingered for a moment. The Hong Meng Sword rested in its sheath, its faint glow a reminder of its origins.

Born of grief and longing, the sword technique was a reflection of his own heart. A blade that obeyed only its master, that would harm no destined partner—it was both a testament to his resolve and a tribute to A-Xing, the one he had failed to protect.

With a final glance at the grateful villagers, Shen An turned and strode toward the horizon. He had a path to follow, a duty to uphold, and a promise to himself that he would not fail again.

***

As Shen An left the village of Yuanzhi behind, the echoes of grateful voices fading into the distance, his thoughts turned inward, to a chapter of his past that remained etched in his soul like an unhealed scar. The winding forest path before him blurred as his mind drifted back to the moment everything had unraveled.

Years ago, he had awoken in his quarters at the Bu Zhou Sect, his body frail, his thoughts muddled. The air in his room had been heavy with the scent of medicinal herbs, a sign of how close he had come to the edge of death. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the desperate rush to Anning Village—a journey that had ended in devastation.

When Shen An finally regained his strength, he had ridden to Anning with the faint hope that the horrors he imagined were only a bad dream. But the village he once knew was gone, replaced by ashes and silence. The scorched remains of homes and the lifeless streets bore witness to the tragedy that had unfolded there.

It wasn’t just a place that had been lost. A-Xing—his closest friend, his companion in both joy and sorrow—had vanished amidst the destruction. For days, Shen An wandered through the ruins, sifting through the debris with shaking hands, searching for any trace of life. His heart refused to accept what his eyes saw, clinging to the hope that A-Xing might still be alive.

But the days stretched into nights, and hope gave way to despair. Shen An had to confront the unthinkable: A-Xing was gone.

Grief came to him like an unstoppable tide, threatening to pull him under. But instead of succumbing, Shen An allowed the pain to shape him. It became a flame that burned away his weakness, leaving behind a singular determination: to ensure no one else would suffer such a loss.

Under the watchful eyes of his master, Li Feng, Shen An threw himself into cultivation with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

“Grief is a burden,” Li Feng had told him during one grueling training session, his tone both stern and compassionate. “But it is also a blade. Temper it, sharpen it, and it will carve a path forward.”

Shen An took those words to heart. Day after day, he pushed himself to the limits of endurance. He practiced swordsmanship until his hands bled, meditated under waterfalls to hone his spiritual focus, and immersed himself in texts of ancient wisdom to deepen his understanding of cultivation.

His efforts did not go unnoticed. The elders of the Bu Zhou Sect marveled at his progress, their once-doubtful gazes shifting to admiration. By the time Shen An stood before the emperor, appointed as the protector of all sects, he had become a figure of unyielding strength and discipline. Yet even at the peak of his abilities, a shadow lingered in his heart— a void left by the one he had failed to save.

It was from this shadow that the Hong Meng Sword Technique was born.

The inspiration came one stormy night, as Shen An meditated in solitude. He held in his hand an amulet given to him by his sect, an artifact of immense power capable of using the strength of all connections—bonds of love, threads of fate, even the links binding great evil to the world. The amulet’s weight in his palm reminded him of A-Xing, of the bond they had shared and his failure to protect it.

Drawing upon the amulet’s essence, Shen An poured his grief, longing, and regret into his cultivation. Over countless days and nights, he refined the technique, shaping it not just into a weapon but into a reflection of his own heart.

The Hong Meng Sword was no ordinary blade. It was a technique imbued with unmatched precision and power, responding only to its master’s will. Yet, within its brilliance lay a profound gentleness—a curse, or perhaps a blessing, inspired by Shen An’s deepest regret. The sword would never harm the person its master was destined to love and protect. It was a silent promise, a vow etched into the fabric of the technique itself, ensuring that Shen An would never again fail someone he held dear.

The first time Shen An wielded the Hong Meng Sword, he felt its resonance within his soul, as though it carried A-Xing’s memory within its shimmering edge. It was a blade of unparalleled might, but it bore the weight of his past—a tool not only of protection but of atonement.

Now, as he walked the winding path away from Yuanzhi, Shen An’s hand brushed the hilt of his sword. Its presence was both a comfort and a reminder of his purpose. The information he had gathered from the villagers pointed westward, toward the forests of Ningzhou, where whispers of Duan Ru Xing stirred the air like distant thunder.

He paused at the crest of a hill, gazing out at the horizon. The sky burned with the colors of dusk, and for a moment, he allowed himself to remember.

“A-Xing,” he murmured, the name a quiet prayer. The wind carried his words into the distance. “I couldn’t protect you then. But I will not fail again.”

***

The forest was alive with sound—leaves rustling underfoot, the faint chirping of distant birds, and the steady rhythm of Duan Ru Xing’s footsteps as he darted through the forest. He moved like a phantom, his dark robes blending seamlessly with the trees. He didn’t know who was pursuing him, but he could feel their relentless presence closing in.

Another hunter?, he thought grimly.

He leapt into the treetops, landing gracefully on a branch. From this vantage point, he scanned the forest below, his sharp eyes searching for the one tailing him. A flash of white flickered briefly through the foliage—a cultivator.

Duan Ru Xing grimaced. Without hesitation, he pushed forward, bounding from branch to branch. The figure in white was relentless, their movements as fluid and calculated as his own.

A sudden shift in the air made his instincts scream. A golden light pierced the forest, streaking toward him like a spear. Duan Ru Xing twisted midair, narrowly avoiding the attack. The radiant blade hung in the air, crackling with energy, before it shot toward him again.

He landed on another branch ready to counter the attack, his dark eyes narrowing. The blade—a weapon of celestial craftsmanship—hovered behind him, poised to strike again. Its brilliance illuminated the forest, casting long, flickering shadows. Yet as it surged forward, intent on piercing him, it stopped.

Inches from his back, the sword quivered, its golden light dimming. Then, as if repelled by an invisible force, it retreated, returning to its master’s hand.

Duan Ru Xing’s breath hitched. His mind raced. Why had it stopped?

From the forest floor below, a figure stepped into view. Clad in white robes adorned with gold embroidery, the man exuded a presence that stilled the air. His dark hair framed sharp, composed features, but it was his eyes—cold and unyielding—that commanded attention.

Shen An.

The legendary leader of the Bu Zhou Sect.

The Hong Meng Sword, glowing faintly in his grip, pulsed with power as though yearning to act. Yet Shen An's face betrayed a rare uncertainty. His lips moved, muttering words that barely reached Duan Ru Xing’s ears. “Why won’t you obey me?”

Recognition sparked within Duan Ru Xing, though he buried it deep beneath his practiced indifference. He knew this man—or at least, he knew the weight of his name.

“Dark Lord Duan Ru Xing,” Shen An said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Duan Ru Xing tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. “So that’s what they’re calling me now?” His tone was light, but his muscles remained coiled like a spring.

“You’ll answer for your crimes,” Shen An declared, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.

“Crimes?” Duan Ru Xing tilted his head, his tone mocking. “Is that what you call living without shackles? No rules, no masters… just freedom.”

Shen An moved without warning, closing the distance in an instant. The Hong Meng Sword flashed with golden light as he struck, but Duan Ru Xing dodged, landing silently on the forest floor.

“Always so serious,” Duan Ru Xing said, brushing a speck of imaginary dust from his sleeve.

Shen An’s eyes burned with unspoken resolve. He lunged again, his strikes faster, sharper. Duan Ru Xing countered with the Hun Dun sword, a blade forged of chaos itself. The clash of their weapons sent shockwaves rippling through the forest, scattering leaves and dirt like a tempest.

“You’re holding back,” Duan Ru Xing said, his tone cutting. Their swords locked, golden radiance meeting dark chaos, the air around them crackling with energy.

Shen An gritted his teeth. “I’m not.” But even as he spoke, doubt crept into his voice.

Every strike Shen An delivered was precise, his movements honed by years of discipline. Yet, the Hong Meng Sword resisted, faltering each time it came close to landing a decisive blow.

“Your sword won’t harm me,” Duan Ru Xing observed, dodging another swing. His tone was casual, but his words carried a knowing edge. “It seems to understand something you don’t.”

“Enough!” Shen An roared, his qi flaring. A wave of golden energy surged from his blade, splitting the ground beneath them.

Duan Ru Xing leapt into the air, his silhouette outlined against the burst of light. Shen An seized the moment, commanding the Hong Meng Sword to strike. The blade shot forward, blazing like a falling star, but it stopped again, trembling as though caught in an invisible web, before retreating.

Shen An stared at his sword, disbelief etched into his face. “Why?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Duan Ru Xing landed gracefully, turning to face Shen An fully. His expression was unreadable, but a glint of amusement danced in his eyes. “Your sword,” he said, stepping closer, “seems to like me.”

Shen An’s knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword. “That’s impossible,” he muttered. “The Hong Meng Sword will only refuse to harm two people: its master and—” His words faltered, the realization striking like a thunderclap. “My destined partner…”

A flicker of emotion crossed Duan Ru Xing’s face—amusement, triumph, and something more profound. “Perhaps,” he said softly, “fate has a cruel sense of humor.”

Before Shen An could react, Duan Ru Xing closed the distance between them, his speed startling. Grabbing Shen An by the collar, he slammed him against a tree, his grip firm but not cruel.

Shen An struggled, his voice tight with anger and confusion. “What are you doing?!”

“You fight well,” Duan Ru Xing murmured, his voice low and steady. His gaze bore into Shen An’s, a storm of emotions swirling within. “But you must know by now. I am your destined partner.”

Shen An froze, his mind a whirlwind of denial and uncertainty. “How is that possible?”

Shen An’s breath caught. His mind screamed denial, but his body betrayed him, frozen under Duan Ru Xing’s gaze.

Before Shen An could fully process the weight of those words, Duan Ru Xing moved swiftly, closing the space between them in a single, fluid motion. With an audacity that only Duan Ru Xing could summon, he leaned in, capturing Shen An’s lips in a kiss that was deliberate, calculated, and utterly unexpected.

The shock was immediate. Shen An’s eyes widened, and instinct overtook him. His hands shot up, pressing against Ru Xing’s chest in an effort to push him away. But Duan Ru Xing stayed firm, his presence unyielding despite Shen An’s resistance. It wasn’t a forceful kiss, but it carried a defiance that refused to be easily dismissed, a calculated ploy meant to distract and unsettle.

Shen An’s pulse quickened, his disciplined mind faltering under the sheer absurdity of the act. He tried again to shove Duan Ru Xing back, but his strength, normally so precise and unshakable, felt muddled in the haze of disbelief. The air seemed to thicken around them, the world narrowing until only Ru Xing’s infuriating audacity remained.

The moment lasted longer than Shen An would have liked—just long enough for the weight of it to leave its mark. Then, just as abruptly, Duan Ru Xing pulled back. His smirk slid into place, as sharp and mocking as the kiss had been bold. The faintest glimmer of triumph danced in his amber eyes, a victory claimed not with a blade but with something far more disarming.

“Thank you for the dance, Hero Shen,” Duan Ru Xing quipped, his tone light, mocking, and utterly infuriating. He took a single step back, his hand brushing his robes in a flourish that spoke of a man entirely in control.

Shen An’s composure snapped. His hand darted toward the hilt of the Hong Meng Sword, his voice sharp and cutting. “You—!”

But before Shen An could draw his blade, Duan Ru Xing had already retreated, his dark robes billowing as he slipped into the shadows of the forest. His movements were fluid, effortless, and maddeningly effective, leaving Shen An standing in stunned frustration.

Shen An stood rooted to the spot, his figure rigid against the quiet murmur of the forest. The air around him felt unnaturally still, as though the world itself held its breath. His hand trembled against the hilt of the Hong Meng Sword, its surface cool beneath his touch, a stark contrast to the fire raging within him. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, his pristine composure shattered by the events that had just transpired.

He is my destined... partner? Impossible. The thought surged through his mind like a venomous current, each word laced with disbelief. The great Shen An, leader of the Bu Zhou Sect, renowned for his discipline and clarity, now stood ensnared in confusion and turmoil.

A faint, lingering sensation prickled at his lips—a warmth that refused to fade. It was maddening, that fleeting touch of Duan Ru Xing’s kiss, as though it had branded itself into his very soul. Shen An’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the pressure so intense it was as if he sought to crush the memories threatening to surface.

But he couldn’t shake it: that inexplicable sense of familiarity. The way Duan Ru Xing had looked at him—those dark, piercing eyes, carrying a weight Shen An could not name— stirred something deep within him. It was as though a veil obscured a memory, a truth just out of reach.

As he struggled to steady his breath, the Hong Meng Sword began to hum faintly, the glow of its runes flickering to life. It pulsed gently, its light spreading through the air like ripples in a pond, resonating with an unseen energy that transcended the physical realm. Shen An’s gaze snapped to the blade, his heart tightening.

The sword’s glow was unlike anything he had seen before. It was not the radiance of righteous fury, nor the calm sheen of protection. This light carried something deeper—a resonance of fate itself. As the glow intensified, Shen An felt a strange pull in his chest, as though threads of destiny were weaving themselves around him.

Far away, deep within an ancient chamber hidden beneath the earth, the same pulse stirred something long dormant. The chamber, untouched by light for centuries, came alive. Symbols carved into its stone walls—ancient sigils of fate and binding—lit up in response to the Hong Meng Sword’s call. The air within the chamber grew heavy, vibrating with an energy older than the sects themselves.

***

Hours later, Duan Ru Xing sat cross-legged in a secluded clearing, shrouded by the thick canopy of ancient trees. The night was still, save for the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. His head was bowed, dark strands of hair falling in disarray around his face, obscuring his expression. His fingers brushed absently over his lips, the faintest hint of a frown marring his features.

The kiss was a distraction, he told himself, repeating the thought like a mantra. Nothing more. Yet no matter how he tried to dismiss it, the sensation lingered, stubborn and unrelenting. It was not the act itself that unsettled him, but the strange resonance it had awakened—a deep, unspoken familiarity that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness.

Fragments of memory drifted unbidden to his mind: the warmth of sunlight filtering through trees, the sound of laughter in a serene garden, the clash of wooden training swords. And always, always, the image of Shen An—a boy with an easy smile, his eyes filled with a kindness that seemed worlds apart from the cold, unyielding gaze of the man he now hunted.

But the warmth of those memories was fleeting. Like shadows consumed by flame, they were overpowered by the darkness that followed, a deluge of pain and loss that tore through his heart as if it were yesterday.

The air had been suffocating that night, thick with the acrid stench of smoke. The sky was a swirling palette of fiery orange and ash-gray as chaos engulfed the once-peaceful village of Anning.

A-Xing—smaller, younger, and full of fear—stumbled through the panicked crowd, his cries lost amid the cacophony of screams and clashing steel. “Shen An-ge!” he called, his voice hoarse, breaking with desperation. In his hands was a wooden training sword, its familiar weight now alien and useless against the terror surrounding him.

He had been with Shen An mere moments ago, practicing stances. Shen An had laughed, correcting A-Xing’s posture with the patient warmth of an older brother. Then came the first explosion. The ground shook, and the serene world they had known fractured into chaos. Swept away by the tide of fleeing villagers, they get separated.

He darted through the streets, dodging debris and overturned carts, the glow of fire distorting the once-familiar path home. When he finally reached the familiar corner, his breath hitched in his throat.

His house was ablaze.

“No!” he screamed, the training sword slipping from his trembling hands as he bolted toward the flames.

But before he could reach the inferno, he stopped, frozen by the sight before him. In the garden beyond the house, silhouetted against the roaring fire, stood his parents. His father, blade in hand, shielded his mother, who clutched a small talisman close to her chest. Opposite them was a figure cloaked in darkness, his presence radiating an oppressive aura that made A-Xing’s knees buckle.

“Father! Mother!” A-Xing’s voice cracked as he took a step forward, but his father’s sharp command stopped him.

“Stay back, A-Xing!” his father roared, his voice filled with both fury and desperation.

A-Xing hesitated, fear warring with instinct. He could see his father’s hands trembling as he raised his blade against the cloaked figure, whose silhouette exuded power beyond comprehension. Dark energy coiled around the figure’s hand like a serpent, and with a flick of his wrist, the force struck. A-Xing’s father was thrown back, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

“Father!” A-Xing cried, his legs moving on their own as he ran toward the garden. His mother stepped forward, chanting words of protection as a faint glow encircled the small stone mechanism in the center of the garden—a relic he had once dismissed as ornamental.

The cloaked figure gave her no time. With a casual wave, her barrier shattered like glass.

“No…” A-Xing’s voice broke, his tears blurring the fiery scene. As he stood frozen at the edge of the garden, the dark figure turned toward him.

A surge of energy shot forth, a wave of darkness that tore through the air. A-Xing braced himself, but the impact never came.

“ A-Xing!” Shen An’s voice rang out behind him, a desperate cry that pierced the chaos. The next moment, a blinding light erupted from the stone mechanism, engulfing everything in its path.

The shockwave threw A-Xing into the air, his body weightless before slamming to the ground. Pain exploded through him as the world blurred into smoke and flame. Through the haze, he thought he felt hands lifting him.

Then, darkness.

Duan Ru Xing exhaled shakily, the weight of the memory pressing down on him like a physical force. “A-Xing…” he murmured the name Shen An had once used, a name that now felt foreign and distant. The boy who bore it was long gone, replaced by a man forged in blood and betrayal.

He lifted his gaze to the night sky, his eyes reflecting the faint light of the stars. “He wouldn’t understand,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “To him, I am only a villain. A target for his blade.”

A faint breeze stirred the clearing, but it brought no solace. Duan Ru Xing’s lips curled into a bitter smile. Shen An, the righteous leader of the Bu Zhou Sect, would never see beyond the man he had become.

And yet, the memory of Shen An’s voice calling his name, the warmth of a time long past, refused to fade.

***

The forest was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that sharpened every sound—the rustling leaves, the faint creak of a branch under pressure, the whisper of a distant breeze. Duan Ru Xing had been on edge ever since his encounter with Shen An, his senses keen for any signs of pursuit. He didn’t trust the calmness of his surroundings. A lifetime of betrayal had taught him that quiet often preceded chaos.

As if on cue, he felt it—the faint ripple of hostile energy in the air. His lips curled into a grim smirk.

They’ve finally caught up.

Without turning around, he spoke into the empty woods. “If you’re going to skulk in the shadows, you might as well do something interesting.”

The only response was a sudden burst of movement. Four figures erupted from the underbrush, their black robes blending into the gloom of the forest. Their faces were masked, but their killing intent was palpable, radiating like a poisonous fog.

Duan Ru Xing didn’t flinch. Instead, he planted his feet firmly, one hand resting on the hilt of his black blade, Hun Dun.

“Four of you?” he said dryly, tilting his head. “Don’t tell me this is all they sent.”

Hun dun lunged, his sword gleaming with an ominous red aura. Duan Ru Xing dodged attacks effortlessly, his body twisting like a shadow as the blade sliced through empty air. With a flick of his wrist, the Assassin left its sheath, meeting the next strike with a sharp metallic clash.

The force of the blow reverberated through the clearing, sending leaves spiraling to the ground.

“You’ll have to try harder than that,” Duan Ru Xing taunted, his voice calm, though his eyes flicked warily to the others circling him.

The assassins didn’t speak. One of them raised a hand, forming intricate seals in the air. A crackling surge of energy shot toward Duan Ru Xing like a serpent made of lightning.

He leapt into the air, twisting mid-flight to avoid the strike. As he landed lightly on a tree branch, he felt the vibrations of another assassin’s approach. Before the attacker could strike, Duan Ru Xing spun, Hun Dun carving a dark arc through the air. The blade clashed against a spear, sparks flying as the weapons collided.

“Hmm. Not bad,” he muttered, pushing back with a surge of strength that sent the spearwielding assassin stumbling.

But the others didn’t give him a moment to recover. Another attacker hurled a volley of razor-sharp talismans, each glowing with a sickly green light. They hurtled toward Duan Ru Xing, leaving trails of venomous energy in their wake.

He raised hun dun, its dark surface rippling with an eerie black glow. With a sharp swipe, he unleashed a wave of dark energy that sliced through the talismans, reducing them to harmless scraps of paper.

The energy recoil, however, sent a jolt through his arm. He faltered, his breathing growing heavier.

What’s wrong with me?

The assassins noticed his hesitation. They pressed the attack, their movements coordinated and relentless. One came at him from the front, another from behind, while the third flanked his side. Their blades gleamed with cultivation energy, each strike aimed with precision at his vital points.

Duan Ru Xing gritted his teeth, forcing his body to move. He ducked low, sweeping Hun Dun in a wide arc to force them back. Then, with a burst of qi, he propelled himself upward, landing on a higher branch to regain his footing.

But his body wasn’t responding as it should. His movements felt sluggish, his qi uneven and unstable. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as he glanced at his trembling hand.

What did Shen An do to me?

The realization struck him like a blow. He hadn’t felt this weakness until after his encounter with Shen An. Had the Hong Meng Sword’s energy left a mark on him? Or was this the result of something else entirely?

Before he could dwell on it, another assassin launched themselves at him, their blade a blur of motion. Duan Ru Xing raised Hun Dun just in time to parry, but the impact drove him back, his boots skidding against the branch.

“Persistent,” he muttered, his voice strained.

The assassin’s eyes gleamed behind their mask as they pressed their advantage. Duan Ru Xing barely managed to block the next series of strikes, each one faster and more forceful than the last. His arms ached with the effort, his breathing labored.

A sharp pain flared in his side as one of the other assassins’ blades grazed him, the cut shallow but enough to make him stumble.

For the first time in years, fear prickled at the edges of his mind.

I can’t win like this.

Summoning what strength he had left, Duan Ru Xing slammed Hun Dun into the ground. The blade pulsed, releasing a wave of dark energy that forced the assassins to retreat momentarily. The forest quaked, trees groaning under the pressure of his attack.

Taking advantage of their momentary retreat, Duan Ru Xing leapt from the tree, disappearing into the shadows of the forest below.

The assassins regrouped quickly, their auras flaring as they began their pursuit. But Duan Ru Xing had no intention of sticking around for another round.

He darted through the underbrush, his breaths shallow and his vision slightly blurred. His hand pressed against the wound on his side, trying to staunch the bleeding.

When he finally reached a small clearing, he leaned against a tree, his body trembling. He could still sense the assassins nearby, their presence like dark blots on his spiritual awareness.

His grip tightened on Hun Dun.

I can’t fight them like this. I need answers… and for that, I need to find Shen An.

Though his heart was heavy with anger and shame, a flicker of something else burned within him—determination. He wasn’t going to die here, not like this. If Shen An had done something to him, he would get it undone.

***

Chapter Text

***

Years ago...

The village lay shattered beneath a grim sky, its once-bustling streets now a labyrinth of ruin and despair. Broken beams jutted from the ground like jagged teeth, walls were reduced to rubble, and faint trails of smoke curled into the air. The stench of charred wood mingled with the metallic tang of blood, carried on a wind that whispered through the hollow remnants of homes.

Amid the devastation, Bu Zhou cultivators moved like spectral guardians, their robes stained with ash and their faintly glowing auras cutting through the dim haze. They scoured the wreckage with precision, searching for survivors.

A lone voice rang out, raw with desperation.

“Shen An! Shen An! My son, where are you?!”

Lady Shen stumbled through the wreckage, her silken robes torn, and her face streaked with soot. Her trembling hands clawed at the debris, heedless of splinters and cuts as she searched for her child. Behind her, her husband, Lord Shen Yunlong, moved with a grim resolve, his sharp gaze scanning the destruction for any trace of their son.

Far from them, at the edge of the Xiao family garden, another figure limped through the ruins. Xiao Jian, battered and bloodied, leaned heavily on a broken staff, his movements slow but determined. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he pressed on, his eyes scanning the rubble with a desperate focus.

A glint of silver caught his eye. He froze, his heart tightening as he knelt with great effort, brushing away the ash. Beneath the debris lay a young boy, his delicate form battered but unmistakably alive. The boy’s face was pale, his robes torn, but there was no mistaking him—Shen An.

Xiao Jian hesitated; his weary eyes filled with a storm of emotions. Pain from his wounds, grief for his own family, and the weight of an unspoken debt all warred within him. Gritting his teeth, he slipped an arm beneath the boy and hoisted him up, staggering under the combined weight of his injuries and his burden.

The cultivators spotted him first.

“He has the young master!” one shouted, their voices breaking through the grim stillness.

Lady Shen turned at the cry, her eyes widening as she saw Xiao Jian stumbling toward them with Shen An in his arms. She sprinted toward them, tears spilling freely down her cheeks as she cried out, “My son! Shen An!”

She reached them just as Xiao Jian collapsed to his knees, his strength finally failing. Gently, Lady Shen took her son from his arms, cradling the boy to her chest as her sobs shook her body. “Thank the heavens... he’s alive,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Lord Shen approached, his piercing gaze softening as he looked at Xiao Jian. “Xiao Jian,” he said quietly, his tone weighted with familiarity. “You’ve done us a great service.”

Xiao Jian nodded weakly; his breath labored. “He... was in the garden. I found him there. Alive, but barely.”

“And your family?” Lord Shen asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Xiao Jian’s expression darkened. After a moment of silence, he reached into his tattered robes and withdrew a small amulet, its intricate design glinting faintly in the dim light. He pressed it into Lord Shen’s hand.

“This... we have done all we can Lord Shen...” His voice faltered, his strength fading. “Keep it safe.”

Lord Shen looked at the amulet, his grip tightening around the artifact. For a moment, his usually stoic mask cracked, a flicker of pain crossing his features. “Rest now, Xiao Jian. You have done enough.”

***

Shen An’s inn was quiet, save for the faint creak of the wooden beams overhead and the occasional rustle of the evening wind through the shutters. Shen An sat at a worn table, the Hong Meng Sword laid before him like a restless specter. The faint glow from the blade painted the room in shades of pale gold and shadow, an uneasy light that mirrored the storm within his mind.

His fingers brushed the sword’s hilt. It felt alive under his touch, as though it were listening. He hesitated before gripping it fully, his pulse quickening as the familiar energy coursed through him.

“Why choose him?” he muttered aloud, his voice tinged with frustration.

The sword did not answer, but the unease in his chest grew stronger.

Shen An’s thoughts turned to Duan Ru Xing. The rogue cultivator’s sharp eyes, biting remarks, and unyielding resolve lingered in his memory like an unwelcome shadow. How had the bond chosen someone like him? A man who stood for everything Shen An opposed—a leader of darkness, a harbinger of chaos.

His scowl deepened; his thoughts unwillingly drawn to Duan Ru Xing's piercing gaze. Those cold, mocking eyes lingered in his memory, cutting deeper than any blade, their taunts laced with a strange familiarity he could not unravel. His identity as a noble cultivator and Duan Ru Xing’s infamous reputation stood as unyielding barriers between them, and yet...

Shen An closed his eyes and drew in a slow breath. “Why does this linger?” he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “What am I not seeing?”

The room seemed to grow quieter as he wrestled with the gnawing unease in his chest. Even the faint glow of the sword seemed to dim, as if it too shared his uncertainty.

A soft shuffle outside the inn broke his thoughts. He straightened, his senses sharpening as the creak of the door sounded across the room.

The air seemed to shift as Duan Ru Xing stepped inside, his figure cutting through the dim glow of the hearth. He walked with deliberate ease, the faintest trace of amusement curling his lips. His dark robes carried a subtle sway, their edges glinting faintly with embroidered patterns.

Ru Xing’s gaze swept the room once before settling on Shen An with the precision of a drawn bow. “You’re easy to find, Shen An.”

***

The sharp clash of steel shattered the stillness of the night, echoing through the confines of the dimly lit inn. Shen An’s Hong Meng Sword met the relentless strikes of Duan Ru Xing’s Hun Dun Blade, their movements a deadly dance of precision and power. Yet, as Shen An advanced, his sword felt sluggish in his grip, its energy faltering. The ancient blade, imbued with righteousness, seemed to resist its master’s intent, its spirit recoiling as though unwilling to harm the man before it.

Duan Ru Xing’s lips twisted into a mocking smirk, his strikes fluid and relentless. “Struggling already, Shen An?” he sneered, his voice a venomous whisper beneath the cacophony of clashing steel. “Even your virtuous blade hesitates to draw my blood.”

Shen An deflected a savage strike that nearly shattered his guard, his jaw tightening as sweat dripped from his brow. His grip on the Hong Meng Sword steadied, though the weapon’s resistance made his movements clumsy. “If I wanted you dead, Duan Ru Xing,” he growled through gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t need words—or this cursed bond—to do it.”

Duan Ru Xing let out a sharp laugh, the word ‘bond’ lingering in the air like an absurd jest. His expression twisted briefly in question, but he refused to let it shake him. With a swift motion, his blade cut through the air with lethal precision. “Then stop talking,” he snarled, his voice cold and biting, “and prove it.”

The confined space of the inn made the duel dangerously intimate. Every strike brought them closer, their movements swift and lethal. Shen An felt the weight of Duan Ru Xing’s unrelenting ferocity, the sheer force of the Hun Dun Blade threatening to overwhelm him. Yet, even as he fought to maintain his ground, his sword’s unwillingness gnawed at him, a silent betrayal he could not ignore.

Then, the faint creak of floorboards interrupted the deadly rhythm. Both men froze mid-strike, their blades poised, their breaths heavy. Eyes darting toward the sound, they listened.

Before they could react, shadows burst through the splintered doorway.

The assassins moved like phantoms, clad in dark garb that drank the meager light of the room. Their weapons gleamed—poison-tipped daggers, barbed chains, and serrated blades—each strike aimed with ruthless precision. The air filled with the hiss of metal and the scent of venom.

A chain lashed toward Shen An, forcing him to pivot sharply, his sword catching the attack with a ringing clash. Duan Ru Xing, unfazed, met another assassin’s blade with a brutal parry, his counterstrike a flash of cold steel that felled the attacker in a single, efficient motion.

“Friends of yours?” Duan Ru Xing sneered; his tone laced with mockery even as his strikes sent another assailant crashing to the floor.

“Do you think I’d stoop this low?” Shen An retorted, his voice tight with exertion as he deflected another dagger aimed at his throat.

Despite the chaos, the two moved with an unspoken synchronicity. Shen An’s disciplined, precise strikes shielded them both, while Duan Ru Xing’s raw, unpredictable ferocity carved through their attackers. Their blades wove through the air in a dangerous rhythm, their combined efforts creating a deadly synergy neither could have anticipated. 

As the battle raged on, the Hong Meng Sword began to pulse faintly, its energy flickering to life as though responding to their unexpected unity. Shen An felt its power returning, his strikes growing sharper, faster. Duan Ru Xing, too, moved with greater speed and decisiveness, his strikes imbued with an almost supernatural force.

“Your sword,” Duan Ru Xing said, his voice carrying a rare note of curiosity. as his blade tore effortlessly through an attacker. “It’s amplifying our strength, isn’t it?”

Shen An parried an incoming spear and sent a radiant burst of energy from his blade, scattering three assassins. “At least it’s good for something,” he muttered.

The assassins, despite their precision and training, began to falter. One, wielding a barbed spear, lunged at Shen An’s exposed back. Duan Ru Xing intercepted with a blindingly swift slash, the Hun Dun Blade severing the weapon in a single, clean motion. Shen An turned, his sword blazing with light, and unleashed a powerful arc of energy that obliterated the remaining assassins in a single, decisive blow.

Silence fell over the inn. The broken furniture and blood-streaked floors bore witness to the chaos they had wrought. Both men stood amidst the carnage, their breaths ragged, blades still poised for another attack.

Duan Ru Xing crouched beside a fallen assassin, his sharp gaze catching the faint glint of a token on the man’s belt. He plucked it free, holding it up for Shen An to see. The symbol of a serpent coiled upon itself, biting its tail, gleamed faintly in the moonlight.

“Nightfang Sect,” Duan Ru Xing muttered, his voice grim. “Hired killers. Someone paid dearly for this.”

Shen An knelt beside him, studying the sigil with a frown. “The Nightfang Sect does not act without clear motives. Why target both of us?”

Duan Ru Xing’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “They weren’t after you.” He gestured toward the corpses, his voice edged with disdain. “The Dark Lord attracts enemies like moths to flame.”

Shen An’s brows furrowed. “And yet, here they are—attacking me as well. My name holds no place in their world.”

Duan Ru Xing’s sharp gaze met his, cold and calculating. “How did they know to find us both here?”

Shen An’s fingers tightened around the sigil, unease flickering across his composed features. “Either we were followed,” he said slowly, “or someone has been watching us.”

As if shaken from the unexpected ease between them, Duan Ru Xing stood abruptly, his expression hardening into a sharp mask. Turning to Shen An, he spoke with a voice sharp and unyielding, like the edge of a blade. “You said ‘bond’... You are going to explain this, and I suggest you start now.” 

Shen An’s gaze fell to the Hong Meng Sword in his hand, its once-brilliant glow reduced to a faint, flickering light, as though the blade itself carried the burden of their plight. Slowly, he straightened, his exhaustion evident in the subtle sag of his shoulders. “It’s not just a bond,” he said, his voice calm but heavy. “It’s the will of the Hong Meng Sword.”

“The will of a sword? Speak with sense, Shen An.”

“The sword chooses its bearers—two fated souls tied by destiny.” Shen An continued, ignoring the taunt. “It’s power is immense, but it comes at a cost. It does not flow freely—it is tied to the bond between its wielders. When the fated act in harmony, the sword amplifies their strength, making them unstoppable.”

Duan Ru Xing laughed, the sound sharp and cutting, like a blade slicing through the heavy tension in the air. The ruined room around them seemed to echo with his bitterness. “Unstoppable? Is that what you call two enemies shackled together like prisoners, stumbling through a battle we barely survived? Truly, your naivety is almost admirable.”

Shen An’s jaw tightened, but he did not look away. “The bond isn’t about shackling,” he replied, his tone low but firm. “It draws power from trust, from unity. When the bond is strong, the sword’s potential becomes limitless.”

Duan Ru Xing’s lips twisted into a dry, sardonic smile. “And what happens when that bond isn’t strong?”

Shen An hesitated, the weight of his own admission heavy in the space between them. “When there’s no trust—no connection—the bond turns on us,” he said quietly. “It weakens us when we are apart, punishing the disharmony. It forces us to rely on each other, to forge the unity it demands in order to function.”

“Unity?” Duan Ru Xing’s laughter returned, sharp and hollow. He stepped closer, his dark eyes gleaming with scorn. “Unity? between you and me? Spare me your delusions, Hero. You’re the noble leader of the righteous Bu Zhou Sect.” His words dripped venom as he gestured to himself. “And I’m the infamous Dark Lord, the scourge of all you stand for. Tell me— What unity do you think exists between us?”

Shen An held his ground, his voice firm but quiet. “The bond doesn’t care for titles or enmity. It only seeks balance. Whether we like it or not, we must find a way to coexist—or this sword will destroy us both.”

Duan Ru Xing’s eyes narrowed, shadows pooling in their depths as his grip on the Hun Dun Blade tightened. Shen An barely saw it coming. Duan Ru Xing lunged—a swift, lethal blur of black robes and seething fury. The Hun Dun Blade sliced through the air, its edge gleaming like a predator’s fang. Shen An reacted on instinct, bringing the Hong Meng Sword up just in time. Their blades collided with a resounding crash, the force of the impact rippling through the shattered ruins like a thunderclap. 

“You think I’ll let you dictate my fate?” Duan Ru Xing snarled; his voice laced with venom. He bore down with relentless force, his strikes powerful enough to send tremors through Shen An’s arms. Each blow drove Shen An back, his boots scraping across the rubble-strewn floor as he parried.

“If killing you severs this bond,” Duan Ru Xing spat, “then I’ll take my chances.”

Shen An gritted his teeth, deflecting a ferocious swing aimed at his chest. Sparks flew as their swords clashed again. “Duan Ru Xing, stop—”

But the dark lord gave no quarter, his movements fluid and merciless. “You have chained me to this cursed sword, to you! Do you think I will simply accept it?” His voice rose with every strike, the anger behind his words palpable.

Shen An fought defensively, his motions deliberate but strained, his focus split between surviving and keeping the Hong Meng Sword in check. The blade resisted him, its glow dimming as it refused to harm Duan Ru Xing. “You think I wanted this?” he growled, blocking another strike. “Do you think I’d willingly—” 

Shen An’s fell silent as his eyes flicked to Duan Ru Xing’s face, his anger starkly visible in the tightening of his jaw, the tension in his movements. But there was something else there, hidden beneath the rage. Something Shen An couldn’t immediately name—fear, perhaps, or something even deeper.

Shen An’s jaw tightened, but he held his ground. "I didn’t think the sword would bring two enemies together. I believed it would bring allies, partners."

The next strike came faster than Shen An could react. The Hun Dun Blade sliced toward his neck, a precise arc of steel meant to kill. Shen An froze, his breath catching as he prepared for the end. But the blade stopped—mere inches from his throat.

The air turned heavy, thick with unspoken tension. Shen An’s gaze shifted from the trembling blade to Duan Ru Xing’s face. The dark lord stood frozen, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Anger carved harsh lines into his expression, but his eyes told another story—one that betrayed him.  

They wavered, flickering with something Shen An couldn’t name at first.  

“I thought...” Shen An’s voice was quiet, strained, as his grip on the Hong Meng Sword tightened. “I thought it would be someone I could trust. Someone worth protecting. Someone I’d want to stand beside without question. But instead, it’s you…” His words faltered, frustration rippling through him, clear in the rigid set of his jaw.  

Duan Ru Xing’s laugh was bitter, razor-sharp. “Someone you’d rather kill?” he asked, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.  

They stood locked in place, the shattered ruins around them a reflection of their stalemate. Shen An waited, heart pounding, for Duan Ru Xing to strike—but the attack never came.  

When Shen An finally spoke again, his voice was calm, measured, though his pulse thundered in his ears. “You can’t do it.” His words weren’t a challenge or a taunt. They were quiet, filled with something else—relief, and a flicker of something dangerously close to understanding. “Why?”  

Duan Ru Xing’s hand twitched, the Hun Dun Blade trembling as his knuckles turned white on the hilt. His lips curled into a sneer, but it failed to hide the storm in his eyes. “Don’t mistake mercy for weakness,” he hissed, his tone sharp, venomous. “Destiny cares nothing for your ideals. It’s chaos—blind, cruel, and unrelenting. And now it’s left us chained, helpless without each other, bound by a connection that will never take root.”  

His voice grew colder with each word, cutting like ice, but his gaze faltered, flickering away from Shen An’s. The mask of contempt wavered, for just a moment, before slipping back into place.

Shen An watched, both intrigued and unsettled by the shift in Duan Ru Xing’s demeanor. He made no move, nor did he press further. His gaze remained fixed on the dark lord, taking in the subtle tremor in his hand, the crack in his otherwise unshakable composure. Was it regret? Doubt? Or something deeper, something Shen An couldn’t yet name? Whatever it was, it was enough—for now.

Duan Ru Xing finally lowered his blade, his movements sharp and deliberate. His expression hardened once more, a mask of contempt sliding neatly into place. “You’re not worth the gamble,” he muttered, “Killing you might end the curse,” he muttered, his tone cold, “or it might doom me forever. I’m not willing to take that risk—not yet.”

With an air of finality, he stepped back, sheathing the Hun Dun Blade with a single fluid motion. The faint tremor in his hand vanished, replaced by the poised calculation of a predator.

Shen An exhaled, realizing only then how tightly his body had been coiled. Yet, the hesitation Shen An had glimpsed in Duan Ru Xing’s eyes lingered in his thoughts, a question left unspoken. One that gnawed at the edges of his mind, unanswered.

He broke the silence at last, his voice calm but resolute. “You want to break the bond,” he said evenly. “There’s a way.”

Duan Ru Xing’s gaze sharpened; his interest barely masked by his scorn. “Is that so? Enlighten me.”

Shen An hesitated, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the Hong Meng Sword. “The amulet I used to modify the sword’s technique—it can sever the bond. But it is hidden.”

“Where?” Duan Ru Xing demanded, his tone sharp and unyielding.

“Far from here,” Shen An admitted. “It is sealed within a protected chamber, guarded by enchantments. Retrieving it will not be easy, but it is the only way.”

Duan Ru Xing’s smirk returned, cold and humorless. “Convenient. And why should I believe you? How do I know this is not a trap?”

“Because I want this over as much as you do,” Shen An shot back, frustration flickering in his tone. “Do you think I enjoy being bound to someone I cannot trust? Someone who despises everything I stand for? This bond weakens me as much as it does you.”

Duan Ru Xing studied him for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. “Very well,” he said at last, his voice low and laced with warning. “We will find this amulet. But do not think for a second that this changes anything. Once the curse is broken, I will kill you myself.”

Shen An inclined his head, his expression calm but resolute. “If that’s what it takes to end this, so be it.”

Duan Ru Xing turned abruptly, his dark robes swirling around him as he strode toward the broken doorway. He paused just before stepping out, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smirk. “Try not to die on the way,” he said dryly. “Weakness is a burden I have no intention of carrying.”  

Shen An watched him disappear into the night, the faint tether of the bond thrumming between them like a taut chain. With a weary sigh, he followed, his steps deliberate but heavy. 

The path ahead was fraught with danger, but for now, they walked it side by side, united only by the desperate hope of breaking free from the chain that bound them.  

***

Chapter Text

***

The days that followed melted into a quiet haze, each one indistinguishable from the last. Shen An and Duan Ru Xing eventually found themselves stepping out of the wilderness and into the lively heart of a small village nestled among rolling hills. The golden sunlight spilled over the scene, casting a warm glow on merchants calling out their wares, children weaving through crowded stalls, and villagers locked in animated negotiations. The air brimmed with the mingling scents of roasting chestnuts and freshly cut wood, a vivid reminder of life’s vibrancy beyond the forest's shadow.

Shen An surveyed the lively scene with a measured gaze. To an outsider, it might have seemed a moment of reprieve from their arduous journey, but Shen An knew better. Beneath the idyllic surface, dangers could still lurk, and he could not afford to lower his guard.

They approached the largest inn in the village, a modest two-story building with faded wooden shutters. Shen An’s posture straightened, his bearing taking on an air of quiet authority. He cast a sidelong glance at Duan Ru Xing, who walked with a deliberate laziness, his hands tucked into his sleeves and an unmistakable air of mischief about him.

“Let me handle this,” Shen An said, his tone sharp but steady as they paused at the inn's entrance. “We are travelers, not bandits. Try not to make anyone nervous.”

Duan Ru Xing leaned nonchalantly against the inn’s doorframe, as though it were a throne crafted just for him. The hood of his cloak, adjusted carefully to maintain his anonymity, did little to hide the faint smirk playing on his lips. Arching an eyebrow, he drawled, “People scare themselves, Hero Shen. I merely exist.”

Shen An ignored the jab, stepping into the inn and bowing slightly to the innkeeper behind the counter. The room was dimly lit, the scent of spiced wine and burning wood filling the air. Villagers sat at scattered tables, their conversations quieting as the two newcomers entered.

“We are travelers seeking shelter for the night,” Shen An began, his tone polite yet commanding. “We’ll pay for food and lodging if there is space to spare.”

The innkeeper, a wiry man with sharp features, hesitated. His gaze flicked nervously between Shen An and the figure behind him. Duan Ru Xing had followed with unhurried steps, his dark robes swirling around his ankles. His smirk deepened, a touch of menace dancing behind his eyes.

The innkeeper stammered, his hands wringing the edge of the counter. “I... suppose we can arrange something, but—”

“Don’t worry,” Duan Ru Xing interjected smoothly, his voice laced with sarcasm. “I won’t bite. Unless, of course, someone gives me reason to.”

The innkeeper’s face blanched as he fumbled to take the silver from Shen An’s outstretched hand. The room had become unnervingly quiet, the other patrons staring at the exchange with a mixture of dread and curiosity.

With a sigh heavy with irritation, Shen An handed over the payment and bowed slightly to the innkeeper. "Thank you," he said, his tone polite but strained. "Please, ignore him. He thrives on making people uncomfortable—it’s an unfortunate personality defect."

The innkeeper nodded quickly, clearly eager to be rid of them. Shen An turned on his heel and strode toward the staircase leading to the guest rooms.

As Duan Ru Xing followed, his footsteps light and unhurried, he cast a glance around the room. The villagers quickly averted their eyes, pretending to focus on their meals or drinks. He chuckled softly to himself.

“A lively little village,” he murmured as they ascended the stairs. “You could learn something from their spirit, Shen An. Loosen up.”

Shen An didn’t answer, but the rigid set of his shoulders spoke volumes. Duan Ru Xing’s smirk remained.

***

The faint glow of a single lantern illuminated Shen An's room, casting flickering shadows across the neatly arranged furniture. Shen An sat cross-legged at the low wooden table, methodically cleaning the blade of the Hong Meng Sword.

The sword, despite its brilliance, felt heavier in his hands than ever before. His brow furrowed as he wiped the cloth along its edge, lost in thought. The cursed bond between him and Duan Ru Xing had been weighing on his mind since the moment it activated. No matter how hard he tried to sever his thoughts, the presence of the so-called Dark Lord lingered like a shadow in the corner of his consciousness.

The sound of the door creaking open interrupted his solitude.

Duan Ru Xing strolled in casually, his dark robes dusted with evidence of an evening walk. His stride carried an air of practiced indifference, though Shen An could tell there was tension beneath the surface. Without looking up, Shen An continued polishing his sword, his tone clipped and icy.

“I thought you had made your escape once again,” he said spitefully, his voice as sharp as the blade in his hands.

Duan Ru Xing halted near the door, his lips curling into a wry smirk. “And yet here I am,” he drawled, his tone equally spiteful but laced with sarcasm. “Thanks to your precious bond—or should I say curse—I can’t be more than a few feet away from you without feeling like my entire core is collapsing. So no, I did not run.”

Shen An placed the sword down with deliberate precision, his gaze finally meeting Duan Ru Xing’s. “Then why even try?” he asked coldly.

Duan Ru Xing’s smirk faltered for just a moment before returning, sharper than before. “Hope springs eternal, doesn’t it? Or is that just a sentiment for you righteous cultivators?”

Shen An didn’t respond, his silence more pointed than words.

A brief, tense quiet hung between them before Duan Ru Xing sighed theatrically, his shoulders slumping in mock defeat. “Fine,” he muttered reluctantly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m hungry.”

Shen An arched an eyebrow, surprised by the casualness of the statement.

“And?”

Duan Ru Xing hesitated, clearly unwilling to ask but knowing he had no choice. His words came grudgingly, the corners of his lips twitching in annoyance. “And since we’re bound together by this… curse, we might as well have dinner. Together.”

Shen An blinked, caught off guard by the invitation. For all his disdain toward Duan Ru Xing, he could not help but feel a flicker of intrigue. There was something almost absurd about the suggestion, like a predator inviting its prey to share a meal. Still, he inclined his head slightly. “Very well.”

***

Later that evening, they sat across from each other in the common room of the inn. The space was dimly lit, with only a few other patrons scattered at nearby tables. The inn’s rustic charm did little to disguise its mediocrity; the wooden beams overhead creaked faintly, and the scent of bland soup filled the air.

Shen An ate with his usual composure, each movement deliberate and measured. He sat with a straight back, his chopsticks moving with quiet efficiency. Across from him, Duan Ru Xing slouched lazily, one elbow propped on the table as he poked disinterestedly at his food.

The first few moments passed in a charged silence, the only sounds the gentle clink of porcelain and the rhythmic scrape of chopsticks against lacquered wood. Duan Ru Xing, ever impatient with quiet, was the first to break it.

“Do you ever grow weary of being so… proper?” he drawled, his tone laced with mockery as his sharp gaze fixed on Shen An. He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes, as he watched the man lift another precise bite with an almost ceremonial grace. “You treat every meal like it’s some sacred ritual.”

Without lifting his gaze, Shen An replied evenly, “And you treat every meal like it’s a stage performance. Perhaps one of us should learn balance.”

Duan Ru Xing’s chuckle was a low, velvety sound as he leaned forward, propping his chin on one hand in a pose of feigned interest. “Balance?” he echoed, the word curling off his tongue like smoke. “Is that what you call your endless parade of perfection? Tell me, Hero Shen, do you ever let yourself simply live? Or is your life destined to be an unbroken string of ceremonies and righteousness?”

The faintest pause betrayed Shen An’s reaction as his chopsticks hovered mid-air. When his dark gaze lifted, it was calm, though a faint glint of irritation rippled beneath its surface. “Perhaps one of us should learn restraint,” he said, his tone smooth but cutting. “Before they shatter under the weight of their own self-loathing.”

Ru Xing’s smirk faltered, freezing for the barest of moments before it returned, softer now, though no less sharp. He leaned back with an exaggerated shrug, his cloak pooling around him like shadows. “Ah, self-loathing,” he murmured, his voice an elegant drawl. “A truly entertaining observation. You must have a talent for recognizing it, Shen An, considering how often you encounter it in your reflection.”

The tension between them hummed like a taut blade, unspoken challenges shimmering in the air as they exchanged pointed stares, the moment fragile and electric.

A few other diners cast curious glances toward their table, their whispers barely audible over the hum of the inn. Duan Ru Xing, far from discouraged, seemed to bask in the attention. His lips curled into a playful smirk as a serving girl passed by, and with a smooth tilt of his head, he offered her a flirtatious smile. Her cheeks reddened instantly, and she scurried away with a flustered giggle.

Shen An, unperturbed, continued his meal with the same deliberate grace, ignoring both the distraction and his companion’s antics. His voice was calm, though edged with quiet reproach. “If you invested even half as much energy into self-discipline as you do into your theatrics, perhaps you wouldn’t spend your life running from one mess to the next.”

Duan Ru Xing’s grin widened; his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But where would be the fun in that?” he countered, lounging back in his chair with effortless ease.

Shen An said nothing, his expression impassive, but his silence carried weight—a subtle rebuke sharper than words.

Noticing the lingering stares from the other diners, Duan Ru Xing shifted in his seat. He gestured loosely toward the room with one elegant hand, his voice dropping into a lazy, amused purr. “Look at them. Even these simple villagers can feel it—the crushing weight of your virtue. It’s suffocating.”

“You’re enjoying this,” Shen An replied flatly, his focus never straying from his bowl.

Duan Ru Xing laughed, the sound soft yet resonant, a melody of mockery with an undertone of something darker. “Of course, I am. You make it so easy, Shen An. All those tightly wound threads, just waiting to unravel. It’s fascinating.”

The faint crackle of the hearth punctuated the stillness that followed. Shen An resumed his meal, his movements measured and composed, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the simmering restraint beneath his calm exterior.

Duan Ru Xing’s smirk softened as he observed the unspoken battle, his amusement now tinged with something almost genuine. There was a curious light in his eyes, as if he found more satisfaction in Shen An’s self-control than he would in breaking it.

The firelight on their table flickered, its glow casting shifting shadows across their faces, and the tension between them lingered in the air. Control clashed with disruption, discipline against chaos, yet neither man rose to leave the table. In the dim glow of the evening, their uneasy alliance held them tethered, the shared silence as charged as their words had been.

***

The night deepened, and the world outside the inn seemed to fall into a hushed slumber. Moonlight seeped through the wooden shutters of their shared room, painting faint patterns on the floor. Shen An lay on the firm mattress, one hand resting near the hilt of the Hong Meng Sword. Its cool weight grounded him, a familiar presence in the midst of all this uncertainty.

Across the room, Duan Ru Xing lounged against the wall. His posture was casual, arms folded across his chest, and his eyes shut as though he were deep in sleep. Yet the faint rise and fall of his chest betrayed a tension beneath the surface.

For a while, there was only silence, broken occasionally by the distant creak of the inn settling.

Then it came—a sound so faint it could easily have been dismissed as the wind shifting the rafters. But Shen An caught it. His senses, honed by years of training, snapped to attention.

The faintest creak of floorboards. Not the random groan of old wood, but deliberate, calculated. A testing step.

Duan Ru Xing’s lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile. Without opening his eyes, he murmured, "The rats in this village are bold tonight."

Shen An turned his head toward him, his gaze sharp. "You’re imagining things."

Duan Ru Xing’s eyes remained closed, but his tone was dry and mocking. "Am I? Something tells me they’re outside our door. Probably debating if we’re worth the trouble."

Shen An rose fluidly, his bare feet making no sound as they touched the cold wooden floor. He approached the door, the sword resting lightly in his hand, its blade humming faintly with dormant energy. Pressing his ear to the wood, he strained to listen.

There it was again—footsteps. Soft, retreating down the hall. Whoever it was, they moved with care, their steps intentionally light to avoid drawing attention.

"They’re leaving," Shen An said quietly, though his grip on the sword remained firm.

Across the room, Duan Ru Xing finally opened his eyes, their dark depths gleaming with faint amusement. The smirk on his lips faltered, replaced by a shadow of something more serious. "For now," he said simply, his voice lower than before.

Shen An turned to face him, his expression unreadable. For all his bravado, Duan Ru Xing seemed genuinely alert now, his casual demeanor a calculated mask.

"They were scouting," Shen An said after a moment, stepping away from the door. "They’ll return."

Duan Ru Xing leaned back against the wall, tilting his head lazily as though bored by the entire ordeal. "Oh, I don’t doubt it. I just wonder which one of us they’re here for. You, the righteous Bu Zhou Sect leader with the famous sword? Or me, the wicked Dark Lord they can’t seem to leave alone?"

Shen An ignored the jab, his attention returning to the door. "It doesn’t matter who they’re after. If they attack, they’ll face us both."

"How noble," Duan Ru Xing drawled, though his tone carried no real venom. He shifted his weight slightly. "But don’t get too comfortable. If they’re bold enough to test the waters, they’re likely bold enough to drown us in numbers when they return."

“We should take turns keeping watch.” Though his words were unhurried, they left no room for argument, cutting through the silence with the precision of a blade.

Duan Ru Xing, seated against the far wall, let out a snort of amusement. "If they truly wanted us dead, they wouldn’t have been tiptoeing around like a nervous bride on her wedding night."

Shen An’s sharp glare cut through the dimness, but he held his tongue, unwilling to take the bait. His fingers tightened briefly around the hilt of his sword before he turned his focus back to the door, his senses attuned to the faintest sound.

Duan Ru Xing smirked but didn’t push further. Instead, he tilted his head back against the wall, allowing his dark hair to spill over his shoulder. For a moment, his gaze lingered on the door, his expression unreadable.

"You worry too much, Hero Shen," He muttered, his voice softer now, almost subdued.

The title, laced with a faint edge of sarcasm, usually grated on Shen An’s nerves. But tonight, something in Duan Ru Xing’s tone caught him off guard. It wasn’t mocking, not this time. There was no sneer, no challenge in his words—just something quiet, something... tired.

Shen An glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Duan Ru Xing’s head remained tilted back; his gaze fixed on some invisible point in the shadows above. The man’s face, softened in the dim light, betrayed none of the sharpness of his words. His lashes rested lightly against his cheeks, his breathing steady but shallow, like someone who never allowed himself to truly rest.

For all the tension between them, Shen An couldn’t shake the strange pull he felt. This wasn’t the first night they’d shared uneasy proximity, but it was the first time Shen An found himself wondering who Duan Ru Xing truly was beneath the mask of the Dark Lord.

“Sleep if you want,” Shen An said at last, his voice low but not unkind. “I’ll take the first watch.”

Duan Ru Xing opened one eye, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. "How noble of you," he murmured, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. Yet, despite his tone, he shifted slightly, relaxing just a little more against the wall.

As Shen An resumed his vigil, his gaze never leaving the door, Duan Ru Xing seemed to drift into a light doze. But Shen An knew—knew from experience—that the Dark Lord was always alert, always listening, even in his moments of rest.

The inn remained quiet, the faint sounds of distant footsteps or muffled laughter from other rooms fading into the stillness of the night. Yet neither man truly let their guard down, their uneasy truce hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

Outside the inn, among the shadows of the trees, a cloaked figure lingered. The faint glint of a blade caught the moonlight as the figure watched the light from their window. After a moment, the figure turned and melted into the night, leaving no trace of their presence.

***

Chapter Text

***

The first light of dawn slanted through the dense canopy, weaving golden threads across the earth. It bathed the forest in a soft, ethereal glow.

Shen An walked ahead, his back straight, each step deliberate. The crisp air, rich with the scent of moss and pine, should have calmed his racing thoughts, yet the restlessness within him only grew. His every movement spoke of control, yet beneath the surface, a storm churned—a tempest he could neither name nor silence.

For years, his certainty had been unshakable, his belief in duty and discipline the cornerstone of his existence. The bond with Duan Ru Xing should have been nothing more than a curse, a shackle he was determined to break. And yet, as the days stretched into weeks, and their paths remained bound by fate, Shen An found that certainty eroding. The weight pressing against his chest was more than the curse—it was a gnawing sense of familiarity he couldn’t explain, a feeling that unsettled him far more than the dark lord’s sharp tongue or reckless bravado.

Behind him, Duan Ru Xing followed with a languid ease, his dark robes rippling like shadows stirred by the wind. There was a casual grace to him, as though he walked not on solid ground but floated on some invisible current. His hands rested lightly within his sleeves, his sharp eyes tracing the interplay of sunlight filtering through the canopy above. He seemed unburdened, untethered, as if the forest itself bent to accommodate his presence.

Shen An’s pace quickened unconsciously, as though he could outwalk the strange sensation tightening his chest. But the sound of their footsteps betrayed him—Duan Ru Xing’s strides, unhurried yet precise, matched his own. No matter how much he tried to outdistance the man, their steps fell into an uneasy rhythm, a harmony that felt as natural as it was unwelcome.

It wasn’t the curse alone that bound them, Shen An realized with a flicker of unease. No, this feeling went deeper, cutting through the layers of mistrust and enmity like the edge of a blade. The cadence of their journey, the unspoken understanding that threaded through even their arguments, felt too seamless. Too familiar.

His grip on the hilt of the Hong Meng Sword tightened, the familiar weight grounding him. He had never known Duan Ru Xing before their fates collided—of that he was certain. And yet, the dark lord’s presence stirred something buried deep within him, an ache that resonated with a place he couldn’t quite reach. It was a sensation that made his skin prickle, his focus waver, and his resolve falter in moments of solitude. As much as he wished to ignore it, to dismiss it as a trick of the bond, it clung to him like the shadows that stretched behind them.

The silence stretched between them, but it was never truly quiet. Shen An’s thoughts churned restlessly, a tempest within him that refused to be calmed. It was during this quiet that Duan Ru Xing’s voice shattered the stillness, low and dripping with mockery, as though he had been waiting for the right moment to strike.

“You are unusually silent today,” Duan Ru Xing's voice coiled through the air, smooth yet barbed. “Could it be that your pride still stings from my triumph at breakfast?”

Shen An’s expression remained unchanged, though the tension in his jaw betrayed a flicker of annoyance. He did not falter, his boots pressing firmly into the earth as he continued onward. “Some of us find value in silence,” he said evenly, the words carrying the faintest hint of reproach—an echo of the morning’s spirited exchange lingering in his tone.

Duan Ru Xing’s chuckle was soft, almost musical, but it carried an undercurrent of something darker. “Silence, yes. It’s a powerful tool, if used wisely. But don’t mistake it for virtue, Hero Shen,” he drawled, his voice laced with amusement. “Sometimes, silence is nothing more than a void—a space waiting to be filled. Perhaps by words, perhaps by action. Who’s to say?”

Shen An’s jaw tightened further, the sharp bite of Duan Ru Xing’s words sinking in. He had long since learned the futility of indulging these provocations, but there was something about the way Duan Ru Xing wielded language—an artistry, a mastery of manipulation—that made it impossible to ignore him. The man’s voice was like a serpent’s hiss, wrapped in silk, striking when least expected, and always leaving a wound in its wake.

The rustling of leaves, the distant gurgle of a stream, the occasional snap of a twig underfoot—these sounds filled the air, but they did little to mask the growing tension that hung like a thick fog between the two men. Despite everything, despite the disdain and distrust that poisoned their every exchange, their movements remained in perfect sync.

Duan Ru Xing’s voice broke the silence once more, this time with a hint of playful malice. “Silence suits you, I suppose. It makes you easier to read.”

Shen An’s fingers twitched around the hilt of his Hong Meng Sword, a brief surge of frustration passing through him. His grip tightened, but he kept his gaze fixed ahead, unwilling to show weakness. “I don’t care what you think you can read,” he replied, his voice cutting through the air like a sword.

“Oh, but you do,” Duan Ru Xing countered smoothly, his tone almost teasing. “Otherwise, why respond at all?”

For a fleeting moment, Shen An’s steps faltered, the slightest hesitation betraying him. A storm of thoughts surged in his mind, but it was enough for Duan Ru Xing to catch the subtle shift in his posture. Shen An cursed inwardly, his calm facade cracking for just an instant.

Shen An said nothing, his silence growing heavy with the weight of unspoken words. He quickened his pace, his boots pounding against the earth with renewed urgency, hoping to outrun the creeping discomfort that Duan Ru Xing’s words had stirred within him. Yet no matter how fast he walked, no matter how far he put between himself and the man, Duan Ru Xing’s presence remained like a shadow that refused to be shed.

“Tell me, Hero Shen,” he teased, a sly smirk in his voice, “when this bond is severed, will you find yourself missing the… pleasure of my company?”

Shen An did not respond, but the question lingered in the air, an unwelcome thought that gnawed at him from within. Despite his best efforts, despite his unyielding will, the man’s presence was becoming something more than a mere annoyance. It was becoming… impossible to ignore.

***

Their path led them to a roadside tavern nestled within a humble village, its wooden beams sagging with age yet exuding an inviting glow that hinted at solace within. The sounds of laughter and clinking cups spilled from its open doors, a momentary contrast to the stony quiet of the villagers. But as they drew near, that laughter faded, replaced by the weight of many eyes upon them.

Outside the tavern, a group of mercenaries sprawled across the small courtyard, their presence oppressive and unmistakable. Judging by the wary glances cast their way by the villagers, it was clear they had been the source of recent trouble. They were a rough, unkempt lot, their armor pieced together from mismatched scraps and their weapons weathered but clearly well-worn from frequent use.

The largest of the mercenaries stepped forward, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the uneven ground. Each step ground the gravel beneath his heavy boots with a deliberate weight, the sound echoing like the prelude to a storm. His grin spread across his face, broad and menacing, yet devoid of any warmth. It was the grin of a predator, sharp and gleaming, promising nothing but malice.

“Well, well,” the man said, his voice carrying a mocking drawl. “What have we here? A couple of fancy-looking wanderers, you don’t look like you belong here.”

Shen An’s face remained impassive, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the Hong Meng Sword. His gaze met the mercenary’s without hesitation, calm and unreadable. “We mean no trouble,” he said, his voice steady but with an edge of authority. “We are passing through.”

Behind him, Duan Ru Xing leaned casually against the tavern’s weathered post, the hood of his cloak casting a shadow over his sharp features. His posture was one of indifference. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, his dark eyes glinting with thinly veiled amusement. “No trouble, you say?” he murmured, his tone carrying an edge of mock surprise. “How disappointing. And yet,” he tilted his head toward the towering figure before them, his voice dropping into a slow, cutting drawl, “it seems trouble couldn’t resist finding us. Strange, though—you don’t look like you belong anywhere but a pigsty. And yet, here you stand.”

The insult landed with the force of a drawn blade, and the mercenary’s grin twisted into an ugly scowl. His hand fell to the hilt of his weapon. “What did you just say, boy?” he growled, his tone low and dangerous.

Duan Ru Xing’s laughter broke through the mounting tension, soft and mocking, the sound carrying a dark amusement that only seemed to stoke the mercenary’s fury. It was clear the mercenaries had no idea who stood before them, their ignorance feeding Duan Ru Xing’s quiet mirth.

Before the situation could spiral further, Shen An stepped forward, his broad frame cutting between Duan Ru Xing and the advancing mercenary like a shield of stone. His movements were calm but, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the Hong Meng Sword. The quiet authority in his posture was impossible to ignore.

“Enough,” Shen An said, his voice low and steady, but carrying the weight of a command that left no room for argument. His sharp gaze fixed on the mercenary, unyielding yet devoid of hostility. “We’ve no interest in quarrels. Let us pass in peace.”

Duan Ru Xing’s smirk deepened, and he straightened from his perch with leisure. “Speak for yourself, Hero Shen,” he said lightly, unsheathing the Hun Dun Blade in one fluid motion. The steel shimmered ominously in the low light. “I could use some entertainment.”

The mercenary leader growled, his knuckles whitening as he drew his weapon with a rasp of steel against leather. Behind him, his companions rose, their movements deliberate and slow, forming a loose semicircle. Their hungry gazes darted between Shen An and Duan Ru Xing, calculating odds. The leader sneered; his blade gleaming as he pointed it at the pair. “You’re on our road. That means you pay the toll—or we take it.”

Shen An cast a sidelong glance at Duan Ru Xing, his exasperation as clear as the setting sun. “Could you not maintain your silence for once?”

Duan Ru Xing’s laughter was soft but carried an edge sharp enough to draw blood. “Where’s the fun in that?” he said, shifting his grip on the hilt of his blade. The air around him seemed to hum faintly, a prelude to the chaos he was about to unleash.

Shen An sighed, his fingers tightening around the Hong Meng Sword. “So much for diplomacy,” he muttered, readying himself for the inevitable clash.

***

The mercenaries surged forward, a snarling tide of blades and brute strength, their charge kicking up dust from the ground. Shen An was the first to move, stepping into the fray with a fluid grace that seemed almost otherworldly. The Hong Meng Sword sang through the air, its faint golden light tracing a path of precision and restraint.

The first mercenary swung wildly; a blow fueled more by desperation than skill. Shen An sidestepped smoothly, pivoting on his heel as his blade deflected the attack. A sharp twist of his wrist sent the mercenary’s weapon clattering to the ground, and a well-placed strike with the flat of his blade sent the man sprawling.

Beside him, Duan Ru Xing was a sharp contrast—a force of untamed energy. The Hun Dun Blade serrated like a fragment of shadow, lashed out with erratic speed. Duan Ru Xing’s strikes were unpredictable, his body twisting and turning in an acrobatic display that left the mercenaries scrambling. He vaulted over one opponent, slashing a shallow line across their arm as he landed, and spun to deliver a sweeping kick to another, sending the man crashing into a stack of crates.

“Try not to kill anyone!” Shen An called out, his voice steady even as he parried a blow aimed at his head.

Duan Ru Xing barked a laugh, twisting to avoid another strike. “Relax, Hero Shen. I’m showing restraint.”

Shen An sighed through gritted teeth, disarming another mercenary with a deft flick of his blade. His movements were calculated, designed to incapacitate without causing unnecessary harm. In contrast, Duan Ru Xing’s chaotic style sowed disorder among their enemies, breaking their formation with sheer unpredictability.

The tide began to turn as the two cultivators’ synergy overwhelmed their opponents. Shen An’s measured defense created openings that Duan Ru Xing exploited with feral efficiency. When Shen An deflected a blade aimed at Ru Xing’s side, Duan Ru Xing spun on his heel to sweep an attacker’s legs out from under them. Despite their differences—and their constant bickering—the two moved as if they had rehearsed this dance a hundred times before.

Suddenly, a terrified passerby—a middle-aged man clutching a small bundle of goods—bolted across the courtyard, trying to flee the chaos. His presence drew a furious snarl from one of the mercenaries, who, frustrated by his inability to land a blow on either cultivator, turned his blade toward the fleeing villager.

Duan Ru Xing caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, interposing himself between the mercenary and the villager. The Hun Dun Blade arced upward in a blur of motion, meeting the incoming strike with a resounding clash that echoed through the courtyard.

But the reprieve was fleeting. Another mercenary, his face twisted in fury, seized upon Duan Ru Xing's momentary distraction. His blade cut through the air with ruthless precision, slashing deep across Duan Ru Xing’s ribs. Duan Ru Xing staggered slightly, the sting of steel igniting a flare of pain, but his retaliation was swift and merciless. The Hun Dun Blade whirled in a deadly counterstrike, forcing his assailant back, their weapon nearly torn from their grasp.

The villager stumbled away, unharmed but wide-eyed with terror, disappearing into the safety of a nearby alley. Duan Ru Xing staggered slightly, his free hand pressing against the wound as blood seeped through his fingers.

“Ru Xing!” Shen An’s voice rang, discarding the formality of the full three syllables as if it had slipped from his lips unbidden. His voice rang sharp and clear, cutting through the chaos of the fight, edged with a concern that caught even Duan Ru Xing off guard.

In a blur of motion, Shen An surged toward him, his strikes becoming faster, sharper. The golden glow of the Hong Meng Sword flared as it cut through the air. His strikes, already honed to perfection, grew faster, fiercer—each blow forcing the mercenaries back step by step, their confidence crumbling under his onslaught.

Duan Ru Xing’s grin returned, though weaker than before. “No need to fuss, Hero Shen,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Just a scratch.”

“Idiot,” Shen An muttered under his breath, the word slipping out in a tone laden with both exasperation and disbelief. He didn’t look back, his focus wholly on the threat before them, but the weight of Duan Ru Xing’s reckless act lingered in his mind. The dark lord—arrogant and selfish as he was—had stepped in harm’s way for another.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, his voice low and cold, brooking no argument.

Duan Ru Xing’s pride bristled at the command, but the sting of his wound reminded him that perhaps, just this once, he should listen. He leaned heavily against the post, his gaze still locked on Shen An as the other man fought with a ferocity that bordered on cold fury.

The remaining mercenaries, sensing the shift in Shen An’s demeanor, hesitated. His strikes were no longer merely defensive; they carried a deliberate weight, cutting through their ranks with unwavering precision. One by one, the attackers fell back, until the last of them fled into the shadows of the forest, their shouts fading into the distance.

Duan Ru Xing straightened slowly, every movement careful, as though commanding his body to ignore the sharp protests of his wound. His robes, darkened by the blood seeping from the gash across his ribs, clung to his side, but his posture betrayed no sign of surrender to pain. He brushed the dust from his sleeves with a practiced flick, his expression one of practiced indifference.

“Well,” he drawled, his tone light and unhurried, as though they had merely concluded a particularly dull stroll through the woods, “that was invigorating.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, its sharp edge masking the strain in his voice. Despite the pallor creeping into his face and the subtle hitch in his breathing, Duan Ru Xing exuded the same air of casual arrogance.

Shen An shot him a glare. Straightening his posture, he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly.

“You don’t have to enjoy it so much,” he said tersely, his tone as sharp as his blade.

Duan Ru Xing’s smirk remained unshaken. A glimmer of mischief lit his eyes, undiminished even as blood seeped steadily from his side. “If tranquility was your aim, Hero Shen,” he quipped, leaning with calculated nonchalance against a broken post, “you should never have brought me along.”

Shen An’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his sharp eyes as they landed on the wound staining Duan Ru Xing’s side. The golden hues of the setting sun did little to soften the crimson spreading across his robes, though Shen An’s expression remained as composed as ever. His measured footsteps crunched against the dirt path as he approached, each step steady, masking the tension brewing beneath the surface.

Duan Ru Xing adjusted his posture with a casual air, though his subtle shift to lean more heavily against the wooden post did not escape Shen An’s notice. His smirk, so often an unshakable mask of defiance, faltered by the barest fraction. Even his breathing, though controlled, carried a faint hitch that betrayed the strain of his injury.

Shen An stopped a mere step away, his piercing gaze locking onto Duan Ru Xing with an intensity that could cleave stone. He said nothing at first, the silence heavy, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm, carrying a gravity that cut through the tension in the air.

“Why must you insist on being so reckless?”

Duan Ru Xing let out a faint chuckle, the sound strained but carrying the familiar thread of wry humor that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. “Reckless, perhaps,” he said, his voice light despite the tension in his frame. With a casual flick of his hand, he gestured toward the villagers huddled at a safe distance, their frightened eyes darting nervously between him and Shen An. Their fear lingered, thick and palpable, even though the mercenaries had long since fled. “But judging by their faces, it seems those mercenaries had no business being here.”

Shen An’s gaze lingered on him, sharper than the edge of his sword. The faint tension in his shoulders betrayed the weight of thoughts he would never voice aloud, the kind of thoughts that churned in the stillness between them. He studied Duan Ru Xing carefully, his expression unreadable, though his silence carried more weight than any spoken reprimand.

The moment stretched, charged with unspoken tension, before Shen An’s gaze finally shifted. He turned away, his composure as unflinching as ever. Yet in the flicker of firelight reflected in his eyes, there lingered a shadow of something more—a thought, a concern, buried deep beneath his unyielding exterior.

***

The village faded behind them, its crooked rooftops swallowed by the encroaching dusk. The road stretched ahead, unbroken and empty, yet the air between Shen An and Duan Ru Xing remained heavy, the unspoken tension of a dozen unsaid words hanging like a veil between them.

As the sun dipped fully below the horizon, they reached a narrow stream winding its way through the forest. The gentle murmur of water offered a momentary reprieve from the day’s turmoil. Shen An halted without a word, setting down his satchel near the bank.

Duan Ru Xing eased himself against the gnarled trunk of a nearby tree, his movements casual but his wince betraying the sting of his wound. His fingers fumbled to untie the makeshift bandage, the dark stain of blood seeping through its fibers.

Shen An, his patience finally wearing thin, exhaled a long, measured sigh. The weight of his exasperation hung in the cool evening air. “You are utterly useless,” he muttered, his tone clipped but devoid of true malice.

Lowering himself to one knee beside Duan Ru Xing, Shen An’s movements were careful, every action marked by the precision of someone who wasted neither effort nor words. From the folds of his satchel, he retrieved a small vial of medicinal ointment, its amber liquid catching the faint glow of the rising moon.

The faint rustle of leaves accompanied the soft clink of the vial as Shen An uncorked it. His gaze, sharp and unyielding, locked on Duan Ru Xing. “Hold still,” he commanded, his voice brusque, its steadiness leaving no room for argument.

Duan Ru Xing, momentarily taken aback by Shen An’s unexpected action, leaned back with an exaggerated grin, his expression uncertain but not unwelcoming. Despite his bravado, his posture betrayed the weariness that seeped through his frame.

“Worry doesn’t suit you, Hero Shen,” he drawled, his voice laced with teasing even as he winced under the sting of the ointment against his torn skin.

“And recklessness doesn’t suit you,” Shen An said evenly, his gaze fixed on the task before him. His fingers moved with practiced precision, securing a fresh strip of cloth around the wound. His tone carried its characteristic edge, sharp and unyielding, yet beneath it lingered a subtle note of concern. “You act like you’re invincible. One day, you’ll learn otherwise.”

Duan Ru Xing chuckled, the sound quieter than usual, tinged with a faint weariness. “And one day, you’ll learn that not everything can be solved with restraint,” he replied, his voice lacking its usual biting sarcasm. Instead, it carried a curious weight, as though the words meant more than they appeared to.

Shen An finished tying the bandage with a firm tug, his hands lingering for the briefest of moments before he leaned back on his heels. He paused, his expression unreadable as his gaze lifted, meeting Duan Ru Xing’s eyes. The moonlight, filtering through the canopy above, carved sharp contrasts into Duan Ru Xing’s face—highlighting the curve of his jaw, the faint smirk that softened the edge of his sharp features, and the glint of something undefinable in his dark gaze.

Finally, Shen An broke the stillness. “Chaos has its cost,” he said simply, his voice low. His gaze lingered for a beat longer before he turned away, his composure as steady as ever.

Duan Ru Xing’s smirk deepened, though it lacked its usual arrogance. He leaned back, his eyes still tracing Shen An’s movements. “And order has its limits. Between the two of us, I’d say we’ve got things covered.”

Shen An didn’t respond, but the faint twitch of his jaw betrayed the effort it took to maintain his silence. Finally, he stood, brushing dirt from his knees. For a moment, his expression softened, a faint flicker of something that might have been amusement glinting in his usually stern eyes. But it was gone just as quickly.

Duan Ru Xing tilted his head, watching Shen An’s back as he turned toward the road. “Not half bad when you’re not lecturing,” he murmured under his breath, a small tug returning to his lips.

Shen An didn’t reply, though his deliberate pace suggested he’d heard. The silence between them was no longer laden with friction but with a quiet understanding, fragile yet undeniable.

***

The forest was a realm of shadows, its stillness broken only by the rhythmic crackle of the fire Shen An had meticulously built. The flames flickered and swayed, casting fleeting patterns of light across the dark expanse of trees

Shen An sat near the fire, his posture as rigid as ever, his gaze fixed on the flickering embers. The warm glow reflected in his eyes, but his thoughts were far from the present.

Across the flames, Duan Ru Xing lounged against the trunk of a gnarled tree. His dark robes hung loosely around him, partially revealing the fresh bandages that wound around his side. Though his injuries still lingered, his eyes gleamed with their usual mischief, and the faint curve of his lips betrayed his irrepressible amusement.

“You’re always so quiet, Hero Shen,” Duan Ru Xing remarked, his voice breaking the silence with a deliberate laziness. “Brooding again, I presume?”

Shen An didn’t rise to the bait, his expression remaining impassive. His hands rested on his knees. But despite his outward composure, his mind churned with memories he couldn’t suppress, memories stirred by Duan Ru Xing’s words and actions.

It was a moment from years past, etched vividly in Shen An’s memory—he and A-Xing standing by the training grounds on the outskirts of the village. The world had seemed simpler then, brimming with endless possibilities and untested dreams. A-Xing had been a bright spark in those days, his boundless energy and irreverent wit a sharp contrast to Shen An’s quiet, unwavering diligence. Together, they had embodied opposing forces, yet their bond had felt as natural as breathing.

“Shen-ge, you’re too stiff!” A-Xing’s teasing voice echoed through the clearing, carrying the unmistakable lilt of mischief. His grin was as radiant as the sunlight filtering through the branches, a reflection of the boy’s boundless spirit. “skill is not just about rigid drills and rules. You’ve got to feel it—move like water, strike like the wind!”

Shen An, ever composed, had barely glanced at him, his arms crossed over his chest. “Discipline builds skill,” he replied with a quiet certainty. “Showing off does not.”

A-Xing had let out an exaggerated sigh, the corners of his grin lifting higher. “Discipline is boring,” he retorted, spinning on his heel. “Here, let me show you something even your venerable masters would applaud.”

Before Shen An could utter a word of caution, A-Xing darted into the open clearing, his wooden practice sword clutched tightly in hand. His movements were an exuberant display of leaps, spins, and flourishes—more spectacle than technique. Yet, despite himself, Shen An found his gaze drawn to the boy’s reckless energy, his arms still folded but his eyes sharp, evaluating every impractical strike.

“See?” A-Xing called out triumphantly, his voice ringing with pride. “I told you I—”

His declaration ended abruptly. In his eagerness, A-Xing’s foot slipped on the damp grass, and he tumbled forward. The wooden sword flew from his grip, landing with a dull thud, while A-Xing’s body met the earth with far less grace. A sharp cry escaped his lips as his knee struck the edge of a jagged rock, hidden beneath the thick grass.

“A-Xing!” Shen An’s voice shattered the stillness, the calm authority he was known for momentarily giving way to alarm. In an instant, he was at A-Xing’s side.

The boy lay crumpled, his knee clutched tightly in his hands, blood seeping through the fabric of his trousers. Despite the pain etched into his features, A-Xing managed a weak grin, his amber eyes glinting with undiminished mischief.

“Shen-ge,” he said, his voice strained but light, “I guess I should’ve stuck to the drills, huh?”

“You reckless fool,” Shen An snapped, his tone harsher than he intended. Kneeling beside him, he tore a strip from his robe, his movements sharp and efficient. “Why must you always show off?”

“Because someone has to keep things interesting,” A-Xing quipped, though his grin faltered as Shen An pressed the makeshift bandage against the wound. He winced but managed a faint chuckle. “Besides, isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Stop talking,” Shen An muttered, his hands working swiftly to tie the bandage. His tone carried a sharper edge than usual, but beneath it lingered a current of worry. “You’re lucky this wasn’t worse. If you’d fallen another way—”

“But I didn’t,” A-Xing interrupted softly, his teasing replaced by something gentler. “And you’re here. So, everything worked out.”

Shen An didn’t respond immediately, his focus on securing the bandage. But his chest tightened, frustration and worry coiling like a knot. “One day,” he murmured under his breath, “I won’t be there to save you from yourself”

The grin on A-Xing’s face faded, replaced by a rare seriousness. His hand reached out, gripping Shen An’s wrist with surprising strength. “Shen-ge,” he said quietly, his eyes earnest. “If that day comes, don’t blame yourself. I’m the reckless one. You’re not responsible for my choices.”

For a moment, Shen An’s hands stilled. The weight of A-Xing’s words pressed against him like an unseen force. He tied the final knot on the bandage, his movements slower now. “You’ll live,” he said at last, his voice soft, relief and exasperation mingling in equal measure.

“Of course I will,” A-Xing replied, his grin reigniting like a flame that refused to be snuffed out.

The memory faded. Shen An exhaled slowly, his gaze steady as it remained fixed on the flickering flames. Across the camp, Duan Ru Xing’s dark eyes, half-lidded and contemplative, studied Shen An in silence. The dance of light and shadow played across his features, rendering his expression both distant and disconcertingly familiar.

For all their differences—their opposing paths, their clashing ideals—there was something about Duan Ru Xing that tugged at the edges of Shen An’s thoughts. Something he could not name. Shen An’s gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat too long, drawn by a quiet unease that he struggled to suppress. The sharp wit, the reckless courage, the maddening ability to smirk in the face of peril—it all reminded him of another time, another bond he had once cherished.

A-Xing.

The name echoed in his mind, unbidden, a shadow of the past. Shen An’s chest tightened, and he turned his attention back to the fire, determined to mask the flicker of emotion that threatened to surface. Yet, the thought lingered, as persistent as the crackling of the flames.

“You’re as reckless as he was” Shen An murmured under his breath, his voice low, the words carried more by the night breeze than by any intent for them to be heard.

Duan Ru Xing’s voice broke the silence, smooth and faintly mocking. “Talking to yourself now, Hero Shen? That’s often said to be the first step toward madness.”

On another day, the comment might have drawn Shen An’s ire, but tonight, it only gave him pause. The faintest twitch of a smile ghosted across his lips before he quickly suppressed it, his composure as unyielding as ever. He shifted another branch into the fire, watching as the flames hungrily consumed it.

Duan Ru Xing’s sharp eyes did not miss the fleeting moment, and his smirk softened, the usual edge of mockery giving way to something almost thoughtful. He leaned further back against the tree, his posture relaxed, yet his gaze stayed fixed on Shen An.

For a moment, the silence stretched between them, unbroken save for the soft crackle of the fire and the distant rustle of leaves. The tension that lingered, as it always did, felt different tonight—not a barrier of distrust but something quieter, something unspoken.

The firelight painted their faces in fleeting shades of warmth and shadow, softening the hard lines etched by battle and burden. Though neither would acknowledge it, the animosity that had once defined their every exchange seemed dulled, replaced by an unfamiliar understanding that neither dared put into words.

Something that felt, if not comfortable, then unmistakably familiar.

***

The forest stretched endlessly ahead, its towering trees casting long shadows that danced with the golden hues of the late afternoon sun. The road was quiet, save for the rhythmic crunch of boots against the dirt path.

Shen An walked with purposeful strides. A few paces behind, Duan Ru Xing sauntered lazily, his sharp eyes scanning the forest with idle curiosity.

The silence between them stretched, thick and tangible. For all the tension that lay between them, he appreciated these rare moments of peace—moments where no barbed words or cutting remarks could test the limits of his patience.

But Shen An was no fool. He knew better than to hope for its permanence.

Sure enough, the inevitable came.

“Have we not reached yet?” Duan Ru Xing’s voice broke through the stillness, its tone light, almost bored. The words hung in the air like the teasing flick of a blade, sharp enough to draw attention but not yet enough to wound.

“No,” Shen An replied curtly, his stride unbroken, his tone clipped and devoid of warmth. He did not spare a glance behind him; there was no need. He could feel Duan Ru Xing’s smirk lingering in the air between them like a challenge unspoken.

A pause followed—brief. Shen An could almost hear the wheels turning in Duan Ru Xing’s mind, the silence merely a prelude to his next provocation.

“And now?” Duan Ru Xing pressed, his tone dripping with feigned patience, as though indulging a child’s game. His words carried an infuriating air of innocence that belied their true purpose.

Shen An exhaled through his nose, the sound barely audible but weighted with restrained irritation. “Still no,” he replied evenly, his voice steady and calm, though his hand brushed instinctively against the hilt of the Hong Meng Sword at his side.

Duan Ru Xing sighed theatrically, his long strides quickening until he fell into step beside Shen An. “It does feel, does it not, as though we’ve been treading the same ground over and over? Are you certain you know where you’re leading us, Hero Shen?” His words were smooth, polished, but tinged with that ever-present undertone of mockery.

Shen An halted abruptly, his boots crunching against the forest floor. Turning sharply, he fixed Duan Ru Xing with a measured gaze, his brows drawn together in the faintest suggestion of exasperation. “The path has been clear from the beginning,” he said, his tone as steady as stone. “If it feels otherwise, perhaps you should question your own perception.”

Duan Ru Xing tilted his head, the smirk on his face widening into something almost languid. “Ah, but perception is such a fickle thing, is it not?” he replied smoothly. “What seems clear to one may appear convoluted to another. A difference in... discipline, perhaps.”

Shen An’s lips thinned into a firm line. Without a word, he turned on his heel and resumed walking, his boots falling harder against the earth than before. The quiet between them felt taut, stretched thin by Duan Ru Xing’s unrelenting jabs and Shen An’s unwavering restraint.

For a moment, Duan Ru Xing allowed the silence to linger, his gaze drifting lazily over the surrounding forest. Then, as though unable to help himself, he spoke again, his voice light but insistent. “Truly, Shen An, if this is the pace of your noble quests, it’s a wonder you ever accomplish anything.”

Before Shen An could retort, Duan Ru Xing’s foot caught on an exposed root, his balance tipping precariously forward. With a sharp intake of breath, he stumbled, catching himself against a low-hanging branch. His robes, pristine as ever despite the journey, rustled indignantly as he straightened.

Shen An stopped again, turning just enough to catch sight of Duan Ru Xing’s rare lapse in composure. His sharp eyes softened briefly, and the faintest curve of amusement ghosted over his lips before vanishing as quickly as it had come.

Duan Ru Xing, brushing imaginary dust from his robes with exaggerated precision, caught Shen An’s brief expression and narrowed his eyes. “I saw that,” he said, his tone low and accusing, though there was no malice in his words.

Shen An exhaled sharply, forcing himself to remain calm. “If you’re so dissatisfied, perhaps you’d like to lead the way. Or better yet, stop talking and conserve your energy.”

“Lead the way?” Duan Ru Xing echoed, feigning incredulity. “And upset the delicate balance we have? You lead, I follow—it’s practically poetry.”

“Poetry,” Shen An muttered under his breath, turning back to the road. “If only your actions were as noble as your words.”

Behind him, Duan Ru Xing laughed. Falling into stride with his companion, he replied with mock gravity, “Ah, but then, Hero Shen, I would find myself in competition with your unmatched devotion. Who could dare outshine such unyielding righteousness?”

Shen An remained silent, his attention fixed on the winding path ahead, his expression as immovable as the mountains themselves. Yet his lack of response only seemed to fuel Duan Ru Xing’s unrelenting need to fill the quiet.

“Always so serious,” Duan Ru Xing remarked after a stretch of silence, his voice light but tinged with mischief. His gaze drifted lazily over the forest around them, though his words were aimed sharply at Shen An. “I’ve encountered rocks with more character than you.”

Shen An’s reply came swiftly, his tone clipped and precise. “And yet, here you are, trailing after this ‘rock.’ Why, I wonder?”

Duan Ru Xing’s grin widened, his sharp features brightening with amusement. He tilted his head as if considering the question, though his answer came easily. “Perhaps I find the challenge of cracking through your unyielding facade too enticing to resist.”

Shen An spared him a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable, though his voice carried an edge of tempered steel. “And what would you gain from it?”

Duan Ru Xing shrugged, “Nothing of consequence,” he replied airily, though his voice softened as he added, “It’s just… admirable, in a way. Tiresome, yes, but admirable all the same.”

For a moment, Shen An’s pace slowed, his steps faltering ever so slightly at the unanticipated remark. Yet he said nothing, allowing the words to linger, unacknowledged but not entirely dismissed.

For a moment, Shen An regarded him carefully, unsure whether the words carried sincerity or another of his veiled jabs. Before he could decide, Duan Ru Xing’s smirk returned, his voice slipping back into its usual casual drawl.

“But don’t expect me to keep up this relentless pace forever. If I collapse from exhaustion, you’ll have to carry me the rest of the way.”

Shen An scoffed, shaking his head as he resumed walking. “Somehow, I don’t see that happening.”

“Such faith in me,” Duan Ru Xing murmured, his smirk widening as he fell back into his usual languid stride.

Despite himself, Shen An found his lips twitching into the barest hint of a smile. As much as Duan Ru Xing’s constant jabs grated on his nerves, the banter made the monotony of the journey slightly more bearable.

Duan Ru Xing noticed the fleeting shift in Shen An’s expression and allowed himself a small, triumphant grin. Cracking the stoic hero’s armor was a game he was quickly growing fond of.

***

The ascent grew steeper as they approached the summit, and with each step, the air grew heavier. Shen An moved ahead, his stride precise yet slowing as the summit neared, his shoulders squared with quiet determination. Behind him, Duan Ru Xing followed with his usual unhurried gait.

When they reached the crest of the hill, the forest gave way to an open clearing, its edges kissed by the fading hues of twilight. In the heart of the clearing stood a solitary burial tomb. Its weathered stone was intertwined with creeping vines, their green tendrils almost reverent in their embrace. Despite the tomb's age, it bore the unmistakable signs of care—melted candle stubs scattered near the entrance, hardened wax marking where flames once flickered in silent vigil.

Shen An halted abruptly at the clearing’s edge, his gaze locking onto the tomb with an intensity that seemed to root him in place. His usually composed expression faltered, a shadow of something deeper crossing his face. He stood still, his breath steady but shallow, as though the sight before him carried a weight too great to bear.

Duan Ru Xing slowed to a stop beside him, his own gaze drifting over the tomb. The ever-present glint of mischief in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something far quieter—curiosity, perhaps, or caution. He turned toward Shen An, his smirk absent, his arms folding loosely across his chest.

The silence lingered until finally, Duan Ru Xing broke it, his voice light but subdued, as though the place demanded a softer tone. "This is it? The grand destination you’ve brought me to? It hardly speaks of an ancient relic of untold power."

Shen An gave no reply, his posture stiff as he took a slow step forward. There was a hesitation to his movements, an unfamiliar reluctance that did not go unnoticed.

Duan Ru Xing tilted his head, his teasing slipping further into genuine curiosity. “What is this place?” he asked, his voice quieter now, though still edged with suspicion.

Shen An stopped a few paces from the entrance, his figure outlined by the fading sunlight. For a long moment, he remained silent, his broad back straight but tense. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, strained, each word heavy with an emotion that Duan Ru Xing couldn’t immediately place.

“It is my master’s burial site.”

The words fell between them like a stone into still water, the ripples spreading outward in the heavy quiet that followed.

Duan Ru Xing’s expression fell entirely, his arms lowering as his gaze shifted back to the tomb. Above its entrance, faint characters carved into the stone glimmered faintly in the dying light. Time had softened their edges, but their meaning remained unmistakable:

“Here lies Master Li Fend. A protector, a mentor, a father to his disciples.”

Shen An’s master.

The weight of the revelation pressed down on Duan Ru Xing, though he showed little outward reaction. His eyes lingered on the inscription before flicking back to Shen An. He noted the subtle stiffening of Shen An’s shoulders, the clenched fists at his sides, and the faint tremor in the air around him—a reflection of the storm within.

For once, Duan Ru Xing held back his usual barbs. His sharp tongue remained still, the silence between them unbroken by his customary wit. Instead, he studied the man before him—the stoic warrior who now seemed so human, so vulnerable, standing before the resting place of a figure who had clearly shaped him.

Duan Ru Xing exhaled softly, his voice barely more than a murmur. “Why bring me here?”

Shen An’s posture stiffened further, but he didn’t turn. His reply came after a long pause, each word slow and deliberate, as though he were speaking more to himself than to Duan Ru Xing.

“If the amulet is anywhere,” Shen An said, his voice steady but laced with raw edges of something unspoken, “it will be here. My master believed in protecting what should remain untouched.”

Duan Ru Xing’s brow furrowed slightly; his expression unreadable as his gaze returned to the tomb. He said nothing further, letting the quiet settle once more. The weight of the moment, the place, and the memories it stirred seemed to demand reverence.

***

Chapter Text

The wind whispered mournfully through the ruins of a once-thriving village, its echoes carrying the fragments of lives long extinguished. Duan Ru Xing stood amidst the charred skeletons of what had been his childhood home.

He knelt beside a crumbling well, his fingers tracing the weathered stones as though trying to summon the past from their cold surface. Images flickered in his mind: children playing, elders spinning tales of valor and wisdom by the fireside, and his mother’s gentle smile as she urged him to wash up for supper. For a moment, the weight of his grief softened, but it quickly returned, heavier than before. Tears pricked his eyes, but he blinked them away. He had long since learned that tears would not change his fate.

He had come back in search of solace, perhaps a fleeting sense of peace amidst the ruins of his past. Yet the sight before him offered no comfort, only a sharper ache that pierced deeper with every step.

Once a promising cultivator of a distant sect, he was now an outcast. False accusations of treachery had followed him like shadows, whispers spreading like wildfire until all who learnt his name had cast him away. His pleas of innocence had gone unheard.

Those who had once called him friend now turned their backs, their faith in him shattered by lies. His desperate proclamations of innocence fell on deaf ears, crushed beneath the weight of distrust and fear.

His gaze rose toward the distant, imposing silhouette of Mount Bo Zhou, its jagged cliffs piercing the sky. There, hidden among its mist-veiled peaks, lay the revered Bo Zhou Sect—a place of power, discipline, and secrets. His heart tightened at the sight, memories long buried stirring with quiet intensity.

Fragments of the past surfaced unbidden—memories of him. His Shen-ge. The elder brother he had never been blessed with by blood but had found through fate. Shen An’s face had faded with time, blurred by the cruel erosion of memory, but the warmth of his presence remained vivid.

‘If anyone would listen... if anyone would believe me... it would be him.’

--- 

The mountain path grew narrower as Duan Ru Xing ascended. Each step carried with it the weight of uncertainty. As the path twisted upward, the air seemed heavier, a foreboding presence that made his skin prickle. Yet he pressed on, his gaze fixed ahead.

When he rounded a bend, the mist parted to reveal a lone figure standing motionless amidst the trees. He recognized him as Master Li Feng.

The elder’s once black hair that Duan Ru Xing remembered now silver-streaked, glimmering faintly in the dim light, his once-proud posture now slightly stooped. He stood with one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his sharp eyes fixed on Duan Ru Xing as if they could pierce through flesh to the very marrow of his soul. There was something in his stance—something tense, wary—that made Duan Ru Xing pause mid-step.

"Master Li Feng," Duan Ru Xing began cautiously, bowing deeply, his voice carefully measured. "It has been many years. I have come seeking—"

"Who are you to call me Master?"

Li Feng’s voice sliced through the stillness sharp and cold. His eyes, once clear and resolute, now gleamed with suspicion, darting restlessly as though seeking enemies hidden in the shadows. Every breath he took seemed strained, weighed down by an invisible force.

A faint tremor ran through his sword hand—subtle, but unmistakable. To Duan Ru Xing, it was a telling crack in the armor of the man he once revered. Something was wrong—deeply wrong.

Duan Ru Xing straightened, his hands slowly lowering to his sides, every movement deliberate and measured. "I am Duan Ru Xing. I’ve come under—"

"Duan Ru Xing?"

Li Feng’s voice cracked like a whip, venom dripping from every syllable. His expression contorted, anger flashing like lightning across his face.

"The traitor?" Li Feng spat, his eyes burning with bitter recognition. "The monster who betrayed his own sect?”

Duan Ru Xing froze, the words striking him like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to protest, but Li Feng’s hand tightened on his sword’s hilt, cutting him off.

“You dare show yourself in this sacred place?” the elder hissed, voice quivering with barely contained rage. “After all the havoc and bloodshed you’ve unleashed, how dare you darken these grounds with your presence?”

“Master, please,” Duan Ru Xing implored, stepping back slowly, palms upturned in a gesture of peace. He spoke with a voice edged in weariness and regret. “You have been misled. I am not the villain they paint me to be.” He tried to steady his breathing, forcing calm into his stance as he faced the elder’s unrelenting glare. “I have done nothing but defend myself.”

He could almost taste the bitterness in the air. How many times had he repeated these words to deaf ears? Ever since false accusations had branded him a traitor, other sects had come for him the moment they recognized his name. They never paused to ask questions. Swords were drawn first, accusations flung like arrows. He had learned quickly that if he did not fight back, if he did not wield his blade with ruthless precision, he would surely die.

"Enough lies!" Li Feng roared, his blade flashing in the faint light as he drew it with a single fluid motion. "You bring chaos wherever you tread! I will end your evil here and now."

The elder lunged, his movements precise but tinged with an unsettling wildness. Duan Ru Xing barely managed to parry the blow, the force of it sending him skidding backward. His boots dug into the earth, steadying him as he raised his sword defensively.

“Master Li Feng, listen to me!” Duan Ru Xing’s voice strained, desperation cutting through the rising tension. “I do not want to fight you! I’ve come only to tell my truth; I do not want any more bloodshed!”

Yet Li Feng advanced, relentless and silent, his movements too sharp, too erratic, as if driven by a force beyond his control. His eyes burned with a strange intensity—fierce, unfocused, and entirely devoid of recognition.

Duan Ru Xing’s grip on his sword tightened as he circled carefully, his gaze locking on the flickering shadows coiling around the elder’s frame. Tendrils of dark energy twisted like living chains, seeping into Li Feng’s every motion. The faint shimmer of corrupted qi crackled in the air, heavy and suffocating.

“Your energy... it’s corrupted,” Duan Ru Xing breathed, realization dawning with grim clarity. His heart pounded, a war between fear and resolve raging within him. "Master, something has overtaken you. This... this isn’t you."

Li Feng hesitated for a fraction of a second, his blade lowering slightly before he shook his head vehemently. “Do not twist the truth with your lies! I am untainted. It is you who spreads poison.”

The elder surged forward again, his strikes more erratic. Duan Ru Xing parried them with growing difficulty, his heart pounding as he grappled with the reality before him. “Why can’t you see it?” he muttered under his breath, his mind racing.

Reaching into the folds of his robe, Duan Ru Xing’s fingers closed around the familiar parchment of a paper talisman. The inked runes etched across its surface shimmered faintly, pulsing with latent power. His grip tightened as he whispered an incantation under his breath.

“Master... forgive me,” he murmured. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he cast the talisman through the air.

The talisman burst into a soft light midair, forming a translucent barrier that enveloped the elder. For a brief moment, the shadows clinging to Li Feng recoiled, their presence revealed in full as they writhed and twisted like living things.

Li Feng froze, his sword falling from his trembling hands as the light bathed him. His breath came in shallow gasps, his eyes widening in horror. “What… what is this?” he managed at last, voice trembling.

“This is the truth,” Duan Ru Xing said quietly, his own heart heavy with sorrow at the sight of a great man undone. “Darkness has taken root within your energy, corrupting its flow. It bends your will to fury and distrust, driving your hostility beyond reason.” He kept his tone gentle, though his resolve did not waver.

“No…” Li Feng’s voice cracked, his legs giving way as he fell to his knees. He clutched at his chest, his face contorting with pain. “No, Impossible. I… I cannot be corrupted.”

Duan Ru Xing stepped closer; his sword lowered but still ready. “Master, you must see it, I fear denial will only make it worse.”

For a moment, Li Feng remained silent, his shoulders shaking. Then he looked up, his gaze meeting Duan Ru Xing’s. The anger had drained from his eyes, replaced by a raw vulnerability. “You speak the truth,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I feel it… it twists my thoughts. Controls me. I can feel myself slipping.”

Duan Ru Xing’s chest tightened, the weight of unspoken truths pressing against his ribs. He hadn’t wanted to reveal this—not now, not like this—but there was no other path left. His gaze met Li Feng’s, fierce and imploring, even as the dark aura writhed and pulsed around the elder’s trembling form.

Swallowing the bitter ache lodged in his throat, Duan Ru Xing took a steadying breath. His voice, though low, carried the force of something long buried.

“Master,” he said quietly, resolutely. “If it grants me even the faintest chance to save you, then hear this truth: I am the son of Xiao Jian, sole survivor of Anning Village. I have come to Bo Zhou not to sow discord, but to speak my truth. Nothing more.”

He held himself upright, shoulders set, as if every word cost him dearly. But he would not falter now, not when honesty was his last remaining blade against suspicion.

“Master,” Duan Ru Xing continued, his voice tightening with urgency. “Please... let me help you.”

Li Feng’s body trembled, the dark energy pulsing around him like a living thing. "Xiao Jian’s son," he repeated, his voice trembling. "Then perhaps... there is hope after all."

Duan Ru Xing stepped forward, his heart pounding as he grasped at the last threads of hope. “Master, tell me what happened,” he pleaded, his voice tight with desperation. “What is this corruption? How can I help you fight it?”

Li Feng’s shoulders sagged, his strength waning like a fading flame. His gaze, clouded with both defiance and sorrow, met Duan Ru Xing’s. “It is beyond saving,” he said hoarsely. “It twists my thoughts... my very soul. Soon... there will be nothing left of who I was.”

“No,” Duan Ru Xing protested, his voice trembling. “There must be a way—”

With a sudden surge of strength, Li Feng seized Duan Ru Xing’s wrist, his trembling fingers locking with unyielding desperation. His burning eyes, once fierce with wisdom and command, now brimmed with a desperate, pleading resolve.

“If you are truly Xiao Jian’s son,” Li Feng rasped, each word weighted with finality, “then grant me peace... before I become something beyond redemption.”

The words struck Duan Ru Xing like a blade. His breath hitched as he stared into the face of a man he had once revered—a man who now stood at the edge of oblivion. This was no mentor, no living legend. This was a broken soul, begging for deliverance.

“I... I do not want to harm you,” Duan Ru Xing whispered, his voice frayed and thick with emotion. “Please... don’t make me do this.”

“There is no other way,” Li Feng insisted, his grip tightening though his strength wavered. “You must... end this nightmare... honor me with mercy... before I lose what little of myself remains.”

Duan Ru Xing’s hands trembled, his mind at war with itself. He had survived so much, borne the weight of endless accusations, but this... this was a fate worse than anything he had ever endured.

Summoning every ounce of will, he reached into his robes and drew a paper talisman. His breath steadied just enough for the incantation to fall from his lips. The runes ignited, glowing with sharp, radiant light as he gently pressed the talisman to Li Feng’s chest.

The elder’s eyes fluttered shut, his features relaxing for the first time as the dark tendrils binding him recoiled. His breath hitched—sharp, then softening—as though the weight of countless battles was finally lifting from his weary soul.

“Thank you,” Li Feng whispered, his voice faint but steady, as if relieved.

“Forgive me,” Duan Ru Xing whispered once more, his voice fractured, barely audible—yet carried by the wind, as though it might still reach someone willing to listen.

--- 

The clearing was silent, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the soft exhale of Li Feng's final breath. Duan Ru Xing knelt beside the elder’s lifeless form, his hand still trembling. The talisman on Li Feng’s chest burned faintly before crumbling to ash, its purpose fulfilled. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Duan Ru Xing sat motionless; his heart weighed down by the gravity of his actions. His gaze lingered on Li Feng’s face, now peaceful in death. “Why does fate curse me so?” Duan Ru Xing whispered, his voice trembling.

The fragile stillness shattered as a sharp, venom-laced voice rang out from the edge of the clearing.

“Monster!”

Duan Ru Xing’s head snapped up, breath hitching in his throat. A lone figure emerged from the shadows of the trees—a young cultivator clad in the robes of the Bo Zhou Sect. His face was pale, his eyes wide with apparent horror as they flicked between Duan Ru Xing and the lifeless body of Master Li Feng.

But something about the young man’s expression gnawed at Duan Ru Xing—a strange undertone that didn’t match the shock he projected. His fear seemed too precise, too practiced, as though carefully arranged for effect.

Duan Ru Xing’s brows furrowed. There was something disturbingly familiar about the cultivator—the sharpness of his gaze, the faint sneer tugging at his mouth despite his widened eyes. Recognition tugged at the edges of Duan Ru Xing’s memory, distant yet insistent, like a half-forgotten face in a nightmare.

"You… you killed Master Li Feng!" the young man accused, his voice quaking but loud enough to pierce the clearing. He raised his arm, holding a signal flare in his hand. With a swift motion, the flare ignited, its crackling light streaking into the sky and painting the darkening forest in hues of white and gold.

"Wait!" Duan Ru Xing stood abruptly; his hands raised in a gesture of peace. "It is not what it looks like. He was corrupted—there was no other way to save him."

The young cultivator recoiled, taking a step back. But his expression didn’t soften. If anything, a glint of malice flickered in his eyes, barely concealed beneath his feigned shock. "Stay back!" he shouted, his voice sharp. "I won’t let you harm anyone else!"

Duan Ru Xing froze, his hands still outstretched. "Listen to me," he said carefully, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest. "I did not harm him out of malice. He asked for peace. The corruption had taken hold—"

"Lies! Do you think anyone would believe you?" The young man’s voice cracked like a whip, cutting Duan Ru Xing off. "You killed him in cold blood, just like how you betrayed your sect!" He pointed a trembling finger at Duan Ru Xing, his accusation ringing through the clearing.

Duan Ru Xing’s breath hitched at the mention of his sect, the pain of those memories rushing back like a tidal wave. "You don’t understand," he said, his voice breaking. "I did not betray my sect. I tried to—"

The sound of approaching voices interrupted him. From the forest path came the echoes of footsteps and shouting, the cultivators of the Bo Zhou Sect closing in fast. Duan Ru Xing glanced at Li Feng’s body, grief tightening his chest. There was no time to explain, no chance for them to see the truth. His heart sank as he realized how this would look to the others.

His words hung in the stillness, fragile and uncertain, swallowed by the darkened forest. For a fleeting moment, something like vulnerability flickered in his eyes.

The voices grew louder, the sound of blades being drawn and feet trampling the underbrush sending a chill through Duan Ru Xing’s body. He turned back to the young man, his desperation clear. "You saw what happened," he said, his voice low but urgent. "You know this isn’t the truth.”

The young cultivator’s face hardened, his smirk gone as he raised his voice for the others to hear. "Duan Ru Xing has murdered Master Li Feng!" he cried. "He must be stopped before he kills again! "

Duan Ru Xing clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He knew there was no convincing them. The flare in the sky was already summoning judgment, and the truth had no place in this forest. As the first figures appeared through the trees, their faces a mix of shock and fury, Duan Ru Xing’s decision was made.

The cultivators advanced, their blades flashing in the half-light. One stepped forward, jabbing his sword toward Duan Ru Xing with grim intent. “Surrender now, traitor,” he snarled, “or we’ll cut you down where you stand!”

Behind him, the young cultivator who had sounded the alarm squared his shoulders, his voice finding new confidence in his comrades’ presence. “Summon Master Shen An at once!” he commanded, tone sharp and unwavering. “Let him bring judgment upon this murderer!”

Duan Ru Xing’s blood ran cold at that name. Shen An. Shen-ge. The one he had once hoped might understand him, the elder brother figure who might have offered a shred of mercy—now called forth to pass sentence on him. Bitter irony knifed through his heart. So this was fate’s cruel design: the moment he crossed into Bo Zhou’s domain, his doom had been sealed. Their eyes burned with prejudice, their minds closed to anything he might say.

He searched their faces—nothing but hardened resolve and deadly promise met his gaze. They would not listen, no matter what truths he spoke. They had all decided what he was.

Duan Ru Xing’s jaw tightened, and for an instant, he allowed despair to weigh upon him. But despair would do him no good here. He flexed his fingers, his heart pounding. He had fought countless battles since the first tarnish of his name. If he had not wielded his sword in desperate self-defense time and again, he would have perished long ago. He refused to die here, a scapegoat slaughtered at the foot of Bo Zhou’s mountain.

His eyes narrowed. “You won’t believe me,” he said quietly, each word heavy with resignation and simmering anger. “None of you ever would.”

As if on cue, one of the monks lunged, steel singing through the dusk air. Duan Ru Xing met the attack with his own blade, sparks dancing where metal kissed metal. The cultivators formed a half-circle, closing in, their swords weaving a deadly net.

He would not go meekly. With a swift twist of his wrist, he drove one monk’s blade aside and lashed out with a precise counter, forcing the man back. Another came from behind, but Duan Ru Xing, guided by grim necessity, whirled and slashed, nicking the aggressor’s shoulder and sending him stumbling with a hiss of pain.

They pressed harder, furious that he dared resist. The clearing rang with the clash of steel, boots scraping over roots and leaves. Duan Ru Xing’s teeth clenched as he fought to keep them all in sight, his movements swift, fluid—every dodge and parry born of desperation.

He did not relish this violence. He took no pride in cutting down those who had once served the same ideals he had held dear. Yet, as always, it was fight or perish.

With a decisive step, Duan Ru Xing feinted left, then sprang right, darting through a gap in the cultivators’ formation. A sword sliced the air where his neck had been an instant before. A dagger grazed his sleeve, scoring the fabric but not his flesh. He exhaled sharply, pushing deeper into the forest’s shadows, his feet pounding over gnarled roots and damp earth.

“Stop him!” one of the man shouted, but Duan Ru Xing was already weaving between the trunks, disappearing into darkness. The pursuit’s cries faded behind him, muffled by the dense canopy.

He fled deeper into the night, a fugitive shaped by lies and forced to draw steel against those who refused to listen.

As he reached the edge of a steep ravine, Duan Ru Xing paused, chest heaving. He looked back toward the Bo Zhou Sect, the fiery glow of the signal flare still visible above the treetops. His last hope of finding refuge was gone, stolen by the lies and manipulations of those who wanted him condemned.

The sky above darkened as night fell, the stars hidden behind a veil of clouds. Duan Ru Xing stood there for a moment, the weight of his isolation pressing down on him. The world had turned its back on him, and even the memory of his Shen-ge felt like a distant, fading dream.

His fingers curled into trembling fists. The years of running, of pleading, of chasing redemption that was forever out of reach... it ended here. He had been judged without mercy, hunted without pause. They had already decided what he was—a monster, a villain, a cursed soul beyond salvation. No plea or action could change what the world had chosen to believe.

If the world insisted on seeing him as a villain... then a villain he would become.

With a final, bitter glance toward the distant mountain, Duan Ru Xing turned away, disappearing into the darkness. The cries of the pursuing cultivators faded into the void behind him, consumed by the endless sea of trees.

‘Here lies Master Li Feng. A protector, a mentor, a father to his disciples.’

The words seemed to ripple in the stillness, their quiet proclamation cutting deeper into Duan Ru Xing’s heart than he cared to admit. His jaw tightened, and he felt his fists clench at his sides. Memories he had tried to bury surged forward—a day of blood and desperation. He had once believed his actions necessary, that fate had cornered him with no other choice. Yet now, faced with this irrefutable reminder of what he had done, the weight of it bore down upon him like a mountain’s full might.

“Shen An…” Duan Ru Xing began, his voice subdued, lacking its usual sardonic edge. But his words died on his tongue. How could he shape apologies or explanations into something that mattered?

Shen An did not turn immediately; his posture remained composed. But after a moment he halted, and without looking back, spoke with a voice both firm and strangely gentle. “You need not enter if this place holds no meaning for you,” he said, the coolness of his tone gentled by neither sympathy nor scorn. “You can wait by the entrance, if you wish.”

The offer stung more than Duan Ru Xing anticipated, a quiet dismissal that acknowledged his presence yet denied him true understanding. He opened his mouth to retort, to summon some shard of his former wit, but the words refused to form. Any reply he gave would risk exposing the truth he had guarded so jealously.

Shen An sighed softly. Turning at last, he met Duan Ru Xing’s eyes, as though searching for something. Duan Ru Xing did not know what he wanted to find there, nor could he bear to ask.

“We can rest here for the night,” Shen An said firmly, breaking the silence. “This place is sacred. Nothing will harm us beneath these spirits’ quiet watch.”

Duan Ru Xing managed only a stiff nod. The laughter and confidence that once danced readily on his tongue had fled.

He lingered there, alone in the fading light. Duan Ru Xing closed his eyes, fighting the storm of regrets that churned within him.

The weight of his crime pressed down on him. Even if Shen An had stood beside him in the tomb, even if they had put aside their differences for a heartbeat, this grave destroyed any illusion of camaraderie. It shouted a truth he could not ignore: Shen An was an enemy he himself had made, and no matter what fleeting understanding had glimmered, this grave reminded him that they would never truly stand as friends.

His gaze drifted toward Shen An’s quiet silhouette, busying itself with setting up camp. How could Shen An ever see him as anything other than the man who had stolen his master’s future?

“Master Li Feng,” he murmured bitterly, voice catching in his throat. “If only I could have changed this fate.” But fate, he knew, cared little for regrets uttered inside dark tombs.

He felt again like that lost boy, desperate for anyone to trust his words. But trust belonged to another life, another time. Now, in the failing light, it was clear: he remained the villain in Shen An’s story, the stain that would never wash clean.

The air inside the tomb shifted the moment Shen An and Duan Ru Xing ventured deeper. A stillness that had once seemed eternal now bristled with unseen energy. The walls, etched with intricate carvings of swirling clouds, and protective sigils, shimmered faintly as though awakening to the presence of intruders. A faint hum resonated beneath their feet, a vibration that seemed to crawl up their spines, setting their nerves on edge.

“This tomb grows more intriguing by the moment,” Duan Ru Xing remarked, his voice calm but tinged with a thread of unease. His sharp gaze swept over the carvings, pausing on the glowing sigils. “Talismans of protection... your master certainly spared no effort.”

Shen An did not respond immediately. His steps were deliberate, his gaze darting across the corridor as though reading an invisible map. “This place was not designed for curiosity,” he said quietly, his tone steeped in reverence. “Be mindful of where you step.”

Shen An’s boots moved cautiously over the ancient stone floor as he led the way deeper into the tomb. The chamber they entered was vast yet suffused with an oppressive weight. Murals adorned the walls, depicting scenes of Master Li Feng’s life—guiding disciples, battling foes, and moments of quiet reflection beneath a moonlit sky. At the far end stood an altar carved from jade, its surface bare save for a pedestal that once held something precious.

But it was empty.

Shen An froze, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on the pedestal. His hand instinctively moved to rest on the hilt of the Hong Meng Sword, tension rippling through his frame. “The amulet,” he murmured, his voice laced with disbelief. “It’s gone.”

Duan Ru Xing’s face faltered briefly before returning with forced ease. “Well, that complicates things,” he drawled, folding his arms. “Are you certain it was ever here? Perhaps your righteous sect saw fit to relocate it.”

Shen An turned his head sharply, his gaze piercing. “This tomb was constructed to safeguard what must never fall into the wrong hands. The amulet was entrusted here to ensure it could not be exploited.”

Duan Ru Xing wandered toward the altar, his fingers lightly brushing against the intricate carvings along the walls. “And yet here we are, an empty pedestal before us,” he said, feigning curiosity. “If it was so sacred, why hide it here? Surely the illustrious Bo Zhou Sect could have kept it secure.”

Shen An’s jaw tightened, his tone clipped. “It was my master’s wish. And my parents’. They believed that some things were too sacred to remain in the open, even among the virtuous.”

Duan Ru Xing raised a brow at the bitterness in Shen An’s voice, his gaze lingering on the rigidity of the other man’s posture. “Hiding relics in forgotten tombs,” he mused softly. “Seems your revered sect had secrets of its own.”

Shen An did not respond. His focus remained on the pedestal, though the slight furrow in his brow betrayed his thoughts. Duan Ru Xing, ever restless, wandered further into the chamber. His steps lacked the reverence of Shen An’s, and his curiosity led his hand to the carved edges of the jade.

A faint click echoed through the chamber.

Shen An’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as the glowing sigils flared to life. The red light pulsed in time with a low, ominous hum, and the walls began to shift once more. Stone panels slid open to reveal hidden inscriptions, and the faint shimmer of defensive runes spread across the chamber like a net.

“What did you do?” Shen An demanded, his voice sharp as he turned toward Duan Ru Xing.

Duan Ru Xing raised both hands in mock surrender. “I may have... touched something.”

The chamber’s entrance slammed shut behind them with a deafening crash. A barrier of shimmering energy enveloped the room, the pulsing runes glowing brighter with each passing second. The ground beneath them trembled, and cracks began to spiderweb across the stone floor.

Shen An’s gaze darted over the inscriptions, his voice low but urgent. “This is a defensive mechanism,” he said. “It’s designed to repel intruders. Those not of the Bo Zhou Sect.”

Duan Ru Xing chuckled weakly, his usual confidence wavering. “Well, that certainly explains the welcoming atmosphere.”

Ignoring him, Shen An stepped closer to the glowing sigils, his mind racing. “We need to deactivate it. If we don’t, we’ll be trapped here.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Duan Ru Xing asked, taking a cautious step toward the pedestal. “I’m not exactly fluent in ancient tomb defenses.”

Shen An’s lips pressed into a thin line. “First, we need to determine what exactly we’ve activated.”

Suddenly, the world quaked with renewed force. The once-silent air of the tomb now thrummed with oppressive energy. In an instant, their careful formation shattered like glass. Shen An turned sharply, senses screaming a warning, as the light dimmed and the tomb’s hum rose to a shrill, disorienting pitch.

He reached out, expecting Duan Ru Xing at his shoulder, only to grasp empty space. Where Ru Xing had stood a heartbeat before, there was now nothing but swirling shadows and flickering light.

The corridor stretched unnaturally, its lines distorting, twisting. Shen An’s heartbeat quickened. He gripped the hilt of the Hong Meng Sword, drawing strength from its reassuring weight. He knew illusions when he saw them. This was a trap—a cunning snare woven from old magic and grim design.

“Illusions,” Shen An muttered, voice steady despite the thundering in his chest. “So be it.”

He readied himself, senses on high alert, prepared to face whatever phantoms the chamber chose to conjure.

The air thickened, the faint glow of the sigils pulsing like a heartbeat. Slowly, the stone walls gave way to a space Shen An knew intimately. His breath hitched as he took in the jade pillars of the Bo Zhou Sect’s inner sanctum. The carvings on the walls, the ever-burning incense, the tranquil silence—everything was achingly familiar yet undeniably wrong.

“This cannot be,” he whispered, voice barely audible, as if fearing to give shape to the horror blooming in his chest. He reached out, fingertips brushing the cool surface of a jade pillar, expecting rough stone or age-old dust. The texture felt real, tangible—but the moment rang hollow, like an echo without a source.

Then he heard them: footsteps measured and deliberate, each step drawing closer, each footfall pressing against his heart like a warning. Shen An spun, pulse hammering against his ribs, and beheld a figure emerging from the shadows. He knew that silhouette instantly—Master Li Feng, the guide of his youth, the pillar of his early training. Yet something was terribly wrong.

Gone was the warmth and quiet wisdom that had defined the elder. In its place sprawled a dreadful stillness, a puppet-like stiffness that robbed him of his former grace. His eyes gleamed unnaturally, as if lit from within by some corrupted fire. There was no solace in his gaze, no kindness in his bearing.

“Shen An,” the figure said, its voice cold and hollow, stripped of every gentle inflection Shen An remembered. “You failed me.”

Shen An’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, knuckles whitening. Doubt gnawed at him, yet he forced his tone to remain steady. “You are not real,” he declared firmly. “This is the tomb’s illusion.”

But the specter advanced, every step a distortion of memory, its form wavering as though struggling to maintain the semblance of Master Li Feng. His once-pristine robes now seemed stained with shadow, his aura twisted into something cruel and unrecognizable. Raising one hand, the figure conjured a surge of corrupted energy that crackled through the chamber.

“You allowed the darkness to claim me,” it hissed, the voice echoing with bitterness and accusation. “And I had to die because of it.”

“I did not fail you!” Shen An barked, anger and despair mingling in his retort. Yet even as he spoke, the sanctum began to warp and distort, the pillars and walls blurring like ink spilled upon water. Before his eyes, the illusion’s facade faltered, and the figure that had worn his master’s face dissolved into drifting smoke.

The sanctum’s familiar contours dissolved into a far more harrowing vision. Flames surged in every direction, consuming timber and thatch, turning a once-vibrant village into a wasteland of ash and despair. Smoke scorched Shen An’s lungs, stinging his eyes as panicked voices rose and fell through the inferno. His heart clenched painfully. Anning Village. He whispered the name like a prayer, his voice laced with anguish.

He spun about frantically, searching for any sign of life. The heat pressed on him like a gauntlet, but he forced himself forward.

Amid the blazing debris, a small figure emerged—a child no older than ten, clutching a wooden sword. His soot-streaked face glistened with tears, and his voice shook with terror and grief as he cried out.

“Shen-ge! Why did you let me die? Why didn’t you save me?”

Shen An’s chest constricted, old wounds torn open as if by a cruel blade. “A-Xing!” he shouted, his tone raw with desperation. He lunged through the suffocating flames, each step a battle against the searing air. “A-Xing, just hold on! I’m coming!”

The cries echoed through the inferno, but this time, Shen An felt himself drawing closer. He pounded across scorched earth, pushing through the relentless heat, ignoring the sting of smoke in his throat. He refused to surrender, not now, not when he had a chance to set right what once had gone so terribly wrong.

“A-Xing!” he called again, voice cracking on the syllables. He reached out, hand trembling, and at last the child turned—wide, tear-filled eyes meeting his. The boy whispered “Shen-ge…” torn between the relief of being found and the sorrow of tragedy’s echo.

Shen An caught him in a fierce embrace, heart pounding like a war drum. “I’ve got you,” he said, voice steady in spite of the tempest raging inside him. For a moment, he believed he had done it—he had reached across time and illusion to save a life he had once lost.

But as he clung to the small frame, the world began to shift and shudder. The inferno’s roar dimmed, the flames guttering out into murmuring darkness. The child’s form flickered strangely beneath his hands, like a reflection on disturbed water. Shen An’s eyes widened, breath catching, as the vision unraveled before him.

The boy’s tear-stained features bled into sharper angles, his soot-smudged robe darkening, his figure elongating. With each heartbeat, the illusion cracked, until Shen An found himself not holding a frightened child, but supporting Duan Ru Xing’s weight. The hush of the tomb enveloped them once more, the scorching delusion vanished into silence.

He had not saved A-Xing from the flames—merely wrested Ru Xing from the illusion’s thrall. The realization struck like a sword thrust, the embrace he offered—born of old grief—had not been for the one lost to time, but for the rogue who walked the shadows at his side. An uneasy ally.

The walls of the tomb shimmered and twisted as Duan Ru Xing’s surroundings dissolved into another time, another place. The suffocating hush of the burial chamber was replaced by scorching heat and the roar of flames. Smoke clawed at his lungs, and panicked cries rang through the inferno. He knew this place, and terror sank its claws into his heart—he was home, in the garden that once bloomed with laughter and life, now a blazing hellscape.

Where once he remembered lush greenery, fragrant blossoms, and quiet afternoons beneath a gentle sun, now he found only charred remains. The garden’s trellises and wooden fences crackled as fire consumed them. The ground, once soft with moss and petals, had turned to ash under his trembling feet. He staggered forward, his eyes stinging, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Pain tightened around Ru Xing’s heart. “No,” he whispered, voice breaking, tears threatening to spill. “Not again.” In this terrible mirage he wore his older self’s skin, yet he lived through the horror anew.

He forced himself onward, pushing through choking smoke and shimmering heat. The garden came into grim focus: what had once been a tranquil haven now lay ravaged by fire and shadow.

Then he caught sight of them at the far end of the scorched clearing. Across the blazing space stood his father protecting his mother, blade drawn, facing a shadowy figure that rippled with malevolence. Its form was indistinct, ever-shifting, as if feeding on the chaos around them.

The shadow advanced. Duan Ru Xing’s father faltered, feet sliding on scorched earth, strength cracking beneath the oppressive power. Duan Ru Xing raised a trembling hand, reaching into the storm of heat and smoke. “Father! Mother! I’m here!” he cried, voice cracking into the fiery night.

They turned toward him, their eyes gleaming with love and regret. Just as he stretched out to save them, the flames rose higher, a roar of finality. In an instant, they were gone, consumed before he could close the distance, before he could give them one more moment of safety or reassurance.

He pitched forward his body trembled with sobs he could no longer contain, tears tracing tracks down soot-stained cheeks. The inferno blurred before his watering eyes into jagged smears of crimson and black.

Then, through the roar of flames and the distant creak of timbers surrendering to fire, he thought he heard something—someone—call his name. A familiar voice, half-buried under crackling sparks.

“Shen-ge…” The name fell from his lips like a broken plea, spoken not for the parents now lost to the blaze, but for the elder brother figure who had once stood as a beacon in his darkest hour. The one he had dared to trust, to believe in, to hope might understand.

But no answer came. Only the collapsing timbers groaned in reply, and the wind wailed softly over the charred remains of what had been home. The silence hollowed him out, leaving him with a truth as bitter as the ash on his tongue: he was utterly alone, and the comfort he sought would not rise from these haunted flames.

A hand gripped his shoulder firmly, pulling him back from the abyss of despair. The heat and smoke began to dissipate as a voice called out to him. “Duan Ru Xing! Wake up!”

Duan Ru Xing’s eyes snapped open. The flames and ruins faded, replaced by the dim light of the chamber. Shen An knelt in front of him, his sharp gaze filled with unspoken urgency. His grip on Ru Xing’s shoulder was steady but firm.

“Wake up,” Shen An said again, his voice quiet but carrying the edge of command.

Duan Ru Xing blinked, struggling to anchor himself in the present. His breaths came shallow and uneven, the echoes of illusions still drifting through his mind. For an instant, he could not separate truth from the phantoms he had just witnessed. Then, from between trembling lips, a single name slipped forth, unbidden and raw: “Shen-ge…”

Shen An’s eyes widened slightly, as though a distant bell had tolled a note he could not ignore. The faint crease between his brows deepened. “What did you say?” he asked, voice hushed with surprise and uncertainty. In that fraction of a moment, the unshakable cultivator faltered, faced with a word that carried more meaning than any blade.

Duan Ru Xing’s eyes widened slightly, the haze of his memories dissipating.

Before either of them could respond further, the sigils on the walls flared brighter, casting the room in a violent red glow. The hum of ancient magic surged around them, and the tomb itself seemed to shudder. The ground trembled, and the walls began to shift again, stone grinding against stone as invisible forces pulled at them.

“Get up!” Shen An barked, his tone sharp. “It’s trying to separate us again.”

The energy around them crackled, a force surging between them. Duan Ru Xing staggered to his feet as Shen An drew the Hong Meng Sword. Its blade ignited with a radiant golden light, cutting through the oppressive magic that sought to ensnare them.

“No more tricks,” Shen An growled, his voice resolute. With a single swing, the sword’s energy collided with the tomb’s enchantments. The golden aura intertwined with the protective magic of the tomb, the two forces resonating as if recognizing each other. The sigils dimmed, their glow fading. The illusions faded as though shards of broken glass dissolving into dust, and Shen An and Duan Ru Xing found themselves once more in the burial chamber’s quiet gloom.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, their breaths coming in uneven gasps, hearts still pounding with the lingering fear and sorrow the illusions had conjured. The oppressive hum in the air subsided, replaced by the soft crackle of a distant torch and the scent of ancient stone. The tomb’s silence pressed upon them, as if waiting to see what they would do next.

Shen An lowered the Hong Meng Sword slowly, the sword’s radiant aura dimming to gentle embers before fading entirely.

Duan Ru Xing steadied himself, sweeping back a few unruly strands of hair, his eyes wary and distant. Though freed from the illusion-wrought labyrinth, the tension between them remained, an invisible weight of secrets and regrets that neither would yet voice.

As their eyes adjusted, they noticed something new near the center of the chamber: a fractured tablet, half-buried under debris. It gave off a faint, pulsing glow, as if summoning them closer. Shen An approached first, each step measured, while Duan Ru Xing followed at half a pace behind. Reverence and suspicion hung thick in the air.

Shen An brushed away loose earth and moss clinging to the tablet’s surface. His touch coaxed a soft radiance from the tablet’s cracks, and a gentle hum rose from its depths. The splinters of light converged, forming a shimmering projection. Lines of ethereal energy wove together to recreate the likeness of Master Li Feng. But this was no living spirit—there was no warmth, no kindness in its eyes. The image stood distant, mechanical, as though reciting ancient instructions preserved in stone and spell.

“Shen An,” the projection intoned, voice calm yet heavy with dire purpose. “If you are seeing this, then the amulet has been taken, and the Abyssal Tear has begun to stir.”

“Master—!” Shen An cried, taking a step forward, a dozen urgent questions already tearing at his mind. “Who stole the amulet? How could they slip past the tomb’s defenses? What must we do?”

But his plea found no purchase. The spectral form of Master Li Feng neither heard nor heeded him. It pressed on, chained to its purpose, indifferent to Shen An’s despair.

Duan Ru Xing’s eyes narrowed, frustration and curiosity sparking in his gaze. Both men hungered for answers, yet the projection offered no comfort—only a grim directive that would shape their path forward.

“The great evil bound by the amulet threatens to return,” Master Li Feng’s image went on, voice hollow and resolute. “Long ago, an entity assailed the Anning Village, home to those who safeguarded the Abyssal Tear. The Tear’s purpose: it binds and seals away unspeakable evil. But this intruder, this being who knew the Tear’s secrets, sought to shatter it. In the assault, the enemy pried open the Tear’s mechanism. Before he could open it fully, the Tear’s own defenses stirred.”

Duan Ru Xing’s heart clenched at the name Anning Village. Pain flared beneath his breastbone, recalling the illusions he had endured. He remembered his parents’ desperate struggle against a faceless evil, remembered the agony of their failure, his own inability to save them. Now, at last, Li Feng’s words gave those nightmares context. What they had witnessed were no random cruelties but revelations of their past confrontations with the fiendish force at work.

“The protectors, determined to save the world from a horror beyond mortal comprehension, wielded the Hong Meng Amulet—an artifact capable of sealing or severing crucial connections.” The master continued “In their final act of defiance, they severed the evil’s body from its soul. The body remained hidden within the Bo Zhou Sect’s secret vaults, while the soul wandered unknown realms, cut off from its vessel. In doing so, the villagers averted utter catastrophe, buying the world precious time.”

The projection’s eyes—blank and yet certain—swept over them as it pressed on. “Alas, this victory was imperfect. The Hong Meng Amulet is also the key to undoing that fateful severing. Should it ever be used to reunite the fiend’s soul and body, the monster shall rise again, free of mortal chains. To prevent that, the Amulet was hidden here, locked beyond the reach of outsiders—until now. Your illusions were not mere torment. They were a lesson, showing you the evil’s past works and future ambitions. They proved the stakes at hand.”

Shen An’s jaw tightened, his mind racing. The illusions had cut deep, showing him A-Xing’s pleas amid scorching flames, his master’s downfall, they were all the evil entity’s doing. The illusions underscored the evil’s influence and what would be unleashed if they faltered.

“Thus, you now understand the cost of failure. You must seek the ancient mechanism and obtain the abyssal tear, before the Amulet is misused to free the evil once more. You will find it where this cycle of suffering first began—within the ruins of Anning Village.”

Shen An’s hand twitched around his sword’s hilt, desperation edging into his voice. “Master Li Feng! Please, we need more—who took it? How can we—?”

But the projection offered no second chances, no elaboration. It was a relic of another era, woven into stone and magic to deliver only what its creator intended. Its final words hung like a funeral bell’s toll:

“Failure will bring ruin.”

With that, the glow in the tablet’s cracks dimmed, and the projection dissolved into motes of light. The tomb’s hush returned, leaving them alone in the half-light.

For a moment, neither Shen An nor Duan Ru Xing spoke. Shen An’s hands clenched at his sides, frustration and determination warring in his heart. Duan Ru Xing pressed his lips into a thin line, his thoughts drifting to the dreadful scenes conjured by the illusions.

“Whatever this Abyssal Tear may be,” Duan Ru Xing began, voice quieter than usual, as though the tomb’s trials had drained much of his usual bravado, “it’s more dangerous than either of us imagined.” He hovered beside a fractured inscription, the tension in his posture revealing how deeply the visions had shaken him.

Shen An nodded, his gaze drifting across the scattered fragments of ancient script at their feet. Each character now felt alive with deeper meaning, as if Master Li Feng’s warning had ignited new purpose in every faded stroke. “We need answers,” he said evenly, though a taut energy hummed in his voice. “We must return to Anning Village.”

Duan Ru Xing tilted his head, suspicion and curiosity dancing in his narrowed eyes. “Are we not still seeking the Hong Meng amulet to sever our bond?” he asked, his tone softer, tinged with unease.

Shen An’s grip on the Hong Meng Sword relaxed a fraction, summoning patience. “And where do you suggest we begin?” he countered, voice firm but measured. “You heard what the master said. The sigils in this tomb showed us our encounters with that evil. If what you witnessed was as dreadful as what I endured, then you know how grave this matter is. The Hong Meng amulet’s theft, the Abyssal Tear—these threats eclipse even our own desire to break free of this bond. If we fail to stop whoever took it, there will be no bond left to sever—only ruin.”

Duan Ru Xing’s expression flickered, unreadable for a fleeting moment. The words struck deeper than Shen An could know. The memory of his weakening core burned in his chest like a bitter reminder. He couldn’t afford to be away from Shen An—not yet. He hated it, but survival demanded this alliance. More than that, beneath the resentment and pride, something colder simmered: the need for answers, for vengeance against the shadowed force that had destroyed his family and shattered his past.

He masked the storm of emotions with practiced indifference, letting suspicion sharpen his features. “Your precious amulet was taken so easily,” he said slowly, his voice a low murmur. “You claimed these sigils were meant to repel anyone outside the Bo Zhou Sect.”

His eyes narrowed, calculation flickering behind their dark depths. “If the theft came from within?”

Shen An’s jaw tightened. It was a possibility he could not deny, though acknowledging it felt like a betrayal in itself. “Then I will go to the Bo Zhou Sect after,” he said evenly. “If there is treachery among my own, I will see it exposed.”

The tension between them thickened, neither willing to concede more than what was necessary. For Shen An, it was duty. For Duan Ru Xing, it was survival—and something far more personal that he would never admit aloud.

He shrugged, feigning disinterest. “Lead the way, hero,” he said with mocking ease, though his voice carried a note of something darker, more resolute. “Let’s see what your righteous sect has been hiding.”

The air outside the burial chamber had grown dense with the hush of twilight, the sky painted in muted golds and ambers as the sun began its descent behind the distant peaks. Shen An and Duan Ru Xing stepped into the clearing, though the oppressive magic of the tomb had faded, the silence between them carried a weight all its own.

“Duan Ru Xing,” Shen An said at last, his tone measured and searching. “The illusions we faced inside—the tomb’s sigils showed us something. A glimpse of the evil we stand against, and how it has touched our pasts. You encountered it too, did you not?”

Duan Ru Xing hesitated, his stance shifting subtly. For a moment, he considered deflecting entirely, but Shen An’s scrutiny was too intent to dismiss lightly. Still, he mustered a half-smile, slipping easily into his veneer of bravado. “I am the so-called Dark Lord, am I not?” he said with forced lightness. “I encounter countless evils every day. Perhaps the tomb simply took its pick from my extensive list.”

Shen An narrowed his eyes, unconvinced but unwilling to press further just yet. He recalled a faint word that had slipped from Duan Ru Xing’s lips in the tomb—a name he had not expected to hear. “Earlier,” Shen An began carefully, “I thought I heard you call me something… something you would not normally say.”

Duan Ru Xing’s heart lurched, but he masked it behind a casual shrug. “I remember nothing of these illusions,” he said smoothly, waving a hand dismissively. “Only annoying visions and restless phantoms. I am glad it is over.” He turned slightly, as though bored with the topic. “If I spoke nonsense, it was merely the tomb’s trickery at play.”

Shen An watched him intently, suspecting more lay behind his evasions. Yet the tension that had thickened between them had no time to settle.

A new presence made itself known—voices and soft footfalls emerged from the treeline, and soon a group of monks stepped forth, their robes bearing the insignia of the Bo Zhou Sect. The gentle hues of twilight played upon their stern faces, each line etched with disapproval.

At their head stood an elder, his features as sharp as a chisel’s edge and a long silver beard cascading down his chest. His gaze, keener than a hawk’s, locked onto Shen An “Shen An,” he said, each syllable precise and unforgiving. “You have brought an outsider into this sacred ground. Do you know what it is you have done?”

Shen An’s jaw tightened. He did not look away. “Master Li Feng’s tomb stands unspoiled, Elder,” he replied, voice level but clipped. “No harm has befallen the site.”

Another monk stepped forward, his voice filled with disgust. His eyes darted to Duan Ru Xing, who had lounged against a tree with a casualness that seemed almost insolent. “An outsider?” the monk hissed. “He is no mere stranger—he is the Dark Lord known as Duan Ru Xing, who has sown chaos and despair across lands.”

Duan Ru Xing’s lips curved into a faint, mocking smile, though his eyes flickered uneasily beneath his calm façade. “Chaos, despair... you are too kind. I’ve heard darker epithets, I assure you.” His tone was light, yet tension rippled in the space between them.

The elder ignored Duan Ru Xing’s jibe entirely, his attention never straying from Shen An. “You should have known better,” he said, voice dropping like a hammer. “Your oath was to preserve and defend, not to defile this sanctuary with the presence of one so infamous. We of the Bo Zhou Sect have labored to keep these grounds untouched by those who would misuse what lies within. Your actions spit on that labor.”

Shen An’s composure strained at its seams. Anger simmered beneath his calm exterior. He had come seeking answers and found only censure. “And yet…” he asked quietly, his voice cutting. “Where were you while the amulet was stolen? How could it vanish if you guarded this place so diligently? We find the tomb’s heart empty, the one relic that must never fall into the wrong hands gone—and you speak of my failure?”

A murmur ran through the monks, surprise and disbelief clouding their stern faces. The elder’s eyes narrowed, confusion mingling with alarm. “The amulet?” he demanded. “Impossible. No outsider has breached these grounds since we took our vigil. We have watched over this tomb for generations, certain that no profane presence could claim what lay locked within.”

Shen An let out a harsh breath, his frustration clear. “Yet it is gone, Elder. And we were forced to confront illusions born of the tomb’s very wards. Is this not proof that your guardianship faltered?”

The elder’s face tightened, and the monks exchanged uneasy glances. None had words for this unexpected turn. They had not counted on Shen An’s reproach, nor on the grim tidings he brought. For decades they had believed the tomb secure, its secrets untouchable. Now their confidence splintered like fragile porcelain.

“Enough!” Shen An’s voice rang out, firm yet not raised in volume. He stepped forward, placing himself deliberately between the monks and Duan Ru Xing. The act, a silent assertion of command, brought the monks’ swirling doubts into focus. “We can stand here all night hurling accusations,” he continued, “but a greater danger looms—one that dwarfs the sins of my companion’s past and the pride of your vigil.”

The elder’s brow creased deeply. His words earlier had been rooted in certainty, but that certainty now felt hollow. The monks, so swift to condemn, found themselves confronted by a truth they could not dismiss. “You defend him, Shen An?” the elder pressed, his voice losing some of its earlier confidence. “You, who pledged yourself to the Bo Zhou Sect’s ideals? Are we to ignore who he is and what he has done?”

Shen An’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the Hong Meng Sword’s memory of light still warming his thoughts. “I have forgotten nothing,” he said, voice measured, “but this is not about who he was. It is about what must be done now. Once we settle this threat, I will return and answer for my choices. Until then, we must focus on the true enemy.”

The monks stood uncertain, their earlier bravado tempered by revelations they had not foreseen. The elder’s gaze wavered from Shen An to Duan Ru Xing, who observed this exchange with a quiet intensity, his earlier levity waning.

Finally, the elder spoke, his tone less accusatory but still stern. “You speak of duty, Shen An, yet by bringing this man here, you have tested our very essence. If what you say is true, then you must know that your path will not be easy. The future shall demand more from both of you.”

Shen An inclined his head, accepting the elder’s warning with dignity. “I shall take my chances,” he said lightly, Duan Ru Xing, ever the rogue, offered a faint bow of feigned respect.

They left the clearing, the monks stepping aside rather than blocking their passage.

The silence between Shen An and Ru Xing was thick with unvoiced thoughts. The illusions within the tomb had shown them the stakes, while this confrontation with the monks reaffirmed that the world outside would grant them no mercy.

As they made their way down the shadowed path, both men carried the weight of old wounds and uncertain alliances. The tension remained, unspoken but persistent, an invisible tether binding them to a fate not yet written.

Neither Shen An nor Duan Ru Xing spoke as they followed a forest path that twisted through old trees and silent thickets. The air here was cooler, carrying a hush that pressed upon their ears like a secret waiting to be told.

Shen An’s mind churned with unanswered questions: about the amulet’s thief, the Abyssal Tear’s true nature, and the looming peril that demanded their attention. His grip on the Hong Meng Sword remained firm, as if holding onto something tangible might anchor him in these swirling uncertainties.

Duan Ru Xing kept pace at his side, his earlier humor tempered by what they had faced. Still, he could not resist stirring the quiet between them. Turning his head slightly, he cast Shen An a sidelong glance and let a smirk curl his lips.

“You know, Hero Shen,” he began, voice low and carried by the gentle rustle of leaves. “For all your stern words and righteous posturing, you stood before those monks and defended me—the so-called ‘Dark Lord.’ I must say, I am flattered. I never thought I’d see the day you’d vouch for my character.”

Shen An’s knuckles tightened on the sword’s hilt. He cast a cool, assessing look at Duan Ru Xing. “Do not read too much into it,” he said curtly. “My decision was pragmatic, not sympathetic. We face a danger that transcends your crimes.”

Duan Ru Xing’s grin broadened slightly, pleased to have needled a response from the stoic cultivator. “Pragmatic, of course,” he said with mock acquiescence. “Yet I cannot help but wonder if, beneath all that stern virtue, there stirs a reluctant understanding.”

Shen An gave a quiet snort, turning his face forward again. “I said enough,” he murmured, dismissing the bait.

Duan Ru Xing’s amusement lingered. As they continued deeper into the forest, their silhouettes swallowed by the gentle darkness, Duan Ru Xing’s laughter—soft and sardonic—echoed faintly among the trees, and Shen An, while refusing to reply, could not entirely ignore the strange comfort that his presence, for all its thorny edges, now provided.

Chapter Text

The journey back to the Anning ruins was fraught with silence and guarded tension. Since uncovering the truth of the Abyssal Tear and the theft of the Hong Meng Amulet, Shen An and Duan Ru Xing had traveled side by side—willingly yet reluctantly—bound by purpose and fate.

As the sun dipped lower, casting molten gold across the mountains, they approached a small village tucked against a winding river. The village was modest but lively—smoke from hearths curling into the sky, the air filled with the comforting hum of distant conversations and the scent of spiced meats.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” Shen An decided, his tone leaving no room for argument. He exchanged a bow with the innkeeper, securing a small room at a modest inn. “We leave at dawn.”

Duan Ru Xing gave an exaggerated sigh but offered no retort. Days of travel had worn even his sharp tongue thin. As the innkeeper prepared their room, Shen An suggested they visit the village’s market to restock supplies.

The market buzzed with lively energy—merchants calling out their best prices, villagers haggling with animated gestures, and children darting through the narrow paths like playful sparrows. Stalls brimmed with goods: bundles of dried fish strung on twine, fragrant herbs bound with rustic cords, silk ribbons fluttering in the breeze, and baskets of autumn fruits, their skins gleaming with morning dew under the warm light.

Shen An moved through the bustling crowd with quiet purpose, his steps steady and efficient. His discerning gaze scanned the vendors' offerings, selecting only what was necessary—nothing more, nothing less. His grip on practicality was as firm as the blade resting at his side.

Duan Ru Xing trailed behind with far less urgency, letting the hum of the market wash over him. His eyes wandered until they caught on a stall stacked high with ripe peaches, their soft blushes of pink and glistening. The sight stirred something unwanted, unguarded—a memory from a life he no longer claimed.

Anning Village. His mother’s gentle hands picking peaches by the garden, the sweet, sticky scent of fruit mingling with the summer air. A time long past. A time that shouldn’t matter anymore.

Before he realized it, his hand extended toward the nearest peach, fingers brushing its pink skin. He could almost taste its familiar sweetness—until, in a blur of motion, the fruit disappeared from his grasp.

Startled, Duan Ru Xing blinked, his hand still hovering where the peach had been. His sharp eyes narrowed as he searched for the culprit. A small child, no older than eight, clutched the stolen peach in one grubby hand. Defiant brown eyes glared up at him, chest puffed out with mock bravado.

“Find your own!”

For a moment, Duan Ru Xing could only stare. The child’s fierce expression reminded him of a much younger version of himself—fearless, reckless, and foolishly determined.

Before he could summon a retort, Shen An’s voice cut through the air, cool and sharp as a blade. “Even children know better than to share food with you.”

Duan Ru Xing scoffed, recovering quickly. “Quiet, or I’ll eat your share too,” he drawled, though there was a faint edge of amusement beneath his words. He could hardly blame the child for having quick hands—he’d lived that life once.

The child stuck out their tongue with impish defiance before vanishing into the throng of villagers like smoke in the wind.

“Thieving brat,” Duan Ru Xing muttered, shaking his head. He turned to leave but froze when the fruit vendor’s sharp voice barked after him.

“Hey! You gonna pay for that peach your kid just stole?”

Duan Ru Xing blinked, stunned. “My—what?”

The vendor crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. “That’s your child, isn’t it? Running off with my best peach. Peaches don’t pay for themselves.”

He opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. The crowd had already taken notice, and the last thing he needed was unwanted attention—or worse, recognition. With a resigned grumble, he fished a few coins from his belt and slapped them onto the worn counter.

“There.” His tone was clipped. “Satisfied now?”

The vendor grunted in approval, pocketing the coins as Duan Ru Xing turned away, muttering darkly about "misguided fate" and "useless peaches."

Then he heard something unexpected.

Laughter.

Not the cold, biting mockery he’d come to expect from Shen An’s sharp tongue, but something lighter—unrestrained and genuine. He turned, bewildered, and found Shen An standing just a few paces away, lips curled in a faint, reluctant smile. The amusement in his expression was unmistakable, softening the hard lines of his face.

Duan Ru Xing stared, momentarily thrown. Shen An’s guarded composure was rarely broken, and he had never imagined that something as ridiculous as a stolen peach could pierce through the man’s iron-willed exterior.

“What’s so funny?” Duan Ru Xing snapped, feigning irritation as he fought the strange tightness in his chest.

Shen An’s faint smile lingered as he straightened, letting his usual stoicism settle back into place. “Nothing,” he said coolly, though the warmth still glimmered faintly in his eyes. “You just seemed… very concerned about that peach.”

For a fleeting second, amidst the clamor of merchants and the sweet scent of roasting chestnuts, something between them shifted—fragile, fleeting, but real.

They continued their journey through the bustling market. Before long, they arrived at a modest stall shaded beneath a canopy of woven bamboo, its counters overflowing with bundles of dried herbs and medicinal plants carefully tied with twine.

A few paces away, a trio of villagers huddled together, speaking in hushed tones that barely rose above the hum of the crowd. Their voices were low and urgent, their words laden with an unsettling tension. Though they tried to cloak their conversation in secrecy, Shen An and Duan Ru Xing’s ears—attuned to the slightest sound—captured fragments of their exchange.

“I heard whispers,” the middle-aged woman murmured, her voice trembling with unease. “There are dangerous men in these parts... Bandits, perhaps. Or something far worse.”

“No,” the old man interrupted, shaking his head gravely, deep lines etched into his weathered face. “It’s not bandits. This... this is something far darker. They’re searching for someone—mark my words.”

The youngest among them, a man barely out of his youth, leaned in, his voice hushed but strained with fear. “It must be him... the Dark Lord. The calamity who walks in shadows. Duan Ru Xing.” He swallowed hard, glancing around as if the name itself might summon misfortune. “Who else could bring such ruin wherever he treads?”

The middle-aged woman snorted, skepticism hardening her features. “Hah! Why would those steeped in darkness hunt one of their own? It makes no sense.”

The old man’s expression darkened further, his eyes gleaming with quiet resentment. “He’s worse than them,” he spat. “The stories speak of a monster—a traitor who turned against his own sect, his master. They say his hands are stained with blood that even the heavens refuse to wash away.”

His voice dropped into a grim murmur, thick with disdain. “A man like that... deserves whatever fate finally catches up with him.”

As the villagers’ voices faded into the background, Shen An’s gaze shifted imperceptibly to his companion. He half-expected to see a mocking smirk or a quip from Duan Ru Xing, a sharp retort that would cut through the conversation like a blade. Instead, to his surprise, he saw something far more telling—an almost imperceptible twitch of his jaw, a flicker of pain that vanished as quickly as it appeared. Duan Ru Xing’s usual mask of indifference seemed to falter for a moment.

Shen An’s eyes narrowed, studying the man beside him. It was an expression he had not often seen from Duan Ru Xing, the unshakable “dark lord” who always seemed impervious to the opinions of others. Yet now, as if the words had found some hidden crack in his armor, Duan Ru Xing betrayed a hint of something—something real and raw beneath his perfect facade.

He swiftly regained his composure, his fingers brushing the edge of his hood in a practiced, fluid motion—less to shield himself from recognition and more to cast aside the weight of an unwelcome memory. “Fame does have its price,” he muttered, his voice low, nearly swallowed by the hum of the bustling market. His fingertips lingered for just a moment near his ear, a subtle, unconscious gesture. 

But Shen An noticed—caught every word, every movement—as if the quiet remark had been meant for him alone. His gaze sharpened, lingering thoughtfully on Duan Ru Xing’s faintly tense posture, the flicker of something unspoken that disappeared almost as quickly as it surfaced.

The way Duan Ru Xing touched his ear—a habitual motion, one made with a tension that wasn’t there before. It was as though he were trying to steady himself, to calm the storm within.

That small, inconspicuous gesture lingered in Shen An’s mind far longer than it should have. Under normal circumstances, he might have dismissed it entirely, relegated it to one of Duan Ru Xing’s many careless mannerisms. But things hadn’t been normal since the tomb. Since that moment.

The memory burned vividly in his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. The labyrinth of shifting illusions, the suffocating darkness pressing in from all sides—and then, through the haze of desperation, those words. Words he thought he would never hear again, whispered like a forgotten prayer carried on trembling breath.

At the time, Shen An had convinced himself it was a cruel trick of the tomb’s twisted magic, the remnants of some lingering hallucination crafted to break his resolve. It had to be. Reality didn’t offer such cruel impossibilities. And yet… ever since that encounter, he couldn’t stop watching Duan Ru Xing—couldn’t help but scrutinize every nuance, every fleeting shift in his expression.

He told himself it was vigilance, born from wariness. After all, Duan Ru Xing was not a man to be trusted. The infamous “dark lord” wore lies like armor, wielding deceit with as much skill as he did his blade. It was only natural for Shen An to remain cautious, to watch carefully for any hint of treachery.

But deep down, he knew it was more than that.

Now, even the smallest actions seemed to pulse with hidden meaning. The way Duan Ru Xing’s fingers would linger near his ear when he was thinking—an unconscious habit Shen An hadn’t noticed before. The way he adjusted his hood, a fluid motion that seemed more about comfort than concealment. The faintest, almost imperceptible downturn of his lips when he thought no one was looking—there, and gone in the blink of an eye.

It wasn’t just familiarity. It was something deeper, something that tugged sharply at old, buried memories of Shen An. His gaze would catch on the way Duan Ru Xing flipped a coin between his fingers when idle, the same way he used to, long ago. His mind told him it was coincidence—had to be. The alternative was impossible. Unthinkable.

‘He couldn’t be him’.

And yet, try as he might, Shen An couldn’t stop searching. Couldn’t stop looking for traces of someone long gone, someone he had already mourned. His eyes lingered just a heartbeat too long whenever Duan Ru Xing moved—tracking every unconscious quirk, every carefully concealed flicker of emotion as though trying to piece together a half-forgotten dream.

It was infuriating. Maddening. Because he knew it couldn’t be true. The man standing before him was nothing like the boy he had lost—couldn’t be. But still, those echoes of the past clung stubbornly to Duan Ru Xing’s every gesture now, weaving through the sharp edges of his smirks and the soft bitterness of his quiet remarks.

Shen An hated how his chest tightened with that faint, desperate hope he could never voice. And so he buried it deep, hiding it beneath layers of reason and denial. It was coincidence—nothing more. The past was gone, and no amount of familiar glances or fleeting habits could change that.

But even as he tried to convince himself, he couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop wondering. And he hated himself for it.

Duan Ru Xing seemed to sense the weight of Shen An’s gaze. Without breaking stride, he turned to face him, an eyebrow arched in feigned curiosity. “What? Surprised that they’ve got my reputation right?”

Shen An hesitated, choosing his words with care. “No. Surprised you care.”

A sardonic laugh escaped Duan Ru Xing, though it was laced with a bitterness that seemed almost too smooth. “I don’t,” he said, his words as fluid and cold as water over stone. “They’re just the bleatings of sheep lost in the dark.”

But Shen An said nothing more. He kept the words in his heart, a secret still locked away—an enigma he didn’t fully understand, but one that he knew would reveal itself in time. For now, the exchange was but another layer of the man before him, a layer that Shen An couldn’t yet peel back. Still, it lingered in his mind, a puzzle he was determined to solve.

Later that afternoon. Shen An found himself restless despite the day’s long journey. Duan Ru Xing had immediately claimed the corner of the room with practiced indifference, reclining against the wall with an air of casual arrogance.

Shen An’s body ached for movement, his mind craving the clarity only training could provide.

Without a word, he left Duan Ru Xing behind, stepping out into the cooling afternoon air. The fading sunlight spilled through the canopy above, casting shifting patterns of gold and green across the forest path.

His steps steady yet mindful, never venturing too far from the village. The bond that tethered his core to Duan Ru Xing's presence weighed heavily on him.

He followed the winding trail until he found what he was searching for—a secluded clearing, shielded by ancient trees standing like solemn guardians. Their gnarled branches twisted toward the sky, forming a protective arch that sealed the space from prying eyes.

The clearing was perfect. Quiet. Still. A place where the outside world felt distant, reduced to the faint whispers of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze. The scent of pine and earth hung thick in the air, grounding him.

Shen An exhaled slowly, letting the familiar calm of solitude settle over him. He shrugged off his outer robe with precise, practiced ease, folding the white fabric neatly and placing it atop a flat, weather-smoothed stone at the edge of the clearing.

Pausing for a moment, Shen An reached up to his hair, his fingers finding the familiar white ribbon woven around his ornamental hairpiece. It was an old strip of cloth, worn but sturdy—once a practical keepsake, now something of a training ritual. He untied it with a smooth and practiced motion. He held the cloth between his fingers for a lingering moment.

He tied the blindfold securely over his eyes, shutting out the dappled light filtering through the canopy. Darkness embraced him, but it was a familiar, comforting void—one that heightened his other senses, sharpening his awareness of the world around him. The rustling of distant branches, the chirping of unseen birds, even the faint murmur of the wind brushing through the grass—all became clearer, more distinct.

His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, its worn leather grip fitting perfectly against his palm. In one smooth motion, he drew the blade free with a whisper of steel, the sound resonating through the stillness like a promise.

Shen An inhaled slowly, letting the cool forest air fill his lungs as he stilled his thoughts. He closed his eyes, the familiar weight of his blade resting comfortably in his hand. There was no need for rigid stances or structured forms today—no drilled repetitions carved into his bones. Instead, he let the clearing itself guide him, allowing the world around him to become both adversary and teacher.

A single leaf, loosened by the breeze, drifted lazily from the canopy above. Its silent descent became his signal. In an instant, he struck—blade flashing as he twisted sharply, carving through the falling leaf with deadly precision. The leaf’s severed halves tumbled toward the ground, caught in another gust of wind that sent more leaves spiraling down like autumn’s forgotten soldiers.

He flowed with the wind’s shifting rhythm, his blade slicing through the air like an extension of his will. The forest seemed to breathe with him, each movement guided by its untamed pulse.

But even amid this harmony, his mind was not entirely his own. No matter how sharply he moved, no matter how fiercely he focused, stray thoughts still lingered—unwanted, persistent. Duan Ru Xing.

The memories of their shared journey pressed against his thoughts like the edge of a blade. Every encounter, every sharp word, every fleeting moment of something other beneath Duan Ru Xing’s smirking facade tugged at his mind. His recent brushes with the so-called “dark lord” had left an indelible mark—a tension he couldn’t quite shake.

For now, there was only the clearing—silent, timeless. His breath merged with the rhythm of each strike, a perfect cadence that carved through the tangled threads of memory and doubt that clung to him. Every fluid movement of his sword became a meditation, each step measured, each arc of the blade an act of controlled release.

But what Shen An did not know was that he was not alone.

Far beyond the ring of light where the clearing met the encroaching shadows of the forest, Duan Ru Xing stood, half-hidden among the trees. He had grown restless in the confines of their small inn room, the walls pressing in on him like silent accusers.

His dark robes rippled like smoke caught in the shifting breeze, a stark contrast against the warm glow of the afternoon light filtering through the forest. He had not intended to linger—only to see where Shen An had gone—but then his gaze fell upon the other man, and for a moment, he stilled, captivated.

There, in the dim light of the fading sun, Shen An moved with a quiet intensity that demanded attention. His strikes were swift, unyielding, yet controlled with an almost reverent grace. The blindfold he wore only seemed to enhance his awareness; his blade guided by senses sharpened beyond sight.

Something about the scene stirred an old, half-buried memory within him—a distant echo of a lifelong past. He had seen this before… though when or how, he could not fully grasp. The memory lingered like an ember refusing to die, its edges blurred by time and loss.

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips, unbidden. It was absurd, really—this relentless determination Shen An possessed, this need to perfect even in isolation. It was the same stubborn, unwavering will Duan Ru Xing had come to expect… and perhaps, in some distant, unwanted part of himself, something he respected.

Just as Duan Ru Xing contemplated leaving—before the creeping familiarity could unnerve him further—his boot brushed against a brittle twig on the forest floor. The sharp crack shattered the stillness of the clearing like a thrown stone breaking the surface of a quiet lake.

He could have moved—could have slipped back into the shadows with the effortless ease he was known for—but instead, he stayed. A twisted sense of amusement coiled within him, daring him to see what Shen An would do.

Shen An froze mid-motion, his sword halting in mid-air with the poise of a coiled viper ready to strike. His breath slowed but did not falter. He did not need his eyes to know he was no longer alone.

His head tilted ever so slightly, his expression remaining unreadable beneath the blindfold. His voice, steady and calm, rang out through the clearing with quiet authority.

“You’re not as stealthy as you think, Duan Ru Xing.”

Duan Ru Xing let out a soft, velvety chuckle, the sound threading through the trees like dark silk. He pushed away from the tree he had been leaning against, stepping into the clearing with an air of deliberate ease, his dark cloak shifting like shadows at his heels.

“And here I thought I was the shadow in the night.” His tone was mocking yet strangely warm, his eyes narrowing in amusement as they traced the line of Shen An’s still blade.

Shen An allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smirk to curve his lips. With a smooth, effortless motion, he reached up and pulled the blindfold free, revealing his sharp, calculating gaze—focused and unwavering.

“Blindfold and all. How impressive.” Duan Ru Xing’s voice was smooth, his words slow and deliberate. “But are you sure you can tell friend from foe?”

Shen An’s smirk deepened just slightly. “A foe would’ve attacked already.”

Duan Ru Xing’s eyes gleamed with mischievous delight. He stepped forward, circling slowly like a predator savoring the hunt.

“Or maybe they’re waiting…” He paused meaningfully, his grin widening. “…to see if you trip over yourself first.”

Shen An met his gaze without flinching, his fingers resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, calm but ready. “If you’re so eager to interrupt,” he said, his voice laced with quiet challenge as his smirk widened just slightly, “why not make yourself useful?”

Duan Ru Xing arched a single brow, clearly entertained by the other man’s composure. With practiced elegance, he drew his own blade in one fluid, whispering motion. The dim light caught along its edge like moonlight on still water.

“I suppose I could,” he replied lightly, tilting his head with practiced indifference, though his gaze burned with anticipation. “Just don’t cry when you lose.”

The clearing seemed to hold its breath, the last rays of the setting sun casting flickering patterns of light and shadow across their poised forms. Neither moved—two blades balanced on the edge of the unseen.

“Are you stalling because you’re afraid?” Shen An’s voice cut through the stillness, calm but edged with challenge. “I didn’t take you for a coward, Duan Ru Xing.”

Duan Ru Xing’s lips twitched into a slow, knowing smirk. “Bold words from someone who still ties his hair like a junior disciple.” He rested his hand lazily on the hilt of his sword. “Are you sure you can keep up? I’d hate to embarrass you.”

Shen An arched a brow, unimpressed. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, the corner of his mouth lifting in a rare, faint smile. “We’ll see how ‘clever’ you are when you’re the one on the ground.”

Duan Ru Xing’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Try not to look too surprised when you lose.”

The world around them seemed to vanish in that instant, consumed by the swift, fluid dance of their blades. Shen An’s strikes were precise and relentless, each movement disciplined and deliberate, like the inevitable fall of autumn’s last leaf. In contrast, Duan Ru Xing fought like a storm—unpredictable and untamed, each swing a calculated risk wrapped in deadly elegance.

Their swords sang with each collision, sparks flashing like fireflies in the waning light. Feet gliding over the soft forest floor, they circled one another in perfect balance—opposite forces locked in an endless, fateful rhythm.

“You’re holding back,” Shen An remarked between strikes, his voice steady despite the fierce pace of their exchange.

“And you’re as stiff as ever,” Duan Ru Xing retorted with a smirk, narrowly sidestepping a sharp thrust. “Relax a little—or is following the rules all you know?”

Their blades locked again, the sharp clang of steel against steel ringing through the stillness of the forest clearing. Their locked blades trembled between them, suspended in perfect tension—a thin line bridging challenge and understanding.

The distance between their faces narrowed, the cold gleam of their weapons the only barrier. Their eyes met and held, locked in an unspoken exchange far more dangerous than any swordplay. Shen An’s gaze burned steady and fierce, clear as an unsheathed blade, while Duan Ru Xing’s dark eyes glinted with something wilder—something unreadable, edged with defiance and something more difficult to name.

The lingering intensity stretched a heartbeat too long, crackling like a bowstring drawn taut. Then—

With a sudden, exaggerated stumble, Duan Ru Xing let out a theatrical groan and collapsed to the ground in a heap, dropping his sword beside him with a loud thud. His head fell back as he flung one arm dramatically over his face, like a defeated hero in some overly tragic folk tale.

“You’ve got me,” he proclaimed with mock solemnity, voice dripping with melodramatic despair. “What now, oh noble hero?”

Shen An froze, blinking in utter disbelief. His sword lowered an inch, wariness mingling with reluctant amusement. His brow arched ever so slightly, his lips twitching toward a suppressed smile.

It was ridiculous. Absurd. Completely in character.

And exactly what he should have expected.

His momentary hesitation was enough. With a wicked grin, Duan Ru Xing swept his leg out, knocking Shen An off his feet and sending him sprawling into the soft grass. 

Laughter spilled from both of them, rare and unguarded. For a moment, the tension between them dissolved into something lighter—something almost… normal. They lay in the grass, breathless but exhilarated from the spar. 

Shen An propped himself up on one elbow, shaking his head. “Cheating already?” 

Duan Ru Xing smirked, rising smoothly to his feet and sheathing his blade. “Adapt or perish.” 

Shen An followed, brushing stray leaves from his tunic. “Not bad for someone who fights like a reckless bandit.” 

Duan Ru Xing’s smirk softened into something fonder, almost wistful. “Not bad for someone still shackled by rules.”

Their eyes met, something unspoken passing between them—a connection neither was quite ready to acknowledge. The clearing fell silent again, the breeze stirring the leaves in soft applause.

The evening air had begun to cool as they returned to the inn, the last vestiges of daylight fading behind the horizon. Their footsteps echoed softly on the worn stone as they entered the modest building. The inn was quiet, the kind of place where travelers might rest their weary feet before continuing their journey.

Duan Ru Xing wasted no time in setting his things on the table, his movements quick and efficient. He began to sift through the contents, unpacking their provisions with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to such tasks.

Shen An watched silently, his gaze moving over the scattered items—dried herbs, a few bundles of cloth, some paper scrolls. But it was something else that caught his attention.

Amid the mundane collection of goods, a small wooden carving slipped from Duan Ru Xing's pack and clattered softly to the floor. It was crude in its craftsmanship, rough-hewn from aged wood, clearly old and worn with time. A simple figure, perhaps a man or a beast, its features obscured by the years of wear, yet still unmistakably a carving of some importance. The sound of it hitting the floor was soft, but to Shen An, it felt as though the world had briefly stilled. His eyes, quick and sharp, fell upon the carving in an instant.

Duan Ru Xing's reaction was immediate—his hand darted out to seize the carving, pulling it back with a speed that surprises Shen An. The motion was almost too quick, too sharp, and the silence that followed felt heavy. Shen An’s gaze lingered on Duan Ru Xing’s clenched fingers, his expression unreadable. The carving was tucked away quickly, hidden from view as though it had never been dropped. But the tension in the room remained, thick with the weight of unspoken things.

Shen An allowed the silence to stretch for a moment longer before speaking. His voice was soft, almost casual, though there was an undertone of genuine curiosity. “A relic from someone important?” he asked, keeping his tone light, careful not to push too far.

Duan Ru Xing’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. His gaze dropped ever so slightly, as though weighing his response with more care than usual. For a moment, he said nothing, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, firm, though lacking its usual sharp edge. “It’s just a keepsake.” His words were simple, but there was a quiet finality to them—not cold, but guarded.

Shen An didn’t press further. Instead, he tilted his head thoughtfully, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. “I did not take you for one prone to sentiment.” His tone was mild, almost teasing, though there was no malice behind the words—only a quiet challenge wrapped in curiosity.

Duan Ru Xing exhaled softly, shaking his head with something between amusement and exasperation. “Everyone has their burdens.” His voice softened just a fraction, losing some of its usual bite. His fingers brushed over the contents of his pack, lingering briefly before continuing his task. “You just carry yours where everyone can see.”

Their gazes met for a brief, charged moment—neither hostile nor distant, but filled with something quieter, something neither of them could quite name. Shen An studied Duan Ru Xing’s expression, searching for a hint of sincerity beneath the usual walls.

“Perhaps.” Shen An’s voice was quiet, almost contemplative. “But some burdens aren’t meant to be hidden forever.”

Duan Ru Xing’s eyes flickered with something unspoken, though he quickly masked it with a familiar smirk. “Careful, Shen An.” His tone turned light again, edging back into familiar banter. “You sound dangerously close to caring.”

Shen An huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head with a faint, reluctant smile. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The moment passed like a breath of wind through the leaves—there, felt deeply, but gone too soon. Duan Ru Xing turned back to his belongings, the faintest trace of something softer lingering in his expression before the familiar mask of indifference slipped firmly back into place.

Shen An said nothing more, choosing instead to let the matter drop. The quiet settled between them, but his mind churned with thoughts, questions left unanswered. What secrets did Duan Ru Xing guard so fiercely, that even the smallest hint of them brought such a reaction? And no matter how many times Duan Ru Xing might hide behind his sharp words and stoic expression, Shen An was beginning to sense that there were secrets beneath those walls—secrets he would one day uncover.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight poured through the inn’s wooden threshold, casting a golden glow that danced across the dusty floorboards. As Shen An stepped out of their shared room, the light seemed to catch on his figure, illuminating his poised movements and the quiet confidence that marked his every step.  

Behind him, Duan Ru Xing emerged with a languid gait, the kind of ease that belied the subtle irritation in his expression. His face bore the unmistakable look of a man who had recently endured a stern rebuke—clearly delivered by the noble figure walking just ahead of him.  

“Your incessant moping is casting a shadow over everyone’s morning,” Shen An remarked without turning, his voice cool and composed, as if delivering an unshakable truth.  

Duan Ru Xing scowled, his lips twitching in annoyance. “Do you ever wake up without the urge to lecture someone?” he muttered, barely loud enough to be heard.  

Shen An didn’t falter in his stride, his gaze fixed ahead, refusing even a backward glance. “Do you ever wake up without the urge to complain?” he asked, his tone calm but pointed.  

Duan Ru Xing let out a soft snort, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Complaining keeps me sharp,” he had joked just to spite the other guy, though the edge of their earlier argument lingered in his voice.  

They had quarreled again that morning, as they often did. Duan Ru Xing had insisted on staying in bed a little longer, his usual lazy defiance clashing against Shen An’s disciplined urgency to begin the day. Their words had been sharp, though not truly venomous—a battle of wills that left both irritated yet accustomed to the routine.  

“Then you must be the sharpest blade in the land by now,” Shen An said evenly, his tone dry and precise, his words cutting with effortless finesse.  

Duan Ru Xing blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before breaking into a genuine laugh. “Hero Shen,” he said with mock admiration, his grin widening, “you’re learning sarcasm. There might be a glimmer of humor in you after all.”  

Shen An exhaled softly, a faint hint of exasperation seeping through his otherwise serene demeanor. “If you’re quite finished being absurd—”  

Duan Ru Xing waved a dismissive hand, still chuckling, as if shooing away an imaginary annoyance. “Alright, alright,” he said, the laughter lingering in his voice. “Go tend to whatever noble duty is pulling at you this morning. Your endless wisdom is already giving me a headache.”  

Shen An shook his head, letting the conversation drop without further protest. With a final, measured step, he moved toward the innkeeper, his posture steady and purposeful as he prepared to settle their account. Behind him, Duan Ru Xing stood in place, his smirk lingering on his lips as his eyes trailed after Shen An, following him like an unshakable shadow.  

With a quiet scoff, Duan Ru Xing nudged the inn’s door open, stepping into the narrow village lane. His sharp gaze swept the street with the practiced indifference of someone who had long ceased to expect surprises from the world. Yet, his steps faltered as a flicker of movement caught his eye.  

It was the same small child from the day before—the one who had stolen the peach he had paid for and stared at him with a defiance far bolder than her years should allow. Today, however, she was wrestling with a basket of firewood, the bundle far too large for her thin arms. Her small figure wavered under the weight, her breaths strained and uneven.  

A loud crack broke the quiet as her foot caught on something. She stumbled, the basket tipping forward, spilling twigs and branches in a chaotic scatter across the dirt road. For a moment, she lay there, her cheeks flushed with the sting of humiliation, her wide eyes glistening with unshed tears.  

Duan Ru Xing halted mid-step, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. His gaze shifted from the child to the empty street. There were no prying eyes, no onlookers to witness what he chose to do next. He could simply turn away, leave her to gather her burden alone. No one would know.  

Instead, he sighed, the sound soft and resigned. Striding forward with an air of unhurried grace, he crouched beside the child before she could recover. His movements were precise, the same efficiency with which he might draw a blade, but there was an uncharacteristic gentleness in the way he collected the scattered wood. Piece by piece, he restored the bundle, securing it once more in its woven frame.  

“Careful, kid,” Duan Ru Xing murmured, his voice low and deliberate, carrying a dangerous calm that hinted at the darkness lurking beneath his composed demeanor. As he handed the basket back to the child, his sharp gaze lingered on her. “It’d be a shame if you stumbled again and all your hard work went to waste, don’t you think?”  

The child froze, her wide eyes locking onto his with a mixture of shock and guilt etched across her face. For a moment, she stood motionless, her small frame tense under his steady gaze. Then, her hands began to fidget with the edge of her sleeve, her eyes darting downward as if searching for courage in the dusty ground. Finally, as though gathering her resolve, she reached into her pocket and retrieved a crumpled flower. Its petals were bruised and curling at the edges, a delicate thing clearly plucked in haste before being tucked away in a rush.   

“Thank you,” she squeaked, her voice barely above a whisper. She thrust the flower toward him, her words tumbling out in a hurried rush. “This is for the peach yesterday, mister.”  

Before he could respond, the child tightened her grip on the basket and darted away, her small figure vanishing down the lane toward a woman standing anxiously at the edge of the village square. The older woman, unmistakably the child’s mother, offered a hurried bow, a fleeting gesture of gratitude. Her movements were flustered as she quickly ushered her daughter away, her soft whispers of thanks drifting faintly on the breeze before they were lost to the quiet.  

Duan Ru Xing straightened slowly, the wilted flower still resting in his hand, its bruised petals crumpled against his palm. He stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable, as though lost in thoughts he would not voice. With a quiet, almost imperceptible shift of his fingers, he tucked the fragile bloom into the folds of his robes, handling it as though it were a treasure far more valuable than it appeared.   

Without a word, he turned back toward the inn, only to halt in surprise when his gaze met Shen An’s.   

From the doorway, Shen An stood quietly, his hands clasped behind his back as he waited. He had just finished a brief conversation with the innkeeper, ready to continue their morning journey, when his gaze had settled on Duan Ru Xing. His expression was as composed as ever, but a faint flicker of curiosity glimmered in his eyes, betraying the depth of his thoughts as he silently observed Duan Ru Xing in this rare, unguarded moment.  

He said nothing as Duan Ru Xing dusted stray bits of bark from his dark sleeves with an air of casual indifference, as though what had just transpired was of no importance. But when Duan Ru Xing glanced up and their eyes met, Shen An saw it—a flicker of something unguarded, swiftly masked by the familiar curve of a practiced smirk.  

“What?” Duan Ru Xing drawled, his tone deliberately lazy, a brow arching with feigned disdain. “Are you going to lecture me about wasting time now?”  

Shen An did not rise to the provocation. Instead, his expression shifted ever so slightly—a small, inscrutable smirk accompanied by the faint roll of his eyes, as though entirely unbothered by what he had witnessed. The subtlety of the gesture made it seem almost imagined. Without a word, he stepped forward, his steps measured as he passed Duan Ru Xing, who trailed a pace behind, his usual air of casual indifference firmly in place.  

Yet as they moved through the quiet streets, Shen An’s thoughts turned inward, replaying the moment he had just observed. The way Duan Ru Xing had handled the scattered firewood—with uncharacteristic gentleness, quiet patience, and a subtle care that belied his sharp, irreverent demeanor—lingered in his mind. It was not the first time Shen An had seen this hidden side of him, one so at odds with the dark, imperious image Duan Ru Xing so deliberately projected to the world.  

What unsettled Shen An, however, was not the act itself but his own reaction to it. He was no longer stunned by these glimpses of unexpected kindness, nor did they feel entirely out of place. On the contrary, they had begun to feel familiar, as though such moments were not anomalies but inevitable. Was it the result of the days they had spent traveling together, or something deeper, something he had yet to fully understand? He could not say.   

Still, Shen An kept his thoughts to himself, his features as smooth and composed as ever. He noted the moment quietly, tucking it away in the recesses of his mind. For now, he would say nothing. The time to question, to push, would come later—if it came at all. Only when his suspicions solidified into certainty would he allow himself to pursue the truth. Until then, he would simply watch and wait.  

By late noon, Shen An and Duan Ru Xing found refuge in a modest establishment tucked away from the main thoroughfare. The corner table they chose bore the marks of time—faint scratches etched into the rough wooden surface, silent reminders of countless meals shared by travelers and locals alike. Shen An lowered himself into his seat with the practiced precision of a man for whom discipline was second nature. Across from him, Duan Ru Xing sank into his chair with far less decorum, his posture relaxed, one arm casually draped over the backrest as though he owned the space.  

The innkeeper approached swiftly; his movements brisk yet welcoming as he wiped his hands on a stained apron. Shen An inclined his head in a respectful bow.  

“Your establishment is most welcoming,” Shen An said, his tone calm and measured, each word spoken with deliberate courtesy. “We would be grateful for a meal. Whatever is freshest from your kitchen will suffice.”  

The innkeeper’s face brightened with a smile, his demeanor shifting to one of eager hospitality. He returned the bow with quick deference, his voice warm. “Of course, honored guests. It will not take long.”  

With that, the innkeeper retreated toward the kitchen, leaving Shen An to settle back into his seat. The hum of the inn’s quiet activity surrounded them, a comforting backdrop as they awaited their meal.  

Duan Ru Xing, observing the exchange with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, leaned back in his chair, his elbow resting casually on the table and his chin propped lazily on his hand. Shen An and his endless habit of bowing—it was almost comical to him. “You don’t have to bow to every passing soul, you know,” he remarked, his tone laced with equal parts amusement and exasperation. “This is not your sect, Hero Shen. Not everyone is waiting with bated breath for your unwavering propriety.”  

Shen An, unperturbed, adjusted the sleeve of his robe with precise care. “Courtesy is a mark of respect,” he replied, his voice steady, unhurried. “It costs nothing to extend and brings no harm in return. You might consider practicing it.”  

A soft chuckle escaped Duan Ru Xing as he leaned back in his chair, the legs creaking faintly beneath his weight. “I’d rather pay with silver,” he said with a smirk, tilting his head slightly as though to emphasize his point. “Courtesy, as you call it, seems a much greater burden.”  

Shen An’s expression did not waver, though a flicker of something—mild disapproval or perhaps wry amusement—passed through his dark eyes. “Silver may open doors,” he said, his tone calm but pointed. “But respect ensures those doors remain open.”  

Before Duan Ru Xing could respond, their meal arrived. The innkeeper returned with a tray laden with simple but hearty dishes: bowls of steaming rice, a plate of sautéed greens glistening with oil, and a fragrant pot of soup that sent tendrils of steam curling into the air. He set the dishes down with practiced efficiency, bowing once more before retreating to tend to his other guests.  

Duan Ru Xing picked up his chopsticks without ceremony, plucking a bite of rice and chewing slowly. The meal was humble, unadorned by the lavish spices of city banquets or the intricate presentation of sect feasts, but it was satisfying in its simplicity. He took another bite, savoring the warmth of the food, and for a moment, he said nothing.  

The two men ate in relative silence, the only sounds between them the clink of chopsticks against porcelain and the occasional murmur of voices from the other tables.  

The tension that had earlier defined their interaction had softened, replaced by a tentative, if unspoken, truce. Perhaps it was the restorative comfort of the food, or perhaps the sheltering calm of the modest inn. Whatever the reason, neither man seemed inclined to disturb the fragile peace that had settled between them.  

Duan Ru Xing, idly swirling his tea, cast a sidelong glance at Shen An. His companion was characteristically composed, his gaze focused on the table before him as though nothing in the world could disrupt his inner balance. For a fleeting moment, Duan Ru Xing considered saying something to break the quiet, but the thought drifted away as faint voices from the far corner of the room reached his ears.  

At first, the words were muffled, the kind of background noise one could easily ignore. But as the whispers grew more urgent, the fragments became distinct: “The trickster…mind games…missing girl.” Shen An’s hand stilled, his chopsticks resting neatly on the edge of his bowl. His sharp gaze shifted imperceptibly toward the murmured conversation.  

Duan Ru Xing raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Eavesdropping, are we?” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite.  

Shen An didn’t dignify the comment with a response. His attention was on the hushed exchange unfolding between the innkeeper and a handful of villagers seated at a distant table. Leaning back slightly, Duan Ru Xing tilted his chair to better hear, his smirk fading as the fragments of the tale became clearer.  

“…it’s been weeks now,” one villager whispered, his voice low but tinged with fear. “They say the trickster feeds on the fear it creates. Twists people’s minds until they can’t tell what is real and what is not.”  

The innkeeper nodded grimly; his face shadowed by the flickering lantern light. “I’ve heard the stories. It lures people into the forest, plays its games until they are too broken to escape. That poor family…losing their daughter like that…”.  

Another villager shivered, clutching a cup of tea in trembling hands. “Was she not taken at twilight, right at the forest’s edge? One moment she was there, and the next—gone, like a wisp of smoke.”  

“They found her ribbon,” the first man added, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tied to a tree deep in the woods, as if mocking them. No one’s dared go in after her. They say the forest itself is cursed now.”  

Duan Ru Xing’s chair thumped softly back onto all four legs as he leaned forward, his gaze meeting Shen An’s across the table. “A trickster, you say?” he called out, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. The villagers froze, their eyes darting toward him with a mixture of surprise and unease.  

“Pay him no mind,” Shen An interjected smoothly, his tone calm but carrying a subtle edge that silenced further protest from Duan Ru Xing. He turned back to the innkeeper. “Forgive my companion’s bluntness. This trickster you speak of—what exactly is it? A spirit? A demon?”  

The innkeeper hesitated, the lines on his weathered face deepening with unease. “It wasn’t always there,” he began, his voice low, as if afraid the very mention of it might summon its presence. “Some say it is a spirit, a mischievous entity that has recently claimed the forest as its domain. Others whisper of a demon, born of resentment and hatred, feeding on those who wander too close. Whatever it is, it thrives on deception. It shows you only what it wants you to see, makes you hear only what it wants you to hear. And those who dare to tread its territory—few return unscathed, and even fewer with their minds intact.”   

“And the girl?” Shen An pressed, his voice steady, though his gaze was keen and searching. “How long has she been missing?”  

“Two weeks,” the innkeeper said, his voice barely above a murmur. “Her family…they’re desperate, but they’ve given up hope. No one dares to enter the forest now.”  

Duan Ru Xing leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, though his eyes held a glimmer of curiosity. “Perhaps it’s just a tale to keep children close to home,” he drawled, his tone light but not dismissive. “Trickster or not, it’s easier for people to blame the shadows when misfortune strikes.”  

Shen An’s gaze did not waver. “And yet the shadows often hold truths we would rather not face.”  

The innkeeper inclined his head gravely. “You are wise to be cautious, honored guest. If you must pass through the forest, do so quickly and with care. The trickster has no mercy.”  

Duan Ru Xing scoffed softly but said nothing more, his expression turning pensive. Shen An dipped his head in a polite nod, signaling the end of the conversation. As the villagers returned to their hushed whispers, he turned his attention back to Duan Ru Xing. “We should investigate,” he said, his tone calm yet resolute as his eyes met Duan Ru Xing’s skeptical glare.   

“I was afraid you would say that. I could see the excitement written all over your face the moment you heard about it.” Duan Ru Xing sighed.  

“We’re here now. If we can do some good before we continue, we should.”  

Duan Ru Xing leaned forward, his chin resting lightly on his knuckles, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Should we?” he asked, his voice low and edged with dry amusement. “This isn’t our affair. We have our own journey to continue.”  

“A young child has disappeared,” Shen An countered, his tone measured but firm. He knew most would never expect the infamous Duan Ru Xing to care about such matters, yet Shen An had observed enough to know otherwise. He remembered the subtle change in Duan Ru Xing’s expression when they had first heard rumors of a little girl being taken. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it was there—a flicker of something deeper beneath the dark lord’s practiced indifference.  

He was not wrong. The faint smirk faded from Duan Ru Xing’s face, replaced by a seriousness that darkened his sharp features. Though he said nothing at first, his silence spoke louder than any argument. Whatever the villagers’ exaggerations, the mention of a missing child seemed to cut through the layers of his usual apathy.  

Shen An’s expression did not waver. His voice remained composed, though there was a quiet steel beneath it. “It will be quick. I only need to see if there’s any clue in the forest. The longer we wait, the worse it becomes for those this trickster preys upon.” He continued.  

Duan Ru Xing opened his mouth to retort, but before he could speak, a piercing scream shattered the relative calm of the tavern. Conversations halted abruptly, and the air seemed to still.  

The cry of a woman, raw with anguish, echoed through the thin walls. Shen An and Duan Ru Xing exchanged sharp, knowing glances and rose to their feet simultaneously, moving toward the door with practiced urgency.  

Outside, a small crowd had gathered around a woman crumpled on the ground, her wails cutting through the tense murmurs of the villagers. Tears streaked her dirt-smudged face as she clung to the arm of a man who appeared just as helpless. She kept repeating the same words, her voice trembling with desperation. “My daughter! My daughter is gone! Taken. In the forest”  

Duan Ru Xing’s eyes narrowed slightly as he recognized her. It was the same mother he had seen that morning—the one whose child had offered him a flower in apology for stealing his peach. His jaw tightened. Now, the little girl was missing, taken by what the villagers whispered was a trickster haunting the forest.  

Shen An was already kneeling beside the woman, his calm demeanor like a steadying anchor amidst the storm of panic. “We will help you,” he said, his voice low but firm. His words carried an unshakable conviction, enough to make the distraught mother pause and cling to the promise with trembling hands.  

Duan Ru Xing stood behind him, arms folded, his expression a mix of seriousness and resignation. This was not their problem. They had no obligation to entangle themselves in the fears and superstitions of this village. And yet he could not find it in him to just leave.  

He sighed; the sound barely audible. “All right, hero,” he said dryly, his tone laced with reluctant amusement. “Let’s get this over with.”  

The villagers hurriedly recounted what little they knew, their voices tinged with unease. A few men described hearing strange noises in the woods at night—whispers carried on the wind and eerie laughter that seemed out of place. An older woman, her voice trembling, spoke of a trickster spirit, a creature said to lure children away with promises of games and sweets, leaving no trace behind. Yet, as they spoke, it was clear none of them could distinguish fact from fiction. The line between truth and fearful exaggeration had long since blurred.   

“A girl vanished last month,” one man added grimly, his face pale under the harsh sun. “And now this. The forest has become cursed, I tell you.”  

Duan Ru Xing snorted softly. “Cursed, is it? Why would a malevolent trickster target such a small village, are your towns people hiding something ancient and priceless?” He asked, making the man panic not knowing what to say, from the looks of their faces it seems they are as clueless as him.  

“Duan Ru Xing,” Shen An’s voice was sharp but measured, cutting off the rising tension. He turned back to the villagers. “Where was the child last seen?”  

The crowd gestured toward the forest’s edge, where the trees loomed tall and dark against the midday sky. The air seemed to shift as they approached, growing heavier, the chirping of birds and rustling leaves subdued under the weight of unspoken fears.  

The tree line loomed closer, the shadows beneath the leafy canopy deep and impenetrable. As they stepped into the forest, the sounds of the village faded behind them, replaced by the eerie quiet of the woods. The scent of damp earth and moss filled the air, and every step echoed unnaturally loud.  

“Our journey to Anning Village will have to wait,” Shen An said quietly, his voice barely louder than a whisper.  

Duan Ru Xing smirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. “A trickster in the shadows, a missing child. How very noble of us.”  

Shen An did not respond, his eyes scanning the dense forest ahead. A life hung in the balance, and whatever lurked here would soon face them.  

As soon as they stepped into the forest, the atmosphere shifted. The towering canopy of ancient trees wove together like the vaulted ceiling of some forgotten temple, their twisted branches entwined to form intricate patterns that let only faint shafts of light filter through. Shadows danced and flickered along the uneven ground, teasing the edges of perception, as if the forest itself sought to confuse its visitors. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the earthy scent of moss and decaying leaves.  

At first, the stillness seemed almost serene. The faint crunch of their boots against the damp underbrush was accompanied by the occasional distant trill of birdsong, and here and there a stray ray of sunlight broke through the verdant ceiling above. Yet, as Shen An and Duan Ru Xing pressed deeper into the woods, a subtle unease began to creep into the air. The chirping of birds grew sporadic, as though even they hesitated to linger in this place. The gentle whispers of the wind through the branches became muted, their rhythm erratic and disjointed. Each sound felt distorted, amplified, and then muffled, like echoes in a chamber that had no walls.  

“This forest doesn’t like us,” Duan Ru Xing muttered under his breath, his voice breaking the fragile stillness. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, his sharp eyes scanning the shadows with practiced wariness.  

Shen An walked a pace ahead, his posture calm but vigilant, one hand resting lightly on the scabbard of his blade. “Forests don’t like or dislike,” he replied evenly, though his gaze darted between the trees, as if expecting the darkness to come alive at any moment. “But there’s something… unnatural here.”  

Their conversation fell away as the path ahead darkened further, the sunlight dimming with each step. The air grew colder, a sharp bite that prickled their skin and raised the hair on the back of their necks.  

Then, without warning, the weather turned. Just moments ago, the sky visible through the latticework of branches had been a serene blue, streaked with golden light. Now, heavy clouds, gray and menacing, rolled in as though summoned by an unseen hand. A sudden gust of icy wind swept through the forest, rattling the branches, and flipping leaves inside out. It carried with it the scent of rain, sharp and metallic, like the edge of a blade.  

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, ominous growl that seemed to reverberate through the very ground beneath their feet. The first drops of rain came swiftly, cold, and unyielding, striking their faces and hands with startling force. Within moments, the drizzle became a deluge. Sheets of rain poured from the heavens, hammering against bark and soil, turning the forest floor into a treacherous mire of mud and slick roots.  

Duan Ru Xing cursed under his breath, pulling his cloak tighter around himself, though it did little to keep the relentless rain at bay. “Fantastic,” he said dryly, though his voice carried a tense edge. “Just the perfect weather for chasing tricksters.”  

Shen An narrowed his eyes, peering through the curtain of rain. Water dripped fro m his brow and trailed down his face, but his focus did not waver. The oppressive weight of the forest pressed down harder now, the once-muted whispers of the wind replaced by a cacophony of snapping branches and rustling leaves. He exhaled slowly, as if trying to steady himself against the rising tide of unease.  

“This is no ordinary storm,” Shen An murmured, his voice barely audible over the pounding rain. He wiped the water from his face with one hand, the other tightening on the hilt of his sword. “This cannot be natural.”  

Duan Ru Xing glanced at him; his expression grim but tinged with faint amusement. “And here I thought you might say something comforting for once,” he quipped, though his eyes betrayed the same wariness Shen An felt. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his weapon, his body tense as if ready to spring into action at the first sign of danger.  

Shen An did not reply. His gaze swept over the rain-drenched landscape; his every sense attuned to the shifting energy around them. The storm had come too suddenly, too fiercely, as though the forest itself sought to drive them back—or worse, to trap them within its grasp. The faintest flicker of movement caught his eye, a shadow darting between the trees, but when he turned to focus on it, the shape was gone.  

“We must stay alert,” Shen An said at last, his tone calm but firm. “The trickster may already know we’re here.”  

Together, they pressed on, their steps slow and deliberate, the weight of the storm and the forest’s ancient secrets bearing down upon them. Whatever lurked within these shadows, it was watching—and waiting.  

The rain came down in torrents, sheets of water falling so thick it seemed as though the heavens themselves sought to drown the earth. Duan Ru Xing pulled his soaked cloak tighter around his shoulders, the fabric clinging uselessly to his frame. His expression, though as sharp and composed as ever, bore a distinct edge of irritation.  

“We need shelter,” he growled, his voice terse as thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. “I refuse go further or to stand here like a drowned rat.”  

Shen An, equally drenched, hesitated for a moment. His pride warred with practicality, but the icy water streaming down his back quickly forced his decision. “Agreed,” he said reluctantly, his tone clipped. The storm had proven as stubborn as their current predicament, and pressing on without cover was no longer an option.  

The two of them trudged through the storm, their boots squelching against the saturated earth. The faint traces of an overgrown path emerged beneath the underbrush, half-swallowed by creeping vines and thick moss. It was treacherous and faint, but it was their only guide. The rain obscured all else, its steady drumming muffling even their footfalls.  

Shen An began to consider invoking a barrier of qi to divert the rain or perhaps changing their route entirely, when a dark shape materialized ahead, hazy through the mist and falling water. As they drew closer, it resolved into a small, decrepit hut, its sagging roof choked with moss and its crooked door hanging precariously from rusted hinges. It was far from inviting—more shadow than refuge—but it was shelter, nonetheless.  

Duan Ru Xing was the first to approach, giving the door a hard shove. It groaned loudly, the sound echoing through the storm as it swung inward. The air inside was damp and stale, heavy with the scent of rot and decay. The single room was cluttered with remnants of the past: a collapsed stool, old straw mats scattered across the dirt floor, and the faint traces of a hearth long cold.  

Shen An followed, his movements precise and deliberate despite the weight of his soaked robes. He stripped off the drenched outer layer, shaking off the excess water before hanging it near the doorway on a makeshift rack they had quickly fashioned. Duan Ru Xing did the same, his actions less meticulous but no less practical, draping his own outer robe alongside Shen An’s.  

Shen An moved to the center of the room, lowering himself to the floor. Straightening his spine, he rested his hands lightly on his knees and closed his eyes, slipping seamlessly into meditation.   

Meanwhile, Duan Ru Xing found a relatively dry spot near the far wall, leaning against it with a tired exhale. His gaze flicked briefly toward the storm raging outside, the relentless rain hammering against the sagging roof like an army of impatient fingers. Reaching into his pocket, his hand brushed against something small and fragile—the crumpled flower the little girl had given him. Now wet and wilted, it lay in his palm, its delicate petals battered by the storm. His expression grew unreadable as he turned it over between his fingers.  

A sudden, unshakable urge stirred within him. The thought of the girl. The image of finding her broken, like the battered petals in his hand, sent a flicker of resolve through him, sharper and deeper than he cared to admit.  

Shen An, his senses attuned even in meditation, opened his eyes, the faint movement drawing his attention. His calm gaze settled on Duan Ru Xing, watching silently as the other man regarded the flower.  

Noticing Shen An’s eyes on him, Duan Ru Xing’s expression shifted subtly. With a flick of his wrist, he tucked the flower away, hiding it from view as though it were something unimportant. He leaned back against the wall, letting the rhythmic pounding of the rain fill the silence between them. Shen An said nothing, closing his eyes once more, though his thoughts lingered briefly on the quiet, unspoken moment.  

Duan Ru Xing let out a low chuckle, the sound unexpectedly warm, cutting through the gloom of the moment. “Perhaps the heavens paired you with me for their own entertainment,” he said, his tone light and teasing. “After all, what’s more amusing than watching us sit here, trapped by a storm, with nothing but silence and our sparkling personalities to pass the time?”  

The corners of Shen An’s lips twitched ever so slightly. With deliberate calm, he opened one eye, arching a single brow in a way that carried the weight of both amusement and subtle reproach. His gaze was sharp, calm, and cutting all at once. “I’m certain the heavens have their reasons,” he replied, his tone mild yet threaded with unmistakable dry humor.  

The subtle jab caught Duan Ru Xing off guard. For a moment, he simply stared at Shen An, his smirk slipping before softening into something more genuine. It wasn’t a smile of victory or mischief—just a fleeting moment of quiet acknowledgment.  

Shen An’s expression remained steady, but the atmosphere between them shifted. The tension that had hung heavy in the air earlier began to ease, dissolving into something quieter, less combative. Though they remained seated apart—Duan Ru Xing leaning against the wall and Shen An composed in the center of the room—the invisible distance separating them seemed just a little smaller.  

The storm howled with unrelenting fury, rain lashing against the windows of the abandoned hut in a deafening cascade. The relentless downpour drowned out all other sounds, save for the occasional groan of the wind battering the sagging walls. The fire in the hearth sputtered and hissed, struggling to survive in the damp, suffocating air. Hours passed, and yet the storm showed no sign of easing, its ferocity unnatural, almost malevolent.  

Shen An sat cross-legged near the hearth, his posture straight and composed, though his narrowed eyes betrayed his unease. Something about the storm felt wrong, as if the world outside had been twisted into a mockery of itself. His gaze shifted to Duan Ru Xing, who lounged lazily against the far wall. With a dagger in hand, he whittled aimlessly at a piece of wood, his expression unreadable, his focus seemingly elsewhere.  

“It’s been too long,” Shen An murmured, his voice quiet but edged with caution. His tone carried the weight of certainty, cutting through the relentless pounding of the storm.  

Duan Ru Xing didn’t lift his gaze, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Afraid the heavens are punishing you for dragging me along?” he teased lightly, his words intended to pierce the tension rather than deepen it.  

Shen An ignored the jibe, rising to his feet in one smooth motion. “This storm isn’t real,” he said, his voice calm but firm, the words hanging in the air like a blade poised to strike.  

At that, Duan Ru Xing’s hands stilled, his smirk fading as his dagger paused mid-carve. His sharp eyes flicked toward the rain-slicked windows, narrowing as realization began to take shape. Without a word, he set the wood aside, his attention sharpening as he watched Shen An cross the room.  

Shen An moved to the door with deliberate care, his hand resting briefly on the weathered frame before he pushed it open. The heavy creak of the hinges seemed deafening against the storm's roar—but the moment the door swung wide; the storm ceased.  

The rain, the wind—every sound that had battered them for hours—vanished as if it had never existed. Shen An stepped cautiously through the threshold, his expression shifting to one of quiet disbelief. The forest beyond stood cloaked in an eerie stillness, dense fog coiling around the twisted trees like a living entity. The air was unnervingly calm, heavy with a silence that pressed down like a tangible weight.  

“This is impossible,” Shen An murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He crouched briefly, brushing his hand against the ground. There were no puddles, no mud—only the faint scent of damp moss and the unnatural quiet of an untouched forest.  

Duan Ru Xing joined him, his gaze sweeping the scene with sharp intent. His posture stiffened, and the faint humor that usually colored his tone was gone. “Well,” he said finally, his voice low and tinged with wry humor, “it seems the heavens really are playing games with us now.”  

Surveying their surroundings. The hut now stood in a clearing they did not recognize, the familiar path they had followed swallowed by the forest’s unnatural growth. No trails led away; the trees pressed in like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting skyward.  

“That trickster,” Duan Ru Xing said, his voice low and heavy with realization as his gaze dropped to their completely dry clothes, untouched by the storm that had soaked them moments ago. It was as if the rain had never happened. “The one they warned us about in the village… we’re already caught in its snare, aren’t we?”  

Shen An’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp as steel. He felt the weight of the realization settle between them like a stone. They had been deceived, lured into the trickster’s web by illusions of storm and shelter. Now, in the sudden and unnatural calm, they stood in the heart of the forest, more isolated and vulnerable than before.  

The forest stretched endlessly ahead; its twisted trees veiled in an oppressive silence that seemed to smother every sound. The stillness pressed heavily against their senses, an invisible weight that grew with each step. Yet, despite the unease coiling around them, they chose to press onward, venturing deeper into the heart of the labyrinthine woods, knowing they were hopelessly lost.   

“It’s a trap,” Shen An said quietly, his voice cutting through the oppressive stillness. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the weapon still sheathed, though his posture radiated readiness. Each word was deliberate, measured, like the first move in a dangerous game.  

Duan Ru Xing walked beside him. His sharp eyes swept the surroundings, catching every flicker of movement in the mist. A faint smirk curled his lips. “You’re just now realizing that?” he drawled, his tone edged with amusement.  

Shen An glanced back at him, his expression calm but firm. “I realized it the moment we stepped into this forest,” he replied evenly. “But confirmation is worth more than suspicion.”  

Duan Ru Xing let out a low chuckle, his voice a soft, sardonic counterpoint to the eerie quiet. “Confirmation? I thought your kind trusted their instincts above all else.”  

Shen An’s gaze returned to the path ahead, his steps steady. “Instincts are important,” he said, his tone unwavering. “But instinct without reason is recklessness.”  

Duan Ru Xing arched an eyebrow, his smirk growing as he kept pace beside Shen An. “So, the great Shen An is cautious to a fault. How refreshing,” he remarked, his tone laced with mock amusement. He glanced at the forest ahead, his steps unhurried yet purposeful. “Pray, enlighten me—what is your grand strategy for escaping this little snare we’ve so gracefully wandered into?”  

Shen An paused, the stillness of his figure matched by the quiet around them. He turned his head slightly, his profile sharp against the shifting mist. “We do not outwit it,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “Not yet. We move forward, observe, and let it reveal itself. The hunter’s first mistake is acting without understanding their prey.”  

Duan Ru Xing’s smirk faltered for a moment, replaced by a flicker of something more thoughtful. He tilted his head, considering Shen An’s words. “Fair enough,” he admitted, his tone less mocking. “Though I’m more inclined to gut the trap and deal with the consequences later.”  

“That is why the heavens paired us,” Shen An remarked dryly, resuming his measured pace. “To balance your rashness with reason.”  

Duan Ru Xing barked a quiet laugh, his footsteps falling into rhythm beside Shen An’s. “And here I thought it was a punishment—for both of us.”  

The faintest curve of Shen An’s lips hinted at amusement, though his focus never wavered. “Perhaps. But if it is, then we must endure it until our paths diverge.”  

They walked in silence for a time, the only sounds the faint crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional whisper of wind through the branches.   

Duan Ru Xing broke the silence, his voice quieter now, less biting. “Do you think the child is still alive?”  

Shen An’s jaw tightened, his gaze hardening like tempered steel. “I cannot say,” he replied evenly, though the resolve in his tone was unmistakable. “But if there is even the slightest chance, we must act as though she is still alive.”  

Before he could say more, his attention snapped toward the forest, his body tensing. A shadow flitted between the trees, fleeting and indistinct, barely more than a flicker at the edge of his vision—but it was enough. His instincts sharpened, the calm veneer of his demeanor giving way to a quiet, alert urgency.  

Duan Ru Xing followed his gaze, his smirk widening as he gestured lazily toward the swirling fog, where shadows seemed to weave just out of reach. “Wonderful,” he drawled, his tone carrying both humor and danger. “It seems they are already here. Shall we go and greet them properly?”  

Shen An’s expression hardened, the calm in his eyes replaced by a piercing intensity that allowed no room for argument. “Stay alert,” he commanded, his tone even but carrying undeniable weight. “For once, we might be at a disadvantage. Our minds are being played with.”  

Duan Ru Xing snorted softly, the corner of his mouth curling into a wider smirk. “The great Shen An and the infamous Duan Ru Xing,” he drawled, his tone rich with mockery. “Surely two such legendary figures can manage a few parlor tricks.”  

Shen An stepped forward deliberately, his gaze locking onto Duan Ru Xing’s with the sharpness of a drawn blade. “Your overconfidence will get us killed,” he said, his voice dropping into a low warning that carried the weight of unshakable authority. “For once, listen to someone other than yourself.”  

For a moment, the air between them grew tense, the silence pressing down as heavily as the oppressive mist around them. The forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next move. Then the fog thickened, coiling around the clearing like a living thing, twisting and shifting as though it had a will of its own. From its oppressive depths, shadows emerged—silent figures cloaked in dark robes, their faces obscured by smooth, featureless masks. They moved with eerie grace, their steps soundless, their presence more felt than seen.  

Shen An’s hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of Hong Meng, the ancient blade humming faintly with restrained power. The polished steel whispered as it slid free from its sheath, its surface gleaming with an otherworldly glow in the dim, shifting light. Shen An’s posture was steady and unyielding, his calm presence underpinned by the sharp focus in his eyes, as precise and deadly as the blade he wielded.  

Beside him, Duan Ru Xing unsheathed his own sword with a flick of his wrist. The dark sword, seemed to drink in the faint light, its obsidian edge glinting like a fragment of night itself.   

The shadowed figures emerged from the shadows, their movements fluid and coordinated, their blades flashing as they closed the distance. Their attack came with the sudden ferocity of a storm, the air between them charged with lethal intent.  

Shen An’s movements were a masterclass in precision. His blade flowed like water, parrying strikes with deliberate ease and turning each clash into an opportunity. The rhythm of his swordplay was unbroken, a seamless dance of offense and defense. One figure lunged, their blade aiming for his throat, but Shen An twisted, disarming them with a sharp strike before delivering a swift, calculated blow to incapacitate them.  

Nearby, Duan Ru Xing fought with a feral elegance. His strikes were fast, brutal, and efficient, each aimed to disable or kill. Where Shen An’s style was measured, Duan Ru Xing’s was chaos unleashed, his movements unpredictable and his attacks merciless. He darted through the fray like a shadow, his sword finding its mark again and again.  

The clearing erupted into chaos, the clashing of steel and the cries of the wounded breaking the eerie silence. Yet even amidst the chaos, the two fought with an unspoken understanding, their movements complementing each other like the flow of yin and yang.  

Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the assassins were gone. One moment they lunged with deadly intent, their blades glinting in the dim light; the next, their forms dissolved into the swirling fog like smoke, leaving behind only an oppressive silence.  

Shen An’s sword, Hong Meng, hovered mid-strike, its faint hum fading into the stillness. His breathing was controlled but heavy, his sharp gaze scanning the dim forest. The unnatural stillness pressed against him like a weight. “Illusions?” he murmured, his voice low, edged with suspicion.  

Duan Ru Xing’s smirk returned, sharp and knowing. “It’s him,” he said grimly, his tone cold and sure. “The trickster.”  

The air around them seemed to ripple, a crackling tension coursing through the clearing. The mist thickened, swirling like a living entity as slow, deliberate applause echoed through the shadows. Each clap was mocking, precise, and filled with venomous amusement.  

From the swirling fog, a figure emerged, draped in white robes embroidered with red sigils that shimmered faintly in the dim light. His pale, angular face was sharp, his expression chillingly composed. A cold, venomous smile tugged at his lips as his eyes, calculating and cruel, swept over the two warriors.  

“Jiang Lian,” Shen An said, his voice steady, though a flicker of restrained ire lingered beneath the surface. His grip on Hong Meng tightened, the polished blade humming faintly as though responding to its master’s emotions.  

Duan Ru Xing cast a sidelong glance at Shen An, surprise flashing briefly in his dark eyes. It was not often that Shen An showed recognition of someone from the shadows, yet here he stood, glaring at the man with a mixture of disdain and something deeper—betrayal, perhaps.  

Shen An’s gaze burned into Jiang Lian, a name he had long hoped never to hear again. Once, Jiang Lian had been a celebrated tactician, renowned for his unmatched brilliance in strategy and his mastery of illusions. He had stood as a figure of promise, revered for his intellect and ingenuity —a man Shen An himself had once held in high regard.  

But ambition had consumed him, and his hunger for power had driven him down a path so dark it severed him from all he once stood for.  

Banished from his sect for crimes too heinous to speak of, Jiang Lian had embraced his exile, shedding all pretense of honor. He had become a mercenary, one who thrived on fear and chaos, a name whispered across the land with dread and loathing. His cunning and cruelty were legendary, his name now synonymous with deceit and destruction.  

“What a captivating sight,” Jiang Lian drawled, his voice smooth as silk, yet laced with malice. “The noble sword of justice fighting side by side with the disgraced lord of shadows. A tragic little play, isn’t it?”  

Shen An stepped forward, his blade still drawn. His eyes narrowed, cold as the steel he wielded. “Jiang Lian. It is you terrorizing the villagers?” His voice was steady, but his knuckles whitened around his sword. “Where is the child?”  

Jiang Lian chuckled softly; the sound devoid of warmth. “Still clinging to that tedious righteousness, Shen An? How exhausting it must be to drag the weight of your ideals through the mud.” His gaze flicked toward Duan Ru Xing, his smirk widening. “And you—what is more pathetic than a ‘dark lord’ hiding behind someone else’s blade?”  

Duan Ru Xing’s expression remained impassive, though his jaw tightened. “Careful,” he said coolly, his voice sharp. “I might decide you’re not worth the trouble after all.”  

Jiang Lian’s smirk widened as his fingers traced idle patterns in the air, the mist shifting at his command. “How valiant,” he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. “But tell me, heroes —how do you intend to strike when you cannot see the truth of what stands before you?”  

With a flick of his wrist, the fog surged forward, coalescing into shadowy forms that moved with an unsettling fluidity. Illusions, but no less dangerous. The phantoms bore blades of mist and fire, their movements almost hypnotic as they circled the two men.  

Shen An did not hesitate. His sword flashed in the dim light as he lunged forward, slicing through the first of the illusions. The figure dissolved into mist, but another took its place, striking from his blind side. Shen An spun, his blade meeting the illusion’s in a clash of steel and phantom light. His movements were precise, each strike calculated, but the illusions kept coming, their forms twisting and reforming faster than he could dispatch them.  

Duan Ru Xing moved with a different rhythm, his attacks chaotic and unpredictable. He darted through the shifting fog, his sword working as he carved through the illusions. Each strike was brutal, aimed to destroy, but like Shen An, he found himself surrounded, the illusions reforming as quickly as they were struck down.  

“They’re endless!” Duan Ru Xing growled, slashing through another phantom. “How do we fight smoke and mirrors?”  

Shen An’s eyes narrowed as he parried another strike, his voice calm despite the chaos. “They are illusions, not invincible. It’s the source we must focus on”   

The phantoms pressed closer, their movements growing more frenzied. Shen An’s blade danced in a seamless arc, cutting through the advancing figures, but his gaze was sharp, searching. His instincts led him to Jiang Lian, whose figure remained still amidst the chaos, his hands weaving intricate patterns in the air.  

“There!” Shen An shouted, his voice cutting through the din. “Jiang Lian is controlling them!”  

Duan Ru Xing did not need further instruction. He shifted his focus, his movements a blur as he carved a path toward the trickster. The illusions surged in response, converging to protect their master. Shen An followed, his blade cleaving through the misty forms with renewed purpose.  

Jiang Lian’s smirk faltered as the two closed the distance. “Persistent, aren’t we?” he muttered, his hands moving faster, the fog around him thickening into a swirling barrier. The illusions grew more frenzied, their strikes faster and more erratic.  

With a feral growl, Duan Ru Xing broke through the barrier, his sword flashing as he closed in on Jiang Lian. The trickster barely dodged, his robes tearing as the blade grazed his arm. He stumbled back; his smirk replaced by a snarl.  

Shen An seized the opportunity, his sword slicing through the remaining barrier. He lunged; his blade aimed for Jiang Lian’s heart. The trickster raised his hand, a pulse of energy surging outward and forcing both men to step back.  

“You think you’ve won?” Jiang Lian sneered, his breathing heavy. “This is far from over.”  

Jiang Lian flicked his wrist, summoning a cloud of shimmering mist. It surged between him and his attackers, obscuring their vision. Shen An pressed forward, his blade cutting through the mist, but Jiang Lian’s voice rang out, cold and triumphant.  

The clearing fell silent as the last of the illusions dissolved into mist, Jiang Lian’s laughter echoing in the still air. The oppressive fog swirled lazily around them, as if mocking their effort. Shen An stood at the center of the chaos, his sword still raised, its edge gleaming faintly with residual energy. Beside him, Duan Ru Xing gave his sword a sharp flick, the dark blade glinting faintly as his piercing gaze swept through the swirling haze, searching for any trace of their hidden adversary.   

“Show yourself, Jiang Lian!” Shen An’s voice was cold and commanding, his tone cutting through the eerie quiet. “Enough games. Face your judgment.”  

From the shadows, Jiang Lian’s voice slithered into the clearing, smooth and mocking. “Judgment? From you, Shen An? The ever-noble warrior who believes he can cleanse the world with a swing of his blade?”  

The mist parted like a stage curtain, and Jiang Lian stepped forward, his robes flowing unnatural elegance. His pale face bore a smug grin, his sharp features framed by the dim glow of the dissipating illusions. “Tell me, Shen An, does your righteousness ever tire you? Or is it easier when you have a darker shadow,” his eyes flicked toward Duan Ru Xing, “to blame for your shortcomings?”  

Shen An’s grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles whitening. “Enough talk,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. He took a step forward, his intent clear.  

But before he could advance, Duan Ru Xing’s hand shot out, gripping Shen An’s shoulder with iron strength. “Don’t,” Duan Ru Xing said, his voice firm and cutting. His dark eyes burned with warning. “This is what he wants.”  

Shen An turned sharply, his gaze meeting Duan Ru Xing’s with a mixture of anger and confusion. “You expect me to let him go?”  

“You’re not thinking,” Duan Ru Xing replied, his voice unshaken. “He is baiting you, drawing you into a trap. You cannot win if you charge in blind.”  

Jiang Lian chuckled softly, the sound laced with venom. “Ah, Duan Ru Xing, always the voice of reason. Or is it fear? Tell me, do you truly believe you can hold him back? Or are you simply too weak to fight me yourself?”  

Shen An’s jaw tightened, the taunt striking a nerve he couldn’t ignore. His grip on Hong Meng shifted as he moved to shake off Duan Ru Xing’s hold, but the latter’s hand remained firm, his fingers gripping like iron. “Stop,” Duan Ru Xing growled, his voice low and edged with urgency. “Think. You will be walking straight into his trap Shen An.”  

Shen An hesitated, his heated glare shifting toward Duan Ru Xing. For a moment, their eyes locked, tension crackling like an invisible storm between them.  

But before either could act further, Jiang Lian’s smirk deepened, his calculating gaze gleaming with triumph. Seizing the opportunity, he flicked his wrist, sending a gleaming object whistling through the air—a fan of poisoned needles, their deadly tips glinting like fangs in the dim light. The distraction had worked to perfection.  

“Too slow,” Jiang Lian taunted, his laughter ringing through the clearing.  

Time seemed to freeze. Shen An’s eyes widened as the needles flew toward him, their deadly tips aimed with precision. But before he could react, Duan Ru Xing shoved him aside with brutal force.  

The needles struck Duan Ru Xing, embedding deep into his shoulder and side. He staggered but refused to fall, his breathing labored as the venom coursed through his veins. Despite the searing pain, he turned his head toward Shen An, his faint smirk still in place, though weaker now.   

"See?" he rasped, his voice hoarse but laced with defiance. "This is why you don't rush in."   

Shen An's gaze shifted to the needles embedded in Duan Ru Xing's flesh, the faint sheen of their edges catching his attention. The color of the poison was unmistakable-a toxin he recognized well. His jaw tightened as he watched the venom begin its cruel work, spreading like wildfire through Duan Ru Xing's system.   

Jiang Lian's laughter echoed through the clearing, cold and triumphant, before fading into the mist as he retreated. His figure vanished like a wraith, dissolving into the swirling fog that seemed to breathe with life.   

As the fog began to dissipate, the oppressive energy that had choked the air faded along with it. Shen An stood motionless, his blade still in hand, his expression cold and unreadable. With a measured motion, he sheathed Hong Meng, his sharp gaze lingering on the spot where Jiang Lian had disappeared   

For a moment, the tension held, but then Shen An turned, his attention shifting to Duan Ru Xing. The sight of him collapsing to the ground broke through Shen An's detached demeanor. Concern flickered in his eyes as he moved quickly to his companion's side, the urgency in his movements betraying the calm exterior he struggled to maintain. He had let Jiang Lian escape, but at this moment, nothing else mattered more than ensuring Duan Ru Xing's survival.  

“Why did you do that?” Shen An snapped, his voice sharp with barely restrained anger as he knelt beside Duan Ru Xing, who had collapsed onto the moss-covered ground. He gripped Duan Ru Xing’s arm, steadying him as his body sagged against the damp earth.  

“It’s just a scratch,” Duan Ru Xing muttered, his voice weak but defiant, a faint smirk playing on his pale lips as though dismissing the gravity of his condition.  

Shen An’s eyes darkened as he examined the wounds, his fingers brushing against the needles still embedded in Duan Ru Xing’s shoulder and side. “This isn’t just a scratch,” he said, his voice low but seething. “This is poison!”  

Duan Ru Xing let out a weak, bitter laugh, the sound rasping as though it cost him effort. “Better me than you,” he replied, his lips curling into a faint smirk that barely hid his pain. “At least if I fall, it is for a cause I choose—not for some grand ideal forced upon me, like your endless crusade for justice.”  

Shen An’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening as a flicker of frustration crossed his face. “This is not just about me!” he retorted, his voice low and sharp. “You do not have the right to decide whose life holds more value.”  

Duan Ru Xing’s breath hitched, his expression tightening as pain surged through him, but the fire in his dark eyes remained unyielding. “And you do not have the right to tell me how to live—or how to die.”  

“You are not going to die,” Shen An said, his voice steady and firm, carrying the weight of an unyielding command. “We will see this through, and you will survive. That much I will make certain.”  

Duan Ru Xing blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the weight of Shen An’s words. His lips twitched faintly, as though he might form a sarcastic remark, but the effort proved too much.  

“Jiang Lian...” Duan Ru Xing murmured weakly, his voice barely audible, strained from effort and exhaustion.  

“We will deal with him when the time comes,” Shen An replied firmly, his tone steady and unyielding as his hands continued their careful work. Helping Duan Ru Xing up, he added, “But first, we must stop the poison from spreading.”   

The small, abandoned hut lay cloaked in an uneasy stillness, its weathered walls creaking faintly as the wind outside sighed through the cracks. The acrid tang of crushed herbs mingled with the musk of damp wood, but the old hearth burned stubbornly, its embers casting flickering shadows across the dim interior. Each crackle of flame seemed to battle against the oppressive quiet, a fragile comfort in the midst of uncertainty.  

Duan Ru Xing lay sprawled on a makeshift bed of wood and straws Shen An had hastily arranged on the floor. His breaths came shallow and uneven, his chest rising and falling as if under the weight of unseen hands. Sweat glistened on his face, his skin pale and clammy. The poison’s dark tendrils crawled visibly along his veins, spreading like ink spilled across parchment. Yet, even in his weakened state, his lips twitched with a faint, irrepressible smirk.  

Shen An knelt beside Duan Ru Xing, his sleeves rolled back as he worked with sharp, unwavering focus. His steady hands crushed a mixture of herbs into a thick, pungent paste, each movement deliberate and methodical. Occasionally, his fingers brushed against Duan Ru Xing’s wrist, checking the faltering pulse beneath the cool skin.  

He could not help but notice the contrast—how pale and smooth Duan Ru Xing’s skin was, its fairness at odds with the dark and ruthless image the man projected. It seemed almost impossible for someone so accustomed to shadows and chaos to possess such an unblemished appearance. The incongruity struck him, but Shen An forced the thought aside, knowing it had no place in the moment.  

He tightened his focus, his mind snapping back to the task at hand. The poison was merciless, its progress swift and unyielding, and Shen An knew he could not afford even a second of distraction. His calm exterior remained unbroken, but beneath it, a storm raged—a relentless determination to stop the venom from claiming its hold.  

As he worked, Shen An glanced up briefly, only to catch the faint smirk tugging at the corners of Duan Ru Xing’s lips. His gaze flicked away quickly, heat rising to his face as he realized Duan Ru Xing must have noticed his earlier hesitation.  

“Stop smirking and let me focus,” Shen An muttered, his tone clipped and even, though it carried the faintest trace of worry he could not quite suppress. Duan Ru Xing’s smirk deepened, but for once, he said nothing, letting Shen An return to his work in silence.  

Duan Ru Xing’s cracked lips curled into a weak grin, his voice rasping as if dragged through gravel. “I didn’t… know you cared this much. Should I feel special?”  

Shen An shot him a sharp glare, his hands never faltering as he applied the bitter-smelling poultice to the wound on Duan Ru Xing’s shoulder. The flesh around it was inflamed, angry red streaks radiating outward from where the poisoned needles had struck.  

“I’m trying to save your life,” Shen An said, his voice steady but edged with irritation. “Not your ego.”  

Duan Ru Xing let out a breathless chuckle, but the sound twisted into a harsh cough that left him gasping. “Didn’t think you had it in you… to yell at a dying man,” he managed, his grin never quite fading.  

Shen An paused, his hand hovering over the wound for just a moment before resuming his work with a gentler touch. He pressed the bandages into place, securing them with the care of someone who refused to let fate take its course.  

“You’re not dying,” Shen An said, his voice low but vibrating with conviction. “We are going to find that amulet and stop this evil. Until then…” His eyes met Duan Ru Xing’s, sharp and unyielding. “I am not letting you die.”  

For a moment, the air between them stilled, heavy with unspoken truths. The flickering firelight cast shadows across their faces, emphasizing the weariness etched into Shen An’s brow and the faint, bitter amusement in Duan Ru Xing’s eyes.  

For once, Duan Ru Xing didn’t have a quick retort. His dark gaze softened briefly, as though caught off guard by the sheer weight of Shen An’s determination.   

“Too bad for you…” Duan Ru Xing murmured, his voice faint and laced with bitter amusement as the edges of consciousness began to slip away from him. “Because I’m going to get into a lot of trouble.”  

The words hit Shen An like a blade piercing through armor. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. The room seemed to dim, the evening fading into the background as the memory surged unbidden.  

“Good… because I’m going to get into a lot of trouble.”  

The same words, spoken years ago by another voice—one he could never forget. A-Xing. The name stirred within him, a memory buried deep but never truly gone. He saw it now, clear as day: A-Xing grinning up at him, her tone teasing but laced with an unspoken promise. The weight of that moment collided with the present, leaving Shen An momentarily unmoored.  

Shen An sat frozen, his gaze fixed on Duan Ru Xing’s slackened features. The words reverberated in his mind, mingling past and present in a way that left him speechless.  

Has he really been blind to the clues, was this man the boy he used to know?  

As the fire crackled softly, its faint warmth flickering against the cold stillness of the hut, Shen An’s jaw tightened. The words echoed in his mind, unbidden yet relentless. The same phrase, the same weight, reverberating like a memory dragged from the past.  

 “I already regret it.”   

***

Chapter Text

***

The night stretched endlessly. Dim firelight flickered across warped wood, casting restless shadows that danced like specters. The air hung damp with earth and aged timber, laced with bitter medicinal herbs and the faint metallic trace of dried blood.

Duan Ru Xing stirred. His body felt impossibly heavy, limbs aching with the cruel reminder of weakness. Pain pressed against his consciousness, as if his body no longer belonged to him. He drifted between waking and dreaming, until the presence beside him pulled him fully into awareness.

Even before his eyes opened, he knew.

Shen An.

With effort, Duan Ru Xing forced his eyelids open. His vision swam before settling on the lone figure seated nearby.

Firelight cast wavering shadows over Shen An, who sat in quiet meditation. His back was straight, hands resting lightly on his knees, breathing deep and measured. A cloth covered his eyes—evidence of the toll the detoxification technique had taken—but even without sight, he radiated that same quiet command that had always surrounded him.

Still. Composed. Impossibly unwavering.

Duan Ru Xing let out a soft breath.

Still the same.

Even now—after everything, after all the blood spilled between them and the silence of years lost—Shen An had not changed. He remained a figure of discipline and duty, the kind of man the martial world admired and feared in equal measure.

The kind of man A-Xing had once thought himself capable of becoming.

The thought brought bitterness. From somewhere deep in his chest, a dry laugh rose unbidden. It escaped his lips in a soft rasp, low enough to blend with the crackling fire, but it hurt all the same—sharp and raw in his throat.

Duan Ru Xing let his head fall back onto the makeshift pillow, too exhausted to hold it up. His lips curved faintly, and though the smirk lacked strength, it held the ghost of old mischief.

“Still playing the righteous hero, Hero Shen?” His voice was rough with sleep and poison, but sarcasm threaded through each word like old silk.

Shen An did not answer immediately. He simply sat there, still as stone. When he finally spoke, his tone was unchanged.

“You should Rest. The poison has not yet cleared your system.”

There was no kindness in his words, nor reproach. Only that unyielding steadiness that Duan Ru Xing remembered too well.

Duan Ru Xing did not answer. There was nothing left to say.

Fatigue tugged at him once more, and this time, he let it take him.

A-Xing knelt in the soil, fingers dark with dirt, pressing down the roots of a young herb with careful precision. Warmth seeped into his skin, beads of sweat forming along his brow as he worked.

Nearby, his mother stood with a woven basket tucked under her arm, watching him with quiet amusement.

“You’re too impatient,” she chided, her voice carrying the warmth of a summer breeze. “You have to press the soil gently, not smother it.”

A-Xing huffed, dragging his forearm across his forehead, unintentionally leaving behind a streak of dirt. “But if I go any slower, we’ll be out here till nightfall.”

His mother let out a soft chuckle, crouching beside him. Her hands moved through the plants with practiced ease. “And what’s so terrible about that? Do you have some grand adventure waiting for you?”

A-Xing laughed but said nothing.

Truthfully, he liked these moments—the feel of the sun on his back, the distant murmur of the village, the sound of his mother’s voice.

As he reached for another handful of soil, something caught his eye.

A flicker of light, almost imperceptible, peeking through the cracks of an old stone structure near the garden’s edge. Half-covered in moss, the structure was weathered and cracked, its surface marred by years of wind and rain. Yet beneath the creeping vines and dirt, something gleamed faintly.

His brows furrowed. “Mama,” he called out, tilting his head, “what is that?”

Before he could investigate further, a firm but gentle hand wrapped around his wrist, stopping him.

“Leave it be, A-Xing.”

His mother’s tone was light, yet her grip was steady.

A-Xing glanced up at her, puzzled. “Why? What is it?”

She hesitated, just for a moment, before releasing his wrist. Instead of answering directly, she reached out and tapped a playful finger against his forehead.

“A doorway for mischievous spirits,” she said, her voice teasing but laced with something quieter. “If you open it, they’ll steal your blankets at night and whisper nonsense in your ear while you sleep.”

A-Xing wrinkled his nose. “That sounds made up.”

His mother only laughed, ruffling his hair with affectionate ease. “Maybe. But it’s been here longer than any of us, so best not to disturb it. Some things are better left untouched.”

A-Xing cast one last glance at the stone, fingers twitching with lingering curiosity. But his mother’s word was law, and so, with a final sigh, he let it go.

“Come now,” she said, lifting her basket once more. “If you finish before sundown, I’ll make your favorite soup for dinner.”

That, at least, was enough to get A-Xing moving faster.

They worked side by side as the village hummed with life—the distant ring of laughter, the scent of cooking fires curling through the air, the rhythmic pounding of grain being milled. The sun dipped lower, painting the fields in amber and gold, as if time itself wished to savor the moment.

Somewhere within the depths of fevered sleep, a voice rose through the darkness.

“He’s waking.”

A-Xing’s lashes stirred. Flickering candlelight brushed softly against his closed eyes. The flames wavered in silence, casting shifting shadows along wooden walls—ghostlike shapes that danced with every faint breath of wind slipping through the cracks.

The scent of crushed herbs lingered heavily in the room, sharp and bitter. Beneath it, faint traces of incense curled through the air, clean and distant.

None of it was familiar.

This was not his home.

His body, sluggish and foreign, stirred against the bedding. Instinct pulled at him, urged him to rise—but pain came first.

A sharp lance of it tore through his chest, sending him gasping back into stillness.

“Easy child.”

The voice again. Calmer now. Controlled.

“Your body has not yet recovered.”

It was not a warning, nor a rebuke—simply fact, delivered with the kind of certainty that left no room for resistance.

A-Xing’s vision sharpened by degrees, the world resolving from the haze. Candlelight illuminated the figure seated beside him—an older man, robed in deep indigo, embroidered with a sigil he did not recognize.

The lines in the man’s face spoke of years, his bearing of discipline. He sat with quiet authority—not the kind that demanded attention, but the kind that simply was.

A-Xing’s throat burned, dry and raw. His voice emerged barely as a whisper.

“...Where?”

The elder regarded him for a moment, then replied with calm finality.

“You are within Shen Lan Sect.”

Shen Lan.

The name stirred no memory. It fell into the hollow of his thoughts like a stone into a bottomless well. This place, this bed, these walls—none of it belonged to the world he knew.

His fingers curled into the blanket, grasping for something familiar, something real. But all that came were fragments—fog, cold... fire.

His breath caught.

The village.

The garden. His mother’s hands in the soil. Laughter across the field.

And then—

Flames. Screams. The sky black with smoke.

His hands trembled as they clenched around the blanket.

Gone.

All of it—gone.

The warmth. The safety. The sunlit days he had once believed would last forever.

His eyes squeezed shut as the memory crashed into him like a tidal wave. His chest tightened, breath growing shallow. The room was warm, the candlelight steady—but it could not touch the chill that had settled into his bones.

The elder said nothing.

He did not offer comfort. He did not speak empty reassurances.

Because there was nothing to say.

A-Xing did not need to ask.

He already knew.

He was alone.

A hand rested gently on his shoulder. Not forceful, not possessive—just present. The quiet weight of someone who had seen grief before and did not flinch from it.

“Rest, child.”

The man’s voice was softer now, stripped of formality. No longer a sect master, no longer a stranger—just a man who understood what it meant to lose everything.

“Your body and spirit have endured much.”

A-Xing nodded faintly, though he barely felt the motion.

Sleep came swiftly, not from peace, but from sheer exhaustion.

And as the darkness rose to meet him again, the memories remained—burning beneath the surface of his mind.

His village. His parents. The sun-warmed earth beneath his fingers.

Taken—all of it.

In a single breath.

The next time A-Xing woke, the pain was no longer sharp, but it clung to him—a dull, persistent weight pressing against his limbs, reminding him of his weakness. His body felt leaden, his breath shallow, yet the fever that had clouded his mind before had lessened.

The room was quiet, steeped in stillness.

Beyond the wooden walls, the steady drip of water from a bamboo pipe echoed faintly, rhythmic and unhurried. A light breeze slipped through the partially opened window, carrying the mingling scents of incense and herbs—cloying, grounding.

A-Xing shifted. His movements were sluggish, but this time the pain did not steal his breath.

“You’re awake again.”

The voice was familiar now—deep, composed. Unshaken.

A-Xing turned his head. His gaze settled once more on the man beside him. The elder had not moved from his place. He sat with the same quiet presence as before, his posture unyielding, his face unreadable.

A-Xing’s throat was dry, rough with disuse. He swallowed before rasping, “You...” His voice barely carried. “Who are you?”

The elder did not hesitate.

“I am Lan Zhen, Master of Shen Lan Sect.”

The name stirred nothing in A-Xing’s mind. An unfamiliar sect. A stranger who had taken him in.

Lan Zhen continued, his voice even, measured. “This is my main residence, hidden deep within the southern mountains. It is a place few outsiders have set foot in.”

There was no threat in his words, yet they carried weight—a quiet scrutiny that lingered beneath his steady gaze.

A-Xing licked his cracked lips. “Why am I here?”

Lan Zhen studied him for a moment before answering.

“You were found at the edge of our mountain borders, gravely injured. It was clear you would not have survived the night on your own.”

A-Xing swallowed hard, something bitter curling in his chest.

He hadn’t even been strong enough to save himself.

Lan Zhen’s expression did not change, yet his words carried an unshakable certainty.

“You are fortunate,” he said simply. “A few hours later, and you would have perished in the cold.”

A-Xing turned his face away.

Fortunate?

The word rang hollow.

If he had died there—would it have been so different?

Lan Zhen did not rush to fill the silence. He did not offer comfort, nor cloak the truth with gentle words. His stillness was its own kind of mercy.

When he finally spoke, his tone was measured, steady as ever.

“You may remain here until your strength returns,” he said. “After that, the path you walk will be yours to decide.”

A-Xing’s lips parted, his breath trembling. “May I ask…” his voice wavered, uncertain, fragile with hope, “my village—Anning. What became of it?”

Lan Zhen’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. His gaze lowered, and for a moment, the light from the lanterns seemed to dim.

“You’re from Anning Village?” he asked quietly.

At A-Xing’s weak nod, the elder closed his eyes and drew in a slow breath. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, but it carried the weight of finality.

“…I’m sorry, child.”

The words struck harder than any blade.

But still, Lan Zhen continued, each word deliberate, careful—as though sparing him would only deepen the wound.

“News reached us days ago. Anning Village was destroyed. There were… no survivors.”

The air left A-Xing’s lungs in a soundless exhale. He had known. Deep down, he had already known. Yet hearing it spoken aloud tore through the fragile calm he’d built to survive the moment.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Lan Zhen rose from his seat, his robes brushing softly against the floorboards. “Rest now,” he said. “You are not yet ready to bear such grief alone.”

A-Xing did not answer. He simply closed his eyes.

And for the first time since that night—since the fire devoured his home, since the screams faded into ash and smoke—

he understood what it truly meant to be alone.

Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. The first days were spent in stillness, his body too weak to do anything but heal. Fevered nights gave way to silent mornings, and in those quiet hours, he drifted between sleep and waking, haunted by the ghosts of a home that no longer existed.

Master Lan Zhen visited often. He never lingered, nor did he pry, only leaving behind cups of warm tea, their delicate fragrance filling the air long after he had gone. A-Xing never touched them.

Because to drink, to speak, to acknowledge another’s presence—was to admit that there was no one left to speak to.

His village was gone. His mother’s voice, once so full of warmth, had been swallowed by the fire. The garden, the fields, the laughter of familiar faces—all gone in a single night.

And so, when his body allowed it, he trained.

At first, it was nothing more than a means to escape. Repetition dulled the pain, allowed his mind to focus on something—anything—other than the memories clawing at the edges of his thoughts. He woke with the sect at dawn, followed the morning drills, practiced forms until his muscles screamed in protest. The pain of training was easier to bear than the pain of remembering.

But as the months passed, something inside him hardened.

He no longer trained simply to busy himself. He trained so he would never feel that powerless again.

The sword that had once felt awkward in his grip became an extension of himself, the weight of it familiar, reassuring. His movements became sharper, his steps more precise. His body adapted, molded by discipline and necessity. He would not break again.

He thought often of Shen An—of his unwavering discipline, of the way he had spoken of strength, of duty. A-Xing had once laughed at him, had mocked his rigidity, questioned the point of swinging a sword into empty air.

Shen An had been right.

If he had taken training seriously before—if he had been stronger—would he have saved his mother? Would he have been able to stop the destruction of his village?

The guilt was a dull, unrelenting ache, one that even time refused to ease.

Master Lan Zhen saw it.

“You are too hard on yourself,” the elder said one evening, standing at the edge of the training grounds. The sun had long since set, yet A-Xing had not stopped. His sword cut through the air in practiced arcs, sweat dripping from his brow.

“Strength alone cannot change the past.”

A-Xing’s grip on his sword tightened. He exhaled, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Then I will use it to protect the future.”

Lan Zhen regarded him for a long moment, unreadable as always. Then, with a slow nod, he spoke.

“If that is your resolve, then I will teach you.”

And so, A-Xing became a disciple of Shen Lan Sect.

He learned quickly, absorbed every lesson with a hunger that did not go unnoticed. His determination set him apart. While others trained for discipline, for prestige, for duty—he trained to survive. He threw himself into every lesson, every spar, pushing his body and mind beyond their limits. He rarely spoke to the other disciples, his world narrowing to a single purpose:

Be strong enough that no one could take anything from him again.

Yet, even as he climbed in skill and respect, whispers followed him.

The outsider. The orphan. The boy who came from nowhere, who had no past, yet sought a place among them.

Shen An had once told him names had meaning. That to inherit a name was to carry the weight of those before you.

But what name did he carry now?

One evening, beneath the lantern glow of the courtyard, he knelt before Master Lan Zhen. His voice did not waver.

“I no longer wish to be called A-Xing.”

Lan Zhen raised a brow. “And what name do you wish to take?”

The answer had been growing in his heart for months. It was not chosen lightly.

“Duan Ru Xing.”

Duan—for severance, for cutting away the past. 

Ru—for resilience, for rising despite the fall. 

Xing—for the name his mother once called him, a small piece of her he refused to let go.

Lan Zhen said nothing for a long moment. Then, with quiet acceptance, he nodded.

“So be it.”

That night, A-Xing ceased to exist.

And Duan Ru Xing was born.

Duan Ru Xing had fought for everything he had.

From the moment he stepped into Shen Lan Sect, he had been an outsider—a name without a lineage, a boy with no past worth telling. Every day had been a battle to prove himself, to silence the whispers that followed him like a shadow. Orphan. Stray. Foreigner.

But he had endured. He had trained until his body ached, until his mind was sharper than the blade in his hands. He had earned the respect of his fellow disciples, had gained the approval of Master Lan Zhen himself. He had found a place that no longer felt like borrowed shelter.

He had believed, for the first time in years, that perhaps he had a home again.

And then, in a single night, it was all taken from him.

It began with a voice.

Smooth, patient, always understanding.

The wandering scholar had been in the sect for months, his presence unobtrusive, his words wise yet never overbearing. He never demanded. He only spoke—of the cruelty of the martial world, of the way power dictated one’s survival, of how strength meant nothing if it was not wielded with caution.

Duan Ru Xing had listened. Hadn’t he already learned that lesson himself?

So when the man made a simple request—a mere adjustment to the sect’s protective array, a correction to improve its efficiency—Duan Ru Xing had not hesitated. He had spent years studying the barrier, knew its formation as well as he knew the lines of his own palm. The change had been so small. So simple.

What he had not realized—what he had been too blind to see—was that the flaw in the array had not been a flaw at all. It had been the only thing standing between Shen Lan Sect and the darkness waiting beyond its gates.

The attack came with no warning.

The first sign had been the silence. Too deep, too sudden. Then—shadows slipping through the loosened barriers, moving like wraiths in the night.

Assassins.

By the time the alarms rang through the sect, disciples were already dying.

Throats slit before they could scream, swords run through chests before hands could form defensive seals. The protective wards collapsed one by one, their unraveling as precise as if an unseen hand had guided it.

Duan Ru Xing had felt the shift in the air. The wrongness. The weight of something breaking.

By the time he reached the main hall, it was already too late.

Fire. Blood. Screams.

The place that had once been his sanctuary—the halls he had trained in, the courtyards he had sparred in, the rooms where he had once knelt before his master—was now a battlefield.

Disciples he had fought beside, laughed with—dead. Their bodies lay strewn across the stone, robes soaked in crimson, eyes wide with terror even in death.

And at the heart of the carnage stood him.

The man who had spoken so gently. The man who had earned his trust.

The scholar’s face was no longer one of patience, but of amusement. A slow, mocking smile curled at his lips as he turned toward Duan Ru Xing.

“You’ve done well,” he mused, surveying the devastation with quiet satisfaction. “The barrier was the only thing keeping them safe.”

A chill spread through Duan Ru Xing’s limbs, a cold that no fire could chase away.

Why? His mind raced, grasping for reason, for logic, for something to make sense of the horror before him.

Why would he do this? What was there to gain?

His hands trembled. This was his fault.

No, he had not lifted a sword. He had not cut down his fellow disciples with his own hands.

But he might as well have.

Because he had been the one who let the wolves in.

A rush of movement—Master Lan Zhen appeared like a streak of blue light, his sword cutting through the invaders with ruthless precision. Even amidst the ruin, he was unshaken, a formidable force standing against the tide of death.

Duan Ru Xing had seen him wield his sword countless times before, but never like this. Never with such finality.

Lan Zhen did not falter, did not hesitate. With every strike, he pushed back the destruction, holding the line long enough for the remaining disciples to escape into the mountains.

But no amount of strength could undo what had already been done.

Shen Lan Sect was finished.

By the time the battle ended, the air was thick with the stench of blood and charred flesh. Smoke curled in the sky, a mourning shroud above the ruins.

The golden banners of Shen Lan Sect lay in the dirt, trampled and stained red.

And in the suffocating silence that followed, all eyes turned to him.

The survivors—those who had barely escaped with their lives—looked at him not as a brother, but as a monster.

“You,” one whispered, their voice shaking. “traitor!.”

“You spoke to him,” another accused. “You let him in!”

The weight of their stares crushed him, more suffocating than the flames still burning in the distance.

Duan Ru Xing turned, his breath unsteady, his body trembling. He sought one face. One person.

Master Lan Zhen.

His master—his savior, the man he had looked up to like a father.

Surely, surely he would believe him.

“Master,” Duan Ru Xing rasped, his voice raw with desperation. “I didn’t know—I would never—”

Lan Zhen’s sword lowered, but the elder’s expression did not change.

And his eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes that had once held patience, once held pride—held nothing now.

No anger.

No disappointment.

Just emptiness.

And that was worse than anything.

“Duan Ru Xing.” Lan Zhen spoke his name at last, quiet but sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. “Do you deny it?”

Deny it?

Duan Ru Xing wanted to scream, to tear at his own skin, to beg them to see—to see that he had been used, that he had never meant for this to happen.

But the words never left his mouth.

Because what could he say?

The corpses at his feet told the story for him.

His hands trembled at his sides. Blood—not his own—stained his fingers, his robes, his very being.

He could wash his hands a thousand times.

And it would never come off.

They spared his life.

Though mercy, perhaps, would have been the blade.

Instead, they exiled him.

Or perhaps he had earned it.

The edict bore Master Lan Zhen's seal—a final, immovable judgment that cut the last fraying bond between Duan Ru Xing and the only sanctuary he had ever known. For all that had passed between them, for all the years of tutelage, for all the affection Lan Zhen had held for the boy he had raised as a son, he could not shield him.

Because Shen Lan Sect demanded a reckoning.

There had been no mercy, no space for uncertainty in the eyes of those who remained. They craved vengeance. They craved his death.

Lan Zhen could not grant them that. Yet he could not harbor Duan Ru Xing within the sect's sanctuary either. To do so would ignite conflict among his own people.

And so, Duan Ru Xing was unmade.

His name vanished from the archives. His presence scrubbed from the sect's annals, as though he had never walked among them, as though he had never trained beneath their roofs, never shed blood at their side.

He belonged to Shen Lan Sect no longer.

The gates that had once opened for him now sealed shut at his back. And for the first time since he had awakened in these peaks, he stood truly, completely alone.

Yet his sentence did not end there.

Word traveled like wildfire.

The martial world had always thrived on whispers and hasty condemnation, and before he reached the mountain's base, his name had already become poison on stranger's tongues.

"Is that him?"

"The one who sold out his own sect?"

"A stain on all cultivators."

No one sought the full story. No one wished to hear it.

In the beginning, he tried. Tried to make them understand, tried to tell them he had been manipulated. That he had been ignorant. That he had never wanted to harm those who had once been his kin.

But the instant they recognized his name, their gazes hardened to iron, their hands reached for steel.

He was driven from villages, cursed in marketplaces, pursued by self-proclaimed righteous cultivators who saw only a traitor, a monster who had turned against his own blood.

They came bearing swords.

And at first, he did not draw his.

He allowed them to strike him, allowed their fists to bruise his body, allowed their blades to open his skin.

Because perhaps they were justified.

Perhaps this was his due.

But no sentence, no injury, no blood soaking into the earth could undo what had already transpired.

And suffering—suffering had never redeemed anyone.

Not his mother. Not his village. Not his sect.

Not himself.

Grief collapsed into desperation.

Desperation twisted into rage.

And rage—rage transformed into something far darker.

Until, finally, there was nothing remaining.

Nothing but the demon the world had forged from him.

The name Duan Ru Xing had become little more than a murmur carried on the wind, a shadow that fell long across the martial world.

He was the specter lurking at righteousness's edge, the villain spoken of in lowered voices, the unseen threat that sect masters used to caution their students. His name alone could straighten spines, could set even seasoned warriors to unease.

And this was how he endured.

If they demanded a monster, he would become one.

Yet A-Xing still lived beneath the burden of that identity.

It was an evening like countless others.

The forest sprawled before him, boundless and hushed, its canopy sieving moonlight through shifting branches. The smell of wet soil hung heavy in the air, and somewhere in the darkness, a river's low voice threaded through the trees.

Duan Ru Xing followed the water's edge, his steps measured, his thoughts adrift.

He no longer cared which direction his wandering took him. He no longer tracked the passage of time, nor recalled the names of hamlets he'd left behind. To the world, he was a phantom. To himself, he was scarcely more substantial.

And then—a noise.

The unmistakable ring of blade meeting blade.

He stopped, his fingers coming to rest on his sword's grip.

A fight. Bandits, most likely. None of his affair.

And yet—

A ragged cry pierced the night. The sound of someone stumbling, not yet defeated.

Duan Ru Xing breathed out through his nose, already cursing what he was about to do.

His body moved before his mind could object.

The clearing lay shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the moon's pale, ghostly luminescence filtering through the canopy above.

A lone cultivator stood with his spine pressed hard against the rough bark of a gnarled tree, his robes shredded and saturated with blood—both his own and perhaps that of others. His grip on his sword trembled, fingers white-knuckled around the hilt, and his legs shook visibly, barely holding him upright. Despite his failing strength, he refused to lower his blade.

Three men encircled him like wolves stalking wounded prey, their movements synchronized and predatory, their weapons catching the moonlight with menacing gleams. Bandits, clearly—opportunists who haunted the wilderness roads, feeding on those too weak or isolated to defend themselves.

Duan Ru Xing observed the scene with cool, clinical detachment from the tree line.

Not his concern. Not his burden to bear.

And yet—

The way the lone cultivator clenched his jaw, planting his feet and holding his ground despite impossible odds—it struck something deep within him. A memory he couldn't quite grasp, a reflection he didn't want to see.

Something in his chest constricted painfully.

Before reason could override instinct, he was already moving.

By the time the bandits sensed the shift in the air, registered the presence of another, it was far too late.

Duan Ru Xing materialized like a wraith, his sword a streak of liquid silver cutting through the darkness.

The first bandit barely managed to turn his head before his weapon was violently knocked from his grasp, the impact reverberating up his arm. A single fluid step forward, one economical motion—precise, practiced, lethal in its efficiency—and he collapsed to the earth, unconscious before he hit the ground.

The second whirled around, panic overtaking strategy as he lashed out wildly, his blade slicing through empty air. Duan Ru Xing didn't even break stride. He flowed past the clumsy attack like water around stone, his own blade flashing once in a controlled arc—a surgical strike that found the gap in the man's defense and sent him sprawling backward with a choked cry, both hands clutching his bleeding side.

The third froze, finally understanding he was outmatched.

Duan Ru Xing angled his head slightly, his expression a mask of cold indifference, though his eyes glinted dangerously in the moonlight. "Run."

The man didn't need further encouragement. He bolted, crashing through the undergrowth with all the grace of a panicked animal, his footsteps fading rapidly into the night until even the sound of snapping branches disappeared.

Pathetic.

The clearing settled into stillness once more, broken only by the ragged breathing of the wounded cultivator.

Duan Ru Xing pivoted, fully expecting to find the young man already retreating, seizing the opportunity to escape while he could.

Instead, the cultivator remained rooted to his spot, still gripping his sword with trembling determination, his chest heaving with labored breaths. He didn't flee. He didn't even move. He simply... stared.

And then, with dawning recognition coloring his voice, he spoke.

"...Duan Ru Xing?"

Every muscle in Duan Ru Xing's body went rigid.

The frigid weight of being recognized—of being known—settled into his chest like a stone dropping into still water.

He had made a grave mistake.

He should have vanished while the opportunity existed, should have let the bandits finish their work.

His fingers flexed involuntarily against the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, but when he spoke, his voice emerged flat, controlled. "Who's asking?"

The young man wavered, uncertainty flickering across his blood-streaked face. His knuckles whitened around his sword grip, though his posture suggested confusion more than aggression. "I am Ji Ren," he said with careful deliberation, as though testing how much information was safe to reveal. "A disciple of Bo Zhou Sect."

Bo Zhou Sect.

Shen An's sect.

Duan Ru Xing released a slow, measured breath through his nose, his jaw tightening imperceptibly.

The pragmatic choice was obvious: eliminate the witness. No one to carry tales. No complications trailing him like shadows.

Yet something stayed his hand—some fragment of conscience he thought he'd long since discarded.

Ji Ren's gaze shifted between wariness and bewilderment, as though he were attempting to reconcile conflicting pieces of information, solving a riddle he'd never anticipated encountering. His brow furrowed deeply.

"You—" he faltered, swallowing hard. "Why did you save me?"

Duan Ru Xing scoffed, a harsh sound devoid of humor, and slid his sword back into its sheath with a definitive motion. "I didn't."

Ji Ren's frown deepened, stubborn conviction entering his voice despite his obvious exhaustion. "You did."

"Believe what you wish."

Duan Ru Xing turned sharply on his heel, melting back toward the concealing darkness of the forest. He had already remained here far too long, allowed himself to be exposed, to be seen.

But just as the shadows began to claim him, Ji Ren's voice rang out once more, stopping him mid-stride.

"...Was it true?"

Duan Ru Xing's footsteps slowed, then ceased entirely.

Ji Ren's voice dropped lower now, stripped of accusation, carrying only uncertainty and something that might have been genuine curiosity. "Did you really... betray your sect?"

Duan Ru Xing stood motionless, his back still turned.

He didn't need to face the young cultivator.

He already knew precisely what answer Ji Ren anticipated, what version of events he'd been told.

His fingers curled slowly into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He could speak the truth. Could explain that he'd been deceived, manipulated, weaponized and then discarded like a broken tool when he'd served his purpose.

But what purpose would it serve?

No one had ever granted him belief before, had never paused long enough to question the narrative they'd been fed.

And he harbored serious doubts that Shen An's disciples would prove any different.

So he offered nothing. No defense. No explanation. Just suffocating silence.

Ji Ren didn't push further, didn't demand an answer.

Perhaps that silence communicated everything he needed to know.

Duan Ru Xing resumed walking, his form dissolving into the darkness between the trees.

Yet even hours later, even after the forest had long since swallowed him whole and the encounter had faded into the past, he could still hear Ji Ren's voice echoing in the hollow spaces of his mind.

"Why did you save me?"

He didn't possess an answer.

Or perhaps, more truthfully, he simply refused to acknowledge the one that lingered at the edges of his consciousness.

Duan Ru Xing had never anticipated crossing paths with Shen An again.

There existed certain immutable truths he had long since resigned himself to accepting—his name had become synonymous with treachery, his reputation damaged beyond any possibility of repair, and the martial world's relentless pursuit of him would never cease, never falter. It had ceased to matter whether he had been manipulated, whether innocence had once defined him, whether the blood on his hands had been placed there by deception rather than malice. The world had rendered its verdict with finality, carved his role into stone, and he had learned through bitter experience that struggling against that judgment only deepened the wounds.

And yet—

Fate, he had discovered, possessed a particularly vicious sense of humor.

They had not sought each other out deliberately. There had been no intentional pursuit, no bitterly orchestrated reunion arranged by callous celestial forces. It was pure chance, nothing more than cruel coincidence.

Yet somehow, in that perverse, incomprehensible way the universe seemed to delight in tormenting him, they found themselves ensnared by the same inexplicable fate once again.

A curse—one neither of them fully comprehended, whose origins remained maddeningly obscure.

Duan Ru Xing might have laughed at the savage irony of it all if the situation weren't so utterly maddening, if it didn't make something in his chest constrict painfully.

Shen An had transformed dramatically.

The earnest youth who had once chastised him for deliberately avoiding training sessions, who had perpetually carried the crushing burden of righteousness and duty upon his shoulders like a physical weight, was no longer merely the stubborn, principled heir of the illustrious Shen family.

He had evolved into a leader of genuine substance.

A formidable presence within the martial world that commanded respect and could not be dismissed or ignored. His bearing radiated unshakeable confidence, his gaze had sharpened to something that could pierce through pretense and deception, his every gesture measured and deliberate, conveying authority without arrogance.

Exactly like his father before him. Exactly like every legendary leader whose name had been preserved in history and song.

Duan Ru Xing despised it with unexpected intensity.

He despised the way Shen An carried himself—too composed, too certain, too steady, as if the world had never once managed to shake his foundations the way it had utterly shattered Duan Ru Xing's, reducing everything he'd been to fragments and dust.

He despised that when Shen An's eyes fell upon him, they reflected only cold recognition of a criminal. An adversary. A catastrophic mistake that should have been eliminated long ago, that never should have been permitted to continue drawing breath and poisoning the world with his existence.

But most of all, most devastatingly—

He despised that some small, pathetic fragment of himself still desperately wanted Shen An to see A-Xing.

To truly recognize him beneath the accumulated layers of infamy and condemnation. To remember who he had been before everything collapsed.

To look past the reviled name Duan Ru Xing and somehow find the boy he had once called his closest friend, his sworn brother, the person he'd trusted above all others.

It was foolish beyond measure. Painfully naïve. The sort of wishful thinking that had absolutely no place in the brutal existence he now inhabited, that would only lead to further anguish.

And yet—

On the somber night inside Master Li Feng's burial, Duan Ru Xing sensed something fundamental shift in the air between them.

He observed from the shadows as Shen An stood motionless before the elaborate funeral altar, his expression carefully controlled and utterly unreadable, his posture rigid and unwavering, presenting himself as though profound grief could not penetrate his defenses, could not crack that carefully maintained facade.

As if nothing substantial had ever truly managed to touch him, to wound him deeply enough to leave lasting scars.

Duan Ru Xing should have experienced nothing in response. Perhaps hatred would have been appropriate. Cold satisfaction, or bitter resentment at seeing Shen An reduced to mourning. Any of those reactions would have been simpler, cleaner, easier to bear.

Instead, something indefinable within his chest twisted and ached with surprising sharpness.

Amidst the suffocating weight of the persona the world had violently thrust upon him—the villain, the pariah, the irredeemable monster who deserved no compassion—he found himself overwhelmed by a profound, desperate yearning to reach out across that impossible distance.

He ached with the need to hold onto him, to grasp something solid and real.

To seek comfort and refuge in the one person who had once been his brother in all but blood, his home when nowhere else had welcomed him.

A question had been smoldering persistently at the periphery of his consciousness for years now, one he had never possessed sufficient courage to voice aloud, to give weight and substance through speech.

Why hadn't Shen An searched for him after the massacre that had destroyed everything?

Would he welcome him now, in this moment, if he knew the full truth?

Duan Ru Xing forcibly wrenched his gaze away, tearing his attention from Shen An's silhouette before his treacherous mind could continue spiraling further down that devastating, self-destructive path that led only to greater pain.

Such thoughts served absolutely no constructive purpose here, in this reality.

Not in this harsh existence he barely survived day by day. Not for the hardened, guarded man he had been systematically forced to become through abandonment, betrayal, and universal condemnation.

And yet, somehow, buried beneath all the accumulated layers of corrosive bitterness, of bone-deep regret that had settled into his very marrow, of everything the merciless and indifferent passage of time had attempted to smother, crush, and entomb beyond all possibility of resurrection—

A-Xing still harbored hope, fragile and foolish as it was.

Pain ambushed Duan Ru Xing the instant consciousness returned. A deep, relentless ache radiated through every fiber of his being, pressing down on him with the suffocating weight of iron chains. His limbs felt leaden and unresponsive, his throat parched to the point of rawness, his mind shrouded in the lingering fog of fever that hadn't fully broken.

Still, he attempted to rise.

The coarse texture of the makeshift bedding chafed against his clammy skin, and the stale, motionless air trapped within the abandoned hut offered no relief from his misery. His fingers twitched weakly before curling around the worn fabric beneath him as he struggled to push himself upright. Every motion felt dragged through mud, his body protesting violently, yet his stubborn will refused to yield.

A firm pressure suddenly halted his progress—a hand settling against his shoulder with controlled strength, neither gentle nor harsh.

"Lie back down," Shen An's voice sliced through the mental haze with characteristic steadiness, brooking no argument. "You're not strong enough to move yet."

Duan Ru Xing's jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth ache. He despised this.

Despised being vulnerable.

Despised being witnessed in such a diminished state.

Most of all, despised the fact that it was Shen An of all people attending to him, seeing him reduced to this.

"I've rested enough," he managed to rasp out, his voice scraped raw from days of fever-induced delirium and insufficient water. "I'm not some delicate scholar who needs coddling—you don't have to hover over me like a concerned nursemaid."

Shen An's hand remained firmly in place, unyielding. "Then stop behaving like a reckless fool with a death wish."

Duan Ru Xing released a sharp exhale through his nose, his mounting frustration twisting into something resembling dark amusement. "You still lecture like a grandfather who's outlived his patience."

Shen An paid the barb no attention whatsoever. "You nearly died. The poison coursing through your system was not something you could have purged through sheer obstinacy alone."

Duan Ru Xing wanted to lash back, to remind Shen An that he had endured far worse ordeals and emerged intact, but exhaustion had sapped even his capacity for meaningful argument. Instead, he turned his head with considerable effort, properly observing Shen An for the first time since regaining awareness.

Shen An maintained that same rigid, controlled bearing he always carried—but something was different. His typically immaculate robes showed signs of disarray, wrinkled from extended wear. The edges of his sleeves were visibly damp, darkened with water or sweat, and the sharp, astringent scent of medicinal herbs clung to him like a second skin, irrefutable evidence that he had been personally administering treatment.

How many hours—how many days—had he been doing this?

Duan Ru Xing's frown deepened as he studied the other man's face more carefully. "You look worse than I do."

Shen An finally withdrew his hand, perhaps belatedly recognizing he'd been restraining Duan Ru Xing for longer than strictly necessary. "You're mistaken."

"Am I?" Duan Ru Xing produced a weak, humorless laugh, shifting his weight slightly but not enough to provoke another intervention. "You're clearly exhausted. Dark circles under your eyes, pallor to your complexion... when was the last time you meditated properly? Actually restored your qi instead of depleting it?"

Shen An offered no response.

Duan Ru Xing let his head drop back against the thin pillow with a soft thud, his sardonic expression softening marginally. "You shouldn't squander your energy on me. We both know I'll recover eventually—I'm too stubborn to die from something as mundane as poison."

A weighted silence expanded between them, thick and uncomfortable, before Shen An finally spoke with quiet precision. "And yet, here you lie, unable to stand on your own, barely conscious for more than minutes at a time."

Duan Ru Xing's fingers curled tightly against the threadbare blanket covering him, knuckles whitening. He loathed this. He loathed every aspect of this situation with visceral intensity.

Shen An reached for the ceramic bowl of medicine positioned beside the bed, the faint sound of pottery scraping against weathered wood unnaturally loud in the oppressive quiet of the hut. "Drink this."

Duan Ru Xing regarded the murky, dark liquid with unconcealed revulsion, his nose wrinkling. "Absolutely not."

Shen An demonstrated no hesitation whatsoever—his hand shot out, fingers gripping Duan Ru Xing's jaw with controlled but undeniable force, tilting his head up and back to expose his throat. "Drink."

Duan Ru Xing's eyes widened fractionally. "You wouldn't dare—"

Shen An brought the bowl to his lips without ceremony, tipping it forward.

The taste assaulted his senses immediately—unbearably bitter, acrid, coating his tongue and throat with vile residue. Much like the infuriatingly stubborn man currently forcing it down his throat with zero remorse.

Duan Ru Xing coughed violently as Shen An finally released his grip, setting the emptied bowl aside with methodical care. "That was entirely unnecessary," he wheezed, directing a murderous glare at his tormentor while trying to clear the lingering aftertaste.

Shen An settled back into his previous position, expression utterly unmoved by the hostility radiating from his patient. "You would have refused otherwise, wasted time arguing, and delayed your recovery further."

Duan Ru Xing wiped his mouth roughly with the back of his sleeve, shaking his head in disbelief. "Unbelievable. I'd almost managed to forget precisely how insufferable you are."

Shen An didn't react to the accusation, his tone remaining level. "Rest now. You'll need to rebuild your strength considerably before you're fit to travel."

Duan Ru Xing exhaled heavily, a sound caught somewhere between resignation and frustration, allowing his eyes to drift closed. His traitorous body was already surrendering to exhaustion again, the potent medicine pulling him inexorably back toward the murky depths of uneasy, fever-tinged sleep.

And just before darkness claimed him completely, dragging his consciousness under, a wayward thought drifted through his fragmenting awareness—

Shen An hadn't abandoned his side.

Not even once.

Not for a single moment.

***