Winter had come, spring had long since passed, and now even autumn was beginning to fade into brittle stillness—yet there was still no sign of Shudu. Each night, Xue Tuzi sat alone, folding dumpling after dumpling with deft, tender fingers. The motion had become ritualistic, almost sacred, though it brought him no comfort. He sat at the table, a quiet figure bathed in lamplight, his gaze drifting far past the walls of his room, reaching for someone who never came.
Sometimes he'd hear footsteps. Other time's he'd hear voices. Sometimes he even paused, heart lurching in his chest—only for silence to greet him once more.
"A-Tuzi, it's past Zi hour," Xue Laohu would murmur gently, tapping him on the shoulder and pulling him from his trance.
The soup sat untouched again. The dumplings he had shaped so carefully had long gone cold, their steam dissipated into the air like hope slipping through his fingers. And still, the man he waited for did not appear.
His throat tightened painfully. "Shizun… where is he?" he whispered, voice hoarse, barely audible. His eyes filled with tears he refused to let fall. He stood up so suddenly that the small Gu worm curled in his lap startled, blinking up at him in confusion. Without a word, he turned and made his way back to his room, footsteps heavy with despair.
Xue Laohu could only watch him go, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. The system had grown silent. No matter how many times he called, no response came. He had begun to wonder if Shudu's absence had fractured something integral. Without Shudu, it was as if the system itself had fallen into a frozen, unreachable sleep.
Xue Tuzi collapsed to his knees beside the bed, half-falling onto the mattress as the sorrow broke over him at last. He wept. His shoulders shook with force. From the qiankun pouch at his side, Tuanzhu peeked her round little head out, eyes shimmering with worry. Trembling, she clambered onto the bed and pressed her soft, warm body against his cheek, wiping away a few of his tears with her tail.
"I miss him," he choked out, curling in on himself like a wounded child. The sound of his sobs filled the room, small raw and aching. He cried until his eyes turned red and swollen, until exhaustion blurred the edges of the world—but sleep, cruel and elusive, refused to come.
His hand searched instinctively for the space beside him, the place where Shudu used to lie. All he found was emptiness. The warmth that had once wrapped around him, the scent that had once filled every corner of his being—both were gone. The cold crept in no matter how many blankets he buried himself under, no matter how many oil lamps he lit to chase away the darkness.
Nothing could warm him now.
Nothing but that man.
Xue Tuzi's once gentle face had withered into something gaunt and fragile. His cheeks, once soft and full of color, were now hollowed and sunken from sleepless nights and days spent refusing even a mouthful of food. Shadows clung beneath his eyes like bruises, dark and sunken, while the whites had turned red with exhaustion and grief. His lips, once warm and pink, were dry and cracked, splitting at the corners each time he murmured a few broken words.
Every day, Xue Laohu and Li Zhameng would try to coax him into eating, but their voices barely reached him. He would simply turn his head toward the door—always the door—his voice hoarse and barely more than breath. "Not yet… he said he'd be back. I'll eat when he comes back."
But Shudu never came.
The bowls of rice and steamed vegetables placed in front of him sat untouched, cooling into pale, flavorless offerings. They mocked his faith with every passing hour, their steam vanishing like the man he had once held close.
"A-Tuzi, you must eat," Xue Laohu pleaded one evening, setting down a fresh tray in front of him. "You'll waste away at this rate."
But Xue Tuzi only shook his head, eyes still locked on the door as if sheer will could conjure the one he longed for. The hope he clung to was wearing thinner by the day, but still, he refused to let go.
Concerned for his deteriorating state, Xue Laohu finally gave him a reason to leave the mountain, hoping that perhaps a change of scenery might rouse something back to life.
"A-Tuzi," he said gently, handing him a long scroll of parchment, "here's a list of the medicines and elixirs we need. We're running low. Take this." He pressed a pouch of silver into his hands. "It should cover everything, but be careful. That apothecary is a notorious price gouger—don't let her swindle you."
He let out a weary sigh and placed a firm hand on Xue Tuzi's shoulder. The contact startled him slightly, as if he hadn't noticed anyone was still near. Beneath the collar of his robes, Xue Tuzi's collarbone jutted out sharply, the skin stretched too tightly over bone.
He nodded once in response, silent and mechanical. Folding the paper and tucking it into his lapel, he scooped Tuanzhu gently into the qiankun pouch at his side and began the long descent down the mountain.
Lately, he rarely spoke at all. Even during training with Li Zhameng, he barely responded, barely moved. His strikes lacked force, his footwork wavered, and his spirit was nowhere to be found. His eyes—once dark and sparkling with curiosity—had dulled into empty black mirrors, expressionless and distant. His voice, when it came, was scarce and hollow, like an echo in a cave.
Xue Tuzi descended the mountain in silence, Tuanzhu nestled quietly in his qiankun pouch, her soft body shifting with his every step. The path was narrow and slick with the recent shedding of leaves, the wind whispered through the trees. Despite the known presence of demons lurking within the shadows of the forest, none dared approach. Even in his weakened state, his aura crackled with something fierce and unspoken. Thin as he was, grief-ridden and quiet, he still carried the echo of power in his presence—and for those bold enough to test him, he made short work of them, his strikes cold, precise, and without hesitation.
By the time he reached the base of the mountain, the small village below had already awakened in full. It was a humble place, but lively—farmers called to one another over carts of fresh produce, children ran barefoot down narrow streets, and shopkeepers bickered over prices as they opened their stalls. The scent of grilled meat and sweet bean cakes lingered in the air, but Xue Tuzi walked past it all, eyes dull, steps steady.
He arrived at the village apothecary, a squat building wedged between a tea house and an incense vendor. The sharp, earthy scent of dried herbs and pungent concoctions met him at the door. As the wooden chime clacked overhead, a small, old woman leapt down from a tall stool behind the counter. Her back was permanently hunched, her face round and sagging like dough left too long in the sun. Heavy lids drooped over her beady, milky eyes, and with both hands clasped behind her, she shuffled toward him with surprising speed.
She peered up at him, squinting hard, her head tilting like a curious bird. "Young lady," she croaked, voice high and scratchy. "How may I help you?"
Xue Tuzi's brow twitched, a sharp flicker of irritation crossing his features before his expression smoothed back into something unreadable. It wasn't the first time. The soft lines of his face, the delicate slope of his jaw, and the way his robes hung off his slender frame—these had often led strangers to mistake him for a woman. It should have angered him, but today, it just felt like one more burden too small to be worth lifting.
He sighed quietly through his nose, brushing past the moment. "I have a list of medications and elixirs to replenish for Sect Mount Dingbu," he said flatly, retrieving the folded parchment from his lapel and offering it to her.
She blinked at the paper, her small eyes barely opening as she gave the list a quick skim. "Hmph," she muttered, squinting harder before turning away and wobbling toward her shelves.
"This will take some time. Sit," she added curtly, waving vaguely at a wooden stool near the door as she began pulling bottles, scooping powders, and measuring liquids with surprising dexterity. The sharp clink of glass vials and the rustle of parchment filled the small shop, occasionally interrupted by her muttering under her breath.
Xue Tuzi sat without comment, his gaze distant, not focused on anything in particular. He barely noticed when she glanced back at him several times, her squint deepening with interest. She remembered the disciples from Mount Dingbu—always stingy, tight-fisted, and difficult to fleece. But this one… this one she hadn't seen before. Pretty, quiet, and clearly new. A fresh face. That was opportunity.
Her thin, wrinkled lips stretched into a crafty little grin as she worked. Perhaps she couldn't trick the others, but this one… perhaps she could sell this beauty a few overpriced elixirs, a few "rare" tonics. She cackled softly under her breath, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she plotted.
But Xue Tuzi didn't notice.
He was somewhere else—somewhere far from the dusty shop and its scheming owner, far from the bustling village and the mountain behind him. Somewhere in a memory, in a voice, in a warmth he could no longer feel.