For the next two weeks, I made a choice. A boundary, really. I told Shen Kexian that I wanted to focus on movement and dodging. No emotion training. No spiritual contact. No touching.
He didn't ask why. Didn't press. Just gave a faint nod and said, "Very well," like I'd asked to change the incense blend instead of rearranging the entire structure of our training.
So we did just that.
Every morning, I showed up in the courtyard, rolled my sleeves up, and threw myself into hours of footwork drills, body control exercises, and dodging patterns that involved rope-slung sandbags and my own pride being bruised repeatedly.
I was sore. Every night. Legs burning. Arms aching. My back, at one point, clicked in protest and refused to un-click for a full hour. But it was worth it. Because I didn't touch him. Not even once.
In that distance, I told myself I was safe. In control. That this was the way forward—the only way to keep the lines clear, the feelings manageable, and the ghost of someone else's past from reaching through me again. No hands. No energy. No risk.
Just sweat, breath, and the kind of silence between us that felt like something being carefully folded away.
By the end of two weeks, Shen Kexian decided it was time to test whether I had actually made any progress—or if I was just getting really good at dodging sandbags and my own emotions. So when I walked into the training courtyard that morning, drenched in mild soreness and the kind of spiritual fatigue only rope drills could deliver, I wasn't expecting company.
Lan Wangji was standing there.
Perfectly composed in his pale robes, hands clasped behind his back like this was a diplomatic greeting and not the setup to a homicide.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Lan Zhan," I said slowly, squinting at him like he might dissolve if I stared long enough, "what are you doing here?"
Shen Kexian, standing just a few paces away with that signature I'm-up-to-something posture, didn't even look at me.
"He's your opponent," he said.
I blinked then laughed. Then I realized he wasn't joking. "I'm sorry—what?"
He turned to me like I'd just asked him to repeat the weather report. "A live test. If your dodging has improved, you'll be fine."
I turned slowly back to Lan Wangji, who hadn't moved. Not an inch. He simply stood there with the calm of a man who had never lost a spar in his life and probably never even tripped over a hem.
"Hello?" I hissed, waving a hand between them. "Do you know who he is? One slice, and I'm a decorative puddle."
Neither of them looked remotely concerned. Which, honestly, made it worse.
"He won't use the real sword, don't worry," Shen Kexian added mildly, as if that fixed anything.
"Oh, wonderful," I muttered. This was going to end badly. And, of course, I was right. Within two steps—two—Lan Wangji had already closed the distance between us. I barely registered the shift in his stance before the wooden practice staff tapped against my side.
Gently. Respectfully. Like he was tagging a delicate porcelain bowl he didn't want to chip.
But let's be clear: if that had been a real sword, I'd be dead. On the floor. Mid-sentence. Possibly with one of my last thoughts being should've stayed in bed.
I stumbled back a few steps, breath caught in my chest.
"Nope," I said aloud. "That's illegal."
Shen Kexian, utterly unbothered, just raised an eyebrow. Lan Wangji stepped back into his neutral stance. Silent. Still. Like he hadn't just casually demonstrated how quickly I could be reduced to decorative tragedy.
I tried again. And again. And again. And no matter how fast I moved, how sharp my reflexes felt dodging swinging bags and spiritual sandbags for weeks—it wasn't enough. These people were superhuman fast.
Faster than the camera cuts in every martial arts drama I'd ever binge-watched. And this? This wasn't even them using their real power. They weren't flying. They weren't summoning light. They were just moving. And I couldn't keep up. I stumbled back one more time, heart racing, breath uneven, wooden staff slipping from my sweaty hand.
Lan Wangji hadn't even broken a sweat.
I turned slowly toward Shen Kexian, who was standing under the shade like this was some casual morning exercise and not my repeated, ceremonial defeat.
"That's it," I said, throwing my hands up. "What is the point of doing this? I dodge, I spin, I train for two weeks straight, and I still can't get past two steps without getting gently eliminated by a man who hasn't blinked since sunrise."
He didn't answer right away.
Just gave me that maddeningly unreadable look—measured, steady, like he'd been waiting for me to ask the question properly.
"You couldn't fight him alone," he said finally. "But maybe… we can. Together."
I winced at the word.
Together.
Of course that was the point.
He didn't say it cruelly, didn't rub it in. But I could hear what he was really telling me. You can dodge sandbags for two thousand years, Mei Lin. You can train until your legs give out, hold your breath until your ribs ache, run until the courtyard becomes your second skin. But alone? You'll still lose.
This wasn't about evading. It wasn't about pretending I could keep my distance forever.
It was about accepting it. Accepting him. I looked down at the wooden staff in my hand, then back at Lan Wangji—still calm, still waiting.
For a moment, I felt it: not defeat, exactly. Just the beginning of surrender. Not to failure. But to the fact that maybe I was never meant to win this fight alone.
Shen Kexian stepped forward without a word and extended his hand toward me.
Familiar. Steady. Waiting. I looked at it, chest still tight from the last round. Then sighed. "Fine. Whatever." My fingers slid into his, and the moment we touched, everything shifted.
The pressure came first—that familiar thrum of power rushing between us—but it wasn't overwhelming this time. That cold, angry storm I remembered? It was still there, still pulsing underneath his skin, but I could breathe in it now.
I didn't resist. I dove into it—deep, fearless, reckless. The flicker I used to have to chase, the tiny thread of warmth I'd learned to search for at the edge of his storm—it rushed toward me. Welcomed me in. For a second, I froze. Because it was warm. Comforting, even. New. This was new. Before I could think too hard, the water answered.
It didn't rise—it erupted.
A wall of it burst up around us like a barrier, tall and shimmering and alive. Just in time.
Lan Wangji moved—silent, precise, a blur of ivory motion—and the water shot forward like it knew he was coming. He shifted midair, barely touching the ground before vanishing again, avoiding the blast entirely.
"Focus," Shen Kexian said sharply.
I did. His hand gripped mine tighter, and then—suddenly—he interlocked our fingers, his other arm sliding around my waist.
"Wait, what—" I started.
Too late.
He lifted me—just enough—and spun us out of the way.
A crack echoed as Lan Wangji's wooden staff came down exactly where I'd been standing. I let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a scream.
My feet touched the ground again, heart pounding, legs unsteady.
"I feel like I'm on a fricking roller coaster," I hissed.
Shen Kexian didn't even look at me. He was already preparing the next move.
Shen Kexian moved fast—faster than I'd ever seen him. Another wave of water shot forward, sharp and angled, but Lan Wangji shifted to the side with effortless grace. Like the attack had warned him first. Like gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did the rest of us.
A rush of adrenaline surged through me, sharp and searing like flame against skin. Beneath the heat, something deeper stirred—a pull I couldn't ignore. Not fear. Not flight.
I wanted to fight.
My heart pounded in my chest, my breath coming fast, and even as I tried to stay centered, something inside me screamed for more—push harder, move faster, strike again.
Was that me?
Or was it Shen Kexian?
Our emotions had tangled—completely. His rage, my fear, our instinct—it was all mixing together in a storm I couldn't separate. But I didn't have time to untangle it. Lan Wangji was already moving again, his body a blur, and the staff in his hands aimed straight at us.
The water reacted before I could.
It shot up in a spiral shield, intercepting the strike in a burst of liquid and force. My hand tightened around Shen Kexian's instinctively.
Then the flicker came. Soft. Warm. Wrapping around the chaos like a thread of silk.
I grabbed it and just like before, I shifted it—twisting the storm into something else. Something of mine.
Love for Ming Yu.
That steady pull. That grounding ache. That feeling that I knew could balance us if I just held on long enough. The water obeyed. Another wave surged toward Lan Wangji—fast, precise, powerful.
But he was already moving. He flipped midair, cloak billowing, and landed hard—with one clean strike, his staff arced downward toward me.
I saw it a heartbeat too late.
But Shen Kexian didn't. He twisted in midair, pulling me against him, his body shielding mine as the staff slammed into his back with a brutal, echoing thud.
He stumbled. Something inside me ignited—sharp, blinding, immediate. A surge of heat so fierce it burned through fear and thought alike.
Seeing Shen Kexian take that hit—seeing him hurt—tore through the warmth I'd been holding like it was paper. The flicker that had been gentle and steady turned to heat. Raw. Fierce. Protective.
It wasn't just emotion—it was will. The need to shield him. To stop everything from touching him. To keep him safe, even if I had no idea how. And somehow, he felt it. Shen Kexian's body shifted even before I fully registered the pulse building in my chest. He pivoted midair, straightening, and his hand grabbing me tight.
The water surged.
It wasn't graceful this time—it was fast. Angry. Controlled only by the narrow edge between emotion and command. It shot forward with such force it cracked the air open.
Lan Wangji turned, staff still in hand, but didn't dodge.
He raised his palm.
And just like that—it stopped.
A glowing barrier snapped into place, humming low with quiet power. The water slammed into it and scattered into mist, evaporating instantly like it had hit sunlight. That barrier—I'd seen it before. In the cave. When I first met him.
Shen Kexian gently guided me back to the ground, his hand steady at my waist, keeping me upright even as the last of the power between us unraveled and faded.
I was still trembling. The kind of full-body shake that comes not just from adrenaline, but from barely holding yourself together while being flung through the air by raw spiritual chaos.
He looked over at Lan Wangji, who stood perfectly composed, as if none of it had phased him in the slightest.
"Hanguang-jun," Shen Kexian said, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth, "you cheated."
Lan Wangji didn't blink. Didn't speak. Just looked back at him with that same unreadable stillness.
Which, frankly, made it worse.
I, on the other hand, felt like I'd just hopped off a cursed roller coaster blindfolded and backwards. My legs were shaking, my breath wouldn't fully come back, and I was still clinging to Shen Kexian's arm like it was the last stable object on a sinking boat.
"You guys are insane," I muttered, staggering slightly. "This was not a test. This was a near-death experience with choreography."
Shen Kexian chuckled but didn't let go. Even though the glow of his power had faded, his hand remained steady at my back, like he wasn't entirely convinced my legs would cooperate yet.
Lan Wangji turned to me, calm and composed as always.
"You did well," he said. Just three words. Simple. Unadorned. But from him, it might as well have been thunderous applause.
Then, without another word, he nodded once and walked away—his white robes trailing like the end of a snowstorm—leaving the training ground in silence and me still trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
As Lan Wangji disappeared around the corner, leaving only the sound of distant footsteps and the faint trickle of evaporating water, Shen Kexian finally turned his full attention to me.
His hand was still on my back. Still steady. Still annoyingly warm.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice gentler now.
I looked up at him, still half bent over, trying to figure out whether I was dizzy from spiritual burnout or just sheer rage. Part of me wanted to collapse into his arms and say that was incredible. The other part wanted to grab the nearest staff and smack him with it just to see how he liked midair surprise attacks.
I stared at him, panting, hair sticking to my temple, and said with complete sincerity, "I honestly can't tell if I want to hit you or thank you."
His lips curved slightly, like he knew exactly what I meant.
"That means it worked," he said.
I groaned and let my head drop against his shoulder. "You're the worst."
He didn't argue. Shen Kexian led me to the bench near the edge of the training ground—one of those simple wooden things no one ever sat on unless they were recovering from being spiritually flung across the courtyard.
Which, apparently, now included me. He handed me a cup of water, and I took it with both hands, only to realize they were shaking slightly. Not violently—just enough to make the rim of the cup tremble in time with my pulse.
He sat down beside me, the heat of his presence still noticeable even without the power flowing between us.
"I can make you feel better," he said calmly, holding out his hand.
I looked at it like it might explode.
"We're not training anymore, are we?" I asked warily. "Because I haven't even rested yet."
He rolled his eyes—actually rolled them—and then, without waiting for permission, reached over and took my hand anyway.
The warmth hit instantly. Not the overwhelming rush of combat power, but something gentler. A steady heat that flooded my palm and spread slowly up my arm, coiling into my chest with a weightless kind of calm.
Warm. Safe. Soothing. I didn't flinch. Didn't recoil. After the chaos, the fear, the spiritual overload—I let it in. I closed my eyes, slowly, and just felt it—the silence, the comfort, the quiet strength of his energy woven into mine. And for once, I didn't feel like I had to run from it. When I opened my eyes, the trembling was gone.
The weight in my limbs had settled. My chest no longer felt like it was holding a hurricane just behind my ribs. I felt… normal again.
Shen Kexian let go of my hand, slow and deliberate, as if he didn't want to break the quiet that had formed between us.
I flexed my fingers once, then looked at him with a tired smirk. "So now you can heal people?"
His mouth twitched at the corner, the almost-smile he reserved for when he thought he was being clever but didn't want to admit it.
"It only works for you," he said simply.
I blinked. The words landed with more weight than he probably intended—or maybe exactly as he intended. I didn't know what to say to that. Not really. So I just looked down at my hand again, still faintly warm from his.
"So you do worry about me," he said suddenly, like he was commenting on the weather.
I turned to look at him, eyes narrowing. "Wow. You just… say that out loud, huh?"
He didn't flinch. Just tilted his head, still watching me with that frustratingly perceptive calm.
"Don't you?" he asked. "When I got hit… I could feel it. The surge of your anger. You wanted to protect me."
I opened my mouth to say something sarcastic but nothing came out. Because yes, I had felt something—hot and immediate and fierce—but I hadn't had time to unpack it, let alone admit to it. I'd barely caught my breath from the fight, and now he was sitting here, peeling away emotional layers like we were mid-therapy session and not still sitting on a training bench with water in our hair.
I looked away quickly.
"I didn't really have time to think," I muttered, trying not to sound defensive. "There was a lot going on."
But I could feel the heat rising in my face anyway and of course, he noticed. I exhaled slowly, still trying to cool the embarrassment burning under my skin.
Then I glanced sideways at him, lips twitching. "So… you dragged Lan Zhan here just to prove your point?"
Shen Kexian's mouth curved faintly. "Something like that."
I rolled my eyes. "You could've just said that instead of letting me flail around for two weeks like an overcooked dumpling with boundary issues."
His gaze didn't waver. "Because you needed space."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You were overwhelmed," he said simply. "Whatever you were feeling—Lianshui, the fear, the pressure… I figured it would be better if I gave you distance. Let you get your footing again."
My mouth opened, ready to fire back with a retort—something sharp, something about how he could've just said that like a normal person. But then I stopped.
Because deep down, I knew he was right. The silent days. The physical-only drills. The way he never pressed or questioned, just stood nearby like a barrier I could reach for but didn't have to touch.
He knew. Not everything. Not how tangled it was inside my head. But enough. Enough to give me room without abandoning me.
Of course, he didn't say it outright. He never did.
Instead, he just sat there beside me, calm and steady, as though he wasn't waiting for thanks or recognition—only for me to settle. To find myself again.
My heart trembled at that. I hated it.