That night, we celebrated.
Not because we wanted to. But because we had to.
The attack from Qiuli had been pushed back. The border held. Luyang still stood, and someone decided that meant we needed music and firelight, laughter and wine, roasted meat turning slowly over open flame. A feast for the living. A ritual for the dead.
Soldiers gathered in clusters across the camp—some quiet, others loud with drink and relief. There were toasts to valor, to General Luo, to the archers on the ridge. And beneath it all, the unsaid prayer that maybe tomorrow wouldn't ask for more blood.
I sat near the edge of the gathering, a cup of untouched wine in my hand, the scent of roasted meat curling in the air like a sick joke.
Because all I could think about was that one soldier.
The one who came in just after noon. His skin—gods—what was left of it—blistered and peeling, his screams jagged and wet. The smell had been seared into my nose, into the inside of my lungs. Burned flesh and hopelessness.
Now the scent filled the celebration. I turned my face away.
"You haven't eaten," came a quiet voice beside me.
Ming Yu. Of course he noticed.
He was seated closer than usual—our shoulders nearly brushing. He wasn't smiling. His expression was soft, shaded with concern. Like he knew too well the things I couldn't say out loud.
I shook my head, barely able to swallow past the tightness in my throat.
A pause. Then his voice, low and almost hesitant: "Do you want to go for a walk?"
I looked at him, really looked.
Not the soldier. Not the cultivator. Just… the man who'd risked his life this morning and somehow still had enough gentleness left in him to offer me this.
I nodded. Wordless. Grateful. And without another word, we rose and slipped away from the firelight—into the hush of the trees and the dark that didn't demand celebration.
We wandered through the trees in silence, the distant sounds of music and clinking cups fading with every step. The night air was crisp, laced with pine and something colder—like the lingering presence of spirits that hadn't yet realized they were free to leave.
My boots crunched softly over fallen leaves. Ming Yu walked beside me without speaking, without pressing, just waiting. Giving me space to breathe. To unravel.
I didn't know how long we walked before I finally said it.
"I was terrified today."
The words came out too fast. Too fragile. Like glass slipping from a shelf.
He looked over, not startled, just listening.
"I thought I was prepared for it," I went on, voice hoarse. "I've seen war in dramas—half a dozen battlefield episodes, right? But it's always stylized. Beautiful even. A single noble death. A sweeping shot of the aftermath. But this—this was…"
I swallowed, hard.
"There were too many. Too fast. Too loud. I didn't even know where you were. Or if—" My breath caught. I paused, steadying it. "I didn't know if you were alive."
He exhaled softly, eyes cast downward. "I'm sorry."
"I kept thinking I'd turn around and see you in the healer's tent. Or… not see you at all."
The ache rose again, dull and deep. I rubbed my arms, though it wasn't cold. "It was like trying to hold back a tide with my hands. Every time I looked up, another person was bleeding. Screaming. Dying."
I stopped walking. "I didn't know it would feel like this."
Ming Yu stepped a little closer, voice low.
"Shen Kexian and I went to the north flank. Near the main breach."
That pulled me out of my spiral. I looked at him, alert. "You went there?"
"We had to know if Qiuli's retreat was real, or just a trap. But it wasn't what we expected." He hesitated. "We saw a group dragging corpses off the battlefield. Quiet. Organized. Too careful. And they weren't Qiuli soldiers."
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
"They were dressed like scavengers, but moved like cultivators. Shen Kexian thought they were after something specific—certain bodies. We tried to follow them."
My heart sank. "You what?"
He gave a wry, almost apologetic smile. "We didn't get far. A group of cultivators intercepted us before we could close in. Skilled. Fast. And this time, they did attack."
I stared at him, tension snapping through my chest. "They attacked you?"
He nodded. "They weren't trying to kill us—more like driving us back. But it was clear: we weren't welcome. We managed to get away, barely. Shen Kexian called it off. Said it was too risky to push forward."
My breath caught. "You're not hurt, are you?"
Before he could answer, I stepped closer and started patting his sides, his arms, checking blindly for wounds. My fingers brushed over his ribs, his shoulder, his chest—anywhere I could reach without thinking too hard about it.
He let out a soft laugh, the sound warm despite everything. "I'm okay," he said, catching my hands gently in his.
"Really?" I looked up at him, searching his face for any crack in that calm.
He smiled then—soft, tired, real—and pulled me into his arms.
"Really," he murmured against my hair. "You don't have to worry about me."
"I can't lose you," I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. My voice cracked. "If something happened to you, I—" I pulled back just enough to look at him, my hands still clutching his robe. "I'd go crazy."
His expression softened—pain and affection flickering behind his eyes. He didn't try to shush me. Didn't deflect with some half-joke or calm reassurance.
He just pulled me closer and held me tighter.
As if he felt the same way.
***
As we made our way back toward the celebration, the sounds of music and laughter grew louder—like the night was trying to pretend today hadn't happened.
A few drunken soldiers and cultivators spotted us and immediately descended on Ming Yu, clapping him on the back, dragging him toward the fire with shouts of "Our quiet Advisor lives! Come drink, come drink!"
He glanced at me, half-apologetic, clearly torn.
I gave him a small smile and tilted my head just enough to say, "Go. Enjoy. I'll be fine."
His lips twitched with relief and maybe a little guilt, but he nodded, letting them pull him back into the warmth and light.
I turned toward the quiet of my tent.
Only to find Shen Kexian already standing there, leaning casually against a post like he'd been waiting. He held out a pear without preamble.
"Little monkey not hungry?" he said, voice teasing but too observant. "You didn't touch anything earlier."
I blinked. "You were watching me?"
He shrugged, smug. "I have eyes."
I took the pear but didn't bite. "I'm not that hungry."
He quirked a brow. "If you don't eat, how else will you have the strength to cling to my back dramatically?"
I rolled my eyes and gave him a light punch to the arm. "Shut up."
He winced.
Too hard?
"Kexian?" My voice dropped. "Wait… are you injured?"
His reaction was immediate. He clamped a hand over my mouth and dragged me inside the tent before I could say another word.
"Don't say it out loud," he hissed. "Seriously."
I swatted his hand away. "Oh my god. You are hurt!"
He exhaled sharply through his nose, looking like he regretted showing up in the first place. "It's nothing. A graze."
"Shen Kexian, what happened?"
He sank onto the edge of a stool like the adrenaline had finally worn off. "One of the cultivators on the ridge caught my shoulder. Just a scratch. I didn't even tell Ming Yu."
"Of course you didn't," I muttered, already reaching for the supply bag. "Because telling people things is for cowards, right?"
He grinned faintly. "Exactly."
I glared at him and set the pear aside. "Take off your robe."
He raised both brows. "Are you sure this is about the wound?"
"Don't test me right now."
Another grin. "There she is."
He sighed but didn't argue this time, slipping off the outer robe with a tired motion. What I saw made me suck in a sharp breath.
Not a cut.
A deep, spreading bruise marred his left shoulder and upper arm—angry purple and blue, blooming like poison beneath the skin. It pulsed with heat, the mark of something dark and deliberate. Not an accident. Not a graze.
"A scratch?" I said quietly. "This isn't a scratch, Kexian."
He looked away like a scolded child. "It felt like a scratch at the time."
I knelt in front of him, the soft rustle of my robes the only sound between us for a long breath. Then I gently took his hand in mine.
"Don't move."
His eyes flicked down to where our hands met, but he didn't speak. He started the connection, the pain flowed into me.
Lianshui stirred immediately—her presence within me rising like mist over still ponds. She poured through me, into him, my hands and arms were tingling as the energy settled over the wound. I felt her power wrap around the bruised flesh like a tide smoothing jagged rocks. Steady. Kind.
Shen Kexian inhaled sharply, but didn't pull away.
"You're always like this," he said, voice low and unreadable. "So full of softness it drives me mad. Even now… your feelings. You care."
The warmth in my hands pulsed brighter. His skin slowly cooled beneath my touch.
He watched me, eyes sharp but softened. "You're still hiding something."
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Because he was right.
He always was, damn him. But right now, I couldn't give him the truth. Only this.
When the last flicker of pain eased from beneath his skin, I felt it—the moment the connection severed.
Shen Kexian broke it gently, like peeling away the last note of a song.
But he didn't let go of my hands.
His fingers stayed curled around mine, warm and firm, like he wasn't quite ready to give them back. Like letting go might mean something neither of us was brave enough to name.
I stared down at them, our hands intertwined, his thumb brushing over the inside of my wrist absently.
Lianshui didn't let go.
Her energy still curled softly around my fingers, a tether that pulsed faintly toward him.
My hand—my actual hand—refused to move away from his.
My heart dropped.
Oh no.
I started to panic. Internally, of course. On the outside, I looked like someone staring way too intensely at a bruised man while still holding his hand like a lovesick maiden.
But inside?
It was sirens. Red flags. Screaming.
She won't let go.
Lianshui, the spirit who lives rent-free in my soul and apparently ships Shen Kexian and I harder than I do, refused to release him.
I tugged slightly. No luck. My fingers twitched. Still no go.
Shen Kexian tilted his head, watching me with that unreadable, lingering look. His brows furrowed slightly—like he could sense it too. The tether. The heat. The something that refused to let us walk away clean.
And then.
He leaned in.
Just an inch. Maybe two. But close enough that I could smell the faint trace of sandalwood and blood and battle-worn silk.
Oh no. Oh no no no—
Just when I thought it couldn't get worse—when my brain was already melting and my spiritual parasite was playing matchmaker with zero consent—the tent flap shifted again.
Ming Yu stepped in.
He froze mid-step and everything in him seemed to stop.
His eyes landed on me first.
Then on Shen Kexian.
Then—on our hands.
Confusion hit first. Then a flicker of something sharper—like the beginnings of betrayal. His gaze snapped from my hand to my face, then to Shen Kexian, whose expression had shifted in the worst possible way.
He looked like he was winning.
Not gloating exactly—no, Shen Kexian was far too composed for something that vulgar. But his smile held just enough curve, his posture just enough ease, to make it clear:
He knew exactly how this looked.
And he wasn't about to clarify a damn thing.
I, on the other hand, was full-on spiraling.
Mouth dry, brain screaming, I looked straight at Ming Yu and mouthed a desperate word:
"Help."
My pleading gaze dropped down to my trapped hand, practically broadcasting this is not what it looks like, I swear to all the ancestors.
Ming Yu blinked.
And then I saw it—the exact moment something clicked behind his eyes. The sharp inhale. The slow focus. The way his shoulders stiffened, not in jealousy, but in sudden understanding.
He moved toward me—swift, silent.
Without so much as brushing Shen Kexian, he reached out and took both of my arms, gently but firmly pulling me away.
The second he did—Lianshui's power snapped. Gone. Like a cord cut clean.
I gasped softly at the release. Shen Kexian's brows lifted, something unreadable passing behind his eyes.
Ming Yu didn't flinch. His voice was low. Steady.
"Lord Shen," he said coolly, "if you don't mind—please leave."
A pause. "Before I regret doing something stupid."
The tent went still.
Shen Kexian looked at Ming Yu for a long moment. He opened his mouth like he might argue, might toss back a line—But then he didn't. He turned and left without another word. The tent flap fell closed behind him.
And I was left staring at Ming Yu, my heart still racing, my hands still held, and my soul unsure which god to thank first.
"She took control of me," I said frantically, still staring at the spot where Shen Kexian had stood moments ago. "And she wouldn't let go."
Ming Yu's eyes locked on mine—sharp with worry, then softening—as he gently took my hands, turning them over like he expected to see some lingering trace of divine power carved into my skin.
His touch was light, careful, reverent in a way that made my chest ache.
"Are you alright?" he asked, voice low, threaded with that quiet concern that always seemed to find the cracks in my armor.
I nodded slowly. "I… think so." His thumbs brushed over my palms, grounding me. "She vanished," I murmured. "The moment you touched me. Just—gone."
He went still. "What did you do," he asked, calm but insistent, "that she took control over you?"
I hesitated. "He was hurt. I was healing him."
Ming Yu's brows lifted. "He's hurt?" A pause—then a soft, humorless laugh. "So the blast actually did hit him. He brushed it off earlier like it was nothing."
Oh wow, these boys. Competing like immortality was a prize to be won.
I pressed a hand to my temple. "What is this," I muttered, "some divine pissing contest? 'Who bleeds better under pressure'?"
But then—just as quickly as the sarcasm came—the fear returned.
Cold and real and crawling up my spine.
"What if…" I whispered, my voice thinning, "what if it happens again?"
Ming Yu looked at me, brows pulling together.
"What if I connect with him again," I blurted, "and she—she—takes over and I—I don't know, jump on him or something?! What if I leap into his arms like some possessed lovesick lunatic with glowing hands?! What if I kiss him?!"
The horror hit me in waves.
"What am I gonna do?! What if I throw myself at him like a tragic drama heroine in heat?! I can't live like this, Ming Yu! I'll have to wear gloves forever—NO, IRON GLOVES—"
I was full-on spiraling now, pacing, hands flailing, already planning a lifetime of monkhood and magical chastity belts.
Ming Yu grabbed me gently by the arms and pulled me against his chest.
Firm. Warm. Steady.
"Don't worry," he said quietly, his chin resting against the top of my head. "I'll be around to yank you away."
I froze. Then let out a breath that was part laugh, part sob. And hugged him back. Tight.
Because he would. He really, really would.
Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at me.
"You should rest," Ming Yu said softly. "You're exhausted."
"I can't sleep," I admitted, voice thin. "Every time I close my eyes, I see…"
I didn't finish the sentence. I didn't need to. He understood.
"Then just lie down," he said, guiding me toward the bedroll. "You don't have to sleep. Just… rest."
I let him lead me, my limbs heavy, my body finally starting to feel the weight of everything it had carried today. I sank into the blankets, not even caring if my hair was a mess or my face was still streaked with dried tears.
Ming Yu knelt beside me.
I caught his wrist. "Stay."
His eyes softened. "I wasn't going anywhere." He settled beside me, close but not too close. Just enough. The space between us felt warm.
I turned slightly toward him, and without thinking, reached for his hand under the blanket. He didn't hesitate.
His fingers twined with mine, calm and certain.
"I'm sorry about earlier," I whispered. "It wasn't—"
"I know," he said. "You don't have to explain."
Silence folded around us like soft cloth.
I stared up at the tent ceiling, our fingers linked. And for the first time all day…I exhaled without shaking.