The hut smelled faintly of herbs.
For days, Xuan had lingered there, though every instinct inside him screamed to leave. His Blood Dao thrived on solitude, on severing bonds, on devouring storms. Yet here he was, repairing broken thatch on the roof, fetching water from the river, and sitting by the fire as the woman brewed bitter teas.
It felt wrong. It felt dangerous.
And yet… it felt human.
* * * * * * * * *
The woman never pressed him. She never asked his name, never demanded his past, never questioned the shadows that clouded his eyes. She simply gave him tasks, food, shelter — as though he were no more than a weary traveler.
Once, when he returned with firewood stacked on his back, she looked up from her herb baskets and smiled.
"You carry storms in your eyes," she said, "but you still know how to carry wood."
Xuan froze. He wasn't sure if it was a jest or an accusation.
He placed the bundle down without speaking.
The woman laughed lightly, her voice like rippling water. "Don't glare. It's good, you know. Men forget how to be men when they carry storms too long. But you — you remember."
Xuan turned away. His chains shifted under his skin, restless, as though mocking him.
I remember too much, he thought.
* * * * * * * * *
At night, he sat cross-legged by the hearth, trying to steady himself. His body was healing, but inside, the fragments of storms still tore at him. Poison gnawed at his blood, fire scorched his marrow, silence pressed against his mind, and threads coiled like serpents through his veins.
He bound them with chains, forcing them into uneasy truce, but balance came only in fragments.
That night, as the wind moaned outside, the backlash came.
It started as a twitch in his arm. Then a surge of heat tore up his spine, colliding with cold poison that clawed through his ribs. Silence hammered into his skull, and threads wove themselves tighter, binding muscle and bone until he thought he would shatter.
Blood filled his mouth. His vision blurred red.
He bit down, forcing the chains tighter — but the storms screamed back.
Not enough… too much… it's breaking me—
Then a hand touched his chest.
* * * * * * * * *
It was warm. Calm.
The storms recoiled instantly, as though they had been struck dumb. The poison quieted, fire dulled to embers, silence retreated, threads loosened. His chains, still rattling, suddenly found stillness as though something vast and eternal had pressed them into place.
Xuan's breath caught. His eyes snapped open.
The woman knelt before him, her palm against his chest, her expression serene.
"Sometimes," she said softly, "a roof must hold back the wind."
Then she withdrew her hand.
* * * * * * * * *
Xuan sat frozen, heart hammering. His chains coiled violently inside him, rattling with fear.
That… was no Murim technique. No Lein. No captain's storm.
It was something higher.
"...What are you?" he whispered.
The woman tilted her head, amused. "A traveler."
His eyes narrowed. "No mortal can touch storms."
She laughed gently. "No mortal, perhaps. But I never claimed to be one."
The answer should have been terrifying. It was. But she spoke it with such calm, such casual warmth, that it disarmed him more than any blade could.
She rose, brushing her robes, and walked to the hearth. "You should rest. The storms inside you will tear you apart if you don't learn to quiet them. I'll brew you something to help."
As if she had not just quelled the impossible.
* * * * * * * * *
Xuan sat in silence long after she moved away.
His chains whispered like mad dogs, rattling at their cage. They recognized her in ways he could not. Not storm. Not Lein. Something older, deeper.
And yet… she looked at him as though none of that mattered.
For the first time since his rebirth, Xuan felt… small. Not as prey, not as wolf — simply small, like a boy beneath the gaze of something immeasurably vast.
It unsettled him more than the kennel massacre.
* * * * * * * * *
The next morning, he woke to the sound of rushing water.
She was at the river again, sleeves trailing as she rinsed herbs. The sun painted her in gold, her hair gleaming, her expression untroubled.
Xuan stood on the bank, silent, watching her.
Part of him wanted to demand answers. To tear away her veil and see what she truly was. But another part — the boy who once longed for family, the man who still carried kindness in spite of his Dao — wanted only to stay a little longer beneath her roof.
His chains trembled faintly, restless and confused.
And for the first time, he didn't silence them.
* * * * * * * * *
The days blurred.
Xuan's wounds healed under her herbs and teas, but his storms remained restless. Poison gnawed, fire seared, silence pressed, threads coiled — yet all of them quieted in her presence.
It was unnatural. Unsettling.
And yet, he lingered.
Each dawn he fetched water, each dusk he chopped wood, each night he sat in meditation by her hearth. She never pressed him for answers, and he never asked hers. The silence between them was not heavy like it had been with comrades — it was strangely gentle, like a lull in the storm.
But outside, the world did not sleep.
* * * * * * * * *
It began with faint noises in the forest — snapped branches, hushed whispers. Xuan noticed them first, his instincts sharpened by years of being hunted.
One evening, while he returned from the river with firewood, he paused at the ridge. Below, he saw torchlight weaving through the trees. Shadows moved in patterns too precise to be travelers.
Sect scouts.
Iron Banner's crest glinted faintly in the firelight.
They've come.
* * * * * * * * *
That night, as the woman set their meal on the low table, Xuan spoke at last.
"They're searching the woods. The Iron Banner has sent scouts."
She looked up, calm as ever. "For you?"
His chains rattled faintly. "For whoever survived the kennel. They won't stop until they know the truth."
The woman stirred her broth with a wooden spoon, unhurried. "Then eat quickly. Strength will serve you better than fear."
Xuan frowned. "You don't understand. These aren't simple bandits. They'll burn everything to ash if they think I'm here."
She smiled faintly. "Let them try."
Her tone was not arrogance. It was certainty, effortless as breathing.
* * * * * * * * *
The scouts arrived two nights later.
Xuan heard them first — the crunch of boots, the creak of bows, the murmur of orders. He rose silently, chains coiling beneath his skin, preparing to strike.
But before he could step outside, the woman laid a hand on his arm.
"Stay."
Xuan froze. Her voice was gentle, but unyielding.
She walked past him, sliding the door open. Moonlight spilled across her pale robes as she stepped outside.
* * * * * * * * *
Ten scouts ringed the hut, weapons drawn. Their leader, a lean man with the Iron Banner insignia on his chest, stepped forward.
"We've heard rumors," he said, his voice sharp. "A survivor of the kennel hides in these mountains. If you shelter him, you'll share his fate. Surrender him now."
The woman tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Survivor? I've seen no one but the river."
"Don't play games." The scout raised his hand. "Search the hut. If you resist—"
She raised her hand.
* * * * * * * * *
The words died in his throat.
Every scout froze mid-motion, eyes wide. Their limbs trembled, weapons slipping from numb fingers. The night itself seemed to still — even the crickets fell silent.
The woman's eyes glimmered faintly, like stars hidden behind clouds.
Then, with a small wave of her sleeve, the scouts staggered backward, confusion flooding their faces.
"Why… why are we here?" one muttered.
"I don't… remember…" another whispered.
Their leader's eyes darted wildly, but whatever will he had shattered. He barked a meaningless order, and the group stumbled away into the trees — as if forgetting entirely why they had come.
The forest swallowed them.
The woman closed the door and returned to the hearth, as calmly as if she had brushed dust from her sleeve.
* * * * * * * * *
Xuan stared at her, chains coiling violently beneath his skin.
"That… was not storm." His voice was low, dangerous. "What are you?"
She looked at him with that same gentle smile. "Does it matter? You are alive. And for now, I am your shelter."
Her words pressed into him harder than blades.
Xuan clenched his fists. He wanted to demand, to force her to reveal herself. But even his chains quailed in her presence. And more than that — he knew she was right.
Alive. Sheltered. Things he had not been since his first death.
* * * * * * * * *
That night, he sat cross-legged by the hearth, his chains rattling faintly. He closed his eyes, letting the storms churn inside him.
For once, they did not lash out. They coiled, simmered, and settled — not because he had forced them, but because her presence steadied them like a mountain anchoring the wind.
He whispered into the stillness, so soft it was almost swallowed by the crackling fire.
"If you are my roof… then let me stand under it. Just a while longer."
* * * * * * * * *
Outside, storms gathered.
Iron Banner's scouts would not stop. Other sects, desperate for answers, prowled the mountains. Rumors spread like wildfire — of captains vanished, of wolves devoured, of a lone survivor who carried storms in his blood.
The world closed in.
But in that fragile hut, by the river's edge, Lin Xuan sat in silence, cultivating for the first time without fear.
And across from him, the woman's voice drifted like a whisper of eternity:
"Even storms need a roof."
Xuan closed his eyes, and for the first time in this life, he allowed himself to believe it.