The first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the wooden shutters.
Xuan stirred awake on the woven mat by the hearth, the faint scent of herbs and ash clinging to the air. His instincts snapped him upright — but there was no danger, no blood. Only the steady rhythm of a pot simmering, and the faint rustle of robes moving outside the hut.
He blinked.
It still unsettled him — waking to warmth instead of the stench of corpses or the clang of chains.
He rose and stepped out.
* * * * * * * * *
By the river, the woman knelt with her sleeves pinned up, washing roots in the water. The morning light gilded her hair, and for a moment she looked like she had been painted into the world rather than born from it.
"You're awake early," she said without looking back. Her voice was calm, almost teasing.
"I don't sleep long."
"Storms don't," she replied, wringing the roots dry. "But men do. You should learn."
Xuan's brow furrowed faintly. He hated how her words cut into him without effort — not sharp, not cruel, just… true.
* * * * * * * * *
Back inside, she set a bowl before him.
Rice gruel with thin slices of ginger and wild greens. Plain, simple, but steaming with care.
Xuan eyed it suspiciously.
"You glare at food like it owes you blood," she said, amused.
He picked up the bowl, drinking in silence. The warmth spread through his chest — and that, more than the taste, unsettled him.
He had devoured storms, swallowed poison, drunk the blood of enemies. But this… this was nourishment. Something his body didn't fight, something that didn't demand chains to suppress it.
She sat across from him, sipping her own bowl without a word. The silence wasn't heavy, wasn't threatening. It simply existed, like river water flowing over stone.
* * * * * * * * *
Later that morning, she asked him to mend the hut's roof.
The thatch had sagged where rain had worn it thin.
Xuan climbed the ladder silently, hands moving with efficiency. His past life had known only blades and storms — but still, his body remembered the practical tasks of survival. His hands wove straw, his arms lifted bundles. It felt strange, almost foreign, to do something that wasn't for killing.
Below, the woman steadied the ladder with both hands, her pale sleeves fluttering in the breeze.
"You don't need to hold it," Xuan muttered, adjusting the thatch.
"I'll hold it anyway," she said.
"You'll fall if I slip."
"Then don't slip."
Her tone was playful, but her gaze never wavered from the ladder.
Xuan's jaw tightened. He wanted to snap that storms didn't care if roofs stood or fell — but the words caught in his throat.
Instead, he said nothing and kept working.
* * * * * * * * *
By noon, they walked together to the river to fetch water.
The woman carried a clay jar; Xuan carried two. His chains tugged faintly under his skin, restless from inaction. He ignored them, focusing instead on the river's steady current.
"Look," she said suddenly, crouching by the bank.
Xuan followed her gaze. The water mirrored their faces ; his sharp, cold, shadows under his eyes; hers soft, calm, framed by light.
"Your reflection looks less haunted when it breaks on the water," she remarked.
Xuan blinked. His first instinct was suspicion – was that mockery? But her tone was too gentle, too genuine.
He huffed quietly, a sound that was almost –almost, a laugh.
It startled him more than her words.
* * * * * * * * *
Back at the hut, she asked him to help prepare their meal.
"Chop these," she said, setting a bundle of roots on the table.
Xuan picked up the knife awkwardly. His grip was trained for killing, not cooking. He pressed too hard; the root split unevenly, jagged pieces scattering across the table.
The woman chuckled. "Storms you can bind, but roots defeat you?"
Xuan scowled. "Storms don't squirm on the chopping board."
Her laughter spilled out, bright and unrestrained. It filled the small hut like sunlight.
Xuan felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest — embarrassment. He hadn't felt that since boyhood.
He looked away, jaw tight, but she reached over and guided his hand lightly, showing him the right motion.
Her fingers brushed his. For a heartbeat, the chains inside him stilled.
* * * * * * * * *
That evening, they sat by the fire.
The woman shared a tale from her travels — of a mountain where the wind sang like flutes, of villagers who tied ribbons to the trees so the forest would "play" for them.
Xuan listened silently.
When she finished, she turned to him. "Your turn. Tell me a story."
He froze. His life was blood, betrayal, storms. What story could he share that wasn't poison?
But her gaze was patient. Gentle.
Slowly, words came.
"When I was a boy," he said at last, voice low, "my mother once sat with me under the rain. She gave me rice cakes she had saved, though we had little. We ate them while listening to the drops. She said rain could wash away even sorrow, if we let it."
The memory was sharp, raw — one he had buried beneath storms and chains. Speaking it felt like pulling open a scar.
The woman listened without interrupting. When he finished, she smiled faintly.
"Rain does that," she murmured. "Perhaps that's why storms chase it."
Xuan lowered his gaze. His chest felt tight.
He hadn't spoken of his mother since before his first death.
* * * * * * * * *
The fire crackled softly. Outside, the river whispered.
For the first time in years, Xuan felt something almost unbearable.
Peace.
* * * * * * * * *
The following days passed like water over stone.
For the first time since his rebirth, Xuan's life was measured not by battles, deaths, or betrayals, but by simple tasks — the rhythm of daily life.
He mended the hut. He gathered herbs. He carried water.
The woman cooked, spoke in quiet riddles, and laughed at his stiffness.
Every time she laughed, something inside him shifted — not violently like storms, not tightly like chains, but slowly, quietly.
* * * * * * * * *
The Flower Scene
One afternoon, while they searched the forest for herbs, the woman paused by a patch of wildflowers.
"These are good for teas," she said, kneeling to pick them.
Xuan crouched beside her, pulling a root with more force than needed. Dirt scattered, splattering her sleeve.
She didn't scold. She only looked at the flower in her hand and smiled.
Then, with casual grace, she tucked it into her hair.
Xuan blinked. He had never seen anyone do something so… unnecessary.
Her eyes flicked to him. "Here."
Before he could protest, she leaned forward and tucked another flower behind his ear.
Xuan stiffened.
"…What are you doing?"
She laughed. "Even storms can wear flowers."
His scowl deepened. But he didn't remove it. Not immediately. He only muttered, "It will fall."
"Then I'll give you another."
Her laughter rippled through the trees, scattering the silence.
For hours after, the chains inside him shifted uneasily — not in hunger, but in something he could not name.
* * * * * * * * *
Quiet Cultivation
That night, Xuan sat cross-legged in the hut, eyes closed, storms churning inside. Poison gnawed, fire seared, silence pressed, threads wound. Normally he had to tighten the chains until blood welled in his throat to contain them.
But now… they moved slower. Calmer.
As though her laughter still lingered, weaving through his blood like a balm.
He opened his eyes slowly, breathing evenly. His chains had not rattled once.
The woman looked up from her herbs. "Better?"
"…Yes."
She smiled. "Storms answer to roofs, too, it seems."
Xuan's jaw tightened. He wanted to say it wasn't her — that it was his own strength, his own chains. But he knew the truth.
It unsettled him. And yet, it soothed him.
* * * * * * * * *
Playful Banter
The next day, she handed him a bundle of roots to peel. He fumbled, clumsy with the knife again.
"You look less like a wolf when you're not scowling," she teased.
He glanced at her sharply. "And you look less like a roof when you chatter endlessly."
She laughed, the sound bubbling like the river. "Good. Then we're both not what we seem."
Her words struck deeper than she realized. But Xuan said nothing.
Instead, he looked down at the half-mangled root and muttered, "Storms are easier than this."
"Then perhaps," she said softly, "you should practice being a man as much as you practice being a storm."
* * * * * * * * *
Evening Reflection
That evening, they sat by the riverbank. The sky was a deep violet, fireflies beginning to glow like drifting stars.
The woman hummed a tune — wordless, gentle, carrying a weight that seemed older than Murim itself.
Xuan listened, eyes half-closed. His storms quieted, his chains lay still.
"Where did you learn that?" he asked at last.
"Everywhere," she said. "And nowhere."
Her answer was no answer, but it didn't matter.
For the first time since his rebirth, Xuan felt something like safety.
Not because his enemies were gone. Not because his storms were tamed. But because, for once, the world felt… distant.
* * * * * * * * *
The Subtle Moment
As they walked back, she stumbled slightly on a loose stone. Xuan caught her arm without thinking.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, time stretched. Her gaze was calm, endless, like the river under moonlight.
Then she smiled faintly. "So you do catch falling things."
He released her quickly, looking away. "…You tripped."
"And you steadied me."
He said nothing, but his ears burned faintly.
* * * * * * * * *
The Closing Scene
That night, as they sat by the fire, she said quietly:
"Storms pass, even the fiercest. Perhaps yours will, too."
Xuan looked into the flames, his face shadowed.
Storms did not pass. They consumed. They devoured. They left nothing but ruin.
And yet…
As her voice lingered in the air, soft and certain, Xuan felt his lips curve ever so slightly — the barest ghost of a smile.
It was gone in an instant, buried beneath steel.
But it had been there.
And that, more than anything, terrified him.