Shizuma was stunned by what had just happened; even someone unversed in the arts, like him, understood that such a reaction was far from ordinary. His eyes lingered on the woman as she collapsed, her fragile frame trembling before going still. Instinct overcame hesitation — he stepped forward and caught her, gathering her carefully into his arms.
There was little he could do to mend whatever force had overwhelmed her, yet he cradled her as though the act alone might steady her spirit. The weight of her body, the fragility of her breath, stirred something long buried within him. It reminded him of his mother — pale and weakened by illness, often fainting in his arms when the fever claimed her strength. The memory returned with painful clarity, a shadow of helplessness pressing against his chest.
Now, holding Yuanling in that same way, he felt that familiar ache, not because he cared for Yuanling — but the silent wish that his strength could be enough to protect someone from what was slowly consuming them.
Without missing a beat, another memory flickered to life — or perhaps it was no memory at all, but a haunting déjà-vu. He was holding someone… someone uncannily like Yuanling, the weight in his arms, the warmth against his chest, all the same.
In that vision, soft fingers brushed against his cheek, tender and deliberate, as though memorizing him for the last time. His throat tightened as he tried to hold back tears, but the voice came to him, gentle and resolute, echoing in the hollow of his chest:
"Don't cry… I will be back for you… my love."
The words struck him like a blade. Love — deep, certain, undeniable. How could he not remember? How could such devotion slip through the cracks of his memory like water through trembling hands? His heart clenched with a nameless ache, and doubt gnawed at his mind. Who was this person? Who had he once held with such desperation, and why did the memory feel so real… yet unreachable?
He didn't have a moment to dwell on it. His arms still cradled Yuanling when the forest itself seemed to stir — a rush of movement, a glint of steel, the whisper of killing intent cutting through the night air.
Pain shot across his side as the ambush struck true, the weight of the blow forcing him back a step. He grit his teeth, refusing to falter, his hold on the unconscious woman unyielding. She remained pressed to his chest, her white-and-rose hair brushing against his chin as if to remind him of the fragile life he had vowed, for reasons he did not yet understand, to protect.
Another strike followed, swift and precise, but this time he twisted, letting the edge graze past his shoulder. His free arm moved instinctively, deflecting, pushing back, while the other clung to Yuanling with a desperate resolve.
The attacker — a shadow given form, their presence cold and efficient — did not relent. Each step, each motion, carried the weight of an order that demanded Yuanling's removal at any cost.
And Shizuma, bleeding and cornered, realized the truth: this was no mere accident. He had become the only barrier between the fox-woman and those who sought to claim her.
The spy tilted his head with a mocking smile.
— So this is the great Shizuma? Just a ghost of the past, clinging to scraps of memory. If the people of your time feared you, then they must have been pathetically weak.
His scorn was met with silence for a heartbeat — then Shizuma moved. Still holding Yuanling close against his chest, he extended one hand with a deliberate, almost ritualistic gesture. From his palm, fire bloomed. Not wild or uncontrolled, but a calculated invocation, flames twisting and spiraling as if they had been waiting for his command.
Infernal heat surged outward, devouring the air itself. It was not rage but precision — a conjuration born from centuries of mastery. The ground trembled as the blaze threatened to reduce everything in its path to ash, a reminder that Shizuma was no shadow of history, but an omen of destruction.
Shizuma's eyes burned as fiercely as the flames he commanded.
— Weak? — he growled, his voice carrying the weight of fire and fury. — Then burn with me and find out what they feared.
— Impossible…! —
The one who was mocking him before, snarled, frantically weaving signs with his hands, summoning barriers of shadow and wind to smother the blaze. Dark veils rose, twisting like curtains to hold back the inferno, yet the fire roared louder, devouring each layer as if they were nothing but dry leaves.
Panic set in. He lunged back, dragging more talismans from his robes, slamming them into the ground with desperate speed. Sparks of counter-spells crackled, circles of warding ignited, but Shizuma's flames crawled across them, merciless, melting sigils to slag and turning charms into ash.
— No! This isn't… this isn't possible! —
Their voice broke, fear replacing arrogance as he shielded his face with his arms. But there was no escape — the infernal fire consumed every defense, the calculated conjuration advancing with an inevitability that felt less like magic and more like judgment.
It was the end of that pitiful creature — the fire came so close that his entire life passed before his eyes like a bad-taste movie. "It's the end for me… I'm sorry, master," he thought, surrendering to his fate. "In the end, I could fulfill your wish." Those were supposed to be his last thoughts — an oath to his master as he burned away in shame.
But death never came to collect that soul.
A powerful force cut through the once unstoppable flames, scattering them like embers torn by a violent wind. The infernal glow dimmed, swallowed by a blinding surge of pale light. When the spy dared to open his eyes, the fire was gone — as if it had been peeled away from reality itself.
Behind that force stood a man. Tall, draped in immaculate white robes usually reserved for royalty. His long, straight hair rested perfectly atop the robes, its deep dark-purple color like ink bleeding against snow. And his eyes — a blue so light they were almost transparent — bore into Shizuma and Yuanling alike.
He smiled calmly, as though he had been here all along, as though the battlefield itself bent to his will. There was no tension in his stance, no trace of strain. Only serenity. The serenity of someone who knew they held the upper hand.
— Don't worry anymore, child, I'm here to help. — His voice was calm, measured, almost fatherly as one hand rested on the head of his kneeling subordinate. His smile, however, carried no warmth. — I'm impressed… When that woman died, never in a million years would I have thought she was preparing something like this. Your return… and hers.
He did not speak of her with reverence. His tone dripped with disdain, as though even uttering her memory was an act of blasphemy.
— I would appreciate it if you just handed her over. — His other hand stretched outward toward Shizuma, palm open, patient but demanding. — Before things get complicated.
— And why would I do that? Just because you managed to snuff out a few of my flames? — Shizuma's voice was sharp, the anger in it raw, unrestrained. His grip around Yuanling's unconscious form tightened. — Don't piss me off more.
The man's smile curved ever so slightly, condescending.
— You don't even remember her, and yet you cling to her like a lost pup. If only you knew… that she's the very reason you're forced to share a body.
His words struck deep, but he quickly straightened, brushing the weight of them away with a clearing of his throat.
— Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. You do know, don't you? The only thing that can hurt a ryōgen… is another ryōgen.
Shizuma froze. The man was right, and in his current condition, he wasn't at his full strength. Every instinct screamed that surrender would be the safer choice — yet something inside him, something far older than reason, refused. Whatever Yuanling truly was, his body refused to let her go.
— You made your choice… I don't have time for that. — His voice carried finality.
A fan materialized in his hand, shimmering with golden ribs, its spread adorned with feathers of iridescent blue and purple. The artifact radiated power, bending the night air around. His smile widened before he unleashed a brutal strike — the arc of the fan slicing the air with blinding speed.
Shizuma barely moved in time; what should have split his skull instead carved deep into his shoulder. Pain shot through him, and for the first time in decades, the wound refused to close. He staggered back, realizing dawning — this man was a ryōgen. Against him, Shizuma's regenerative flames were worthless.
Breathing ragged, he spun on his heel and bolted into the shadows of the Hēiyě forest. Trees blurred past, his steps unnaturally fast — no mortal could have followed. But the man did. His figure glided behind him like a phantom, closing the gap with terrifying ease.
The fan struck again, this time raking across Shizuma's back. The force of the blow sent him crashing into the roots of a massive, ancient tree. Blood spilled hot against his skin, his strength waning.
Wounded. Weak. Cornered.
For the first time, Shizuma felt despair gnawing at the edges of his mind. There's no way out… no way to fight him. What can I do?
Then, against his chest, something pulsed. The feather — Xuanyi's feather — shone with an otherworldly brilliance, light spilling out as though the forest itself had caught fire with starlight. Its glow cut through the suffocating darkness, defying the man's oppressive presence.
Shizuma's eyes widened, his breath catching. The despair that threatened to consume him faltered in the face of that radiant light.
He touched the feather, almost crushing it between his fingers. A spark — blinding, searing — flashed across his vision, flooding his eyes with light.
When his sight cleared, the forest was gone. The suffocating presence of the ryōgen vanished. The wounds that burned across his body no longer throbbed, though they had not healed — they were simply muted, dulled as if swallowed by a dream.
The air was still, heavy with silence. He blinked and found himself standing on the edge of a village. Moonlight bathed the rooftops and stone paths, silver and pristine. Not a single lantern burned, not a single voice called.
Yet nothing looked ruined. The houses stood whole, their doors closed as though their owners had only just gone inside. The wells still had water, the fields were untouched, tools neatly placed as if waiting for hands that would never return.
Shizuma frowned, his breath slow and cautious. His senses stretched out — no footsteps, no whispers, not even the faintest flicker of life.
Where am I…?
Confusion clawed at his mind. This was no ordinary illusion; the place was too real, every detail sharp, every shadow deep. And yet, a world so perfectly preserved without a single soul… it was wrong.
The feather in his palm still glowed faintly, as if urging him forward.
The glow of the feather guided him deeper, each step echoing unnaturally loud in the emptiness. The silence was not hostile, but solemn.
As he walked, Shizuma noticed faint traces that unsettled him. Incense still smoldering on a shrine. A cup of tea resting on a table, its surface rippling with the night breeze. A child's toy half-buried in the dirt, as though its owner had simply vanished mid-play.
It was not death that lingered here, nor abandonment — it was something else. Something in-between.
The air was dense with spiritual energy, so pure it almost made his body tremble. The longer he stayed, the more he felt a strange weight pressing against his heart, as if unseen eyes were watching his every movement. Not hostile… but probing, expectant.
The feather pulsed again. Shizuma raised his eyes, and at the center of the village he saw it: a pagoda of white stone, untouched by time. Lanterns hung from its beams, flickering with flames of blue and violet — flames that gave no heat, only an otherworldly glow.
This place… he thought, the realization sinking in. It's not abandoned. It's waiting.