Ling Xuiyuan walked slowly, leaning on the carved railing outside his chamber, his gaze drawn toward the distant tombstone — Shen Liuxian's grave.
The wind carried a faint scent of tea and dried leaves.
From the garden path below, Mingyue approached with a lacquered tray. On it: a cup of warm medicine and a dish of candied lotus root.
Xiuyuan turned slightly when he saw him. He didn't speak — not at first — but his eyes lingered, tracking Mingyue's footsteps with quiet attention.
As Mingyue set the tray down on the small table, his sleeve shifted, and a slash of red caught Xiuyuan's eye.
It was a cut — clean, shallow, but fresh — just above the curve of Mingyue's arm.
"What happened?" Xiuyuan's voice was quiet, but it did not waver.
Mingyue paused and pulled his sleeve back down. "Nothing, Master. I just fell while carrying firewood earlier."
Xiuyuan looked at him for a long time. Then, without a word, he reached for the small wooden box beside the medicine tray and opened it.
Inside, the familiar jar of jade-colored ointment.
"Come here," he said.
Mingyue hesitated. "I can do it myself—"
"Come."
His tone held no edge — only quiet insistence. So Mingyue stepped forward.
Xiuyuan took his wrist gently, rolling the sleeve up with great care. His fingers brushed against the skin, and for a moment, everything stilled — the wind, the birds, even Mingyue's breath.
He dipped two fingers into the balm and began applying it with delicate strokes, slow and deliberate. The cooling touch of the ointment was nothing compared to the warmth spreading beneath Mingyue's skin.
The weight of that touch — after all the years Xiuyuan had refused to reach for anyone — was unbearable in its tenderness.
Mingyue's heart beat too fast.
He dared to look — just once — at Xiuyuan's face.
But the moment their eyes met, Mingyue looked away.
Quickly.
Xiuyuan didn't say anything. He only finished wrapping the cloth around the wound and let go.
A long silence passed between them.
Then, Mingyue spoke — carefully, almost too softly.
"Master… they're still waiting for you."
Xiuyuan glanced at him, unreadable.
"The elders. The disciples. Nie shixiong. Even the servants… They all watch for you. Even now."
Xiuyuan said nothing.
Mingyue lowered his gaze and added, voice barely above a whisper,
"If Shen Liuxian were alive, he wouldn't want to see you in this condition."
The words hung in the air like the scent of incense — lingering, impossible to ignore.
Ling Xiuyuan froze.
His hands rested on his knees, his shoulders tense.
But he didn't speak.
Mingyue bowed low, then turned and walked away quietly, leaving the tea and medicine untouched on the tray.
The wind passed through the courtyard.
Xiuyuan sat alone beside the cup, the name Liuxian ringing again in his mind — but this time, it hadn't come from his own lips.
From behind the walls, Nie Xiaohuan had heard everything.
...
The chamber was quiet, save for the faint creak of wooden floorboards beneath Ling Xiuyuan's feet. He paused before the large, ornate mirror—its gilded frame dulled with age, much like the man who now stood before it. Seven years had passed since he last looked his own reflection in this glass.
His breath caught as he lifted his eyes.
The face staring back was a stranger.
The sharp edges of youth had softened into something fragile, worn. The pale skin was etched with shadows beneath hollowed eyes, the heavy weight of grief lingering in every line. His once-proud jaw seemed thinner, the corners of his lips fallen into a shape he hardly recognized.
He remembered Mingyue's words from earlier, the quiet truth spoken with such calm: "If Shen Liuxian were alive, he wouldn't want to see you in this condition."
Ling Xiuyuan tried to curl his lips into a smile, a faint curve that might have once been warmth or kindness.
But the smile faltered, fragile and hollow, slipping away before it could reach his eyes.
The silence around him pressed like a cold shroud.
Yet, as his hands trembled slightly, he reached for the comb resting on the table—a simple piece of dark wood, polished but plain.
For seven years, he had forgotten as if grooming himself was a luxury he no longer deserved.
Now, fingers stiff and unsure, he lifted the comb and began to draw it slowly through his long black hair.
Each stroke was deliberate, painstaking.
Memories fluttered through his mind like fragile moths—visions of Liuxian's hands, so gentle, so careful, smoothing his hair back with quiet affection.
"Master," Liuxian had called softly, brushing stray strands away, "you should take care of yourself."
Those days felt like a distant dream, swallowed by the years of despair.
Xiuyuan's breath hitched as he combed.
He worked to tame the wild locks, to bring order to the chaos, not because it would erase the pain, but because it was a small act of reclaiming something lost—a fragment of himself buried deep beneath the grief.
His movements were slow, methodical. A sigh escaped his lips—a soft, broken sound.
When at last his hair fell in smoother lines down his back, he ran his fingers through it once more, as if testing whether this man in the mirror could truly be himself again.
The reflection did not answer.
But in that quiet moment, beneath the heavy weight of sorrow, a fragile ember glowed—a faint pulse of hope, trembling but alive.
Ling Xiuyuan lowered the comb and turned away from the mirror.
The past still haunted him.
But the first step had been taken.
The scent of pine smoke lingered in the autumn air, curling softly through the inner courtyard. Morning had barely broken, yet already the sect bustled with quiet activity — disciples crossing the walkways, the rustle of robes, distant echoes of swords clashing in practice.
But in the West Wing, everything stilled.
Then — The door to Ling Xiuyuan's chamber creaked open.
Slowly, he stepped out.
No one spoke.
A servant passing with a laundry basket paused mid-step, eyes wide.
His robes were dark green — the color he used to wear when he led the sect personally. They hung looser now, and his figure was thinner, but his posture was no less regal. Long black hair tied with a single silver clasp, pale face unreadable, his eyes slightly shadowed but steady.
He looked up at the morning sky for the first time in seven years.
Mingyue, carrying a pail of water from the well, stopped in his tracks beneath the corridor.
Their eyes met — just briefly.
Mingyue bowed deeply, saying nothing.
Xiuyuan gave the faintest nod.
As he stepped down the stone stairs, his presence spread like mist across still water. The disciples in the outer courtyard noticed first, their conversation dropping to hushed murmurs.
"Is that…?"
"It can't be—"
"Master Ling… he's walking?"
But someone else had already sensed him.
A flicker of motion — a rustle of crimson silk.
From the far end of the courtyard came a tall, striking figure, walking with calm and confidence, her robes catching the light like flames. She wore the red and gold of the inner disciples, her hair swept into an elegant high bun fastened with a single jade pin. Her expression was cool, but not cold — her eyes, sharp as a blade's edge.
Her name was Lin Wuyue.
And once, long ago, she had stood beside Xiuyuan on battlefields.
She stepped forward, each footfall graceful, her gaze fixed on the man before her.
"Master Ling," she said, her voice steady, respectful — and not without warmth. "The mountains must have shifted. You are here again."
Xiuyuan's gaze met hers. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then: "Wuyue."
She inclined her head. "It has been some time."
Behind her, a group of junior disciples stood frozen, watching the exchange.
"You chose a strange day to return. The elders are restless. Rumors have begun to spread again."
He looked toward the horizon, where the tombstone of Shen Liuxian remained barely visible beyond the ridge.
"I don't know what I am now," Xiuyuan said quietly.
Lin Wuyue studied him for a long moment.
"You are still what they remember," she said. "Even if you no longer remember it yourself."
From the corridor behind them, Mingyue still stood in silence.
Not watching — but present. Like a shadow, or a breath.
Lin Wuyue noticed him. Her gaze flicked for only a second — but something sharpened in her eyes.
She knew that face.
Everyone did.
But she said nothing.
Instead, she stepped aside, giving Xiuyuan space to walk.
"Where will you go?" she asked.
"Where I should have gone years ago," he replied.
And with that, Xiuyuan stepped past her, past the disciples, past the whispers — walking slowly, steadily, toward the sect's temple.
The wind moved through the courtyard.
Lin Wuyue remained standing, her expression unreadable.
Mingyue lowered his head and turned away.