I did not leave my chambers for three days.
The elders claimed it was necessary—recovery after spiritual backlash. I accepted the excuse gladly. The truth was harder to face.
My body remembered things my mind did not.
Even seated in meditation, warmth lingered beneath my skin. Spiritual energy flowed too smoothly, too intimately, responding not only to my will but to echoes of touch and closeness I could not recall.
Dual cultivation.
The realization unsettled me more than it should have.
When Zi Yao visited, he stood just inside the doorway, hands folded within his sleeves. He looked… restrained. As though he were afraid one wrong step might disturb something fragile.
"You should still be resting," he said.
"I am," I replied lightly. "Just not asleep."
His gaze flicked briefly to the bed behind me—rumpled despite my efforts to straighten it. A faint flush crept up his neck before he turned away.
The air between us felt thick.
"You don't remember anything at all?" he asked quietly.
I hesitated. "Some things come back in pieces. Sensations more than memories."
His fingers tightened.
"I see."
Silence stretched.
Even without understanding why, I could feel it—how closely our spiritual energies aligned. When he stood too near, my own responded instinctively, threads of warmth brushing against his presence like reaching hands.
Zi Yao noticed.
He stepped back at once.
"Forgive me," he said. "I should not disturb you."
Before I could respond, he had already left.
Later that night, Mo Cheng arrived.
He did not announce himself. I only sensed him when cool, familiar qi brushed the edge of my perception.
"You're awake," he said.
I turned. He stood near the window, moonlight silvering his long hair. His expression was calm as ever, yet something tight lingered around his eyes.
"You didn't come earlier," I said.
"I wasn't sure I should."
That answer struck deeper than expected.
I gestured to the table. "Sit."
He obeyed, though he kept his distance. When he poured tea, our fingers brushed accidentally.
The reaction was immediate.
Spiritual energy surged—sharp, intimate, unmistakable.
We both froze.
Mo Cheng's breath hitched before he steadied himself, withdrawing his hand as if burned.
"So it's true," he murmured. "Your body still responds."
"To you," I said before thinking.
His gaze snapped up.
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with words neither of us dared voice.
"I didn't come to pressure you," he said at last. "Only to make sure you were… well."
"I am," I answered softly. "But things feel complicated."
A bitter smile touched his lips. "They always were."
When he left, the air felt colder.
That night, I attempted cultivation alone.
It failed.
My spiritual energy refused to settle, restless and incomplete, as though it remembered harmony that solitude could not recreate.
Only then did I understand.
Wen Ying's strength had never come from isolation.
It came from bonds—dangerous, intimate, deeply entangled bonds.
And whether I wished it or not…
I had inherited all of them.