The first sensation He Renxiao felt was warmth—unfamiliar warmth that didn't belong to his own sleeping quarters. His consciousness floated somewhere between dreams and reality, something even he couldn't decipher between at this point, like he was losing his grip on reality.
The scent was wrong. His own room carried the faint aroma of sandalwood and the medicinal herbs he kept in a small lacquered box beside his bed. This place smelled of ink, old scrolls, and a subtle fragrance he recognized as belonging to Mo Shuyi.
He attempted to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as though small weights had been attached to each lash. Somewhere nearby, hushed voices murmured, their words indistinct yet carrying notes of concern. He strained to make sense of them, but they slipped through his grasp like water through cupped hands.
Fragments of memory stirred. The last thing he recalled was going to visit Shizun, the moon beating down mercilessly upon his shoulders. After that—nothing. A void where recollection should have been.
The futon beneath him was not his own. It was softer, the bedding of higher quality than what He Renxiao typically allowed himself. His shixiong always chided him for his spartan living habits. "You're not a mountain ascetic," Mo Shuyi would say, those steady eyes regarding him. "Comfort is not a crime."
A familiar heaviness settled in his limbs, reminiscent of childhood days spent confined to bed. How often had he awakened like this in his younger years? Sickness had been his constant companion then, his frail constitution a small hindrance but a source of endless worry for his sect siblings.
They would take turns sitting with him through fevered nights, Li Yuan stubbornly refusing to leave even when others came to relieve him. His half-brother's face would be drawn with concern, dark circles forming beneath eyes that shared the same shape as He Renxiao's own– the only obvious mark of their shared blood.
He obviously cared, but back then, He Renxiao wasn't sure if Li Yuan knew how to show it right due to the obvious difference in their status. Even now as the two fought all the time did He Renxiao feel he was unsure.
Those days had been both bitter and sweet. Bitter for the weakness that plagued him, sweet for the rare moments of tenderness they aroused from those around him. He Renxiao had always been awkward in accepting care, like a feral cat that simultaneously craved and shied away from a gentle touch, even in his past life.
It wasn't that he didn't appreciate their concern—he simply didn't know how to properly receive it, how to bend his stiff pride enough to acknowledge the comfort their presence brought.
As a child, he'd turn his face to the wall when they entered, fakinging to be asleep or disinterested, yet secretly counting the moments until they spoke, until they placed a cool cloth on his forehead or helped him sit up to drink medicinal tea.
Even then, he'd scowl and complain about the bitter taste, though he never refused. This strange dance of rejecting what he most wanted had become so much a part of him that he no longer knew how to act otherwise.
The soft rustle of robes nearby drew him partially back to the present. Someone was moving around the room, footsteps almost silent on the polished wooden floor. He Renxiao tried again to open his eyes, managing only the barest slit through which the lamplight filtered, golden and hazy. Night had fallen, then. How long had he been unconscious?
"His breathing changed. I think he's waking up." The voice belonged to Nan Feng, his shimei. Her tone carried that particular blend of authority and concern she reserved for moments when her medical knowledge was needed.
As the youngest of their small group, she often tried to sound older than her years, especially when tending to others. She, in both lifetimes, also was the only one who cared much for herbs and the arts of healing other than He Renxiao, which was ironic since she was also skilled in combat, whereas at this point He Renxiao wasn't. At least in this life.
"Renxiao?" Another voice, deeper. Jing Peishi. "Can you hear us?"
He wanted to respond, but his tongue felt thick and unwieldy in his mouth. Instead, a small groan escaped him, embarrassingly weak to his own ears. The memory of being twelve years old and collapsing during sword practice flooded back fresh in his mind.. He had pushed himself too hard that day, determined to keep pace with Li Yuan despite the fever that had been building since morning.
He'd hidden it well—or so he thought—until the world tilted sideways and the practice field rushed up to meet him. He'd awakened hours later to find all four of them there, just as they likely were now.
Mo Shuyi had lectured him sternly about knowing his limits, while Li Yuan sat silent and tight-lipped by his side. Jing Peishi had tried to lighten the mood with jokes that fell flat in the worried atmosphere, and Nan Feng, only eight at the time, had sobbed quietly until He Renxiao awkwardly patted her hand and promised not to scare her again.
A promise he had apparently broken.
"Water," he finally managed to croak, his voice scratching against his dry throat like sandpaper.
Immediately, there was movement. Someone slipped a hand beneath his neck, gently lifting his head while another pressed a cup to his lips. The water was cool and sweet against his parched tongue. He drank greedily until the cup was pulled away.
"Slowly," cautioned Li Yuan, and He Renxiao realized it was his half-brother's hand supporting his head, "or you'll make yourself sick."
With tremendous effort, He Renxiao finally forced his eyes fully open. The room swam into focus gradually: the familiar scholarly disarray of Mo Shuyi's quarters, scrolls and books stacked in precarious towers, a half-finished painting of mountains abandoned on the desk, jars of ink and brushes scattered about. And gathered around him, four faces etched with varying degrees of concern.
Mo Shuyi sat nearest to his head, dark eyes assessing him with clinical precision. His Shixiong's long hair was tied back loosely, a few strands escaping to frame his face. Despite the lateness of the hour, he was still fully dressed in his sect robes, not a wrinkle to be seen.
Next to him knelt Li Yuan, who seemed both worried and mad.
Jing Peishi stood a few paces back, arms crossed over his chest, his normally laughing face serious for once. And at the foot of the futon sat Nan Feng, her medicinal case open beside her, various herbs and powders arranged in neat rows as she prepared what was undoubtedly another bitter concoction he would be forced to swallow.
"What happened?" He Renxiao asked, attempting to push himself up onto his elbows only to have firm hands press him back down.
"Found you collapsed on the side of the mountain," Mo Shuyi said, his voice betraying no emotion though his eyes remained fixed on He Renxiao's face. "Again."
The single word carried weight, an unspoken reprimand. He Renxiao felt a flash of irritation, quickly followed by shame. He had thought those days were behind him.
"You have a head injury and didn't take care of it like you should have." Nan Feng explained, not looking up from her mortar and pestle as she ground herbs with more force than strictly necessary. "And don't bother denying it. Today has proved it."
"Don't blame him," Jing Peishi said, finally moving closer to crouch beside the futon.
"I'm fine," He Renxiao insisted, the familiar words falling from his lips automatically. How many times had he uttered that phrase throughout his life? Always the same response, regardless of whether he was truly fine or moments from collapse.
A scoff from Li Yuan made him flinch. "You were unconscious for nearly the whole day. That's not 'fine' by any definition."
The whole day? He Renxiao blinked in surprise. No wonder they all looked so haggard, so worried. A pang of guilt struck him, sharp and unexpected. He hadn't meant to cause trouble, hadn't meant to make them worry. He just...
"I needed to perfect the technique, I didn't notice," he lied through his teeth.. He hadn't really noticed it, and just wanted to see his Shizun. He turned his head, gaze sliding away from their concerned faces to fix on the ceiling.
He Renxiao fell silent, unsure how to respond. He didn't know he had actually been hurt.. He had been thinking about standing beside his sect siblings, about being an equal rather than the weak link they needed to protect. About finally proving himself worthy of the attention and care they had always shown him, care he had never quite believed he deserved.
Nan Feng approached with a steaming cup in hand, the bitter aroma making He Renxiao wrinkle his nose involuntarily. "Drink," she commanded, her small face set in determination. "All of it."
He took the cup without protest, knowing from experience that arguing would only prolong the inevitable. The taste was as foul as he expected, herbs and other substances he preferred not to identify coating his tongue. He forced himself to swallow it all in one continuous motion, then handed the empty cup back to his shimei with as neutral an expression as he could manage.
"Good," she said, examining his face closely. "At least you haven't lost your ability to follow basic instructions."
"Unlike following instructions to take care of yourself," Jing Peishi added, though his tone had softened somewhat. He reached out and ruffled He Renxiao's hair, an old gesture from their childhood that never failed to make He Renxiao bristled. True to form, he jerked his head away, scowling.
"I'm not a child," he muttered.
"Then stop acting like one," Li Yuan countered immediately. The brothers stared at each other, a silent battle of wills that had played out countless times before. As usual, He Renxiao was the first to look away.
A moment of silence fell over the room, broken only by the soft sound of Nan Feng putting away her herbs and the occasional crackle from the small brazier in the corner. He Renxiao became uncomfortably aware of the weight of their gazes, of the concern he didn't know how to properly address. It would be easier if they were angry, if they shouted or punished him. Their quiet worry was harder to deflect.
"You scared us," Mo Shuyi finally said, his voice low. "There was no warning. No nothing." The admission hung in the air. He Renxiao swallowed hard, something tight forming in his chest that had nothing to do with his physical condition. Mo Shuyi rarely admitted to fear of any kind.
"I..." He Renxiao began, then faltered. Words of apology felt foreign on his tongue, though he knew they were owed. "It won't happen again," he finally said, the closest he could come to acknowledging his mistake.
Mo Shuyi's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before he sighed, shoulders relaxing slightly. "See that it doesn't," he said, and then turned away to speak quietly with Nan Feng about something involving medicinal herbs.
The conversation around him began to fade as He Renxiao's head throbbed anew. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, he told himself. The darkness behind his eyelids swirled like ink in water, pulling him deeper than he intended. When he opened his eyes again, the quality of light in the room had changed. The afternoon sun now cast long shadows across the wooden floor, and the faces hovering over him had shifted positions.
He Renxiao blinked slowly, his thoughts scattered like autumn leaves in a breeze. His awareness came in fragments—the softness of the futon beneath him, the herbal scent hanging in
the air, the distant call of birds from somewhere beyond the walls. He tried to focus, to gather these pieces into something coherent, but they slipped through his grasp like water.
This disorientation—it was familiar somehow. Like stepping into a half-forgotten dream. He had felt this way before, many times, when fever had claimed him as a child. Those long, hazy days were spent drifting between consciousness and sleep, when his small body had seemed too fragile to contain him. Back then, the world would blur and shift just as it did now, faces appearing and disappearing above him like clouds passing overhead.
He Renxiao's childhood had been marked by illness. His constitution had been weak from birth— a fact his father had never let him forget—and each changing season had brought new ailments. Winter chills that settled in his lungs, summer fevers that burned through him like wildfire. And always, always, his sect siblings had been there.
Li Yuan, his half-brother, sitting beside his bed through the night, replacing cool cloths on his forehead when fever threatened to consume him. Though they shared a father, their relationship had always been complicated, tangled with expectations and resentments not of their making. Yet in those moments of vulnerability, Li Yuan had never once abandoned him.
Jing Peishi, with his brusque manner hiding genuine concern, forcing bitter medicinal broth down He Renxiao's throat and told him to "stop being difficult" when he complained. His Shixiong's hands, usually so deadly with a sword, would become surprisingly gentle when checking for fever or adjusting blankets.
Nan Feng had been just a child herself then, but she would sneak into his room with wild flowers she'd gathered, insisting they would help him heal faster than any medicine. She would chatter endlessly, her bright voice chasing away the shadows that sometimes gathered in the corners of his mind during long illnesses.
And Mo Shuyi... his eldest Shixiong had been his constant guardian. When the pain became too much and He Renxiao cried silent tears in the darkness, it was Mo Shuyi who would appear like a shadow, saying nothing but sitting beside him until dawn broke, his mere presence a balm more effective than any remedy.
They had seen him at his weakest, these people who surrounded him now with worried expressions. They had witnessed his fragility in ways no one else had been permitted to. Perhaps that was why he worked so hard to keep them at a distance now—each moment of vulnerability felt like stepping backward into that sickly child he had fought so desperately to leave behind.
He Renxiao's vision swam again, and he closed his eyes. The pain in his head pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a steady, insistent rhythm. He could hear whispered conversations around him, but the words seemed to break apart before reaching his ears, becoming meaningless sounds.
"...still disoriented..."
"...should we call for the head physician..."
"...stubborn as always..."
A cool hand pressed against his forehead, and he instinctively leaned into the touch before catching himself. Old habits. His body remembering comfort he no longer allowed himself to seek.
"Renxiao," a voice called, closer now. "Can you hear me?"
He forced his eyes open again to find Mo Shuyi leaning over him, brows drawn together in concern. The others had moved closer as well—Li Yuan standing with arms crossed near the foot of the futon, Jing Peishi kneeling to his right, Nan Feng hovering just behind with fresh bandages in her hands.
"I hear you," He Renxiao managed, his voice scraping against his dry throat. "I'm fine."
The look they exchanged over him was so familiar—equal parts exasperation and concern. He had seen it countless times before, that silent communication that passed between his sect siblings whenever he insisted he was well when clearly he was not.
"If you were fine," Li Yuan said dryly, "you wouldn't be lying on Shuyi-ge's futon with blood in your hair."
He Renxiao frowned, reaching up instinctively to touch his head. Jing Peishi caught his wrist before he could make contact with the wound.
"Don't," His Shixiong warned. "Nan Feng just finished cleaning it. You'll start the bleeding again."
He Renxiao let his hand fall back to his side, a strange hollowness expanding in his chest. How many times had they done this? How many times had they pieced him back together when he'd broken himself against the world?
"What happened?" he asked finally. The events leading to his injury remained blurred, just out of reach. He only remembered the time he was hurt was in his headspace with Yin Chen.. did the injury move to reality?
Nan Feng moved into his line of sight, her young face serious in a way that didn't suit her. "We were hoping you could tell us," she said. "Shizun sent us to find you when you missed morning lessons again. Li Yuan-ge found you collapsed near the eastern cliffs."
"You were unconscious," Li Yuan added, his voice carefully neutral though his eyes betrayed his worry. "There was blood on the rocks nearby. You must have fallen and hit your head."
He Renxiao tried to sit up, ignoring the wave of dizziness that immediately assaulted him. Strong hands—Mo Shuyi's—immediately steadied him, helping him into a sitting position before he could collapse back down.
"Careful," Mo Shuyi murmured. "Your body needs time to recover."
"I don't have time," He Renxiao said automatically, then winced at how childish the words sounded. Jing Peishi scoffed. "Right. Because bleeding from the head is clearly less important than whatever secret training you've been doing."
He Renxiao shot him a glare, but it lacked his usual heat. The effort of sitting up had drained what little energy he had, and now even keeping his eyes open felt like a monumental task. His gaze drifted around the room, taking in details he had missed before—the incense
burning in the corner, his outer robes folded neatly on a nearby table, a tray of half-eaten food that suggested his siblings had been taking meals here rather than the dining hall.
How long had they been watching over him? The thought made something uncomfortable twist in his stomach.
"You should eat something," Nan Feng said, following his gaze. "I can bring soup from the kitchen. Shizun said you need to rebuild your strength."
"Shizun knows?" The words came out sharper than he intended, tinged with alarm.
Li Yuan raised an eyebrow. "Of course Shizun knows. He said you had come to see him the night before. Did you think we could hide the fact that one of his disciples was found unconscious and bleeding on the mountain?"
He Renxiao looked away, jaw tight. Their Shizun was not an unkind man, but he had little patience for carelessness. And this—training alone, pushing himself to exhaustion, ending up injured—would certainly be seen as careless. Another failure to add to the growing list.
"He's not angry," Mo Shuyi said quietly, reading his thoughts as he always seemed able to do. "He's concerned. As we all are."
He Renxiao stared down at his hands, noticing for the first time the small scrapes across his knuckles, the dirt beneath his fingernails. Evidence of his fall, of his weakness. He curled his fingers into loose fists, hiding the imperfections.
"I miscalculated," he lied again, realizing what was happening. "I was attempting a new sword form and lost my footing."
"In the dark? On the edge of a cliff?" Jing Peishi's voice rose in disbelief. "What were you thinking?"
He Renxiao didn't answer. What could he say? That he was trying to prove something? That he was tired? That some talking glowing box flew at him and caused him to slip and fall into a pile of rock?! He wasn't actually attempting a new sword technique!
Silence stretched between them, filled with all the things he couldn't bring himself to say. Finally, Nan Feng broke it, her voice gentle.
"You don't have to do everything alone, A-Xiao," she said, using the childhood nickname that only she could still get away with. "That's what shimei and shixiong are for."
He Renxiao's throat tightened unexpectedly. He looked up to find all of them watching him with varying degrees of concern—Nan Feng's open worry, Jing Peishi's frustrated care, Li Yuan's guarded anxiety, and Mo Shuyi's quiet understanding. The sight made something crack inside his carefully maintained walls.
"I remember..." he began slowly, uncertain why he was speaking at all. "When I was twelve, I had that fever that wouldn't break. For three days, I couldn't even recognize any of you." They stilled at his words, clearly surprised by this sudden reference to the past.
"I remember waking up on the fourth day," he continued, his voice low. "All of you were there, asleep in various corners of my room. Even Li Yuan was there, even though he had been sent to the southern branch for training that month. You had all come back, just to sit with me while I was sick."
"Of course we came back," Li Yuan said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world but still somehow seemed to sound annoyed. Like it was an obligation. As if abandoning duties and training to watch over a feverish child was simply what one did. "You're my little brother— Mo Shuyi's Shidi and Nan Feng's Shixiong."
"I'm not little anymore," He Renxiao said, echoing his earlier protest, but this time without heat. "No," Mo Shuyi agreed, a faint smile touching his lips. "But you are still my Shidi. And brothers look after each other, whether they want it or not."
He Renxiao blinked rapidly, looking away from the simple sincerity in his eldest shixiong's eyes. The room swayed slightly as another wave of dizziness washed over him, and he felt rather than see Mo Shuyi move closer, ready to catch him if he fell. They would never understand, truly, the mentality of it..
"You should rest more," Jing Peishi said, his earlier anger fading into resignation. "Your body needs time to heal."
He Renxiao wanted to argue, to insist he was fine, that he didn't need their coddling. But the throbbing in his head had intensified, and the effort of sitting upright was becoming more difficult by the moment. Besides, there was something almost... comfortable about being here, surrounded by the people who had known him longest, who had seen him at his worst and remained anyway.
"Just for a while," he conceded finally, allowing Mo Shuyi to help him lie back down. "I'll rest just for a little while."
As his eyes grew heavy, he heard Nan Feng whisper something about going to fetch more medicine, felt the light touch of Li Yuan adjusting the blanket over him, sensed Jing Peishi moving to open the window slightly to let in fresh air. Small gestures, almost unconscious in their care.
He Renxiao's last thought before sleep claimed him again was that perhaps there were worse things than being watched over by those who, despite everything, had never given up on him—even when he had sometimes given up on himself.