Shu Mingye stared at his now-empty hand, then shifted his gaze to the door that had just been firmly—rudely—shut right in front of his face. No hesitation. No warning. No "good night." Didn't even toss out a casual "thanks for not incinerating the prince." Just… slam. The sound still rang in his ears.
He exhaled slowly, the sound heavy enough to echo in the quiet corridor. What exactly had he been expecting? A curtsy? A soft smile? A warm pie delivered into his waiting hands?
Instead, he was left standing there like an abandoned statue. He lingered another moment, glaring at the closed door as if sheer willpower might shame it into reopening.
Nope. Still closed. Still smug about it.
This was Linyue, after all. If she ever started behaving in a normal, reasonable fashion, it would be a sure sign the heavens were collapsing, rivers were running backward, and the world was about to end. And maybe that was the very reason she was still here, in Shulin. If she had been like anyone else—sweet, polite, predictable—she would've already wandered off. Politely escaped. Vanished into mist, leaving only a faint herbal scent behind.
Shu Mingye shook his head, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest smile. He turned and walked down the path, steps unhurried, the night air cool against his skin. His study waited nearby. Conveniently nearby. Right beside her courtyard. Almost as if the palace itself had been built with destiny in mind. Or perhaps with excellent architectural foresight. Or perhaps a genius plan he definitely didn't spend hours designing himself.
The heavy doors opened to the familiar scent of paper, ink, and the faint trace of blood that clung no matter how often the servants scrubbed. To anyone else it might have been alarming. To him, it was the smell of home. He sank into his chair, leaned back, and shut his eyes. Silence pressed in. But her voice came back to him, soft yet firm.
"Do not play with the lives of innocents. That's what I've been told."
The words echoed in his mind, brushing against old memories he had buried deep.
Four years ago.
Before Shu Wenxu's death. Before he became the King of Shulin. Back when Hanyue State crumbled and the land drowned under a tide of demons.
The memories rose without mercy. Fire climbing across rooftops, consuming everything. Screams tearing through thick smoke. Blood running like rivers down pale stone walls. Faces twisted in terror. Faces vanishing forever.
The memories from that time should have been painful. He had been dying, bleeding, hunted, half-buried in snow. His body was broken, breath came in short painful gasps, every heartbeat weaker than the last. The cold had crept into his bones, whispering lullabies of sleep and surrender. And yet, whenever he thought about it now, he smiled. Not because he liked the pain. Not because of the way his lungs froze with every gasp or the fact that snow made an excellent grave. But because of the strange, impossible friend he had made that day.
Unexpected. Unusual. Unforgettable.
She had not been kind. She had not been gentle. She had been cold, blunt, and terribly quiet. She spoke like she didn't care if he lived or died. And yet… she stayed. She sat beside him like it was completely normal to hang out with a half-dead stranger bleeding in the snow.
She reminded him of someone. Someone who, at this very moment, happened to be staying next to his courtyard. Someone who was probably dreaming of pie. Or stabbing someone. Possibly both.
The resemblance was uncanny. That calm voice capable of dropping the most ridiculous statements without so much as a blink. That silence which somehow carried more weight than words. A serious face paired with nonsense words and the faint scent of gardenia. It was oddly… familiar.
She had made a promise. She said she would find him. But she never did.
Had she forgotten? Or had he imagined it all while delirious and half-dead, his mind inventing companionship as his body failed? He could not be sure.
Still, he had tried to find her. More than once. He had gone back to that place, to the frozen edge of the forest where his blood had soaked into the snow. The cold had been just as merciless, the air just as sharp. The demons still prowled the shadows, hungry and restless.
It was cold. Quiet. Dangerous. A place that did not care whether you lived or vanished. But he had kept going back. Again and again. Hoping for a glimpse of her in the snow. A shadow. A voice. Anything.
He found nothing.
No trace of her. Not even a single footprint in the snow.
At some point, he had stopped searching. Stopped expecting. But he had never managed to forget.
Now, years later, sitting alone in his study, he realized something strange. For the first time in a long while, he did not feel completely alone with those memories. Somewhere nearby—probably curled beneath too many blankets, possibly still thinking about pie—was someone who never looked at him like a monster.
Someone who could sit across from him, utterly serious, and ask in the calmest tone, "Did you start from the head or the toes?"
A quiet laugh slipped from him before he could stop it. He shook his head.
Ridiculous woman.
Outside the study, darkness stretched across the sky. There was no wind, no sound. Just the weight of the silent night pressing down on the world.
Above, the moon hung low.
Almost a full moon again. Every full moon, without fail, it happened. The moon turned red. They called it the Weeping Moon, the moon that sheds vermilion tears. Very poetic. Very dramatic. Some people just called it the Blood Moon. But no matter the name, everyone feared it.
When the Weeping Moon came, the walls shook. The demons grew wilder, stronger, as if the red glow poured madness into their veins. The soldiers would be called out. Every last one. They stood tall on the outer wall, blades drawn, eyes locked on the endless dark beyond. Their armor caught the red light, gleaming like fresh-spilled blood. But there was no warmth in it. Only the cold weight of fear pressing down on their hearts.
No one rested during a Weeping Moon. Not even the shadows.
Inside the walls, doors were bolted tight. Windows latched and barred. Lanterns went dark, fires were smothered until only the faintest glow remained. Children were hushed, their cries swallowed by trembling hands. Prayers rose in whispers. Everyone waited, breath held, hoping the walls would last one more night. Hoping claws and teeth would not find their way over the stone.
Many had been sent beyond the walls. Scholars with scrolls, soldiers with spears, mercenaries with no fear of death. All sent to map the cursed lands, to search for answers, to find the root of the demons. To find an end. To let them sleep forever and vanish from the land. But none of them ever succeeded. Some never returned at all. Others came back hollow. Their eyes haunted. Their hands unsteady. Their voices carrying only fragments of nightmares and no solutions.
The best anyone could do now… was fight. Fight to keep the wall from falling. Fight so others might live another day.
How tragic, that survival had become the only victory.
No one knew why or how it happened. Not the wise old scholars with too-long beards. Not the powerful cultivators with glowing swords and mysterious eyebrows. Not even the fortune-tellers who claimed to speak with the stars.
Some said it was a curse. Others called it Heaven's Punishment.
But deep down, everyone feared the same thing.
That the truth was much worse.
That no one knew anything at all.
And that was what made it truly terrifying.