Morning mist coiled low around the mountains as the company from Jingshou Sect approached Tianyin's gates. The twin stone doors stood tall and open, carved with cranes in flight, their wings catching the faintest gleam of dawn. From somewhere deep within the valley, temple bells rang—slow, sonorous, and distant.
At the foot of the steps waited a man in grey robes lined with silver thread, his posture straight yet unforced. His hair was bound neatly with jade, his face calm, composed, and touched with the gravity of years.
He was Sect Leader Yun Shufeng of Tianyin Sect.
When his gaze found Ling Xiuyuan among the travelers, a rare warmth softened his expression. "Sect Leader Ling," he said, his tone even but carrying genuine affection. "It eases the heart to see you well. I feared your recovery would take longer."
Ling Xiuyuan dismounted, robes stirring lightly in the wind. "Sect Leader Yun," he replied with quiet courtesy. "Your letter spoke of urgent matters. How could I not come myself?"
Yun Shufeng smiled, faintly but sincerely. "Tianyin has always held gratitude toward Jingshou. To see you once more—strong and standing—is a blessing this mountain had forgotten to hope for."
He stepped closer and clasped Xiuyuan's forearm in greeting. Their exchange was formal in gesture yet carried the weight of shared years—of old battles, lost friends, and unspoken understanding.
Then Yun Shufeng's eyes passed over the others—Wei Jingyan, Zhou Qingrong, Lin Wuyue, the six young disciples—and paused briefly when they met Mingyue's face. For a heartbeat, his expression flickered, the faintest furrow of confusion or memory crossing his brow. But the smile returned almost at once, smooth and practiced, as though nothing had shifted.
"Your attendants and disciples are as disciplined as ever," he said mildly.
Zhou Qingrong stepped forward first, offering a courteous bow. "Sect Leader Yun, it's been many years. Your sect seems unchanged—still as graceful as the cranes upon your gates."
Yun Shufeng gave a quiet laugh. "Grace does little to chase shadows, I'm afraid. You will see what I mean soon enough."
Wei Jingyan bowed next, cheerful despite the solemn air. "Sect Leader Yun, I've long heard of Tianyin's refinement. I'm honored to finally see it."
"You bring light spirits with you, Master Wei," Yun Shufeng said, amused. "Tianyin could use that."
Lin Wuyue led the six Jingshou disciples in formal salute. The guards stationed along the gate answered with equal respect, their faces composed yet curious.
Standing a short distance behind Yun Shufeng were two elders of Tianyin Sect: Fan Rongrui, a tall man whose gaze was sharp as forged steel, and Lu Zhaoyun, younger, open-faced, and quick to smile. Both stepped forward to bow deeply.
Yun Shufeng waited until the greetings faded, then raised his hand. "You've traveled far, Sect Leader Ling. Please, rest first. The guest courtyard has been prepared. We'll speak after you've had some tea and sleep."
Xiuyuan inclined his head. "Then we'll trouble you for your hospitality."
Bells continued to sound from within the valley—slow, deliberate, and somehow sorrowful.
Mingyue followed behind Xiuyuan, quiet as ever. Yet he could still feel the weight of Sect Leader Yun's momentary gaze lingering upon him—sharp, measuring, and unreadable.
The disciples dispersed to their assigned rooms; the corridors of the guest wing grew hushed, touched only by the faint rustle of bamboo leaves against the eaves.
Ling Xiuyuan stood by the window of his chamber, watching mist coil beyond the courtyard lanterns. His expression was unreadable — calm on the surface, shadowed beneath.
A soft knock came at the door."Enter," he said.
Mingyue stepped in, bowing. "Shizun, I've brought your evening tea."
He moved with his usual quiet grace, placing the tray upon the table. When he straightened, Xiuyuan turned from the window. "You'll stay here tonight," he said.
Mingyue blinked, startled. "In Shizun's room?"
Xiuyuan's gaze didn't waver. "I sleep lighter than most. If anything stirs, I'll know first. You'll rest better here."
Mingyue lowered his head. "...As Shizun commands."
The room was quiet, lit by one candle. Xiuyuan poured tea himself — his movements slow, deliberate. The steam rose in curls, glinting gold in the flame.
"Your hands are cold again," Xiuyuan murmured as Mingyue reached for the cup. Their fingers brushed — just lightly — but Mingyue froze. He looked away at once, cheeks faintly flushed.
Xiuyuan withdrew his hand, unreadable. "You've grown skilled at hiding things," he said.
Mingyue's lashes quivered. "There is nothing to hide."
"Is there not?"
He didn't press further, only watched the candlelight waver against Mingyue's face. The boy's eyes flickered like something caught between guilt and longing.
Silence pooled — deep, fragile.
When Xiuyuan finally spoke, his voice was almost tender. "Sleep. You've had a long day."
Mingyue nodded, turning to blow out the candle. For a moment, the flame danced — then darkness fell.
But Xiuyuan, lying awake in the dim glow of moonlight, could hear Mingyue's quiet breathing nearby — steady, calm, heartbreakingly familiar.
And though he told himself it was only coincidence, his pulse betrayed him.
The candle had long since burned down to its base, leaving the room in the faint silver wash of moonlight. The Tianyin Sect was still — not even the wind disturbed the curtains. Yet Ling Xiuyuan's mind refused rest. When sleep finally claimed him, it did so with the soft, cold hand of memory.
He was walking once more through the training grounds of Jingshou Peak — but they were not as they were now. The plum trees were in full bloom, petals falling in pale snow over the courtyard stones. Beneath them stood Shen Lianxiu, dressed in white, sword balanced easily on his shoulder, a teasing smile curving his lips.
"Shizun," he called, voice bright and young. "You're late again."
Xiuyuan almost laughed — the sound that caught in his throat was both joy and ache. "You speak as if I were your disciple instead."
"Then I'll teach you," Lianxiu said, stepping forward. "First lesson — don't frown so much. The world isn't always a funeral."
The younger man reached up suddenly, and for a moment Xiuyuan felt the light touch of fingers brushing his brow, playful and affectionate. The scent of plum blossoms swirled between them, dizzying.
"You—" Xiuyuan began, but the words faltered.
Because the figure before him was beginning to blur, the lines of his face softening, twisting — the eyes growing calmer, quieter — until Shen Lianxiu's mischievous grin was replaced by Mingyue's silent gaze.
"Mingyue?" he whispered.
The boy tilted his head. "Did you forget me so soon, Shizun?"
The voice was neither Lianxiu's nor Mingyue's. It was both — and neither.
Xiuyuan reached out — but the moment his fingertips touched that phantom cheek, the world collapsed like shattered glass. A cold wind howled through the trees, scattering the blossoms into a storm of white. Blood spattered the petals. Someone was falling, calling his name — "Shizun!" — and the cry split his heart open.
He woke with a gasp.
The moonlight had shifted. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of extinguished wax. Xiuyuan's robes were damp with sweat, his breath uneven. For a moment, he could not separate dream from waking.
Then — a rustle of fabric.
Mingyue was at his side in an instant, his expression startled, eyes wide in the dim light. "Sect Leader—?"
"I'm fine," Xiuyuan rasped, pressing a hand to his chest. But his fingers trembled.
Mingyue knelt beside the bed without hesitation, reaching for the teapot on the table. "You were calling a name," he said quietly as he poured. His voice was soft, steady — too steady. "Was it... that dream again?"
Xiuyuan's eyes flickered to him. "You heard?"
"I couldn't sleep," Mingyue admitted, gaze lowered. "Your voice woke me."
He held out the cup. Xiuyuan took it, his hand brushing against Mingyue's once more — and again, that same strange jolt in his chest. The tea was warm, faintly sweet.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Mingyue said nothing, only watched him drink. When Xiuyuan finally set the cup down, the younger man reached out without thinking — a small, hesitant motion — and wiped a bead of cold sweat from Xiuyuan's temple.
The touch was fleeting. But Xiuyuan caught his wrist before it could withdraw.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence pulsed between them, fragile as the moonlight that fell through the window.
"You shouldn't be so quick to care for others," Xiuyuan said at last, his tone quiet but edged with something unreadable. "People will misunderstand."
Mingyue's eyes lifted to his. "Then let them misunderstand," he said simply.
The words struck Xiuyuan harder than he expected. His grip loosened. "Mingyue…"
"Yes?"
He wanted to say — You're too much like him.He wanted to ask — Who are you, really?
But the words dissolved before reaching his tongue.
Instead, he released the boy's wrist and turned away. "Go back to sleep."
Mingyue hesitated. Then, in a whisper: "If you dream again… I'll wake you."
He lingered a moment longer, as if uncertain, before returning to his place near the door. The faint sound of his breathing settled once more into the rhythm of the night.
Xiuyuan lay back, eyes open to the ceiling beams, listening. His pulse still had not steadied. The taste of plum blossoms clung to his tongue — sweet, fading.
Somewhere deep in his chest, the old wound stirred.
And beneath the moonlight, his heart — traitorously — began to beat again.