The road home wound through the mountains, silvered by mist and the low hum of wheels against stone. The air was clean, scented faintly with pine and the cool breath of rivers far below.
In the cart, Ling Xiuyuan sat at the front, his eyes closed, the faint rhythm of the road lulling him toward rest. The morning light touched his face — soft against his pale lashes, catching in the silver of his hair.
Behind him, Shen Lianxiu watched in silence.
His new sword — the restless spirit-bound blade — hovered beside him, wrapped in cloth but refusing to stay still. It occasionally wiggled like an impatient child, the faint chime of metal ringing out each time he tried to settle it.
"Shh," he whispered sharply, pressing a finger to his lips. "He's resting."
The sword wobbled in defiance, giving a tiny clink of protest.
"I said shh!" Lianxiu hissed again, glaring down at the bundle. "Do you have no respect for your master?"
The sword spun once in midair, as if mocking him, before thudding lightly against his knee.
As he grumbled, his gaze drifted back toward Xiuyuan. His head rested against his arm, the steady motion of the cart rocking him deeper into sleep. His features were relaxed — the first time in days Lianxiu had seen him without the faint crease of responsibility shadowing his brow.
How beautiful, he thought, heart stirring painfully. The gentle slope of his nose, the soft curve of his mouth, the faint glint of light across his lashes — every detail seemed drawn with impossible precision.
For a moment, he forgot the sword, the road, everything but that face.
Zhou Qingrong noticed his gaze — a quiet, knowing glance flickered across her expression, though she said nothing.
The sun climbed higher. The cart rolled steadily onward, creaking under the weight of silence and peace. Even the sword had gone still now, swaying slightly in Lianxiu's lap, as if finally soothed by its master's quiet awe.
"It's such a peaceful day," Lianxiu murmured, smiling faintly. "For once, no spirits, no storms—"
The words had barely left his mouth when the horses screamed.
The wheels jolted violently. The world lurched.
"Hold—!" Zhou Qingrong shouted, grabbing the side of the cart, but the ground beneath them split — a sudden tear in the mountain path, as if the earth itself had inhaled.
A shadow loomed before them — vast, formless, swallowing the road in darkness.
It wasn't mist. It was alive.
The horses reared, the cart careened sideways — the wooden frame cracked, snapping one of its wheels.
"Shixiong!" Lianxiu cried, lunging forward as Xiuyuan's body was thrown toward the edge. He caught his sleeve just as the cart tipped—
—but something unseen pulled Xiuyuan backward, dragging him toward the open drop as though an invisible hand gripped his robes.
"No!"
Lianxiu reached again, fingers brushing Xiuyuan's wrist—
—and the next instant, the cart slammed into the rocks. The impact tore through the air like thunder.
Lianxiu was thrown hard against the boards; the sword clattered out of his grip, wailing like a struck bell. Zhou Qingrong's wards flared, too late — the light scattered into sparks.
"Shixiong—!"
The world tilted. The mountains spun.
For a heartbeat, Lianxiu saw Xiuyuan pinned under the broken frame — his hand crushed beneath the wheel, blood streaking the pale wood.
And then the scream — raw, human, painful — ripped through the valley.
The echo carried long after the cart began to fall.
The world was smoke and shouting when the flare went up.
Zhou Qingrong's sleeve was torn, her wards half-burned, but her hand stayed steady as she released the red talisman into the air. It burst through the mist with a hiss, flaring crimson across the mountainside — the call for aid from Jingshou Sect.
Moments later, the answering light rose from the distant peak. Help was coming.
Wei Jingyan was the first to arrive. His white robes were wind-streaked, his hair unbound, eyes wild with worry.
"Shije!" he called, voice echoing through the gorge. "Where are they?"
"Down here!"
He descended swiftly, sword glowing faintly to cut through the haze. The cart was a ruin — splintered wood, blood smeared over the rocks, the metallic tang of it sharp in the air. He found Ling Xiuyuan first, his face pale as frost, his hand crushed and wrapped hastily with cloth already darkening with blood. Zhou Qingrong knelt beside him, calm despite the tremor in her fingers.
"He's okay," she said quietly, "but the bones…"
Wei Jingyan's throat tightened. He turned sharply. "And Shen Lianxiu?"
"Over there. He fainted trying to pull him out."
Jingyan's heart lurched. He strode to where the boy lay amidst broken leaves, his hair tangled, cheeks streaked with ash and tears. For a moment, he just looked — at the faint rise and fall of Lianxiu's chest, at the way his fingers still clutched at air as if reaching for someone. Then, exhaling shakily, Wei Jingyan knelt and lifted him gently.
The sect's healers came soon after. They worked swiftly, bandaging, securing splints, wrapping what could be saved. Within the hour, the wounded were being carried down the mountain in separate carts — Xiuyuan with Zhou Qingrong and the physician; Lianxiu and Wei Jingyan in the other, following close behind.
The road back blurred past. Wheels groaned. Lanterns swung in the fading dusk.
When Lianxiu stirred, it was to the low creak of wood and the ache spreading through his shoulders. His head throbbed; every muscle screamed. For a long, confused moment, he didn't remember — and then it came rushing back: the crash, the scream, the blood, the shadow.
He sat up sharply, heart slamming against his ribs. "Shixiong!"
Wei Jingyan caught him before he could move. "Lie down. You're hurt."
"Where is he?" Lianxiu's voice cracked. "Where's Shixiong?!"
"In the other cart," Wei said firmly, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "He's alive, but his hand— he's being treated. You'll see him when we reach the sect."
But Lianxiu's eyes were wild, unfocused, searching the darkness ahead as though sheer will could let him see through it. "I have to see him," he said, trembling. "I have to—"
"Shen Lianxiu." Wei's voice softened, his usual composure breaking just slightly. "You're wounded. If you open those stitches again, he'll be furious when he wakes."
That stopped him — just for a moment. The image of Xiuyuan's calm, steady eyes, the way his voice always held quiet restraint. The memory made his throat tighten.
Lianxiu's lips trembled. "He screamed, Shixiong Wei," he whispered, almost to himself. "I've never heard him scream before. It sounded like—" His voice broke. "It sounded like everything was ending."
Wei Jingyan said nothing for a long time. Then, quietly, "He's stronger than you think. Rest. He would want you to."
Lianxiu turned his face away, tears slipping silently down his cheek.
The boy finally sank back against the cart wall, eyes red, fists trembling. The night wind brushed through the torn canvas above them, carrying the faint scent of blood and pine.