The gates of Jingshou Sect opened before dawn. Mist coiled over the courtyard, veiling the lanterns in a pale, flickering glow.
Nie Xiaohuan stood at the entrance with Roulan at his side, both faces drawn tight with worry. Behind them, servants and disciples waited with stretchers and bandages, their breaths caught in the chill morning air.
When the carts appeared at last — two dark shapes rolling through the fog — Xiaohuan's chest unclenched for the first time in hours.
When Lianxiu stepped down from the second cart, pale but standing, Roulan ran to him. "Lianxiu!" Her voice trembled. "You—your head! Your arm—"
Before he could answer, Nie Xiaohuan was there too, face thunderous with worry. "Can you ever take care of yourself?" he snapped, gripping Lianxiu's shoulder.
Lianxiu flinched slightly under the scolding, but the warmth behind it softened the sting. "I'm fine, truly," he said, forcing a small grin.
"You're never fine when you say that," Xiaohuan muttered, but he guided him gently toward his own quarters all the same.
Roulan followed, carrying bandages and warm water. "I'm glad you're at least alive," she whispered shakily.
Lianxiu smiled at her — a bright, fragile smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "See? I'm alright. It takes more than a mountain to break me."
Roulan let out a weak laugh, wiping her tears. "Why was I even crying for this fool!"
By nightfall, the sect had fallen into exhausted silence. Healers had come and gone, orders whispered through corridors, doors closing one by one. Roulan, finally assured that Lianxiu would live, fell asleep beside his bed; Xiaohuan, still restless, left to fetch food for him.
The moment the door clicked shut, Lianxiu sat up.
His chest still ached, but his heart ached worse.
He slipped quietly from the bed, draping his robe around his shoulders. The corridors were dim, lit only by the thin light of oil lamps swaying in the breeze. His footsteps made no sound as he walked — past the silent courtyards, past the plum trees heavy with night dew — until he reached Ling Xiuyuan's leader's chambers.
Inside, candlelight flickered softly.
Wei Jingyan and Han Yuejian were there, tending to Ling Xiuyuan, who sat upright against the headboard. His right hand was wrapped entirely in white bandages, faint spots of red seeping through the cloth. Yet his posture was calm, composed — only his eyes betrayed the dull exhaustion beneath.
When Lianxiu entered, the two masters turned. He bowed deeply. "Shixiong Han, Shixiong Wei."
Yuejian gave a nod. Jingyan's gaze lingered for a moment — seeing the trembling in the boy's fingers — then he said softly, "We'll leave you two."
The door closed behind them, and silence settled.
For a long moment, Lianxiu didn't move. He only looked — at the pale figure before him, at the hand lying motionless atop the quilt.
"Are you alright?" Xiuyuan asked first, voice low but steady.
Lianxiu swallowed hard, forcing his voice not to tremble. "I'm fine. And you, Shixiong?"
Xiuyuan glanced at his bandaged hand and smiled — a small, unguarded smile that curved his lips more widely than usual. "I'm also fine."
It should have been comforting, that smile — gentle, reassuring, like sunlight after rain. But Lianxiu's heart clenched painfully.
He knew that smile.
It wasn't a smile born of peace, but of kindness — the kind given to stop others from blaming themselves. The kind that said don't worry about me, even when everything hurt.
The knowledge tore through him like glass.
He wanted to kneel, to apologize, to beg forgiveness for his failure — but the words caught in his throat.
So he only nodded, his expression fixed in that brittle calm disciples learn too young.
Xiuyuan, reached out his uninjured hand and brushed the edge of Lianxiu's sleeve — a silent reassurance.
Lianxiu's breath hitched. His vision blurred, but he blinked rapidly, forcing the tears back.
Inside, his heart whispered what his mouth could not:It should have been me hurt, not you.
The wind outside had gone still. The paper lantern in the corner flickered softly, its flame dimming with each tremor of air. Ling Xiuyuan sat at the edge of the bed, his hands half-raised as if in thought — or defeat.
Across the room, Shen Lianxiu sat by the brazier, watching the red coals pulse and fade. He had pretended not to notice — for a while. But the sound of cloth rustling, the uneven breaths, the faint tremor in Xiuyuan's hands — they drew his gaze at last.
When Xiuyuan gave up with a soft sigh, shoulders sinking, Lianxiu rose. His movements were unhurried, but there was something decisive in the way he crossed the floor.
Xiuyuan looked up. The lamplight caught on his lashes, on the faint sheen of weariness across his face. "It's fine," he murmured. "You should rest."
But Lianxiu only stepped closer, he reached forward. His fingers, cool and sure, undid the knot Xiuyuan had been fighting with. The heavy outer robe slid from his shoulders, soundless as falling snow.
Xiuyuan stilled — not from pain, but from something far quieter.He watched, wordless, as Lianxiu folded the robe aside and picked up the fresh one.
The younger man leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed against Xiuyuan's neck as he guided the new fabric over his shoulders, tying each knot neatly. His hands were steady, his eyes lowered — not daring to meet Xiuyuan's gaze.
Lianxiu's fingers paused — just for a heartbeat — before resuming their careful work. When he was done, he stepped back, head bowed slightly.
The lamp flickered once, throwing both their shadows onto the wall — tall and close, almost touching.
"…Thank you," Xiuyuan said softly.
Lianxiu only nodded. He turned to the window, drawing the curtain aside. Moonlight spilled across the floor, pale and cold.
Xiuyuan lay down then, watching the silhouette by the window until his eyes grew heavy. The last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was Lianxiu's profile bathed in silver — calm, distant, and unbearably familiar.
Outside, frost gathered on the panes, thin as breath — and silent as memory.