"Did you ever love me, even for a moment?"
"No."
Those gruesome scenes flashed before me—unrelenting, grotesque memories seared deep within the corners of my soul. The sensation of a blade slicing through my abdomen lingered with startling clarity, as though the wound had never healed, as if time itself had refused to move forward. I had bled before, bled in many ways, but that particular pain—physical and emotional in tandem—was inescapable. I could have, perhaps, grown used to the agony over time, developed a tolerance like one does for bitter medicine or cruel weather. But grief... grief is different. Grief is a living, breathing entity that settles into your bones. It claws at you in the quiet hours, drapes itself around your shoulders when you're most vulnerable, and whispers cruel uncertainties in your ear: what was real, and what never truly was?
I opened my eyes. My face was wet—tears, again. It had been months since the last time I was plagued by that dream, but something about it felt different this time. Too vivid. Too raw. My breath caught in my throat, fragile as glass, and I stared upwards.
The ceiling was unfamiliar.
Morning light bled into the room through the slats of white curtains. The sunlight, warm and clean, painted golden strokes across the bed linens. But this wasn't my room. The air smelled foreign. Too still. The silence was only interrupted by the faint, rhythmic sound of breathing—gentle, calm, close.
Something pressed heavily against my chest. I didn't need to look to know. I could feel it—the warmth of another's breath brushing against my skin, the slow, steady rise and fall of a body. Then, the unmistakable touch of long strands of hair. A human. Him.
"God," I whispered to myself, shifting slightly beneath the weight. He didn't stir, but the motion reignited flickers of memory. The previous night came rushing back with cruel clarity—his wounds, once gaping and red, were now scabbed over, healed somewhat, though the scars remained. There were dozens of them. Hundreds, even. Old and new. Etched into his skin like a map of suffering.
I couldn't look away. Sympathy threatened to drown me, pulling me under like a riptide. My chest ached for him—for whatever past had carved those marks so ruthlessly. He stirred in his sleep, nuzzling closer to the crook of my neck. I went rigid, my body betraying me, locking in place as if paralysed by instinct.
His face was visible now. There was something impossibly gentle about it. Innocence tainted by trauma. A face that had seen too much and survived anyway. Peaceful. Vulnerable. The warmth of his breath on my neck sent a shiver coursing down my spine—unwelcome, confusing.
I didn't know what to do.
Minutes passed in silence as I studied him. My eyes traced his features with hesitant curiosity—broad temples, sharp jawline, thick dark blue brows that matched the cascade of hair draped over his shoulder. A tiny mole sat beneath his left eye, giving his expression an oddly endearing quality. His nose was small, pointed; his lips pale, yet gleaming faintly as though dusted in ochre.
"Wait… he's actually handsome." The thought surfaced unbidden, like a whisper from the depths of my subconscious. I winced inwardly, ashamed of the warmth spreading through me. His presence had always disarmed me—left me tender and exposed in ways I couldn't articulate.
His hand stirred, fingers trailing up to my cheek. A touch so feather-light it almost didn't register, yet it burned into my skin like fire. He lifted his head—perhaps to see me—and without thinking, I shut my eyes tight, pretending to sleep.
He moved closer.
I could feel his gaze on me—deep, searching, unrelenting. My body screamed with tension. I knew what was happening between us—something subtle, primal, and not entirely welcome in that fragile morning moment.
And then I felt it. The unmistakable contact between us—too close, too warm, too real. The early hour didn't help. Our bodies, charged by instinct, responded without thought or permission. My mind raced, chaotic and ashamed. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it to continue. I didn't know which desire terrified me more.
I snapped.
My eyes flew open and I shoved him away, the motion abrupt, desperate. But he caught my sleeve, halting his fall and yanking me forward instead. I stumbled and landed over him, arms braced on either side, my heart pounding like a war drum.
He stared at me. And I, at him.
For a breathless second, the world shrank to just us.
His eyes were wide—not in fear, but something else. Awe? Confusion? It disarmed me. I glanced down, only to meet the sight of his bare chest again—riddled with history, pain, and too much beauty for me to process.
And then—
The door flew open.
We didn't notice at first, suspended in that strange intimacy. Not until a throat cleared—loud, deliberate. I leapt off him as if burnt.
The door of the room was opened suddenly and someone walked in. It could have been too fast for us both to notice and it wasn't until they cleared their throats that I jumped off.
"Greetings Master." A very fine young boy greeted, his voice polite, delicate almost, while the East Guardian shielded his form in silence.
"You're back?"
"Yes." He bowed his head low in reply, the gesture steeped in deference.
"I'll leave you alone," I muttered quickly, grateful for an excuse to flee the awkwardness thickening within the room like incense smoke. Rising from the bed and adjusting my veil hastily, I turned my gaze away from both of them, the weight of the moment pressing at my chest, and exited the building without sparing another glance. My footsteps carried me all the way to the gate—half in flight, half in denial.
But freedom was fleeting.
Yi San stood there, as though summoned by fate itself. His surprise at seeing me emerge was quickly replaced by something else—rage, immediate and unfiltered.
"Hi," I offered, unsure of what else to say. My voice was light, feigned, a poor mask over what I feared he already sensed.
He didn't speak. Instead, he reached for me—his hand gripping my wrist, not violently, but with a familiarity that made my breath catch. It had become his habit, this forceful tenderness, and he dragged me away without explanation, urgency wrapped around each step.
"Wait—" I protested, but he wasn't listening, not then. Not until I anchored myself, digging my heels into the earth beneath us, forcing him to halt. He turned sharply, eyes aflame with something more than anger. He pinned me to the nearby wall with a quickness that was neither threatening nor gentle—it was simply desperate. His face hovered near mine, his breath fast and shallow.
"The fragrance of orchids… His incense. The chamomile that clings to his sheets." His voice trembled, wounded. I blinked, startled, instinctively trying to detect the smells he listed. But my senses betrayed me—I couldn't catch even a trace. Yet he had.
"You spent the night with him." It wasn't a question; it was an accusation born of ache.
"He was just… too heavy for me to push away." My voice was quiet, too casual, too dismissive, and I realised it too late.
"You shared the same bed?" His tone rose, brittle with disbelief.
"It's not like we did anything." I snapped, my defence clumsy, careless. He looked down, hands curling around my arms, holding me in place—not with anger, but pain. Pure, transparent pain.
"Why?" he whispered, and for a moment, I didn't know if it was a plea or a question to himself.
He wasn't merely angry. He was unravelled. He was terrified.
"Are you alright?" I asked, concern taking root inside me. I had never seen him like this—Yi San, so usually composed, was sweating, trembling, and openly weeping.
"Why are you driving me mad?" His voice broke on the final word, and the vulnerability of it made my stomach twist. The cracks in him were visible, gaping.
"San'ah?" I called softly, his name cradled on my tongue with affection. He raised his head, eyes swollen with grief, and looked at me with the kind of desperation that seemed to tear at the heavens.
"Stay away from him. I'm begging you," he said, voice hoarse with sincerity. I froze, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of his concern.
"Has he done something wrong?" I wanted to ask. What is your problem? I thought—but even then, it felt like Yi San could read the shape of my thoughts before they formed.
"He isn't a good person," he murmured, almost too quietly. "He's a very bad person." The words were repeated like a mantra. "He'll be worse if it's you," he added, and his hands finally fell away from me—as if letting go was the only mercy he had left.
I stepped forward, uncertain, aching to say something. But he had already turned away, swallowed by his own dismay, perhaps convinced that I no longer belonged to him in any form.
I returned, heart heavy, to the quarters that had been arranged for me. Wiman was there, pacing, his expression unreadable. He saw me and walked over. I braced myself, expecting an interrogation—another wave of frustration. But instead, he opened his arms and embraced me.
It caught me off guard.
That morning had already asked too much of me—first a haunting silence, then Yi San's protective madness, and now Wiman's arms, once a sanctuary, now foreign. His care didn't soothe me the way it once had. I wasn't sure if it was fatigue, or something deeper—perhaps the erosion of what once felt sacred between us. His coldness had often followed his warmth like a tide, unpredictable, relentless. I had reached the point where even his affection felt unreliable.
I pulled away.
He did too, though in his case, it looked like he was simply reclaiming his composure.
"Where have you been?" he asked, making a visible effort to stay calm, though his clenched jaw betrayed the quiet tremor beneath his voice.
"Practising," I lied, my tone steady though my heartbeat was not.
"The whole night?"
His eyes studied me with a kind of resigned sharpness, the kind that didn't need to shout to be piercing. He didn't buy it, not entirely. Yet he said nothing more about it. Still, I feared that, like Yi San, he might pick up on the faint traces left behind—the incense of orchids, the chamomile from sheets I had not meant to share.
"I couldn't sleep," I added, trying to soften the lie, "I had a lot on my chest. I needed to breathe."
It was the truth wrapped in a veil of deceit.
He looked disheartened—not outraged, not suspicious—just quietly hurt. That expression wounded more than I expected.
"Things aren't in our control here," he said after a moment, voice low, almost paternal. "This isn't the Red Spear Commune. If your identity is exposed, I can't help but worry."
There was weight in his words—unspoken dread beneath the caution.
"Let's focus on the Tournament for now," I insisted, sidestepping the thread of care he offered and walking past him. I didn't look back.
The door shut behind me with a dull finality. I leaned against it, hands trembling slightly as my mind wandered—again—to the scenes of the previous night. They were branded into my memory, vivid as a wound still raw. But it wasn't just the moment I had shared with the East Guardian—it was Yi San's voice echoing through my thoughts like a warning I didn't know how to obey.
Stay away from him. He isn't a good person.
I had heard the words. I had seen the desperation in his eyes when he said them. But even then, I couldn't bring myself to believe it—not completely. Because I had also seen something else: fragility wrapped in silence, a kind of stillness that felt ancient, heavy with longing.
There was a profound sadness buried beneath the East Guardian's measured demeanour. I had witnessed it in his sleep, in the involuntary way he had clung to me, as though he had no idea how to be held gently. I didn't understand the full extent of it, but the scars on his body told a story I couldn't ignore. Scars not of war, but of something darker—magical, relentless. A curse, perhaps.
I had read of many spells. I had studied ancient books and memorised the names of forgotten hexes. But the one etched into his flesh felt like something unspoken, unknown even in forbidden texts. I couldn't unravel it alone. But there was one man I trusted—Doctor Song. If anyone could decipher the unseen cruelty within that curse, it would be him.
I conjured a talisman, fingers moving with practised ease. My voice fell into the chant naturally, painting the command in red ink before folding it into the form of a small fiery pigeon. With a pulse of my energy, it flew off—cutting through the air on its way to the Red Spear Commune.
By the time we were summoned, the sun had begun its steep climb into the morning sky. We gathered with the other remaining participants in the assembly square. The number had thinned again, but we still stood strong—around a hundred of us now, weathered and wary.
The Elders arrived, solemn as ever, flanked by Sect leaders and the ever-watchful eyes of the high council. Among them, the Commune Chief sat to the far left of the dais, his expression unreadable. The East Guardian stood there too, his silver mask veiling the left side of his face. He remained composed, almost statuesque. His colleagues stood near, faces calm, unreadable, but their eyes studied each of us—like they were searching for cracks in our spirits.
I followed their gaze only to find Yi San's again. He was watching the East Guardian with venomous intensity, like a man who had once trusted someone only to be betrayed in silence. That expression—it was too full of history to be baseless.
I wondered what had passed between them—what could make him burn so quietly every time their paths crossed.
Then, out of the silence, my eyes met those of the young man who had walked in on me and the East Guardian that morning. His face held a strange mixture—curiosity shaded with confusion. A part of me wanted to keep watching him, to read what he might have seen.
But I denied myself that luxury.
"I denied myself the chance to keep looking at him."
"Are we waiting for someone?" murmurs floated among the crowd, light but tinged with growing impatience.
"Where is the spokesperson from the other day?" another voice followed. It was only then I noticed his absence. There was, unmistakably, a space left vacant. An oddly deliberate space, carved out of the otherwise meticulous symmetry of the gathering. Its position alone suggested weight—suggested we were awaiting someone whose presence would shift the balance of the room. Someone significant.
The square seemed to hold its breath.
Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the sky began to dim. What had been a bright, open morning was smothered by sudden shadows, as though the heavens themselves recoiled. The earth beneath us trembled—not violently, but with an ancient sort of warning, deep and visceral. A dense, crushing pressure descended, blanketing the entire square like invisible iron weights.
Around me, the crowd buckled. One by one, people collapsed to their knees, groaning beneath the weight of it. Even the most seasoned among them—warriors and mages, cultivators and seers—were reduced to trembling. And yet, through it all, Yi San, Wiman, and I remained standing. Unshaken. Unmoved.
I should have been brought to my knees like the others. My phantom body, ephemeral and incomplete, was never built to bear that kind of force. But I felt something stir within me. Something unexpected. A faint but potent energy coursed through me—fragments of a power I did not recognise as my own, yet felt undeniably familiar. Like echoes of a name I once knew but could no longer speak. Foreign, yes, but it moved like it belonged.
There was a pulse in the air—a single blinding flash.
And suddenly, he was there.
At first, all we saw was his back. He stood taller than most, shoulders broad but poised, like still water hiding the force of an ocean beneath. Then he turned.
His face was unlike any I had ever seen. Adorned in dark, ceremonial tattoos that curled across his skin like calligraphy of the heavens. His eyes were ancient, or perhaps timeless. The tips of his hair curled into burnished golden locks that caught the low light, refracting it into amber flames. His skin was pale as starlit marble—too perfect, too flawless. Almost inhuman. His body, though not overtly muscular, was carved with the kind of restrained strength that spoke of thousands of battles survived and endured.
He was more than a man. His presence made that undeniable.
Power pulsed from him in slow, deliberate waves. Not just strength—but authority, reverence. A silence spread over the square, not out of fear, but awe. Even the Commune Chief, whose cultivation level surpassed most and whose pride rarely permitted deference, held back. There was an unspoken acknowledgment in his eyes. He, too, could not compare.
"It's the Mortal God of War—RYU." Someone whispered it first, then others echoed it with a mix of reverence and disbelief.
The name struck through the air like thunder. I remembered it—faintly, like something spoken in a dream long ago. Ryu, the sole surviving Mortal God from the generation before ours. The one who stood against extinction and emerged as the last sentinel. The man who shattered seven of the sacred pillars, challenging not only the Immortal Order but the heavens themselves. He wasn't simply a warrior. He was a legend. A liberator to the oppressed, a destroyer to the wicked, and to many, the only deity they dared to believe in.
The energy around him did not roar—it hummed, low and steady like a war drum in the distance. There was no need for spectacle. His very existence was the proof of his supremacy. He had nothing to prove, only a presence to assert—and it dominated the air like gravity itself.
I felt the rhythm of my heart shift, not in fear, but in wonder. Ryu was not merely a figure from the stories. He was real. He had walked into this moment like time had waited for him—and we, all of us, were suddenly made small under his gaze.
"The man who destroyed seven pillars in total throughout his entire lifetime that he came to be renowned as the God of war amongst the people since he was a liberator to many and the most invincible soldier that mankind ever had."
"So it's him," I whispered, almost involuntarily—my breath catching at the edge of awe and uncertainty.
"The only cultivator from the previous generation with the Seven Rings and the Eternal Flame. He's perhaps the most feared man in the world," someone murmured close behind me.
I turned, curious to see who had spoken, but my words were cut short.
"You!" the boy blurted. His expression was unreadable—neither entirely hostile nor welcoming. A strange blend of challenge and curiosity lingered in his gaze.
"Master Suho rarely receives visitors... especially the beautiful ones," he added, voice tight with something that resembled contempt, or perhaps caution. His tone wasn't playful—it was sharp-edged, bordering on interrogation.
So Suho is his name. I registered the thought silently, my eyes not leaving the young man.
"There's nothing going on between us," I said plainly, under my breath.
"I only care about my Master," he responded with unnerving calm. "I don't care what others assume. He has his own thoughts... his own ways. But as his only disciple, I insist—no, I warn you—to restrain yourself. Be mindful of your words, and even more of your thoughts."
There was something darkly intense in his conviction, something heavy for someone who couldn't have been more than fifteen. Perhaps he feared being replaced, or worse—forgotten. And while I felt no need to argue my place or intentions, the weight of his voice lingered like smoke in the air.
Before I could respond, Wiman stepped forward with calm authority and gently, yet unmistakably, moved between us.
"You do not belong here," Wiman said quietly, the dismissal cold and final.
The boy's lips tightened before he nodded once, retreating into the shifting crowd. I turned to Wiman.
"Thank you," I said sincerely, grounding myself once more in the moment as the square settled in anticipation for the words of the Immortal Ryu.
A hush fell as he stepped forward, his presence commanding silence without effort. He surveyed us all, as though measuring the weight of every soul in attendance.
"It has come to my understanding," he began, his voice low and formidable, "that among us are secret forces conspiring to interfere with the Four Seasons Tournament. The scale of their intrusion is not minor. It is a concern to every Sect and Commune present today."
His words didn't need embellishment—they landed like iron dropped into still water, sending ripples through the crowd.
"So it is true..." I heard the whispers stir around me. Uncertainty, fear, and speculation wove through the assembly like threads of smoke.
"Effective immediately," Ryu continued, "you will be grouped into squads of six—three pairs per unit. This restructuring is for your safety and the integrity of the Tournament. I will personally oversee the next stages. Until teams are finalised by tomorrow, no new challenge will commence."
Then, just as he had arrived, he vanished—leaving behind a silence thick with awe and restless murmurings.
As the assembly dispersed, I found my attention returning to the young boy who had warned me earlier. There was something strange about him—something unmistakable. Despite his low cultivation level, his aura was radiant, volatile even, like a storm just waiting to erupt. It defied logic.
"It's him," a practitioner whispered behind me.
"He's back already?" another replied, wide-eyed.
"He looks fiercer than before," someone remarked.
"It's unbelievable—a guy like him, with no spiritual roots and a weak Halo..." the voices faded into speculation.
Their words fed my curiosity, and I quietly slipped closer to their group, searching for a way into their conversation. They didn't carry themselves with arrogance. They looked young, perhaps only a few years older than me, yet they stood with quiet strength.
I nudged one of them gently.
"Who're..." he began, his voice catching when he saw me.
"Forgive me," I murmured softly, meeting their eyes with a warm, open expression.
They lit up, amusement and delight rippling across their faces like sunlight through leaves.
"Whoa..."
"How can I..."
"...help you?" they chimed in, each one tripping over the other to catch my attention.
I placed myself intentionally in their midst, their enthusiasm almost disarming. Despite their youthful appearance, their energy was undeniable. For a fleeting moment, I understood the truth in what people often said—no matter how light-hearted they seemed, the practitioners of the Sky Castle were, without doubt, the very best of us.
"Would you mind helping this Senior?" I asked gently.
"Sure," they replied in unison, their eagerness unmistakable. I couldn't help but smirk, a flicker of excitement stirring in me as my gaze found the young man from earlier.
"Who is he?" I asked, my voice low.
"Him?" one of them echoed, glancing briefly before nodding.
"Mmm," I affirmed, studying the boy's calm demeanour, as if trying to read between the lines of his posture.
"It's Daeha," one finally replied. "The only disciple of the East Guardian."
Another chimed in, voice tinged with emphasis as though the weight of that title alone merited reverence.
I felt a quiet satisfaction stir within me. So, my suspicions had been correct after all.
"Isn't he too young?" I asked, still slightly doubtful.
"He's fourteen years old, or so I heard," came the reply.
I blinked, slightly taken aback. His presence felt older—more carved by silence and experience than a boy his age had any right to be. His eyes, even at a distance, held the unblinking calm of someone who had seen too much too early.
"Most Masters prefer disciples with promising roots and solid foundations," I mused aloud. "It's strange... His doesn't seem particularly powerful."
They shared a look, then one of them continued, "All we know is the East Guardian found him five years ago. No one really knows where he came from. He was a sick boy then—barely alive. Most thought he wouldn't make it."
There was a pause, as if that memory, though second-hand, still hung in the air between us.
"But Master Suho..." another added softly, "he took him in. Some say he grew fond of him. Others say he saw himself in him."
The thought made something shift in me. I hadn't expected that kind of tenderness to surround someone as impenetrable as the East Guardian.
"They're quite alike in temperament," one of them noted. "It's obvious if you've ever seen them interact. Quiet. Fiercely protective of each other. Like shadows bound by the same light."
I tilted my head. "What do you mean by 'alike'?"
They exchanged glances again, this time more solemn.
"Everyone knows about Master Suho's past. He was born into a prestigious clan, one of the great families of the Inner Lands. But everything changed overnight. His entire bloodline was massacred by one of the Devil Puppet legions. He was just a boy—rescued from the wreckage, barely conscious. By the time he came to, he couldn't speak. The shock had shattered him."
A silence fell over us. I hadn't known. The stories I'd heard only skimmed the surface—tales of a cold prodigy with little warmth and fewer words. Nothing about the ruin and grief that carved him into who he became.
"And from that day," the speaker continued, "he swore to destroy every Demon that walks the earth."
"So they're both introverted?" I asked, gently, not wanting to shatter the depth of the moment.
"Very much so. Especially Master Suho. He barely interacts with the other Elders, and the Cardinal Guardians keep their distance too—perhaps because he's the youngest, or maybe because he chooses solitude. He lives far away from the central tower, alone in an isolated wing of the Sky Castle. No servants. No disciples... except Daeha."
We had walked in quiet rhythm, the air filled with fragments of memory and soft revelations, until we neared my residence. I slowed, halting before the steps.
"But how can Daeha be so powerful?" I asked, almost to myself. "He has a weak Halo, doesn't he?"
"No one really knows," someone replied. "There's a rumour, though... that when Master Suho saved him, he used his own Divine blood."
I looked up, startled.
"The East Guardian's spiritual form is the Azure Dragon. Its essence is legendary for healing and purification. They say that his blood carries ancient strength. Since that day, Daeha has followed him without question. Protective to the point of self-sacrifice. He'd die for his Master in a heartbeat."
"And Suho?" I asked.
"He forbids Daeha from doing the rough work. That's why he didn't allow him to join the Tournament this time. Even in silence, his care is absolute."
"Such loyalty is admirable," I remarked quietly, though a faint weight clung to my words.
"But thanks to that, Daeha can be a right jerk," one of them scoffed, frustration simmering just beneath his tone.
"He reserves no respect for others." The second voice joined, sharper, more bitter. It wasn't just idle gossip—they sounded personally slighted.
"I have arrived," I interjected, drawing their attention as we came upon my quarters. Their eyes travelled up, fixing on the aged banner swaying above the entrance.
"The Red Spear Commune?" one of them echoed, frowning slightly.
I couldn't tell if it unsettled them. Perhaps it did.
"I don't quite know many things," I confessed softly. "Nor do I have people to keep me company. I was hoping that, if you don't mind, you might feel free to stop by any time." I offered it earnestly, without pretense.
One of them scratched the back of his neck—an anxious, human gesture. Unease clouded their expressions.
"Did I do anything wrong?" I asked, the silence hanging a little too long.
"No," one answered, but his voice lacked conviction.
"It's just that... we're forbidden from being in contact with participants of the Four Seasons Tournament." They looked genuinely troubled, as if they were toeing the edge of a consequence they dared not name.
"Why?"
"We'd rather not talk about it," one muttered quickly. Something had rattled them. I could see it in the way their eyes refused to meet mine. Then, as if some invisible string had snapped, they turned abruptly and left, their forms disappearing down the stone path we had only just walked together.
I stood in the quiet that followed, feeling the cold thread of isolation begin to draw itself around me once more. But even as I turned to go inside, their words echoed in me, deepening my curiosity. Something unsaid had taken root, and I could not ignore it.
That night, the courtyard lay under a blanket of silver light. I stepped into it slowly, the moon hanging above like a watchful eye. The chill was sharp, but strangely, I didn't feel it. For a moment, I wondered if I'd grown immune to the cold—or if my heart had numbed me first.
Then, in the sky, a faint glow traced its way down toward me. A flickering flame in the shape of a pigeon—its feathers the colour of dying embers—descended with grace. It flared briefly and condensed into glowing script before me.
It was from Doctor Song.
"It's a shock, but the diagnosis you described is indeed an ancient curse—one long forgotten by many. Based on your description, it is surely the Soul-Splitting Curse: one of the highest afflictions known to both body and spirit. The curse manifests in physical and emotional torment, its power dependent on the strength of the practitioner. The attacks may come daily, weekly, or monthly—at intervals shaped by the hatred or fury of the initiator."
"The curse cannot be broken by medicine or will alone. The only way it may be undone is if the perpetrator forgives the victim. Such a curse is only born of the darkest trifecta: broken loyalties, treason, and the killing of loved ones."
The final word vanished like mist into the night air, leaving me breathless with thought. The silence returned—but heavier, as though the sky itself now bore witness to the revelation.
A part of me wanted to believe this was too extreme to be real. But then again, recalling what Yi San once confided, a quiet ache rippled through my chest. Who had carried such furious hatred for the East Guardian that they would forge such a cruel, binding fate upon him?
I didn't know.
But something in me stirred—something more than pity, less than understanding. My heart clenched sharply, and before I could stop myself, the illusory ring on my finger began to glow again. I glanced down, startled. It responded not to thought, but to feeling. It pulsed, as though resonating with something—or someone—beyond my comprehension.
A strange urge, quiet and steady, took hold of me. I needed to see him. Not to speak, not to intervene—just to understand.
Without quite knowing why, I found myself wandering outside the gates of his residence. The wind was quieter here, as if even nature dared not intrude. Midnight crept closer with every footstep. I hesitated before the entrance, uncertain whether I should barge in—or if I even had the right.
I contemplated between knocking and not as I moved a couple of steps forward and back until I decided to give up. The night weighed heavily, quiet yet unkind, wrapping me in hesitation. The lanterns were dimmed, the air brittle with frost. My heart paced with every movement, reluctant to intrude yet unwilling to leave.
I turned around, resolved to retreat, when I heard it.
Faint. Barely a whisper, but unmistakable. A whimper so fragile, it cracked the silence like a blade to glass. It carried a rawness—grief, restraint, and an unbearable longing. The sound clutched something deep inside me. In that moment, etiquette, boundaries, propriety—they dissolved.
I rose into the air, levitating swiftly toward the door, no longer caring for permission or caution.
The crying grew clearer as I approached, dragging me further in. I pushed through the threshold and found him—collapsed on the cold floor, his frame convulsing as fresh wounds etched themselves across his skin.
He didn't scream. He gritted his teeth, body trembling under the curse's wrath. I stood paralysed for a second, watching as the magic split his skin, cracking his bones like dry branches under foot. It was not the kind of torment one could ever get used to. It wasn't just pain—it was desecration. And worse still, I realised, was the cruel knowledge that it would end only when the curse decided, not when he did.
I dropped to my knees beside him.
"Rangi… please…" he murmured deliriously, his voice splintered by hallucination. My name from his lips made the air around me tighten. He reached for me blindly, hands trembling, clinging to my arm as if I were the only anchor between him and complete dissolution.
"I'm here," I whispered, swallowing a lump of helplessness. "Calm down… please…" I tried to reassure him, though my voice faltered. He clung tighter, the strength of his grip crushing. His spiritual energy was hemorrhaging—years of cultivation leaking out of him like water through shattered glass.
I felt it. The weight of his sacrifice, the quiet war he fought every time this curse returned. No spell, no resilience could truly prepare someone for this kind of suffering. And yet, he chose to endure it. Time and time again.
He could have ended it—surely, he could have. But something in him refused. Was it a sense of penance? Was his will to live bound by guilt or hope? I couldn't tell. I could only witness as the blood began to pour more violently now, seeping into my robes, painting us both in pain.
He writhed. Sweat beaded across his forehead, mingling with tears he could no longer hold back. His breath came in gasps—wet, broken, and shallow.
I could take no more. I needed to do something. Anything.
A single thought surfaced through the panic: the spell Wiman had taught me long ago. A spell not to heal, but to share. A desperate invocation to bear the weight of another's pain, to suffer with them—if only to lighten their load.
I inhaled deeply, forcing my spirit into clarity. I whispered the incantation, fingers weaving through the air as I reached into the depths of my memory for its shape and rhythm. A flicker of warmth pulsed through me as the magic took hold.
Then the agony struck.
The first wound split open across my back, white-hot and searing. The second followed, carving through muscle like it had been waiting. My knees buckled and I collapsed beside him, gritting my teeth to stop the screams clawing up my throat.
I cried quietly, my face contorted against the stone floor, but still I stayed. I had endured the Flaming Thunder once—I believed I could hold on again.
But I was wrong.
The curse retaliated. With every breath, the pain intensified. My vision blurred. My body trembled. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then thirty. I clung to him as though contact alone might anchor us both. Finally—an hour later—the torment stopped.
Silence reclaimed the room, but it was a silence of aftermath. Destruction had spoken, and now it stood watching.
His body was extremely shredded and his breath was too thin to even be felt.
I sympathised with him, he looked much worse that time compared to the previous night that he couldn't even move.
His body was limp, crumpled on the floor like a discarded shadow. Each breath he took sounded like a struggle against death's gentle persuasion. For a moment, I simply knelt beside him, paralysed not by fear, but by the sheer weight of helplessness. The curse had done more than scar his flesh—it had hollowed him out.
I gathered him in my arms, supporting his heavier frame with effort, each step toward the bed a silent plea for strength. His skin burned beneath my touch—fevered and trembling—as if he were being cooked from the inside. Laying him down, I watched his body contort slightly in response, jaw clenched, sweat seeping from every pore.
The fever was overwhelming. I scrambled for something, anything—eventually finding a bowl and cloth, simple tools of comfort in a battle so far beyond them. I soaked the cloth and pressed it gently to his brow, dabbing around his temples, over his cheeks, down his neck. It felt feeble, almost laughable. Could water and cotton tame something born of ancient hate? Of spiritual vengeance? I didn't know. But doing nothing felt like betrayal.
Time crawled. The heat emanating from him began to lessen, subtly but surely. The angry flush of his skin softened, and his breathing, though still shallow, found a rhythm less desperate. The wounds, once gaping and violent, had started to scab faintly, hinting that for now, at least, the worst had passed.
I exhaled, my shoulders lowering for the first time since I'd entered. Relief, yes—but tempered by the lingering question of what tomorrow night might bring.
Realising how late it had grown, I rose, ready to return to my own quarters. But just as I turned to leave, I felt it—his hand clutching mine with a strength that defied the weakness of moments before.
"Rangi, please don't leave me," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and pain. He was dreaming—but the plea was too sincere, too raw to ignore.
I froze, staring down at the hand that wouldn't let go.
Rangi...
My lips shaped the name silently. Who was Rangi? A ghost from his past? Someone lost, or perhaps someone he never truly had? He held on as if the very idea of separation would undo him completely.
My heart lurched. I sighed quietly and eased myself back onto the edge of his bed, our hands still linked. My free hand gently caressed his arm, fingertips gliding over skin marred with fading curses. I wasn't sure why, but it soothed him. Maybe it soothed me too.
For a brief moment, I let my gaze wander. He looked far too young to bear so much pain. His features, even twisted in restlessness, remained striking—delicate, solemn, almost ethereal. And beneath it all was a boy who had survived a lifetime of suffering with a silence too heavy for his age.
"It must be hard on you," I whispered, barely audible, as if voicing it any louder might shatter the fragile peace that had settled. "You're still very young. Everyone assumes you're strong, reliable… unbreakable. But I see it now—how alone you must feel. Even the strongest need someone to lean on, don't they?"
He didn't stir at my words, but I felt the grip on my hand tighten just slightly, and I wondered if some part of him, buried deep in dreams or memory, heard me.
Minutes passed, then more. I remained still, watching him with a quiet devotion I hadn't expected of myself. I should have returned to my room long ago. I should have pulled my hand away, reclaimed my space, my thoughts. But I didn't. My heart ached not just from pity, but from something I couldn't yet name.
And so, stillness claimed me. The flickering candlelight danced across the walls, shadows lengthening and shrinking in silence. My thoughts blurred, no longer oscillating between curiosity and empathy, but descending into a calm that felt almost like surrender.
I was entirely unaware when it was that I eventually yielded to my own slumber within that moment of subtle weakness and emotional vulnerability