The strange, abrupt exit of Kage Ou was nothing new to Língxi, yet Xio still found himself staring after the man, wondering what kind of storms brewed inside either of them.
He sighed. To outsiders they looked like black and white, but Xio knew—both hid whole spectrums within.
"Then… we may eat without him," Língxi said softly. "Right here in Xio's room, since Lànhuā is still weak."
His voice was tender as he smoothed Lànhuā's messy white hair, a faint, almost sorrowful smile touching his lips. His gaze glowed with a warmth that made even the air gentler.
Xio watched in silence, guilt tugging his chest. He longed to protect his sister from every shadow, yet lately all he could do was watch. Adjusting his half-open robe, he forced a tired smile.
"Yes, uncle. We should start lunch. I've been starving too long… Sister must be hungry as well."
Língxi nodded with a quiet hum. Though calm, faint worry still lingered in the lines of his face—traces of anger he chose not to bring to the table.
"Yes, children. Since the three of us are here, it should be enough."
He released his sword; it dissolved like falling snow. A single white feather drifted from his sleeve, carried out of the room by wind. It was an ordinary feather he used for light healing—it cost almost no spiritual energy.
Xio watched it vanish downstairs. Beside him, Lànhuā followed the motion with tired eyes; she had seen her father do this whenever his mind was heavy.
Moments later, three servants of the Lanxie clan climbed the stairs, carrying a tray carved from sandalwood and inlaid with gold. They bowed low. Língxi barely glanced their way, gesturing lightly for them to leave.
When the door closed, the room filled with the scent of warmth and home—roasted fish, soft soy rice, bright dragon-fruit juice. Dishes glimmered under the afternoon light like quiet blessings.
Xio smiled faintly, trying to keep the air gentle. He tucked his damp hair behind his ear and spoke with a small, coaxing laugh.
"Look, sis—uncle brought your favorite food. Don't stay sad. Let your tummy fill up. Let him see your beautiful smile."
Língxi's throat moved with a quiet swallow. A part of him wanted to speak, to explain the truth behind their unease—but he couldn't. The fewer souls drawn into danger, the better.
He looked at Lànhuā, expecting the smile Xio asked for. Her eyes met his; they shimmered with questions and pain.
His thumb brushed away her tears, and for a heartbeat he stared at the droplet glistening on his skin—then, to Xio's surprise, he pressed it to his own eye, letting it sink into him.
Xio froze. In all their years together he had never seen Língxi do such a thing. It hit him suddenly—the depth of this man's love, and the loneliness of never having a father like him.
"Nothing is a waste," Língxi whispered, a tender smile curving his lips. "Not what I have, nor what I've lost. Even the tears you shed, even the forgotten breaths—each one carries its own story."
Xio's heart stumbled. Is this what a demonic cultivator truly is? he wondered. Or have we all become something else entirely?
He lowered his head, gray-black hair veiling his face. Then, within his mind, a voice echoed—the voice of his real father:
Family isn't only blood. It's the bond you choose.
I couldn't give you that bond, but perhaps Kage can.
If he cannot—then choose for yourself, Xio.
Choose the family who will be greater than me… or him.
Tears burned his eyes. Shame and longing tangled like roots inside him. His father had trusted Kage Ou, yet Kage gave him nothing but hollow commands. The thought of choosing family felt impossible… even while Língxi's love was right there before him.
On the other side, Lànhuā suddenly smiled through her tears and threw herself into her father's arms.
"I'm sorry, Father," she whispered.
Língxi's heart squeezed painfully with both joy and grief. He held her tighter, petting her hair.
"Don't you dare say sorry again. A demonic cultivator never apologizes—they stand proud, even when wrong."
His gaze drifted toward Xio. He saw the tremor in the boy's shoulders, the blood beading from his clenched palm.
"Xio…" he called softly.
Xio bit his lip, trying not to break. His hand bled into the bedsheet; tears slipped free. Why am I always the one left alone and hurting?
Língxi reached out. His touch brushed Xio's forehead—light, playful, aching.
"Look at me," he murmured. "I have two hands and one heart, and I've torn it in half for each of you. It's yours to keep."
Xio's breath hitched. He looked up, stunned by the beauty of those words. Could love like this exist—without blood, without reason?
Língxi's arm remained open; wind lifted their hair, silver and black swirling together.
For once, they looked simply human.
Lànhuā turned to Xio, her eyes bright again. One arm joined her father's.
"My arms too," she said.
A half-melted candle on the table flickered back to life, its flame steady even in daylight.
Xio broke. He threw himself into their embrace, trembling, sobbing. Língxi's and Lànhuā's arms wrapped around him as one—one love of a father, one love of a sister.
Then Língxi's voice rose softly, a melody lighter than breath.
一,即便众生忘我名,愿你仍记我魂.
Yī biàn zhòng shēng wàng wǒ míng, yuàn nǐ réng jì wǒ hún.
Even if all beings forget my name, may your heart still remember my soul.
二,信若花开风中隐,誓言化梦成音.
Xìn ruò huā kāi fēng zhōng yǐn, shìyán huà mèng chéng yīn.
When trust blooms unseen in the wind, our vows turn to soundless dreams.
The melody froze Xio mid-breath. It carried him back to when Yuzai used to sing—those rare nights when pain seemed far away. His body stilled, his soul flying toward the voice.
Slowly, he lifted his head. Lànhuā smiled and joined in, her voice blending with her father's as if born from it.
三,你是掌中一片叶,载我往生前尘.
Nǐ shì zhǎng zhōng yī piàn yè, zài wǒ wǎng shēng qián chén.
You are the leaf in my palm, carrying me through all past lives.
四,眼底微光非希望,乃是你温存.
Yǎn dǐ wēi guāng fēi xīwàng, nǎi shì nǐ wēn cún.
The light within my eyes isn't hope — it's the trace of your warmth.
五,若爱成殇,愿此生由你印痕.
Ruò ài chéng shāng, yuàn cǐ shēng yóu nǐ yìn hén.
If love must wound, let this life be scarred only for you.
Xio began eating silently, a small smile playing at his lips, eyes fixed on the two voices that filled the room.
The world stilled—only the clink of porcelain, the breath of wind, and the fading hum of Língxi's song floated through the golden air.
For the first time in years, they ate without fear.
Three souls, bound not by blood, but by the fragile warmth that had survived everything.
A family made of wounds—stitched together by one song.