The terrifying stillness that followed Língxi's sudden, cold-blooded move was total and absolute. It wasn't merely the air that had gone quiet; the very essence of the moment was held captive. Kage Ou hadn't just watched his friend draw a sword—he was the one staring down its glacial, unforgiving edge.
Kage felt a sharp, sickening jolt, the sudden lurch of a man thrown off a cliff. He blinked, the casual smile he'd worn seconds ago freezing on his face. This was real. This was the terrifying, exquisite rage of Jiǎng Língxi, the rage that flared not from malice, but from a profound wound.
"Um... Língxi, please, calm down," Kage managed, forcing his voice into a desperately calm rhythm. He knew his life was currently a footnote to his friend's wounded ego. "I apologize for every single bad word—which, I swear, I didn't even think, let alone say. I promise you, I wasn't trying to ruin anything that was perfect earlier."
But Língxi's expression didn't yield. He remained cloaked in that cold, beautiful detachment—an icy, flawless mask of fury no one in their right mind wanted turned on them. His royal-blue eyes narrowed, bright and cutting, as the silver edge of the sword gently grazed Kage's throat.
The blade hummed, a low, mournful, almost hungry note. The wind outside whispered through the empty hall, brushing their hair—ordinary air now charged with a strange, dark tension, as if it carried the voice of a hidden demon born within the sword's steel.
Kage coughed, dry and helpless, his pulse thundering like a trapped bird. Fear coiled cold through his veins, the metallic tang of it sharp on his tongue. Perfect, he thought bitterly, just another normal day of not dying because of my best friend. The nearness of death was dizzying. In some twisted way, Kage trusted him. Língxi, the most dangerously unpredictable man in the Nine Realms, could easily kill him out of wounded pride—and yet, he knew he wouldn't.
"You shouldn't have said that, Kage," Língxi murmured, his voice low and dangerous, like the rustle of winter beneath his words. "You know I can't ignore such things… My mind catches them, slices them apart. I'm too sharp for my own peace." He paused, his gaze burning into Kage's. "And I expect the one person I allow close enough to share my secrets to understand my feelings, too."
The Elder's hand, pale and elegant against the silver hilt, trembled slightly. His anger was violently alive, yet there was also a profound exhaustion—the deep ache of someone who cared too deeply to remain untouched by the world's carelessness, or his friend's thoughtlessness.
"I apologize again, my dear friend, Dàozǔ of Miè Rán Sect," Kage said softly, taking a single, perilous inch forward despite every sane instinct screaming otherwise. "Please… put it down. Kindly. This time." The casual proximity was meant to signal trust, but it was a desperate gamble.
And then he made his worst, most reckless mistake: he reached up, his trembling hand coming to gently touch Língxi's cold cheek. It was a move born of panic and a profound, dangerous affection. Kage knew Língxi hated being touched, especially when his guard was up, but he felt an overwhelming need to break through the ice.
A silence sharper than any sword filled the room.
Língxi blinked, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch tugging at the corner of his eye, as though silently commenting: He truly has no sense of timing, does he? He didn't pull away immediately, but the intense stillness held a thousand unspoken warnings.
Before Língxi could say anything, Kage Ou disappeared from his place. He didn't teleport, he simply moved with lightning speed, his agility a desperate instinct for self-preservation. He hurried toward the door, feeling the urgent need to escape the volatile atmosphere they had created. He paused after getting a breath of cool air, glancing over his shoulder. The strained silence between them hung like a fragile, silken thread stretched tautly to its breaking point.
"Língxi…" Kage said quietly, using the last technique he knew to erase the sharp edge of his own fear, focusing instead on the most vulnerable truth. His tone, once edged with weary mischief, was now calm—too calm, the unnatural peace of a deep well. "You know… Xio really loves you. Just like a father. Even if he's never said it that way, he always has."
The word "father" struck Língxi like a sudden, unexpected blade through the chest. His breath caught—a tiny, audible gasp—then, just as abruptly, the storm in his eyes dimmed. The ensuing silence wasn't peace, but exhaustion; the quiet of a man relearning how to breathe after too many wounds.
He froze, his body rigid in the doorway. His arms slowly uncrossed, the bone-deep tension draining from his shoulders. His grip on the hilt of his sword loosened almost imperceptibly, and a faint flush bloomed across his pale cheeks—subtle, almost invisible, but undeniably there. For once, the terrifying Dàozǔ seemed completely uncertain how to exist within his own stillness. His eyes flickered, the cold, powerful light in them softening into disbelief, silently asking: Really? You can't be serious…
"…Father?" he echoed softly, his gaze falling to the ground, as if the word itself were too heavy to hold. "You… stop trapping me like a bird… it can't be true, Kage." The doubt was sincere, born of a life spent guarded and alone.
Kage smiled—gentle now, stripped of all mockery. He could see the love in Língxi's eyes for Xio, a love that perhaps should have been meant for him instead, but he understood the complex truth: the two men under one roof were less like family, and more like two lonely stars sharing the same sky, silently guiding one another.
"I know it sounds fake," he said with a sigh. "But sometimes, the most dangerous words are the truest ones." His tone was warm, a soft blanket of assurance against the Dàozǔ's cold fear.
A long silence followed—this one not cold, but quietly warm. Língxi turned away, hiding the small, vulnerable smile that threatened to rise, a silent acknowledgment of the unexpected comfort.
"Get ready," he finally said, his voice soft again, the storm within him melting like frost under sunlight. His expression lightened. "We're going to Wàngshān Guǐyuàn Temple. The ritual won't wait for my mood… I can't let my gods be left unsatisfied."
"As you command, Dàozǔ Jiǎng Língxi," Kage replied, bowing deeply—like a loyal right hand before his king. The formality was a soothing balm, restoring the proper distance and respect after their near-deadly intimacy.
Língxi blinked, his lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. The faintest curve ghosted over his mouth — not quite a smile, not quite denial — before he turned away. His hand rose to his lips as he looked at Kage, his gaze almost teasing: Aren't you being too dramatic?
Kage's lips curved into a soft smirk. Then, to Língxi's surprise, he knelt before him, one knee against the polished floor. Língxi's breath caught; he only stared, silently waiting for an explanation. The gesture was grand, unsettling.
"It's your gift," Kage said slowly, letting each word settle. "It may be cheap, because it's not something grand or luxurious like most Dàozǔ would receive… but today, I—Kage Ou of the Lanxie clan—will serve you myself. That's something I never thought I'd do." He would give the volatile, sensitive Dàozǔ a perfect, unquestioning moment of control.
For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Língxi's breath trembled faintly in his throat. This profound act of devotion, so different from the playful familiarity Kage usually offered, was a powerful offering.
Kage rose and brushed his fingers lightly against the outer part of Língxi's sleeve—so close, yet not quite touching. This time, no lines were crossed, the respect for Língxi's boundary absolute.
Língxi looked at that hand, then up into Kage's eyes. His voice came out steady and soft, filled with quiet meaning.
"Your right hand will follow wherever you walk," he said. Then, even lower—barely more than a whisper—"Maybe even after the last breath…" His tone was warm, his eyes soft — almost too soft, as if he were reciting a role he'd practiced for years. For a moment, even Kage wasn't sure if the gesture was devotion or deceit, but the intensity of the gaze made his heart ache.
Língxi hummed in acknowledgment and drew his sleeve back, concealing the warmth that had briefly escaped him.
For a fleeting second, Kage saw it—a tiny twitch at the corner of Língxi's lips, a trace of happiness, fragile and beautiful. But before he could say anything, Língxi had already turned away, his steps light, his anger gone—leaving only calm trust behind.
Moments later, the black-and-gold doors of Lanxie swung open, and the afternoon sunlight poured in like liquid amber. It touched their faces, soft and real.
Língxi emerged dressed in flowing silver-blue robes that shimmered like frozen moonlight—graceful, untouchable, divine. Behind him walked Kage Ou, robed in black and gold, eyes alive with loyalty and mischief alike.
They paused for a moment at the threshold. The light caught their silhouettes—two contrasts, yet bound by the same fate.
When their eyes met, both smiled faintly. No words were needed.
Together, they stepped into the golden cold of the afternoon—
ice and devotion walking side by side, toward the temple where even fate would have to bow.