The silence after Yinan's outburst was unbearable, as though the room itself was holding its breath. Then—like a shattering mirror—the blossom in Yinan's palm unraveled.
Scarlet petals tore loose, but they did not fall like flowers. They flew like blades. Each fragment glimmered with the sheen of blood, spinning violently, cutting through the air as though the memory itself had gained teeth.
Liansheng's eyes widened for the first time in years. He had prepared for Yinan's accusations, his hatred, even his tears. But not this. Not the moment when the boy he left behind could make grief a weapon.
"Yinan—!"
Too late. The storm of petals struck.
One grazed Liansheng's cheek, leaving a thin crimson line. Another cut through the sleeve of his robe, brushing the skin beneath. He raised his hand instinctively, summoning a shimmering shield of qi, but the petals were relentless. They wanted flesh. They wanted truth.
Yinan stood trembling, arm outstretched, his voice breaking:
"Do you feel it now? Do you feel what you left me with? My chest still bleeds like this. Every day."
The words were knives sharper than the petals.
For a heartbeat, Liansheng faltered. He should have crushed the storm, should have smothered Yinan's rage with a flick of his hand. Instead, he let the shield flicker, let one petal cut deeper into his shoulder. His own blood bloomed.
"Stop," he whispered, but it sounded less like a command and more like a plea.
The petals froze mid-air. Suspended. Shivering. As though uncertain whether to obey Yinan or his breaking heart.
Yinan's chest heaved. He was pale, furious, trembling not with weakness but with too much power surging through veins that had been denied, suppressed, poisoned by grief. His eyes glistened—anger or tears, no one could tell.
Liansheng lowered his shield completely. The last petal sliced across his neck in warning, shallow enough to sting but not to kill. A thread of red ran down his collar.
"If pain is what you want," Liansheng said quietly, meeting Yinan's burning gaze, "then take it from me. I will not stop you."
The world seemed to tilt. Yinan's breath caught. His fury demanded he unleash everything, shred this man into nothing but ribbons of blood and regret. And yet—beneath the rage, beneath the humiliation, there was something else. The echo of a touch once cherished, a mouth once kissed, a voice that once swore forever.
His hand shook violently. The petals quivered, then crumbled into ash mid-air, vanishing like a dream.
Yinan collapsed to his knees, chest burning.
The sound of him hitting the floor was louder than any blade.
Liansheng knelt too, slowly, cautiously, but with no dignity, no cold mask. His blood still dripping, he reached out—not to hold, but to hover, fingertips trembling inches from Yinan's bowed head.
"You were never meant to carry this alone," he said, voice raw. "It was me. It should have been me."
Yinan let out a bitter laugh that cracked like thunder. He raised his face, eyes wet but fierce.
"Then why wasn't it you?"
Liansheng's hand dropped uselessly. He had no answer.
And in that silence—charged, broken, intimate—the distance between them felt more unbearable than blades.
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