The blade was cold against her back.
She had hidden it beneath layers of crimson silk, the same ceremonial robes worn during celestial executions—a bitter irony for a girl who once stood among Heaven's chosen.
Now she walked the sanctum halls like a shadow.
And carried the sword built to unmake one.
---
Outside, the sect tried to heal. The wounded whispered prayers. The elders spoke of rebuilding. But Lianxin knew the truth:
The foundation was already ash.
Not just the walls.
Not just the bodies.
But trust. Hope. The illusion that the past would stay buried.
Because Yanlong had returned.
And her soul hadn't stopped shaking since she looked into his eyes.
---
She paused at the threshold of the High Jade Hall, her reflection caught in the cracked mirror above the offering altar. Blood still traced the edge of her collar. Her eyes looked far too calm.
This is what hatred looks like after it's cooled.
Not a fire. Not a scream. Just silence.
A silence shaped like resolve.
---
"You're going to use it, aren't you?"
Lianxin turned.
The voice belonged to Qin Yue—the last remaining member of the sect council and the only one who had ever dared speak to her as a friend rather than a subordinate.
The girl's sleeves were still damp with ashwater. Her hands trembled slightly as she stood in the doorway, not quite stepping in.
---
Lianxin didn't answer right away.
She simply turned back to the mirror, fingers tracing the outline of her own face like she barely recognized it.
"Yes," she finally said.
Qin Yue flinched. "Then it's true. He's the one who—"
"He burned us once. Now he's come back to finish it."
"You don't believe that," Qin Yue whispered. "Not completely."
Lianxin's voice was soft. "It doesn't matter what I believe."
---
She pulled the blade from beneath her robes.
Unwrapping the final layer of silk.
Qin Yue stepped back in fear.
The blade didn't shine. It didn't glow. It simply was—a void in the shape of a sword. The edge of forgotten things.
And it thrummed with a pulse like a heartbeat—
Lianxin's own.
---
"You've seen what he is," Lianxin said.
"I've seen what he was," Qin Yue replied. "He saved me once, remember? Back when we were still children and you—"
Lianxin's eyes narrowed. "That wasn't him. That was someone else."
"Then why do you still cry his name when you sleep?"
The silence cracked.
Lianxin froze.
Qin Yue bit her lip. Regret already blooming behind her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I just… I don't want to lose you too."
"You already did," Lianxin said quietly. "The moment I watched him burn Fei Lan alive and still wanted to touch his face."
---
Qin Yue didn't respond.
There were no words for that kind of honesty.
There never had been.
---
Lianxin turned to the sword again.
"It severs karma," she whispered, mostly to herself. "Even the bonds that Heaven forged."
Qin Yue shook her head. "Then use it on your pain, not on him."
"I am," Lianxin said. "Don't you see?"
---
She walked toward the inner sanctum again, each step echoing louder than the last.
The blade in her hand.
The memory of his voice in her ears.
And the terrifying truth that no matter how far she went—
His shadow followed.
---
The sanctum doors closed behind her with a whisper.
Not a thud. Not a slam.
They knew better than to make noise when someone was about to kill a memory.
---
Lianxin stood alone.
The walls were etched with the old celestial script—prayers long forgotten, their golden lettering dimmed with age. She didn't look at them. Didn't need to.
Her eyes were fixed on the altar in the center.
A basin of still water rested there. Beside it, five white candles burned.
She placed the sword across the altar, its dark metal reflecting nothing—not even her own trembling hands.
---
To activate it, she had to make an offering.
Not of blood.
But of memory.
A piece of what bound her to him.
She reached into her robes and pulled out the jade shard.
Still cracked.
Still warm.
Still his.
---
"I was going to give this back to you," she whispered. "But then I realized... I never really got it in the first place."
She lowered it into the water.
The basin hissed.
The candles flared once, as if startled. Then dimmed to the color of dying stars.
---
Behind her, a voice.
"I didn't follow you."
She turned.
He stood just past the sanctum's threshold.
Yanlong.
---
Lianxin didn't flinch.
Didn't scream.
Didn't draw the blade.
She just looked at him—really looked—and said, "I know."
---
He stepped forward.
Slowly. Cautiously. Like someone walking through a battlefield of their own sins.
"I felt the sword calling," he said. "Didn't know it'd lead me here."
"You shouldn't be able to enter."
"I'm not supposed to be alive either."
---
She hated how tired he looked.
Not pitiful.
Just… human.
Like a man carrying a war no one else could see.
And worse—
Like someone who used to laugh.
---
"I saw a vision," he said, voice low. "You were bleeding. You told me to run."
"I lied," Lianxin said.
Yanlong smiled—faintly, bitterly. "I figured."
---
He stepped to the altar, eyes flicking down to the blade. His fingers hovered just inches from it.
"You're really going to use this?" he asked.
Lianxin said nothing.
He nodded. "Then I should thank you. You're doing what Heaven never had the courage to."
---
The blade trembled.
So did her hands.
"I don't want your thanks," she said.
"Then what do you want?"
"I don't know anymore."
---
Silence.
Then—
"I remember now," he whispered.
That stopped her.
"What?"
"I remember your name."
---
He looked at her, and his voice cracked.
"Lianxin."
---
It shouldn't have hurt.
It did.
Because the way he said it—it was gentle. Familiar. Real.
The kind of way someone says a name they used to sing.
---
She turned away.
"That doesn't change anything."
"I know."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Because I never got to say sorry."
---
Tears slipped down her cheek before she could stop them.
She didn't wipe them away.
Not this time.
---
"Do you want to die?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away.
Then—
"No."
"Then leave."
"I can't."
---
She reached for the sword.
Her fingers brushed the hilt.
---
And he said, so quietly she almost missed it:
"I loved you, once."
---
The sword flared.
Every candle went out.
The basin shattered.
And the jade shard cracked again.
---
But she didn't lift the blade.
Not yet.
Because for the first time in two lifetimes—
She wasn't sure what hurt more.
The fire that took him away…
Or the part of her that still wanted to believe it hadn't.
End of Chapter 5