The first rays of sunlight barely touched the wooden beams of the inn's room when Li Rong stirred, eyelids fluttering against the harsh brightness of memory. A dream clung to him, stubborn and vivid, leaving the taste of iron and smoke on his tongue, and an echo of cold stone beneath his palms. He shivered, pulling the thin blanket closer around his shoulders, heart hammering.
Wen, always vigilant even in sleep, turned slightly at his movement. Dark eyes, still heavy with drowsiness, followed him like water sliding over rock. "You're awake early," he murmured, voice low and smooth, a grounding anchor in the dizzy swirl of Li Rong's mind.
Li Rong hesitated, trying to push away the weight of recollection. "Just… dreams," he said softly, though his voice carried a tremor he couldn't hide.
Dreams that were no longer just dreams. He remembered.
The emblem. The cold metal, engraved with intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, almost alive. He had seen it before, long ago, in a world that wasn't this one. A campaign to an ancient site—worn cobblestones and crumbling statues half-swallowed by moss—where he had stumbled upon a small, desperate scene. A frail old woman, trapped between fearful villagers and a collapsing roof, had cried out for help. And he had acted. He had saved her, not thinking of reward, and in gratitude, she pressed the emblem into his palm. The memory was sharp as a blade, each line of the symbol etched into his mind.
And then… the emblem had been with him when he died. At the parade, at the final moment of that other life. He had grasped it, held it like a talisman, and then everything had gone dark. Until now.
Li Rong's fingers brushed the blanket beside him almost unconsciously, tracing the lines of the fabric, trying to convince himself that the world he now inhabited was real, that the warmth beside him—the steady, protective presence of Wen—was tangible and not just another phantom conjured by memory.
Wen stirred, noticing the tension coiling in Li Rong's shoulders. "The dream troubles you," he said, moving closer, hand brushing against Li Rong's in a touch that was casual yet anchored in reassurance. "Do you want to tell me?"
Li Rong shook his head, turning his face toward the window, catching the first shimmer of sunlight glinting off the morning mist. "No. Not yet," he said, though his heart thundered. He wanted to tell Wen everything—the truth of who he had been, who he had lived before—but the fear of disbelief, of rejection, had wrapped itself around him like chains.
---
By noon, the tension of the morning had eased into routine. The county streets bustled with vendors, merchants shouting over the clang of carts and the clatter of horseshoes. Li Rong moved among them, mind still partly tangled with the emblem and memories, but now focused on the practical. Herbs, fermented medicines, and trade—everything that could turn their modest resources into something capable of sustaining their growing enterprise across the county and prefecture.
Wen followed closely, his dark eyes scanning the surroundings as always, a mixture of protector and observer. He didn't intervene unless necessary, though his presence had a gravity that commanded attention from the merchants and guards alike.
Ji'an, ever the pragmatic strategist, trailed behind them, occasionally scribbling notes or muttering about stock and profit margins. "If we sell enough of these tinctures and potions," he said, "we can fund the next few months of travel without needing to gamble or fight for every coin."
Li Rong smiled faintly. "And perhaps the market for steamed buns could be optimized," he suggested, pointing toward a small stand where the cook experimented with spices. "Better ingredients, longer shelf life… expand the trade across nearby villages. Simple investments could yield far more than gold hoarded in a chest."
Wen's lips twitched at that, half a smirk, half a warning. "I leave the gold handling to you, then," he said. "Just don't let them poison us with sour buns or your modern ideas."
Li Rong rolled his eyes. "They'll survive. Probably."
The banter was light, but in its warmth lay a comfort both of them hadn't felt in years. Wen's teasing, Ji'an's dry commentary, the occasional flare of Li Rong's humor—all of it formed a small shield against the lingering shadows of past violence. And yet, through it all, Li Rong's mind kept circling back to the emblem, the way its patterns seemed to whisper secrets he couldn't yet fully grasp.
---
Evening fell with a slower grace. The inn's lamps flickered against the wooden frames, casting elongated shadows across the room. Li Rong sat near the window, hands clasped in his lap, staring down at the emblem he had kept close all day. The cool metal felt impossibly heavy, a burden and a reminder all at once.
He swallowed hard, heart thudding, as the courage he had been building all day solidified. The bond he shared with Wen—the soul contract that had deepened their connection—was more than a tether of fate; it was a promise of trust. And if he were ever to be truly honest, he had to speak now, before the courage wavered.
He turned, meeting Wen's gaze. Dark, unwavering, patient.
"Wen," he began, voice tight, "there's something I need to tell you."
Wen tilted his head, curiosity sparking behind the usual calm. "I'm listening," he said, tone steady, but with an undercurrent of encouragement that made Li Rong's chest ache.
Li Rong's fingers trembled as he clutched the emblem. "It's… it's about me. About who I really am… or… who I was," he faltered, tears prickling the edges of his eyes. "I… I didn't… I didn't come from this world. I… I…"
His voice broke, and the tears spilled freely, hot and unrelenting. He expected to see betrayal, or at least doubt, flicker across Wen's face. Expected rejection.
But Wen's hands were suddenly around him, steady and firm. He drew Li Rong into his chest, cradling him like a shield against the weight of the world. "Shh," he murmured, voice low and soothing. "I don't care where you come from, or what past you carry. What matters is now… and you are here, with me."
Li Rong sobbed into the warmth of Wen's chest, trembling from relief, fear, and the release of all the secrets he had buried. "I thought… I thought you'd leave me," he whispered.
Wen tightened his embrace, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Leave you?" His voice was almost incredulous, threaded with affection. "I've never walked away from you, Li Rong. Not then, not now, not ever. You're mine. And that's enough."
The world contracted to the warmth of Wen's arms, the slow steady thrum of his heartbeat, the scent of firewood, and the quiet weight of belonging. Li Rong let himself sink into it, exhausted and yet utterly alive, as if every breath drew him closer to the place he had been searching for his entire life.
Soft touches followed, fingers threading through hair, palms tracing the lines of each other's faces, grounding them in the moment. Li Rong clung to Wen, drawing comfort from the solid presence of the man who had become his anchor.
The night stretched on, a quiet cocoon where tears, laughter, and whispered words wove together. Li Rong told fragments of his past—memories of the parade, the ancient site, the old woman's gratitude, the emblem—and Wen listened, unjudging, unwavering, his dark eyes reflecting the flicker of the lamp.
"You're not alone," Wen said at last, brushing tears from Li Rong's cheek. "And whatever comes next… we face it together."
Li Rong's fingers lingered on Wen's chest, listening to the rise and fall of his breath, the steady drum of a heart that would not abandon him. "Together," he echoed, voice shaking with emotion, but filled with certainty for the first time in years.
Outside, the mist rolled over the hills, carrying with it the quiet promise of new challenges and unseen dangers. But inside the inn, there was only warmth, trust, and the slow, steady weaving of two lives intertwined. And the emblem rested between them, a silent witness to both the past that had shaped Li Rong and the present that had finally embraced him.
In the shadows, its intricate patterns glimmered faintly, like a whisper of secrets yet to be revealed—threads that would guide them forward, and perhaps, warn them of what was still to come.