The mountain gate of Jingshou Peak opened beneath a wash of pale morning light. Mist wreathed the stone path, curling around the boots of three figures who stepped through side by side. Their pace was unhurried, their silence deep, the kind of silence born not from distance but from long familiarity.
The rising light caught their robes, painting silver on silk and glimmer on steel. They had returned.
No one led, no one followed. They moved as one — the three remaining masters of Jingshou Sect, companions bound by years of battle and vow. Their steps echoed faintly between the stone lions guarding the gate, a sound that carried through the stillness like the toll of memory.
To the left walked Zhou Qingrong. Her robe was the color of storm clouds, edged with deep violet. She was tall and composed, her expression neither warm nor cold, but precise — as though the world existed only to be measured by her calm gaze. The sword at her hip was slender and straight, its indigo scabbard engraved with faint, flowing sigils. Its name was Liuhe, Six Harmonies — a blade of balance and unity, forged during her trial beneath the thunder peaks. It was said that when she drew it, the air itself would hold its breath.
Beside her, Han Yuejian walked with his hands loosely folded within his sleeves. His robes were pale grey, his hair bound high, his expression serene. There was a tranquil grace about him — not the restraint of caution, but the ease of one who had already seen through the noise of the world. His sword, Qingxiao, hung at his side in a lacquered sheath carved with cranes. Its blade gleamed faint green when drawn — a gentle light, neither cold nor proud, like dawn through river mist.
To their right strode Wei Jingyan, shorter than the other two, bright-eyed, his smile unconcerned with solemnity. His robe of light gold caught the morning sun, and his sword — Huanyan, Smiling Flame — shimmered with a restless warmth. The tassel at its hilt danced as he walked. He tilted his head back, exhaling a laugh."Ahh," he said, "Jingshou Peak smells sweeter than I remember. I almost thought the heavens had forgotten us."
Zhou Qingrong gave him a brief, sidelong glance. "You complain too much for a man who returned alive."
Han Yuejian's voice, calm and dry, followed. "He complains because he returned alive."
Wei Jingyan grinned. "Someone has to speak, or the mountain might think us ghosts."
Their steps carried them through the outer courtyard. Disciples looked up from sweeping, from carrying water, from the low drone of morning recitations. Whispers rippled through the air — The three masters have returned. Even the birds circling above seemed to hush, their wings flashing in the light.
The sect had not seen these three together in months, not since they descended to solve the case at the southern marshes. Each bore the faint exhaustion of travel, but beneath it lay something older — the ease of comrades long accustomed to standing shoulder to shoulder in battle. Now, dusted with travel, they returned the moment Nie Xiaohuan's letter reached them: Sect Leader Ling Xiuyuan has stepped forth once more.
Zhou Qingrong's gaze swept the courtyard. "Xiaohuan's work shows everywhere. The wards are clean. The formations haven't faltered."
Han Yuejian nodded slightly. "He has held the mountain steady while Xiuyuan slept in grief. Few could have done better."
They climbed the long path toward the ancestral temple. The ancient pines whispered overhead; between them, the statues of past sect leaders gleamed pale in the mist. At the top stood the temple itself, its doors half open, incense curling upward in thin threads of gold.
They entered in silence. Before the carved effigies of the founders, they knelt and bowed three times. The thud of their foreheads upon stone echoed softly in the chamber.
They rose, straightened their robes, and stepped back into daylight. From the temple's high terrace, the main hall could be seen below, sunlight glancing off its tiled roof.
The path to the Sect Leader's quarters wound between bamboo groves. Sunlight sifted through the leaves, dappling the stone with shifting gold. Servants bowed as the three passed. Somewhere, the distant ring of a practice sword echoed from the training yard — a sound that had been absent too long.
When they reached the courtyard of Ling Xiuyuan's residence, they halted together.
The sliding door stood open, and the faint scent of sandalwood drifted out.
Inside, Ling Xiuyuan was waiting.
He sat beside the window, sunlight pooling over his pale robes, a scroll open before him. The stillness of the room carried a faint fragrance of sandalwood and ink. At his side knelt Nie Xiaohuan, quietly arranging cups on a low lacquered tray. He moved with measured grace, the same quiet efficiency that had sustained this room through years of silence.
When he heard the footsteps outside, Xiaohuan rose and turned. For a moment, surprise flickered in his usually calm eyes, followed swiftly by warmth. He stepped forward as the three entered, bowing low with a serene smile.
"Masters Zhou, Han, Wei," he said softly. "It gladdens my heart to see you return safely. The Sect has missed your presence."
"Ah, Xiaohuan!" Wei Jingyan beamed, clapping him lightly on the shoulder before remembering himself. "Still as gentle as ever, I see. You've been taking care of our Shixiong well, haven't you?"
Xiaohuan's smile deepened faintly. "I've merely done what anyone should, Master Wei. It is good to see laughter return to this hall."
He bowed again and moved with effortless composure to pour tea for them all — clear amber liquid that caught the light as he filled each cup in turn. His sleeves brushed the table like the passing of quiet wind. When the last cup was placed before Yuejian, Xiaohuan set the teapot down, bowed once more, and took his seat slightly behind Xiuyuan — silent, attentive, the very image of calm service.
Only then did Ling Xiuyuan lift his gaze from the scroll.
"Yuejian Shixiong, Qingrong, Jingyan," he said, his voice low but steady. "You're back."
"Shidi," Yuejian replied, the deep timbre of his voice breaking slightly. "We heard you were well enough to receive us. I didn't believe it until now."
Qingrong stepped forward, her eyes soft with relief. "Xiuyuan, you look fine again," she said.
As the conversation flowed, Xiaohuan served them each a second cup without a word. His hands moved with the familiarity of years: steady, reverent, invisible.
When they began to present their gifts — the silk binding, the jade pendant, the plum candy — Xiaohuan remained still beside Xiuyuan, gaze lowered but ears attuned. His quiet presence filled the spaces between words, anchoring the joy with gentle stillness. For the first time in years, the room felt alive again.
Through the half-open screens, sunlight poured across the floor, gilding the drift of snow outside in a quiet, amber sheen. The mountain glowed with stillness: snow upon the rooftops, frost clinging to the bamboo leaves, and the faint shimmer of warmth where light met ice.
Steam rose from the teapot in thin ribbons. The fragrance of snow-plum and roasted leaves wound through the room, mingling with the faint scent of sandalwood that always lingered in the Sect Leader's hall.
Ling Xiuyuan sat at the low table, his robes pale against the winter light. The hollow despair that had once consumed him had eased; though he had not smiled, the emptiness behind his eyes had softened into quiet endurance.
Wei Jingyan took a long sip of tea and sighed dramatically. "Ahh… even the snow tastes better here. I missed this tea, and I missed this silence that makes me think too much."
Zhou Qingrong arched a brow. "It's not the tea that makes you think, it's the wine you've stopped drinking."
Han Yuejian chuckled, his low, mellow voice warming the chill. "Don't tease him too hard, Qingrong. If you drive him to poetry, we'll never have peace again."
They laughed — a quiet, natural sound that made Nie Xiaohuan, seated slightly behind Xiuyuan, lower his gaze with a faint smile he didn't voice.
After a while, Zhou Qingrong rose. "Let's walk outside. The air looks kind today."
Jingyan stretched his arms, grinning. "Finally! I was beginning to forget what sunlight feels like."
Outside, the mountain shone under a gentle, snow-laden sun. The air was crisp but not cruel — bright and cool, the kind of warmth that lingers only on the skin while the breath steams in white curls. Each branch and tile glittered, and the snow gave off a muted gleam, as if the whole of Jingshou Peak were made of pale jade.
Their boots sank into the powder, leaving four even sets of prints across the courtyard. The air smelled faintly of pine and distant incense from the temple where offerings burned for past masters.
Jingyan turned his face up toward the light, eyes narrowing against the glare of snow. "I'd almost forgotten this feeling," he said. "Everything white, yet warm."
"The mountain remembers you," Yuejian replied. "You're just seeing it with older eyes."
Zhou Qingrong brushed snow from her sleeve. "Older, perhaps. Not wiser."
Then, from the eastern corridor, a figure appeared — walking with measured steps, a shallow wooden tray balanced in his hands.
Mingyue.
He was dressed in pale gray, the color of snow-shadow. The winter light slid along his hair, catching in the fine strands that brushed his neck. His head was bowed as he walked, his pace light, each movement careful, silent.
When he reached the edge of the courtyard, he stopped — the tray still steady in his hands — and looked up.
For the first time, the three returning masters saw his face.
The moment froze.
The air itself seemed to still, the faint sound of bamboo creaking fading into silence.
Mingyue bowed deeply, wordless, his expression calm and unreadable.
Zhou Qingrong's breath caught, barely audible. Yuejian's fingers brushed against the hilt of his sword, then fell away; even Jingyan, usually all ease and humor, stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the young man's face.
Because it was a face they had known — once, years ago, through smoke and light and laughter.
A face that should have been gone.
Mingyue straightened, lowering his head again. He neither spoke nor lingered; his silence felt almost sacred.
Jingyan took a few steps forward, snow crunching beneath his boots. He stopped just short of Mingyue, tilting his head, studying that face.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, with something like sorrow threading through his voice:
"No," he whispered. "If you were him… you wouldn't let Shixiong even walk. You'd have carried him everywhere."
His words lingered in the air, fragile and sharp at once.
No one answered.
The silence stretched — and within it, only the faint sound of snow melting from the eaves.
At last, Qingrong turned away. "Let's go."
Yuejian gave a short nod and followed. Jingyan hesitated, his eyes lingering once more on Xiuyuan, then turned with a low sigh, his boots crunching softly as he walked away.
Their shadows stretched long across the white courtyard.
Nie Xiaohuan remained where he was, near his master. When the others had gone a few steps ahead, he looked up; the snow had begun to fall again — thin, drifting flakes that caught the sunlight as they fell.
He stepped forward, unfolding the dark cloak in his hands, and draped it gently over Xiuyuan's shoulders."The snow's turning, Shizun," he said quietly.
Xiuyuan didn't answer. His eyes were still fixed ahead — on Mingyue, who stood motionless, his tray balanced perfectly in his hands, his head still bowed.
For a moment, neither moved.
Xiuyuan's lips parted slightly, but no sound came. The air between them shimmered faintly, filled with light and snow.
Then, at last, Xiuyuan turned. Nie Xiaohuan stepped beside him, and together they walked slowly after the others, their figures fading into the soft brilliance of the courtyard.
Mingyue remained standing there until their footsteps were gone. Only then did he lift his head — just enough to glimpse the back of Ling Xiuyuan disappearing into the light — and a snowflake landed silently on his sleeve, unmelted, shining like glass.