The gates of the sect stood open.
The carriages rolled forward under the moonlight. The sound of wheels against gravel seemed far too loud against the night's stillness. Mist thickened along the mountain road, wrapping around the travelers as they passed the boundary stones of Jingshou Peak.
Inside the leading carriage, only two sat — Ling Xiuyuan and Mingyue. The space between them was small, but the air felt heavy, dense with the quiet weight of unspoken memory.
Xiuyuan's eyes remained fixed ahead at first, on the faint outline of trees sliding past the window. The lantern inside the carriage burned unsteadily; each sway of the wheel sent the flame bending toward shadow.
Mingyue sat opposite him, posture straight, hands folded loosely in his lap. The movement of the carriage made a soft rhythm against the silence — the creak of wood, the distant clop of hooves.
Xiuyuan looked at him.
He had told himself the resemblance was no more than illusion — a cruel trick of grief and time — but here, with only the faint light between them, that resolve began to fray. The slope of Mingyue's neck beneath the collar, the shadow along his lashes, the almost imperceptible turn of his mouth as he drew breath — each detail tightened around Xiuyuan's chest like a binding.
Mingyue kept his gaze lowered, yet from time to time his eyes flickered upward, meeting Xiuyuan's before darting away again. The moments were fleeting — no longer than a heartbeat — but enough for Xiuyuan to catch the faint gleam of reflection in them, like moonlight caught in still water.
Outside, wind rose suddenly, rushing through the forest. The horses whinnied; the driver's murmur carried faintly through the thin wall.
The flame in the lantern trembled, stretching thin until it nearly vanished.
Xiuyuan lifted a hand, shielding it instinctively — but the light dimmed further, guttered, then steadied again. A chill passed over his skin, brief as a breath.
He said nothing.
Mingyue's eyes had risen to the same flame. His expression remained unchanged, yet his fingers tightened slightly in his lap.
The carriage rolled on. The night pressed closer.
Hours passed in that half-silence — neither sleep nor wakefulness, only the measured rhythm of the road and the steady sound of breathing. The mist outside thickened, pale threads brushing against the window glass like hands seeking entry.
At some point, the road curved along the edge of a ravine. The moon reemerged, silver and cold. Xiuyuan leaned slightly toward the window, his reflection faint against the glass — and behind it, for an instant, he thought he saw another shape, pale and soundless, moving alongside the carriage in the fog.
He blinked. The vision dissolved into darkness.
When he turned, Mingyue was watching him. Their eyes met — and held.
The sway of the carriage slowed, time drawn out between them. The light from the lantern brushed across Mingyue's cheek, caught in the hollow just below his eye, and Xiuyuan felt a sharp, wordless ache.
He forced his gaze away. "You should rest. The road will be long."
"Yes," Mingyue said softly. But he did not move.
Xiuyuan closed his eyes. The scent of sandalwood clung faintly to his robes — the same incense once burned in the shrine. Beneath it, he could almost detect another scent — faint, ephemeral, the trace of something once known.
The wind outside whispered, a sound that might have been words if one strained to hear. The horses slowed. Ahead, the path descended toward the valley.
The second carriage followed at a distance, carrying Wei Jingyan and Zhou Qingrong. Through the open slit in the curtain, Qingrong watched the first carriage's lantern sway in the dark. "The air's wrong," she murmured. "Do you feel it?"
Jingyan frowned. "Shijie?"
She turned toward him. "Don't you hear it?"
He strained his ears — only the sound of wind and hoofbeats, yet beneath it, something else — faint, rhythmic, like breathing that did not belong to any of them.
"Shixiong said it was an unknown spirit," Jingyan said finally. "Perhaps it already knows we're coming."
"Perhaps," Qingrong replied. Her hand rested lightly on the hilt of her sword. "Stay close when we arrive."
The valley came into view at last — a hollow between two ridges, filled with mist so thick it seemed to glow from within. The road descended into silence. Even the horses' hooves made no sound on the ground.
Ling Xiuyuan stepped down first. The air that met him was cold enough to sting. Mist clung to his sleeves like cobwebs. Behind him, Mingyue descended, carrying a lantern that barely held its flame.
Wei Jingyan and Zhou Qingrong joined them, the second carriage halting nearby. The driver crossed himself instinctively, though none of them followed that faith.
"This is Yanlu Valley," Xiuyuan said quietly. His breath was visible in the air. "No villagers remain?"
"None, Sect Leader," answered the guard who had ridden ahead. "We searched the area this morning. Only traces — abandoned homes, torn charms, and…" He hesitated. "…and sounds. After dusk."
Xiuyuan nodded. "We'll rest until dawn. No one wanders alone."
By the time they reached the inn, the moon had risen pale and distant above the ridge.
The night was still — so still that the faint creak of the carriage wheels seemed too loud, as though disturbing something that should have remained asleep. Mist hung low over the ground, coiling around the wheels, the horses' legs, the carved beams of the weathered gate.
A faded plaque swung above the entrance, its inscription half-worn away: "Cloud Rest Inn." The building was old but standing, its paper windows glowing faintly from within.
The door yielded with a dry groan at Zhou Qingrong's push. The entryway was dim, lit by a single oil lamp whose flame wavered but did not go out. Dust lined the tables, yet two cups sat on the counter — clean, dry, as if recently set down.
Wei Jingyan glanced at them. "Shijie… there's someone here."
"Or something," Zhou Qingrong murmured.
Ling Xiuyuan crossed the threshold, his white robes whispering against the wood. Mingyue followed, carrying a lantern. The light caught the edges of his face — serene, unmoving — and threw long, gentle shadows along the wall.
Xiuyuan's eyes swept the hall once. "Choose rooms for the night. Zhou Qingrong, Wei Jingyan — take the east wing. I'll stay near the courtyard."
"Yes," Zhou Qingrong said quietly.
They dispersed. The boards creaked beneath their steps; the air smelled faintly of pine smoke and something else — old incense, lingering long after its purpose had been forgotten.
When the others had gone, only Xiuyuan and Mingyue remained in the hall. The silence between them deepened, the kind that carried a weight beyond words.
Xiuyuan turned slightly toward him. "You'll stay in my room," he said, voice calm but low. "It's warmer near the hearth."
Mingyue inclined his head. "As you wish, master."
He followed Xiuyuan down a narrow corridor to a room at the far end. The paper doors slid open with a sigh, revealing a small space with a low brazier and a simple bed. The flame inside the brazier flickered once, casting gold light over the walls.
Xiuyuan set aside his outer cloak. "We'll depart at dawn. Rest while you can."
Mingyue placed the lantern on the table, the flame steady. "Should I prepare tea?"
Xiuyuan shook his head. "No." He studied the faint moisture clinging to Mingyue's sleeves, the subtle exhaustion beneath his stillness. "You're tired."
"I'm not," Mingyue said softly. Xiuyuan's gaze lingered on him. The resemblance — that cruel, precise echo — made the air seem thinner.
Ling Xiuyuan said nothing for a while. His gaze lingered, tracing the faint steam rising from the brazier, the thin strands of hair still damp against Mingyue's neck. Then, almost idly, he said, "Come here."
Mingyue approached, calm as ever.
"Help me change," Xiuyuan said.
Mingyue bowed his head. "As you wish."
He stepped closer, unfastening the outer layer of Xiuyuan's robe with careful fingers. The silk whispered as it slid from Xiuyuan's shoulders. The lamplight was low; the air between them held the faint scent of sandalwood and cold air.
Xiuyuan sat motionless, eyes half-lidded, watching him through the reflection in the darkened window. Mingyue's face remained still.
His hands moved with the same quiet precision as when tending to tea or folding cloth — efficient, reverent, distant.
When his fingers brushed lightly against Xiuyuan's throat to straighten the collar, Xiuyuan did not move. The touch was fleeting — nothing more than duty — but it struck deep, like memory recalled too suddenly.
Seven years fell away in an instant: a disciple kneeling, laughing softly as he tied the same knot, the warmth of his hands unguarded. The ache came sharp and merciless.
But Mingyue's face — that face — held nothing.
Xiuyuan's breath caught, so quietly that even he almost didn't hear it. He lifted his gaze, searching, waiting for something — a tremor, a flicker of recognition, a ghost of the past in the curve of his mouth. But there was nothing.
Mingyue tied the final sash, stepped back, and bowed. "It is done, Sect Leader."
The words fell like a closing door.
Xiuyuan's fingers tightened imperceptibly over the fabric at his sleeve.
"You may rest."
"Yes."
Mingyue turned away to extinguish the lanterns, leaving only one burning faintly by the door. The flame bent as if something unseen had breathed across it, but neither of them spoke.
The silence stretched long after Mingyue lay down on the floor mat, facing away.
Xiuyuan remained seated, watching the slow rise and fall of his servant's shoulders, the curve of light along his hair. The resemblance was unbearable — too precise, too cruel — and yet, behind it, the emptiness only grew.
The wind slipped through the cracks in the door, cold and dry. It stirred the flame again, though no window was open.
Xiuyuan's gaze shifted toward the corner of the room, where the shadows had grown thicker, darker than they should have been. Something seemed to watch from within them — a quiet, shapeless patience, neither kind nor cruel.
Outside, a chime rang once, though there was no wind strong enough to move it.
Mingyue did not stir.
Xiuyuan's eyes lingered on him for a long time, until the silence pressed close enough to feel like breath on his skin.
Then he closed his eyes.