It happened suddenly.
Xiuyuan took his wrist — firmly, almost too firmly — and said only, "Come with me."
The tone left no room for refusal.
Mingyue followed wordlessly through the quiet streets of the city below Jingshou Peak. Twilight had already fallen; the lamps burned red, painting every face they passed in flickering warmth. Yet there was no warmth in Xiuyuan's eyes.
They stopped before a lavish building, its lanterns hung with crimson silk. Music drifted faintly from within — laughter, clinking cups, the perfume of powdered courtesans. It was a pleasure house, where merchants and cultivators came to drown their hearts.
Mingyue froze."Shizun…" His voice trembled between disbelief and fear. "Why are we—?"
But Xiuyuan did not answer. He led him inside.
The madam, startled by the white-robed guest's bearing, bowed deeply. "Honored immortal, whom shall I—"
"Bring anyone," Xiuyuan said quietly. "Anyone will do."
Mingyue's heart clenched. He tried to pull his hand free. "Shizun, please—this isn't—"
"Sit there," Xiuyuan said, pointing to a seat in the corner of the private room they were shown to. His voice was calm, but the calmness was the kind born of breaking.
The door slid open with a dull creak.A stranger entered — broad-shouldered, the scent of wine clinging to his sleeves. His gaze fell on Ling Xiuyuan, and for a breath, the room went silent except for the faint rasp of fabric brushing against the floorboards.
Xiuyuan did not flinch. He stood still, his hands at his sides, eyes dim as though fixed on some memory that refused to die. The man stepped closer — one slow step after another — until the space between them was no more than a breath.
From his seat, Mingyue's throat tightened. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the edge of the table. Every part of him screamed to move.
The man reached out, fingers hovering near Xiuyuan's shoulder. The air felt heavy, almost cruel. Xiuyuan's lashes lowered, the faintest tremor in his breath betraying him. His lips parted — not in protest, but in the silence of someone who had already fallen too far.
The stranger closed the distance. His movements were rough, practiced; the smell of wine and smoke pressed into the air. Xiuyuan did not move. His gaze stayed fixed on Mingyue across the room, as if willing him to understand something unspeakable.
Mingyue's breath stuttered. Every sound—the floorboard creak, the rasp of cloth—cut through him. The man's shadow fell over Xiuyuan, and the sight of it made Mingyue's stomach twist.
When the man leaned close, whispering something slurred and vulgar, Xiuyuan's lips trembled but no words came. He did not look away from Mingyue once. His expression was stripped of pride, stripped of dignity, until all that remained was pain.
Mingyue's nails bit into his palms. The heat in the room turned to nausea. He understood then that Xiuyuan was not trying to feel pleasure—he was trying to destroy the part of himself that still hoped.
The stranger laughed low under his breath, unaware—or uncaring—of the silent storm building in the young servant's chest. Each heartbeat sounded like thunder in Mingyue's ears. If I move now, he thought, I'll kill him.
Still, Xiuyuan's eyes never left his.
The man leaned close, his voice turning coarse and mocking. His laughter was the kind that stripped dignity from the air, filling the room with something foul and unclean. Xiuyuan flinched at the sound — not because of the words themselves, but because of what they meant: the final shattering of self-respect he'd still clung to.
Mingyue's eyes darkened. He stood frozen for a breath, his chest rising and falling too fast, that faint tremor in his fingers turning into something sharper.
Then he moved.
A single step — and his fist connected with the man's face before anyone could draw breath. The impact cracked through the room like thunder. The stranger's laughter cut off at once; blood burst from his nose, splattering across the floorboards. He reeled backward, stunned, then collapsed in a heap and went still.
Silence.
Xiuyuan was still sitting there, his robe loose, his eyes wet and hollow. Tears slipped soundlessly down his face. He looked up at Mingyue, dazed, as if unsure whether the man before him was real.
Mingyue stood over the fallen stranger, his shoulders heaving, the air around him flickering with that strange, unsteady energy he fought so hard to conceal. His breath came ragged — the fury still burning through him, barely contained.
"Enough," he whispered hoarsely, though it was unclear whether the word was meant for Xiuyuan, the unconscious man, or himself.
He turned slowly, meeting Xiuyuan's gaze at last. Beneath that calm surface, the young man's restraint was breaking, his eyes shimmering with something raw — anger, grief, and a tenderness he could no longer hide.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The air trembled — heavy, electric — the kind that comes after thunder but before the rain.
Then Xiuyuan's breath broke.
A sound escaped him, low and fractured, like something tearing loose from a place long sealed. His fingers trembled as they lifted, reaching for Mingyue as though afraid he might vanish if touched too quickly.
"Liánxiù…?"The name slipped from his lips like a prayer, a question, a wound.
Mingyue froze. The word hit him like lightning — sharp, merciless. In the next instant, he crossed the small distance between them, his arms wrapping around Ling Xiuyuan with quiet desperation.
Xiuyuan didn't respond, only pressed his face against Mingyue's shoulder, the tears falling freely now. His body shook, years of restraint unraveling all at once.
Mingyue tightened his embrace, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of Xiuyuan's head — the gesture instinctive, achingly familiar. He shut his eyes. The scent, the warmth, the heartbeat against him — everything was the same, yet unbearably different.
He breathed in shakily, as though gathering the courage for something that could never be taken back.
"Shizun…" he said again, this time softer — a vow, not a plea.
Xiuyuan's sobs trembled against his chest, and Mingyue closed his eyes, one hand resting at the back of his shizun's head.
His voice came low, hoarse, and full of aching warmth—"Shizun… your disciple has returned."
Xiuyuan cried harder, the sound breaking through the walls of the years he'd built around himself. It wasn't grief alone—it was release, a return, the warmth of something once lost and now found again.
Mingyue held him tighter, feeling the fragile heartbeat against his own, wishing—just for a moment—that time could turn back.
If only I could go back...go back to that year, that winter. When we first met.