The sun had long begun its descent when training finally ended. The courtyard shimmered faintly with dusk, the last light clinging to swords and hair damp with sweat. Disciples dispersed in twos and threes, laughing weakly, dragging their weary feet toward the quarters.
Ling Xiuyuan and his close circle — Han Yuejian, Zhou Qingrong, Wei Jingyan, Liu Shuhan, Ruan Yue, and Chen Yuanqi — lingered near the pavilion, cooling down. The air was light, their laughter carrying faintly across the courtyard.
Wei Jingyan had just finished an exaggerated imitation of the new recruits fumbling with their swords. "—and then he shouted, 'I'll slay the demon!' but the poor boy nearly slayed himself!"
Even Zhou Qingrong, usually composed, covered her mouth as she laughed. Han Yuejian shook his head fondly. "You're cruel, Jingyan."
Ling Xiuyuan chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling — a rare sight outside these moments. "At least you didn't scare him into quitting this time," he said, voice warm with amusement.
Their laughter mingled with the soft hum of evening cicadas, easy and familiar — the sound of old comrades who'd fought, trained, and grown together for years.
From behind one of the stone lanterns at the edge of the courtyard, Shen Lianxiu watched them, his chin propped on his hands. His usual grin softened into something quieter — something almost wistful.
Nie Xiaohuan came up behind him, wiping his blade with a cloth. "What are you doing now?"
Lianxiu didn't turn. His eyes stayed fixed on Xiuyuan's face — on the rare lightness in it. "You see that?" he murmured. "He laughs with them. I'll make him laugh for me one day."
Xiaohuan sighed, long and tired. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"
Lianxiu grinned. "Never."
Roulan appeared beside Xiaohuan, half-asleep as usual after training. "If you try too hard, you'll just make him angrier," she mumbled.
"Worth it," Lianxiu said without missing a beat.
Xiaohuan shook his head and started toward the quarters. "I'm not getting caught in your next disaster."
"Traitors, both of you," Lianxiu called after them, waving lazily. "When I succeed, you'll be jealous."
Together they leave to their quarters.
Later that night after dinner, Lianxiu wandered aimlessly through the outer halls, humming under his breath. The mountain was quiet now — lanterns flickering, shadows stretching long and soft across the stone.
He had picked up two tiny clay dolls from somewhere, one with a cracked head, the other missing a hand. He held them up dramatically, making them "fight" each other as he walked.
"Behold," he whispered to himself, deepening his voice, "the great duel between Master Ling and his most handsome disciple, Shen Lianxiu!"
The dolls clacked together weakly. "You dare challenge me?" he said in a perfect imitation of Xiuyuan's stern tone, before switching to his own: "Oh no, Shixiong, don't look at me like that! My heart can't take it!"
He laughed so hard at himself he nearly dropped them — until something caught his attention.
Voices.
Low, hushed voices coming from one of the side rooms.
He tilted his head, curiosity instantly winning over sense. Quietly, he crept closer, crouching by the half-open door.
"…that Ling Xiuyuan though," one of the voices was saying — a senior disciple by the sound of it. "Cold as ice, but imagine if that mask cracked…"
"Yeah," another snickered. "Have you seen him after training? That face, that voice— gods, he could make a monk sin."
"Wouldn't mind seeing what's under those robes," a third added, voice thick with laughter.
"I've heard he goes to the stream alone after training," one of them snickered. "Cold night or not — imagine what that looks like.""Ha, we could always see for ourselves next time," another laughed.Their laughter turned coarse, ugly, echoing off the walls like something foul.
Something in Shen Lianxiu snapped. His smile vanished.
For a heartbeat, he froze — the clay dolls slipping from his fingers and hitting the floor with a dull thud. The faint sound echoed in the corridor, small but sharp.
His jaw clenched. The laughter inside went on, unaware.
His hands curled slowly into fists, knuckles white, breath shaking with something new — hot, bright, and wordless.
The moonlight that spilled through the paper window glimmered cold against his eyes.
And for the first time, Shen Lianxiu wasn't laughing.
Across the courtyard, Master Yue Lan and Pei Yunsheng were still awake, sitting over tea and discussing the progress of the younger disciples.
A sudden, frantic knock broke their calm. "Masters—! There's a fight among the disciples!"
Both were on their feet in an instant. "What?" Pei Yunsheng snapped, setting down his cup. They followed the shouting down the corridor — and the noise grew louder, punctuated by the sound of fists and splintering wood.
When they arrived, a ring of disciples had gathered in stunned silence around the scuffle. Shen Lianxiu was in the center, his robes torn, blood at the corner of his lip. Three senior disciples were on the ground — one clutching his jaw, another trying to stand.
Lianxiu's eyes burned with fury, his hands raw from striking.
"Shen Lianxiu!" Yue Lan's voice cracked like a whip.
The crowd scattered instantly, whispering in alarm.
But Lianxiu didn't hear her — or rather, he did, but it was drowned beneath the roaring in his ears. He lunged again, striking the one who had laughed the loudest. "Say it again!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "Say it—!"
Pei Yunsheng caught him by the shoulders, dragging him back with effort. "Enough!"
Meanwhile, in the disciples' quarters, Nie Xiaohuan and Roulan were preparing for bed when a young disciple ran past, breathless.
"What happened?" Xiaohuan called after him.
"Fight! Shen Lianxiu's started a fight with seniors!"
"What?" Roulan gasped.
Xiaohuan's eyes widened — he didn't even bother with his outer robe before rushing out, Roulan following close behind.
In another wing, Wei Jingyan leaned against the training hall door, watching the night breeze ripple the banners. He glanced at Ling Xiuyuan, who sat cross-legged within, meditating.
"Your dear junior has started a fight," he said lightly, folding his arms. "I just heard."
Xiuyuan didn't move.
Wei Jingyan raised a brow. "Nothing to say?"
The cold Ling Xiuyuan only exhaled softly, eyes still closed, focusing on his meditation.
Jingyan smirked faintly. "I thought you'd care."
He shrugged, straightened, and walked out into the night — heading toward the noise that was growing louder by the second.
And there, beneath the pale moon and the startled whispers of the gathered sect, Shen Lianxiu stood panting, blood on his knuckles, the broken dolls still lying somewhere in the dust. The night air stung his lungs, but his anger did not fade.