That night, Shen Lianxiu could not sleep.
He lay on his back, eyes open to the ceiling beams above, but all he could see was the stream — the mist, the moonlight, and Ling Xiuyuan's calm figure stepping from the water. It was a sight both divine and unbearable to recall.Every blink of his eyes brought it back: the droplets trailing down pale skin, the steady voice that said, "It's peaceful here."
He turned on his side, pulled the quilt over his head, even pressed his hands over his eyes. Nothing helped. His heartbeat refused to slow.
When the first pale light came through the paper windows, he was still awake.
Roulan's voice came sleepily from the other mat. "You didn't sleep?"Nie Xiaohuan was already tying his sash, glancing over with quiet concern. "What's wrong with you today?"
"Nothing," Lianxiu mumbled, sitting up, hair messy and eyes rimmed with red. "Just… couldn't sleep."
But during training that morning, his sword swings lacked focus; his footwork stumbled, and twice Roulan had to nudge him back into rhythm. Even Nie Xiaohuan's scolding was mild, half pitying.
From the upper walkway, Ling Xiuyuan watched the disciples sparring. His gaze paused on Lianxiu for only a breath — long enough to notice the drooping shoulders, the distracted steps — before he turned away, expression unreadable.
The day stretched on. Lianxiu moved like a man half-dreaming, barely hearing Wen Yao lecture on spirit energy flow. When the lesson ended and disciples dispersed, he lingered behind, rubbing his eyes.
At the far end of the hall, two others remained: Mu Yichuan and Wen Yao.
The light from the courtyard lanterns spilled across the polished floor, catching in the dust that swirled between them. Wen Yao stood with his scroll pressed to his chest, lips moving faintly as he recited the final line of the text.
"You missed a word," Mu Yichuan said, leaning lazily against a pillar. His tone was teasing, warm with amusement. "You always do when you're nervous."
"I'm not nervous," Wen Yao muttered, turning away. His ears were pink.
Yichuan's laughter was quiet. He stepped closer, voice dropping low. "Then why can't you look at me?"
"I just don't want to," came the weak reply — too soft to convince anyone.
Yichuan reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from Wen Yao's face. "You're terrible at lying."
The scroll slipped from Wen Yao's hands, forgotten on the floor. For a breath, neither spoke. The lanternlight flickered between them, close enough to touch, and the air felt fragile — as if the faintest sound could break it.
"Yichuan…" Wen Yao whispered.
Mu Yichuan's hand stayed at Wen Yao's cheek a moment too long.The faint brush of his fingers made Wen Yao's breath catch; the air between them thinned until even silence felt loud.
"Y-Yichuan…"
"Still saying you're not nervous?" Yichuan whispered.
Wen Yao tried to speak but could only shake his head. His lashes trembled; his gaze flicked down, then back up. For one suspended heartbeat they simply looked at each other, close enough to feel the other's warmth, close enough that the distance between them disappeared.
The lantern beside them swayed, and its light broke softly across their faces — a warmth that said everything neither dared voice aloud.
When Wen Yao finally stepped back, his pulse was still unsteady, his lips parted as though he had forgotten to breathe. Yichuan only smiled, the mischief in his eyes softened by something deeper.
...
The night air was thin and pale, silvered by the moon that hung over Jingshou sect. The mountain slept — quiet, steeped in mist and faint echoes of the day's training — but Shen Lianxiu did not. His restless steps wandered the flagstone paths, his shadow stretching long behind him.
In his hands were his two little dolls.
He swung them idly by their strings, sometimes tossing one up and catching it again, sometimes kicking at loose pebbles until they clattered against the walls.
The world was asleep, yet something inside him was unbearably awake.
He hummed a nameless tune, soft and off-key, his breath fogging faintly in the cold air. Now and then he looked up — as if expecting someone to appear at the end of the path — but found only moonlight and the sigh of wind through the bamboo. He tried to laugh it off. "What am I even doing?" he murmured, squatting down to poke one of the dolls on its nose. "You two don't even talk, and I'm still here babbling to you. Shen Lianxiu, you're losing your mind."
But the truth was simpler — and more confusing. Ever since that night by the stream, ever since Ling Xiuyuan had covered him with his cloak, spoken to him in that low, even tone, and told him "You did not" — the words had carved themselves into his chest like warmth that refused to fade.
He kicked another pebble, harder this time, and it rolled down the path, bouncing until it disappeared into the trees. His laughter chased after it — too loud, too bright for the hour.
Then, just as he turned the corner near the east courtyard, the world stopped.
A low, clear sound sliced the air — shhkk! — like a breath drawn by steel.
There, beyond the courtyard wall, Ling Xiuyuan stood beneath the moonlight, his robe sleeves rolled, his long hair tied half up, the sword in his hand gleaming like water. He moved with a calm that was almost unnatural — every motion measured, every pivot smooth, the kind of discipline that came only from years of quiet, merciless training.
The sword whirled once — swish! — the arc catching moonlight, scattering it in droplets across the ground like ripples in a silver pond.
Lianxiu froze where he stood. His heart leapt against his ribs.
He'd seen swordplay a thousand times before. But not like this. Not like him.
Ling Xiuyuan's movements were silent, but the air around him trembled — power drawn so fluidly that it almost looked effortless. His breath formed a rhythm with the blade, like music too low for mortal ears. Even his stillness — the moment between one motion and the next — carried weight, as though the night itself bent to him.
Lianxiu's mouth went dry. His dolls slipped from his hand, landing soundlessly on the grass.
His eyes traced every shift — the flicker of his wrist, the faint shimmer of sweat at his collarbone, the way his dark hair clung against the side of his neck. He didn't even realize when his hand had risen, fingers slightly curled, as if he could touch that impossible grace.
He felt his pulse racing, a warmth spreading from his chest to his ears. He bit his lip, his breath unsteady.
What's wrong with me?
Xiuyuan drew the sword back into its sheath with one clean motion, exhaling. Even the act of lowering the blade looked refined — his form straight, head bowed, moonlight running along the line of his shoulders like silk.
Shen Lianxiu's heart beat too fast; it almost hurt.
Ling Xiuyuan's composure, his silence, the way he seemed untouched by the mortal world — Lianxiu had thought it was arrogance before. Now, in the stillness of this night, it looked like something else entirely.
He didn't know what it was — admiration, awe, pity, or something that scared him a little to name.
When Xiuyuan stepped forward, the hem of his robe brushed through the fallen plum petals. They scattered in the air, swirling around him — pale pink and white against the night sky. It was as if heaven had painted him in one perfect stroke.
Lianxiu's throat tightened.
He pressed a hand to his chest. His heart was beating wildly — far too fast for no reason at all. His face burned, though the night was cold.
He didn't even notice that he was smiling — small, dazed, helplessly fond.
Every motion, every breath, every glint of moonlight off Ling Xiuyuan's blade — he wanted to remember it. To keep it for himself.
He didn't know what this feeling was, only that it felt like falling — quietly, beautifully, and without any chance of stopping.