Days passed.
The sun was already sinking when Shen Lianxiu left the lecture hall. The day was washed in amber and long shadows; cicadas were crying from the bamboo grove beyond the courtyard.
He walked aimlessly, his hands behind his head, Mu Yichuan's words still circling in his mind.
"Just live it… don't test, don't observe. Let your heart feel."
It sounded simple — until he tried.
He wandered toward the grove, the path lined with fallen yellow leaves. And then he saw him.
Ling Xiuyuan stood beneath the slanting light, the wind stirring his sleeves. His sword flashed once, catching the sun, before falling still. The faint mist of his breath rose and disappeared in the cooling air. There was no one else — only him, as silent and perfect as a painting brought to life.
Lianxiu stopped breathing.
"Alright," he whispered to himself, "I'll just live it."
He tiptoed closer, crouched behind a bamboo trunk, peeking out. His heart pounded so loud he was sure even the birds could hear.
Xiuyuan's movements were quiet, precise — the kind of grace that came from discipline, not display. Every motion flowed into the next, a meditation disguised as swordplay. When he finally paused, the sunset painted his profile gold.
Lianxiu thought, helplessly: He's beautiful even when he's doing nothing.
He wanted to step forward, to say something — anything — but the words died in his throat. He just stood there, watching, his hands clenched tight at his sides.
Then Xiuyuan suddenly turned.Their eyes met.
"Shen Lianxiu," Xiuyuan's voice was calm, almost amused, "how long do you plan on hiding there?"
Lianxiu jumped, almost tripping over a stone. "I—I wasn't hiding!" he blurted.
Xiuyuan raised an eyebrow, wiping his blade clean. "Then what were you doing?"
"Uh… watching the… technique of my brilliant shixiong!" Lianxiu straightened up, scratching his head with an awkward grin.
Xiuyuan sighed, shaking his head slightly. "You're impossible."
"I take that as a compliment!"
He walked closer, but every step made his heartbeat louder. Up close, Xiuyuan's presence was gentler, but no less overwhelming. His hair was tied high, loose strands glowing faintly in the light. When he sheathed his sword, the soft sound of metal meeting wood felt strangely intimate.
Lianxiu couldn't look away. He's so close. Too close. What do I do? What did Master Mu say?
"Why are you staring like that?" Xiuyuan asked, brows knitting.
"Huh? No, I was just—uh—admiring your sword form!"
Xiuyuan gave him a long, unreadable look. Then, unexpectedly, a faint curve touched his lips. "If you have that much energy left after training, you can spar with me tomorrow morning."
Lianxiu's mouth opened. "Tomorrow—morning? At dawn?"
"Yes. Or would you rather keep spying from the bamboo?"
Lianxiu's face went crimson. "N-no! I'll come! I'll spar with you!"
"Good." Xiuyuan turned, the faintest trace of amusement in his tone. "Then don't oversleep."
And with that, he left the grove — his white robes trailing in the golden light, leaving Lianxiu standing among the swaying bamboos, heart hammering in his chest.
He pressed a hand to it, dazed.
"Just live it," he murmured, smiling helplessly. "Easy for you to say, Master Mu… my heart's already gone."
The first light of dawn crept slowly over Jingshou Peak, spilling like pale gold over the dew-soaked courtyard. The air was still; even the bells above the training field hadn't rung yet.
Ling Xiuyuan was already there. He stood in the middle of the field, robe sleeves folded neatly, hair still damp from his morning wash. His sword rested against his shoulder as he gazed toward the horizon.
Shen Lianxiu arrived running — breathless, half-awake, and entirely unready.
"Shixiong!" he called, tripping over his own boots as he skidded to a stop. "I made it!"
Xiuyuan looked at him once, expression unreadable. "Barely."
Lianxiu grinned sheepishly, rubbing his neck. "I didn't oversleep! I just... woke up twice."
Xiuyuan didn't answer; instead, he tossed him a wooden practice sword. Lianxiu fumbled to catch it, nearly dropping it again.
"Take your stance," Xiuyuan said calmly.
The words alone were enough to make Lianxiu's back straighten. His heart was pounding faster than it had any right to.
The morning light poured between them, soft and white. Mist drifted across the courtyard, curling around Xiuyuan's figure until he looked almost otherworldly. When he stepped forward, the hem of his robe swept the ground in one clean motion — silent, graceful, controlled.
Lianxiu swallowed hard. Focus. Focus. Not on his face.
Xiuyuan moved first, his wooden blade cutting a clean line through the air. Lianxiu parried — barely — and stumbled a step back.
"Your footing's too loose," Xiuyuan said. "Again."
"Yes, shixiong."
They tried again. And again. Lianxiu kept losing his rhythm — not because of the sword, but because of Xiuyuan. The morning sun glinted off his cheek, caught in the faint strands of hair that had slipped loose. He was perfect focus and composure; every turn of his wrist was deliberate.
Lianxiu's chest ached. How am I supposed to spar when he looks like that?
"Shen Lianxiu," Xiuyuan's voice cut through his thoughts. "Are you even looking at your opponent?"
"Of course! I'm—uh—watching very carefully," Lianxiu blurted, before realizing how that sounded.
Xiuyuan gave him a long look — the kind that made heat rise to his ears — and said nothing, only adjusted his grip again.
The next exchange came faster. Xiuyuan's strikes were fluid, precise. Lianxiu managed to block the first two, but the third caught him off-balance. The wooden sword tapped his shoulder sharply.
"Again," Xiuyuan said.
Lianxiu groaned. "Shixiong, are you trying to kill me?"
"If this were real combat, you'd be dead already."
"That's harsh!"
"Then learn faster."
It went on like that for what felt like hours — Xiuyuan calm and merciless, Lianxiu clumsy and desperate but grinning through it all. When they finally stopped, the mist had thinned and sunlight bathed the entire courtyard.
Lianxiu dropped onto the ground, panting. "You... have no mercy."
Xiuyuan stood, tying back his sleeve ribbons again. "You asked for this."
"I didn't ask for you to be that good!"
Xiuyuan's lips curved faintly — just enough for Lianxiu to catch it. His heart flipped.
He smiled… he really smiled at me.
Xiuyuan picked up his sword. "Rest. You did better than I expected."
That single line nearly made Lianxiu burst into flames. "R-really?"
"Don't let it get to your head," Xiuyuan said, walking off.
Lianxiu watched him go, smiling like an idiot, his entire chest full of light.
"I'll make him laugh for me again," he murmured under his breath. "No matter how long it takes."
Night settled softly over Jingshou Peak. The moon hung pale and bright above the training court, silvering the tips of the bamboo and the blades of practice swords. Fireflies drifted lazily among the stones.
Roulan stood at the edge of the field, tying up her hair with a ribbon. Nie Xiaohuan leaned against a post nearby, arms crossed, watching her and Shen Lianxiu with that quiet, half-amused patience of someone who'd long accepted he was the only serious one among them.
"Ready?" Roulan called.
Shen Lianxiu nodded eagerly, his wooden sword gleaming faintly in the moonlight. "I was born ready!"
"You said that yesterday," Xiaohuan said dryly. "Right before you fell into the pond."
"That was strategy," Lianxiu insisted.
Roulan laughed. "Strategy for what? Catching fish?"
Lianxiu ignored them both. "Enough talk! Watch carefully—tonight, I'll show you my new technique: The Moon-Soaring Phoenix!"
Xiaohuan muttered, "Last night it was the Furious one. Now it's moon-soaring?"
"It's an evolved form!" Lianxiu shouted, then charged forward. His form started well enough—one step, two steps—but on the third, he tripped over his own hem and nearly collided with Roulan.
She twisted aside, tapped his back with the wooden blade, and he went sprawling face-first into the grass.
Roulan sighed. "The phoenix has crashed again."
Xiaohuan smirked. "A tragic species."
Lianxiu pushed himself up, blades of grass in his hair, and glared at them. "You two are terrible teachers."
"We're the only reason you're still alive," Roulan said sweetly.
He jabbed his sword toward her, pouting. "Rematch!"
Roulan twirled her blade once, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Fine, but no crying this time."
"I never cry!"
Xiaohuan coughed. "You did when you got hit on the ankle."
"That was a strategic tear!" Lianxiu protested.
Their laughter echoed through the courtyard—young, unguarded, unafraid. Roulan moved in again, swift and graceful, and this time Lianxiu managed to block once before she swept his sword aside and tapped his shoulder.
He froze, blinking. "That doesn't count. I was distracted."
"By what?"
"My hunger!" he declared, hand over his stomach with theatrical misery. "I can't fight on an empty stomach!"
Roulan gaped. "You just ate dinner!"
"That was hours ago!"
"Lianxiu!" she scolded, exasperated. "You had six bowls!"
"Training burns energy," he said solemnly.
Xiaohuan chuckled. "You burn excuses faster than energy."
Roulan groaned and smacked his arm lightly with the sword. "Fine, go eat again, glutton."
He brightened immediately. "Really?"
"No," she snapped, but he was already halfway toward the kitchen path, grinning ear to ear.
Xiaohuan watched him go, shaking his head. "You'd think food was his cultivation path."
Roulan smiled faintly. "Maybe it is. Someday he'll ascend from sheer appetite."
Their laughter faded softly into the rustle of night wind. Fireflies drifted around the empty practice court where Shen Lianxiu's abandoned sword still lay, glimmering faintly beneath the moon.
And from the upper walkway, Ling Xiuyuan paused on his way back to his quarters. He had heard their laughter—so full of life, so unlike the solemn quiet of his own days.
For a moment, he simply stood in the shadows, watching the three of them—Roulan and Xiaohuan still talking quietly, and Lianxiu running back from the kitchens with a steaming bun in hand, beaming like the moon itself.
A small smile touched Xiuyuan's lips before he turned away.
The mountain air was cold, but somehow, it felt less lonely.