The courtyard of the upper hall was silent save for the faint song of crickets. The moon hung low above the rooftops, silver light glancing off polished tiles and the edges of swords laid across a narrow bench.
Wei Jingyan sat cross-legged beside the small oil lamp, his hair tied loosely, his robes folded at the sleeves. Beside him, Zhou Qingrong worked in her usual composure, movements neat and elegant as she ran a cloth along the curve of her blade. Across from them, Ling Xiuyuan sat a little apart, sleeves drawn in, his posture straight but distant — as though his thoughts were somewhere far beyond the courtyard walls.
The scent of whetstone and steel lingered in the air. A faint wind stirred the leaves.
Wei Jingyan sighed softly as he turned his sword over, the lamplight running down the blade. "That Shen Lianxiu is working hard recently," he said after a pause. "I mean — at least he's trying."
Zhou Qingrong's mouth curved with faint amusement. "Trying, yes. But he still waves a sword like he's chasing butterflies."
Wei Jingyan chuckled under his breath. "There's still a long way ahead before I see him close to perfection, though. But still—" He wiped the blade once more, his voice softening. "It's good to see him change. That boy used to make even the bamboo groan."
Zhou Qingrong's laughter was quiet and low. She dipped her cloth again into the water bowl, wringing it out neatly. "I wonder what inspired him recently," she mused.
Her gaze flicked once — not too obviously — toward Ling Xiuyuan, who had yet to speak.
He was sitting perfectly still, a half-polished sword across his lap. The lamplight brushed against the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the calm curve of his mouth. His eyes were lowered, fixed somewhere in the faint reflection of steel — but the stillness around him felt too deliberate, like a surface of water stretched over depth.
The silence stretched for a breath, two.
Wei Jingyan's movements slowed. He risked a glance at his Shixiong, careful, discreet.
Xiuyuan's lashes flickered in the light; his fingers paused once upon the hilt — then moved again, smooth and unhurried.
"The young always find their reasons," Xiuyuan said at last, voice quiet, steady. "It's good that he has one."
Neither of the others replied. The tone was simple, almost offhand — yet something in the way he said it left a faint ripple in the stillness, an echo of thought unspoken.
Wei Jingyan bent his head again, pretending to check for a flaw in the blade, though his eyes darted once more toward Xiuyuan's reflection in the lamplight — that composed face, the faraway calm in his gaze.
Zhou Qingrong sheathed her sword first, her motions slow and graceful. "If he keeps this up," she murmured, "perhaps he'll surprise us one day."
Xiuyuan made a faint sound of agreement.
The three sat quietly again — the lamp flickering low, the sound of crickets rising around them. The night was cool, clean, filled with the scent of steel and pine.
When Wei Jingyan finally set his sword aside, he looked up once more. Ling Xiuyuan's eyes were half-closed now, his expression unreadable — neither smile nor sorrow, only that quiet depth that made even silence feel heavy.
Wei Jingyan looked away quickly, pretending to reach for the cloth again. He said nothing, not wanting to disturb that stillness.
The lamp guttered. The night deepened. Three swords rested clean beneath the moonlight, gleaming faintly — like the quiet hearts of those who held them.
The mountain was draped in white. Winter had settled fully over Jingshou Sect — snow layering the tiles, the steps, the roofs like a long exhale from heaven. The trees bowed under its weight, their branches glistening faintly in the dull light of afternoon.
Shen Lianxiu had been searching since morning.
He'd looked through the training grounds, the meditation hall, the stream, but Ling Xiuyuan was nowhere to be found.
When at last he reached the main hall, he saw Han Yuejian standing.
Lianxiu straightened immediately and bowed low. "Han Shixiong."
Yuejian turned slightly, his steady eyes landing on him. "Ah, Shen Lianxiu. What brings you here?"
Lianxiu hesitated, lowering his gaze. "I've been looking for shixiong Ling. I can't find him anywhere. I just wanted to ask if you might know where he is."
The faintest trace of a smile curved Yuejian's lips — patient, almost amused. "You've come all this way for that?"
Lianxiu flushed. "I— yes, Shixiong."
Yuejian set down the incense and brushed the snow off his sleeves. "He has left for a case in the northern valley — strange disturbances reported by a traveling cultivator. He took Wei Jingyan and Zhou Qingrong with him."
Lianxiu blinked, taken aback. He bit his lip, glancing toward the doorway where the wind pushed the snow in soft drifts. "When will they be back?"
"That depends," Yuejian said, his tone gentle but firm. "If the case is minor, a few weeks. If not… longer."
A silence followed. The only sound was the faint crackle of the candles.
Lianxiu looked up toward the north, where the mountains vanished into mist.
"A few weeks," Yuejian had said.
It felt too long already.
The wind howled through the northern passes, dragging veils of snow across the mountainside. The valley below was shrouded in pale mist — the sort that blurred the line between cloud and ground.
Ling Xiuyuan walked ahead, his white robes brushing against the snow, sword sheathed at his side. Behind him, Wei Jingyan and Zhou Qingrong followed in silence, their breath misting in the freezing air.
"The cultivator who sent word said the villagers heard crying each night from the frozen river," Zhou Qingrong said, voice quiet but crisp.
Wei Jingyan frowned. "Crying in a place where nothing lives in winter. That already sounds wrong."
Xiuyuan said nothing. His gaze stayed on the distance — the faint flicker of a lantern in the storm, marking the edge of a village half-buried in frost.
Back at Jingshou Peak, the same snow fell softer, drifting between the plum trees.
Shen Lianxiu stood on the training court, breath fogging, hands raw from the sword hilt. Each strike he swung into the air cracked with determination — but his movements were uneven, his shoulders stiff with thoughts he refused to admit.
Nie Xiaohuan watched from under the veranda. "You've been out here since dawn. Go eat something before Roulan scolds you again."
Lianxiu kept his eyes on the snow. "I'm fine. You go."
Xiaohuan sighed and left.
The courtyard was silent except for the soft hush of snow. Moonlight pooled faintly over the white ground, the plum trees bowing under its weight.
Shen Lianxiu stood alone at the edge of the path, the hem of his robe dusted with frost. He wasn't moving—just staring somewhere far beyond the peaks, where the northern winds roamed. His breath clouded faintly in the air, his eyes unfocused, as if chasing a thought he couldn't quite name.
From the walkway above, Mu Yichuan paused mid-step. He had been returning from the Hall of Records after a late exchange with Master Pei, his usual calm unshaken even by the hour. But the sight of the boy standing still in the snow made him stop.
For a moment, he only watched. The young disciple's shoulders were straight but trembling slightly from the cold. Yet his face—lit by moonlight—held a strange peace, a fragile determination that didn't belong to the mischievous, noisy Lianxiu everyone knew.
Yichuan's fingers tightened slightly on the railing. A faint, almost wistful smile touched his lips.
"Still searching for answers, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice nearly lost in the wind.
The snow fell thicker now, muffling the world in white. Yichuan closed his eyes briefly and exhaled, his breath curling like smoke in the air.
"I hope he finds them," he whispered softly, more to the night than to anyone. "Whatever it is he's trying to understand."
When he opened his eyes again, Lianxiu hadn't moved—still a lone figure against the snow, as quiet and bright as a candle refusing to go out.
Yichuan stood for a while longer, then turned away, the sound of his departing footsteps fading gently into the storm.