The city was ablaze with lights and noise—a living tapestry of humanity at its most vibrant.
Evening cloaked the streets in shadow, but the world refused to quiet. Laughter rang down the alleys like silver bells celebrating something nameless. The air hung heavy with the scent of roasted chestnuts, spiced wine that could warm frozen bones, and cold wind carrying winter's promise. Lanterns swayed gently above the crowd, their golden glow trembling like tiny captive suns.
Hua Ling walked with hands clasped behind his back, head lowered, dressed in plain robes that failed their purpose. Chen Xinyu followed beside him, wrapped in a thick gray cloak that swallowed his slender frame. Both had shed their identities for the night—but some things could not be hidden by mere cloth. Even in coarse robes, Hua Ling drew eyes like moths to flame. A few drunken men called out, teasing or praising his face with wine-loosened tongues. Children tugged at their mothers' sleeves, pointing and whispering about the "pretty gege" who walked like nobility.
Xinyu said nothing. He had braced for this. Tonight, he would bear it. One last time.
The two ducked into a pleasure house, warm with wine and filled with painted laughter. The scent inside was thick—fragrant flowers steeped in sweet alcohol, soft music laced with flirtation like silk hiding steel. Elegant figures swayed on stage, their sleeves like ribbons dancing in invisible wind.
A beautiful waitress bowed and led them to a secluded table. Hua Ling simply nodded at whatever Xinyu ordered, trusting him in this small thing.
But Xinyu's mind was not present.
He barely touched his food. The chopsticks in his hand felt foreign as borrowed limbs, the meat in his bowl untouched and growing cold. His thoughts kept circling back to that dark, dreamlike realm and the woman who had knelt beside him. Her voice still echoed like snow falling on cold stone—beautiful and deadly.
Hua Ling's eyes never left him, sharp with unspoken concern. Finally, he reached out and dropped a piece of pork belly into Xinyu's bowl with careful precision.
"Don't stare into nothing like that," he said flatly. "Eat something."
Xinyu looked up. His heart clenched painfully.
Why? Why act like this?
He knew Hua Ling had nothing to do with what his father had done. He was just a child back then, just like Xinyu—innocent, unknowing. But that didn't matter. No matter how gentle his voice, how warm his eyes that watched with concern—Xinyu couldn't forget what he had learned. Couldn't pretend they were just ordinary friends, drinking wine in a crowded city without blood between them.
Revenge and guilt swirled in his throat like bile and ash.
So he lowered his gaze and began drinking instead.
Cup after cup. Sweet rice wine, then something darker that burned. Bitterness cut through the fog in his mind like a blade, but he drank still—chasing oblivion he knew wouldn't come.
Hua Ling's patience snapped like overstretched silk. He reached across the table and stopped Xinyu's hand from lifting another cup.
"Enough," he said with quiet authority.
Xinyu blinked, vision swimming. His cheeks flushed red as summer roses. "Just... one more..." He raised a finger like a child begging for forbidden candy. "Come on, Dianxia..."
Hua Ling's face darkened like storm clouds gathering. But before he could speak, Xinyu staggered to his feet with unsteady grace. A courtesan nearby caught him, giggling as she steadied him with practiced hands.
"Gongzi, shall I help you rest in a quiet room?" she asked sweetly, voice like honey.
Xinyu smiled dizzily and nodded without thinking.
Hua Ling stood at once. His voice turned cold as winter death. "You—get lost."
He brushed the woman aside without gentleness and caught Xinyu by the waist. Xinyu struggled, pushing at him weakly with ineffective hands.
"Let go... I don't want you..."
They ended up on the balcony, the wind snapping at their robes like hungry dogs. Xinyu, half-drunk and half-sane, pointed an unsteady finger at him.
" Ling'er ..."
It was the first time he had called him by name—intimate, familiar, devastating.
Hua Ling froze as if struck by lightning.
"You..." Xinyu murmured, words slurring together. "Don't touch me again. Don't hug me. Don't try to be friends. Just—stop."
The words hit like falling stones, each one bruising.
Hua Ling said nothing. His jaw clenched until it ached.
Xinyu kept talking, tapping his shoulder like a scolding drunk who'd forgotten propriety. "I don't want to be your friend anymore. I don't... I can't..."
The wind carried his voice away, but Hua Ling had heard enough. His heart twisted strangely—pain he didn't understand, couldn't name.
Fool. How could I forget?
Xinyu staggered again. Hua Ling caught him reflexively, and this time dragged him back inside with determined steps.
He forced the boy into a private room, set him on the bed with more gentleness than necessary.
"Rest," he said, voice clipped and controlled.
But Xinyu's fingers clutched his sleeve with desperate strength.
"Why?" he whispered, tears edging his lashes like morning dew. "Why did it have to be like this..."
His hand closed around Hua Ling's collar, yanking him forward. Hua Ling landed above him, startled, nearly breathless—their faces suddenly close. Too close.
The scent of wine clung to Xinyu's skin like perfume. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Hua Ling's thoughts scattered like autumn leaves in storm. His heart pounded against his ribs like a warning drum before battle.
But he didn't move.
Not until Xinyu muttered again, voice breaking, "Leave me... Ling'er ..."
Then Hua Ling pulled away as if burned, hands shaking slightly with suppressed emotion.
He stood and left the room without another word or backward glance.
Outside, the wind howled past the lanterns like mourning spirits.
Inside, the boy on the bed wept without sound, tears soaking into silk pillows.
---
The sun rose with practiced grace, neither too warm nor too harsh, as though it too had indulged in a quiet night of wine and soft regrets that lingered like ghosts.
Lingque sat cross-legged in her room, brushing out her newly human hair—a habit she had acquired from Lu Rourou, though she would never admit it aloud on pain of divine death. Her window let in a breeze that smelled faintly of city smoke and autumn leaves, and she was just beginning to wonder if she could steal a nap when—
Knock knock.
She paused. Closed her eyes. Said a silent prayer to any deity who might listen.
"Jiejie," came the sugary voice through the door, "time to come walk with me!"
Lingque stared blankly at the door with divine resignation.
...The gods truly had no mercy.
Lu Rourou was there, grinning like sunrise itself, eyes wide, curls bouncing like she had just stepped out of a painting commissioned by a lonely scholar. Lingque tried to shut the door.
Tried.
Rourou stuck her arm in the gap like a sacrificial heroine from tragic opera. "You promised to go out more!"
"I said I'd think about it."
"You said, and I quote, 'Alright, just once.' Well, that was yesterday. This is today. New day, new promise."
Lingque gave her the kind of look one would reserve for a mosquito that just wouldn't die no matter how many times you swatted. Still, she sighed with divine suffering. "Fine. Ten minutes."
"Deal!" Rourou beamed and looped their arms like they were a pair of lovers from romantic tales, much to Lingque's consternation. "Let's go see the dumpling stall!"
Lingque was halfway down the stairs when she paused mid-step. "Wait. I need to check on Xinyu first."
"Then I'm coming too."
"Suit yourself."
When they reached Chen Xinyu's room, the door was ajar like an invitation to worry, the bed cold as winter stone, and the air quiet in that way that screamed *he left*.
Lingque froze in place. Her thoughts tumbled faster than she could arrange them into coherent patterns. Her first reaction wasn't suspicion. It was guilt that hit like a physical blow.
She had seen the way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was looking. She had felt the weight behind his silence like a shroud. And still she had said nothing—too afraid to pry, too uncertain to help.
Rourou peered around with growing alarm. "Jiejie... do you think he left for good?"
"I don't know," Lingque muttered, already backing away with divine determination. "But I'm going to find out."
She made a sharp turn toward Hua Ling's pavilion, Rourou trailing after her like a persistent shadow. But even when they arrived, the place was quiet. Peaceful, even—deceptively so.
Qingze stood outside with a towel draped around his neck, sweat darkening his collar from morning training. He greeted them with a respectful bow.
"Ladies. Looking for His Highness?"
Lingque cut to the chase. "No. We're looking for Xinyu."
Qingze blinked in surprise. "I haven't seen him. His Highness has been practicing since sunrise."
Lingque frowned deeply. In the courtyard, Hua Ling was deep in sword forms—hair tied back severely, robe fluttering like captured clouds, every strike slicing through the air like an arrow through silk. His movements were elegant, precise—the kind that came from relentless repetition. The kind that didn't leave much room for thought or feeling.
Behind a nearby bush, two junior sect girls were peeking at him and giggling into their sleeves like criminals. Qingze sighed audibly and muttered something about useless disciples wasting his time.
Lingque and Rourou watched a moment longer than they should have.
"I mean, look at his footwork," Rourou whispered with half-dreamy appreciation. "So stable and powerful."
Lingque coughed. "His sword grip is... acceptably formed as well."
They both sighed at the exact same time.
Qingze, who had unfortunately not lost his hearing, excused himself and went off muttering with dark resignation, "This is what I returned from the capital for?"
Lingque smacked her own forehead. "Xinyu. Focus on Xinyu."
"Oh!" Rourou snapped out of her trance. "Right!"
The two resumed their mission with renewed determination, now combing every hall, courtyard, and dumpling stall they could think of.
But Xinyu was nowhere to be found—vanished like morning mist before sun, leaving only questions and growing dread in his wake.