A month later, they boarded a plane to Chengdu, their bags filled with supplies for the mountain: warm clothes, extra rune chips, a new peachwood sword for Ye (carved by Lao Guo, who'd insisted it "had good energy"). Lao Guo had wanted to come, but he'd been stuck with a last-minute funeral, so he'd sent a jar of his famous red bean buns instead.
The drive up to Xuanqing Mountain was long—winding roads, pine forests, small waterfalls that glinted in the sun—but Rui didn't mind. Ye sat beside her, pointing out every landmark: the peach tree he'd climbed as a kid (its branches still bent from where he'd fallen), the training ground where he'd learned to use a sword (now used by young Taoists), the small lake where he'd fished with Dao Feng (they'd caught a single minnow, which Dao Feng had insisted on naming "Little Whisk").
The mountain's entrance was a stone archway, carved with the words "Xuanqing Daoist Temple" in golden characters. Beyond it, stone steps climbed upward, lined with pine trees that smelled like resin. A group of young Taoists—wearing gray Hanfu—waited at the top, bowing when they saw Qingyunzi.
"Master," one boy said, his eyes wide. "The temple is ready. We made congee for your guests."
The temple was a collection of wooden buildings with curved roofs, their eaves decorated with small dragon carvings. The courtyard was filled with vegetable gardens—tomatoes, cucumbers, herbs—and a small lotus pond where fish swam lazily. Qingyunzi led them to the guest rooms: small but cozy, with wooden beds and windows that overlooked the pond.
"Rest for an hour," he said. "We'll leave for the peak at 4 a.m.—sunrise is at 5:15. It's worth the early wake-up call."
Rui lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, too excited to sleep. She thought about the first time she'd met Ye—his smirk as he handed her the glutinous rice, the way the grains had turned black in the alley, the moment she'd realized everything she'd believed about "folklore" was wrong. Now, she was on his home mountain, about to share a sunrise he'd loved since he was a kid. It felt like a dream.
At 4 a.m., they gathered in the courtyard, lanterns in hand. The air was cool, dew clinging to the grass, and the stars were still bright in the sky. Qingyunzi led the way, his steps steady despite his age, while Dao Feng carried a thermos of hot tea. Ye walked beside Rui, his hand in hers, his fingers warm against her cold skin.
"The peak is just ahead," he whispered, pointing to a gap in the trees. "You'll see the whole valley from there."
The final stretch of steps was steep, and Rui's legs burned by the time they reached the top. The peak was a small, flat clearing, with a single stone bench overlooking the valley. Below them, the world was wrapped in darkness, the only lights coming from distant villages. They sat on the bench, passing the thermos of tea back and forth, and waited.
Slowly, the sky began to change. First, a faint pink glow appeared on the horizon, spreading upward like watercolor. Then orange, then gold, painting the clouds in streaks of fire. The sun crested the mountains, and light flooded the valley—turning the pine trees a vivid green, the lotus pond into a sheet of silver, the distant villages into tiny dots of color.
"Wow," Rui breathed, her eyes wide. She'd seen sunrises before—over New York's skyline, over the ocean in Miami—but nothing like this. It was pure, unspoiled, like the mountain itself.
Ye wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. "I used to come here alone, when I was a kid. Whenever I missed my parents, or got in trouble with Master, I'd climb up here and watch the sunrise. It always made me feel like everything would be okay." He paused, his voice soft. "Now, I get to share it with you. The best thing that's ever happened to me."
Rui turned to him, her heart full. She kissed him, the sun warm on their faces, and he pulled her closer. Behind them, Dao Feng and Qingyunzi pretended to gag.
"Get a room," Dao Feng said, grinning. "Some of us are trying to enjoy the view."
Qingyunzi laughed, patting Dao Feng's back. "Leave them be. Love is a gift—especially the kind that survives ghosts and zombies."
They sat there for hours, watching the sun climb higher, talking and laughing. Qingyunzi told stories of the mountain's history—how it had been a refuge for Taoists during wars, how the peach tree had been planted 500 years ago by his master's master. Dao Feng talked about his plans to teach the young Taoists how to use the Xuanqing Whisk, and Ye joked about finally beating Dao Feng in a sword fight.
When they walked back down the mountain, the sun was high in the sky. The young Taoists had prepared breakfast: congee with pickled vegetables, steamed buns filled with pork, and cups of hot green tea. They ate in the temple kitchen, sitting around a wooden table, while the boys asked Rui endless questions about New York.
"Is it true there are ghosts in the subway?" one boy asked.
Rui laughed, nodding. "Yes. But most of them are just lost. They don't mean any harm."
Ye translated for her, his smile warm. As Rui looked around the table—at Ye's grin, Dao Feng's laughter, Qingyunzi's twinkling eyes—she knew this was home. Not just a place, but a feeling. A family.
That night, she and Ye sat by the lotus pond, watching the stars. Ye played a flute— a simple, haunting tune his master had taught him—and Rui rested her head on his shoulder.
"I never thought I'd have this," she said, quietly. "A family. A home. Adventures that don't end with a case file."
Ye kissed the top of her head. "You deserve it. All of it. And we're just getting started."