Chapter Text
Waking up to pain had become a bit of a bad habit, hadn’t it? A little tradition between him and the universe. An ongoing joke—except the punchline always seemed to involve cracked ribs, dizziness, and the delightful feeling of having been trampled by something with far too many legs. Probably his fault, yes. Or not. Or… well, the memory wasn’t lining up to give a proper answer, which didn’t seem very fair.
He blinked slowly, once, then again.
The ceiling above him looked nothing like any ceiling he’d seen before—unless he’d recently developed a penchant for sleeping in half-collapsed ruins. The timber supports were warped and bowed inward, old mud and lime chipping away where the beams met, revealing the structure’s slow surrender to age. A water stain had bloomed outward into a mottled brown flower, seeping along the cracks and threatening to drop.
If that thing fell on his face, he was not going to be polite about it.
But no, he didn’t recognize the room. The air was damp, still clinging with the sour scent of burned-out spellwork and something fouler—blood, maybe, or charred ash. The wall to his left had a jagged mark that looked like it came from claws. Big ones. The kind that tore stone like parchment.
That… might’ve been related to the fight. The one that had landed him here.
He tried to tilt his head, just enough to glance around.
The immediate result was a blinding pulse of pain from the back of his skull, like someone had taken a chisel to the base of it and helpfully decided to leave it there.
Alright. Not doing that again. He let his gaze return, reluctantly, to the ceiling.
There was a cloth resting across his forehead. Damp. Cool. Someone had placed it there, likely with a hand that wasn’t his. Water trickled lazily along his temple, threading past his hairline, slipping into the crook of his neck. It made his skin twitch with discomfort, but not enough to warrant movement.
Someone had bothered. That was—promising. Encouraging, even.
He could feel the bandaging at his side now, stiff with dried blood beneath the wrap. That wasn’t exactly a surprise. His ribs felt like they’d gone a few rounds with a battering ram, and whatever spell or cultivation shield he’d managed to conjure had clearly not held. His head felt worse.
And his energy—
Well, that had been an issue for a while, hadn’t it?
He’d burned through most of it weeks ago, offering up what little strength he had left to keep a certain stupid, arrogant, overly noble monkey-demon from getting himself killed. Not even a fight, that one—just a quiet act of draining himself dry for someone too infuriating to say thank you properly.
And then, because apparently he’d decided life wasn’t complicated enough, he’d gotten himself into another fight. Different demon. Different disaster.
Whatever scraps of energy he’d been hoarding had gone up in smoke the moment that thing showed its face. He’d won—he was pretty sure he’d won—but now… there was nothing left.
No power humming under his skin, no spark to draw on. Just exhaustion. Deep, dragging, bone-heavy emptiness.
So. That was where things stood. He was flat on his back in some half-ruined room, bleeding and bandaged, ceiling threatening to collapse on him, and very much out of everything useful.
Charming.
A sudden sound dragged him out of the haze, something quick and sharp, too close for comfort and far too abrupt for his current condition.
That couldn’t be good.
He didn’t flinch—there was no energy for that—but his fingers began to move with deliberate care, searching the uneven bedding around him. Coarse fabric met his skin, patches of soot and ash embedded in the weave, and beneath it, scattered splinters bit into the base of his palm. His shoulder gave an aching protest, a dull reminder that his body wasn’t quite on board with any movement yet.
But still, he kept going. He needed something. Anything.
And then he found it.
His sword.
The hilt was nestled beside him, partially hidden under a torn blanket, worn smooth in all the right places, still solid in his grasp. That was a small comfort, even if he couldn’t do much more than hold onto it. He was flat on his back, unable to sit up without inviting agony, but even so, the weapon’s presence grounded him. It was better than waking up empty-handed. Marginally.
He had just begun to weigh the odds of managing to shift it under his body when a voice called out.
“Master? Master, you’re awake!”
The voice didn’t sound threatening—nothing like a captor or enemy—but it did sound shaken. It was soft and uncertain, a little too high and breathless, and carried the worn rasp of someone older, someone who had lived long enough to be afraid of all the right things.
He tried to turn his head toward the source.
That was a mistake.
Pain surged up the back of his skull and through his temples, slicing his vision clean in half. The entire room spun, a tilt and drop that left him half nauseated and fully unwilling to try again. He exhaled shakily and focused on staying still. Movement was not currently on the menu.
“Please—please don’t move,” the voice said again, this time closer and tinged with the sharp edge of worry. “You’re hurt. Truly, deeply hurt, young Master. I tried to help, I did, but there wasn’t much I could manage. I bound your wounds the best I could, but I was afraid to move you, afraid I might make it worse…”
That wasn’t particularly reassuring. It was good that someone had cared enough to try, of course, but the way she spoke implied his condition had been—and likely still was—dire. His throat burned when he tried to speak, his mouth too dry to shape words comfortably. It took a few false starts, but eventually he rasped something out.
“…Where am I?”
The sound didn’t feel like it belonged to him. It came out hoarse, grating, and off-pitch, too high and too thin to pass for his usual voice.
“You’re at the outskirts of the city,” she said quickly, the words rushing out as though silence made her nervous. “There was a demon, and you—you were fighting him, and then you collapsed. I was afraid to move you, afraid something terrible might happen if I did.”
Her breath hitched at the end. His vision blurred again, then slowly began to stabilize.
She leaned closer, and her features came into focus—a woman well past her youth, perhaps in her fifties, with hair that had turned entirely grey. Her face wasn’t marked by deep lines or frailty, just exhaustion and worry, drawn tight with concern. She seemed afraid. Not of him, necessarily, but of something else, something beyond the four corners of this broken room.
He studied her as best he could, mind still sluggish and unfocused. Had they met before? Was she someone from a forgotten mission? A face buried in memory? No. He was fairly certain this was the first time he’d seen her. Unless, of course, some wandering crack in his memory had swallowed that piece whole. That felt entirely within the realm of possibility. Either way, he had no idea who she was. No name, no familiar cadence in her speech, nothing that stirred the foggy corners of his mind.
“Who are you?”
His voice barely cooperated. It came out thin and rasped, like wind scraping over dry stone.
She flinched—not violently, just a twitch in her shoulders, a quick intake of breath she tried to smooth over.
“I—I live nearby,” she said, words catching, then tumbling over each other in a rush. “I saw the fight. I tried to hide—really, I did—but it didn’t go very well. I mean, I’m still alive, somehow, mostly thanks to you, so… thank you. Thank you so much, young master. I’m rambling, aren’t I? Let me—let me start again. I need to calm down. It was terrifying, truly. I’m still a bit shaken.” Her hands twisted in front of her, fingers curling in and out of each other, as if her body needed something to do with all that leftover fear.
Yes, she was scared. That much was obvious. The fight must’ve shaken her badly. For someone untrained—someone living an ordinary life—it would’ve been more than terrifying. It would’ve been life-altering. He wanted to offer some reassurance, anything to ease that brittle tension in her voice. But speech still came reluctantly, his throat dry and torn raw. “It’s… alright.” The words scraped their way out, barely audible. Not much. But the best he could offer.
She gave a jerky nod, more to herself than him, as if trying to will away the adrenaline still coursing through her limbs. She had helped him, despite all that fear. Despite not knowing who or what he was. That mattered. It wasn’t a small thing—not in the slightest.
“Thank you, young master,” she said again, this time a little too quickly, like she was trying to convince herself that gratitude was the right thing to hold onto. “My name is Mo Yulan. I live just around the corner, near the old well. That demon—he was rampaging through the neighborhood. You came and fought him, and you defeated him, but… well, he hurt you badly. I didn’t know what to do.” She paused, her eyes flicking to the ground, and her voice wavered.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “He was always such a good boy. I don’t know why he turned out like that. I just…” The words trailed off. Her face twisted—confusion, grief, something unspoken clenching behind her expression—and then abruptly, she stopped. Her eyes went wide, as if she'd only just realized what she’d admitted. Like the weight of it had slammed into her chest all at once. Like she understood exactly how dangerous it was to say too much.
“I shouldn’t have…” she murmured, and then suddenly her voice pitched upward. “Oh my—oh heavens, you’re from the Demon Hunting Bureau, aren’t you? Oh no. Oh no, it’s all such a mess. What should I—what should I do—?”
Ah. That explained the panic.
He wanted to sigh. He really did. But that would’ve required the use of lungs, ribs, and what remained of his composure, none of which were currently cooperating. So instead, he opted for the internal version. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying. She needed reassurance. He knew that. She was terrified, spiraling, caught in the aftermath of something she hadn’t asked for and clearly didn’t understand. And she had helped him. Voluntarily. No reward, no reason. Just fear and instinct.
So he would try.
“…Don’t worry,” he croaked, the words catching painfully in his throat. “My lady.” He paused, letting the sentence settle. His lungs burned, his tongue felt too large, and speaking was somehow both exhausting and excruciating. But still—he kept going.
“There is… nothing wrong…” He swallowed. “With befriending a demon.” The last part came out in a rasp, barely loud enough to carry across the space between them. But it was said. He meant it. And judging by the way her eyes widened—huge, round, stunned with disbelief—she’d heard him clearly enough. That was probably all the talking he had in him. For now. He let the weight of his words hang in the air, and turned his focus instead to her face, willing her to understand, to believe him.
He’d said it for her, but also for himself. Because, well—part of the reason he was currently bleeding into a stranger’s floorboards was the very stupid, incredibly reckless decision to throw away what little strength he had to save a certain great, ridiculous demon. So no. He wasn’t exactly in a position to judge. Whatever she saw in his eyes—genuine conviction, exhaustion, something else entirely—seemed to strike a chord. She didn’t answer right away, but the stiffness in her shoulders eased. Her jaw loosened. The trembling in her hands didn’t stop, but it faltered, at least. Whether that was relief or something sharper—fear, disgust—he wasn’t sure.
But he hoped it was relief.
He decided it was relief.
He didn’t know her well enough to confirm anything, but that one—relief—was the one he preferred to believe in. For a moment, he shut his eyes, just to breathe past the worst of it. The throb behind his temples. The unrelenting weight in his chest. The dull pulse of heat in his side, where the wound hadn’t yet decided whether it wanted to scab over or bleed out.
Thinking hurt. That was becoming a recurring theme. But even so, he couldn’t stop. His body wasn’t feeling generous. His mind even less so. But he kept trying to sort through the fragments of thought that rose and broke apart before he could grasp them. His energy—what little he had left—was gone. Spent. Wasted, maybe. First drained to keep that stupid monkey alive, and now fully burned out from this latest fight.
He should’ve stayed back. Should’ve asked for help. Shouldn’t have gone alone. But he had. There’d been a reason, hadn’t there? A good one. Something important enough to justify bleeding alone on a stranger’s floor, limbs shaking, breath coming short. A flicker of clarity tried to surface—brief, blinding, almost there—
And then it slipped again.
He reached for it anyway, chasing down the logic that had seemed so sound at the time. Trying, despite everything, to make sense of his own stupid, stubborn choices. Whatever that elusive thread of clarity had been, it would have to wait. It slipped back into the shadows before he could catch it, and in its place came the tug of something heavier.
Sleep.
He didn’t exactly welcome it, but he couldn’t resist it either. He and sleep had never been particularly close—especially not lately, not with everything clawing at the back of his mind—but right now, he had no strength left to argue. So sleep it was.
And hopefully, this time, without the nightmares.
The darkness pulled him under slowly, with an odd sort of patience. No sharp drop, no tearing plunge—just a gradual folding in, a hush that wrapped itself around his thoughts like thick wool.
—
Waking up, unfortunately, wasn’t nearly as kind.
Not that he had expected otherwise. Everything still hurt. His limbs ached with that slow, insistent soreness that came from overuse and injury, muscles burning just under the surface. His ribs protested even the act of breathing.
But there was one small victory. No nightmare. No dream at all, actually. Which, considering the alternatives, counted as a win.
He forced his eyes open, blinking through the blur until the room around him came into focus. It wasn’t the same place. That much was obvious. For one, this room wasn’t half-collapsed. That alone was an improvement. A significant one. The ceiling was intact, smooth beams and panels overhead, no water stains threatening to cave in. The bedding beneath him was soft, freshly laundered, layered in muted tones that didn’t scream for attention. The scent of dried herbs hung in the air, subtle and clean—pain relief, maybe, or for sleep. Or just someone’s habit of storing herbs in every crevice, the way old homes sometimes did.
There was warmth in the space, a settled calm that clung to the walls like dust. It felt lived-in. Familiar in the way a stranger’s kindness sometimes was—unexpected but welcome. Someone’s home. That much was clear. And for the moment, at least, it appeared no one else was here.
He shifted slightly, enough to glance toward the door without jarring his side too much. How the hell had she moved him?
Mo Yulan—yes, that was her name. Fragile and trembling, barely strong enough to speak without her voice wobbling. There was no way she’d gotten him here on her own. Someone had helped her. A neighbor, perhaps. A kind stranger. Maybe even a wandering healer who had taken pity on the situation.
He winced. Still hurt. Maybe not as badly as before, but the dull, ever-present ache made it clear that the healing process had a long way to go. Without his powers, recovery was an annoyingly slow process. He hadn’t been a demon for very long, but he’d gotten used to that rapid-fire healing. That snap-and-mend resilience. Now it was all sluggish and human again. Inconvenient. He hated being this weak. And it was all that stupid monkey’s fault. Stupid, stubborn, self-sacrificing Great Demon, flinging himself toward death like it was a valid strategic decision. As if Zhuo Yichen would ever let that happen. Especially not on his own damn sword. Not so long ago, he'd been prepared to be the one to strike the final blow. Had planned for it. Braced for it.
But things changed.
They had changed.
And now? Now he was the idiot who stepped in. The one who patched things, fixed problems, dragged people back from the edge whether they wanted saving or not. That was always the role he played, wasn’t it? The fixer. The one who kept things from falling apart. And now he was paying the price for that—again.
Bleeding himself dry for someone else’s survival. Trying to fix the unfixable when he had no strength left to spare.
He closed his eyes for a breath. Yeah. Such a great hero, aren’t you?
Still. He would’ve preferred his own room. His own bed. Wouldn’t he? Maybe not.
Back home, they would worry. They would hover and fuss, and Wen Xiao would probably cry—tears slipping down her perfect, luminous face like something out of a tale, too graceful to be real. That would’ve been unbearable.
And the Great Demon—Zhu Yan—would stand beside her like a shadow that refused to leave. Watching him. Measuring his every breath like he was fragile, broken. Like something that needed tending.
Ridiculous.
No, this was better. Quieter. He didn’t have to see them here. Didn’t have to watch the way Wen Xiao stood too close to Zhu Yan, head tilted slightly toward him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Or the way Zhu Yan’s hand always seemed to find her back—steady, large, confident, like he owned the space around her and everyone else should kindly look away.
They acted like no one could see them. Like it was acceptable to behave that way in front of others. Touching, whispering, smiling. Stealing glances and brushing sleeves like it meant nothing. It was improper. Utterly, completely improper.
And honestly, they should know better.
Especially Wen Xiao. She had once held herself with such dignity. Such restraint. Now she leaned into Zhu Yan like she belonged there. Like the whole world had moved to make space for them to be... whatever they were.
He hated how easily they fit together.
But of course it bothered him. He’d had feelings for her, hadn’t he? Not so long ago, even. Back when things were simpler. Back when he thought love was supposed to look like her—soft, untouchable, radiant. That had to be why it stung. That had to be why it got under his skin. Because it was indecent. That was all. They weren’t even married. A demon and a goddess—brazen enough on its own—but flaunting it so shamelessly, as if it were something to be celebrated. As if they could just behave that way in front of others. In front of him.
Disgraceful.
And the way Zhu Yan looked at her—eyes low, voice softened to something almost tender, always ready to catch her arm or steady her with that infuriating gentleness—well. That was exactly the kind of thing people ought to do behind closed doors. Not out in the open. Not where anyone could see. Certainly not where he had to see. He rubbed a hand over his face, scowling into the palm of it like the gesture alone could erase the thoughts trying to take shape.
Shameless. That’s what it was.
Utterly, offensively shameless.
Well, good news—he could move his hand. Improvement. He’d take it. Healing was slow, crawling along like an overfed slug, but it was happening. Inch by inch. He wasn’t quite dying anymore. That counted for something. Still didn’t make everything else less infuriating. Because they were. Infuriating. And not just in the usual, tolerable way. There were standards. Baseline expectations. Privacy. Decency. Some sense of decorum.
Take Pei Sijing, for instance. What even was she to Wen Xiao? A sister? A close friend? Something like that. Whatever it was, they were always touching. Closer than he understood. The girls had their own strange ways of showing affection—he’d long accepted that—but this was excessive. Pei Sijing would drape herself across Wen Xiao’s lap like a cat in a sunbeam, completely unbothered by the world, while the Great Demon leaned down to whisper into Wen Xiao’s ear. It made no sense. None of it did. He didn’t get how people could be so casual. So comfortable with each other’s space.
It wasn’t proper.
Especially not in public. Especially not during breakfast.
And yet somehow, it never seemed to matter to them. Wen Xiao would smile like it was the most normal thing in the world to have Pei Sijing lounging against her shoulder while Zhu Yan—towering and smug—would rest his hand on the curve of her back like it belonged there. Like she belonged to him.
It was improper. That was the word for it.
Shameless, even.
They weren’t married.
And even if they were, that didn’t excuse the blatant way they carried on in front of others. People had to witness it. He had to witness it. What were they even trying to prove? And Pei Sijing didn’t seem to mind at all. That was the strangest part. She just fit, somehow, into all of it. Slipping between them with the ease of someone who’d always been part of the picture. But of course she didn’t mind. She was just being friendly. That’s what it was. Some kind of strange, womanly closeness he’d never understand. The kind that didn’t mean anything, not like—
They were just… all too familiar. Too open. Too comfortable with each other. It wasn’t right.
And more than anything, it made him feel like an extra. A spare part no one had bothered to put away. Not even a proper third wheel. Some kind of useless side attachment. It made him think about leaving. Made him think about being elsewhere. Not watching. Not sitting through the thousandth soft whisper or gentle hand or knowing look passed over his shoulder. And maybe that was why he was here now, wasn’t it?
Because he left.
Because he needed space. Because he decided, somewhere along the way, that playing hero alone was better than sitting through one more morning of that nonsense.
And look how well that turned out. Probably not the best topic to dwell on. All the mess waiting back home. Better to shelve that particular disaster for now. There was another issue. Something more useful to think about.
The case.
His head still wasn’t great, but at least it was working again. Memory had finally started to surface, dragging itself out of the fog. And since he wasn’t in any shape to do much else, thinking through the details was the best use of his time. That was why he’d come out here in the first place.
There had been reports. Odd patterns. Scattered incidents—minor, but strange. Demons embedded in human communities starting to act off. Slipping up in public. Breaking cover. Losing track of themselves. Not dramatic, not violent. But wrong enough to raise flags.
No one could pin down a cause. Nothing to act on, just vague impressions. But then came the latest report. A young demon—quiet, well-mannered, nothing in his records—began unraveling. Quickly. Neighbors said he’d grown distant. Strange. Then violent.
That part, Zhuo Yichen remembered clearly. He’d gone alone. Snuck out, technically. He didn’t bother alerting the others. He still wasn’t sure if that had been reckless or necessary. At the time, it had felt urgent. Like waiting would only make things worse. He’d hoped, maybe, that the situation could be resolved cleanly. That he could talk the demon down. But by the time he arrived, there was no talking. The young man was too far gone. Whatever had taken root in his mind had already eaten through reason.
And now…
Now they had a serious problem.
Because if demons living peacefully among humans could snap without warning—no struggle, no descent, just a sudden break—then something was very wrong. There had been no pattern. No trail to follow. Just a clean break from normal to chaos. He needed to ask Mo Yulan more. If she’d known the boy, maybe she’d seen something. Or maybe she hadn’t—and that would be worse. Because if even those closest couldn’t tell when it was coming… Then it wasn’t just a problem.
It was a threat.
Demons going mad was… very much not ideal. Especially considering what was happening back home.
Because, well—they did have their own demon, or well… two. And one of them who had a bit of a track record in the madness department. Not that it was the same. Obviously not. These things weren’t connected. Couldn’t be.
Right?
No. Of course not.
Zhu Yan’s issue had always been his own. Malicious energy—that was his burden to carry. Volatile. Dangerous. But it was contained. They had at least one, maybe even two blood moons of stability before it started pressing in again. By then, Wen Xiao would be stronger. Or Zhu Yan would find some method to hold himself together. Or—Zhuo Yichen would think of something. He always did. Because if there was something going around, some influence causing demons to spiral, they couldn’t afford to ignore it. And he, personally, wasn’t about to risk Zhu Yan slipping again. Not when losing control turned him into something else entirely.
The red eyes. The sigils etched across his face like cracks in something sacred. The way his voice deepened, the way the air itself recoiled from him. That wasn’t the version Zhu Yan liked to show the world. No—his usual self was something else entirely. Calculated. Intentionally sharp. Built to draw attention and keep it. He cultivated presence the way others cultivated power. He liked being the problem, maybe—but only on his own terms. Liked standing at the center of every room—or every battlefield—like gravity had shifted in his favor. Liked sitting on trees like some sort of forest spirit dreamed up by a poet too enamored with aesthetics.
Zhuo Yichen could practically picture him now. Legs draped just so, robes arranged for maximum elegance, the line of his jaw tilted just enough to catch the moonlight at its most flattering angle. Every time, without fail. He wasn’t just brooding. He was posing. And yes, he was always the prettiest thing in the room. Or the clearing. Or the Bureau hallways. Or the top of a damn tree.
He did it on purpose, too.
And now Zhuo Yichen—reasonably, quietly—was brooding as well. Because apparently, that nonsense was contagious. All of it. The drama. The silence. The tendency to wander off and get injured. The sudden need to throw oneself at danger like that would solve anything. That was supposed to be Zhu Yan’s role. But here he was.
Zhuo Yichen, lying useless in a stranger’s bed after running headfirst into a situation he couldn’t fix.
Brilliant.
Meanwhile, Zhu Yan was probably out there. Brooding on a tree. Polished and radiant as ever. Acting like nothing touched him except tragic backstory and possibly divine lighting. He had perfected that look—miserable but beautiful. Poised in every detail. To be fair, he had been through something. There’d been the death plan. The near-spiral. The way his own energy had turned on him.
And then there was Li Lun.
Zhuo Yichen’s stomach twisted. He still didn’t know what they’d been to each other. Still didn’t want to think about it. It didn’t fit anywhere.
And then came the losses. One after another. Too many.
No.
No, he had to stop.
That was the edge of a pit he didn’t need to look into again.
He wasn’t Zhu Yan. He didn’t need moonlight and tragedy. He needed something to fix. Something to do. And definitely—definitely—not another mental image of the Great Demon’s sleeves fluttering dramatically as he tilted his head just right.
Ugh.
Absolutely not.
Thinking was exhausting. But not thinking was worse. Every time he tried to push a thought away, it slithered back in through the cracks—sharper, heavier, more persistent. Dodging them didn’t work. They only came back with more weight.
He needed to stop. Needed to focus on something, anything. The ceiling, maybe—though there was nothing interesting about it. Just blank wood and old beams, steady and plain. And focusing on how he felt was worse. His limbs were too heavy, his thoughts losing their edges, smearing together like wet ink. Memories ran sideways into half-formed ideas, slippery and thin. That wasn’t good. He’d managed to exhaust himself just by lying still and thinking. What a disaster.
The room around him felt farther away. Or maybe it was him, drifting, unmoored. His body floated and pressed down at once, too light and too dense all at once. His mind kept tugging downward, sleep curling its fingers around him, coaxing him under.
No. He didn’t want to sleep.
Sleep was... risky.
But he was already sinking.