Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The last thing Xue Yang remembered was the cutting slash of Lan Wangji’s wickedly sharp sword, a puddle of blood spreading across corpse dust, and a sickening lurch as his useless body slumped over. 

Dead. He was dead. 

He faced the concept of dying many times—whether it was starvation waving a bone-thin hand on every street corner, or those cruel beatings from fists too large for a body too small, leaving him bloodied and bruised for weeks. Never did it cross his mind he would actually become intimately acquainted with death. Not so soon. 

Heat cracked against his face like a whip as he opened his eyes. An immediate grimace twisted them shut again. Whatever hell he had woken into must’ve been the afterlife. It did a shitty job of impressing him.

The room was entirely familiar. It’s what he expected if his life had flashed before his eyes instead of being cut down by that damn sword. He could think of a number of ways to seek his revenge against that haughty, disgustingly self-assured cultivator that started and ended with that tacky blade if he was still breathing instead of passing through whatever shit memories these were. He would much rather relive the years spent in Yi City than regurgitate the seasons endured in Lanling.

Xue Yang swung his legs over the edge of his cot. Yes, it was his old cot. It even creaked in the same places when he had thrown himself upon it after slaving away at his worktable which—impossible to miss in its blockish, cluttered glory—occupied most of his cell. Or rather, as Jin Guangyao put it eloquently, his room. 

The scholars had it wrong. Life didn’t flash before your eyes. It crawled.

He cocked his head to dodge the relentless barrage of light stabbing through the window high above his head. It was purely decorative and supposedly gave the useless courtesy of informing him whether he was working through the day or working into the night. When he had petitioned the cold-eyed Jin bastard to install curtains, he had only smiled diplomatically and made an even more diplomatic bullshit spiel about restoring the Yin Tiger Tally before negotiations could be made. 

Death was terribly thorough. His corpse must’ve been rotting for days for his spirit consciousness to collect all at once. 

He whistled an old folk tune—one from Yi City. The high, pinging notes stung his ears, but he didn’t stop. It was a harmonic duet, but it had been ages since he heard the other half. He didn’t remember the low, drawn out notes—stretched so far apart it was slightly impressive that Xiao Xingchen could finish them without falling asleep. 

Idly, his fingers lifted to his chest.

A cold, terrible absence struck him. He groped through his stiff, uncooperative robes. His hand passed over neither blood nor injury. He felt his ribs protruding, the flat edge of his sternum like a knife turned on its side, but there was no familiar weight. No trace of it.

The spirit-gathering pouch was gone. 

His nails dug inside his legs. A bitter laugh bubbled up into his throat. 

Why should it be there? He was dead. It wouldn’t follow him here. 

“Xiao Xingchen…” 

He immediately recognized the shape of it on his tongue but hated the silence that always followed. 

Even in death, you can’t run from me. I won’t let you. 

As he said it, he leaned back against the stone wall. Another familiar ode to the past despite the chains not being there. 

This was quickly complicated when he realized that, despite all his favorite limbs being accounted for, a part of him was still missing. 

He lifted his left hand. A filthy curse slid against his teeth. 

It was undeniable. His little finger was gone. Gone like it had been when he actually lived in this room and toiled at that table. Gone when he dueled Lan Wangji and the pouch had been cut from his chest, surely severing his last tether to the mortal realm before hurling him back to whatever sick dream this was. 

Even if the spirit pouch was gone, he should still have his finger. What kind of cheap afterlife left its occupants disfigured?

The room tilted beneath him. His mouth tasted like ash and chalk. Both he had tasted more times than he cared to admit before he was recruited to Lanling. 

He sprang to his feet. A bolt of adrenaline, too real and sensate to be imagined, infected his veins with a pulse of heat. His fingers dipped inside his right sleeve, found the qiankun pouch, and released Jiangzai in a tight flourish of his wrist. 

The blade lashed out like a serpent. Metal hissed as it bit through the molten sunbeam in a vicious arc. 

He slid the blade over his forearm, felt the sting, saw his flesh tear, smelled the fresh rivulet of blood.

If this was the afterlife, Heaven had a sick sense of humor. 

If this was something else, unaltered at his fingertips, then…

He couldn’t waste a moment. 

A wild grin split across his mouth. It should’ve been impossible. If he was truly in Lanling, there were, of course, many problems with being alive again. Fate couldn’t even let him finish dying before throwing him back onto the gameboard, but surely the dice were loaded in his favor. 

It filled him with a kind of hunger. One that made him want to hunt, to sink his teeth into what would sate the newfound appetite. How fortunate he was to exact his revenge in the past so he might perfect it with the knowledge of what was coming, what would follow after. 

But this time he would not lose. He would not let Xiao Xingchen leave him. Not in this lifetime. He wouldn’t allow him the chance. 

Xue Yang wrested the door open, not bothering to tamper with the ward that Jin bastard issued ‘for discretion.’ A cage was a cage, locked or not. It didn’t matter if his previous owners were alerted of his departure. It might make everything else more interesting. 

A part of him whispered in the back of his mind, logical and direct. He should check who was still breathing. He was in Lanling, that much was clear, but it didn’t tell him much about the Yin Tiger Tally or how many people he killed already.

It didn’t matter. He could always come back to whet his blade. 

First he needed to find Xiao Xingchen. 

Xue Yang’s pace quickened as he strode from the training ground to the world beyond Lanling. He smiled to himself, taking great pleasure in his knowledge of the past few years. Even if this world’s Xiao Xingchen hadn’t met the infamous Xue Yang yet, it would make it all the more satisfying to mess with him. 

Xiao Xingchen was a fool. He thought he could escape. 

But those days were not over. They would spend their days together again, as it should’ve been. As it would be. 

Xiao Xingchen, Xue Yang promised, I’ll find you. I will find you and take you with me. You won’t have a chance to even think about leaving me again.

And so he left Lanling—that dirty cell, cramped cot, and stale memories. He left what no longer mattered to find the last thing that did. 

. . . .

Since he was a child, Xue Yang had been called every name under the sun. 

Miscreant. Bastard. Beast. Dog. 

How fitting. It’s like they could smell the wildness rolling off him. The instinct to bite, claw, and survive. If he was a dog, then the world of cultivators was a pen of fattened swine. In the past, he learned the craft of a blood-choked slaughter to cleanse the taint they left on his pride. Jiangzai was a loyal blade; it would cut when its master beckoned it. 

If Xue Yang had a half-decent grasp of what had transpired since his days in Lanling, he would estimate himself to currently be around seventeen or eighteen. If he hadn’t already restored the Yin Tiger Tally and culled the worthless Chang Clan, Xiao Xingchen wouldn’t be on his trail yet. If Xiao Xingchen had no suspicion for him, wouldn’t it be too easy to lure him from that boorish, tactless brute Song Lan? 

It filled him with twisted relish, knowing that once he found Xiao Xingchen, he would already have the upperhand. After all, he spent years coming to know his habits, ethics, and weaknesses. 

Instead of walking on his left side, like he knew Xiao Xingchen preferred, he would insist on walking on his right. He couldn't wait to see the look on his face and slight him in all sorts of ways. If he was in a particularly cruel mood, he would find some excuse to touch Xiao Xingchen’s sloping shoulders or straight back. That would immediately set the white-robed cultivator on edge.

All before Xiao Xingchen wandered among the common people and thickened his skin? It would be even more scandalous than it had been in Yi City! 

Xue Yang mentally jotted it down on his ever-growing list of tricks to experiment on a younger, more gullible Xiao Xingchen. 

He could distinctly remember the first time he discovered that particular trick when they had been roasting two fat fish over a crackling flame. A period of silence passed between them before the blunder. There had been a miscalculation on both their parts as he reached for the platter of steamed buns while Xiao Xingchen had turned, presumably to ask him something. Xue Yang’s char-licked hand smeared across the spotless white robes, leaving behind an ashen stain. 

He hadn’t been able to stop staring at it. Xiao Xingchen, of course, was none the wiser. 

But the sick delight had been spoiled when Little Blind complained of his smoke-smelling clothes and told him to launder that same robe. Xue Yang never forgave the scrawny wench for that. Even if it was a convenient opportunity to watch Xiao Xingchen bend over the riverbank with his sleeves rolled to his elbows.

He never knew what Xiao Xingchen was going to ask him. The budding question disappeared under a reflexive apology instead. Really, the propriety was barely tolerable, but Xue Yang found himself recalling those moments the most after—

Well. 

There was no point dwelling on it. It’s not like he thought Xiao Xingchen actually had the stones to do it. He had always been so well-tempered and level-headed. Xue Yang always assumed he was the more cutthroat one, but Xiao Xingchen had turned his dishonored blade onto himself and—

Right. No point thinking of it.

He was pretty sure killing oneself was taboo in most Daoist teachings. Not that he knew anything beyond what he overheard from loose-lipped, stiff-necked cultivators that boasted of their formal, overly pretentious educations. 

A whole lot of good those ostentatious accolades did them when they pissed themselves at the end of his blade. If Xiao Xingchen was as garrulous as those old fools, Xue Yang would’ve used Jiangzai on him before he could recite the first line of their beloved ethics sutra. If Xiao Xingchen was as uptight, every tease and prank would earn a lecture rather than one of those small, upturned smiles Xue Yang collected like final words of his victims: private, indulgent, and free to do with as he pleased. 

Xue Yang plowed through the milling crowd with a lightness to every step. The town was of poor quality. Cheap knickknacks littered every table painted in garish colors or glazed too thickly. The vendor stalls boasted over-boiled duck feet and steamed buns with more bun than steam. His mouth went dry just looking at the grayish dough and shriveled meat. He would die of starvation at this rate. 

He stumbled as something rammed into his leg. He shook it off, glancing down at the runt with a head of dark hair and dirty cheeks. Another boy darted past him wielding a sprig of dried sticks woven into a crude shape of a… person? Pagoda? 

“Watch it,” Xue Yang snapped. For good measure, he stuck out his leg and snickered as the child stumbled, his flimsy sandal snagging. 

The brat hit the ground and immediately burst into a fit of tears. Lesson learned. Don’t disrespect your elders! And don’t disturb the foot traffic! 

Xue Yang resumed his half-hearted perusing on the lackluster wares and offensive baubles. Yi City at least had enough shame to not sell junk. It had taken a few months—and a handful of knife tosses—for the shopkeepers to only display quality goods and decent cooking. This backwater town could benefit from a couple threats. 

He scanned the crowd again. His heel kicked up a cloud of dust when no smudge of white surfaced. He was sure this was the right place. The presence of demonic qi was strongest on the outskirts. A wandering cultivator only had so many options before embarking on a surely rewarding night hunt nearby. 

It was midday, presumably the height of summer with the sticky heat and dust-churned road. Yi City never boiled him alive, even during the hottest months. The shopkeepers and street vendors of Yi City also knew how to rest their voices when Xue Yang was around instead of shrieking like a deranged pack of dogs set loose around a rabbit. He stuck a finger in his ear to block out the noise. 

That brat’s wailing cries irked him beyond compare. Little Blind had sounded almost as pathetic, but at least he knew how to shut her up. It just so happened that before he could cut her throat with a merciful depth, Xiao Xingchen always folded a piece of candy into her palm and that also did the job. Lucky for her. She miraculously couldn’t wail if there was sugar on her tongue.

Xiao Xingchen always said the same thing when those candies were lifted from whatever hidden fold in his pristine robes. Xue Yang could recite it in his dreams—

“Sweet things help bitter moments.” 

His fingers twitched. A hard thud landed in his chest. 

He turned toward that serene sound, as soft as a petal landing on water. 

The thud returned, harder. Painful. The street narrowed to a single, unwavering point. 

“Daozhang,” the child mumbled through tear-ridden sobs. “Daozhang, it hurts…” 

“Try this,” came the response as smooth, graceful fingers peeled back the paper concealing the small treat. “Only cry as long as this lasts, all right?” 

The child nodded obediently. He plopped the candy onto his tongue and sucked in a ragged sniff. He held still as those same slender fingers worked patiently over his torn sandal strap. 

The smears of dirt and dust did not deter him. The movements were gentle, measured, and precise. Unhurried despite the bustle in the middle of the street. 

His robes, as white and pure as snow, were hitched around him as he knelt and tended to the wet-eyed brat. A sword, that same murderous sword wrapped with precision and care, was strapped across his straight back. 

The street blurred and tilted. Noisy chatter dulled into the distant yet all too familiar thump of an organ struggling to work properly. Xue Yang refused to move. Any ripple might disturb the image. 

It was him. 

Not older. His cheeks still held a softness that only youth provided. Not blinded. His eyes were bright like twin pools of polished metal. 

Not dead. 

Xue Yang had studied it enough times to trace the column of his neck with reflexive ease. The skin was smooth, unblemished. No offensive cut. His throat moved when he spoke, chiding the snot-nosed brat to be cautious and get along on his way as he tugged the strap into place, tested it once, and gave an encouraging pat. 

Then he was already standing, turning away, and resuming his path down the street. 

Xue Yang’s fingers twitched again. His ribs tightened, daring to shorten his breath. But he already checked his chest for the stabbing pain and found no hidden wound beyond old scars.

Xiao Xingchen walked on, sliding through the throngs of villagers in an untouchable sway of snowy robes. 

Xue Yang saw double for an instant. The terrain melted into Yi City, his own arm lifting in a wave Xiao Xingchen could not acknowledge—his own voice carried over the distance, a shout tearing from his throat as he spurred into a run, a smile on his lips. 

“Xingchen! Wait for me!”  

He had called to him in days that had long since passed. 

Xue Yang's next step was a stagger. 

“Wait…” 

Something slammed into him. He stumbled again. An ache erupted in his shoulder. 

Two crates crashed into the street. Dozens of apples spilled across his dirt-churned feet, some rolling into unsuspecting foot traffic and becoming flattened splotches of pulp.

“Watch it!” 

The shout flung spittle into Xue Yang’s face as a vendor bustled into view. He was an ugly man, all loose jowls and sun-cracked skin streaked with more than two licks of dirt. He spat out a filthy curse. His gnarled hands made the terrible mistake of tangling in Xue Yang’s robe. 

“Are ya blind?” he snapped, launching another wad of spit.

As the man unleashed a furious demand for compensation, Xue Yang decided he’d deal with this useless trash later. He peered over the man’s balding head and rancid breath to catch another glimpse of those white robes before the crowd could devour it. But the man didn’t let him. He yanked, hard. It forced Xue Yang to stumble across the trampled dirt. 

“Hey!” the vendor shouted, voice rising. “Did ya hear me?” 

Xue Yang stabbed him with a cold glare. His pockmarked, withered face instantly reddened, but Xue Yang wanted it as white as a corpse. Anyone who touched him was asking for their hands to be removed. 

As he debated how to leave this shitty town with a good impression, his silence was taken for defiance. 

The man shook him like a dust-bitten rug. “Pay up, bastard!”

How original. Xue Yang slipped the qiankun pouch into his hand from its hidden fold. He could practically feel Jiangzai rattling with vicious glee. 

A slender hand landed upon the vendor’s thick wrist. The contrast was as stark as white jade against jasper. 

“What trouble is there?” 

Xue Yang choked the pouch with a tight squeeze. He froze under the words. His eyes traced that hand to the white sleeve, the curve of an outstretched arm, a sloping shoulder. 

His mouth turned irreversibly dry.

Xiao Xingchen stood as resolute as a statue cloaked in freshly fallen snow. A crease of concern marked his otherwise serene expression. He was close enough that Xue Yang could see the strips of dust dirtying his hem—close enough to smell crushed herbs and rolled ink. He was close enough that if Xue Yang reached out…

Xiao Xingchen’s gaze fell upon him. The crease deepened. 

“If there has been an accident, perhaps we can—”

“I am a lowlife criminal and practitioner of demonic cultivation,” Xue Yang blurted. 

Xiao Xingchen blinked.

The admission had an unusual effect on those who were within earshot. The vendor’s mouth dropped open, his complaint withering in his throat. His grip suddenly lost its vigor for an old fart and Xue Yang slid free. 

A crowd had gathered from the vendor’s crass shouting. Murmurs rippled among them, blending in bewilderment, suspicion, and most deliciously fear.

Xue Yang shuffled in a timid display of remorse. To make the effect more believable, he lowered his voice into a small, pleading whine. 

“Daozhang, I’ve done terrible things. Unspeakable things. But…” He inched a step closer, pouring everything into the tremble of his bottom lip. “But I want to turn over a new leaf!”

The vendor gawked, stunned by this turn of events. “Wh-what is this now?!” 

Xue Yang took another dramatic step forward. He surrendered his wrists in what he knew would look like a heartfelt declaration. “Reform me, daozhang! I don’t want to be this way anymore. Daozhang, you are no doubt from an illustrious sect of no parallel!” 

Xiao Xingchen stirred from his stillness. A brow lifted. But it was quickly accompanied by the slight narrowing of those steadfast eyes. 

Xue Yang praised his own genius. Xiao Xingchen was perplexed, naturally, but who could turn away a sinner needing guidance? Not Xiao Xingchen! The man was a hopeless fool! 

Xue Yang prostrated himself right there in the middle of the road, earning a few gasps. Perfect. He had an even larger audience. Xiao Xingchen couldn’t escape without damaging his flawless reputation. It was now or never. 

Xue Yang clutched at his hem, tugging at the white robes in a fervent beg. “Daozhang, daozhang… Please take me with you. I swear to reform under your guidance!” 

He dared a glance upward, imitating what he imagined might come from an earnest disciple to a cold, implacable master. But Xiao Xingchen was neither of those things. He was disgustingly gentle, unbearably merciful, and terribly honest. 

Xiao Xingchen considered him for a long moment.

Longer than he should’ve! Xue Yang was giving it his all down here! 

Xiao Xingchen’s head tilted slightly. His serene expression cracked as a small smile appeared on his lips.

It was different from the crowd, whose ugly, lopsided expressions pinched with disgust or dismissal. There was no trace of distaste in Xiao Xingchen’s expression. In the subtle tilt of his head, there was something beyond curiosity. Something Xue Yang didn't recognize. 

“I—I mean, of course, who else to guide me but a gentle master such as yourself?” 

Xue Yang laid it on thick. Xiao Xingchen would definitely find him irresistible. A criminal handing himself in was low-hanging fruit! Especially for a fresh-faced cultivator with merits to accumulate! 

Xue Yang pinned his fingers together and folded his thumb over his little finger on his right hand, imitating an oath. “I swear to never steal under your tutelage,” he said, trying his best to sound repentant. “And I won’t, er, commit any atrocities that will scourge the common people.” 

The Chang Clan bastards and Baixue Temple frauds he could kill after he possessed Xiao Xingchen. He killed them once. Doing it a second time would take half as long! 

“Very well.”

Before Xue Yang could react, Xiao Xingchen leaned down. Those same jade-smooth hands cupped his arms as they rose together. Xiao Xingchen was practically beaming like the first sunrays over the mountain. It stung Xue Yang’s eyes. This close, it was hard to face him. But he didn’t dare look away.

Xiao Xingchen’s expression softened even more. He was utterly convinced! Fool!

“If you wish to reform,” Xiao Xingchen said, “then I will guide you.”

“D-Daozhang—!” the vendor spluttered. “He’s a demonic cultivator! He… he is already corrupted!” 

Xue Yang’s mouth hooked with amusement. He was rotten to the core, incurable, and no doubt beyond saving. But this was his best performance yet! 

Xiao Xingchen passed another studious look over him, but luckily his smirk was already hidden.

“I cannot turn away someone who seeks the right path,” Xiao Xingchen answered simply. He dropped a silver tael into the vendor’s palm and turned, beckoning Xue Yang to follow. 

The vendor stammered something incoherent, maybe a protest or ward of protection, but Xue Yang didn’t care what any of the worthless trash might say. He followed in Xiao Xingchen’s footsteps and finally allowed himself a long-suppressed smile as Xiao Xingchen foolishly turned his back to resume his path down the street. 

Ah, Xingchen, Xue Yang mused privately. You have no idea how much fun I’m going to have. 

. . . .

There were, of course, problems with being alive again. Most of them were barely footnotes in a very short list of things he needed to do. Most pressingly at the top: take Xiao Xingchen to Yi City. The result was straightforward, but the objectives were not. 

He didn’t like objectives. That cunning Jin bastard handled most of the legwork while he was let loose on killing sprees. For once, he had to consider consequences instead of damn them. It was a complete nuisance. 

If that fraudulent, conceited Song Lan was still kicking around somewhere, Xiao Xingchen would make a fuss about living in Yi City, much less go sightseeing there. 

Xue Yang wouldn’t mind a struggle if it came to that—he could always turn Xiao Xingchen into a fierce corpse and force him to do his every bidding—but wouldn't it be so much more amusing if he could trick Xiao Xingchen into wanting to stay in Yi City? It would be the ultimate sabotage! Nevermind his nonsensical dream of starting his own sect somewhere with another dimwitted outcast. The two cultivators shared lofty ideals but not much else. How could two men even accomplish something like that? It’s no wonder that flimsy dream started and ended with Xiao Xingchen gouging out his own eyes. He had no vision of the future!

The farther he got from Lanling, the better. The last thing he needed was for Jin Guangyao to pick up his trail and hunt him down like some errant mutt that tore from its leash. He had much more delicate plans to amuse himself with than waste his second life on useless fodder. 

Which was, in part, why it was rather inconvenient for Xiao Xingchen to lead him to a ramshackle inn after finishing the last of his errands. Xue Yang caged a groan of disgust when he took stock of the dilapidated slab of wood plastered together with a handful of nails and probably twice as many prayers. 

He would much rather sleep under the stars than wake up with cobwebs in his mouth. He would rather leave this backwater town behind altogether. The food was bland, the amenities lacking, and the people cheap. Cheaper than he and Xiao Xingchen ever were. And they only had one iron pot to their name! 

Xiao Xingchen, the sly bastard, must have been playing some kind of spiteful trick. He couldn’t actually expect Xue Yang to drop his standards so low. 

Xiao Xingchen raised a palm to the crooked board shaped in a crude imitation of a door. It shrieked like an old crone as he pushed it open, allowing Xue Yang to enter first. 

He skipped up the steps, more slabs of worn stone cracked with age and boasting sparse clumps of weeds. Lovely. He planted his hands on his hips as he swept past Xiao Xingchen over the threshold, a paragon of lowlife scum tasting civilized shelter for the first time. 

He ignored the lurch of his stomach as the low tables inside were chipped, peeling, or carried a faint odor from liquor stains. Xiao Xingchen’s robes were the cleanest thing within reach around here. It was deplorable living conditions, even for street trash.

“How quaint,” he said, mimicking the cadence of Jin Guangyao’s lethal, saccharine tone. 

Xiao Xingchen stepped beside him. “I thought so too.”

His chin lifted as he cast his gaze to the exposed rafters above. Curtains of dust, thick enough to make a blanket, flickered in the stripes of sunlight pummeling through the greasy windows.

“Our room is upstairs. Ah, normally I would offer separate accommodations, but…” His mouth lifted in a small smile. “I don’t have much money.” 

Xue Yang felt a thrill kick up in his chest. He would have all night to pester him. His fondest pranks often involved their nighttime routine. Xiao Xingchen always went along with it, his guard lowered and oblivious to clever schemes. 

Xue Yang nodded in what he hoped conveyed earnest enthusiasm. “This one won’t disturb your rest, daozhang. If I do, may I be struck by a dozen bolts of celestial lightning!” 

Xiao Xingchen motioned for him to follow again, face serene as ever. 

He bought the act so easily. It wasn’t enough to satisfy Xue Yang yet. 

He followed him up the sunken, splinter-infested stairs. It thrilled him to discover an even better view of Xiao Xingchen’s smooth gait unencumbered by blindness, poverty, or exile. His straight back refused to slump or slacken. Every planted foot unlocked a hidden chain reaction: robes shifting, waist bending, hand swaying in counterbalance. 

He had witnessed that same lithe form in combat—slicing, pivoting, and carving the choreography of a steady snowfall with his treasured blade. He had seen him locked in concentration scaling fish or creasing dough, head bowed forward, wrists dangling over his work. He had laid his body down on a straw cot in their shared coffinhouse. The blood had not yet dried, but his wrists were bare, and Xue Yang checked the pulse there over and over again. 

Xiao Xingchen lifted a hand, gesturing to the rust-licked door. “It’s small, but it’s only for a night.” 

Only for a night. Xue Yang had heard those words before, but Xiao Xingchen wouldn’t remember them. Not in this lifetime. 

The room was—well, it barely constituted a room at all. There simply wasn’t room. All four walls seemed to slant outward like a distended belly full of worms and rot. The swell infected the single window on the opposite wall within spitting distance. Its latch was rusted shut in alternating shades of decay. A single bed that looked big enough for a half-starved mutt littered one end. It stuck out like a crooked finger, jutting rudely toward the singular low table scarred by what Xue Yang hoped were knife scratches. Two old cups with faded paint idled beside a neglected teapot. 

Xiao Xingchen began to unload his pack, impervious to the hovel he had made his sleeping quarters. With every item he drew from his pack, there was a mindful place for it. He instantly took to the bed, setting aside what looked like various cultivator tools, bundles of what could resemble rations, and a stack of talismans scored with black and red ink. 

Xue Yang slid beside him as close as a barnacle. He plucked one of the talismans and feigned confusion, scouring each line. It was a talisman of decent strength, still basic among cultivators but accurately drawn. 

“Daozhang,” he said, turning the talisman in clueless angles, “what does this do?” 

If Xiao Xingchen was bothered by the sudden proximity, it didn’t show. He neither leaned away nor revealed any discomfort. 

“You have a good eye,” he said. “This one covers our scent from malicious monsters.” 

Xue Yang retrieved another. “And this one?” 

“That one can start a fire.” 

“And this?” Xue Yang deliberately let his hand slip, skewing the neat stack of talismans across the bed. 

Xiao Xingchen paused, considering. 

Xue Yang internally smiled. Who knew Xingchen was already so meticulous at this age? It was entirely too enjoyable to intrude upon his few belongings. And the best part, Xue Yang could claim complete ignorance! 

“That one,” Xiao Xingchen said at last, “disperses demonic qi.” 

Xue Yang’s nail dented the corner of the parchment. He dropped it a second later, letting it flutter atop the spill. “Sounds serious. Best not to waste it now then.” 

His mouth was dry. Dry enough that the stout pot was looking somewhat appetizing. 

He sauntered over to the table and retrieved one of the flattened cushions stuffed under it. A layer of thick dust was baked onto the padding, but he already inhaled a cloud of it going up the stairs. He plopped down with an audible sigh, spreading out his legs in a lazy stretch. 

Xiao Xingchen followed him there, taking a seat across from him, his legs tucked under in a proper pose befitting a meditative cultivator of unparalleled manners. 

Xue Yang stole a cup between his fingers, working his thumb over the rim. He really didn’t want to drink whatever rank tea was sitting in the pot, but it would at least give his hands and mouth something to do. 

“My surname,” Xiao Xingchen said suddenly, “is Xiao, the same character for daybreak. Xiao Xingchen.” 

A flake of ceramic chipped under the squeeze of Xue Yang’s thumb. 

If they were truly meeting for the first time, it was a proper greeting. But for some reason, it drove a blunt nail between his ribs. The sting of anger was quick and sharp. Then it was gone. 

The silence lasted too long. Xiao Xingchen lowered his chin, looking somewhat embarrassed. Then, lifting his hand slowly, he wrote the character atop the table between them, wiping dust to reveal an etched character. 

Xiao. 

Then another, written beside it. 

Xingchen. 

Xue Yang nearly scoffed. It was no fault of Xiao Xingchen’s that he assumed Xue Yang could neither read nor write. Xue Yang had, after all, assumed the poor heritage of a wretched criminal with a flimsy backstory. 

He lifted one knee into an idle lounge. “Chengmei.” 

“Chengmei?” 

Xiao Xingchen didn’t question his lack of a surname. He probably assumed Xue Yang was too poor to own one. 

Then, in a private volume Xue Yang wasn’t ready to hear, “It suits you.”

Xue Yang smiled. He couldn’t help it. The courtesy name wasn’t special. It was an ironic joke. But it somehow took on a new shape, a new meaning, when Xiao Xingchen was the one speaking it. The name occupied his whole mouth, his tongue, his throat even. It was a pleasurable instant—to take up so much space with something as innocuous as a courtesy name. 

Xue Yang shook his head to hide most of his amusement. If this had been his past life, he would’ve wanted to reprimand Xiao Xingchen for being so trusting of a lowlife criminal. There were few places an upstanding, gentle beauty could end up if he invited every pitiful criminal to his room.

“You’re very accommodating,” Xue Yang said mildly, leaning forward onto the table, “to someone you picked off the street.” 

Xiao Xingchen accepted the words with an untroubled look but failed to recognize the light scolding underneath.

“You requested my help,” he replied. 

Xue Yang cocked his head, resting his chin on a suggestive splay of his hand. “Do you always bring strangers to your room?” 

Xiao Xingchen laughed. A light, breathless sound. “Not always. I suppose you’re the second.” 

A sting. Like sweat leaking into a fresh wound. That bastard Song Lan was still taking up too much space, even if he wasn’t there. 

“I’ve only recently left my master,” Xiao Xingchen continued. “I don’t have much experience with worldly affairs.”

Clearly, Xue Yang internally mused. You make it too tempting, Xingchen. Can’t you see anyone else with a black stain on their heart would want to corrupt you? You’re lucky I got to you first.

“I am traveling with a companion. His name is Song Lan.” Importantly, Xingchen did not scrawl the characters across the table or Xue Yang would’ve flipped it. “We intend to wander for a time, and if fate allows it, establish a sect of our own.” 

There was no boast or edge of pride. It drove another pinprick between Xue Yang’s ribs.

He would make a terrible politician. An even worse sect leader. Those positions were usually reserved for those willing to kill and scheme their way to the top. If Xiao Xingchen really founded a sect, he would be deposed within an incense stick. 

Xue Yang tossed aside the cup. The ugly ceramic was suddenly too offensive to touch. 

Xiao Xingchen was really like this then. Idealistic, determined, and possessing a heart untainted by these so-called worldly affairs. Bright Moon and Gentle Breeze couldn’t have been a more fitting albeit dramatic description of his character. 

In the silence that settled like another layer of dust, Xiao Xingchen retrieved the pot and poured the watered down tea into both cups. He raised his in a polite gesture, but when Xue Yang sniffed it suspiciously, Xiao Xingchen pressed the rim to his own lips. A single swallow poured down his throat. He lowered the empty cup onto the table with a soft clack. 

Impressed that he didn’t immediately choke, Xue Yang almost poured him another cup to watch it all over again, briefly considering how to replace the tea with strong liquor, but Xiao Xingchen gestured toward him. 

“Your meridians are unsettled,” he said. “If you permit it, I can examine them.” 

Xue Yang stilled. 

Oh, right. He nearly forgot how he ended up here. Leave it to Xiao Xingchen to stay on task and worry for the wellbeing of others! 

Xue Yang let an easy smile split his face, easing into something equally nonthreatening and nonthreatened. He pushed himself upright only to slouch over the table, his robe exposing the bold line of his collarbone as he rolled his sleeve up past his elbow, ridiculously too far for a simple meridian check.

“By all means,” he said. “Fix me.” 

He carefully watched Xiao Xingchen, expecting sudden restraint or even embarrassment with averting eyes or a stunned pause. 

Instead, Xiao Xingchen took his wrist with calm precision and slid his fingers over the pulse point. 

Xue Yang’s smile faltered. 

Xiao Xingchen was far too comfortable! In the face of vulgarity, he should’ve shown some sign of offense. He neither pulled away nor refused altogether to have such a shameless patient.

His touch felt exactly as Xue Yang remembered it. His skin was slightly warm, laden with a strong pulse that had drained from him when he refused to speak again. The touch was unhurried, steady, and light enough that Xue Yang, for a moment, questioned if it was even there or was simply his imagination. 

Stillness locked him into place as Xiao Xingchen summoned a thread of spiritual power and threaded it carefully against his veins. It was slightly uncomfortable, but all touch was.

When the thread dipped lower, searching deeper where no one had breached before, should never breach, the first to recoil was Xue Yang. 

It was too late to hide his flinch. A bolt had struck somewhere tender and unguarded. For a moment, it was worse than anything. At a certain depth, there was a weakness lurking. 

Shit. It actually fucking hurt. 

“Are you all right? Did I—” 

“It was just a pinch,” Xue Yang said, nocking another grin. “You’re very thorough, Xi—”

He stopped, furious at himself for such a careless blunder.

Xiao Xingchen had withdrawn his hands, but they were still poised over the table, neither retreating fully or insisting on trying again. It was entirely neutral, but Xiao Xingchen was looking at him again. 

“You may call me whatever you find comfortable,” he said. 

Xue Yang let a deliberate playful note peek through his tone. “I feel very comfortable with you,” he said. “Gege.” 

Xiao Xingchen’s fingers tightened for the briefest instant. He cleared his throat with a small cough. “I’m not much older than you. We’re peers.”

Oh, Xingchen, Xue Yang crooned inwardly. Did I poke a nerve at last? So humble with your status and seniority. A loose robe won’t sway you, but a little familiarity is enough to make you stiff? 

Xiao Xingchen was making it far too easy. If some nefarious scumbag with worse intentions got to him first, it would’ve been too easy to corrupt him!  Xue Yang, at least, was more interested in teasing him thoroughly before driving him past the brink.

His luck quickly ran dry. The door swung inward with a shrill whine. 

Song Lan stepped over the threshold with a wrapped bundle under his arm and a package of dried herbs dangling from the other. 

“I spoke with the local fishermen. It will halve our travel to take a boat through—” 

He stopped. The hilt of his sword poked over his dark-robed shoulder, shimmering with a vicious glint. If it had an equally cutting pair of eyes, Xue Yang worried he already would’ve bled out by now. 

Distant Snow and Cold Frost indeed. 

It was amusing to guess what Song Lan saw in that moment as he took in the scene: Xue Yang, a dirt-flayed scoundrel, reclined too close to his precious companion; his robes skewed, and a bare wrist extended between two cups of shared tea.

Song Lan squeezed his parcels tighter. “Who is this?”  

His proud, aloof appearance was surely meant to be more impressive after hearing the coldness in his voice. 

Xiao Xingchen rose from the table, making Xue Yang’s sick pleasure curl around another thrill. The sudden parting would resemble two lovers caught in a tryst. 

“Ah, Zichen, this is—” 

“A stray,” Xue Yang supplied smoothly, letting his unkempt robes speak for themselves. “Picked off the street. I thought I was being dragged to a brothel.” 

“You—!” Fury flashed in Song Lan’s dark eyes. His glare cut to the cups. To the bed. To the lack of space. 

He finally stitched his gaze to Xiao Xingchen, refusing to acknowledge Xue Yang. 

“And you brought him here?” 

“Yes, we already paid for the night,” Xiao Xingchen replied. He retrieved the supplies from Song Lan’s tight-fisted grip. 

“He shouldn’t stay with us.” Then, hurling another scathing look at Xue Yang, Song Lan’s short-fused temper crested all at once. “You,” he said flatly. “Get out. We don’t have money.” 

Xue Yang tilted his head. Was Song Lan really insinuating that he was some nameless whore? Or that he was a sticky-fingered beggar looking for the nearest coin pouch? It might have been more accurate in his past life, but he was a reformed scoundrel now!

Pretentious fraud, he thought with no shortage of heated contempt, I see you’ve kept your scowl in pristine condition.

Xue Yang lounged across his cushion. The table became another prop of his so far quiet defiance. He was lucky that Xiao Xingchen had stood, even if it meant he was now closest to Song Lan. He could send a number of smug looks and suggestive grins toward Song Lan without Xiao Xingchen noticing. 

Song Lan ignored his antics, but there was a tick in his jaw. He turned again, addressing Xiao Xingchen. “You don’t know who he is.” 

“He asked for my help,” Xiao Xingchen said, as though this was enough to end the discussion, but seeing as how Song Lan was even more distressed by this, offered a tactful smile. “Chengmei needs treatment—”

“Chengmei?” Song Lan repeated with a light scoff. “A sick joke. He must be messing with you.” 

“I was hoping another righteous savior would be charming,” Xue Yang mused. “Not scowling.” 

It was no wonder why Song Lan was forced to wander instead of settling down with a prospective lady of some affluent family. 

Song Lan jabbed a finger at him. “I don’t have to charm anyone.” To Xiao Xingchen, he growled low, “I don’t like him.” 

Arming himself for the final blow, Xue Yang went for the throat. “So direct. Must I beg for his hospitality too, gege?” 

Song Lan’s face changed color, turning white, an amusing shade of green, then a predictable flush of rage.

If Xue Yang didn’t know any better, he would’ve guessed Song Lan’s core was about to detonate. And Jiangzai didn’t even need to be summoned!

Using such a brazen address for his beloved companion might even spur the brute to lash out and Xue Yang could kill him in self-defense. A perfectly plausible excuse!

Song Lan was fake and conceited like the cultivation world itself. As utterly distasteful as the lukewarm tea in that ugly pot. They were similar in age, yet Song Lan acted like some noble lord, lecturing and dismissing him. 

Song Lan’s temper flared in an entirely predictable way. “You—!” 

“That’s enough,” Xiao Xingchen said. “The matter is already settled. We’re only staying here for a night.” 

Song Lan’s jaw tightened. “It isn’t settled. He shouldn’t be staying at all.” 

Xue Yang rose from the table, taking his next cue from Song Lan. He slid close to Xiao Xingchen in what could be written off as timidity. “The bed is big enough for two. Gege, we could share—”

“Shameless!” Song Lan’s hands crackled with spiritual power at his sides. 

“Both of you are too loud,” Xiao Xingchen said. “Who's going to pay if you incur a charge?” 

Xiao Xingchen let the silence speak for itself. They were all broke apparently. He crossed precisely two paces and reclined on the bed, folding his hands over his stomach and closing his eyes. 

“I’ll take the bed. You can decide where you’ll be sleeping,” he continued. “I believe the owner mentioned a bench near the stairs.” 

Xue Yang’s smirk froze on his face. 

A laugh kicked up in his throat, but he swallowed it. Song Lan was glaring daggers at him, no doubt debating what organ he would first stab if given the chance. 

Xue Yang flapped his hand. “I’m too poor to rack up a fee.” 

Feeling particularly dauntless after all, he retrieved the ugly cups filled with disgusting tea and offered one to Song Lan. His gesture was immediately met with a shrewd scoff. 

“Don’t worry, Zichen,” Xue Yang said, parroting the awful courtesy name. “I’ll use gege’s cup. You can have mine. I haven't even touched it yet.” 

Without waiting for Song Lan to swing his sword or clenched fist, Xue Yang emptied Xiao Xingchen’s cup with a gulp and waved the other under Song Lan’s flared nostrils. 

Song Lan demonstrated remarkable restraint. He smacked Xue Yang’s wrist, knocking the cup from his hand where it bounced across the uneven floorboards. He begrudgingly sat against the farthest wall, which wasn’t far enough, and didn’t speak another word. His posture was rigid, tense, and held a contained fury that Xue Yang, through one method or another, would poke a hole through. 

Xue Yang slowly sank on the seat cushions, stretching out with exaggerated ease to show Song Lan how pleased he was by the arrangement. Xiao Xingchen could pretend he was taking a neutral stance, but he allowed Xue Yang to stay despite everything clearly wrong with him. 

A couple of flayed cushions didn’t bother him. He slept in far worse places. 

Sitting cross-legged and straight-backed, Song Lan was staring at him with hawkish intensity. Hard enough that Xue Yang actually felt his nerves prickle. The frigid, dark-robed cultivator was assessing his every move like a hawk circling above rustling grass, wary of the snake but hungering for a plump field mouse.

Xue Yang rolled onto his side, propping up his head and smiling with false charm. His sleeve rolled back again, and he was pleased to find that Song Lan was more easily bothered by the vulgar display than Xiao Xingchen.

“Don’t worry, Zichen,” he said in a flippant and entirely dishonest tease. “I don’t bite.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Song Lan snapped. 

To Xue Yang’s dismay, he didn’t take the bait. His broad-knuckled hands whitened and strained over his knees, nearly tearing holes in the fabric.

“If you’re afraid of villains taking advantage,” Xue Yang said, “maybe you should keep watch outside.” 

At the mention of ‘taking advantage,’ Song Lan stiffened even more. 

“You think I’d leave him alone with you?”

Xue Yang could easily point out that he’d already been alone with Xiao Xingchen, but he let disbelief color his tone.

“What could I possibly do? Gege is a powerful cultivator.” 

Song Lan wasn’t too dense to miss the undercurrent of mockery. “Shut up.”

Xue Yang offered a casual shrug, tipping back against the cushions. He propped one leg over the other and folded his arms above his head. 

It was only his first day traipsing through his second life and he was already sharing a room with Xiao Xingchen. And he didn’t even need to kill Song Lan to do it! 

At this rate, Xiao Xingchen wouldn’t just be a plaything but his trained pet!

He closed his eyes despite sharing a cramped room with two formidable cultivators. It would’ve been better to stay awake, watch Xiao Xingchen a while longer, confirm that the soft stirring was really his breath, unhindered and deep, and his pulse was a steady, unaltered rhythm. But Song Lan was still watching him. 

Xue Yang reviewed his expanding list of objectives with slight irritation. His next objective was clear enough. 

He needed to get rid of Song Lan.

. . . .

Night hunts, as it turned out, were incredibly boring.

They walked for half a day, stopped briefly for Xiao Xingchen to refine the direction of the monster, then walked some more. A slight adjustment to their path took them through a copse of spindly trees instead of the muddy riverbank. He and Song Lan had apparently been tracking the same monster for almost a week. While eavesdropping, Xue Yang overheard Xiao Xingchen’s low murmur confirming that the monster was behaving strangely and it added another half day to their travel.

They did not take the boat up the snaking river since their skinny coin pouch came up a small fortune short. The crooked fishermen with thick lotus leaves for hands were hiking the prices so far up, Song Lan choked when he heard the total cost. Even when Song Lan haggled for two passengers—how selfless of him to give up his seat—the most talkative boat fucker refused to budge, citing it too dangerous to row upstream. Something about curses and bloated corpses. 

Shameless bastards they were, trying to scam a couple of travelers just because they were wearing their formal cultivator robes. 

A fancy outfit didn’t change the fact that they were close to broke. Normally, hunting monsters earned a considerable reward. But Xue Yang wouldn’t be surprised if Xiao Xingchen turned it down because hunting monsters was ‘the honorable thing to do.’ In their past life, it had taken some persuasive arguments to teach him about the ways of the world, and most importantly, how it revolved around money. 

It was a fortunate thing for Xiao Xingchen to cross paths with him sooner. He would somehow rack up a debt instead of making a living with night hunts if Xue Yang didn’t intervene. Or worse, he’d become a street performer, and Xue Yang knew better than anyone that Xiao Xingchen didn’t have thick enough skin for something like that. 

But that was a future problem. His current dilemma involved the dark-robed cultivator stalking ahead and occasionally flinging skeptical looks over his shoulder. 

Xue Yang whistled the same folk tune from Yi City. It seemed to bother Song Lan, especially when he purposely didn’t quite hit the right note. It was amusing to watch him bristle and quicken his pace, seemingly to outrun the poor musical ability, but it was more enjoyable that Xiao Xingchen noticed, and, instead of pulling ahead with Song Lan, sidled beside Xue Yang. 

Under the canopy of trees, as the sun finally retreated from its zenith, patches of light glowed against his white robes. Besides the slight beading of sweat at his neck from their relentless pace, he was untouched by any visible markers of fatigue or boredom. 

“What song is that?” Xiao Xingchen asked.

Xue Yang twirled a long piece of grass he had torn, only because it reminded him of Jin Guangyao’s hensheng that could slit throats with a single tug.

“You want to sing it with me?” Xue Yang said.

Xiao Xingchen regarded him with another look. Somehow, it appeared… different from the others. Before Xue Yang could determine what exactly had changed, Xiao Xingchen’s mouth softened with a smile, erasing the trace.

“All right,” he said. “How does it go?” 

For all Xiao Xingchen knew, the song could’ve been a demonic incantation. But he sounded genuine.

Xue Yang tossed the piece of grass over his shoulder. “Don’t know,” he said. “I made it up. Can we rest? My feet are sore.” 

Xiao Xingchen’s smile remained in place. “It will be better to rest once the monster is dealt with. If you’re too tired to continue, you may stay here and we can retrieve you.” 

It was offered as a polite suggestion, but something was wrong. Xiao Xingchen was watching him intently. Not like Song Lan last night, but with a similar focus. It was almost disarming to be scrutinized with a gentle smile. 

Xue Yang had been inspected and judged too many times to not notice. 

He let out a laugh that made Song Lan turn his head with comical speed. “I wasn’t serious. I can walk farther than anybody. You fell for it?” 

Xiao Xingchen continued, untouched by the tease, “Good. If you can keep up, then stay close.” 

“Don’t worry, daozhang,” he said. “I swear I won’t let you out of my sight.” 

Xiao Xingchen accepted this with another nod. He lengthened his stride, pulling away from Xue Yang and returning to Song Lan’s side. His return was met with ease as Song Lan’s scrupulous glances disappeared completely. Xiao Xingchen lifted a sleeve to his mouth as he shared a private laugh, but Xue Yang was too far away and too pissed off to understand what Song Lan had said to earn that reaction. 

Xue Yang tried to not think too much about the first time he’d been in a similar position, trussed up like a dishonored war prize dragged to Golden Carp Tower to await his execution. It was different now. He wasn’t bound. He wasn’t implicated in the Chang Clan’s massacre. He had gotten to Xiao Xingchen first. 

So why then did it feel as though with every step he took, the distance between him and Xiao Xingchen, their shared life in Yi City, was getting farther and farther away? 

Dusk fell quickly upon them. With it came the silence to stew in such thoughts. Xue Yang hadn’t been paying attention to the particularly sticky yin energy until it rudely announced itself. It was like stepping into a thickened cloud of dust. It stung his throat and made bile surge upward in an interrupting choke. 

With a single step, they entered the monster’s array. 

The landscape seemingly bent to its will, even though the monster was no doubt a low-level type with a few tricks and no flair. The air quickly dampened, welcoming them with a sour rot of drowned roots and dead things that had never been properly buried. He could taste the decay on the back of his tongue, and for once, the taste of death didn’t fill him with exhilaration. 

The skeletal trees thinned and twisted, ragged moss draping from thin branches like burial shrouds hanging from gray, cracked bones. The rotting roots clawed their way over the sodden ground as if trying to escape. Before Xue Yang could suggest a separate path to avoid the filthy swamp, they were already sludging through ankle-deep mud. 

Those scammers posing as fishermen were onto something. Upstream stank like a week-old corpse. 

Each step had to be tested. The rotten reeds leaned inward like hundreds of sentries, crowding the narrow patches of passable ground. As they trudged deeper into the rot, the hollow tips snagged on clothing and snapped eerily loud. What looked treadable sagged with slippery consequences. Crossing the wet puddles was hardly better. What appeared like shallow pools held enough bite to trap a foot mid-stride. Coiled roots as slick as oil lurked beneath the surface, hungry to trap an errant ankle. 

It was efficient terrain for a low-level monster to catch dim-witted prey. 

Xue Yang adjusted his pace, falling slightly behind Xiao Xingchen and definitely out of reach of Song Lan. When things went poorly, it would be best to cling to Xiao Xingchen. 

Song Lan, predictable as ever, hated every part. 

He moved stiffly but not clumsily. It was impossible to emerge clean, but every time mud splashed his hem or gobbled up his toes, his mouth flattened into a more severe line.

Watching must have been too entertaining because Xue Yang stumbled across a hidden root. He stumbled, footing lost. His palm scraped over a trunk slickened by damp moss.  

Xiao Xingchen caught his arm. With a squeeze, he steadied them both.

Xue Yang peeled away from him. The breath he sucked inside his lungs felt moist and left a film of residue on his tongue. He quickly brushed off the smears of pulp from his palm.

It was strange. The monster nesting nearby was clearly a lower rank. Besides the array, which broke as easily as cobwebs, its aura was weak and spread thin, like a net cast too far. The pungent scent still stung the air, traces in every direction, but for a demonic practitioner as experienced as Xue Yang, he could detect the strongest thread pulling him deeper through the grove of creaking reeds. 

Not strong enough to face us head on? 

Xue Yang kept his smile private. It was a clever, little monster. Probably a yao. Weak, no doubt, but its elusive nature made it dangerous in other ways. 

He stole a glance toward Song Lan who cut down entire lineages of reeds with a single swipe of his sword. An idea quickly took root and he cleared his throat. 

“Let’s split up.” 

Song Lan cast an icy glare over his shoulder. “Absolutely not. This terrain is unstable. We shouldn’t divide our strength until we know what it is.” 

“The monster is weak,” Xue Yang said. “If it wanted to attack, it would’ve already. We should split up to cover more ground.”

Xiao Xingchen stepped beside him. His white robes fluttered loosely. As soon as they entered the array, his steady gaze reflected the slanting landscape and treacherous path ahead. But now it settled on Xue Yang.

Song Lan performed a tight wrist movement, chopping another formation of reeds. “What makes you so knowledgeable about monsters?” 

Xue Yang shrugged. “Common knowledge. I thought a proficient cultivator would know that much at least. Aiya, I suppose even scholars have their limits.” 

Song Lan swiveled around again, his knuckles cracking against the hilt. “You—!” 

Xiao Xingchen’s head tilted slightly. “The monster’s aura is indeed weak, but it has evaded capture and even deceived my tracking techniques.” He appraised the stagnant water with a slight dip in his brow. “It’s rather intelligent but relies on the terrain to catch its prey. The array was permeable for those with spiritual power but repels demonic energy. This must be its nest.” 

Xue Yang’s mouth quirked. 

Very good, Xingchen, he thought. Seeing things clearly as ever. Well, maybe most things.

“If that’s the case, splitting up is foolish,” Song Lan continued. “It’s clearly intimidated by our numbers.” 

“Perhaps,” Xiao Xingchen said. “Luring it out may be difficult. We are currently in a place that feeds its power.” 

Song Lan frowned. “You think it’s aquatic?”

“Mn,” Xiao Xingchen confirmed with a nod. “I think it uses water as passage. It would explain why its aura is spread so thin in its own nest. It can conceal itself while misleading us wherever it pleases.”

Xue Yang battled the sudden urge to offer a string of praise. 

Xiao Xingchen looked at him again. “We stay together, for now. If we split up, it can easily gain the advantage. If we can move closer to the center and evade its traps, it may be enough to corner it or force it to reveal itself.” 

Xue Yang didn’t protest, even if he would’ve preferred otherwise. It was more interesting when Xiao Xingchen got to be in charge.

They ventured deeper into the rotten nest. The farther they crossed, the worse the traps became. Xue Yang first noticed the absence of muddy tracks behind them. As soon as this was learned, the ground gripped their legs, swallowing them waist-deep like the maw of a hungry beast before Song Lan blasted them free. Tangled roots, thicker and hooked like talons, provided a treacherous path over the boiling swamp below. It hissed and spat as they carefully crossed the charming little ecosystem.

Xue Yang cursed under his breath. He had died once already. Repeating the experience felt excessive.

Xiao Xingchen halted at a divide between one coiled root and the next. Blistering heat simmered not far below.

“Weak,” Xue Yang muttered. “But persistent.”

Xiao Xingchen nodded, retrieving a talisman from his robe. “I can sense its agitation. We’re close.” 

Song Lan snapped his sleeve. It flung globs of mud from his ruined robe. “It’s running out of tricks. Look.”

The eerie pool below had stilled. Instead of boiling pockets of heat and spitting mud, stillness replaced it. Steam coiled and twisted like mist. It crept over the roots, spreading slowly then devouring in starved desperation, flooding over them in a stifling shroud. 

“Stay close—” Xiao Xingchen warned, but it was cut short as a shout erupted in the distance. 

“Zichen! Where are you?” 

Xue Yang took an involuntary step toward the desperate plea and nearly slipped. Nearby, he heard Song Lan’s sword cut through the mist. 

“Xiao Xingchen!” Song Lan shouted back. 

“Wait,” Xiao Xingchen said, panic thinning his tone, “I’m right here. Don’t—” 

Through the writhing steam, Xue Yang caught a glimpse of Song Lan’s dark robes, only a flash, and they were gone, plunging toward the distant cry. 

No. It was supposed to be a low-level yao. This wasn’t supposed to…

“Song Lan!” Xiao Xingchen staggered somewhere beside him.

It was too late for a response. Xue Yang reached out blindly. Just as his fingers curled into a sleeve, another cry pierced the blanket of coiling steam. 

“Daozhang, help!” 

The arm beneath his grip stiffened, torn between two directions. 

Xue Yang pulled hard. Xiao Xingchen stumbled against him. The collision knocked them back. Xue Yang bit his cheek as they slipped over the rounded curve. His spine slammed against the gnarled trunk behind them. 

When Xiao Xingchen immediately struggled, Xue Yang’s arms instinctively tightened around him.

“Don’t,” Xue Yang murmured. “I’m right here.” 

At the sound of his voice, Xiao Xingchen tensed. Because they were pressed together and branded by thick steam, the heat quickly became unbearable. But Xue Yang didn’t let go. 

Beneath them, the twisted roots writhed and took a new shape. The wooden support disappeared. His stomach lurched as the world tilted beneath them. They braced, pressing together more tightly as they were tossed over another knot of mud-slick roots, until finally, the tangled mass shuddered and stilled like a spent lover. 

Xue Yang sucked in a sharp breath, choked by the thick mist. Both were breathing hard. But for some reason, Xiao Xingchen seemed to be breathless. He wasn’t even the one being crushed! His hand slid up Xue Yang’s chest, as though grappling for purchase, before pushing slightly. Xue Yang pretended not to notice. 

“You’re right,” Xue Yang whispered, piecing it together all at once. “It’s a water monster. It can bend sound.” 

And right now, they were inside its echo chamber. 

“Song Lan…” Xiao Xingchen started. “He’s—”

“He can handle himself.” Xue Yang pushed a finger to his lips. “It’s using our voices. We must be getting close.”

Xiao Xingchen made an odd noise in the back of his throat. His hand pushed a bit more, and finally, Xue Yang allowed him to pull away, but only slightly.

“The miasma,” Xiao Xingchen stammered haltingly, “is… affecting my spiritual power—” 

He muffled a coughing fit in the hasty lift of his sleeve. 

Xue Yang stamped down the temptation to watch a while longer. Xiao Xingchen was hardly doing his noble title justice, covering his pitiful coughs. And in front of a rogue demonic cultivator no less! 

“You have enough talismans to kindle a hundred fires,” Xue Yang remarked. “Surely you didn’t forget.” 

Xiao Xingchen’s fingers had already dipped inside his robes, probably surmising as much, but he was taken by another choked cough. It was too uncomfortable to watch now. Their ribs scraped against each other at all sorts of unpleasant angles. 

“I’ll help you this once, daozhang,” Xue Yang whispered. “You’ll owe me for life, yeah?”

He snaked his fingers over Xiao Xingchen’s, following their aim to the bundle of paper talismans. He already knew which to find. Once he brushed over the wrinkled corner, he tugged it out, flashing it across Xiao Xingchen’s reddening eyes. 

“Wait,” Xiao Xingchen choked. “If you trigger it here—”

“I’ll be fine.” In case his carefree grin wasn’t enough, he hammered down another nail. “If your paper spell is any good, it might hurt, but you’ll just have to take good care of me after.” 

Xiao Xingchen was apparently fed up with being docile and poisoned. He made one last move, snatching the paper talisman, but Xue Yang already triggered it. 

Looking at the bigger picture, it was a good thing Xiao Xingchen was a talented disciple. The talisman sparked with potent spiritual power and took barely a heartbeat to slam outward, clearing the miasma. Looking at the smaller and perhaps more important picture, Xue Yang was not spared from the effects. 

It felt like a hundred blows to his abdomen. He wouldn’t be surprised if the single talisman managed to strike as deep as his demonic core. Every muscle tightened. Every tendon strained. He let out a low sound in what he hoped resembled a nonchalant grunt and none of what he feared was a pained groan. He didn’t need to give Xiao Xingchen any ideas when they inevitably dueled.

“Chengmei!” Xiao Xingchen pawed at him. “Chengmei, you—”

Xue Yang cupped a hand over his mouth, quick enough he felt the scrape of Xiao Xingchen’s lips hovering half-formed around whatever scold or unrighteous curse he was about to utter. He shook his head, smiling again when now, all demonic aura dissipated, he could see the crease between Xiao Xingchen’s brows. 

He held a finger up to his closed mouth. 

Don’t speak, he gestured. It’s listening. 

Xiao Xingchen pursed his lips. It felt like a pinch against Xue Yang’s palm. He slowly lowered it when he was convinced Xiao Xingchen was going to be a good little cultivator and save his lecture for after the night hunt. 

Xue Yang gestured at himself, cocking an eyebrow. 

See? I’m fine. 

Xiao Xingchen searched him anyway, scanning over each limb with enough focus that, if Xue Yang was a lady, he would’ve felt dishonored. 

He batted Xiao Xingchen away, peeling himself off the trunk. He brushed his robes, but it was mostly for show. They couldn’t be salvaged without a thorough wash. 

Thinking about laundering when all traces of water were tainted by the thick miasma made him inwardly wince. How dare a low-level monster cause so much uproar. It was a cowardly beast. He even had to waste one of Xingchen’s precious talismans for such a rudimentary sabotage. 

Before Song Lan had been herded away like a dog with a bone, the tight-lipped cultivator had a rare insight that felt more true now: the monster was running out of tricks. 

Dispelling one’s aura into a miasma was one Xue Yang was particularly familiar with. Corpse poisoning was, after all, a similar adaptation and could bring down even the strongest cultivators through their own breath. It was simple yet cunning. 

Xue Yang drew his finger in a circle and stabbed it forward in what he guessed was the right path, judging from the thread of demonic aura he had tugged on before. 

Xiao Xingchen stared at him, unmoving.

Xue Yang stabbed the finger into his own chest, poked it against Xiao Xingchen’s, then pointed in the same direction. 

We go that way. 

He gripped an invisible sword hilt and slashed indiscriminately. 

Kill monster. 

Xiao Xingchen considered him for another long moment. The crease returned, deeper this time. There was something he was struggling to grasp, but Xue Yang guessed it had nothing to do with going in that direction and killing a monster.

An unbearable itch that only emerged after prolonged contact crept over his skin. Xue Yang withdrew a step, peeling away from Xiao Xingchen to make the proximity… Well, less proximal. 

Xiao Xingchen stirred from his rare showing of hesitation. His eyes ducked away first. He swept his robes in a graceful arc, drawing his sword at the end of one fluid motion. 

Stay behind me.

Xue Yang had no argument for that.

He quickly passed a hand over his core. The damn ache wouldn’t go away. Xiao Xingchen must’ve used blood instead of ink. It didn’t feel like an average talisman at all!

When Xiao Xingchen risked another look, Xue Yang dropped his hand just as quickly, flashing a grin. Xiao Xingchen appraised him for a moment, then he turned, shifting his study to the altered landscape, fixating on how each pool connected to the next by narrow channels twisting under reeds and roots. Each step was more sure than the last. The miasma was more dissipated than before, trickier for Xiao Xingchen to track by himself, but Xue Yang supplied direction when there was a pause. 

Night hunts were best done in duos, Xue Yang decided. If Song Lan hadn’t been boiled in a pot of mud, there was always Jiangzai ready to summon. Then he and Xiao Xingchen wouldn’t be interrupted as often. He wouldn’t mind going on a couple more night hunts if the monsters were always this interesting. 

As they encroached deeper within the nest, Xiao Xingchen’s gait was untouched by the filth and adrenaline whereas Xue Yang’s trudge resembled a corpse. Xiao Xingchen remained much more cautious, scanning the treeline and murky depths with a pensive look that was almost endearing. Xue Yang focused on staying upright. He would wait for more solid footing before he fell into Xiao Xingchen’s arms. 

If he learned anything from his original go at this, Xiao Xingchen was the type to save first and ask questions later. Nothing compared to the bond forged between a savior and victim. Xiao Xingchen tended to keep his rescued victims nearby. Probably to remind him of how noble and virtuous he was. 

It would take a simple stumble, maybe a half-uttered word of warning, and Xiao Xingchen would spin around to catch him. Cultivators felt strongest when tasked with protecting the weak. It would nourish his impressionable ego and lay another snare for their eventual return to Yi City.

As Xue Yang imagined the scenario a few times to plan it just right, they found the center of the swamp by absence rather than sign. 

The swamp thinned into sparse knots of soggy roots, opening into a clearing lacking the same rotten stench. There were no insects or bubbling puddles. A single, dark pool coagulated in the center. The last surviving roots crawled away from the eerie blank rather than toward. Above, the oppressive sky leaned atop the clearing. A scattering of stars offered meager light, but none of it reflected off the unmoving surface of the pool. It was as entirely black as molten tar. 

Demonic aura, faint but there, emitted from the stillwater like a suppressed pulse. 

“Daozhang! Daozhang, where are you?” 

It sounded from behind them. A terribly pathetic cry that was the farthest imitation from Xue Yang’s voice. 

Still, they turned. The echo pulled itself sideways, warping in a disorienting blur of volume. 

Xiao Xingchen searched for a brief instant. Then his gaze locked onto Xue Yang. There was no panic in his expression, but there was something close to it. The furrow returned, lowering his brows in a quiet look of contemplation that meant he was thinking quite a lot but said none of it aloud. 

Xue Yang shrugged. The trick was getting old. He passed Xiao Xingchen another easy smile, shaking his head in disapproval. 

Xingchen, you know I would never sound like that. 

Xiao Xingchen crossed another step closer to him, sword flickering in the darkness. His sleeve was nearly close enough to skim Xue Yang’s wrist. 

How are you this nervous? Xue Yang resisted the impulse to tease him. There would be plenty of time for that after the monster was dealt with.  

“Don’t leave me here!” the voice pleaded. “Don’t go!” 

A weight pressed down on Xue Yang’s ribs. His head swiveled around. But there was nothing. 

“Why did you leave me? Why…? Am I not good enough?!”

The weight sharpened and twisted. Anger bled through the plea, souring the tone to be vicious and bitter. 

“Answer me! Xingchen! You think you can just leave me like this?”

Xue Yang turned sharply on his heel. Heat poured into his fists as he faced the black water. He snapped his arm toward it, jaw stitched close with fury. Without waiting for Xiao Xingchen to stop him, he channeled a funnel of demonic qi around his outstretched arm, concentrated it into a shard of resentment and launched it toward that mockingly still surface. 

It struck the center. 

With a single ripple, the water erupted. 

Xue Yang was ready. He slid his hands apart and let the thickening power rip through his veins. Every lingering resentment he carried in this body, in this life, was brought to the surface, ripping free, channeling into blackened veins.

The monster surged from the pool in a twisting current. Its form writhed and snapped like a serpent. As its long, sinuous shadow dove for the trees, Xue Yang blasted another contortion of demonic power, ramming through the monster. His arms rattled from the impact as he formed another hand seal. 

Screams, all from countless victims, tore from the monster. They were barely human, shrill and agonized. 

A hand clamped down on Xue Yang’s wrist. It burned as hot as a brand.

Xiao Xingchen squeezed, hard. The shackle he made with his fingers interrupted the flow of demonic power. Under that grip, Xue Yang’s veins stung and pulsed with frost. 

When Xue Yang refused the unspoken demand, channeling another surge, Xiao Xingchen’s lips parted in disbelief, outrage, shock, whatever it might’ve been. Xue Yang didn’t care. 

In a voice that was impossible to replicate, even in Xue Yang’s dreams—

“Chengmei, let go.” 

The touch stung. The words even more so. 

Xue Yang felt a wild grin split his face as the monster’s weak constitution crumbled under his power. Its core was nothing compared to his. Its resentment was a mere choke of smoke to his wildfire. 

Its essence was stripped down. The fusion began. The writhing mass of shadows collapsed against his force, blending with the thickened power churning around his limbs. As he absorbed all of it, his veins and meridians—this vessel he was trapped inside—filled with a power he lacked at this age the last time he’d been alive. 

Realizing Xue Yang wouldn’t let go—never once in his life had he ever allowed such a thing—Xiao Xingchen was the first to release. 

It wasn’t permission. He raised his sword overhead and cut down before Xue Yang could calculate their strength pitted against each other like this. 

Under the arc of that frostbitten sword, Shanghua, his hold of the remnants of resentment shattered. 

It was too fast. Xiao Xingchen leaped across the sodden ground, blade flashing as he cut another slash into the writhing smoke. Except, it passed through the monster’s rancid form. Xue Yang’s demonic qi wasn’t spared. The shadows dispersed in a violent thrash as the monster surged upward like a cobra spitting venom. 

Xiao Xingchen hesitated. The monster shouldn’t be impervious to martial cultivation techniques. 

Xue Yang got the sense that something was terribly wrong about this. 

He summoned another cord of power and lashed it around the monster’s twisting form. It withered under the force, bleeding through his technique and surging through his fingertips. 

Beside him, Xiao Xingchen must’ve made the same conclusion. He sheathed his sword and formed a hand seal, blasting spiritual power through the last remnants of the monster. With a terrible wail, the dark, roiling shadows dispersed. And there was silence again.

Xue Yang staggered then collapsed to his knees. Dark tendrils clung to his limbs and muddied clothes. His next breath tasted faintly of iron and ash. 

Xiao Xingchen crouched beside him. His hands locked on Xue Yang’s arms. The set of his jaw was expected—but after coaxing a gentle smile from him a dozen times, the sight of it felt as sharp as a slap. 

The slight tremor of Xiao Xingchen’s hands was loudest. Malignant traces covered Xue Yang's body like stains left behind from shadows. Resentment coiled over his flesh like possessive, hungry fingers. They clawed and bit, but Xue Yang was used to it. He didn’t warn Xiao Xingchen in time before the shadows roved over his grip, crawling over his skin. 

Xue Yang pulled away, but Xiao Xingchen didn’t let up. His fingers dug harder into his arms as his mouth thinned. Xue Yang immediately noticed the twitch. It carried reluctance, maybe even disgust. 

Xue Yang swallowed the bitterness. He avoided Xiao Xingchen’s eyes. If he was about to be scolded or discarded, it wouldn’t leave a mark. He wouldn’t accept it. 

If Xingchen tried to leave him… He’d just take him by force. He would bind his hands. Break his meridians. Cut his tendons. He would do it. Whatever it took—

The brush of a white sleeve against his bare wrist made him flinch. He stared at it, neither reaching for him or recoiling. Those fingers were splayed frozen, hovering over his wrist like it was an open flame. There was no more of the same assured, calm touch as there was yesterday. Why should there be? The dark roiling energy was corrosive. Infectious.

Still, the hesitation was worse than a wound. Xiao Xingchen’s patience and propriety did have limits after all. 

Xue Yang already knew that. After all, Xingchen would rather take his own life than be sullied. 

“Chengmei,” he said, sending shards between Xue Yang’s ribs with every word. “Promise me that you will never use this again.” 

Xue Yang shrank away from the prodding. He finally freed himself, leaning away from the touch, the warning, all of it. 

“I can handle it.” He made his voice lighter than it felt in his throat. “It’s not like—” 

“It’s dangerous.” 

Without reason or cause, Xue Yang wanted to lunge for him, to prove just how dangerous it could be. He wanted to show how easy it was to kill with it. How simple it could be—pinning him down until those eyes shone with fear, shoving demonic qi through that smooth, pale wrist until he cried out. Breaking him. Corrupting him.

As though sensing the sudden violence of his thoughts, Xiao Xingchen grabbed him again. His fingers slid easily around Xue Yang’s wrist despite the taint. 

“You pushed yourself too far. It’s dangerous for your health. It will disturb the mind and upset the heart.” 

Xue Yang faltered. 

The hot bolt of anger unstitched itself. The touch had found its mark, settling above his meridian in a firm but gentle press.

“Promise me,” Xiao Xingchen said, “you will not use it again.” 

Xue Yang wanted to pull away, but a part of him couldn’t bear to. 

Xiao Xingchen knew… 

He had even seen him use it. But there was no punishment, physical or otherwise. No swift execution. He was asking for Xue Yang’s word—his oath. 

The word of a criminal was worthless. Xiao Xingchen should’ve known that. But there was no room for a wry deflection. The steady gaze bearing down on him, through him, made any artifice seem ridiculous. There was a strange resemblance that welcomed another memory to suffuse through him: Xiao Xingchen, a blindfold laid over his unseeing eyes, sitting beside the edge of the bloodstained bed. 

“Be careful in the future and avoid injury.” 

Xue Yang shoved it aside. His usual charm and quick wits twisted in the pit of his stomach where his stained and blackened core lurked. 

“I promise,” Xue Yang said. 

The words left his mouth without any crude remark or sly suggestion. It wasn’t a binding oath. He could break it tomorrow. He didn’t care for vows. He never had. But the unwavering set of Xiao Xingchen’s posture, his subtle advance across ground Xue Yang didn’t remember giving up—it demanded a distraction. 

There was a small exhale, quiet and unassuming. Xiao Xingchen’s posture loosened, but it was not a surrender nor a retreat. It was the sure claim of a strategist. 

Despite his plans and misdirections, despite waking with his memories intact, Xue Yang considered that it was possible he had been outmaneuvered this time. 

The mud clung to their boots as they retraced their path, but it no longer pulled or gulped. Under a moonlit sky, Xiao Xingchen’s white robes, although stained and bedraggled, shone like a beacon in the dark. Xue Yang followed alongside him. 

With every step, pain hooked low in his navel like a broken bone refusing to set. He pushed his hand to it a couple times to check if he had somehow ruptured something, but Xiao Xingchen was watching him closely. He managed to hide the few attempts checking, but the last thing he needed was for his unconventional physician to strip him in the middle of a rot-smelling swamp. 

They discovered Song Lan in what Xue Yang estimated was halfway through the slain monster’s nest. He was hacking through the reeds with a vengeance. Alive, Xue Yang remarked with vague disappointment, but not completely unharmed. The inner fabric of his sleeve darkened with a smear of blood. When he saw both of them, he rolled his shoulder forward as if to conceal it. 

Before any of them could have a tender reunion, Xue Yang let out a groan. 

Xiao Xingchen immediately turned to him. “What is it?” 

“Ah, daozhang,” Xue Yang whined. “I was suddenly overcome with the urge to commit horrible sins. It… it was unbearable just now when I saw Song Lan…” 

“Shameless,” Song Lan said as he approached. Once the word left his mouth, his entire face pinched. “You reek. There’s enough demonic qi on you to summon a horde of demons.” 

Before Xue Yang could be tempted by the idea, Xiao Xingchen’s attention strayed to Song Lan’s ruined sleeve. 

“You’ve been injured.” Xiao Xingchen reached inside his robe and withdrew a smooth bottle. “Let me take a look.” 

Song Lan complied for a moment, allowing Xiao Xingchen to move his sleeve. His expression twitched when his eyes shifted to Xue Yang and narrowed.

“It’s nothing,” Song Lan said, tugging free. “I can handle it myself.” 

Xiao Xingchen briefly tracked the exchange with a glance, then returned the bottle inside his robe. “Very well. Let’s continue, then.”

They departed from the nest. Treading across solid ground was a blessing Xue Yang ignored his whole life. His legs ached. His feet were numb. Mud dried and cracked, becoming plastered clay weighing down every step. The idea of bathing in the river sounded both pleasant and torturous. Although the monster’s yin energy had dissipated, it was difficult to believe it didn’t still taint the waterways. 

His formulating plan of pushing Song Lan in the river to test its safety was interrupted by a hand gripping his shoulder. It was aggressive, backed by flared muscle. Xue Yang did his best not to recoil under the weight of it, but his reflexes were not completely tamed. 

He instinctively twisted, but a sharp blade wedged into his back, slotting into the vulnerable crevice of his spine. 

“I haven’t figured it out yet, so enlighten me.” Song Lan spoke low and sharp against Xue Yang’s ear. “Why is it that the monster’s remnants are inside of you?” 

Xue Yang cursed bitterly to himself. It wasn’t his fault the tricky yao had an unusual tolerance against moral cultivators. He sent a glare forward at Xiao Xingchen’s oblivious back, but it did nothing to signal him of his companion’s righteous anger. 

“Are you asking,” Xue Yang said with unaffected innocence, “how one’s vital energy is transferred to another? I thought a cultivator of upright standing would show a little more… reserve.” 

The blade bit deeper between bones. Fabric tore under the single tightening of his grip. 

“Despicable beast,” Song Lan growled. “Who sent you?” 

It perplexed Xue Yang. Did Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen already make so many enemies? It was almost amusing to hear Song Lan so fervently defend his only companion, but the sword digging into his back dulled his appetite for sarcasm.

Xue Yang finally restrained himself from speaking. 

Song Lan’s patience snapped like the final binding stitch. He wrested Xue Yang closer, forcing his stance to lose its center. 

It was a lost battle anyway. The pain radiating from his core blurred his vision and he stumbled. The sword shifted in tandem, moving dangerously fast. The cold edge of it pressed against his throat. 

“You lured us here,” Song Lan said. “You cultivate the demonic path!” 

Xue Yang swallowed his immediate retort. The first claim was ridiculous. He suffered too in the rancid swamp! But also, it made a little too much sense since the second claim was somewhat true. Unfortunately, it was suspicious timing. 

Xiao Xingchen, maybe realizing there was a prolonged lack of teases and curses, turned his head. The gentle expression cracked and fell apart.

“Zichen.” He stepped toward them, the line of his jaw tightening. “Release him.”

Song Lan altered the angle of the blade, forcing Xue Yang to lift his chin and expose his throat even more. One poorly timed quip and it would be cut. 

“He’s a demonic cultivator!” 

“He asked for my help.” Xiao Xingchen’s dark eyes were fixed on Song Lan. All traces of gentleness were replaced with metal. “And I agreed.” 

“But that’s—! He can’t be saved—!”

In a whirl of white, Xiao Xingchen’s hand snapped forward from his sleeve. His fingers clamped around Song Lan’s sword. Blood welled under his squeeze, staining the blade with crimson. 

“No one is beyond saving.” 

He squeezed harder, untouched by the pain and condemnation. The blade trembled. Another rivulet of blood slid over metal. 

“Zichen,” he said, lower this time. “Let him go.” 

“You don’t actually trust him, do you?” Song Lan’s voice trembled with volume. “He lured us here. He was using that monster to separate us.”

Xue Yang nearly choked. Sure, he was a self-proclaimed lowlife criminal with an unreliable backstory, but colluding with sludge monsters was a bit too much. He preferred fierce corpses, not weak runts with a few measly tricks. It was outlandish. 

But still… He couldn’t ignore the fact that Xiao Xingchen was quiet. And not in the calm, ameliorating kind of way. 

Xiao Xingchen’s lips pursed together. A red stain spread across his sleeve as blood licked over his wrist. When his gaze pinned against Xue Yang, it cut deeper. 

“I suspected him too,” Xiao Xingchen said. “But he’s proven himself.”

Xue Yang swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Metal brushed over his skin and he held his breath. 

“He hasn’t proven anything except that he intends to absorb demonic aura to boost his own core. You’re not being reasonable!”

Xiao Xingchen pulled sharply. “This is not the way.”

The blade came free. Xue Yang immediately swiveled away, instinctively reaching for his throat to check whether the skin had broken. His fingers came away dry. 

Which was rather lucky, because the next thing Xue Yang knew, his chest spasmed and he was coughing up a mouthful of blood. It splattered over his robes and plopped like miniature rosebuds across the dirt path. 

Fuck. This was really unfair. 

He swayed for a moment, listless and cursing his worthless fate, and then he was careening—tipping, falling, hitting something hard. And he knew no more. 

. . . .

This backward reincarnation, do-over business was a pain in the ass. 

It shouldn’t take two lifetimes to just live a simple life scaling fish, laboring for vegetables, and pulling a few pranks. This cultivator nonsense was the threshold for an overly complicated life. He would never understand why Xingchen found it to be so fucking appealing, savior tendencies aside. 

Xue Yang woke up for a third time since being flung back into a timeline that never did him any favors. His head hurt. His body hurt. Even his pride hurt, just a little. 

The idea was he was supposed to be conscious of the experience and have Xiao Xingchen sweep him into his arms, solidifying his status as a helpless victim rescued from entirely avoidable circumstances to further his plot of getting them to Yi City. Instead, he lost consciousness and had no recollection of anything except Song Lan’s ugly sword at his throat and Xiao Xingchen’s admittance that even he suspected him as a petty colluder! 

Both lifetimes were truly unfair. Xue Yang pulled every short stick unless he rigged the game. So much for karmic retribution. He didn’t think it was possible to lose something he never had until now. He had lost more in this lifetime than anything that came before. Just when he was stealing it back, he almost died! Again! 

If he stayed in Lanling and carried out his revenge, it would’ve given him what he wanted. But his impulses won that fight. He had found Xiao Xingchen, but… 

It was different. It felt wrong somehow. His Xingchen from the past was betrayed and outcast. It might be fair to say he went through tribulations of his own before landing in Yi City. He had nowhere he needed to be and no one to go home to. Deep down, Xue Yang knew that was the only reason why Xingchen stayed, but it was easy to pretend otherwise when Xingchen still smiled amicably and settled into shared routines without argument. 

If Xue Yang tampered with him too soon, did that mean Xiao Xingchen would never return to him? They couldn’t live like they used to? 

Xue Yang summoned the strength to pull himself upright. A blurred image focused and sharpened. A crackling flame bathed the flat campsite with an amber glow. Beside it with his back turned, Xiao Xingchen crouched near the embers, turning something over with a thick stick. 

Despite the chilled breeze whispering through the tall trees, Xue Yang felt a stifling heat spread across his chest and limbs, drowning them in pinpricks of pain like hundreds of acupuncture needles wedging their way through his corpse.

His sleeves were rolled up. His veins were no longer blackened, but they were still sore like they’d been bled dry. What caused more alertness was the carefully fastened collar of his robes. He was by no means shy or modest, so it was entirely too telling that his robes were carefully arranged to be proper instead of loose and open. Cleaned of mud too, he realized. 

His robes had presumably been undone and refastened. The meticulous effort was familiar, but he didn’t linger on what it could’ve meant. 

Another glance confirmed Song Lan was missing. Hopefully a monster ate him or a horde of fierce corpses tore him apart with no shred of spirit consciousness left to gather. 

Xue Yang pulled his leg up and winced. The effort cost him more than it should’ve. His limbs were heavier than iron slabs. 

A bitter taste coated his throat, pungent and herbal. It was slightly acidic and all too familiar. 

Xiao Xingchen turned, immediately setting aside the stick and crossing to him. There was a thinness to his expression, but not severe or critical like all the thin-faced highborns Xue Yang tormented in his youth. It was softer from a distance. Up close, it was still too difficult to look at. 

“Try not to move,” Xiao Xingchen said, pairing the instruction with guidance to lie back down. He supported Xue Yang as he did so, too tired to do anything but obey. “Your heart meridian is damaged,” he explained as he swept a hand over Xue Yang’s brow to probably rule out a fever. “I cleared what I could, but…”

Xue Yang already knew. It ran deep. One clearing wasn’t enough to cleanse what had been corroded for years. 

“Your body couldn’t handle much more while you were unconscious.” Xiao Xingchen withdrew his hand. The warm pressure quickly cooled in its absence. “I apologize for the presumption, but it was urgent.”

Xue Yang considered it carefully. No wonder he felt plated in iron. His power source had been sucked out! Resentment and obsession didn’t form overnight. But it could surely be destroyed in one. 

Xiao Xingchen seemingly took his silence as an answer. “I explained what happened. Song Lan won’t treat you unfairly.” 

Xue Yang rolled his head over. The thud in his pulse quickened a beat. “Explained what exactly?”

Silence stretched between them. An ember popped in the fire’s belly, releasing another dark ribbon of smoke. 

“That you absorbed the resentful energy as a way of dispersing the monster,” Xiao Xingchen said at last.

Xue Yang said nothing. 

Xiao Xingchen finally realized his answer was not thorough enough. He cleared his throat with a light cough.

“I suspected you at first,” he admitted. “Song Lan and I had been tracking that monster for weeks when we finally found its trail near that fishing town. When you told me you practiced demonic cultivation, I thought you may be connected to the situation.” His gaze flickered in the firelight. “I checked your meridians that night, and what you said was true, but…” 

“But?” 

Xiao Xingchen let out a loose breath. “I didn’t want to believe it.” 

Xue Yang’s eyes narrowed. “Which part?”

“That you practiced it.”

His gaze dropped to Xue Yang’s freshly closed robes. He must’ve seen the scars. It was unmistakable that he felt every taint demonic resentment and obsession left behind. 

“It is harmful to the body,” Xiao Xingchen continued. “It disturbs the mind and upsets the heart—”

“Is that what you were taught?” Xue Yang scoffed. “That it corrupts whoever touches it?” 

Xiao Xingchen’s posture sank, falling inward. “It’s what I felt.” 

Xue Yang froze. The pounding in his skull thickened, each pulse more painful than the last. His robes were too tight. He needed to peel off every layer that was touched, pry out the veins beneath. Every last trace. 

He hadn’t been conscious. He didn’t know just how far, just how deep, Xiao Xingchen had reached. He might’ve felt all of it. Maybe he only scratched the surface and it was enough to demand a retreat. His skin and his veins had been laid bare before he was ready—before he could hide the worst of it. Xiao Xingchen had helped himself to his core. He could’ve tampered with it. 

What Xue Yang felt, the heaviness and exhaustion and loss of something that was his, that could only be his, felt too much like a dangerously intimate search. 

“I told you from the start,” Xue Yang said, low and bitter, “I’m nothing but a lowlife.”

“You did,” said Xiao Xingchen. “You also asked for my help.” 

“I could’ve been lying.”

“You weren’t.”

Xue Yang smiled. The twist of it was cruel and mocking. “Oh? And how could you possibly tell? You can feel that too?” 

“Because I’m coming to know you.” His gentle demeanor returned, but it wobbled. “I misjudged you. In the monster’s nest, I saw it. I heard it. The monster was using your voice to target you, not me. You stopped me from getting lost. You used the talisman, even though it harmed—”

Xue Yang seized Xiao Xingchen’s robe. His fist tightened from barely suppressed strain. It flared, alive and hot in his veins, and emerged all at once, like a starved beast leaving its den to sink its teeth into the closest prey.  

“You don’t know me.” 

Xiao Xingchen remained unafraid despite the cusp of violence. His eyes searched Xue Yang’s for a moment. Then, in a slow unfolding, the curve of his mouth softened around a small breath, around smaller words. 

“I feel as though I do.”

The fire crackled. Smoke stained every breath. The proximity of him—his snow-colored robes and warm skin—spilled into conflicting signals. The painful pulse lodged deep within his skull blurred his vision, melting the sloping angles of Xiao Xingchen’s face into a mere impression. 

The pain sharpened like a knife scraping across a whetstone. It left in a breathless wince as Xue Yang collapsed under the weight. 

“Chengmei,” Xiao Xingchen called. “Chengmei?”

A hand grazed his shoulder, but Xue Yang was too weak to push it off. 

“Your heart meridian isn’t stable,” Xiao Xingchen said. “I can clear your meridians again. Can you bear it?” 

Xue Yang fell into the space between pain and numbness. He felt nothing and everything all at once. When two fingertips pressed against his wrist, his body twinged. A gasp tore from his throat. 

“No,” he choked, barely tasting the word on his dry tongue. “Don’t… touch me.” 

Xiao Xingchen obeyed, but removing his touch had an opposite effect rather than relief. The pain crowded closer, and Xingchen detected the signs, scanning Xue Yang like he carried a remedy in some secretive fold. 

“All right, I won’t,” Xiao Xingchen said. “Tell me what hurts.”

Shit. Everything? 

Xue Yang bit down on his cheek. This was too much. It was supposed to be an act, not the real deal! 

Taking his pained silence as an answer, Xiao Xingchen withdrew a talisman after a few seconds of shuffling. He ignited the yellow paper and formed a hand seal as it burned to ash. 

The crushing weight lifted from Xue Yang’s chest and he could breathe again. Mostly against his will. He was never good at suffering, and never for too long. 

“Better?” Xiao Xingchen dropped his hands to his lap. 

It was only then Xue Yang noticed a bead of sweat rolling down Xiao Xingchen’s temple, cutting a streak down his cheekbone. 

Xue Yang offered a single, slow nod before his eyelids gave up on their only job. 

He needed to stay awake. He couldn’t stay in this state for too long. After tonight, he should find a horde of monsters and spend a week fattening them up before devouring them. His core would never collapse like this again if he could stock up a bit more first. 

“Rest,” Xiao Xingchen said. And then quieter, almost too far to reach, “Be more careful in the future.”

Although his eyes were closed, Xue Yang could see him more clearly now, the version of him he always saw when the rest of the world faded to nothing. That poised frame seated beside his bed. The white cloth bound around his eyes but left every part of his mouth, his gentle smile, uncovered. Unthinkingly, he reached for that pale wrist as it dipped close to lift that cheap ceramic bowl of sticky medicine to his lips. 

“Xingchen…” he murmured, lost between awareness and illusion. 

Xingchen, I found you… at last…

The image flickered. He drifted farther away.

Xingchen. 

Don’t leave me.

. . . .

The water monster was not just suspicious for its unnatural tolerance for martial cultivation. Apparently its tricky trace was only partially explained by its ability to stretch itself across entire waterways. Low-level yao only had spirit consciousness resembling wild beasts. Instincts and impulses drove them to hunt prey. But this monster fell outside of the scope of traditional cultivation classes.

Between its use of human voices, elusive trace, and most importantly, its complete imperviousness against Xiao Xingchen’s heaven-blessed blade, it warranted an official report to alert cultivation clans operating in nearby vicinities. 

Although respectable, neither Xiao Xingchen and obviously not Song Lan had the reputation or merits to pass on the warning to anyone outranking a courier. If that wasn’t representative of everything wrong with the frivolous cultivation world, Xue Yang didn’t know what else would be. 

“Why won’t they at least meet with us?” Song Lan had said after the third courier jotted down a far too abbreviated note of their report outside the gate of the local cultivator division. 

Xue Yang already forgot which one this was. They all sounded the same. 

“I’m sure they’re flooded with reports by other cultivators and the common people,” Xiao Xingchen offered as a balm to Song Lan’s indignation. “We’ve done what we can. Let’s move on to the next one.” 

Xue Yang didn’t offer any suggestions or rebuttals. He didn’t recognize any of the so-called suspicious activity of demonic entities, even after wracking his brain for anything in his past life. This chain of events was entirely new and entirely boring. 

“It’s because of him.” Song Lan jabbed a finger at Xue Yang. “The cultivation world refuses to associate with demonic cultivators. None of them can take us seriously while he’s around.” 

“Maybe,” Xue Yang said with a shrug. “Or maybe they’re not impressed by your bad attitude.” 

“You—!” 

“If they do not have the time to speak to us, there isn’t much else we can do.” Xiao Xingchen glanced down both ends of the street. “We’ll post a notice for the common people and follow the road north.”

Xue Yang shrugged. He hoped a team of bandits ambushed them on the road so we could accidentally push Song Lan into an oncoming knife. Beyond killing him, he hadn’t discovered a clever way to dispose of him. Then again, most of his schemes in the past involved methods of murder, so he was stretching himself to consider alternatives.

They left the town with low supplies and low morale. Song Lan refused to speak, which normally would’ve been a relief except Xiao Xingchen was clearly worried about him and elected to walk beside him instead. 

Xiao Xingchen was also acting strange. He was somehow more withdrawn, even pensive. Perhaps the locked gates and slammed doors were enough to open his eyes to the corrupted cultivation world. If Xue Yang was lucky, he wouldn’t have to devise a lengthy scheme to sow the seeds of betrayal, rejection, and defamation to make Xiao Xingchen an outcast. It sounded like way too much effort. 

He needed to get rid of Song Lan. And preferably make it someone else’s fault. 

An idea had been simmering in the back of his mind, but it was the kind of simmer that only came from unappealing neglect like old soup left to crust and spoil. It was terrible and probably too risky. 

He blurted anyway, “What about Baixue Temple?” 

Song Lan stumbled for the briefest instant. Then he whirled around.

“Isn’t it nearby?” Xue Yang said, feigning ignorance. “I hear it’s not the most renowned or talented, but the cultivation world respects their contributions. It’s unlikely to be flooded by reports since it’s small and not as popular as these other clans.”

Song Lan shook his finger at him. “You—!”

And with that, he exhausted his vocabulary. 

Xiao Xingchen quickly interjected, “Ah, Chengmei, you don’t know this but—”

“He doesn’t know anything!” Song Lan snapped. “Baixue Temple? Unpopular? As if!”

“This is a good thing, you see,” Xue Yang said. “They don’t handle too many responsibilities, so they should be able to grant as an audience.”

“Are you courting death?!” 

Xue Yang might be. He wasn’t sure yet. Baixue Temple was the last place he cared to revisit. It was drab, dull, and entirely fitting of the cultivators that kept its walls from collapsing. Song Lan had the right idea leaving, even if he was usually wrong about everything else. 

“Zichen is from Baixue Temple,” Xiao Xingchen supplied helpfully and all too late. “Chengmei, it sounds like you’re teasing him.” 

It was a ridiculous thought. Xue Yang only cared to tease Xiao Xingchen.

“I wouldn’t dare, gege.” Xue Yang tugged on his white sleeve, positioning himself on Xiao Xingchen’s right side. 

Shanghua thrummed at his hip. The sleek hilt of it was clear of blood. It was as innocent as Xiao Xingchen, for now. 

It was decided, albeit begrudgingly judging from Song Lan’s persisting silence. Xiao Xingchen didn’t seem to mind that Xue Yang walked on his right side, or that he touched his sleeve, or that he called him ‘gege.’ His tolerance was almost admirable. 

But it wouldn’t last. 

To keep his place tugging at Xiao Xingchen’s sleeve, Xue Yang mostly feigned a limp. In his past life, his bad leg had taken months to feel sturdy enough to use. Even with Xiao Xingchen’s unparalleled care-taking and fancy herbal remedies, the limb caused a fair amount of frustration. When it healed, it still wasn’t the same. The muscles were tight in the morning, it ached at night, and working his fingers over the stubborn tension earned more bruises than relief. 

But this time it was different. Luckily he had the insight to ditch Jin Guangyao before he was beaten to a pulp. He was convinced it was his old handler who sent the orders. It was his style to leave his tools broken and damaged, unable for anyone else to use after they were discarded. Brutal, efficient, and all the things Xue Yang thirsted for in his past life. He would’ve done the same. 

“I’m sorry,” said Xiao Xingchen. 

The apology stirred Xue Yang from his less than nostalgic thoughts. 

“I should’ve gone slower,” Xiao Xingchen added. “You were still recovering.” 

To Xue Yang’s amusement, Song Lan’s shoulders stiffened ahead.

Xue Yang wore what he hoped looked like a sheepish smile. “It’s alright, gege. I’m just a little sore. My body isn’t used to being treated so roughly…” 

Song Lan’s heel slid against a loose stone. His hand gripped the pommel of his sword, veins nearly ripping through the skin. 

Xiao Xingchen didn’t seem to notice. His brows lifted in apology. “I’ll be gentler next time.”

Xue Yang savored Song Lan’s silent fuming. But a strange sensation curled around his gut as though phantom fingers skimmed through his insides and tugged. It itched, and there was a slight heat to it. He tried shoving it down. But it did what it pleased. An unpleasant spark of nerves prickled down his spine like a hundred ants. 

He pulled away from Xiao Xingchen. Shanghua’s thrumming appetite was distracting him. His core was probably reacting poorly to the blade’s proximity. 

By the time they arrived at the outer gates of Baixue Temple, the sickness dulled into a low pang. 

He didn’t like the place. Some clans boasted murals of slain monsters and violent banners, but Baixue Temple was not overly hostile. Perhaps that was the problem. The outer gates resembled a fortress, each carved stone imitating an immortal sentry. The stonework was tactful but not overly crisp to the point of severity. Instead of artisans, it appeared as though venerated generals constructed it. Dark, cold slabs fitted together with enough precision to banish ivy or weeds.

Banners hung beside the gates, neither tattered or faded. It left no question why Song Lan’s personality was as drab as it was. There was no room for unsanctioned flaws. 

Xue Yang suppressed the urge to react too familiarly with the place. It didn’t feel like too long ago when he arrived here in the night cloaked in shadow, Jiangzai in his hand, vengeance pulsing in the back of his throat as he gutted dozens of disciples. 

Instead of ambush, he arrived like any other visitor. The disciples stationed at the gate were young, barely even boys. Their fresh faces were like balls of unrolled dough. When Song Lan approached, one of them appeared startled but recovered quickly, offering a polite greeting to his dark-robed shixiong and allowing them to pass through. 

Xue Yang didn’t miss their stares. They landed like acupuncture needles to his back, revealing the residue of yin energy clinging to him. He nearly held his breath, waiting for the first sword to be drawn, but the lack of aggression from the cautious disciples was even worse. He preferred open hostility. 

The change in Song Lan was immediate yet subtle. 

Xue Yang was accustomed to noticing the way his spine locked and his jaw hardened. Song Lan moved with the sureness beyond his age, austere and carved from ice. But surrounded in a place carved with equal utility and concentration, he carried the weight differently. 

Another black and silver robed cultivator paused mid-sweep, his dark eyes sliding toward them with a recognition that was not quite welcoming or suspicious. He tipped the broom against the stone wall and murmured something to another disciple nearby before slipping down the corridor between pavilions. 

The concept of regret was somewhat foreign to Xue Yang, but now he had an idea of what it might feel like.

He had suggested this visit since he felt backed into a corner. A reasonable idea—one that Xiao Xingchen would support without objection—and exactly the kind of method that would chafe against every tender spot Song Lan pretended wasn’t there. 

If this place, sewn with carnage and mutilation, was the place Song Lan swore to cut ties with Xingchen in the past, it still had its uses. Of course, it was simply a matter of pushing the right places with the right pressure. Xue Yang preferred lethal violence, not surgical precision. But whether it was a scalpel or sword, Song Lan wouldn’t leave with them.

They were told to wait in the main courtyard. 

The message was both a command and a courtesy. Xiao Xingchen tucked his hands behind his straight back, letting his eyes wander through the rigid geometry of the courtyard. His gaze settled a few times on the robust pavilions with latticed windows and tiled roofs. Two braziers in the center walkway bathed the temple grounds in amber light. Stone plaques hung above each pavilion threshold. Cleanly etched characters surrounded them with a straightforward philosophy: Discipline, honor, virtue, righteousness, and humility. 

Xue Yang’s attention hooked on the disciples passing through the courtyard, some finding reason to inch along the perimeter with wooden tablets stacked in their arms, others sneaking glances and looking away just as quickly as they filtered between midday duties. 

The silence was unbearable. Xue Yang’s pulse beat like a drum in his ears, blurring the scrape of steps over stone pathways and canopied corridors. The disciples’ whispers carried the same suspicion as the towns Xue Yang searched. 

He felt more out of place being allowed to walk without restraints in a place like this. It might’ve been better if he suggested Xiao Xingchen truss him up in some ropes before arriving. He would’ve enjoyed teasing him about it later. 

Clipped footsteps echoed from the main corridor between the Discipline and Righteousness Pavilions. Baixue’s grandmaster emerged like the winter season, without flourish or warmth. His dark robes were rimmed in silver, but were otherwise plain and unadorned. The lines etched into his face depicted a life lived without laughter or indulgence. His expression was severe, sharp, and lacking any indication of sentimental reunion. 

Song Lan dropped to his knees, holding his hands together in a formal martial salute. 

It was a demonstration of conditioned reflex rather than choice. After the muted thud of the capitulation falling against stone, his head bowed forward.

Xiao Xingchen followed his example in a smooth slide. His white robes puddled across stone as he held the same salute, offering a respectful bow beside Song Lan. 

The grandmaster did not acknowledge their respect beyond a single glance. His slate-gray eyes cut past them to Xue Yang. 

He didn’t particularly feel like kneeling. The stone looked so cold and unpleasant. His constitution had suffered recently. Besides, the old coot hadn’t done anything worthy of deference except survive to a geriatric status. That was hardly impressive. 

In the next blink, an image burned on the back of his eyelids. That same cracked, sour expression glaring at him. Blood burbling over his bottom lip as Xue Yang slid the sword through his gut, shadows tearing at his limbs. 

“So,” the grandmaster said, his voice as devoid of warmth as his countenance. “You return.” 

Song Lan bowed his head lower. “Master, this disciple has urgent matters to report.” 

The grandmaster made a noise of displeasure through pursed lips. His frigid gaze landed upon Xiao Xingchen’s straight back, still carved into perfect respect. Without warning, he untucked a gnarled hand and snapped his sleeve in a bitter gesture. 

“Has this master been ignorant in his teachings?” His gray brow snagged upward like it was caught in a fish hook as Song Lan folded himself to the ground, kowtowing completely. “Without honoring our sacred principles, you are not qualified to speak here.”

“Master, this one—”

“Silence!” His crooked finger shook furiously. “You dare refute me when you bring a demonic cultivator into our temple?” 

From the way he spat the words, Xue Yang suspected he was meant to feel insulted. Having been called every name under the sun and cursed just as colorfully, it had the same effect as a gnat hovering near his face. He kept his chin high to meet the wrinkled elder’s sour expression. 

Song Lan’s bristled, still prostrated before his master’s feet. Beside him, Xiao Xingchen rose from his bow. 

“Grandmaster, this one was taught by Baoshan Sanren. I am willing to vouch for him.” 

The haughty elder snapped his sleeve again. His thin mouth twitched upon hearing the name of Xiao Xingchen’s reclusive master, but there was no immediate outburst. A considerable pause stretched across the courtyard.

Then the grandmaster sniffed once, as though confirming a conclusion he already reached before arriving. The sneer wrinkling his nose was etched deep enough to leave a permanent crease. He leveled a condemning finger in a firm jab.  

“Such loose morals! You disgrace your master.”

Xue Yang realized, with slow, irreversible disbelief, that the elder’s harsh reprimand was not directed at Song Lan, but rather, was aimed at Xiao Xingchen. 

The ridicule stained Xue Yang’s mouth with ash. Cold fury cramped his hands into twitching fists. 

The man would die. 

His life was too worthless for Xue Yang to waste his first kill on him. Song Lan first, then. And afterwards—his virulent master. He pictured it with obscene detail: prying Jiangzai between those shriveled lips, spearing his tongue like a fish in a barrel, and ripping it out with a careless twist. 

“Hmph! No disciple of mine dares to debase themselves with such lowly characters. Have you no shame?!”

Xue Yang stepped forward. The old coot outlived his flimsy patience.

“Chengmei.” 

Xiao Xingchen passed him a look that was impossible to misinterpret. It wasn’t quite a warning. Xiao Xingchen knew better than to waste a gesture like that for something as conflated as hierarchical posturing. The low note of his tone locked him in place. Xue Yang found himself listening for more: a command, a plea, an assurance. 

But Xiao Xingchen offered nothing else. 

The cranky grandmaster witnessed the mostly wordless exchange. He cleared his throat with a wet cough. “The demonic path,” he said in a half-croak, directing another frosty glare at Xue Yang, “condemns those that submit to its depravities. What cannot be purified must be eradicated.” 

Xiao Xingchen’s head snapped up. “Grandmaster, he has aided us—”

Song Lan grabbed Xiao Xingchen's wrist. 

The elder countered with an incontestable claim, “His path corrupts the natural order! Heaven will not permit the obscenity!”

He drew his arms behind his back and not, as Xue Yang suspected he might, to grab his sword sheathed at his side. Under the draw of a long, deep breath, the elder’s chest swelled. His expression pinched as though he tasted something unpleasant. 

“You seem to have him subdued at the moment. He will be restrained and watched.” He turned on his heel, ending any objections. “Any resistance forfeits my lenience.” 

With a flick of an idle finger, two disciples approached Xue Yang with wary caution. One conjured a narrow pair of manacles, the metal surface carved and imbued with alternating sealing and binding symbols. 

Xiao Xingchen stood immediately, but Song Lan squeezed his wrist. It didn’t stop him. He pulled free and turned to Xue Yang sharply, his eyes flashing between the two dark-robed cultivators. 

“Chengmei—”

“It’s fine,” Xue Yang said. “You’ve subdued me, remember?”

He bared his wrists in a perfect display of obedience and watched Xiao Xingchen’s face twitch as the cold metal slid over his pulse. If he was comparing lifetimes, it really should’ve been him to do this. It wasn’t the worst outcome, at least his hands were chained in front instead of behind. It was slightly less humiliating. 

“Go handle the report.” He flashed a crooked grin. “I’ll behave.” 

A blatant lie, obviously. Maybe too blatant, or the act wasn’t convincing, because Xiao Xingchen’s lips pursed together like there was an objection hidden behind them. His eyes tracked the hand curling over Xue Yang’s shoulder and directing him toward one of the looming pavilions. 

Xue Yang was ushered forward with a small push. He went willingly, but not before he tossed another look over his shoulder. 

“Xingchen,” he called in his best imitation of stoic bravery. “Don’t take too long.” 

Xiao Xingchen’s lips parted. There was a glimpse of his tongue, aimed around an unspoken reply. And then his mouth pinched closed again. A single, brief nod told Xue Yang everything he wanted. 

Xue Yang turned back, focusing on staying on his feet. A peculiar flare returned low in his gut. It resembled the same, stubborn sickness as before. To his dismay, he realized his body was still depleted. The night hunt and Xiao Xingchen’s subsequent treatment drained him more than he cared to admit aloud. It was too late to feign faintness now. Xingchen was too far behind to catch him.

Confinement would buy him time to rest. If he couldn’t resolve the small issue of a body too weak to follow its commands, he wouldn’t leave this next gamble unscathed. 

Rest. Time. Distance. It was working in his favor so far. Besides, he could always cut his way out. If Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen’s precious little bond fractured because of it, so much the better. A broken man was easier to keep. He could simply discard the pieces he didn’t want and smooth the edges of those he did. 

He was led through another corridor. The Virtue Pavilion opened into another smaller courtyard, stripped of color and decoration. White sand and gray stone slabs created an ominous contrast. Lanling had a similar pavilion in a private corner where whippings and corporal punishments were carried out. If Xue Yang squinted, the stone slabs resembled hunched figures kneeling in repentance, surrounded by a blanket of freshly fallen snow. 

They reached a solitary chamber. He was mildly surprised to discover there were no bars or metal fixtures draping from the ceiling to restrain his wrists in a humiliating Lanling fashion. The stone wall encompassing the temple grounds gave the impression there would be a kind of dreary dungeon. 

The space was meticulously clean and devoid of anything indulgent. An ascetic monk might consider the chamber to be a blank canvas for enlightenment, but Xue Yang would go insane before that was a possibility. 

It wasn't until the disciples prodded him forward into what he realized was an array etched into the room itself that he saw the familiar demonic-suppression talismans plastered to every corner.

As soon as he stepped beyond the barrier’s perimeter, he sank to one knee. A weight crushed his chest, pummeling his ribs and crushing his core. 

Xue Yang swore. This damn temple was surely competent in cleansing impurities. The chains rattled between his wrists. They gnawed on his spiritual veins, sucking faintly at his tainted qi. 

He could break them if he needed to. The method was tactless and rudimentary. 

For now, he backed inside the chamber and sank against the wall, appearing every bit like a subdued demon. He counted his blessings. Xiao Xingchen spoke on his behalf even though it probably broke a dozen of Song Lan’s sacred rules. Xiao Xingchen was belittled by none other than Song Lan’s revered grandmaster. It was sure to cultivate friction.

Jiangzai wasn’t discovered either. It might’ve been if he showed any resistance. He wasn’t beaten, skewered, or immediately executed. 

The downsides, of course, were the pesky array and manacles binding his wrists. 

He needed to recover some strength, but it was bleeding from him. It was hard to think, even though he needed to. In his past life, he never calculated things. He simply unsheathed his blade and cut wherever it was pointed. Wielding the Yin Tiger Tally was also a tempting flavor of power. This reincarnation business was exhausting. 

It was briefly appealing to imagine cutting himself free, stealing Xiao Xingchen, and that alone being enough of a disgrace to separate from the cultivation world. But Xiao Xingchen treated him so differently now. If Xue Yang stole him now and ruined his reputation, Xiao Xingchen was too soft-hearted. He would cry every night! 

Xue Yang hated crying. Too much snot and noise and wetness. 

It was best to avoid that outcome. 

He closed his eyes. It was easier to think without staring at the plain walls or faint silhouettes of the disciples outside. He sucked in a long breath until it stung. Acting docile wasn’t the worst strategy. If anything, it made Xiao Xingchen worry even more. 

It wasn’t long before he was dozing. A faint pulse thumped under his skull. It hurt to focus on, so he let his mind drift. The metal around his wrists hung heavier than his stubbornness. A coldness laid siege to him slowly then all at once. Ice plucked each vein like a corpse’s finger dragging across the strings of a guqin. He drifted, unsure if he was shivering or not. 

Then he slipped from one plane to the next, falling into a dreamless sleep.

. . . .

He stirred awake.

His body jolted, primed by the reflex of waking somewhere unfamiliar. It was often a violent motion: fists clenched, muscles drawn like a bowstring, stomach coiling. A dose of adrenaline thawed his veins. His vision, blurred from sleep, took several breaths to focus. 

Damn it. He had actually fallen asleep. 

There was noise outside. Dusk announced itself by the fading light beyond the chamber. Another silhouette, distantly familiar from the sloping bend of symmetrical shoulders and loose, unbound hair persuaded him to correct his posture and hide the lingering exhaustion. He crossed one ankle over the other, using the wall as a brace to keep himself upright. 

The door slid open.

Xue Yang’s chains scraped in a shrill whine as he lifted a hand in greeting. 

“I would offer a cup of tea,” he said mildly, “but it seems your sect’s frugality extends to its hospitality.” 

Song Lan stopped just past the chamber’s threshold, sliding the door shut with a dull thud. “You’re not a guest.” 

Xiao Xingchen had far fewer reservations. He crossed the chamber, undeterred by the barrier formation. When his gaze landed on the chains first, not Xue Yang’s easy grin, his brow furrowed slightly. 

“Are those necessary?” Xiao Xingchen asked.

Song Lan crossed his arms. “It’s proper procedure.”

Watching the exchange with dull amusement, Xue Yang tilted his head, mostly to get a better view of Xiao Xingchen’s peculiar expression. “It’s alright, gege. I’ll obey the rules. I won’t cause any trouble for you.” 

Xiao Xingchen’s gaze flicked to him then. Concern weighed on his brow, making his eyes appear sunken. He appeared paler somehow. When he stepped closer, choosing to kneel beside Xue Yang despite this very clearly being a containment array, it offered even closer study. 

Xue Yang noticed, but found himself trying not to, the curve of Xiao Xingchen’s pale lips shaping into another question. 

“Are you uncomfortable?”

Xue Yang elected to shrug, a careless roll of one shoulder that sent a spike of pain down his side. 

“I’ve slept in worse places.” He waved his hand in a bored dismissal. “Besides, I’m far more comfortable here than listening to proper cultivator business.” 

Song Lan crossed his arms, still not daring to venture farther from the sealed door.

“We shared our findings,” Xiao Xingchen said after a moment. “There have been reports in the surrounding villages. Monsters with unusual appetites or affinities. And also…” His voice tapered into a quiet murmur. “There have been rumored deaths from fierce corpses.” 

Xue Yang’s grin faltered. 

That couldn’t be right. 

He hadn’t restored the Yin Tiger Tally yet, right? It shouldn’t be possible to manipulate and control fierce corpses at this point. But if they were already used to kill, it must be connected to Jin Guangyao’s schemes…

Something was wrong. He should've had more time. What had happened in Lanling after he left?

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said before he could stop himself. 

Song Lan raised his chin at an obstinate angle. “And why is that?”

The air crackled between them like the breeze before lightning struck. It prickled over Xue Yang’s skin that suddenly felt too tight, too exposed. It wasn’t the first misstep he made. 

What other choice did he have except to defend himself? Clearly silence would be taken as an admission of guilt! 

“Rumors aren’t reliable,” Xue Yang said. “Fierce corpses don’t just appear out of thin air. If there were really fierce corpses strong enough to kill, they would leave behind enough residuals to be tracked.” Hurriedly, he added, “It’s a plausible guess, at least.” 

Song Lan’s cold, plain eyes were aimed at Xiao Xingchen.

“Are you convinced yet?” 

Xue Yang instinctively followed that pointed question to its target. He studied Xiao Xingchen, who had gone very still and very quiet. 

Xiao Xingchen still knelt, but it was no longer a gesture of regret or even compassion. He was too close. Xue Yang couldn’t hide from the steady appraisal behind that look of concern. A look, he realized too late, that could’ve been worn as a disguise. 

Xingchen hadn’t come for him.

Xue Yang was too distracted and too stupid not to see it earlier. Xiao Xingchen was close enough to touch, to shove away, but his expression had gone distant in a way that unsettled him more than suspicion ever had. 

For a terrible second, Xue Yang was convinced that Xiao Xingchen knew. That he’d known all along—

When Xiao Xingchen finally spoke, his voice was still unfairly gentle, almost apologetic. 

“It’s all right, Chengmei,” he said. “Tell us honestly.” 

The words struck like a knife. He was unguarded against the implication. It twisted in his gut, contorting into the sharp edge of command, the sting of an accusation. 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was being pitied, interrogated—suspected. They thought he knew what was going on. Maybe even that he was responsible for it. They had it wrong. He left Lanling before he realized just how much had changed. He didn’t even know where the Yin Tiger Tally was or if it had been restored. 

He felt it then. The slip of his mask. 

The false ease drained from his limbs. Rigid tension replaced it, gripping his limbs and shaping him into what he was. A wild dog who only bit. A feral beast with its fangs bared. 

The chains scraped against the floor as he jerked away from Xiao Xingchen’s lure of a mouth, his tempting tone that coaxed and praised and sank like a blade between his ribs into the useless flesh beneath. 

“You tried to tell me the truth once,” Xiao Xingchen said. 

His hand reached across the widening gap. A relentless assault. 

“I’ll listen this time. Chengmei, I—”

Xue Yang jerked back. 

Xiao Xingchen stilled. The realization unstitched itself. 

Honesty was the quickest way to die. It was not a demand Xue Yang could dodge with charm or cunning lies. 

Xiao Xingchen had fooled him all along. The clever bastard…

The illusion was shattered. He was not in control of this. He never had been. He had been cursed to live the same life, damned to occupy the same worthless body, and destined to always lose. There was no winning. There was no faultless strategy to give him what he wanted. 

A lowlife stayed low. If he wanted something, he had to sink his teeth into it, pin it down with his claws, and accept the struggle as part of owning something. 

Beneath him, the room tilted. His stomach twisted like a coil of rope pulled too tight. The sickness surged upward. His throat clamped down on it, but he still retched as pain devoured his chest. His ribs collapsed and shuddered. The strain of his lungs blurred the corners of his vision. He couldn’t breathe without it tearing through him. 

Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan were colluding against him, weren’t they? Had they ever been truly separate in intent? They imprisoned him before. Why would this be any different?

The thought scorched him. It burned through him. He hated it. He hated himself for thinking of it.

His core flared. The reaction was punished. Around him, the array hummed, each carved mark glowing faintly as the weight shoved through him again, stifling the resistance. The insatiable chains bit into his wrists. 

A low sound escaped him before he could stop it.

Xiao Xingchen gripped his shoulders as his body convulsed. The touch seared against his flesh. It was too much. Too close. 

“Chengmei?” Xiao Xingchen called out. “What’s wrong?” 

“He triggered the array,” Song Lan said, sounding closer than before. “His core must be suppressed.” 

Xue Yang choked on a curse. He didn’t want to be seen like this. He didn’t want to be touched—

Xiao Xingchen murmured something, but it was irretrievable. Xue Yang’s pulse drowned all noise. His head pounded. His body writhed like a speared fish. Each breath tore from his throat. 

Xiao Xingchen touched his face. The smooth curve of his palm scraped over his cheek, fingertips stinging against his skull, his exposed neck—

He lashed out blindly.

“Don’t touch me!” 

The shout shuddered against the walls of the chamber, and for the first time, he realized how exposed he was like this.

Song Lan surged forward. His expression darkened like the clouds of an impending storm.

Xiao Xingchen flung out his arm, stopping him. His tone quivered slightly. “Chengmei, you—” 

Xue Yang spat out a mouthful of blood, lip curling. “You’ve done enough.”

The words hung themselves from the rafters, cutting a rift of silence between them. Xiao Xingchen stiffened in wordless acknowledgement. 

The reaction isn’t what Xue Yang wanted. None of this was what he wanted. He should’ve known fate wouldn’t be so lenient. He should’ve massacred this damn temple before they laid another finger on him. Xiao Xingchen was going to suspect him anyway, imprison him regardless. All cultivators were the same. 

Song Lan’s low voice cracked the silence. “See? He doesn't want your help.” 

There was a condemnation hidden there. Xue Yang heard it all before. His existence defiled nature. He should not be permitted to live. As long as there was an attempt made to purify his taint, there would be no guilt in killing him afterward. Like killing a rabid dog.

A bitter laugh ruptured in his throat. It jarred his bones, deep enough the echoes of pain returned all at once. 

“You felt how deep it runs,” Xue Yang said. An honest edge returned to his voice. It shook in part with fury and in part with relief from no longer having to hide. “I’ll never be cleansed. You’ll only ruin yourself if you try. I’ll never be as virtuous or as pure as you—”

“Watch your tongue,” Song Lan snapped.. 

Xue Yang bared his teeth in a twisted imitation of a smile. 

“Make me,” he spat. “Or is your leash too short?” 

Song Lan’s mouth thinned. His hand brushed Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder, a signal to withdraw, but it went unanswered. Brow furrowing, Song Lan said quietly, “Don’t listen to him. He’s gone insane.” His fingers squeezed again. “You should go rest. We’ll question him in the morning.” 

“He hasn’t recovered,” Xiao Xingchen said. 

“He already refused,” Song Lan said firmly. “You can’t force him.” 

But Xiao Xingchen could force him. In this state, Xue Yang couldn’t resist very long.

The realization stung like a brand, impossible to scrub away. He jerked in his chains. Rage bled into his fists. He nearly scrambled to his hands and knees as the force of the array slammed through him again.

“Can you really do it?” Xue Yang swallowed the blood and bile. A shaken breath rippled across his shoulders as he slumped forward, finding Xiao Xingchen’s reflective eyes. “Can you kill me, Xingchen?” 

Xiao Xingchen startled as though it was a filthy curse.

“I don’t think you can,” Xue Yang said. “You wouldn’t stain your hands, right? Will you let Song Lan do it? You’d let him kill me instead?” 

Another choked laugh seized his body in its grip. His body was too weak. He collapsed over the floor, throat stinging around each tremulous choke of laughter. 

It was his mistake. Their fate had already been written. A monster could trim its claws and hide its teeth, but it could never change its nature. 

He at least wanted a few more years before it caught up to him, but he was already living with borrowed time. This life didn’t belong to him. Perhaps it only belonged to Xingchen all along. 

He was never in control. The future wasn’t his. Maybe his death would buy Xiao Xingchen a second life. It was unfortunate, then, that Xue Yang was too selfish to let Xiao Xingchen off the hook so easily. If they could not spend those days together again, no future was worth any cost. 

Xiao Xingchen’s expression flickered. A flash of hurt, nearly believable, passed over his face. His fingers knotted together over his lap. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. 

Xue Yang tipped another look toward him. A scoff cut through his next breath. 

It was terribly honest. Xingchen didn’t want to hurt him, but he would. Their paths couldn’t have been more different. It was inevitable.  

He said nothing. The silence consumed them both. 

He decided, in that moment, that rage felt too close to helplessness. There was an activation, an imminence to it. It spurred his pulse into a reckless rhythm and he denied it all at once. 

He was being left behind. Again. 

He might as well push him away first. If the result was the same, he needed that control. He needed to taste the power when too much of it had been stripped from him. 

They were strangers in this life. They were not companions. They had not shared a few years together. This Xingchen was foreign to him, polite and courteous but not the same. 

It seems I am coming to know you too, Xue Yang thought as Xiao Xingchen turned his back to him. 

He left. Song Lan followed. Xue Yang curled over the floor, spine pinned to the wall, his breath leaving in uneven gusts. His throat stung from the jagged laughter that scraped his throat like rusted nails, leaving his voice raw and mangled. His cheeks had somehow become wet and he furiously wiped at them, cursing. 

The habit was already there. Exhausted and depleted, his mind churned out endless scenarios of subduing, breaking, or deceiving Xiao Xingchen to remain at his side. Some methods were more favorable than others. However, the routine took on a violent quality. Over and over again, he took Xiao Xingchen by force. There was a certain power to it, a sick satisfaction, and a lingering thread of doubt woven between each image. 

For the first time since waking in this moral perversion of a life, he sifted through the scenarios, and hated each one. 

. . . .

The isolated pavilion was unnaturally quiet and eerily still despite having been designed for such purposes. Cold metal bit through his sleeves and pressed into his wrists. Once, he had been accustomed to the weight of chains as he slept, but it was not a habit he was ever keen on returning to. Wisps of incense prickled his nose, probably burning somewhere in another pavilion nearby. That didn’t stir up fonder memories either since the scent was inextricably connected to the handful of brothels that burned the sticks by the pile in a dizzying cloud of saccharine sweetness that invariably covered up the rotten stickiness beneath. 

The array hummed faintly, reminding him that he was in the process of having every meridian bled dry. An ache pounded against his skull. It was a rhythm he could not ignore. 

He wasn’t sure what had alerted him. He was always vigilant, a courtesy from childhood.

Metal scraped against wood as he shifted from his coiled position to sit flat on his hips. He could summon enough power to dismantle the array and save him from a worse headache, but he refrained. It would likely trigger an alarm, given his past experiences with precautious cultivators.

Escape wasn’t the point. At least, not for now. 

He closed his eyes again, loathing the weight of his traitorous eyelids. The interrogation that would find him in only a few short hours would probably confirm his guilt. He had no intention of being honest, but even slivers of the truth were hardly digestible. He rehearsed alternatives. But with each recitation, the temptation returned, stronger than the last—to summon enough power to break free and simply run. 

His legs cramped. It was unpleasant. His stomach uttered low complaints, reminding him of his hunger. He ignored it. 

Unhelpfully, his mind supplied a fresh image taken from one of his dreams. Skin breaking under his teeth as he bit down, like a wild dog sinking its jaws into the throat of its caught prey. The prey in question had squirmed under his hands, white robes askew from the struggle. 

Normally he had an appetite for it. But he couldn’t bring himself to do more than swat away the image with a low curse. 

His core rippled without warning. The walls of the pavilion seemed to shudder slightly as a shapeless presence pressed down, pushing the air from the chamber. Then it was gone. 

The array pulsed weakly. Xue Yang was already on his feet when a jagged scream pierced the night.

Adrenaline flooded his veins before he churned out a formed thought. His hands were already slick with sweat as he slid a needle of power through the chains. The unlatched with a firm jab and clanked across the floorboards. The restrictive ward reacted to the unauthorized conjuring of demonic power, but he made quick work of it. Somehow, the array felt weaker than before and it only took a handful of heartbeats to stumble outside of the barrier toward the door. 

The scent of blood was immediate. The coppery, pungent smell tangled with the acrid tang of fear. It dragged him forward like a hook caught behind his navel. Shouts cut through the night, interrupted by the vicious reverberations of weapons sliding into flesh and fabric. 

Xue Yang ran toward the inexplicable tug. 

Chaos seized the main courtyard. Nearly a dozen cultivators slashed furiously with their weapons, panic wresting every maneuver into a blur of flashing metal and spray of crimson. A dozen more lay motionless on the stone paths. All of them bore fatal wounds: ribs collapsed in a fleshy heap; limbs torn from sockets and oozing puddles of blood; skulls and throats eviscerated by what looked like deep scores of ravenous claws. 

The ones they fought were no longer human. Their forms were mere mutations of human corpses. Bodies mangled and twisted. Eyes glazed with hunger. Jaws opened in a split of torn flesh and blood-specked shrieks. 

Fierce corpses. Nearly two dozen of them lunged and bit at everything that moved. 

Xue Yang cursed, summoning Jiangzai with a controlled roll of his wrist. 

Ideally, he would be the one commanding a horde of the bloody creatures, not fighting for his life alongside subpar martial cultivators. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t adding up. And yet, the potent resentful energy was undeniable, thickening the air and pulling him toward instinct like a lure of its own. He squeezed Jiangzai’s hilt, drawing a steadying breath and suppressing the thrill twisting in his core from the spilled blood. He would absorb what he needed later. He wouldn’t let it devour him first. 

He needed to find Xiao Xingchen.

He tore through the courtyard, cutting through whatever blocked his search for those white robes. 

A blur surged toward him in his periphery. He swiveled, bringing Jiangzai up in a fatal arc, and cleaved through the gray flesh of an outstretched hand. The severed appendage flopped over the stone, blackened nails crusted with blood and gummy flesh. 

The fierce corpse howled. Not from pain but rage. It swiped toward him again with its severed limb, jaw unlatching. 

Xue Yang drove the point of his blade in an upturned arc, piercing the mandible to the hilt. He wrenched the blade fiercely, reducing the fierce corpse to a brainless sack of flesh. It shuddered and slumped, but its hands sprang forward and groped at his robes, nails gouging his chest. He leveraged his weight and gripped the hilt tighter, bringing up his heel and delivering a bone-crushing kick to the creature’s sternum, ripping himself free. 

He turned again, flicking the filth from his blade as he scanned the courtyard. 

A blur of white robes spun in the far corner of the courtyard near the pavilion walkway. Not too far from him, a barrage of dark robes slashed and hacked furiously, too fast to track clearly. 

As Xue Yang broke into a run, he studied the pattern of movements from the pale blur. Xiao Xingchen moved with measured precision despite the carnage. Every flick of his sword found its target, severing flesh or deflecting hungry attacks. 

Xiao Xingchen lifted his head after a cutting sweep and saw him. He dove forward in a bold lunge, clearing the rest of the path between them. He risked a glance at Xue Yang’s hand, the wicked sword he wielded, the missing shackles on his bare wrists— 

Another corpse ambushed the tense reunion, swiping its broken nails in a sidelong blow toward Xue Yang’s throat. He crouched, unleashing Jiangzai upon the corpse’s bony ankles. It toppled over as Shuanghua relieved the creature of its head. 

Xue Yang pivoted close to Xiao Xingchen, wary of Song Lan lurking somewhere nearby.

“Daozhang,” Xue Yang said quickly. “Pass me a few talismans.” 

Xiao Xingchen reached inside his robe, sidestepping another attack and returning an amputating blow as he passed a considerable stack to Xue Yang. In the next breath, he grabbed Xue Yang’s tunic and flipped their positions in a sharp tug right as Shuanghua stabbed another fierce corpse that narrowly missed clamping its jaws onto Xue Yang’s arm.

Xiao Xingchen slid close again until their backs were pressed together. “What did you think of?”  

Xue Yang anticipated a slightly different question, but he brushed off his surprise. 

“Let me worry about the details,” he replied, stuffing a talisman between each finger. He slashed forward, warding off another onslaught of shrieking jaws. 

Xiao Xingchen switched to a double grip and performed a series of featherlight steps, buying a few more seconds for Xue Yang to figure out what exactly his plan even was. 

Testing how fucked over he was, Xue Yang summoned a small spark of demonic qi to his fingertips. Immediately his veins ached and pulsed with stinging heat, but he tried to ignore it. 

“Attract as many of these things as you can and don’t get caught,” he said. “It might not work, so don’t do anything too flashy.” 

Xiao Xingchen nodded. “All right. Be careful.” 

Xue Yang leapt from the protective circle Xiao Xingchen carved by himself and sprinted toward the center of the courtyard. As though baited by Xingchen’s white robes or propensity for cleansing what was tainted, the fierce corpses swarmed in a chorus of ear-splitting shrieks. 

Xiao Xingchen moved his assault to the middle of the courtyard, following Xue Yang’s lead. With tight pivots and wide arcs, he held his own remarkably well, but Xue Yang didn't plan on testing him much longer. 

Most talismans Xiao Xingchen carried on his person weren’t for combat, which made this next improvisation more of a gamble and less of a strategy. The fierce corpses’ unyielding power was a bad sign. If they refused to be cut down, well, there were other ways to dispose of unsightly corpses. 

The unlit braziers were carved, like everything else, from stone. Luckily the stone pillars weren’t too thick, and what likely burned inside wasn’t wood or paper. 

Bracing, he channeled ropes of demonic qi through his body and swung his sword. Jiangzai slammed into the base. His teeth rattled as the power reverberated through him. But the aim was true. The first brazier tipped like a felled tree and shattered across the pavement. Thick oil leaked across the stone pathways, snaking between crevices and pooling in thickened puddles of inky blackness. He leaned down, dragged the talismans through the oil, and cupped a hand around his mouth. 

“Xingchen!” Xue Yang shouted as he ignited the first talisman and dropped its fluttering shape. 

Xiao Xingchen leaped backward, crossed two paces, and pulled on Xue Yang’s wrist as the flint replacement talisman sparked then erupted. 

The courtyard burned with light. A curtain of flame exploded from the center of the courtyard, spreading like hungry fingers to seize what was untouched. A dozen fierce corpses shriveled into burning pillars of smoke and ash, their howling cries devoured by the crack of soaring flames. 

Xiao Xingchen squeezed Xue Yang’s wrist. 

“I know, I know,” Xue Yang said. “Burning down temples is inexcusable.”

He shook off Xiao Xingchen’s grip and leveled Jiangzai at the fierce corpses who were still causing such a ruckus. 

Then he sensed it. That same tug, subtle but unmistakable. It hooked behind his core, beckoned him with a single crooked finger, and he felt its presence saturate the entire perimeter. It almost felt like a heartbeat pulsing underground. 

The Yin Tiger Tally was here. 

Shit. Of course it was.

He spun around. His heart hammered. Every vein tightened. 

A shadow detached from the slanted roof above. That same tug flickered, tightened. 

Before he could leap after the echo, a hand clamped down on his forearm. Distantly, he realized his sword arm was trembling. The touch and stinging pressure only made it worse. Heat poured through the grip. Numbness trickled into his fingertips even as he tightened his hold on Jiangzai’s hilt. 

Xiao Xingchen stepped in front of him. “Chengmei, you’re not—”

Xue Yang pushed him off. It must have been well-aimed or Xiao Xingchen wasn’t expecting it because he actually stumbled back a step. 

Xue Yang turned and ran, launching himself onto the roof and breaking into a relentless advance. There was no time to endure a lecture or explain. 

A dozen meanings already rattled off in his head of what Xingchen could’ve been about to say. But Xiao Xingchen was too predictable. He practically heard the echo in his head. 

You’re not supposed to be here. 

Whatever. It was too late to play ignorant. He might as well stretch his stabbing muscles for a while. 

More shrieks and howls sounded from below. Pain arced through his skull, white blasting through his vision as the demonic pulse strained and yanked. The fierce corpses below rallied around another impossible fusion of resentful energy and swarmed again, targeting whatever was left breathing. 

There was no time to think. Xue Yang lunged for that dark-cloaked figure, the corner of a fitted mask flashing at the slight turn of their head. 

This wasn't supposed to happen. He left Lanling before he signed up for something like this. Yet here he was at the center of it all, still drawn to the same power he had once helped restore. 

He attacked in a flurry of blows. But the man moved like smoke. Every dodge and step blurred into an eerily familiar pattern. 

It was a distraction anyway. He was after that thread, that heartbeat. He lashed out with his demonic qi, seizing the thread that tugged on him, even still. The chains no longer suppressed him. The array no longer drained him. He could finally fight the only way he knew how. 

The shape of it curled around his veins like a drug. He could finally breathe without it hurting. He could move without ignoring the pain. A surge of that dark, delicious power responded to his call. In a past life, he had been its master. 

It hummed beneath his skin, even as he cut Jiangzai to deter the premature escape of that figure, his blows gained speed and power. Momentum and cunning. It was nearly his to command as he turned it to himself, siphoning the implicit demand from a user that had no skill, no right to wield it. 

It was not the moment for indulgence, but Xue Yang had a terrible habit for it. 

The shrieks below thinned into low moans and distant grumbles. He risked a glance. The fierce scramble of clawing limbs and hungry lunges slowed into indolent stumbles. 

In his periphery, a blur of white had followed him on the rooftop, metal glinting in the quick slide of his eyes. 

Xue Yang had no choice but to lock his attention ahead. The barrage of thrusts and parries finally earned its worth. He slashed across like he had a dozen times before, but at the last moment, it tapered into a feint. He raised Jiangzai into a downward slash and pinned the masked figure under the crush of his blade. There was a shortened breath beneath the mask, perhaps outrage or surprise. 

Xue Yang leveraged his weight over the talentless bastard. The tiles cracked under the pressure, but he didn’t relent. 

Suddenly the tally’s coil of power tightened, but Xue Yang’s power surged around it. His hand leashed around the writhing cord of shadows no doubt compelling the corpses to not only kill, but devour. He curled his fingers, squeezed, and pulled. 

The thread twanged taut, strained, then snapped. It was his. Utterly his and dominated by the skill of a more worthy practitioner. The tendrils of shadow curled around his fist, his wrist, coiling over his arm. 

Jin Guangyao should’ve given him those damn curtains in the first place. 

Xue Yang leaned down, a smile severing his expression. “You knew I was here?” 

The man responded with a pathetic squirm. 

“It seems you already know who I am, then.” Xue Yang slid Jiangzai into a more favorable position prodding at the man’s jugular. “Forgive me, if I can’t return the courtesy…” 

His blade grazed the edge of the mask. 

The shadows writhed. His arm, his only anchor securing the tally’s noxious power, shook under the recoil. A vein of black energy struck out, but he ducked. As it launched over his head, he scoffed. 

“A shame,” he said. “You missed.” 

Then he heard it. The scrape of broken nails over ceramic tiles. His head swiveled on reflex as the gnashing fierce corpse scrambled atop the edge of the roof and lunged, maw open and bloodied. 

A sword pierced its concave chest. 

Xiao Xingchen slid his blade free with a tight pivot, leveraging the length of his sword to create a chasm of distance. The corpse staggered in a terrible, convulsive lurch. 

Xiao Xingchen was already turning, taking in the sight of Xue Yang’s grip on the blackened cord of writhing shadows, the masked man pinned beneath him. Too soon he had given his back. Too slow he raised his wrist to form a hand seal and let his sword drop. 

“Xingchen!” Xue Yang yanked on the cord but it was too late. 

The errant power corrupted the flesh it infected. The fiendish corpse lunged. Its vicious jaws tore into Xingchen’s shoulder. 

A terrible, muted sound left Xingchen’s lips. His face twisted in pain then hardened. Bracing his stance, he whirled his blade in a perilous angle and struck the corpse again, wrenching himself free as fabric and flesh tore. 

Xue Yang watched in horror as the impaled corpse dragged its claws through Xingchen’s stained sleeve and forced them both over the edge of the roof. 

Coldness poured through Xue Yang’s veins. The restrained power corroded his grip. Iron spilt over his tongue and he nearly choked. His anger was the only remedy against the numbness. Heated contempt dragged the blade into the man’s throat. 

The man gave a final squirm, and too late, Xue Yang realized it was not to escape. The man was retrieving something from his robe. Before he could deliver a fatal cut to his throat, a soft, muted thwip sounded from the man’s hidden hand and he disappeared in a choke of dust and ash. 

Xue Yang felt the last of his power fade with him. 

He slumped over, cheek slamming into the broken roof tiles. Pain burst through his skull. Nausea gripped his stomach and threatened to expel the rot and fury simmering within. 

He couldn’t think. He pulled himself to his knees, his feet—and, summoning enough breath to manage it, he leapt off the roof. 

He expected to find Xiao Xingchen grappling with the ravenous creature in the churning clouds of miasma and smoke, maybe land beside his broken body. He expected a hard fall, a few broken ribs or a mangled leg for taking the brunt of the impact. He expected the breath to be ripped from him like it had been so many times in the past by bruising hands, ropes and metal, and even the shadows he controlled. He expected pain, always more pain, maybe even the blanket of quiet that came from unconsciousness. 

He jumped—expecting all of it. He fell—prepared to endure it like he had before. 

An interruption found him midair. A solidness caught him, not like a fish trapped in a wriggling net or a sparrow captured by an unforgiving hawk. It was softer. An arm circled around him, cinched him close, and slowed their descent in a slow spiral. A bit dizzying of a martial technique, and only reliable to the most disciplined. 

A swirl of white, blood-stained robes crossed his line of sight. He tipped his head, ribs tightening, and who else could he have found but Xiao Xingchen?

Blood and ash stained his complexion. The infuriating curve of his mouth was slightly pinched, revealing a dimple of concentration at the corner. 

As soon as their feet touched the desecrated, flame-licked ground, Xue Yang bent in half and expelled clumps of congealed blood. His throat stung, eliminating his option to speak. His eyes wettened from the depth of his coughs. When he regained a semblance of breath, he passed an uncertain look through the miasma across the courtyard. 

It lay still except for the crackling flames devouring the last drops of oil and the dissipating clouds of noxious miasma. Slain corpses and broken bodies covered the courtyard. The scent of copper and smoke hung thick in the air. 

“Chengmei,” Xiao Xingchen said abruptly, cutting through the stillness.

Dammit. Xue Yang had been trying to avoid this. He faced Xingchen, who was still alive, still standing. Still allowing Xue Yang to do the same. 

“You’re not recovered yet.” Xingchen’s brows furrowed together in concentration as he slid a cautious stroke over Xue Yang’s back, possibly checking for any maiming. “Stay here. Focus on your breathing. Your heart meridian is still damaged.” 

Xue Yang could barely move, even if he wasn’t in the mood to be felt up by his unorthodox physician. There had been enough redundant touching while being caught mid-air. 

His resistance came in a short burst. He snatched Xingchen’s wrist as the thick miasma invaded his mouth, reminding him of the power he tasted seconds ago. He felt his hand tighten and squeeze around Xingchen when he tried to move away, presumably to leave him again. 

“Chengmei…” Xiao Xingchen’s eyes filled with quiet pain. “I have to find Zichen.” 

Another twist of nausea rolled his stomach into tight knots. He said nothing. How could he? He could not deprive Xingchen of searching the bodies for his only friend. But neither could he watch. 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

Xue Yang let go. He took the sudden sundering as an opportunity to catch himself against one of the pavilion’s cold pillars. He broke his own word as he tracked Xiao Xingchen’s form weaving between strewn chaos and slaughter. Occasionally he knelt to check for breath or a pulse. He always stood up not long afterward. 

After watching him do it a dozen times, Xue Yang took inventory of his wounds and aches. It was more torturous to attune to the pain rather than distance himself from it, but the process was necessary. It felt like he ruptured a lung, but he suspected it wasn’t that extreme since he was still kicking dirt. His fingers still stung with numbness. Every limb felt cold. He guessed he was already halfway in making another corpse for Xiao Xingchen to prod at. Every nerve and ligament was utterly useless. 

If Jin Guangyao wanted to kill him, he was doing a worse job than before. He should’ve known it would be a simple matter if the Yin Tiger Tally was dangled under Xue Yang’s nose. He couldn’t really expect one of Xue Yang’s own restorations to be capable of killing him. That Jin bastard was too clever for such a bland attempt.

Then, why…

He snapped out of the disturbing line of questioning when he heard a shout. He somehow found his footing as he tracked Xiao Xingchen across the carnage on the stone steps to one of the pavilions. He was already kneeling beside a slack form slumped atop the steps, blood pooling beneath an unseen wound. 

As Xue Yang stumbled closer, two things were immediately clear. 

It was Song Lan. 

He wasn’t breathing. 

His broad chest was eerily still. His sword lay discarded nearby. He remained unresponsive, even as Xiao Xingchen gripped and squeezed his hands, even lifting them up to his mouth to blow warm air over the pale flesh. 

“Zichen, wake up,” Xiao Xingchen murmured. “Won’t you look at me?” 

Xue Yang scanned Song Lan again, but there were no obvious wounds on a closer glance. His attention was arrested by the obvious stain drenching Xiao Xingchen’s back and right sleeve. His robes had ripped at the shoulder. Torn flesh and oozing blood seeped through his robe. It darkened as blood bubbled from the open wound as Xiao Xingchen bent closer and jostled Song Lan as though he really was just resting. 

“Zichen…” The twin pools of warmth blotted with tears. His hands moved over Song Lan’s unmoving chest and channeled a faint thrum of spiritual qi through him. “Song Lan. Song Lan?” 

It should’ve been thrilling. This is what he wanted. But Xingchen’s tear-ridden begging was really too unbearable to watch. Xue Yang almost wished jumping from the roof would’ve knocked him out so he wouldn’t have to deal with Xingchen when he was like this. 

Without thinking of the consequences, he reached under Song Lan’s back where the blood was pooling thickest. As his fingers grazed the tear in his robes, his roving touch stilled. 

The blood was warm. Hot, even. And it leaked over his fingers at the smallest press. 

He felt it there in the blood. The trace of demonic poison.

Xiao Xingchen’s red-rimmed eyes fixated on Xue Yang’s stained fingers as he pulled away. The vibrant blood hadn’t even cooled when Xiao Xingchen thickened the qi pouring through his hands. It cycled through Song Lan’s body a few times, restoring what Xue Yang would guess was a couple shades to Song Lan’s sickly complexion. 

“We don’t know how long he hasn’t been breathing,” Xue Yang said. 

It was an unhelpful remark, but Xingchen had clearly gotten his hopes up.

Xiao Xingchen sniffed in a ragged breath, eyes unblinking as he focused on Song Lan’s still chest. “He’ll wake soon. Look, he’s warming up.” 

Well, yes. Imbuing a shit ton of spiritual energy will do that to just about anything. 

Xue Yang felt a bitter note enter his tone. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” 

Xiao Xingchen shook off the words. “I have to save him.” 

It crested in a sharp, irreversible reaction. Xue Yang grabbed one of Xiao Xingchen’s wrists in his grip, tearing it off Song Lan’s chest. 

“Chengmei? Chengmei, let go.” 

Xue Yang held on, a silent refusal.

Xiao Xingchen held his gaze for a single moment—then he thrashed. 

Xue Yang pictured it. Taking him like this. Tearing him from the cooling body of his only friend and claiming Xiao Xingchen for himself. Bringing him to Yi City. Taking his eyes, his legs, his tongue, and just keeping him without a way for him to leave. No method to refuse him. 

Xue Yang let himself think of it, consider it…

He let go. 

Xiao Xingchen withdrew his hand as though he’d been bitten by a pair of fangs. He watched Xue Yang warily with the first crack of something like fear. 

Xue Yang, in all of his dreams and temptations, envisioned what that expression would look like, of what it would take to earn it. Facing it now… 

It lost its anticipated flavor. 

“If you want to save him,” Xue Yang said, “watch closely.” 

He gripped Song Lan’s jaw, tilted it to lengthen his throat, and pinched his nose shut with more force than he needed. Ignoring Xiao Xingchen’s sudden grip on his arm, he leaned down and pushed his mouth over Song Lan’s. He withheld his grimace as he delivered a couple breaths then withdrew. 

Xiao Xingchen’s protest lost its strength. His grip loosened when Xue Yang pushed two more breaths into Song Lan’s lungs, forcing his chest to move, stirring the poison to respond then retreat.

He absorbed it. Poison was poison, but his core was tempered in a way a holy cultivator’s would never be. He could take it, and even use it.

It should’ve felt transgressive to help the man he couldn’t tolerate. He should’ve indulged in the power of life and death in his hands. Song Lan was helplessly at his mercy. It should’ve been exhilarating. But Xiao Xingchen was clinging to his sleeve with tears and snot ruining his gentle composure! What choice did he even have?

It was entirely possible he was breathing into a corpse for no reason. 

It wouldn’t be the first time. 

As soon as the memory struck him, a sharp pain sprouted in his chest, crawling up his throat where his breath thinned. His vision blurred and dulled. As he leaned down again, the stone slab melted into a cold bed. The dark robes drained of color, transforming into a silent splay of white folds. The breath he summoned from his lungs stung with salt. After screaming for hours, pleading Xingchen, each breath felt like a blade dragging through his throat. 

When he rose again, Xiao Xingchen scrambled forward a little, his eyes roving over Song Lan. It was then Xue Yang realized the small, uncontrolled jerk of Song Lan’s responding limbs. A slight divot appeared on his brow before a breath of his own slipped through his cracked lips. 

Xue Yang backed away, sliding down a few steps. He felt dizzy. The ache hadn’t abated. It spread to his head, his navel. It hollowed whatever crevice it leaked through. A shiver gripped his spine and ignited every nerve. Ironically, it was difficult to cage a breath long enough to calm his pulse.

He was an idiot. 

There was no doubt that his previous self would kill him for what he’d done—for what he was doing. It was a slightly amusing thought. An encounter with death really did change a man. It culled every root of ambition he once had. He couldn’t even let nature take its course with Song Lan even though it would’ve been in his favor! 

Fuck. He was losing his mind. 

The sound of Song Lan stirring and Xiao Xingchen’s fussing behind him landed like a blow. Xue Yang bent over again and retched over the charred cobblestones. 

Distantly, he knew he should leave. He should run before Song Lan noticed him. His legs refused to act. Too much had been taken too quickly. He might replace Song Lan on the brink at any moment. 

“Xi-Xingchen…” came the rasp of a man pulled from the grave. 

“Regulate your breathing.” Xiao Xingchen’s tending knew no bounds. Even as there was a rustle, a scrape of metal biting into the pavement, Xiao Xingchen was quick to coax and guide. “Slowly, don’t push yourself.” 

Xue Yang tortured himself with another glance just as Song Lan’s clouded eyes slid over him. He watched, useless legs numb with soreness, as Song Lan wavered on his feet. His sword appeared in his pale hand, the blood-crusted blade pointing at him, grief-stricken rage unstitching his expression that had been so still and pallid moments ago. 

None of that weakness remained now. 

“Filthy demon,” he rasped. “I swear… I’ll kill you!” 

He lurched forward as Xiao Xingchen blockaded the attempt. 

Fury struck like a flint against the metal in his eyes. He rammed forward again, breaking Xiao Xingchen’s stance with a brutal slam of untempered power. Spiritual power bearing a familiar signature coalesced around his body in roiling pulses.  

“Don’t stop me!” He flashed the side of his blade at Xiao Xingchen, weight swaying dangerously. “You… You think I can just let him go? He did this!” 

Xue Yang found the narrow opportunity to stand, but not much else. His muscles cramped. He nearly toppled over, but the movement was enough to alert Song Lan. 

Xiao Xingchen boldly seized Song Lan’s sword arm. 

“Zichen—” 

“Shut up!” Song Lan delivered a jab to Xiao Xingchen’s undefended chest, knocking him back several paces. “Even still, you dare to defend him? I saw him on the roof. The corpses were responding to his commands!”

Xiao Xingchen drew Shuanghua from its sheath. “I won’t let you harm him.” 

Something flashed across Song Lan’s expression. A crack that broke into a dozen fragments. In the span of a heartbeat, it was replaced by cold armor. 

“You can’t stop me.”

It was the only warning before Xue Yang faced the wrath of a man who had lost everything before his own eyes. He cut a straight line for Xue Yang, frost sharpening every movement. Xue Yang barely managed to summon Jiangzai to block the first attack, but not before the bite of metal tore into his side during the second. 

A third blow whistled toward him. Just as he cursed his own worthless fate, Xiao Xingchen deflected the core of the strike. He interrupted the gutting swipe with a blow of his own. It forced Song Lan back a step and their two blades locked together for an instantaneous stalemate. 

“Why…” Song Lan’s voice broke with rage and grief. “Why defend him?” 

His shoulders were locked in an unmoving grip, but the rest of him battled an unending tremor. 

“He has taken the demonic path. He—he killed them. Xingchen, he killed so many. And you…” His gaze swung to Xue Yang, sharp and searching like a knife in the dark, unbearably accusing. “You choose him?” 

Xiao Xingchen faltered. His blade slipped against Song Lan’s, but he noticed it as soon as Xue Yang did. He twisted the hilt and leapt backward a pace between Xue Yang and his imminent executioner. His breath came harder, poised to deflect, but Song Lan did not move. 

“I… I’m sorry I couldn’t protect them,” Xiao Xingchen said. “Zichen, it wasn’t your fault. We were deceived.”

Song Lan leveled his blade at another condemning angle. His mouth quivered like a plucked bowstring. 

“The only one deceived,” he said, “is you.” 

It was nearly too fast to track. Song Lan burst forward as quick as an arrow. The shriek of metal stung Xue Yang’s ears as he sidestepped, narrowly blocking another gutting swipe as Shuanghua intercepted with a fierce jab. The bones in his ankle rattled under the force as he slid across the pavement. Copper filled his cheek. He had bitten through it. 

Song Lan refused to relent. He swung into another arc toward Xue Yang, blade flashing. 

A blur of white appeared before him. But the angle of Song Lan’s sword had already changed. Shuanghua was in the wrong place—

Xue Yang seized Xiao Xingchen’s robes and started to pull fiercely, but it was too late. 

Song Lan realized it too. 

Metal sliced in a devastating arc. For a moment, it sounded like gentle rain splashing over the cobblestones—thick, round drops. But the crimson stain shattered the illusion. 

Xiao Xingchen’s head snapped to the side. His cheekbone cracked against Xue Yang’s nose as they staggered backward. Xue Yang turned him around in his arms, immediately sliding a hand over his throat to stymie the wound. But there was no blood. His neck was untouched. 

Blood dripped onto Xue Yang’s sleeves. His breath left in a shaky gust. 

Scarlet ribbons streamed down Xiao Xingchen's cheeks, tainting the same tracks left by tears. A line of split flesh bloomed across his face, slashing through both eyes. 

No. 

The wound on his face, the blood staining his skin, the way he staggered—suddenly unsure of his own footing—it shouldn’t have happened like this. Not in this life. 

“You…” Song Lan’s voice cracked. The words were nearly a choke. “Xi-Xingchen, why did—?” 

Xiao Xingchen lifted a stained sleeve to his face, but Xue Yang grabbed his arm. 

“Don’t.” His ribs tightened again. “You’re bleeding.” 

“Why?” Song Lan’s shout cracked like thunder. It was nearly a sob. 

He dropped his sword. As it clattered over the stained stones, his only anchor seemed to fall with it. He collapsed to his knees, fingers tearing through his hair as his voice broke. 

“Why did you do it?” He smashed his fists repeatedly against his head, leaving bruised and bloody marks. “What were you thinking?” 

A stiffness overtook Xiao Xingchen. “Chengmei? Zichen?” 

“I’m here,” Xue Yang answered, taking his arm.

“Chengmei, I can’t see.” He swayed listlessly for a moment. “It… it hurts.” 

Xue Yang bit his tongue. He almost rattled off a dozen things that would make this significantly worse. “You’re a bit scratched up, but…” He forced himself to sound calm. “I’ll heal you, don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Just hang onto me.” 

Song Lan scraped his fingernails down the grooves of the cobblestones, breath hitching in terrible, choked sobs. Rage and grief twisted his face into a raw expression Xue Yang was nearly grateful Xiao Xingchen couldn’t witness. 

“Zichen?” 

“Leave!” Song Lan pounded his fist again. “You made your choice. I… I never want to see you again!” 

More blood stained the front of Xiao Xingchen’s robes. He was shaking his head. The blood flowed more thickly now. When he tried to step toward Song Lan, Xue Yang held him back. 

“You…” Song Lan leveled a glare at Xue Yang. “If you ever show yourself—” The threat was absolute and unwavering. “I swear I will kill you.” 

Xue Yang tugged Xiao Xingchen's wrist, orienting him to step around one of the bodies, but the gesture spurred a sudden panic. Xiao Xingchen sucked in a small breath. Blood dripped across the pavement as his mouth wobbled. 

Song Lan’s teeth flashed in a snarl. “For what you’ve done,” he said, low and cutting, “I’ll never forgive you. Get out of my sight!”

Xiao Xingchen faltered again. His heel slipped over a smear of blood, but Xue Yang was ready. He took Xiao Xingchen’s uninjured arm and tugged again. Beneath the press and brush of white fabric, he felt the unmistakable tremor of Xiao Xingchen’s composure finally crumbling. 

Xue Yang guided him back a step, then another, repeating the silent instruction as they retraced their steps from yesterday, beyond the courtyard to the outer gate, and the road beyond. 

Xiao Xingchen might have been crying. Instead of tears, there was blood. It dripped from his jaw, leaking down his neck to remind Xue Yang of what had caused such anguish in his past life.

Maybe this really was the afterlife, and no matter what choices he made, Xiao Xingchen would always despise him in the end. Maybe this was his karmic retribution. Xiao Xingchen had suspected him from the beginning. After Jin Guangyao’s scheme, Xiao Xingchen might even give up on reforming him. Perhaps in being granted a second life, he had to confront the possibility that his fate had already been written. Suffering was embedded in his existence, no matter what ambitions he cut loose or impulses he buried. 

A lowlife stayed low. It was impossible to emerge clean from mud. His hands were already stained; his heart was already blackened. His rotten soul couldn’t even enter the wheel of reincarnation properly. 

Xiao Xingchen had already lost his eyes. Perhaps what came next was unavoidable too. 

Would they at least have a few years? Months? 

Xue Yang, for the first time since waking, felt something worse than uncertainty. It was bone-deep. It plunged to the innermost depths of his core, making his skin tighten with dread and his pulse pound with adrenaline. 

He could not control any of this. His knowledge of what came next lurked like an inevitable threat—an inescapable omen. 

The road was not a welcome sight. He understood something fundamentally different now. The road, like the hand of fate itself, was an illusion of choice. He once believed he was capable of turning down whichever path his impulses steered toward. But the road had been here long before he ever was. His path had already been determined. What he wanted was forever entangled with the inevitability of losing it. 

But to possess something, even for a moment, was enough. He was born with fangs that bit and claws that burrowed. It went against his nature to pretend that he wouldn't claim what he wanted. Upon waking in that dirty, cramped cell in Lanling, only one impression had been left scrawled on his conscience... 

He had killed countless people. He had slaked his thirst for revenge and still drank from a brimming cup. Those worthless curs didn’t matter to him. He lived with no regrets. 

But death wasn’t so lenient. In the end, there had been one regret. Perhaps it was enough to twist his soul into a restless ghost, hellbent on fulfilling his obsession. 

Nothing else mattered. If the road never ended and this dream never faded, he would gladly spend eternity like this. His soul, that had never tasted one day of true peace in his original life, craved defiance until the bitter end. 

His grip stitched itself to Xiao Xingchen’s sleeve.

If it was all a dream, so be it. If he was caught in an endless loop of karma, unable to ever reincarnate, it didn't matter. All he wanted was—

Well, he could decide later. For now, the road ahead was enough.