The forest was thick with foliage, its branches reaching out like the pale arms of ghosts, clawing at his robes with every step. The under brush rustled with unseen creatures, their sounds masked by the heavy breath of wind that threaded through the leaves like a whispered warning. Moss-covered roots tangled beneath his feet, rising like sleeping serpents. Above, sunlight struggled to pierce the green canopy, casting the path ahead in a half-light that made the forest feel like a place forgotten by time.
Chen Zhao's sword—Xuemie, sharp and silent—sliced through low-hanging vines and brambles as he advanced, each whispering movement parting the shadows in his wake. His senses, always honed like a blade too long in the cold, remained on edge. He walked not with fear, but with precision—calculated, unhurried. Until he stopped.
Without sound or signal, his entire body froze—shoulders still, fingers steady, breath caught somewhere between inhale and exhale.
Something was wrong.
A presence. Faint but deliberate. It prickled along the back of his neck, cool as the breath of a snake before it struck. He didn't need to look to know he was being watched.
The gaze—piercing, unrelenting—cut through the dense forest like a needle through silk. It was inhumanly sharp. Not ordinary perception. This was someone trained—no, someone born—to hunt. His fingers twitched along the hilt of his sword.
And then—
Whoosh—shnk!
An arrow tore through the air, brushing past his cheek with the hiss of paper being sliced. Pain bloomed across his skin—a shallow cut, but enough to sting—and something even more precious fluttered to the ground.
His veil. It spun once in the air like a falling petal before collapsing silently onto a bed of damp leaves. Sunlight kissed his exposed features for the first time in years. His face—pale and severe, sculpted like jade worn down by winter wind—was no longer hidden.
His breath caught. Another arrow whistled through the trees—closer this time. He twisted just in time to avoid it, the edge grazing his shoulder and sending blood seeping through fabric. The pain was secondary. The panic was not.
His mind screamed only one word: Run.
He turned and darted into the woods, weaving through trees like wind slipping through cracks in a wall. His movements were fluid, honed by decades of training—but the arrows came faster, a rain of crimson-tipped shafts tearing through the canopy above. Each one hissed with intent. The kind that did not maim. The kind that killed. He recognised the fletching. Crimson. Sharp. Unforgiving.
He didn't look back. He couldn't afford to. Whoever was behind him—no, he feared he already knew who it was—was not someone he could face right now. Especially not now. Especially not without his veil.
His shoulder burned—more blood. Nothing fatal yet, but enough to betray him. Enough to feed the thing slumbering within him. He clenched his teeth, pressing a palm to his chest. Beneath skin and bone, coiled like a shadow made of ancient smoke, lay his spirit companion.
The dragon. It stirred. Was it the spirit's warning? Or just the panic he refused to admit he felt?
The edge of the forest appeared ahead—fields, open land where he would be a sitting duck. He needed cover. Now.
A shack—half-swallowed by ivy and rot—appeared in the clearing ahead like a miracle. Wood rotted, windows hollow, roof collapsed. He dove through the gap where a window once was, landing beneath the tilted roof beam, chest tightening. Perhaps jumping through windows was becoming a habit.
Breathing heavily, he slapped a talisman over his shoulder wound. Whispered incantations followed, and the talisman shimmered faintly before sinking into the flesh, working its slow healing magic.
Footsteps approached—heavy, deliberate. A sharp aura pressed down like a blade at his nape. Not murderous, but undeniably hostile. Graceful in the way predators often were. He had seconds at most.
He looked back, ready to strike, yet too late. A hand clamped over his mouth. Another arm looped around his, pinning him in place—not harshly, but with disarming familiarity. Zhao's breath caught. He hadn't sensed them approach. He struggled, twisting sharply, but the grip held. Controlled. Measured.
His eyes darted upward—and locked. A familiar face. His breath stopped altogether.
Yun Ling. But not as he remembered. Not clothed in ceremonial white robes with radiant gold. This Yun Ling wore amethyst—soft as mourning smoke—embroidered with falling lilies along the sleeves, petals kissed with plum thread. His hair was unbound today, loose and tied only at the nape. A silver hairpin glinted in the slanted light.
His face—no longer half-seen through sunlight and teasing expressions—was devastatingly clear. Elegant. Pale as the moon after frost. Lashes long and feathery, brushing the edges of his cheek. His smile—a single, breathless curve of irony.
"Well," Yun Ling whispered, breath warm against Zhao's ear. "You do have a talent for dramatic exits." Yun's hand slipped away, allowing him to breathe again. But the proximity didn't change.
"I assume the veil is no longer necessary," Yun mused lightly, "Or should I fetch a new one and pretend I saw nothing?"
Zhao's voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. "You shouldn't be here."
Yun Ling tilted his head, that fox-like amusement flickering in his amber eyes. "Oh, but I rather enjoy showing up where I shouldn't."
Why now? Why here? Had he come to expose him? Capture him? Or—far worse—had Yun Ling simply stumbled upon him by coincidence, only to become entangled in a storm that had been meant to die in silence?
Before Chen Zhao could gather thought into speech, a thunderous voice shattered the brittle silence like a blade through old bone.
"Come out. Now. I don't have time for games. Surrender yourself, and this ends cleanly."
The voice—gravel-thick and thunder-raw—rolled through the trees like a war drum. Unmistakable.
Feng Zhe. Leader of Feng Lie Sect. A man revered by generals and feared by spirits alike. No spiritual flairs. No ethereal beasts. Just brute force, and weapons forged to slay even divine beasts.
Zhao's body tensed as if frozen by spell-craft, but Yun Ling's breath whispered against his ear—a caress of warmth against the chill in his blood.
"Stay," Yun murmured. "Do not move. I will handle this."
He rose slowly, brushing debris from his robes with the idle elegance of a noble unfazed by chaos. With each step into the wreckage, the gentle fall of dust from his sleeves seemed more a theatrical gesture than necessity. Zhao didn't breathe. Not once. Through the splintered frame, the scene beyond came into view.
Feng Zhe stood amid the clearing like a mountain that refused erosion. Clad in crimson-dyed leather and dark steel, twin machetes strapped across his back like wings of death. His juniors flanked him—bowstrings taut, arrows notched, their gazes wary but loyal.
And Yun Ling—bare-handed, calm-eyed, smiling as if he had stumbled into an invitation-only banquet rather than an armed confrontation.
"Ah, Feng-zongzhu," Yun's voice drawled, each syllable wrapped in silk and mischief. "Didn't you know? Foxes thrive on games."
The tension in the air coiled like a serpent beneath frost. Feng Zhe's eyes narrowed. "You again, little fox?" he growled, voice cracking like flint against stone. "What in Heaven's name are you doing here?"
"On His Majesty's orders, of course," Yun Ling replied, folding his arms, one brow cocked in performative innocence. "Strange, though. I never thought I'd see the great Sect Leader of Feng Lie chasing whispers through a minor forest. Has your hatred for the Qi Ling Sect grown that petty?"
A flicker of muscle in Feng Zhe's jaw betrayed his restraint. "The ice seal," he said, voice dropping like the clang of an execution bell. "It's broken."
Chen Zhao's entire body went rigid. No. Not now.
"Oh?" Yun Ling replied too smoothly, voice like dew over glass. "You mean the Ice Prison Seal… the one binding Chen Guang Xian?" He gave a slow blink, then added, almost with a smile, "How unfortunate."
Feng Zhe's lips curled back. "Don't play the fool. It was your turn to guard the summit last month."
"Incorrect," Yun answered breezily. "My rotation ended two months ago. Perhaps it was your disciples who failed to handle a little snow."
A vein in Feng Zhe's temple pulsed. Lightning pressed against thunderclouds. "My disciples were attacked," he hissed. "When they awoke, they had been thrown from the mountain's peak. Outnumbered. No footprints. No trace. But I know your illusions, Yun-gongzi. You weave tricks in your sleep."
Yun Ling's teasing smile sharpened, his posture still deceptively relaxed. "I'm flattered by your obsession," he said. "But not even I would dare defy His Majesty's edicts. Surely you don't believe I'd release a cursed criminal just for the thrill of it? Even your blades know better."
"Do not test me, child."
"And yet here you are. Testing yourself against shadows."
The words hung, heavy with barbs. Then Feng Zhe's voice dropped into a darker register.
"You're searching for Linghua."
A silence as sharp as a drawn blade stretched between them. Chen Zhao's lungs stilled.
Linghua. The name alone stirred buried pain. His sword. His partner. His last companion in blood and spirit. A blade forged by trust, now broken by betrayal.
"What use is a shattered relic?" Feng Zhe asked, suspicion tightening his brow. "It should've been destroyed."
At last, Yun Ling's expression changed. Gone was the lazy playfulness. In its place, cold certainty.
"As His Majesty's envoy, I am charged with retrieving all items tied to Chen Ziyin's name," he said, voice slow and crystalline. "Linghua was gifted to him. That bond cannot be left to rot in snow."
"You think it can be restored?"
"I hope it can."
Chen Zhao closed his eyes. Could it be…? Was Yun truly… trying to preserve it? Not out of duty—but something more?
But Feng Zhe wasn't done. "You encountered the foreign cultivator. You helped him. Why protect him?"
Yun's eyes gleamed—cool amber flickering with faint gold beneath his lashes. "He healed the sick. Defended a village. Fought beside my disciples. If that's a crime, then your sect must now punish kindness." He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "Or perhaps, Feng-zongzhu, you are afraid you can no longer keep up."
The insult was silk-wrapped steel. Feng Zhe's nostrils flared. His hand drifted toward his machetes—but halted.
"This isn't over," he said at last. "But I'll let it go… for now." His gaze lingered on Yun Ling like a blade still sheathed. "We will speak again, Gongzi."
Without waiting for acknowledgment, Feng Zhe turned. His juniors followed, boots crunching on fallen leaves, their forms fading into the trees like the closing of a wound.
Only then did Zhao dare to breathe. The pain in his shoulder surged once more, dull and insistent, reminding him that he could not stay.
Yun Ling stood facing the forest, posture relaxed—yet Zhao knew he had been listening for any false retreat. He pressed a hand to the ruined wall. His body ached, his mind throbbed—but instinct pushed him. Run.
As quiet as snowfall, he slipped through the broken frame and into the trees. Again. Always again. The rhythm of his life: silence, blood, escape.
Behind him, the wind stirred. Whether it carried Yun Ling's breath or Feng Zhe's warning, he did not know.
But in his mind, one truth echoed louder than the wind: He could not afford to be caught. Not yet.
*
The forest ended far too soon.
One moment, Chen Zhao was slipping through shadows, a phantom among trees; the next, he found himself standing at the edge of an open sea of gold.
The wheat fields spread out before him, bathed in the deep hues of early dusk, each stalk swaying like an ancient choir murmuring forgotten truths. The sky above stretched endlessly, smudged with crimson and violet, as though even the heavens were caught between silence and confession.
With a flick of his fan, he summoned a sharp gust of wind, scattering dust and broken leaves behind him like a false trail—smoke to obscure his scent. He had been seen. By Yun Ling. The last person he could afford to cross paths with. That cunning fox. Trusted by the Emperor. Feared by many. Beloved by too many. Dangerous beyond all reason.
His spirit stirred again, coiling like a wounded serpent beneath his skin, sensing pursuit—warning him, protesting quietly.
Zhao's teeth clenched. He forced stillness into his limbs, pacing himself. He could not afford to run blindly. Not when every step was being read like calligraphy in the sand by Yun Ling's ever-watching gaze.
The field's golden sea whispered around him, shrouding his retreat, brushing against his robes like soft hands bidding him not to go. But he had to. He had to vanish before the world remembered who he truly was. Before the veil was torn completely. Before the dragon within him stirred and shattered the shell he had spent years reconstructing. Before Chen Zhao—the once radiant heir, the fallen immortal, the cursed soul—was seen for what he had become.
He crouched low among the reeds. Each breath was measured, controlled. A spell of minor concealment slipped from his lips like a prayer, weaving briefly around his form before fading into air. But it was already too late.
"You really thought you could escape me so easily, Zhao-xiong?" The voice came not like a threat—but a caress. Barely louder than a breeze, yet far more intimate.
It curled around him like silk, like shadow, like memory. Zhao's spine stiffened. That tone… it no longer carried the resonance of courtly command nor the blade-edge sharpness of political intrigue. It was lower, smoother. Like moonlight spilled across the surface of wine. A fox's whisper, sly and impossible to grasp.
He turned slowly, not out of caution, but out of inevitability. There, standing as if he had stepped from a dream, was Yun Ling. His robes—clear amethyst, embroidered with lilac petals—fluttered gently in the wind. His long hair was pulled back again into ponytail, a purple ribbon catching the last of the light. And though he bore no weapon, danger wrapped around him like fragrance: unseen but unmistakable. The kind that kissed before it killed.
"I gave you a head start," Yun Ling said, voice soft, almost fond. "You should thank me."
Zhao's jaw tightened. "You should stop chasing me."
"And let you fall into Feng Zhe's hands?" Yun's brow rose with a theatrical sigh. "Zhao-xiong, you wound me. Have a little more faith in your rescuer."
"I didn't ask to be saved."
"But you needed it."
A beat of silence passed between them, heavy as snowfall. Around them, the wheat field whispered in agreement, bowing in a slow spiral as the wind curled between their forms.
Zhao's voice was low, cut from iron. "Why are you helping me, Yun-daren? You had every reason to hand me over. You still do."
Yun's gaze shifted—no longer teasing, but unreadable. "Because I don't believe you're the monster they claim you are," he said quietly. "And I've always had a soft spot for strays." He smiled. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Something more dangerous—possessive. Like a child smiling at a flame too pretty not to touch.
"And besides," he added, stepping closer, "I never said I'd let you go."
Zhao took a single step back. "What do you want from me?"
"Answers. And perhaps…" Yun's smile curved wider, "… a little company. It gets lonely, you know, pretending to be loyal to people who wouldn't recognise the truth even if it danced naked in front of them."
Another step forward. Zhao instinctively retreated—but the land betrayed him. His heel struck an uneven stone hidden beneath the stalks, and he stumbled. Before he could fall, Yun's hand shot forward, fingers wrapping around his wrist in a motion too practised to be accidental. He steadied him, pulled him upright—but didn't let go.
Their bodies were far too close now. Zhao could smell him—plum blossom and sandalwood, tinged with something sharp and wild beneath the cultivated grace. He could feel the faint pulse beneath Yun's fingertips, he could sense his breath. Too close.
"You carry a curse," Yun whispered, his breath brushing Zhao's cheek. "But you also carry knowledge. I want both."
"Then you're no different than the rest," Zhao replied coldly. "You just ask prettier."
Yun chuckled. "True. But I'm also the only one willing to protect what I want. Even when it bites."
There was something terrifyingly sincere in those words. Sincere and selfish, like a child claiming a broken toy — not because it was useful, but because it was theirs. The words did not strike like a blade, nor fall like stone. They lingered in the air, soft and terrifying, like a promise made not in passion, but in certainty. There was no desperation in them. No begging. Only truth, stripped bare and offered as it was — selfish, unwavering, real. Chen Zhao's breath stilled.
"You'd go against your sect, against His Highness for that?" he whispered, barely able to recognise his own voice. It sounded hoarse. Smaller than he liked.
Yun Ling didn't even blink. "For what I truly want, Zhao-xiong… I'd go against the heavens."
The silence that followed was not silence at all. It was wind in the wheat, the distant hush of the land exhaling, the rising heat of dusk trapped beneath golden fields. And still they stood, the world quietly shifting around them — as if the very air paused to listen.
Chen Zhao's finger, that cursed, half-dead thing, clenched once. Hard. It echoed through his arm like the crack of frost beneath a heavy step. "What is this man saying? Why now? Why me?"
The grip on his wrist remained — not harsh, but unyielding. A tether. A weight. A thread that pulled on things he had buried beneath ten lifetimes. This was absurd. Utterly, infuriatingly absurd. "You're Yun Ling," he thought bitterly. "You are the Emperor's shadow. The blade behind every gilded lie. You were raised in corridors of deceit, suckled on court poison. You shouldn't say things like this."
And yet… he was.
Chen Zhao lifted his gaze. Slowly. Warily. Yun Ling met it without hesitation. That familiar teasing smile rested on his lips, yes — but in his eyes was something else. A quiet, dangerous truth. One Chen Zhao didn't know how to fight. He wanted to step back. He wanted to tear his wrist from that hand. He wanted to run.
This was a man who had spent years playing the palace's deadly games, cloaked in silence and secrets. Yun Ling was powerful, yes — a master of spiritual arts, possessing one of the rarest spirits in the Empire. Elusive, cunning, and known more for manipulation than brute strength. A spirit like that was useless in battle but lethal in the right hands — and Yun Ling's hands were always perfectly steady.
And yet... here he was. Holding onto Chen Zhao like something fragile and precious. Declaring rebellion with the softness of a lover's vow. Could it truly be real? Or was it simply another illusion spun from silver-tongued lies, meant to coax trust before the final betrayal?
Chen Zhao wanted to pull away — not just physically, but entirely. He wanted distance from this madness. But instead—
"I don't understand you," he muttered. "Why are you doing this? You could have handed me over to Feng Zhe, let the Emperor silence me. You would've walked away clean."
Yun Ling's smile didn't falter. If anything, it softened. "But I didn't."
"That's not an answer."
"I don't owe you one." His tone remained light, but the weight behind it was impossible to miss. "But I'll give it to you anyway. I'm tired, Zhao-xiong. Tired of gilded halls where every smile hides a dagger. Tired of defending a throne built on betrayal and forgetting." He stepped closer, their bodies brushing now — frost against warmth, memory against memory. The wind rustled around them, but neither of them moved.
"But you," Yun said, softer now, almost reverent, "you remember."
Chen Zhao's breath caught. The world tilted. Not in motion, but in sensation.
"And what?" he rasped. "You'd still follow me? Even if I told you to disappear?"
Yun Ling's smile turned wistful. "If I followed orders blindly, I wouldn't be who I am."
"You're a fool," Chen Zhao muttered, throat tight. "An arrogant one."
Yun only hummed. "Mn. That may be true."
At last, he released Chen Zhao's wrist. He instinctively rubbed the skin, as if trying to wipe something invisible away. His gaze had darkened.
"You'd do this... even against my will?" he said quietly, not quite able to look at him. "I've told you. I don't want company. I don't need help. I'm not a child. I am not some broken thing to be picked up and claimed." His voice dropped further — lower, harder. "Even if I no longer carry a heart in my chest, I am still not a thing."
Yun's expression didn't change. But his gaze deepened, quieted. That playful glint receded — replaced by something older. Something sad. Something unbearably patient. He said nothing. Chen Zhao clenched his jaw.
"You have a place in the court," he said. "A title. A future. If you want to survive, go back. Let me finish what I started. I'll speak for you when it's done. You'll be free of suspicion."
He turned, robes sweeping behind him in a flare of dark blue and frost-threaded silk. The air between them had shifted. And now, he sought distance — not just in steps, but in soul.
"Don't follow me."
Yun Ling remained where he stood, gaze still trained on the figure walking away. He didn't speak. He didn't move. But the wind had already shifted. The fox had caught the scent of frost. And silence, for Yun Ling, was never surrender.
It was only waiting.
---
29. Feng Zhe (封哲) - 'Philosopher of Power'; leader of Feng Lie Sect.
30. Feng Lie Sect (风烈派) - 'Fierce Wind Sect' / 'Sect of Blazing Wind'; Martial Sect (located in Black Tortoise Plains)
31. Zongzhu (宗主) - Sect Master / Head of the Sect.
32. Gongzi (公子) – Young Master
33. -xiong (兄) - older brother; in many contexts, it's used honorifically to address someone with respect, friendliness, or seniority — not necessarily a real brother.
34. -daren (大人) – Lord / Lady / Honourable One; It's an honorific used to address someone of authority, high status, or official rank.