Chapter 62
The moment Chen Xinyu's lips brushed Hua Ling's, it was like plunging headlong into a dream he had no right to enter. The taste of winter and the faint scent of sandalwood lingered between them—then reality struck like a bucket of ice water.
His mind snapped clear.
What had he done?
Xinyu pulled back so abruptly it was almost violent, the ghost of warmth still trembling on his mouth. He didn't dare meet Hua Ling's eyes. The next heartbeat, he was gone—turning on his heel and fleeing so quickly that even the wind failed to keep up.
Hua Ling stood rooted in place, the cool night pressing against his skin. His mind was strangely blank, as though the world had gone still to make space for this one impossible thing. He had never thought Xinyu would cross the fragile boundary between them—much less in such a reckless, uncalculated way.
Shock gave way to a tightening in his chest. Was this meant as a game? Or… was it nothing at all?
The anger came suddenly, sharp as a blade unsheathed. His hand curled into a fist at his side, the knuckles whitening.
From a distance, Qingze's voice cut through the cold air, calling him back. Hua Ling did not move for a long moment, his gaze following the direction Xinyu had vanished. Then he turned, expression unreadable, and walked away.
Xinyu, meanwhile, ran until his lungs burned. His breath tore in and out of him, too fast, too loud, as though he could somehow outpace the chaos in his chest. The night pressed close; pine needles whispered underfoot.
When he finally stopped, he was already far beyond the sect's gates, the mountain path spilling into the city's scattered lanternlight.
His hand lifted unconsciously to his lips. He touched them once, briefly, as if confirming that what had just happened was real. The contact sent a jolt through him—half shame, half something he refused to name.
I was drunk. That's the only reason, he told himself, jaw tightening. It's madness. I can't love him. I can't get involved.
But the truth was merciless: he hadn't hated it. The kiss still lingered, a bittersweet imprint he could neither scrub away nor swallow down.
He thought of Hua Ling's engagement. Of the blood-deep grudge against the man's father. Of the day—perhaps soon—when they would stand on opposite sides of a killing field.
If Hua Ling mentioned it, he would deny it. If Hua Ling pushed, he would avoid him until the end of days.
The first crack of fireworks split the night. Xinyu tilted his head back, and the sky bloomed in a thousand fleeting flowers of light. Somewhere far away, Hua Ling was also looking upward.
Xinyu made a silent wish—that this one, foolish kiss might be forgotten.
By the next morning, the Lunar New Year had begun in earnest. The sect was alive again, the sound of disciples' voices and the ring of weapons in the training fields filling the air.
But Chen Xinyu never returned that night. Nor the next.
Days passed. Even Lingque, who could sniff out trouble like a hunting hound, came back empty-handed.
In the courtyard, Lu Rourou nudged Lingque. "Jiejie, why haven't I seen Xinyu since the New Year? Did he drink himself into a ditch again?"
Lingque's lip curled. "If I knew where that idiot was, I'd drag him back myself. I hate it when he disappears without a word."
A few passing disciples, overhearing, chimed in. "We saw him the night of the festival—running like the devil himself was at his heels, straight for the city gates. He's probably still hiding out there."
Rourou frowned. "I hope nothing's happened to him."
Lingque waved her off. "Don't worry. He's strong. Just… a little stupid."
Lan Xueyao entered the room, a small mountain of books in her arms. She set them down in front of Rourou. "Xiao Rou, Master says you should read every single one."
"My name's not Rou Rou!" Rourou protested, immediately darting behind Lingque.
Xueyao gave chase around the table, the two of them weaving between stacks of scrolls like quarrelsome kittens. "If you don't, Master will cut your allowance!"
At that, Rourou snatched up the books and vanished toward her room, grumbling all the way. Xueyao smiled in satisfaction.
Elsewhere, Shen Yao paced the walkway, speaking low to Yan Zheng. "Still no sign of that idiot. He's going to make Shizun worry again."
Yan Zheng's brow furrowed. "I'm concerned too."
Mochen had heard the rumors by then. He left the sect gates without hesitation, heading down into the city. He asked questions at every tea shop and inn, but Xinyu's trail was cold. Eventually, he sank down on a bench outside a shop, rubbing his temple.
That was when a familiar figure crossed his path—Chao Chao, Chi Ruyan's personal attendant.
Mochen stepped into her way. "You're hers, aren't you?"
She nodded, eyes wary.
"What are you doing out here?"
She hesitated, then lowered her gaze. "I can't say. It's for Madam to decide whether I speak."
He studied her for a long moment, then let her pass. "Fine. Go."
Far from the noise of the city, Chen Xinyu had retreated deep into a stretch of winter forest. He had built a crude shelter between the roots of an old pine, the snow kept at bay by layers of woven branches. He hadn't planned to vanish for so long—but he could feel the surge of spiritual energy clawing at him, the breaking point between realms drawing near.
The mark on his body only made the process harder, qi twisting and bucking like a wild horse.
For days, he fought it. Hunger and cold pressed in, but he dared not leave until it was done.
When at last the barrier shattered, it was like falling through glass. His vision swam, his knees buckled—and he collapsed in the snow.
The world narrowed to a muffled whiteness. He didn't feel the boy's hands shaking his shoulder, or the voice calling, "Hey—hey, are you alright?"
Small fingers touched his face, found the skin burning. The boy's mouth pressed thin in worry. He bent, and with a strength born of desperation, lifted Xinyu onto his back.
The path to the village was narrow, the snow deep, but the boy kept on until the roofs of his home came into sight—a tiny cluster of houses, hardly more than a breath in the vast forest.
Inside his own modest hut, he laid Xinyu on a low bed, pulling a quilt over him. Steam rose from the pot as he brewed medicine, the scent of bitter herbs filling the air.
He wiped the sweat from the stranger's forehead, relieved to see no visible wounds. Taking up a ladle, he coaxed water past the man's lips, careful not to spill a drop.
"Stay alive," the boy murmured, almost like a prayer. "I don't know who you are, but… you look like someone worth saving."
Outside, snow continued to fall, muffling the world in white.
Xinyu's brow furrowed in sleep, as though caught in some dark dream. His breath quickened, and in the next instant his eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him was low and unfamiliar. His head rang dully; vision swam for a moment before settling.
A boy—thin, perhaps fifteen—appeared in the doorway, his eyes bright with relief. "Sir, you're awake! Gege, are you alright?"
Xinyu pushed himself up slowly, taking in the cramped, neat room. "Where am I?"
"You were lying in the forest, half-buried under snow," the boy said, setting down a steaming bowl on the small table. "I carried you here. My name is A Fu. I live alone."
Xinyu's gaze swept the humble space—bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters, a brazier glowing faintly in the corner. He inclined his head. "Thank you."
A Fu handed him the bowl. "Drink. It'll help."
The liquid was bitter, but it loosened the tightness in his chest almost at once. Now, at the late Golden Stage, his qi flowed more smoothly; there was a solidity in his limbs he hadn't felt before. With three more breakthroughs, perhaps, he would be ready to face the Demon Lord.
The days slipped by quietly. Xinyu trained in the yard, blade slicing the morning frost. A Fu often sat on the steps to watch, silent but intent. In his hands, he was always crushing herbs, sorting dried roots into neat piles, or stirring something in the small clay pot over the fire. For a boy with no parents, he carried himself with the quiet order of one who had chosen a purpose. Every movement—measuring, grinding, tying sprigs of leaves into bundles—bore the mark of someone who wanted to heal, not merely survive.
That evening, A Fu brought another cup, darker and more fragrant. "A strong herb. Restores qi and steadies the breath."
Xinyu accepted it. "You've taken care of me these days. I owe you."
They ate together at the low table—steamed buns, pickled greens, soup so thin it was almost clear. The fire crackled softly.
"I'll repay you," Xinyu said at last, breaking the quiet. "If you ever wish to enter the Verdant Cloud Sect, I'll see it done. My master leads the healer's hall. You'd do well there."
A Fu's eyes lit briefly, though he only ducked his head and kept eating.
Outside, the wind eased. The cold night gave way to a slow, silver dawn.
Far away, in Hua Ling's pavilion, Chi Ruyan sat with a letter in hand. Chao Chao stood at her side, head bowed.
The letter bore the seal of Demon Pei.
Chi Ruyan read the neat, curling script, and her lips curved into a smile—slow, deliberate.
"Chen Xinyu," she murmured, folding the paper with careful precision. "This time, I've got you."