Snow sifted from the gorge walls as the fight churned tighter, every step crunching on ice and broken stone.
The stranger's glaive swept in brutal arcs, each swing forcing them to adjust or risk losing limbs. Xiyue took the front, his sword flashing like a river of light. Feng Lian darted at the edges, fire licking at the glaive's haft to weaken its grip.
And Ruo Han… watched. Waiting for the rhythm he'd learned from years of keeping silent in dangerous rooms.
It came — the slight hitch in the stranger's movement before he switched stances. Ruo Han lunged from his ledge, blade in hand, angling for the exposed ribs.
But the stranger was faster.
He pivoted, the glaive already mid-swing — aimed straight for Ruo Han's throat.
Xiyue was too far. Feng Lian was closer, but the angle—
Flame burst in the air between them, and suddenly Ruo Han was slammed backward into the snow by a warm weight.
Feng Lian.
The glaive's blade bit deep into his side instead, the sound thick and wrong.
Feng Lian (through clenched teeth): "I… hate… doing heroic things…"
Blood steamed in the cold. Ruo Han's hands went instantly to the wound, pressing hard. Xiyue's voice turned lethal as he roared, every strike from his blade now aimed to kill.
The stranger laughed, even as Xiyue's fury drove him back.
Stranger: "You're already bleeding. I'll finish this soon enough."
But there was a flicker in his gaze when he looked at Ruo Han — not victory. Something sharper. Recognition.
The fight wasn't over. But the gorge suddenly felt too small for whatever truth had just been set loose.