The stranger's smile didn't fade, even as blood darkened the snow where Xiyue's last strike had grazed his arm.
He shifted his glaive to one hand, the other dipping into the folds of his black coat.
Stranger: "Another night, little fox. I don't kill treasures in a hurry."
Ruo Han froze at the words — little fox. His heart lurched as if he'd heard it before, somewhere buried under years of memories he had tried not to touch.
The stranger glanced at Xiyue, then at Feng Lian, still hunched but alive under Ruo Han's grip.
Stranger: "Keep him warm. You'll need him for the path ahead."
With a single sweep of his glaive, he sent up a wave of snow. By the time it settled, he was gone — leaving nothing but the echo of his boots on stone.
Xiyue surged forward, scanning the shadows for pursuit, but Ruo Han's sharp voice stopped him.
Ruo Han: "Wait."
In the churned snow where the stranger had stood, a single set of characters had been carved with the glaive's tip — clean, deliberate strokes that glinted in the moonlight.
凌寒 — Ling Han.
Feng Lian's breathing hitched.
Feng Lian: "That name… is supposed to be dead."
Ruo Han stared at the mark until the moonlight blurred. He didn't realize Xiyue had stepped close, his voice low enough for only him to hear:
Xiyue: "Who is he to you?"
Ruo Han's lips trembled — but no words came.
Above them, the wind shifted, carrying the scent of snow and something darker… the promise that Ling Han would return.