Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There's something particularly melancholic about the ginkgo leaves in her skin, like an old friend. Or, perhaps, a parasite.

They hug into her flesh, leeching off her tears and blood, hugging her bones like a vine to an old fence, one that refuses to bend to the enormous weight. To spite it, perhaps.

She tucks them under the folds of her muscles, cultivating them. Over the years, growing them into an extra set of skin. They are her most trusted ally, and the bane of her existence.

It should never, even in passing thought, be spread to another.

She had intended to kill the boy that night. In fact, a part of her wanted to. Even if she hides the mara, it is still a part of her, and she knows how hungry it is. When it starts consuming, it can't seem to stop, but it has never latched onto another quite like it had with him. Desperation breeds madness, and the child lying broken before her is ripe with it. While he hasn't moved an inch since she struck him down, she can feel the mara festering within him, likely eating away at whatever remains of his conscious mind.

Jingliu is not kind, nor is she half the woman she was seven centuries ago. She is fragments of that person; a broken mirror, perhaps, reflecting one face that can never quite fit together. An incomplete puzzle, an unfinished game of chess. She can no longer feel that which once made her human- sorrow. Regret. Guilt. This boy did not deserve his fate. It was cruel of her to rob him of his future as she did, so callous in her methods, so brutal in her teachings, her unwilling student can no longer bring himself to take in the knowledge, let alone stand on his own two feet.

How unfortunate. Her former student would surely look at her with such conviction, as he was so very good at these days, almost too sharp to be anger. He had a sadness so raw, looking him in the eyes burns. So she doesn't.

She did for Yanqing, however. It was clear why he was Lieutenant of The Hunt, he had a determination like no other, even in the face of certain death. It is strong as a glass is durable, and it shatters just as easily.

For a moment, in the brief milliseconds of time before her ice pierced young flesh, she thought she had seen Jing Yuan's eyes. However, when the mist cleared, and her opponent's sword had been cleaved clean in half; in the ice below her feet, painted red as an old spider lily's petals, she only saw herself.

The flowers are dead.

Yanqing takes a breath.

All is quiet.

"You have two options," Jingliu tells him, her voice as cold and uncaring as the ice around them. Her blindfold is on. The mara has been pacified, temporarily. "Return to the Cloud Knights as you are. Reveal yourself to Jing Yuan, and permit him to rid the Luofu of one more abomination."

There is a pause.

"Or," she continues, "leave the Luofu, leave the knights, and never return. Follow this path as I did - as a traitor to the Xianzhou."

Yanqing is looking up at her. It seems he's still processing everything that has happened, both Jingliu's words, and the undeniable changes in his qi. She understands what he is feeling, what he must be thinking in this moment. She is sure he must be denying the mara pulsing in his veins, eager to house itself into the deepest crevices of his gut. He must feel it, how quick it is to make him their host. He is surely not to take kindly to this outcome, and a part of Jingliu, something sadistic, looks forward to it.

"You did this to me." Yanqing's accusation is a weak one, in spirit. His throat is far too weak to raise his voice, but his eyes make up for it tenfold. She was right. Jing Yuan not only gave the boy his spirit, but his eyes too.

It was almost enough to make her smile. How alike they both were.

"I did," she says. She is calm. "I had not anticipated the mara taking to you so quickly, but neither this nor your death is anything I can reverse. This is something you must accept." A third-party viewer would assume this was a vain attempt to comfort the child, born from the last shreds of empathy the swordswoman still had locked away in her heart. She knew they would be wrong.

She made no attempts to quell the pain that radiated from the child like the heat of a furnace. Her student and his ward were so alike, the ward just failed to hide it as well. He almost seemed to beg Jingliu to acknowledge him, to look him in the eyes and see him, but he would shrink away whenever she granted his wishes. She suspected she was not the first.

"The General will have to kill me." Yanqing barely speaks above a whisper. When she turns to observe him, he's not looking at her anymore. "Won't he."

"He will do as all the generals before him have. You are not the first, and you will not be the last." Jingliu knows that more than anyone. She is sure his death will be swift and painless - for Yanqing at least. Unlike Jingliu, Jing Yuan is merciful.

"I don't want to die," Yanqing whimpers.

Jingliu hears the break in his voice as the reality finally dawns on him, and she smiles. There's a quivering in his still blue fingertips, and it reminds Jingliu so much of Jing Yuan when he was Yanqing's age, looking at her like a child to their mother, a role they both knew she could not fill. He had always been weak, even then, too soft for a future General, and if Yanqing's existence is of any merit, he has not made many attempts to lose that softness. If anything, he has shaved Jing Yuan's edge. The boy is even worse than his master in that regard. Under all that armor and responsibility, he is still a boy. There are no edges to soften.

Her smile is still there when Yanqing looks up at her. He's crying now. "I don't want to die," he repeats, as if saying it again will lessen the blow.

"Oh, Yanqing," she says, referring to him for the very first time. "You don't have a choice anymore."

The two swordsmen are gone by sunrise, and any evidence of their presence that night is thawed away by morning's light.

When the knights are sent to the Artisanship Commission to investigate the recording, they will find only the remains of melted ice, and the Lieutenant's shattered blade.

A single ginkgo leaf sits atop the puddles of water, so light, it seems as if it is floating in air.

The Seat of Divine Foresight is unusually quiet.

Chapter Text

The limp body of an Abomination of Abundance falls to the ground, a clean gouge in his abdomen cut from Jingliu's sword. The wind is harsh and the air is cold, nearly rivaling the Sword Champion herself. It is early enough into winter that no snow has fallen, yet the tips of the Xianzhou Luofu inhabitants' fingers stiffen all the same.

Jingliu watches with contempt as the Abominations spasm against the ground, the many wounds decorating their skin sprouting more ginkgo leaves in a desperate attempt to cling to life. She stares down dispassionately as their forms begin to decay and erode with even less consideration.

"The Denizens of Yaoshi are soulless, thoughtless beasts," she proclaims, stomping a fleeting golden leaf beneath her heel. "They do not feel remorse when they kill, and neither should you."

She turns around to face the boy standing behind her: her dutiful student. Youthful, golden eyes, fluffy hair tied with a red ribbon, clad in armor a size too big for him — he was the epitome of adolescence. He is too short-statured to be a man. His arms, weak and tired, are barely large enough to carry muscle of his own and are distinctly lacking in scars, although his eagerness to learn from her could be strength in and of itself. A sword is settled on his hip, practically rivaling himself in weight.

"You won't disappoint me," she says. "Will you, Jing Yuan." It's a command rather than a question, an order he would never defy.

He stares back into Jingliu's eyes — bright red and sane.

He swallows down his hesitation, hardening his stance as if to raise her a challenge. A hand grips the hilt of his sword, unsheathing it and directing the polished tip to the approaching Abominations with perfected form. Jing Yuan is sophisticated in the art of swordsmanship and no longer fears the battlefield. His hands stopped shaking one thousand spars ago.

"No, master."

__

Yanqing is tired.

His muscles ache and burn as if burdened by the weight of ten shackles binding his ankles, dragging him further from Jingliu with each step.

The Artisanship Commission was long gone behind him and despite his rigorous training over the years, the young lieutenant was struggling to keep pace with Jingliu, who has maintained impressive speed and stamina across the long, seemingly destinationless journey. Yanqing exerted all of himself trying to stay close to her, but it was a losing battle, one pitted against his favor. One step for him seemed to be ten for her.

Occasionally, his weariness would become too much, and he was forced to stop and catch his breath or slow his pace to trail behind her when his sore muscles demanded a rest. Every time, he would only have a few seconds to spare, and he would have to run back to her before she could leave him behind. It made him wonder why she even offered to bring him with her in the first place if she was so unenthused to keep him as a traveling companion.

He thought that with the Abundance running rampant inside him, he would no longer feel fatigue, but in fact, he's never felt more exhausted. His feet are raw from the distance they've covered, but Jingliu never seemed to falter, intent in the direction she was headed.

Never once in the journey, even in the beginning, did she give him any information. Not where they were heading or what Yanqing was meant to do now that he was... this.

A few times, he called out to her, pleading for a brief moment of rest, only for each of these requests to be met with silence.

Quelling his pride, Yanqing spoke once more, “Wait!” He stumbled slightly, his legs weighing him down like lead.

"I'm so tired. Can't we stop for a little while?"

This time, unlike his previous attempts, Jingliu had answered him with a brief pause and the slightest turn of her head.

"The Hunt will not wait for you, and neither will I."

Jingliu hadn't given him time to even form a rebuttal before continuing on, and Yanqing had no choice but to clumsily pick himself back up and give chase. She was much stronger than him, her steps wider and more pronounced, juxtaposed to Yanqing's weak stumbles in quick succession to one another. It would’ve been a pitiful sight to behold, had they not been completely alone.

He would admit, he isn't used to such cold treatment. The other cloud knights are always attentive and work with him as a team. Training with them is a breeze and always ends in laughter when Yanqing inevitably comes out of their spars victorious. They care for him, and he considers many of them friends.

Jingliu, on the other hand, doesn't seem to care much about him at all, and Yanqing is too embarrassed to admit that fact upsets him. What if he sounds spoiled? Pampered, even?

But he isn't spoiled or pampered. He is the Lieutenant of the Xianzhou Luofu, trusted retainer of an Arbiter General, the future Sword Champion!

He worked hard for this position, and the least she could do is acknowledge that one fact, but she hardly treated him with half the respect someone of his competency should be given.

Really, Yanqing feels more like a lost dog following her around, begging for scraps. She, as per usual, pays him little mind.

A part of him wishes to make small talk with her, if only to rid himself of the uncomfortable silence that enveloped the entire journey. Another reminds him of the feeling of ice colder than a hundred winters, nearly cutting him in half, freezing his blood over as ginkgo leaves sprouted and bloomed in the back of his throat. The feeling of suffocation, one that threatened to end him before he had the chance to fully lose consciousness, haunts him.

He can still feel them, the leaves. As much as he tries to ignore them, they are always present, lingering in the thin crevices of his vertebrae.

He wonders if Jingliu felt them too. Maybe she is just as bothered by them as him, but, much like her heart, age has simply dulled her nerves over time. Although, the sensation of plants growing under the skin doesn't seem like one that was easy to adapt to. To Yanqing, it feels invasive — violating, even. It’s hard to put it into words, but he's never felt more unwelcome in his own skin like he does now. Like his worth, all his years of hard work to become who he is (was?) has been reduced to some host to a parasite, leaving him with no say in the matter.

Any moment now, he could lose any and all remaining sanity without so much as a warning.

Maybe he already has.

To be mara-struck is for stagnation to become cultivation — a rock stilling for so long the moss on its back has grown to cover the eyes like wool, dulling the senses to the outside world. To any onlookers, what was once the rock can no longer be seen, only the moss. And to the rock, it has forgotten it was ever a rock to begin with.

That's what the General liked to say, at least. Yanqing always thought his excessive use of metaphors was redundant and, admittedly, a little overbearing, but he assumed that the General could only ever be right. After all, he’s the General. If Yanqing couldn't understand what his master was trying to teach him, then he must not have been studying hard enough. His daily routine was already filled with training and sparring, and any free time he had, he spent shadowing the General and insisting on sharing his heavy workload.

While he was never given a proper answer when he asked how to study the effects of moss on rocks, the General still entertained his questions (that of which were an army in and of themselves).

It took him a long time to learn that not all knowledge could be gained from training and schooling.

So deep in thoughts of rocks and hedge-clippers, Yanqing fails to notice when Jingliu finally stops, and the boy ends up bumping into her from behind. Had he done so with the General, he would have been met with a look of surprise, followed by a fond smile and words of concern.

The Yanqing of then would have leapt to his feet with an unprecedented force and apologized twice over, putting on an air of professionalism to make up for his mistake (and embarrassment).

The General always seemed to find humor in that, and Jingliu is no different. She looks over in his direction, a rare smile on her face. It’s not to be mistaken with the kindness that radiated from the General. Her face contorts in a way that suggests she is about to laugh (at him, probably).

"Don't get excited just yet," she says, turning back to face the shoreline with her arms crossed. "We've yet to arrive at our final destination."

Yanqing hesitates to stand back up, his muscles too sore. Instead, he relishes in the brief repose Jingliu grants him after hours, perhaps even an entire day of non-stop movement.

He looks over to the massive ocean in front of them, quickly recognizing it from the map of the greater Luofu in the General's office. They must be close by Scalegorge Waterscape. He never had the opportunity of coming here on missions, mostly thanks to the whole area being rendered uninhabitable after the Sedition of Imbibitor Lunae. Any surviving occupants had been evacuated by the then-Arbiter General, Teng Xiao, leaving a good portion of the land a barren wasteland, devoid of life. Considering how long the area has been abandoned, Yanqing can only assume that any plans to revitalize the land died along with the former High Elder, perhaps to leave it as a memorial or a reminder of past mistakes.

The thought of asking Jingliu for information about the history of this place crosses his mind, as the General never seemed to like talking about it for some reason, but he decides against it. He’s faced with a docile Jingliu now, and he fears too much prodding might dampen any chances he has of a civil conversation with her. While she must have knowledge of the subject, given her age, she may not wish to speak on matters of her past. She’s much like the General in that sense, always looking off into the distance with a palpable nostalgia whenever an old memory resurfaces.

It’s strange. Even with her eyes obscured, Yanqing has grown to learn her body language, especially when she chooses to keep her words vague.

He can tell at a glance that she is visibly relaxed, judging by her slack shoulders and jaw and the steady, almost unapparent rise and fall of her chest. After a long day of walking around aimlessly and slaying teenagers, she deserves a nice rest. Not Yanqing, of course. He's just her accessory. A purse dog, if you will.

The urge to unravel his chewed tongue and shoot a witty remark at her just to get a reaction is potent, and he has to suck his teeth to refrain himself (the image of a shocked and insulted Jingliu materializes in his mind, and it's almost tempting enough to kill his inhibitions, had he not been previously introduced to her fury on a first-hand basis).

To poke the bear and test the limits of her temper is a dangerous idea that he doesn't need any amount of prodding to predict the outcome of, although simply possessing common sense does not easily ward away thoughts of grandeur.

Although, maybe daring to start a casual conversation wouldn't be too bad, right?

"...Miss Jingliu?"

"Don't call me that. It makes me feel old." Her gaze does not stray past the horizon, both of which are noticeably out of Yanqing's reach.

"Oh... Then, Grandmaster?"

The woman in question shrugs her shoulders, allowing any distaste she may have had for the title fall off of them. "That will do."

"How come 'Miss' makes you feel old, but 'Grandmaster' doesn't?" His curiosity is one powerful force, it seems.

She hums. "Grandmaster is respectable. 'Miss' is what you call that prudent diviner of yours."

Yanqing scrunches his nose like he's sniffed something sour. "I don't call Diviner Fu 'Miss'. Also, she's not that old."

She chuckles, a rare sound that sends chills down his spine. Her words, however, light a spark in his chest, one he quickly recognizes as frustration.

"Hm. No room in that battle-hungry heart of yours for respect towards your elders?"

"You just said it wasn't respectable!"

He physically recoils at his own outburst. Frankly, it sounded more like a childish tantrum. He suspects Jingliu thinks the same.

"It is. Grandmaster is just more-so."

"That makes no sense." He's pouting again, and Jingliu seems to find it quite funny, with the way her voice croons, suggesting she's smiling.

"You'll understand when you're older," she explains, and just like that, the conversation closes, much to his ever-growing frustration. Yanqing finally managed to have a semi-decent conversation with Jingliu, even if it was more akin to a squabble, and yet he finds himself less satisfied than when he started out. He can't even remember what he was going to ask her!

Right, why they’re here in the middle of nowhere. This woman has led him on a wild goose chase, both in the physical world and in his own scattered brain, and he doubts he'll be able to tell right from left or up from down if the current charade continues. Is she truly bound to ensure that Yanqing would never be happy? Because if so, she is remarkably successful.

Then it dawns on him.

"Why couldn't we just take a starskiff?" He asks, before realizing the thought had never once crossed his mind. Perhaps his fear of Jingliu had clouded his better judgment, or the thought of stealing was so taboo in his mind that it could never properly cement itself as a reality. But Jingliu, well, she’s a criminal. She would have done so anyway and without much remorse, as criminals often do.

Jingliu shrugs, still with her back towards him. "I wanted to test your endurance," she answers casually and gave no further explanation, leaving Yanqing at a loss.

"Test my endurance? By dragging me miles into a desolate wasteland? For what? To satiate your own curiosity?"

"If I recall correctly, I gave you the option to follow me," she lectures him as if he’s a misbehaving kid in a classroom. "There was no 'dragging' involved."

"You could have at least told me where we were going!" Yanqing retorts.

"And you had plenty of time to ask. I can't possibly be held accountable for your own lack of foresight."

Yanqing scoffs, subconsciously keeping his voice low. "Like you're so approachable."

"What was that?"

"Nothing." He makes an effort to avoid looking directly at her. It would take a fool to think she hadn't actually heard him, and an even bigger one to interpret what she said as a question rather than a disguised threat.

Yanqing, well, he may be the biggest fool of all, as he can only put into words a question that is impressive in its sheer stupidity.

"How did I do?"

Jingliu hums in response, questioning him, causing his heart to lurch in his throat. He's torn between clarifying and dropping the subject entirely.

"That test of endurance you mentioned," he mutters, avoiding looking at her as much as possible. "Did I do well...?"

The urge to slap himself has never been stronger. Why would he need to know that? More importantly, why did he seek this woman’s — his murderer's approval? She'd probably sabotage his results just to see him crumble under the failure and enjoy it. He'd never seen her show much empathy. He doubted she would anytime soon, either.

That belief solidifies itself in Yanqing's mind when Jingliu doesn't answer him. He hopes she's just thinking, reviewing him, and not intentionally ignoring him, and yet he finds himself honing in on her with undeniable anticipation.

"You chose to follow me despite the agony I've put you through," she begins, her face still obscured. "I never forced you to join me, and yet, here you are. Is it determination that drives you," she asks him, and finally, finally turns to look at him, "or blind faith?"

The lack of a real answer gives Yanqing pause, and he finds himself asking the same thing. He knows what motivates him to follow the General. It's been clear since he was young. The General is everything Yanqing strives to be and more — a strong leader to the people of the Luofu and a formidable opponent to the Xianzhou’s enemies. He is awe-inspiring, capable of solving a crisis without ever touching his weapon. Who wouldn't want to be like him?

But then, what of Jingliu? Why is the need to prove himself to her so overwhelming it nearly overrides his own inhibitions. After all, he doesn't get anything out of proving himself to her, assuming he even has anything to prove in the first place.

It isn't like he wants to be with her. In his current state, it's either rub shoulders with a hardly put-together, mara-stricken criminal or meet his end by the hands of the man who raised him. Yanqing has trained half his life to reach his ranking in the Cloud Knights’ numbers and nearly all of his life dreaming for it. He knows the Knights’ motto like he knows the General’s sleep schedule and has memorized every technique, strategy and literary document of military combat. The words ‘never let slacken your weapon’ is practically etched in the bones that hold his swords. And yet, he is slackening. He no longer finds himself carrying the weapon he aligned his name with, let alone the vows he made to unsheathe his sword only against those who stand against the Hunt.

Why is his fear of death stronger than his loyalty to his own General? Is living a life on the run truly more tantalizing than fulfilling his oath to the Xianzhou — an oath to fight even at the cost of his life?

Back then, Jingliu gave him time to comprehend his coming demise, intentionally or not, enough for him to come back and remember the feeling of dying. But surely the General, in his infinite mercy, would grant him something dignifying and, most importantly, something quick. Perhaps dying again wouldn't be so bad if it's by the hands of someone he has already entrusted his life to.

Golden eyes pierce through him with the sharpness of a blade that has tasted centuries’ worth of war and bloodshed. He can't bring himself to meet the visage. The General is a fine-tuned weapon in and of himself, forged for combat and diplomacy, not parenthood. He spent countless sleepless nights building himself the perfect lieutenant, only for all of his efforts to be prematurely and unceremoniously wasted in a fashion that would only bring disappointment, not grief — a flashy news headline, not a memorial.

A heavy sigh reverberates in Yanqing's head, and he realizes the truth he has been running from.

I'm not scared of dying.

The feeling of eyes on his skin makes him quiver.

I'm scared of what the General will say if he sees me like this.

What if he can't say anything at all?

That scares me the most.

__

"What a funny face you're making."

Jingliu is standing over him, as she always has, her figure a tower casting a wide shadow over him, making Yanqing feel proportionate to an ant. It dawns on him that he's failed to answer Jingliu's initial question, and his mouth falls open dumbly. He's not sure how much time passed outside the confines of his own head. Jingliu waits patiently as he gathers himself, his face resembling more of a blubbering goldfish than a competent lieutenant.

"Oh."

"Have you found it yet?" Jingliu asks him.

"Found what?"

"The answer."

He's aware of the way his face scrunches up, features curling into themselves like rolled dough. He's come to a conclusion, but he finds himself without a proper answer, and the longer he tries to think about it, the further the distance between himself and his own identity becomes.

What drives him? Beyond fear, what is his motivation for everything he does?

What has he been fighting for his whole life?

"I don't know," he mutters. "I think I have."

"That's a contradiction."

A huff escapes him. "I know."

He tries to make himself sound firm, but his innate weakness is a force that habitually breaks down any resolve he tries to build up, leaving him to rebuild upon inevitable self-destruction. It's quite satirical that he is at his most pitiful when facing the one who holds no pity for him.

"I know you've found one," Jingliu says. "I can see it; Speak up."

Yanqing complies. His knee acts as a brace to haul himself back to his feet, noting how he is not met with any soreness in his calves and how odd of a feeling that is. He finds himself face-to-face with Jingliu, eyeing her dark blindfold bearing that same crescent moon. The last time he recalls being close to equal footing with her, he was still human and blissfully unaware of his fate. Looking down, he finds that Jingliu's shadow has converged with his own, indistinguishable from one another.

From where Jingliu stands, she looks down at him, head reaching a spare few inches above his own, and Yanqing knows what he wants to say.

"I want to prove myself," he tells her, meeting her presumed line of sight straight on. "That's my answer."

He imagines Jingliu's eyes narrowing under her blindfold, pinning on Yanqing. Sharp, but curious above all else. "To whom?"

"To the General, to the Knights, the Luofu."

‘To you’ remains unsaid, and Yanqing finds that a much more damning question is when he will ever say that to her face. Of course, it wouldn't be a lie, so he tells himself to not feel guilty for lying to her, because he's not — lying, that is.

"I want to be the best," he says instead, and it's spoken with such ease and confidence that he could swear he saw Jingliu perk up, and for once, the pit of dread in his stomach felt smaller than himself.

"I want to be better than you." Saying it out loud feels right, like it relights something buried in his chest. Who is Yanqing if not a prodigy who strives to be exceptional, bathing in the glory each victory brings him, and adorning himself in the praise decorating his name like jewels.

Somewhere deep beneath layers of pride and not-quite thick enough skin, the desire for Jingliu to add her own offering of decor to his name makes itself known, and perhaps it is selfish of him to wish for her oh-so stoic face to twist into one of begrudged respect.

He finds himself disappointed to see Jingliu's face has not twisted into anything, remaining firm in its stoicism.

"Is that all?"

Whatever was building in his chest dampens at her words, like a bucket of water dumping its contents over a fire that was just beginning to spark, and Yanqing suddenly feels the cold return.

Why would he need more than that? His answer seemed sufficient enough — as ambitious as it could be. Was she truly not satisfied?

"It's all I've ever wanted," he admits, his chest deflating.

Apparently, Jingliu didn't like that answer. "Have you ever thought of what that means?"

What it means to be the best? Well, technically, there were plenty of answers depending on the context, but for someone like Yanqing, it should be as clear as day. He wants to be the greatest swordsman on the Luofu, if not throughout the entirety of the Xianzhou alliance. Perhaps, if he works hard enough, he’d be the best in the universe as a whole.

It was a daunting ambition, but as someone who also studied the sword, Jingliu should understand his mindset as easily as he does.

"When striving towards greatness, as you seek to do," she begins. "It is inevitable that your path will cross with another, and when that happens, the one you call 'the best' will come out victorious.

“Do you truly expect to reasonably prove your martial prowess without directing your blade at another? To live as a knight of the Xianzhou without drawing blood against a fellow human?"

"Why would I ever do that?" He exclaims, unconsciously taking a few steps away from her. "You say it like I would hurt someone on purpose. Unlike you, the Cloud Knights don't go out of their way to harm innocent people."

"No one is truly innocent, Yanqing." The boy in question flinches at his name. He's yet to grow accustomed to Jingliu addressing him by name without any sort of honorifics. Jingliu raises her head, emphasizing her height. "Not even that general of yours."

The shock is evident on Yanqing's face, and he knows Jingliu must feel some sort of smug satisfaction for worming her way under his skin once again. This time, however, it seemed to cut deeper; her insults have become personal. Hearing Jingliu sully the name of the Luofu's General in such a way was the straw that broke Yanqing's restraint.

"What do you know about him? You're just a petty criminal!" It's the first time he's raised his voice at Jinglu with such ire; it's the first time he's ever raised his voice at her, period. His chest is filled to the brim with pent-up frustration and rage with nowhere left to go but through him with the force and volume of a boiling-over tea kettle.

"I've known him my whole life! If he's ever done something bad, I would know about it. Or at least he would tell me. I'm his most trusted aid, and you're a stranger!"

"Really," she says, a statement rather than a question. She's goading him on, encouraging this wayward behavior. "Can you really know that for sure? The Xianzhou has many enemies. How do you know that I'm not one of them?

“How can you know your general hasn't rubbed shoulders with someone unfavorable?"

Yanqing shakes his head vehemently, his vision becoming blurry from being rattled so aggressively. She's just egging him on; she wants him to chase her around in circles until he wears his feet to the bone. As much as the words instigate him, he's not falling for her mind games.

"You're making baseless accusations against someone — a Xianzhou General! — that you don't know the first thing about! If I were still on active duty, I could easily add 'defamation' to your likely extensive list of charges."

At that, Jingliu had the audacity to laugh — laugh. Light as a feather, it could hardly be considered mocking. Had he been a little more sleep-deprived, he could very well have been fooled into thinking she had just heard a funny joke and not a very real threat to her liberty.

"I see." A humorous tone is still present in Jingliu's voice even as her laughter dies down. "I wasn't aware that questioning the Arbiter Generals these days was a punishable offense."

Yanqing doesn't find her relaxed demeanor very funny, and his reddened face translates that far better than any words could.

"I was there, you know," she says before Yanqing can interrupt, lowering her voice as if to tell a secret. "The day Inhibitor Lunae was trialed, and when Jing Yuan carried out his sentencing."

The mention of the former High Elder catches Yanqing off guard. He's heard of Imbibitor Lunae and the vague details surrounding his death in passing. He was also aware that Jing Yuan had been Acting General when Imbibitor Lunae had been given his death sentence.

"...Even if he did do some bad things, it would only be for good reasons — for the sake of the Luofu — because he cares!" He finds it increasingly difficult to shut his mouth before he says something he regrets, as it simply feels too satisfying lashing out at Jingliu.

"And releasing that Stellaron Hunter from his confinement shows he cares?"

Yanqing freezes.

"Huh?"

"That's why you were in Cloudford, correct? To hunt down Blade?"

Yanqing’s thoughts come to a halt, as he grasps what Jingliu has just said. She wasn't actually trying to imply that the General let Blade go, right? Was this another trick of hers? To throw the most absurd accusations at the General and trip Yanqing off his feet?

"...Yes, he escaped. I went after him."

"The Shackling Prison is a fortified maze. It was built with high security in mind. The only way to escape undetected as he did is if he had outside assistance."

"Assistance? But there's other Stellaron Hunters, and the report says Blade had an accomplice," Yanqing tries to rationalize. "What's the point in capturing him, just to let him go?"

Jingliu shrugs, looking exceptionally relaxed. "I don't know. What do you think?"

He tries to form a response, but the only sound he can make is a shaky sigh. Nothing makes sense anymore. Everything's been mixed up, tossed in a bag, and shaken around. He feels dizzy and lost. He wants comfort, but he can't think of anyone who can provide it to him anymore.

"I don't think anything.”

"If it is possible for one prisoner to escape, there is likely a flaw in the prison's design,” Jingliu says. “Other criminals may have already gotten out in the time you've been away. If he hadn't willingly released Blade, then Jing Yuan has overlooked a major weakness in the prison's security.” She abandons her relaxed stance and walks past Yanqing, who instinctively freezes at her proximity.

"Then– then that's just a mistake! He didn't mean for this to happen!" Yanqing argues, turning his head to follow Jingliu as she circles him. With the uncertainty of this conversation and where it may or may not be headed, Yanqing doesn't feel safe taking his eyes off of the swordswoman.

She tilts her head as she speaks to him. "Making such a fatal error would be devastating for your General's reputation. The Luofu may never trust him again if this comes to light."

"Then I won't tell anyone! I'll just tell the General! I'll find a way to warn him... without being seen."

There is no verbal response from Jingliu, only the faintest quirk of her eyebrow to confirm she has heard him, and she doesn't grant him another conniving response. She just keeps circling. The silence that follows only builds more frustration within Yanqing.

"I will!" He shouts, throwing his fists down in emphasis, yet it is no more intimidating than a toddler stomping his foot. "It was a mistake ever joining you. I'll do fine on my own without you weighing me down!"

Jingliu stops, and the two find themselves at a standstill. Yanqing is heaving and realizes just how exhausted all his shouting and ranting has made him. He can't recall if he even breathed.

He stares back at Jingliu, awaiting another response or insult from her, but she just crosses her arms and looks at him expectantly.

“Well?”

Yanqing's eyebrows pinch. He has no more energy to argue with her or provide his own quip, nor does he wish to give her the satisfaction of such. With a huff, he swivels on his feet and storms off in the direction the two initially came from. Immediately, he hears Jingliu call out to him from behind.

"You won't find what you're looking for," she says matter-of-factly. And yet, it's the kindest he's ever heard her sound.

He doesn’t entertain her, and quickly disappears into the brush, feeling crimson eyes burning through him all the way.

__

"General, do you have any friends?"

Yanqing is standing beside the General's desk at the Seat of Divine Foresight, the man himself reclining in his chair. With this dynamic, Yanqing is, for once, taller than him, if only by an overconfident centimeter or two. When the General is on his feet, however, Yanqing's head barely meets his waistline; the child’s little ahoge struggles to compensate for what he lacks in height.

The General chuckles, appearing humored by the question. "Everyone has friends, Yanqing," he says simply.

A long scroll is situated on the General's desk, curled and coiled like a snake and barely fitting on the large table. Its ink inscriptions are as daunting as a serpent's venom, and it's no wonder the General finds it easy to forgo his important duties to entertain the child at his side.

"But do you have friends?" Yanqing prods again, physically poking at the General's shoulder, eliciting another laugh. It's weird how the older people get, the more often they laugh at things that aren't funny or even jokes in the first place. He could ask the General about the weather and be met with a series of hearty chuckles (he wouldn’t be surprised if he had in the past).

"Well, those working directly with me in the Seat are my friends, I would say — Qingzu, Qingni. The other Commissioners, of course — Madame Yukong, Tingyun, and our dear Diviner. Even the people of the Luofu, those who walk the streets and lead simple yet humble lives. I would call them all friends."

"Who's your best friend, though?" Yanqing asks, heavily emphasizing 'best'. "You can't possibly have that many friends; you must have a favorite."

"That's a difficult question,” the older man says while stretching his back. “In my old age, I find it hard to maintain relationships. I'm no longer young like you, Yanqing. You must have dozens of best friends, don't you?"

"You're not that old, General." Yanqing rolls his eyes. "And I don't have dozens of best friends — that defeats the purpose. I guess Sushang is my best friend, since she's the only other knight in my age group, although I haven't seen her in a while since she started school. Do best friends stop being best friends after enough time passes?" Yanqing begins to mutter to himself before he suddenly jumps back up. "Hey! General, stop changing the subject!"

"I was just curious, that's all," he laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. "Ah, what were we talking about again?"

"Who your best friend is?"

"Ah! Yes, of course," he says, taking a moment to think about it. It's clear he's only pretending. "I don't believe I have one."

Yanqing is both shocked and unconvinced. "No best friend?"

"A general cannot pick favorites, Yanqing."

Yanqing pouts, sniffing out a potential lecture a mile away and eager to avoid it. "But there must be someone you like outside of boring work. What about Diviner Fu?"

"The Master Diviner is my colleague, my comrade in arms. I would trust her with my life, just as I entrust her with guiding the Luofu to a bright future. Though, given our circumstances, I can't say that the two of us could be given enough time to bond with each other."

"You have plenty of time, don't you?" Yanqing offers with a tilt of his head. "Why can't you just give her more free-time? You're the General, after all."

The General laughs again, shaking his head. "I cannot govern how my subordinates decide to arrange their schedules. Lady Fu works the way she does because that is the way she designed it, and I am of no authority to disrespect that wish."

"But then you guys won't get to hang out."

The General hums. It's not quite as sad as Yanqing had expected. He sounds content. "Maybe so. But I can't force her to arrange her schedule just to be around me, and I wouldn't obstruct her way if she ever were to leave."

"What if she dies?"

The General's pen pauses near the end of his paragraph, but he returns to writing and finishes the sentence as if nothing had been said.

"That won’t happen for a very long time."

A beat passes between the two. Nearby, the soft murmurs of attendants overseeing their day-to-day tasks create a light ambience, despite the pair’s silence. Yanqing feels as though there is a reason as to why the General maintains an invisible boundary, separating himself from all those who are so clearly loyal to him.

"Does the General not have friends?"

"Everyone has friends, Yanqing," the General repeats himself, his tone much softer than before; his words are no longer the thesis for a lecture.

"Diviner Fu isn't your friend, though," Yanqing prods. "If not her, then who?"

Something falls over Jing Yuan's eyes like a glaze as his pen droops in his hold. It's a look Yanqing has only seen a handful of times, and yet he can never put a finger on what it means.

The General seems lost in his own thoughts; he may be thinking of an appropriate response, or perhaps he's thinking of something else entirely, something old and covered in dust that should have been forgotten a long time ago. He exhales deeply, and he looks past Yanqing, through the ceiling-high windows where several flocks of birds soar across the blue sky.

"No one that will miss me."

Chapter Text

Life exists on a spinning axle, a wheel in constant motion. Jing Yuan is much like the pipes and gears and wires that encompass the belly of every Xianzhou ship, existing only as another cog in the ever-moving and unstoppable cycle.

Cycles love consistency, he’s noticed. Repetition. It became more noticeable as Jing Yuan grew older and more conscious of patterns as he witnessed them appear over and over, repeating with every cycle, every spin of the axle. Jing Yuan wasn’t averse to consistency, but he learned to dread the occurrence of a new cycle and the resurgence of an old one.

The unfamiliar cycles haunted him for their ambiguity, but the old and familiar cycles were different. Once the wheels began turning, the axle would never stop until the cycle has spun its course, and he could only grip the handle of his glaive and just hope — hope that it would turn out better this time around and fight for that reality to come to fruition.

Jing Yuan has tread side-by-side with inevitability and fought it in every war for seven hundred years, each war becoming a cycle of its own.

Amidst the fallout of a war, he found a baby blanketed in moonlight. He had almost missed the little thing beneath all the caked ash and debris, for the baby did not cry. It had hid itself amongst the deafening silence of the surrounding carnage.

The baby’s eyes were gold, like two little, burning suns, and in that moment, Jing Yuan heard the click of another axle beginning to move.

When Yanqing was four-years-old, he accompanied Jing Yuan on a trip to the Artisanship Commission. The general had been called in for an impromptu meeting, the reason having faded from Jing Yuan’s memory in the passing decade since.

Whatever the topic of conversation had been, it was surely too boring to hold the attention of a four-year-old boy, whose volume of energy was too great a magnitude to be kept inside his body. Jing Yuan would have otherwise taken these trips alone, had he not made the mistake of telling Yanqing about the practices of each commission, and, notably, the Artisanship Commission’s plethora of swords.

That and Qingzu and Tingyun couldn’t find time to babysit, but that was besides the point. So, the general found himself going through the motions of his meeting, reading documents and adding commentary while somewhere below, a group of Cloud Knights were dragged through the streets by a jubilant Yanqing. He thought about what shenanigans the boy was getting up to, what swords may have caught his eye, and pitied the knights who were most definitely struggling to keep the general’s ward out of trouble.

The meeting ended as all meetings do — it didn’t. Usually, he spends up to an hour after a meeting's conclusion speaking things over with staff members. Jing Yuan remembers the moment clearly, when he had just entered the front hall with commissioners in tow, all with their own two cents to share with him, when a Cloud Knight stumbled through the doors, the echoing pounds of his boots catching the attention of the commissioners. He rapidly scanned the room until he finally saw Jing Yuan, and the general knew immediately that something was wrong.

For all the years he’s lived, going on eight hundred, Jing Yuan has known fear. With so long spent fighting an endless fight against the Abundance, he may sooner call the battlefield his friend over some of his own colleagues.

When Yutie rushed up to him, panic in his step, and relayed to Jing Yuan that their group had lost track of Yanqing, Jing Yuan almost wished he was on the battlefield again. No fear of death by the hands of mindless monsters could compare to what he had felt in that moment. He remembers little of that day, so focused on scavenging through every corner of the Artisanship commission, praying that behind every wall, building, and bridge, a little head of straw-colored hair would be waiting for him.

Yanqing was found within the first hour of his disappearance inside of a forge of all places. With an irony that nearly made Jing Yuan laugh, Yanqing had a sword in his hands, the point scraping against the stone flooring where Yanqing lacked the strength to hold it upright. The boy was unaware he had been missing in the first place and was wholly befuddled by the frazzled state of the search party. To his surprise, Yanqing asked if he was okay, and Jing Yuan really did laugh. One of these days, this boy really would be the death of him.

That night, when Jing Yuan carried Yanqing back home, he held him just a little bit tighter than usual. The foolish general had gone years without intimacy — he’d forgotten how quickly one can get attached to something so easily lost.

Ten years down the line, Jing Yuan’s desk is as heavy as it’s always been, thanks in part to the recent escape from the Shackling Prison. The commissioners around him, even if handling the situation with composure, were visibly concerned, and Jing Yuan did his best to maintain an air of self-assurance during his extended time in the Seat of Divine Foresight.

He took it all without complaint, of course. After all, who else did Jing Yuan have to blame but himself?

It had been… hard — to see Blade after all these years, but Jing Yuan was not one to waste time pitying himself. He’d spent a century and more doing that already.

He turns a page.

Little by little, commissioners dwindle from the Seat until it’s only Jing Yuan and Qingzu, and when night fell, with enough pestering from Jing Yuan, Qingzu headed home herself. Alone in the Seat with only his thoughts to accompany him, Jing Yuan’s mind begins to wander beyond his desk. To the prison deep below his feet and the vacant cell inside, to the whispers of mysterious outlanders, to the smell of fresh leaves and the pitter-patter of dripping water. The ticking of the clock was his only reminder of the passing of time, so quick as it was. He counts them all with each drum of his fingers over another paper he was neglecting — a funds request to repair a damaged plateau in the Artisanship Commission.

The clock continues to tick and tick, on and on. He looks up at it, observing. A quarter to eleven. He’d missed dinner several hours ago.

Too much reminiscing, Yuan, he thinks to himself. Although I’m surprised I didn’t fall asleep.

With clumsy hands, he fiddles for his phone in his pocket. The white screen that greets him hurts his eyes, and it’s muscle memory that brings him to Yanqing’s contact. He sends a simple message, recycled from the previous times he had worked overtime, before returning the phone to his pocket. Years down the line, he would wish he had said more, that he had given that funds request just a little more of his attention. Even if it was fruitless, he wishes to have taken any action but sitting there, stagnant.

Useless.

Instead, he turned a page.

Home has never been such a pleasant sight.

Until four in the morning, Jing Yuan had languished at his desk, agonizing over work until an opening made itself known, and Jing Yuan jumped — or rather trudged miserably — at the opportunity. He would only have at most a single handful of hours before he would be called back to the Seat of Divine Foresight, but any amount of sleep in a comfy bed would be taken with utmost gratitude.

The walk to the front door alone is arduous. He politely greets the guards stationed on the property, and they give their respective, curt greetings back. Groggily, he opens the door and steps inside, slipping off his boots. They fall haphazardly, strewn about on the floor by the shoe rack. He didn’t let the door make a sound as he closed it behind him, keeping himself quiet enough so Yanqing could sleep peacefully, but making just enough noise to urge him to bed, should the boy be neglecting his sleep schedule.

Not hearing any response, Jing Yuan nudges his boots against the rack with his foot, before pausing. He looks to the opposite corner, then back to the first. No white boots.

That’s not right... Yanqing was always home at a reasonable hour. When Jing Yuan was ever late, as he is now, he returned to signs of his lieutenant’s presence waiting for him, be it a freshly-made meal, a breeze from the open doors of the training patio, or those little white boots placed neatly in the nook. His stomach growled, and excusing any potential concerns, he headed into the dining room and turned on the lights.

The table was bare of any dishes, as it had been left that morning, and the air lacked that distinct smell of food and burnt wicks. On the table, there was a linen cloth and some candles. Beside the table, a pair of chairs — one tucked in neatly, and the other slightly askew to the wooden edge. The dining room bore him no fruit, so he took his chances with the kitchen.

Inside, he didn’t find much more. Rather, it was what he didn’t find that alarms him.

The dish rack lay barren and dry, just as the sink was void of any dishes. Again, he insisted there must be an explanation. Perhaps Yanqing had some time to kill, and rather than training in the courtyard, spent it drying his dishes and returning them back to their places. The explanation satisfied some part of him, but another urged him towards the refrigerator.

Opening it, Jing Yuan found none of the contents from this morning had been moved. A container of leftovers ordered during a trip to Aurum Alley the previous day — of which he vividly recalls Yanqing expressing his anticipation to finish the meal tonight — sat undisturbed on one of the shelves, casting out any doubts that Yanqing had settled for leftovers, rather than cooking a dinner himself. If Yanqing ever spent dinners alone, he would always, without fail, make an extra serving for Jing Yuan and leave it in the fridge. Despite assuring his pupil that there was no need, Yanqing insisted.

A pre-made dinner was something he could live without, but this only left him with the frustrating and grossly out of character possibility that his Lieutenant had not eaten. He tried to think of ways to scold the boy when he saw him again, if only to distract himself from other unwelcome what-ifs.

The grinding of claws against wood behind Jing Yuan alerts him. Turning around, he’s immediately smothered by a mound of thick, white fur. Snowmoon’s purrs and grumbles, as comforting as they are, do little to snuff out the expanding dread that encompasses Jing Yuan’s mind. He crouches down to give the lioness the pets she demands.

“What are you doing up so late, girl? You’re usually asleep by this hour.” Snowmoon pats a saucer-sized paw against his face.

She was a spoiled thing, Snowmoon, and she demanded attention as much as she demanded food — and speaking of food, Jing Yuan glanced over to the large feeding bowl beside the patio. It was empty, as was her drinking pool.

“Snowmoon, have you not eaten?” Snowmoon, being a lion, only replied with a displeased rumble. The lioness head-butts him once more with greater urgency, and he scratches behind her ear in an attempt to soothe her, even if he knows it’s for his own needs alone. From the corner, the empty bowl mocks him. He stands to fetch some meat from Snowmoon’s personal cooler, all the while his thoughts race and buzz, bouncing against his head like the walls of a beehive.

There are many times in Jing Yuan’s long career where mistakes are made and errors occur. Many are avoidable, while others are simply inevitable. Among it all, there are expectations that Jing Yuan holds a great deal of trust in to be upheld — when they are not, that is when the error reveals itself. Snowmoon not being fed on schedule is one of them.

It’s not as if there are no assistants able or willing to tend to Snowmoon while Jing Yuan and Yanqing are away. Before the latter ever came along, that had been customary. Back in those days, Snowmoon was younger and possessed virility that let her accompany the general to work and around the Luofu. Nowadays, she finds herself lounging about the house and sunbathing in the garden, a privilege Jing Yuan can only envy. She’s not alone in experiencing the effects of age. Someone like Yanqing, who is still at the centermost point of his adolescence, finds that energy Jing Yuan and Snowmoon lack, and one of his ways of enforcing that newfound maturity is taking on roles that would normally be filled by an Arbiter General’s designated staff of housekeepers. That, of course, includes feeding Snowmoon a single, hefty meal every three days. Yanqing has been dedicated in this role for the past few years now and has never skipped out on a feeding.

So it is all the more alarming that Yanqing has not returned home, and Snowmoon has gone a fourth day without food. Jing Yuan’s fears are confirmed when he unlocks the cooler, and finds the eight pounds of fresh lamb designated for today’s meal lying within the ice.

Snowmoon headbutts him for the nth time, and Jing Yuan blocks her path, preventing the hungry lioness from climbing into the cooler herself. Restless and grumpy, she nearly knocks him over multiple times as he sets the meat out to thaw in the sink. Jing Yuan holds his hands under the faucet and lets the warm water wash away the sweat he’s only now noticed has built up.

Afterwards, he hesitates, be it from fear or just apprehension, but eventually he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, the time taken to do so feeling agonizingly long, and even longer to unlock his double-digit passcode. He opens where he had last left — Yanqing’s contact. For a moment, he just stares at his screen. Only his chest shows signs of movement, and even that seems miniscule, for Jing Yuan feels like he’s forgotten to breathe.

There are no new messages from Yanqing. He reloads the tab, on the off chance any reply just hadn’t gone through. His message from a few hours ago sits unanswered in the text box, and the status below it quells any hopes he might have had.

Message unable to be delivered.

Jing Yuan’s heart sinks. With shaking fingers, he sends the message again, neglecting any spelling errors that arise despite his mechanical movements.

The next status is immediate and obdurate in its bluntness.

Message unable to be delivered.

A pending symbol spins methodically by his unsent message, and he watches it, waiting for it to disappear. It never does.

That boy…

With everything going on right now, from the stellaron crisis, to the wanted fugitives running throughout the Luofu like mice, the last thing Jing Yuan needs is an overconfident teenager throwing himself into a fight he thinks he can win. But this day alone has had many tribulations, and every eye is looking straight at Jing Yuan. He could have stopped Yanqing in his tracks, should have put his foot down and made it clear to him: do not engage with Blade.

Jing Yuan is old, and that age brings with it enough experience, victories, and humiliations to drill it in him to swallow his pride. In hindsight, Yanqing should not have been kept in the dark about... everything. Blade especially. Jing Yuan knows the boy well, held his hand through every step, and watched that little hand grow with each passing year. If there was anything greater than Yanqing’s love for swords, it was his unquenchable thirst for recognition; he needs to prove his own capabilities more than he needs sleep.

Jing Yuan didn’t think Blade would be one to entertain the antics of a child, but he supposes a few centuries can invite even the most drastic of changes in a person. If Yanqing had gone out of his way to confront Blade, he would not have taken “no” for an answer.

As much as he covered it up under layers of pride and ego, Yanqing is still a boy. He still hears his name sprinkled in the conversations of people unaware of his keen ears. Sometimes they spoke with reverence, other times, decidedly not — it was evident Yanqing listens to some more than others.

Jing Yuan had hoped his guidance would be enough, that by heeding the boy’s pleas for training and recognition that it would inadvertently nudge Yanqing onto a path brighter than Jing Yuan’s own, towards a future filled with success and happiness, far away from the mess his master had wrapped himself so tightly within. He knows how overzealous Yanqing can be, will be; that’s the one thing about him that Jing Yuan believes will never change, no matter how many centuries pass.

It was days like these that had Jing Yuan often considering changing the title of 'Divine Foresight' to something a little more fitting.

Snowmoon head-butts his leg, pushing all her weight against him without warning. The force pulls him from his thoughts as suddenly as he trips over his feet. He catches himself against the edge of the counter, his hand moving faster than he could process the potential fall. A gasp escapes him, one of surprise rather than pain, and he looks down at Snowmoon, who reciprocates his gaze with her own — Big, milky eyes of brown and black.

He knew Snowmoon was aware of her own strength, but perhaps, in the passing centuries, she’d overlooked Jing Yuan’s increased fragility. As an apology, Snowmoon shrinks to the floor and rolls onto her side, exposing her underbelly to him. With a chuckle, Jing Yuan accepts her apology, and leans down to pat her stomach.

“Old girl,” he hums. “We’re not young anymore.”

The lamb thaws faster than Jing Yuan expected. As he was distracted, a finch had escaped from its bed in Jing Yuan’s hair and perched atop a bone. It had taken advantage of Jing Yuan’s distracted state to peck at the softening meat. Standing up, he offers his hand as a more fitting perch, but instead of accepting, it simply stares at him, ruffles its golden feathers and flies through a nearby windowsill, where the song of its fellow finches greet it.

For a moment, Jing Yuan stands there, his hand frozen in place, until eventually the smell of raw meat urges him to transfer the eight pounds of lamb to Snowmoon’s bowl, where she quickly begins devouring it.

Satisfied that Snowmoon’s needs have been tended to, Jing Yuan returns to his boots by the doorway and slips them on, all the while ignoring the cries of his own empty stomach. He doesn’t bother locking the door on his way out — the building no longer housed its most valuable occupant.

Luckily for him, finding Blade is not a difficult task. All Jing Yuan had to do was find an area where the Abundance was plentiful, abandon his glaive, and wait. It didn’t take long for him to be found; the sky was still dark.

“It is unwise for someone of your authority to tread the abominations’ stomping grounds alone.”

Jing Yuan lifts his head from where it had been resting against a crooked tree, and meets eye-to-eye with Blade. The man is standing within a slowly settling flurry of ginkgo leaves, his silhouette just visible enough in the darkness of night. At his feet, the slowly disintegrating corpses of at least a dozen abominations lie still. Blade’s sword is already tucked into its hilt by the time Jing Yuan acknowledges his presence.

“I may be old, Blade,” says Jing Yuan, “but I'm not helpless, even without the Knights.” He relaxes against the tree bark, closing his eyes. “Besides, I recall that a certain script demands my attendance.” A subtle shift in Jing Yuan’s hair reminds him of the finches still sleeping inside. He makes an effort to keep his movements light.

“I’m not your babysitter,” Blade sneers, disregarding the abominations as he approaches the general. His shoes kick against their tarnished helmets as if they aren’t even there. Jing Yuan rests his cheek against his knuckles and watches him.

“What do you want?” Blade asks.

“Is it so wrong for an old man to speak with an old friend?” Cheekiness leaks into Jing Yuan’s words, and Blade grimaces.

“I’m a fugitive, and you’re a general. We’re not friends.”

“I know,” Jing Yuan says bittersweetly. His hair moves again, tickling his neck. A few strands spill over his shoulder.

“It’s amusing,” Blade starts. “It took no more than a few hours for me to reclaim my freedom, and yet here I find myself before you once again. Tell me, have you changed your mind?” Jing Yuan’s eyelids weigh heavily when he opens them, a product of his restlessness. If he kept them closed, he could almost pretend he was speaking to someone else. He looks and sees only unfamiliar red, and the effigy is gone. “You must agree that a prison is no place for a reunion.”

Sometime during their back-and-forth, the furrow in Blade’s brows slacken. He appeared indifferent to the conversation. Uninterested. Staying only to entertain Jing Yuan’s probing, before he will inevitably vanish again to fulfill the next act of his script. If Blade was staying this long, Jing Yuan pondered, then there must be time to spare, and he intends to capitalize on that sliver of precious time.

Blade glares at him, less offended than he was annoyed by the inconvenience. “You should have thought of that before locking me up.”

“You know, you could thank me for giving you some leniency. Or…” Immediately, the cross in Blade’s brow returns. “You could let me prod you for answers.”

The stare Blade is directing at Jing Yuan is stony. “And, pray tell, why only now do you interrogate me a second time — when I am no longer a prisoner?” Blade’s patience was thinning, and the script over them ever-looming like the sun creeping over the horizon. The once pitch-black sky was losing its stars, and with them, Jing Yuan’s chance to find the truth.

“Because my lieutenant failed to return home last night,” Jing Yuan says calmly. “I’m hoping you might know where he is.”

Recognition momentarily crosses over Blade’s face before he huffs. “That boy I saw clinging to your side? I remember him. Unfortunately for you, though, our interactions began and ended in that interrogation room.”

Something indescribable rolls over Jing Yuan like a wave, tall and heavy, drowning him; It drenches him and all hope he’d carried with him to this empty valley. It feels like grief.

Feeling lost and desperate for answers, he urges Blade for more, for anything else. For certainly Yanqing had encountered Blade after leaving the Seat. Memory may be a cross both men have had to bear, but Blade could not have possibly forgotten a confrontation from only a handful of dual-hours ago.

The only other possibility was that something else had intercepted Yanqing, something worse than Blade that could make him MIA and sever his phone’s connection.

“You’re certain of it? What about your companion? Surely one of you saw him.” Jing Yuan makes no effort to make his words sound like anything but a plea. He knows he must appear utterly pathetic, but he can’t find a care for how Blade perceives him in that moment.

Blade shakes his head. “I have not seen your little lapdog since you trapped me in that prison.” The moniker ‘lapdog’ was spit from Blade’s lips like unpleasant wine. “Even if I had, what reason would I have to lie?”

In that moment, cold reality spills over and drenches Jing Yuan, reminding him of the disparity between the Blade of yesterday and the man standing unfeeling before him; The man whose face is plastered on wanted posters across the cosmos is unrecognizable from that old blacksmith who gave Starfall Reverie and its sister weapons their shapes. When Jing Yuan looks into the reflection of his guandao’s blade, the same rings true for himself. He thinks of Blade. That face of familiar shape, lacking in wrinkles, and weathered blue eyes replaced with a red like hot iron.

When Jing Yuan sees that red, he does not see the boy he would slip out of training with — Yingxing, who repaired his sword when Jing Yuan failed to maintain it, and, when the glaive eventually caught the then-lieutenant's eye, crafted a beautiful guandao of grand black and gold.

The Blade of now would not craft him a weapon. Jing Yuan wonders if he can even remember the art he had once so loved.

“The last I saw him, he ran off — to find you.”

“What your boy chooses to do out of your sight is irrelevant to me.”

“You misunderstand…" Jing Yuan stresses. "My concern comes from a teacher, not a parent."

“Far be it for someone like me to give advice to someone like you,“ Blade says. “But I would suggest reevaluating your duties. Are you a general or a father?”

Many potential answers appear before him, but none call to him as correct, as honest. The urge to lie to Blade pokes its head through his building desperation, born from denial, denial that is born from love. But what kind of love?

A general loves many things. A general loves his people, but a general could not put a name to the face of every civilian under his protection. A general could not look to the mask of a soldier and put a face to their name. A general could not look to his lieutenant and see a son.

But General Jing Yuan can hear the name ‘Yanqing’ and see a face. General Jing Yuan can see two eyes like solid gold and hear Yanqing’s name. General Jing Yuan can hear a voice, or the jingling of bells, or the gentle nip of ice and know it is his lieutenant. For the first time in centuries, Jing Yuan could return to a house that wasn’t empty, eat a dinner that wasn’t plagued with silence, live for something other than his duties, because without his duties what else did he have to live for?

That quiet house reminded him of everything Yanqing had brought into that lonely building fourteen years ago, every simple thing that went unnoticed, but when taken away, invited back in that suffocating loneliness he had spent more than half of his life living in.

Jing Yuan can’t live like that anymore. He doesn’t think he could take it, knowing that emptiness was once filled by something irreplaceable.

“Blade.”

The man in question hadn’t waited long for an answer before going to leave, but stops mid-step when Jing Yuan calls his name.

“That script,” Jing Yuan starts, finally moving after remaining stationary since twilight. “I know you probably can’t give me knowledge of its contents, but…”

Blade waits for him, and Jing Yuan almost breaks.

“What is Yanqing’s role? Does he have one in the future?” Is he alive?

Against the rising sun, Blade seems to think, whether to mull over Jing Yuan’s request or recall his memory of the script’s contents, Jing Yuan may never know, but Blade does eventually answer him.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen his name before.” In Blade’s voice, Jing Yuan could almost hear pity.

“Will you look for him?”

Blade turns around and meets Jing Yuan’s pleading eyes. So deep was that red, and so great were the things Jing Yuan could find, but his searches would be fruitless, and he knew all would end in dissatisfaction. “I will do what the script compels me to do,” is all Blade says, and just like that, he’s gone, and Jing Yuan is alone.

It’s not the first time, he thinks, and oh, what a cruel cycle it is.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there before his phone’s ringtone pulls him back to reality, and he only has enough time to correct himself before answering it and putting it to his ear.

“General,” Fu Xuan’s voice pipes up from the speaker. “I’ve subdued and interrogated the Stellaron Hunter. Where are you?”

Jing Yuan's gaze travels to the sun resting against the horizon, no longer obscured by Blade’s figure. Tucked within the valley, the loneliness weighs on him. The Luofu ship has never felt larger, and Jing Yuan himself is as small as could be.

“Still at the mercy of my own sleepiness,” he replies. At that moment, he feels a yawn build. “I’ll be there by thunder.”

“Thunder better be a reasonable hour,” Fu huffs through the buzz. Before she can hang up or say another word, Jing Yuan interrupts her.

“Forgive my impudence… but may I request something of the Master Diviner?”

Predictably, Fu Xuan was reluctant to perform a second divination immediately after Kafka’s interrogation. An expected outcome, as Lady Fu is a woman of pride. Requesting her services out of the blue, to her, demeans her profession and makes it out to be an ostentatious light show. Jing Yuan has never frivolously asked for a divination, and Fu Xuan doesn’t expect him to, so when he enters her office early in the morning, only an hour after their call, she looks at him sideways.

“You don’t normally ask me for divinations,” Fu says. “I don’t suppose you have Blade hidden behind you somewhere? I would love the chance to take a look at his head.”

It gets a smile out of him, admittedly. He shakes his head. “No, unfortunately, the truth is not nearly as exciting.”

Something in Jing Yuan’s eyes at that moment must have registered in Fu, as both her expression and posture shifts, a subtle change he otherwise would have missed had she not been a close confidant for the better part of the past few centuries. She gives him a look of her own, scrutinizing every inch of his expression. He chuckles, and Fu only turns her attention to the flat of her desk, scrutinizing it instead.

“I know you have your hands full and two divinations in one day is a tall order, but if you’ll indulge me with one request, can it be this?” I will never ask anything of you again.

Fu Xuan looks up at him for a moment, then sighs in defeat. “So you’re serious. Fine.” She stands, brushing the front of her dress. “What do you need?”

A Knight brought it to him not long after the divination concluded. Fu Xuan thought it unnecessary and suggested to keep it secured until further inspection, but Jing Yuan disagreed. He accepted it, and he and Fu Xuan went their separate ways, expecting to reunite at the awaited time.

Above him, the newly regrown arbor cleaves open the sky, casting a shadow that engulfs Jing Yuan entirely. Each step towards the stationed starskiff is one more step into the jaws of peril; Something in him tells him he will be consumed whole.

The broken tracer weighs heavily in Jing Yuan’s palm, its once pristine jade cracked, and any information it may have offered lost. Jingliu showed no mercy to the device, no more than she did Yanqing.

When he had first received the tracer, he could do no more than stare at it, cradle it. But all things in life are fragile. An edge of the tracer had become dislodged upon Jing Yuan disturbing it. The chip fell to the ground with a barely-noticeable crack, and took a piece of Jing Yuan’s soul with it. He returned the chip to its proper place, only his firm grip around the tracer ensuring it doesn’t slip out again.

He knows that, eventually, he’ll have to let go, and the tracer will fall apart again. That can wait a little longer, though. He just needs more time.

“Are you a general?” Blade’s voice rings out. ”Or a father?”

The answer should be clear to anyone.

He boards the starskiff without another word and sets a course for Scalegorge Waterscape.

Jing Yuan will live to see the cycle end, and if he must force the spinning wheel from its axle with his bare hands, then so be it.