Chapter Text
The temple grounds were silent except for the steady thud of Feng Xin’s arrow hitting its target, over and over, like the tick of a clock. A monotony broken only when Mu Qing’s voice—sharp, edged with disdain—cut through the air.
“Do you plan to accomplish something, or just exhaust the stockpile of arrows?”
Feng Xin didn’t pause. He never did, not for Mu Qing. The arrow struck the bullseye with enough force that the target shuddered. “Some of us train to be useful. You should try it sometime.”
Mu Qing stepped closer, his robes immaculate despite the dust of the courtyard. He held himself with the same cold precision he always did, as if everything he did—every breath he took—was calculated to a fine point. “Training? Is that what you call shooting at a defenseless target until the splinters are indistinguishable from dirt? Inspirational.”
“Better than standing around criticizing everyone else.” Feng Xin lowered his bow, finally turning to look at him. “Why are you even here, Mu Qing? If you’re so busy being perfect, shouldn’t you be off doing something more… I don’t know, important?”
The insult slid off Mu Qing like water off polished stone. He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes flicking to the quiver strapped across Feng Xin’s back. “I was passing by. I didn’t expect to find you wasting time again.”
“Passing by, huh? Sure, because you’ve got nothing better to do than watch me.”
There it was again—that undercurrent in Feng Xin’s voice. Not just irritation, but something heavier. Resentment, maybe. Mu Qing didn’t flinch from it; he never flinched.
“I am surprised you noticed,” Mu Qing said, his tone even, sharp as glass. “Considering how blind you are to anything outside your narrow sense of duty.”
Feng Xin’s grip on the bow tightened. “Don’t talk to me about duty like you understand it. You wouldn’t know loyalty if it bit you in the—”
“Loyalty?” Mu Qing’s voice rose, thin and bitter. “You think you’re loyal? Is that what you tell yourself every time you throw yourself into something without thinking? Loyalty and stupidity are not the same, Feng Xin.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them crackled like a storm waiting to break.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Feng Xin finally said, voice low, “talking to me about stupidity. At least I don’t look down on everyone like they’re dirt under my feet. But I guess that’s all you know how to do, huh? Act like you’re better than everyone because you’re too scared to let anyone close enough to see you’re not.”
Mu Qing’s jaw clenched, but the mask didn’t crack. It never cracked. “And you think being an open book makes you better? At least I don’t let people use me like a tool and call it loyalty.”
Feng Xin’s breath came faster, his knuckles white around the bow. “You’re impossible.”
“Good.” Mu Qing’s voice was ice. “Then stop wasting my time.”
He turned on his heel, the swish of his robes the only sound as he walked away. Feng Xin stood there, the weight of the bow suddenly too heavy in his hands.
Neither of them looked back. They never did.
And yet, when Mu Qing reached the edge of the courtyard, his steps faltered. Just for a heartbeat. A moment so brief it might not have existed at all.
That falter in Mu Qing’s step didn’t go unnoticed. It rarely did when Feng Xin was watching, no matter how much either of them might deny it later.
“Wait,” Feng Xin said abruptly, before he could stop himself.
Mu Qing froze, his back still to him. His shoulders stiffened, a barely perceptible movement. “What is it now? Another piece of profound wisdom?”
The sarcasm in his tone was expected, but Feng Xin felt his jaw tighten regardless. He didn’t know what he’d wanted to say, exactly—just that the sight of Mu Qing walking away again stirred a restless frustration he couldn’t shake.
“I—” He fumbled for the words, caught between his temper and something deeper he couldn’t name. “Why do you always do this? Show up, start something, and then leave before—”
“Before what?” Mu Qing turned sharply, his eyes colder than ever. “Before you can prove me wrong? Before you can land the last blow? Go ahead, Feng Xin, if that’s what you want. I can take it.”
Feng Xin opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat. There it was again—that crack beneath Mu Qing’s polished surface, like a shadow he tried too hard to hide.
“Why are you like this?” he asked instead, his voice quieter now, more bewildered than angry.
Mu Qing’s laugh was soft, bitter. “What an insightful question. Perhaps next time you’ll ask me why the sky is blue or why the heavens are unjust.”
“Don’t start with that crap,” Feng Xin snapped, the heat returning to his voice. “You act like you’re the only one who’s ever been wronged, like nobody else has a right to feel anything because your life was so damn hard. You think I don’t know what it’s like to struggle? To lose things? To be—”
He stopped himself just in time, but Mu Qing’s expression had already shifted. It wasn’t surprise; it was sharper, almost predatory, like he’d caught the edge of something Feng Xin hadn’t meant to show.
“To be what?” Mu Qing asked, his tone deceptively soft. “Go on, finish your thought. To be alone? Overlooked? Underestimated?”
Feng Xin’s grip on his bow tightened again, though he didn’t raise it. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The silence stretched between them, taut and brimming with everything they refused to say.
“Why do you do this?” Feng Xin said at last, his voice low. “Why do you have to make everything harder than it already is?”
“Because nothing is easy,” Mu Qing replied, just as quietly. “Not for me. Not for you. Not for anyone. But you—” He hesitated, just long enough for Feng Xin to notice. “You act like it’s a burden worth carrying, like it’s noble to keep breaking yourself over and over again. Do you ever stop to think about what it’s for?”
Feng Xin didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t know how to. The question wasn’t fair—it wasn’t supposed to be fair—but it lingered, cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.
“At least I’m trying,” he said finally, his voice rough.
Mu Qing’s gaze didn’t waver. “So am I.”
The honesty in those words startled them both. For a moment, it felt like the air might crack under the weight of it, like something might give way if either of them pushed just a little harder.
But neither of them did. They never did.
“Whatever.” Feng Xin turned back to his bow, the movement abrupt, almost clumsy. “Go if you’re going. I don’t care.”
Mu Qing watched him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
This time, he didn’t falter.
But Feng Xin still felt the weight of his absence, like an ache he couldn’t place.
And he hated that he wondered if Mu Qing felt it too.