Chapter Text
The rain came down in sheets, relentless and unforgiving against the cracked tiles of the old Xuan Zhen temple. The wind howled as if trying to tear the very stones from the earth, but the temple stood firm—though barely.
The place had clearly been abandoned for what seemed like centuries. Dust thickened the air, settling in the corners like an old memory that refused to fade. Wooden beams, once sturdy and proud, were now warped and splintered, bending beneath the weight of time and neglect. The structure groaned under the pressure, its creaks and groans almost as mournful as the howling wind outside. The faint scent of mildew mixed with the damp earth of the surrounding wilderness hung in the air.
And yet, despite all of this, the temple still stood—defiant in the face of decay. At its heart, the altar remained, untouched and forsaken but still there. The once-vibrant carvings were now faded, the offerings long since claimed by time and rot, but it appeared stubborn against the passage of time, as though waiting for something—or someone—who might one day remember its significance.
Feng Xin had stumbled across the temple by accident. He had been deep in the forest, investigating rumors of an ancient beast said to wander the region, tracking the supposed prints, when the storm hit with brutal force.
The winds, strong enough to knock him off course, had sent him stumbling through the thick underbrush, the storm blurring his vision and disorienting him. He fought against it, but the wind was merciless, pushing him in directions he hadn’t intended to go. When he had finally regained his bearings, the temple had appeared—its outline a ghostly silhouette against the darkened sky.
The doors of the temple had barely held against the wind as he had pushed them open, groaning on their hinges, and he had entered just as the storm reached its peak. The respite from the wind and rain was a welcome relief, though the temple’s stillness and age offered little comfort. It was the only shelter for several hundred miles, and for that, Feng Xin was grateful, even if the place felt more like a tomb than a sanctuary.
Now, standing in the temple’s center, rain dripped from his hair, soaking through his robes and pooling onto the wooden floor beneath him. He could feel the cold creeping into his bones as the storm raged outside, the sound of the downpour muffled by the thick stone walls. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, irritated by his own bad fortune.
“Just my luck,” he muttered under his breath, wiping the rain from his face with a wet hand.
The temple was empty—utterly barren of life. No incense burned in the corners, no faint light from candles flickered in the dark. Just the hollow remnants of a once-revered shrine, now long forgotten by those who had once come here to seek solace or pray for blessings. Feng Xin’s gaze swept across the interior, searching for anything that could be of use. Surely, there had to be something—some old cloth or fabric left behind, something to wipe the rain from his clothes as he waited for the storm to pass.
A row of chests sat along one wall, their heavy wooden lids slightly ajar, as though they had been waiting for someone to come and disturb their long-held slumber. The air in the temple was thick with dust, but the chests had withstood time better than most things in this forsaken place.
Feng Xin knelt beside one of them, the wood creaking under his weight as he pushed the lid open. The interior was dark, save for the faint glow of rainwater filtering through the broken roof. Most of its contents had been consumed by time—scraps of fabric too fragile to use, the remnants of ancient scrolls curling at the edges, and the occasional broken trinket scattered across the bottom. Nothing useful, just more forgotten relics.
With a grunt, Feng Xin reached for another chest, flipping the lid open with an easy motion. This one, though, felt different. He peered inside, his eyes catching on a stack of papers—old, yellowed with age, and neatly arranged, as though someone had taken care to preserve them. The sight of them made his chest tighten, a strange pull he couldn’t quite explain.
He barely spared the stack a glance at first—after all, it was nothing more than old documents. But then his eyes fell on something familiar, something that stopped his heart for a moment. His name. Written in neat, deliberate strokes on the topmost page.
Feng Xin froze.
His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the ink, the shape of the characters seared into his mind. It was unmistakable—the handwriting was precise, too controlled, and yet… there was something too personal about it. The strokes were perfectly measured, but there was a lingering unease to it, as though something had shifted in the very act of writing. It was a handwriting Feng Xin knew too well. One he had seen far too many times. Mu Qing’s.
His fingers hovered above the stack, hesitant. He shouldn’t open it. He really shouldn’t. His instincts screamed at him to close the chest and walk away, to ignore whatever it was that had drawn his name onto this paper. But the sight of it, the faint smudge of ink where time had bled through the years, made his throat feel tight, as though the weight of the past had suddenly materialized, pressing against him.
With a deep breath, he unfolded the first letter, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he did. The paper was fragile, crinkling at the edges as though it might fall apart at any moment. But his eyes were locked on the words, the ink fading in places but still legible, and as he read, the world around him seemed to fade away.
Feng Xin—
I don’t know why I’m writing this. I’m not even sure what I want to say. Maybe if I put it into words, it’ll stop weighing on me.
You’d laugh if you saw this, wouldn’t you? No—more likely, you’d get angry. You’d call me arrogant or ungrateful or some other insult you think fits me. Maybe you’d be right. But what does it matter? You’ll never read this, anyway.
I just keep wondering if things could have been different. If I had been different. If we had all been different.
Do you ever think about that?
Feng Xin’s heart thudded heavily in his chest, his eyes scanning the letter again, as if rereading it might change the weight of the words, might make the strange sensation creeping up his spine go away. Mu Qing’s words hung in the air around him, a strange mix of regret and something else—something that felt like an echo of emotions that had never been spoken aloud. The letter felt almost too intimate, too raw for him to be reading it now, after all this time.
If I had been different. If we had all been different.
The words rang through his mind, repeating, taunting him. Could things have been different? If he had made different choices, would things have turned out the way they had? He had often asked himself that very same question, though it had never been as clear as it was now, staring back at him from the pages in his hands. He couldn’t help but wonder what Mu Qing had truly meant by these words, what part of the past they were referring to. What could he have done to change it? What had Mu Qing been willing to change?
He folded the letter carefully, as though handling something fragile. He shouldn’t read more. He didn’t want to. But something in him, something deep and old, pushed him to continue, to understand the rest of what had been left unsaid. What had been buried so deep, even Mu Qing hadn’t been able to speak it aloud.
He flipped through the next few pages, unable to stop himself. More of the same handwriting, more of the same unsent confessions. Apologies tangled with accusations. Bitter words scrawled beside softer ones.
I was angry. I was hurt. I shouldn’t have said that.
Would you even listen?
Do you ever miss me?
Feng Xin exhaled sharply, his pulse a heavy thud in his ears. The words blurred together for a moment before he forced himself to focus. These weren’t just letters—they were fragments of something unfinished, thoughts and emotions that had never found a proper end.
He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected to find himself here, holding the weight of old words that had never reached him. There had always been things left unsaid between them; too much time spent speaking past each other rather than to each other. And yet, somewhere in the mess of it all, Mu Qing had written this.
His chest ached with something he couldn’t name.
‘Stop,’ said the little voice in the back of his mind. Feng Xin’s hands clenched around the letters. Stop?
After all this time—after centuries of misunderstandings, of words left unsaid—how was he supposed to stop?
His fingers brushed against one of the final pages in the stack. The paper felt thinner than the others, worn from touch. Feng Xin could almost picture it—Mu Qing sitting somewhere, unfolding and refolding this letter, his brows furrowed, his mouth pressed into that familiar, exasperated line. Had he hesitated before writing it? Had he debated whether to throw it away, only to keep it in the end?
Feng Xin exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Then, with careful hands, he smoothed out the fragile page and read.
I should hate you.
I should resent you, curse you, wish I had never met you.
So why is it that every time I see you, I want to ask if you’re eating properly?
What if I had said something sooner? If I had been less proud, less bitter?
If I had told you the truth?
Feng Xin’s breath caught. The truth? His eyes darted to the bottom of the page, expecting more, but the letter ended there. No signature, no further explanation. Just empty space where more words should have been.
His fingers curled around the edges of the page. What truth?
The storm outside howled through the cracks in the temple walls, but Feng Xin barely heard it. His mind was stuck in the past now, trapped in memories that felt both distant and painfully close.
Had Mu Qing really wanted to say something back then? Had Feng Xin simply been too blind, too stubborn, to see it?
And more importantly—did it even matter anymore?
An hour passed. The storm had not eased. Rain continued its relentless assault against the roof, each drop a hollow echo in the vast emptiness of the temple. Wind howled through the broken beams, slipping through the cracks in the walls, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant lightning. The air was thick with moisture, heavy and unyielding, clinging to his skin like a second layer of cloth.
Feng Xin sat stiffly on the cold wooden floor; his back pressed against a warped pillar. The stack of letters rested in his hands, their weight disproportionate to their size, as if every unsent word contained something heavier than mere ink and paper. His fingers tightened around the edges, but he made no move to set them down.
The wood beneath him was damp, slick from the rain that had crept in through unseen gaps. The chill burrowed deep into his bones, making him shift in discomfort, but he barely noticed.
He had read a few—more than he should have—but there were still so many left, waiting in silent anticipation. They pressed against him, not just in his hands, but in his chest, a weight that settled beneath his ribs, making each breath feel shallow, unsteady.
He shouldn’t keep reading. He knew that. There was no reason to dig through the past, no point in unearthing things that had been buried for centuries. And yet, his fingers hesitated over the next letter, his pulse thrumming with something he didn’t want to name. Curiosity? Resentment? Something softer, more painful? A feeling too tangled to unravel.
The paper trembled slightly as he picked it up, its edges worn thin, its once-crisp folds softened by time. The ink, though faded, still held its shape—smudged in places, as if the writer’s hand had lingered, hesitated, pressed too hard before pulling away.
He unfolded it with careful hands, his breath hitching as his eyes traced the familiar script.
Feng Xin—
Do you remember that winter in the palace? When we were still young, before everything changed? The Crown Prince had snuck out again, and you were furious. I told you that you worried too much, that you acted like an overbearing grandma, and you threw a snowball at me.
I pretended to be angry, but I wasn’t. It was the first time in years that we laughed together. It felt… simple.
Sometimes, I wonder if you ever think about those days. If you remember me from before I became someone you resented.
Feng Xin’s grip on the paper tightened.
Of course I remember.
The memory surfaced so vividly it nearly startled him—the crisp bite of winter air against his skin, the distant echo of footfalls on frost-laced stone, the sharp, unrestrained sound of their laughter ringing through the cold. A time when things had been simpler. When they had been younger. When they hadn’t yet learned how to hurt each other in ways that left scars.
It had been years since he had allowed himself to think about those days—before war, before resentment, before their words had turned into weapons and their silences had become walls. Before everything between them had grown so knotted with anger and wounded pride that neither of them had known how to untangle it.
Thunder rolled overhead, shaking the temple to its bones. Wind screamed through the rafters, slipping through the broken slats, tearing through the space around him with a force that made the walls groan in protest. The storm was relentless, but nowhere near as violent as the storm inside him.
He should put the letters away. He should leave them where he found them, close the lid of the chest, and forget he ever saw them. Let the past remain buried, untouched, undisturbed.
And yet, his fingers lingered over the stack. With a sigh, he reached for another.
You’ll never read this. But if you did…, would you even believe me?
A sharp exhale left Feng Xin’s lips, unsteady, almost bitter. He pressed a hand to his face, his palm warm against the cold skin of his cheek, fingers curling slightly as if to ground himself.
Would he?
The thought twisted in his chest, an answer hovering just out of reach. He wanted to say no, that nothing Mu Qing could have written would change anything—but if that were true, why was he still reading? Why did these words feel like they were unraveling something inside him, something he had tried to ignore for too long?
A sudden crack of thunder split the air, shaking the temple’s foundation. Before he could react, a powerful gust of wind tore through the broken rafters, slamming into the temple doors with enough force to wrench them open. Rain and wind rushed inside, and in the chaos, the letters slipped from his grasp. Sheets of paper scattered across the floor, caught in the storm’s frenzy.
Swearing under his breath, Feng Xin scrambled forward, hands darting out to snatch them up before the damp air could ruin them. The pages fluttered, skidding across the wooden planks, slipping just beyond his reach.
And then—
A voice cut through the storm. Sharp. Familiar.
"…What the hell are you doing here?"
Feng Xin froze. His head snapped up.
Standing in the open doorway, drenched from head to toe, rainwater dripping from his soaked robes onto the temple floor—was Mu Qing.
Mu Qing took a step forward, droplets leaving a trail behind him, his movements slow and deliberate. The fabric clung to him, darkened by the rain, but if the cold bothered him, he gave no sign of it. His sharp gaze flicked to the scattered pages on the floor, lingering on them before settling on Feng Xin.
Feng Xin had seen him angry before—furious, disdainful, irritated beyond belief. He had endured Mu Qing’s sharp words, his biting sarcasm, his exasperated glares that spoke louder than any insult. But this? This was something else entirely. A quiet storm brewing beneath the surface, something held back, something unreadable.
The wind shrieked through the temple’s broken beams, rattling the walls, but the tension in the room was heavier than the storm outside.
“What,” Mu Qing said at last, voice low and dangerously even, “do you think you’re doing?”
Feng Xin swallowed; his throat dry. The words wouldn’t come. He had faced countless battlefields, fought demons, endured storms harsher than this one—but standing here, with Mu Qing’s gaze burning into him, he felt unsteady in a way that hollowed the inside of his chest.
The sight of Mu Qing, drenched from head to toe, his dark hair plastered to his face, should have been laughable. On any other day, in any other situation, Feng Xin would have made some remark, would have smirked and said something just to get a rise out of him. But right now, there was no humor in it. Not with the way Mu Qing stood there, his shoulders tense, his fists clenched at his sides. Not with the letters lying exposed between them, fragile and damning, an unspoken confession inked onto every page.
Mu Qing took another step. His boots squelched against the damp floorboards; the sound too loud in the suffocating silence. He didn’t look away, didn’t blink, his expression carved from something colder than stone. And still, neither of them spoke.
The wind howled mournfully. The storm raged, rivaling the pounding in Feng Xin’s chest.
Then, finally—
“You read them.”
Mu Qing’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the air like a blade. There was no fury in his tone, no accusation. Only something quieter. Something raw.
Feng Xin’s grip on the letters tightened. His fingers curled around the delicate pages, as if holding them too tightly could somehow lessen the weight of what they carried.
He should deny it. He should say something sharp and dismissive, turn this into an argument, anything to push back against the unbearable tension. But he couldn’t. Not when the truth was written all over Mu Qing’s face.
Mu Qing’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. Then, just as quickly, his expression shifted—his mouth curling into something almost dismissive, his posture loosening as if shaking off something heavy. He let out a sharp breath, something caught between a scoff and a laugh, but it was cold, humorless.
"Then you know," he said.
Feng Xin braced himself. For what, he wasn’t sure. A fight? A confession? A demand to return what wasn’t his to read? But Mu Qing only exhaled again, shaking his head.
"Doesn’t matter," he muttered, voice flat. "It’s old nonsense."
Feng Xin stared at him. "What?"
Mu Qing stepped past him, reaching down to gather a few of the scattered pages, shaking loose the dust and dampness clinging to their edges. "I wrote those centuries ago," he said, carelessly stacking them back into the chest. "They don’t mean anything now."
Feng Xin’s grip tightened on the pages still in his hands. "You expect me to believe that?"
Mu Qing’s jaw tightened for just a fraction of a second. But then he let out a scoff, turning his gaze on Feng Xin with that familiar look—sharp, unreadable, distant. "Believe whatever you want," he said, voice smooth, practiced, like this was all just another meaningless conversation between them.
He reached for the letters still clutched in Feng Xin’s hands. For a second, Feng Xin considered holding onto them, refusing to give them back. But in the end, he let go.
Mu Qing took them without hesitation, tucking them away with the rest. With one last glance at Feng Xin, he shut the lid of the chest and straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves as if shaking off the past itself.
"You shouldn’t be here," he said, already turning away. "The storm will pass soon."