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Chapter Text

Xie Lian had always wished he was meant for something grand.

He would never say it aloud, of course. Not to Feng Xin, who worked tirelessly at the bakery and never asked for more than his daily bread. Not to Mu Qing, who claimed ambition was for people too bored to live in the present. But in the quiet hours—when the forge had cooled to embers and his hands were still and aching—Xie Lian sometimes found himself staring at the horizon, wondering what it would be like to matter .

Not in a small way. Not in a “he makes fine swords” kind of way. But truly. Immortally.

The kingdom outside bustled just beyond the soot-smeared windows of his modest smithy. Banners in crimson and gold danced in the breeze; children ran laughing past the feet of soldiers and hawkers; women in silks chattered about court rumors while the smell of fried dough clung to the morning air.

Xie Lian watched it all pass him by, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands blackened from smoke and silver dust.

His forge was little more than a glorified shed, tucked between a spice merchant and a fortune teller with a crooked sign. Still, people came. Not nobles, not knights of renown, but young recruits with nervous eyes. Farmers buying blades to guard their fields. Travelers asking for swords not too fancy, just sturdy. Reliable.

Xie Lian gave them that and more. He added balance where no one asked for it. Inlaid hilts with small symbols for luck. Whispered blessings into the hot iron just before quenching, as if the metal might carry his hopes into someone else’s hands. He never kept any of the swords for himself.

“They're just tools,” he would say, when Feng Xin raised a brow at his latest commission. “They’re not meant for glory.”

“You say that like you believe it,” Feng Xin muttered one day, elbow-deep in flour and annoyed that Xie Lian had once again missed the prince’s parade. “Qianqiu swears the floating castle was visible from the west wall. Red banners. Black smoke. I told him it’s a myth, but you believe in that sort of thing, don’t you?” Xie Lian didn’t answer. He only brushed metal filings off his apron and adjusted the coals.

Mu Qing dropped in later, as he always did, expensive work attire and and looking unimpressed with everything. “Still slumming it with the soot and the sparks, I see,” he said dryly. “Come with me to the square. I’ll buy you candied lotus. Or a new robe. Or a sense of self-preservation.”

“I like it here,” Xie Lian replied, though his eyes drifted toward the window, toward the sky.

He never told them the truth. Never said that when he was small, he used to dream of floating castles and fire-eyed beasts. Of swords that could sing. Of being someone powerful, someone who could stand before gods and not flinch. That part of him still stirred sometimes, when the wind shifted. Especially at twilight, when the shadows deepened and the world blurred at the edges. And tonight, it was stronger than usual.

The forge had long cooled. The last customer had taken their sword with awkward gratitude and left without giving their name. Xie Lian wiped his hands on a rag and looked out the narrow window where dusk painted the streets in indigo. The bells of the evening watch had rung, and most shops were shuttered.

He should’ve stayed in. There were commissions to finish, blades to sand, oil to heat—but instead, he found himself lacing his boots and tying his hair back, wrapping a plain cloak around his shoulders. The forge felt too small tonight. Too still.

Feng Xin’s bakery was just down the slope, past the spice markets and the narrow canal. He told himself he was only going for bread. Maybe something sweet, if there was anything left. But he knew better. He just wanted to see someone who knew his name.

The streets at twilight were quieter than usual—eerie, almost. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, but their glow felt watery, stretched too thin. A fog had begun to gather at ankle height, thick and strange, even for spring.

Still, he walked. Past the silk vendors packing their wares, past young couples ducking into tea shops. Past the tinker’s stall that had been closed for weeks. The scent of roasted chestnuts drifted from some unseen cart, clashing oddly with the scent of iron and something else, something rank, sweet, and wrong.

He heard them before he saw them. Footsteps, but not the polite kind. Not the kind that walked with purpose or peace. Three shapes emerged from the fog, all narrow eyes and sharp teeth, dressed in expensive robes that hung awkwardly on limbs too long for them. Their mouths were too wide when they smiled, and their laughter came too late after every sentence. They looked like monsters. Xie Lian slowed.

“Out a bit late, pretty thing,” one of them crooned. “You look like someone looking for trouble.”

“I’m just looking for bread,” Xie Lian said calmly, keeping his voice level, his footsteps steady. “The bakery’s just a little further.”

“Bread?” another echoed, and his mouth stretched open into something that barely passed for a grin. “Oh, we can give you something better than that.”

Xie Lian stepped aside to pass, but they moved with him, too fluid, too practiced. He could smell the glamour now, thin and greasy, like perfume meant to hide rot.

“Don’t you want something grander?” the third whispered. “Something real ?”

He was about to answer—was already planning how to deflect without provoking—when the fog behind him shifted. The sound of clinking chains and boots on stone.The three figures stilled.

“Oh,” one of them said. “ You. ”

The figure in red stepped out of the mist like he belonged to it. He didn’t look hurried. He didn’t look angry. But the air around him changed as if the alley itself bowed to make way. The red robes, the gleam of metal from his gloves, the long hair that moved like it had a will of its own. His eyes—both of them, sharp and black as obsidian—glinted with something ancient, something dangerous. He didn’t look at Xie Lian at first. His gaze was fixed on the creatures crowding the alley.

“I thought I smelled something foul,” he said.

The creatures recoiled slightly. “This doesn’t concern you, demon.”

“No,” The man in red said. “But he does.” He tilted his head toward Xie Lian and smiled, just a little. “He’s with me, you know.”

The creatures didn’t scatter. Their too-wide smiles twisted, showing teeth that didn’t belong in human mouths. One of them slithered forward, limbs stretching in unnatural angles, robes now flickering between silk and scales. “That one?” it hissed. “He doesn’t even know you.”

Another leaned low, eyes glowing greenish through the fog. “We were here first.” Xie Lian felt it then, that moment before a storm, when the sky holds its breath.

The man’s smile sharpened. “I wasn’t asking.” And then the alley exploded into motion.

The creatures lunged—not just at him, but at Xie Lian too. One darted low, teeth flashing toward his ankle, while another swung a clawed hand aimed at his shoulder. Xie Lian stumbled back on instinct, grabbing the nearest wall, heart thudding so loud it drowned the noise of their screeches.

But the man was already moving. Not running but gliding—his coat sweeping behind him like fire, chains at his waist ringing like chimes. He flicked his fingers, and red light burst forth, searing and bright. The first creature shrieked as its glamour burned off like grease, revealing mottled skin and hollow sockets, and bolted into the shadows.

But the other two were fast. Too fast.

“Run,” The man said, low and easy, like he wasn’t worried in the slightest.

Xie Lian ran. He didn’t look back. The alleys blurred around him, twisting turns and cobbled steps, archways too low and walls too high. The fog chased him like breath on his neck, the sound of claws scraping stone far too close behind.

One of them hissed his name, or tried to. It came out warped and wet, like something dying. He turned the next corner blindly and nearly slammed into a wall.

No exit. Dead end. His heart stuttered. The creatures were already rounding the corner behind him, jaws open—

And then a hand caught his wrist. Cool. Steady. The man didn’t speak this time. Just looked at Xie Lian, eyes calm as still water, and stepped forward, pulling him close.

The ground dropped. No, not dropped. Vanished . Xie Lian gasped, but before he could fall, an arm slipped around his waist, and the two of them rose . The wind caught them like an old friend.

Below, the creatures howled in frustration, clawing at air that had already let them go. The rooftops shrank beneath their feet, lantern lights flickering like fallen stars. The city stretched out in every direction, golden and mist-laced, the streets twisting like rivers under a stormlit sky.

Xie Lian’s heart was hammering against his ribs. His hands clutched the man’s coat without thinking, knuckles white against red silk.

He realized, dimly, that they weren’t flying , exactly. They were walking . Each step the man took landed lightly on the sky itself, as if the air had turned solid for him and him alone. “You’re trembling,” He murmured, voice warm near Xie Lian’s ear.

“I—” Xie Lian tried, but the words escaped him. “You’re not using a talisman or an array. How are you—?”

“Don’t worry,” The man said with a soft, wicked smile. “I won’t drop you.”

They walked in silence for a few steps. The wind combed gently through their hair, cool and quiet this high above the world. Below them, the city glittered like a reflection in broken glass, distant, unreal. Xie Lian tried not to look down.

“Where—where are we going?” he asked, once the rush of panic had faded enough to allow speech.

“You said the bakery,” the man replied, like it was obvious. “So we’re going to the bakery.”

“You… heard that?”

“Of course,” he said, smiling without looking at him. “I hear everything.”

The wind pulled at his coat. The chains at his hip clinked softly as he stepped through the sky with perfect ease. Xie Lian, clinging to him with both hands, tried not to think too hard about the fact that they were currently walking on air.

“Do you… do this sort of thing often?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Only when I’m in a good mood.”

Xie Lian wasn’t sure what to make of that, but when he looked up at the man’s face— wind-swept, sharp-featured, calm like a storm about to break—he thought he caught something else there too. Something amused. Fond, even.

It was absurd. They hadn’t even exchanged names. But something in Xie Lian’s chest tugged toward him instinctively. Something old, and soft, and unspoken. He didn’t ask for a name, but deep down, he knew . He’d heard the stories. Everyone had. The red robes, the smile that could slice through lies, the way he walked as if the world owed him its weight.

Hua Cheng , they called him. Crimson Rain Sought Flower. The Great Wizard who bowed to no heavens, who wandered the mortal realm like a rumor dipped in blood. And yet here he was, stepping lightly over rooftops, carrying a swordsmith like a half-forgotten dream.

They descended slowly, landing atop the flat roof of Feng Xin’s bakery. The chimney beside them puffed warm cinnamon-scented smoke into the night, and beneath the roof tiles, golden lamplight flickered from behind curtained windows.

Hua Cheng— if that was his name —set Xie Lian down gently, as if he weighed nothing at all. “There,” he said, brushing nonexistent dust from Xie Lian’s shoulder. “Safe and sound.”

Xie Lian’s knees nearly gave out when he touched solid stone again. The sudden gravity of the earth under his feet felt almost wrong. “I… don’t know how to thank you,” he murmured, still breathless.

“You don’t need to, just be careful," the man said, voice like smoke and honey, like he could set things on fire just by speaking. “There’s something dangerous in the mist tonight.”

“I think you’re the danger,” Xie Lian replied before he could stop himself.

The man laughed. "Then it’s a good thing you stayed close, hm?”

“You’re not going to tell me your name?” Xie Lian asked, quiet.

“Would it make a difference?”

“No,” Xie Lian said. “But I’d like to know it anyway.”

The man’s lips curved into something soft. “Someday,” he said. “When you really need it.”

 And just like that, he stepped backward. A gust of wind surged up around him, tugging at his coat, his hair, the chains that curled at his hip, and he vanished into the sky, as if he’d never touched the earth at all.

The demon in red. The castle in the clouds. The man who stole hearts, the kind you couldn’t get back once taken. But the stranger had turned, had smiled at Xie Lian like he knew him.

Xie Lian stood alone on the rooftop for a long moment.  Then, from the floor below, a window creaked open and Feng Xin leaned out with an incredulous glare. “ You climbed onto the roof?! Are you serious?! What if you fall and die and I have to explain to Mu Qing?!”

Xie Lian exhaled a shaky breath, and laughed.

“I won’t,” he called back. “I think someone’s already decided I’m not allowed to die just yet.”

The bakery was quieter after dark. The ovens cooled slowly, their heat lingering in the walls like an old song. Qianqiu had long since retreated upstairs, and only a few candles flickered near the register, casting gentle shadows across flour-dusted counters and racks stacked with braided bread.

Feng Xin sat with his feet kicked up on a crate, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sipping weak tea and chewing absently on a leftover red bean bun. Across from him, Xie Lian sat on a stool by the window, palms wrapped around a warm mug he hadn’t touched in several minutes.

Neither of them said anything for a while. The silence was comfortable. Familiar. Eventually, Feng Xin glanced over. “So… are you going to tell me what that was about, or should I just assume you’ve started levitating for fun?”

Xie Lian blinked. “Oh.” He looked down at his mug, then gave a sheepish smile. “That.”

“Yeah, that ,” Feng Xin said dryly. “You left to get bread, and Qianqiu found you on the roof . Looking like you’d just seen a ghost. Or had tea with one.”

“I didn’t have tea,” Xie Lian said quietly. “Just… a flight.”

Feng Xin raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”

There was no good way to explain it. Not without sounding like he was making it up, or worse, like he believed in fairy tales. But then again, Feng Xin had known him long enough to read the truth in the way Xie Lian’s fingers tightened slightly around the ceramic cup. The way he still hadn’t stopped looking out the window, like he expected something—or someone—to still be there in the sky.

So Xie Lian said, “He walked through the air like it belonged to him. Like it listened .”

Feng Xin blinked. “He?”

“A man in red,” Xie Lian murmured. “Tall. Sharp smile. Black eyes. He showed up when… when something came after me in the alleys.”

Feng Xin’s expression turned grim. “What kind of something?”

“Not human,” Xie Lian said softly. “But wearing human faces. Not well.”

Feng Xin set his cup down a little too hard. “And you didn’t come straight here after that?”

“I tried ,” Xie Lian said, holding up both hands. “They cornered me. And then he appeared. Said I was with him. Told them to leave me alone.”

Feng Xin studied him for a long moment, then exhaled. “And you think he’s—?”

“I don’t know, ” Xie Lian said, looking away. “But… I’ve heard the stories. The castle. The chains. The red. The smile.”

“So you think he’s Hua Cheng. ” Feng Xin’s voice lowered, uncertain now. Not fearful, but wary. “Crimson Rain Sought Flower.”

“I think…” Xie Lian hesitated. “I felt like he knew me. Somehow.”

“That sounds like a bad sign,” Feng Xin muttered. “You know, usually when people say things like that, it ends with a tragic backstory or a blood pact.”

Xie Lian gave a faint laugh. “Then maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t get his name.”

Feng Xin was quiet for a beat longer, then leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Well. If he shows up again, tell him to knock. Or at least buy a bun like a normal person.”

“He wouldn’t like the red bean ones,” Xie Lian said absently. “Too sweet.”

Feng Xin stared. “You got this from one midnight stroll? You sound like a lovesick maiden, you’re unbelievable.”

He doesn’t bother defending himself. He felt like a lovesick maiden. “I know.”

Outside the window, the sky stretched velvet-dark and calm. But high above the bakery—just out of sight, cloaked in stars and quiet—a red glint flickered once, like a lantern passing by in the wind. Xie Lian didn’t see it. But somehow, he still smiled. The moment lingered like warmth in cooling tea.

Eventually, Feng Xin stood, stretched until his joints cracked, and reached over to ruffle Xie Lian’s hair—earning a mild swat in return. “You should stay the night,” he said, already heading for the stairs. “Qianqiu’ll be annoyed if you disappear again before breakfast.”

“I’ll come by in the morning,” Xie Lian promised. “But I should get back. There’s still a commission I haven’t finished.”

Feng Xin sighed and stopped at the foot of the stairs, resting one hand against the railing. “You know, not everything has to be done tonight. The world won’t end if you take one night off.”

Xie Lian gave him a faint smile. “Maybe not. But I made a promise.”

“To who?” Feng Xin asked, voice suddenly quieter. “To your clients? Or to him?”

Xie Lian didn’t answer right away.

The forge had never belonged to him, not truly. It had been his father’s, a man he could barely remember except in fragments: calloused hands, the glow of the furnace, the scent of scorched oil and plum wine. He remembered, vividly, how his father had spoken of the perfect blade as if it were a living thing. Something holy. Something worthy.

After he passed, Xie Lian rebuilt the forge with his own two hands. Not because he loved the work, not because it was all he had, but because it had once been his father’s dream. And someone had to carry it. Even if that someone no longer believed in dreams at all.

“I promised him, ” Xie Lian said softly. “That I’d keep it alive.”

Feng Xin’s expression shifted, softer now, less exasperated. But still firm. “Then keep it alive. But don’t burn yourself out with it. You’ve been walking in someone else’s footsteps so long, I don’t think you remember how to make your own.”

Xie Lian’s breath caught. He didn’t reply, didn't really need to. They said goodnight in the doorway, and the cool night wrapped around Xie Lian’s shoulders like a breath held too long.

The walk back to the forge was uneventful at first. Lanterns flickered low. Stray cats slunk along fences. The mist had mostly cleared, but the alleys still felt heavy, like something was pressing against the world’s edges.

He didn’t see the figure until he’d already unlocked his workshop door.

“Fancy place you’ve got,” a voice drawled behind him.

Xie Lian froze, turning slowly. The man leaning against the doorway was draped in green silk, patched at the edges and stained at the cuffs. His eyes were too wide, too bright, like they hadn’t blinked in years. His mouth curled into a grin that never touched his eyes. He reeked of rot and blood.

“Sorry,” the man said, as if the word meant nothing. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Can I help you?” Xie Lian asked, cautious.

“Oh, I doubt it,” the man said with a snort. “But I can help you. "

He stepped forward, and the shadow monsters followed him like obedient dogs. “You’ve been attracting the wrong kind of attention lately, haven’t you? Mysterious men in red. Ghost stories with good hair. Do you even know what you’re playing with?”

Xie Lian’s blood ran cold. “You’re a sorcerer.”

“‘Wicked wizard,’ if you please,” the man said with a theatrical bow. “ Qi Rong , at your disservice.”

Xie Lian took a step back, toward the forge door.

“No, no, no,” Qi Rong chided, waggling a finger. “You’re far too interesting to run now. If he likes you, he , of all people—then I can’t very well leave you alone, can I?” He reached into the air and pulled something from it, smoke, green and sickly, curling like a serpent from his palm.

“You should’ve stayed boring,” Qi Rong said. “But now? Well. Let’s give you a little taste of what it’s like to be forgotten.”

He flicked his fingers. The curse hit like cold water poured over the bones.

Xie Lian stumbled back, gasping, the world blurring and twisting. His hands—heavens, his hands were changing , the skin wrinkling before his eyes, his spine bending, hair paling, limbs stiffening as if something inside him had rusted all at once. He collapsed to his knees, coughing.

Qi Rong stepped back, pleased. “Not too bad. Still elegant, in a ‘lost grandpa’ sort of way. Let’s see how long he stays interested now.”

And just like that, he vanished. The door to the forge creaked behind Xie Lian, still ajar. The embers had long since gone out. And in the flickering lamplight, he caught his reflection in the soot-streaked window. An old man stared back. Xie Lian didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

That night, Xie Lian didn’t sleep. The floor of the forge was cold stone, the furnace long gone out, but it wasn’t the chill that kept him awake. Every movement reminded him of the ache in his knees, the weight in his back, the foreign stiffness in his fingers. The body wasn’t his. It sagged in the wrong places. It groaned with every breath.

He’d tried water. Herbs. Incense. Nothing worked. And every time he looked in the mirror, an old man looked back.

A curse. That wretched man in green and gold, Qi Rong, had barely touched him, and now Xie Lian’s skin was worn paper, his voice creaky with age, his hands no longer steady enough to hold a blade.

When dawn finally came, he was still in the same chair he’d collapsed into sometime after midnight, shrouded in a cloak too big for his frame and a scarf that covered most of his face. He sat in silence, curled small, trying to breathe through the panic clawing at his ribs.

He was still there when someone knocked. Xie Lian startled, then scrambled to pull up his hood, tucking loose strands of silvered hair beneath the edge. He stood slowly, stiffly, and cracked the door open just enough to see who it was. Mu Qing. Of course.

“Xie Lian?” Mu Qing raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Why was the door barred?”

Xie Lian swallowed. “Ah. I, I slept through the morning, sorry.”

“You?” Mu Qing’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t sleep at all . Are you ill?”

“No.” Xie Lian quickly stepped back, ushering him in while keeping to the shadows. “Just a little… off. I think it’s something I ate.”

Mu Qing glanced around the forge. It was spotless— Xie Lian had used the pre-dawn hours to clean in a panic. Still, there was something off about the way he hunched, the way he moved. “You’re limping.”

“I tripped.”

“And you’re wrapped up like you’re expecting a blizzard.”

“I’m just cold, Mu Qing.”

A long pause. Then: “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Thank you.”

Mu Qing scowled, clearly unconvinced, but unwilling to push harder— yet. He glanced toward the forge table, where Xie Lian’s latest projects had been left untouched. “If you’re not feeling well, maybe actually rest for once. Feng Xin said you looked like a ghost yesterday.”

Xie Lian laughed, though it came out cracked and papery. “I’ll… take it easy.”

Mu Qing stared at him for a long moment, then finally sighed. “You’d better. And if something is wrong, tell us.”

“Of course,” Xie Lian lied, gently nudging him toward the door.

Mu Qing hesitated. His expression was unreadable. “You know you’re not alone, right?”

“I know.”

When the door shut behind him, Xie Lian sagged against it, his bones protesting. He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t risk Mu Qing, or Feng Xin, or anyone, seeing him like this. Not just because of vanity, or pride. But because he didn’t know what this curse would do next.

He’d heard stories. Curses that aged you until your heart gave out. That locked you inside your own body like a tomb. And somewhere in the back of his mind, through the buzzing fear, was one strange thought: the castle.

The man in red. He didn’t know his name. Not really. But he remembered the way he’d looked at him. The way the sky had carried them upward like weightless birds. The way his voice, low, almost fond, had said, “He’s with me, you know.”

If anyone knew about magic, it was him. If anyone could undo a curse like this…

Xie Lian gathered what little he could carry—bread, coins, a flask of water—and stepped out into the wind. And in the distance, beyond the misty hills, he swore he saw a strange shape on the horizon, something too big, too high, too alive to be anything but a myth made real.

He walked toward it. The castle moved, and he followed.

The first day wasn’t too bad. Xie Lian managed to catch a ride in the back of a hay cart driven by a farmer too kind—or too tired—to ask questions. They didn’t speak. He sat in silence beneath the straw, wrapped in his too-large cloak and scarf, his joints aching more with every mile, watching the landscape pass in blur after blur of gold-tipped fields and climbing hills.

By the second day, the weather turned cruel. The cart dropped him off at the last village before the mountain pass, and from there, there was nothing but rocks, wind, and a road that seemed to climb straight into the sky. The scarf helped, but the wind still cut through the wool and layers, slipping past every button and seam to gnaw at his bones. His fingers felt stiff. His breath steamed.

He rationed his food. Hard bread, a bit of cheese, dried fruit. A flask of water. Not much. But he kept going.

With every step, his body groaned in protest. His knees throbbed. His spine ached. A single night under the stars, curled in a cave beneath an outcrop, left him trembling and sore. He dreamt of Qi Rong’s grin, sharp and gold. Dreamt of being younger again, of a body that didn’t feel borrowed. Dreamt of firelight and red silk and the feeling of weightless air beneath his feet.

When he woke, snow had started to fall. He dragged himself up, knuckles burning from cold, and kept walking.

By the fourth day, the path twisted through a forest of bare, wind-battered trees. The world was gray. The air was thinner. The sky hung low and sullen above his head, and his feet barely lifted from the mud. He told himself the castle had to be close. He told himself that.

And that’s when he saw it: a stick.

No, not a stick. It was a large branch, jutting out from a tangle of underbrush at the side of the trail. It caught his eye because it looked almost… symmetrical. Too smooth to be natural.

Curious—and desperate for any distraction—Xie Lian stepped off the path and prodded it with the toe of his boot.

It groaned . Xie Lian jumped back, startled. The “stick” twitched, shifting just slightly, and he realized the truth all at once.Cautiously, he crouched and peeled back a layer of brittle foliage. What he uncovered looked like—

“…a scarecrow?”

A rather elegant one, at that. The face was painted with delicate care, eyes a little too bright, smile stitched on neatly. The straw hat was long gone, but a red ribbon clung stubbornly to the wrist of one arm, fluttering faintly in the breeze. It lay facedown, limbs tangled and askew, as if it had fallen from the sky.

Or had been thrown .

Xie Lian blinked down at it. “What are you doing out here?”

Naturally, the scarecrow didn’t answer.

With a sigh and a grimace, he leaned down and attempted to pull it upright. It took more strength than expected—his cursed arms didn’t cooperate—but after a bit of muttered frustration and a few slipped fingers, he managed to wrestle it to its feet. It wobbled precariously on its stick-leg.

“I should leave you here,” Xie Lian muttered. “I really should. You’re clearly not natural.”

The scarecrow tilted slightly to one side, as if offended.

“…But I suppose we’re both lost,” Xie Lian added, and turned back to the trail. He took a few steps. And behind him— thunk-thunk-thunk —the scarecrow began to hop along after him.

Xie Lian looked over his shoulder. “Oh no.”

Thunk. Hop.

“…You don’t have to follow me.”

The scarecrow tilted its head.

Xie Lian sighed, exasperated. “Fine. Do what you want.”

He resumed walking, and the scarecrow followed at a determined, bouncing pace, nearly smacking into his back at every stop. As night crept in again and the forest grew darker, Xie Lian almost didn’t mind the company. It was odd. But then again, everything had been odd since the man in red.
He resumed walking, and the scarecrow followed at a determined, bouncing pace, nearly smacking into his back every time he slowed. Thunk. Thunk-thunk. Thunk.

Xie Lian glanced behind him, sighing softly. “You really don’t have to follow me, you know.”

The scarecrow didn’t stop. It hopped once, then twice, the rhythm almost enthusiastic. Its joints creaked faintly with every bounce, its painted-on grin fixed unwaveringly in place. A bright red ribbon fluttered from its wrist like a flag of allegiance.

It had no eyes, no voice, no breath, but something about it felt… insistent . Like it was trying its very best to be helpful.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Xie Lian added, gentler this time. “I only pulled you out of a bush.”

The scarecrow wobbled once on its stick leg, then caught itself. He paused. Studied it for a beat. In the cold grey light of the mountain path, it looked more pitiful than eerie, like someone’s old offering to a harvest long since missed. Its straw-stuffed arms jutted stiffly out from patched sleeves, and its wooden head was stained from snowmelt and mud.

Xie Lian’s lips twitched faintly. “I’m going to call you... Luobo.” The scarecrow stopped mid-hop, as if startled. “You remind me of one,” he explained with a tired smile. “All stiff and round-headed, stuck in the dirt.”

The scarecrow’s entire frame stiffened like it had been knighted. Xie Lian’s lips curved faintly. He shook his head, the smile barely there but genuine. “All right, Sir Luobo. Suit yourself.”

They walked like that for a time, man and scarecrow, winding through the thinning trees. The air had taken on that sharp, biting clarity that meant snow was coming, and Xie Lian's breath fogged in front of him in soft clouds. Every now and then he adjusted the pack slung over his back, patting it for reassurance, still a bit of bread, a small knife, a stone lucky charm. Not much, but it would do.

It had been three days since he left the forge. His boots were wearing thin. His coat didn’t quite shut at the front anymore. And the cursed ache in his joints reminded him with every step that his body was no longer young.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, only that he’d know when he found it. A gust of wind tugged at his collar. He pulled it tighter. Offhandedly, more to himself than to the scarecrow, he said, “But if you really feel like you owe me something, Luobo… you could find me a place to stay.”

He said it like a joke, like a story told to the wind. Luobo, however, immediately snapped to attention. Then it turned and took off into the trees at full tilt, hopping away with astonishing speed.

Xie Lian blinked, startled. “Wait—wait, I didn’t mean—!”

But Luobo had already vanished. Silence returned, save for the sighing wind and the crunch of frost beneath his feet. He stood for a moment, utterly nonplussed, then slowly began to laugh.

He shook his head, muttering, “Well, that’s that, I suppose.” He kept walking. Minutes passed. Then more. Snow began to fall in slow, lazy flakes, dusting the mountain path in shimmering white. He adjusted the scarf around his neck, tucked his hands deeper into his sleeves, and tried not to shiver too visibly.

He was just about to stop and check his boots for blisters when the ground gave a sudden, distant tremble . Thud... thud... THUD-THUD. A shadow passed overhead. Xie Lian turned. He froze.

There, cresting the ridge like some great creature summoned from myth, was a castle . It strode forward on massive mechanical legs, steam hissing from its joints, iron and stone and pipes cobbled together in mismatched grandeur. Windows blinked like eyes. Gears groaned and turned. A crooked chimney belched smoke in bursts, and the whole towering structure walked , lumbering step by step through the trees, toward him .

He stared, wide-eyed. His breath caught in his throat.

And there, hopping gleefully at the head of the procession like a child leading a parade, was Luobo.

The scarecrow struck a pose, arms akimbo, pointing proudly at the castle behind it like this , this is what I’ve brought you. Xie Lian blinked at the looming fortress. Then at Luobo. “…You’re joking,” he whispered. Luobo did a little hop-turn-spin, clearly delighted with itself.

Xie Lian pressed a gloved hand to his temple. “I didn’t mean it literally,” he muttered. “You’re not supposed to actually —”

But the castle drew closer, its shadow sweeping over the trail. The ground trembled under his feet. And, despite everything, Xie Lian began to laugh. Quiet, breathless laughter, like a boy caught in a dream too strange to question. “Well then, Sir Luobo,” he said. “Lead the way.” And the scarecrow did.

Chapter Text

The castle creaked to a halt before him.

Its great mouth—a heavy slab of metal painted with the vague suggestion of teeth—rumbled open. Heat spilled out from the dark interior, carrying the scent of coal smoke and something faintly herbal. Inside, shadows danced in flickering orange light. The entryway gaped like a question. Luobo bounced once, encouragingly.

Xie Lian took a deep breath, bracing his aching knees. “Well. I suppose it’s as good a place to die of hypothermia as any.” He stepped forward and into the warmth.The door clanged shut behind him. Inside the castle, it was not what one might call welcoming .

The door groaned shut behind Xie Lian with a sound like stone dragged over bones, and darkness pressed in at once. The only light came from a fire roaring in the hearth, casting wild, flickering shadows across the cluttered interior. It was warm, yes, but a heavy, musty warmth, like that of a house sealed too long.

The room was a chaos of hoarded things. Shelves groaned under the weight of strange jars and stained books stacked sideways. Bundles of herbs hung dried and forgotten in bunches from the beams, tangled in cobwebs. Rusted tools, twisted bits of metal, bolts of cloth, unidentifiable mechanisms, and bones, were those bones? were shoved into corners or left scattered on battered tables.

The floor was barely visible beneath piles of old cloaks, cracked wood, and cast-off boots. Xie Lian had to step over what looked like the broken remains of a grandfather clock just to reach the fire.

The hearth was large and crooked, its stonework blackened and chipped. But the fire within it crackled fiercely, spilling amber light and licking shadows up the soot-streaked walls. The warmth was immediate, sinking deep into his bones, and Xie Lian crept toward the fire, the hem of his robe damp with fog, his fingers aching from cold. He sank into the nearest armchair—fraying, dusty, but blessedly close to the warmth—and exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours.

“Hello?” he asked softly, to no one in particular.

The fire flared. Then, with a squeaky, delighted voice, it said, “You're so pretty.”

Xie Lian blinked. “What?”

Two bright red eyes popped open within the flames, and a small mouth formed underneath. The fire coiled upward, crackling with enthusiasm. “You're even prettier up close! Are you staying forever? You should stay forever.”

Xie Lian stared at the fire, taken aback. “Beautiful? Are you sure you’re looking at me?”

The fire gave a scandalized pop . “Of course I am! You think I don’t know what I’m talking about? I’ve got eyes , you know. Fire-vision. Very advanced.”

“But I look—” Xie Lian faltered, glancing down at his gnarled hands, his bent frame, the unfamiliar way his clothes hung on him now. “Old.”

The fire flickered indignantly. “That’s just a curse. Nasty work, too. All smoke and rot and ugly spells layered on top of your real self.”

“You can see through it?”

“I’m fire , silly,” it said, puffing up with pride. “Curses burn off around me if I squint hard enough. Yours is especially sticky, though. Someone really didn’t want you to shine.”

Xie Lian looked into the flames, stunned into silence. The fire (demon, clearly) wiggled like an excited puppy. “What’s your name? No wait, I’ll guess it. Handsome? Shiny? Master?”

“I—uh—Xie Lian,” he managed.

“Xieee Lian,” the fire repeated with a delighted swoop of sparks. “I’m E’ming! You can sit by me as long as you like. I’ll keep you warm forever. I’m very good at that!”

Xie Lian stayed quiet for a moment, watching the flickering heart of the flame. “Is... this your castle?”

E’ming gave a delighted crackle, flaring up high. “Mine? Oh, I like that. But no, no—technically it belongs to him .”

“Him?”

“The guy who built it, obviously!” E’ming puffed up, sparks flying. “He’s very dramatic. Wears red, swoops around, leaves roses on windowsills. You’d probably like him. Everyone does.”

Xie Lian blinked slowly. A flutter of memory surfaced—dark eyes, a hand at his back, a little smile in a crowded alley. “You mean... the man from before. The one in red.”

E’ming gasped. “ You’ve met him?! Ohhh, that explains it. No wonder he brought you here.”

“I walked here.”

“Details.” The flame waved a dismissive ember. “He led you here in spirit. Or maybe he told the castle to find you—he does that. He’s nosy. Anyway, welcome to the castle!” E’ming beamed, literally, casting sparks onto the worn rug. “It’s very magical. Very mysterious. Extremely drafty.”

Xie Lian gave the room a glance. “It’s... also very messy.”

E’ming deflated slightly. “Okay, well. He’s a bit of a disaster. Artistic types, you know? Can conjure a storm but can’t fold a shirt.”

A smile tugged faintly at Xie Lian’s mouth, despite everything. “And you live here with him?”

“Not just live—I run the place!” E’ming declared. “Every step this castle takes is because of me. I’m the heart, the engine, the blazing soul of this magnificent heap. You’re welcome.”

“You sound proud of that,” Xie Lian said, warmth slowly returning to his voice.

“I am!” E’ming chirped, then added in a grumble, “Even if he forgets to feed me sometimes. Burnt toast. Do you know how hard it is to digest burnt toast?”

“You must be very strong,” Xie Lian said softly, genuine admiration threading through his words. “Carrying all of this... alone. It can’t be easy.”

E’ming blinked. Or rather, pulsed, softly, like a heartbeat in the embers. “You... you really think so?”

Xie Lian nodded, folding his hands in his lap. “You power the whole castle. You keep it moving, lit, warm. I think that’s incredible.”

For a moment, the fire danced in place, curling toward the soot-blackened chimney like it was trying not to combust with emotion. “No one’s ever said that before,” it mumbled. “They just yell about the smoke.”

“Then they’re ungrateful,” Xie Lian replied firmly. “You’re doing more than most people ever could.”

E’ming practically preened. “You’re really nice. He was right about you.”

“‘He’... the man in red again?” Xie Lian asked.

E’ming gave a sheepish crackle. “Maybe. Not saying anything.” Then, after a moment of silence, it added, quieter: “He’s the one I have a contract with.”

Xie Lian’s gaze lifted from the flames, curious. “What kind of contract?”

“A very old kind,” E’ming said, almost proudly—but there was a flicker of something else there, too. “We’re bound. Him and me. He gave me something, and I gave him something in return. It's... not something I’m allowed to talk about.”

Xie Lian frowned slightly. “You sound like you don’t want it broken.”

“I don’t ,” E’ming snapped, then softened again. “He saved me. So I help him. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours . Besides, if it breaks... well. Let’s not talk about that.”

Xie Lian tilted his head. “But is it hurting you?”

E’ming went quiet, shrinking down into a low flicker in the hearth. “...No. Not when you’re here.” The words caught him off guard. “I don’t know what it is,” the little flame said, almost shyly now, “but when you walked in... something felt nicer. Warmer. Like you belonged. He’s going to like having you around.”

Xie Lian looked into the fire, a bit stunned, a bit speechless. He didn’t say it aloud, but the feeling was mutual.

“You can really see me?” Xie Lian asked after a moment, his voice tinged with something between disbelief and hope. He reached up, brushing his fingers over the deep lines and weathered skin the curse had etched into him. “Not... this, but me? As I am?”

E’ming’s flames flared, crackling as if it had been asked a question it was eager to answer. “Of course I can. This isn’t you, this is just some ugly trick wrapped around you like an old rag. I can see right past it.” It leaned toward him, sparks breaking off in its excitement. “And what I see is—” The fire hesitated, almost bashful, then burned brighter. “Beautiful.”

Xie Lian blinked, the word catching him off guard. He’d been called many things over the years, but it had been a long time since beautiful was one of them, longer still since it came without pity or politeness. “...Beautiful,” he repeated, almost tasting the word. “I think you must be mistaken.”

“I’m never mistaken,” E’ming said stubbornly. “I see the shape of you under all that magic. It’s a nasty curse, though, woven deep, like someone wanted to make sure you’d never wriggle free.”

Xie Lian glanced down at his hands, the gnarled knuckles, the paper-thin skin. “If you can see past it... can you fix it?” His tone was cautious, almost childlike in its earnestness. “Or at least loosen it? Even just a little?”

The flame gave a low hiss, thinking. “If I could, I’d burn it right off you without hesitation. But curses like this... they’re knotted up in the caster’s intent. You untie one thread wrong, and it snaps back twice as strong.” It flickered thoughtfully, then added, “Still, maybe, if you stayed here awhile, I could try. I’ve got my own kind of magic, you know. Old magic.”

“Old magic,” Xie Lian echoed, curiosity kindling in his voice. “The same kind that keeps this castle moving?”

“Yes,” E’ming said proudly, chest puffing in the shape of a flame. “And the same kind that binds me to him . If I can power an entire castle, maybe I can melt a curse, just... not yet.” It gave another small flare. “But I want to.”

Xie Lian looked at it for a long moment, warmth curling in his chest, not just from the fire. “Then I’ll hold you to that,” he said softly. “It’s more hope than I’ve had in a long time.”

E’ming’s embers danced like it was grinning. “Then stay. Let me try. You belong here more than you know.”

The fire’s warmth and the quiet crackle of E’ming’s flames lulled Xie Lian into a drowsy haze. The great, messy room, its stacks of books, precarious piles of old armor, and the cobweb-draped beams above, blurred at the edges until his eyes slid shut. He had meant only to rest for a moment, but the chair was so soft, the heat so constant...

When he awoke, it was to the feeling of someone staring at him. Blinking against the thin wash of morning light leaking through a grimy window, Xie Lian found himself peering into the narrowed eyes of a young girl, maybe eleven or twelve, standing just beyond the hearth. Her dark hair was in a loose braid, her posture wary, as if she was ready to bolt at the first wrong move.

“...Good morning?” Xie Lian offered, sitting up slowly.

She didn’t return the greeting. “Who are you?” she demanded, her tone blunt, suspicious. Her gaze flicked to E’ming in the fireplace, who was still burning steadily, if anything, brighter now that Xie Lian was awake.

Xie Lian followed her glance. E’ming was practically vibrating, flames dancing in that same delighted way from the night before, sending tiny sparks onto the stone as if overjoyed he’d opened his eyes.

“I’m...” Xie Lian looked around. “the new cleaner.” he said finally. “And E’ming was kind enough to let me warm myself here.”

That earned him a skeptical look. “Cleaner?” She gestured at the mountains of dust and clutter, the cobwebs hanging like curtains. “Looks like you haven’t done anything.”

“I only started last night,” Xie Lian said mildly. “I... may have fallen asleep on the job.”

Her eyes narrowed further. “And why’s he looking at you like that?”

Xie Lian followed her gaze to E’ming. The fire spirit was practically buzzing, flames dancing high, sending off happy sparks as if overjoyed just to see him awake. E’ming gave an indignant pop of flame. “I like you” , it said cheerfully to Xie Lian, ignoring Banyue entirely. “Only you.”

Xie Lian blinked, startled. “...Only me?”

“Only you,”  E’ming repeated with childlike certainty, sparks leaping as though to underline the point.

Banyue snorted. “Tch. Figures. He’s been here forever and never acts like this for anyone else. You must have done something weird to him.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Xie Lian assured her, though inwardly, he couldn’t help but wonder. E’ming’s fondness was so open, so singular; it didn’t fit the impression Banyue’s words gave of him. What sort of fire spirit was he, that he would turn away everyone else only to take one look at Xie Lian and declare him beautiful?

It was... unsettling. And, if Xie Lian was honest with himself, just a little bit dangerous.

Xie Lian drifted toward the far end of the cluttered room, curiosity tugging at him with every step. The air smelled faintly of soot and old wood, dust motes swirling in the dim firelight. He passed piles of books, teetering stacks of teacups, and bundles of dried herbs hanging like strange trophies from the beams overhead. Finally, he reached a wide, grimy window and peered out, only to see a completely ordinary stretch of stone wall beyond it, damp with last night’s mist.

The moment felt oddly anticlimactic, until a sharp chime split the air. “Doorbell,” E’Ming announced, voice low and vaguely conspiratorial. “Westside.”

Banyue, already scrambling to her feet, gave Xie Lian a wary glance before tugging a floppy-brimmed hat low over her head. “Stay put, Grandpa Cleaner.” She crossed to the wooden door set in the far wall, the same one Xie Lian had stumbled through yesterday from the Wastes. But as she grasped the handle and twisted, the scene beyond the window transformed.

It wasn’t the wind-scoured plains he remembered. Instead, sunlight spilled across a lively cobblestone street. The scent of baking bread drifted in alongside the sound of clinking shop bells and a carriage rumbling by. Xie Lian blinked. The house itself hadn’t moved an inch, yet the world on the other side was completely, impossibly different.

His fingers brushed the nearest stack of books, as if to steady himself. Was the entire castle like this—shifting its bones and skin at will? He’d heard of magic that bent space, but to see it done so seamlessly, so casually, was unsettling. Even more unsettling was how easily it had happened, like opening to a different world was no more difficult than turning a page.

On the other side stood a short, round man with a great red nose, bundled in a patched wool coat. He cradled a parcel under one arm, its brown paper damp from the drizzle falling in whatever city this was.

“Morning,” Banyue said in a voice much deeper than her own, muffled as though she’d stuffed her cheeks with bread. “Here for the usual?”

The man nodded quickly, eyes darting past her toward the dim interior. Xie Lian realized, with a strange twist of unease, that from where the man stood, it was broad daylight spilling into a clean little storefront—yet he was quite certain no such room existed in the direction the door now faced.

Banyue accepted a jingling coin purse from the man, swapped it for a small wrapped bundle from somewhere behind the doorframe, and shut it firmly. When the latch clicked, the bustling street and crisp morning light vanished, replaced once again by the cramped, smoky gloom of the castle’s wall.

Xie Lian stared, half-expecting his eyes to be playing tricks on him. But E’Ming’s satisfied hum from the hearth suggested this was perfectly normal.

“Neat trick, isn’t it?” Banyue said, peeling off the hat and tossing it onto a chair. “Master’s castle walks everywhere. Doors too. One for each side of the world.”

Xie Lian’s gaze lingered on the door. If this was only one side... how many others were there? And more importantly—how had he, of all people, been dropped in the middle of it?

Banyue flopped into a chair, swinging her legs. “See the knob?” she said, pointing at the big brass circle in the center of the door. Around it, four little painted tabs marked different colors—green, red, blue, and yellow. “Turn it to green, it opens to the western market. Red’s the south coast, blue’s the mountains, yellow’s the east. Master keeps it like this so he can, y’know... be everywhere without being anywhere.”

Xie Lian’s eyes drifted to the fifth one, a narrow strip painted in glossy, pitch-black lacquer. The light from the hearth seemed to shy away from it, giving it an uncanny, depthless sheen. “That one?” he asked, tilting his head.

Banyue’s bright tone dimmed. “Only the master’s allowed to open that. Ever.” She didn’t explain further, already reaching to flick the knob to yellow.

E’Ming’s voice crackled from the hearth, “East side. Someone’s here.”

The door swung open to a blast of sunlight, revealing two soldiers in gleaming crimson-and-gold armor, the sigil of the Eastern King flashing on their chests.

One stepped forward, unrolling a scroll. “We have an urgent summons for Master Hong-Xing,” he announced. “By order of His Majesty, all wizards and magic-users are to report to the castle immediately to aid in the defense of the realm.”

Banyue took the scroll with a polite nod. “I’ll see he gets it.”

The soldier gave her a measured look, eyes sweeping over the shadowed, cluttered room and the hearth’s restless flames before he stepped back. “Make certain he does. The king’s call is not to be ignored.”

Once the door shut, Banyue leaned against it with a sigh. She tucked the scroll under her arm, glancing toward the black tab again before moving to deposit it on a shelf crowded with dusty books and strange metal tools.

E’Ming gave a playful hiss of fire. “Guess the King wants our Master again...”

Xie Lian’s gaze lingered on the scroll long after Banyue had set it aside. “What exactly does that mean?” he asked quietly. “All wizards to the castle?”

E’Ming flickered, its flames curling in restless arcs. “It means the King’s scared,” it said matter-of-factly. “There’s fighting on the borders, has been for months. Wizards get drafted when the rulers start panicking. They want big spells, big shields, people who can scorch the enemy before they even see the walls.”

Xie Lian frowned, trying to imagine the unseen battles E’Ming described. “And the master—Hua—Master Hong-Xing—?”

“Already tangled in it whether he likes it or not,” E’Ming replied, tone darkening. “He’s been dodging summons for weeks. Each King thinks they own a piece of him. East wants him to scorch the West. West wants him to hex the East. And—”

A sharp ding! cut through the explanation, the chime somehow sounding different from before. E’Ming brightened. “West side door,” it announced.

Banyue muttered under her breath and flipped the dial from yellow to red. The door swung open to reveal another pair of soldiers, this time in dark blue tabards embroidered with silver, their accents crisp and foreign to Xie Lian’s ear.

“We bring urgent orders for Master Wu Ming,” the taller one said, unfurling a scroll stamped with a different seal. “By command of His Majesty of the West, all wizards and magic-users are to report at once to the capital’s front lines. Immediate compliance is expected.”

Banyue, unfazed, accepted the scroll. “I’ll pass it along.”

The soldiers gave curt bows and retreated, the door swinging shut to the clink of their armor.

E’Ming let out a hissing laugh from the hearth. “See? East, West, it’s the same game. Different names, same war. And our master’s at the center of it whether he wants to be or not.”

The door clicked shut, leaving the room humming with tension. Xie Lian stared at the two scrolls now stacked on the shelf, the neat seals still glistening with wax. He felt as if their presence alone weighed down the entire room.

“Does this happen often?” he asked softly.

“All the time, these days.” E’Ming said with a lazy flicker. “They won’t stop until they drag him there in chains.”

Banyue crossed her arms, regarding Xie Lian with narrowed eyes. “Ya know, for someone who said he was the new cleaner, you haven’t done much cleaning.”

Xie Lian blinked. “Ah, well, I... was only trying to understand my surroundings first. Suddenly flustered, he reached for the nearest rag draped over a chair and began brushing dust from the mantle. “Of course, of course, my apologies. I’ll do a proper job of it.”

The fire crackled, E’Ming’s flame leaning toward him like it was watching fondly. “Ohhh, look at him go. Polishing and scrubbing already. You’re much nicer than Banyue—she only pretends to clean.”

“I do clean!” Banyue protested, stomping one foot. “But it’s not like this place ever gets better, there’s too much stuff! It’s like trying to sweep a forest.”

Xie Lian coughed into his sleeve as a plume of dust rose from the shelves. The place really was a labyrinth of clutter—half-finished spells, rusted tools, bundles of herbs long since gone dry. He sighed, resigned, and set to work. “Well then,” he said, voice muffled, “we’ll just have to start small.”

And so, while the castle rumbled faintly with its unseen steps and the fire crackled with soft laughter, Xie Lian found himself elbow-deep in dust and cobwebs, finally living up to the title he had claimed.

The longer Xie Lian worked, the clearer the shape of the room became beneath all the chaos. He swept cobwebs from the corners, banished layers of ash and dust, folded away cloaks that had been dropped over chairs months ago, and dragged a mountain of broken gadgets into a corner pile. Slowly, the oppressive gloom of the place gave way. It was still a far cry from “neat,” but no longer did it look as though a storm had torn through.

He leaned on the broom at last, surveying the living space with a small, proud smile. “Much better,” he said, half to himself.

It was then that his stomach gave a loud growl. Banyue, perched on a stool with her chin in her hands, looked up sharply. “...Was that you?”

Xie Lian laughed sheepishly, hand to his middle. “It seems all that cleaning has woken my appetite. And you must be hungry too.” He glanced toward her thin frame. “When did you last eat something besides...” He gestured toward an abandoned box of stale cereal half-collapsed on the counter.

“Um,” Banyue said, wrinkling her nose. “That is breakfast. And dinner. And lunch. It’s always cereal. Sometimes Master buys bread, but it goes moldy before we finish it.”

“Unacceptable,” Xie Lian declared with sudden vigor. Suddenly he misses Feng Xin very much. He rolled up his sleeves and turned toward the fireplace. “Then allow me to cook us a proper meal.”

Banyue’s eyes went wide as she jumped off her stool. “Wait—you’re going to cook... on E’Ming ?”

The sword-spirit’s flame flared in delight. “Yes, yes! Let him! Let him use me!”

Her jaw dropped. “But... but you never let Master do that! You always tell him to use the iron stove instead!”

E’Ming crackled, embers whirling like sparks of glee. “Master can make cereal just fine on his own. But this one, he can use me for anything!”

Xie Lian blinked in confusion, but bowed politely toward the hearth as though E’Ming had granted him some great honor. “Then, I’ll do my best.”

With that, he began hunting for ingredients, finding a few tired carrots, a bundle of limp greens, and some eggs that looked slightly past their prime. Banyue watched as he set to work, whisking and chopping with an air of confidence that did not at all match the outcome. Smoke filled the air almost instantly; the eggs stuck to the bottom of the pan, the vegetables turned to something mushy and unrecognizable, and his attempt at rice ended in a scorched layer crusted to the pot.

Banyue wrinkled her nose as the smell grew steadily worse. “...Are you sure you know how to cook?”

Xie Lian’s smile wavered, but he soldiered on with heroic determination, scraping blackened bits from the pan. “Cooking is all about persistence! Sometimes it takes a few tries...”

E’Ming, however, burned even brighter, every flare and spark full of adoration. “It’s delicious already! Whatever he makes, it’s perfect!”

Banyue slumped against the table with a groan, watching the chaos unfold. “We’re going to die,” she muttered. “And not from the war.”

The smell was... overwhelming. Burnt egg, charred rice, and some unidentifiable blackened mass that might once have been a carrot clung to the air like smoke after a battlefield. Xie Lian stood valiantly in the haze, fanning at the pan with one hand and offering Banyue a sheepish grin with the other. E’Ming flared in support, spitting sparks like applause.

And then, Click. The door swung open. The hinges gave a soft groan, and a faint trail of mist rolled in from the threshold. Xie Lian straightened at once, startled. Banyue nearly fell off her stool.

A figure stepped through: tall, robed in black with silver embroidery that shimmered like starlight, his long hair loose down his back. The door shut soundlessly behind him, and with that, the air shifted, still heavy with smoke, but pierced with something sharper, like a storm cutting through stale clouds. It was him, of course, the same man from the other day.

Xie Lian froze, pan still in hand, heart stuttering with recognition. Yet Hua Cheng—because who else could it be—looked neither surprised nor unsettled. His crimson eye flicked toward him, a glint of silver in its depths, and the corner of his mouth curved into an amused, easy smile.

He did not ask who Xie Lian was, nor why he was here. He only gave him a long, measured look, like he recognized him from that brief flight. As if finding him in the middle of his kitchen was exactly what he had expected to come home to.

Hua Cheng glanced once around the room, taking in the cleared floor, the broom propped against the wall, Banyue’s panicked expression, and the veritable crime scene happening on the hearth. His lips curved into the faintest smile. Not mocking, no, amused, as though he’d walked in on something terribly endearing.

“Well,” he drawled, voice smooth as velvet, “looks like I picked the wrong time to be away.”

Xie Lian froze, halfway through trying to scrape the pan into something resembling food. “Ah—um—hello! I was just... cooking breakfast.” He gave a little bow, awkward in the haze of smoke. “I’m the new cleaner.”

Banyue pressed both hands over her face in secondhand embarrassment.

Hua Cheng’s single visible eye glittered like a blade catching light. He didn’t question it. He didn’t demand who this stranger was or why he was in his castle. He only tilted his head, studying Xie Lian with an unreadable calm that carried a hint of fondness, something softer beneath it, if one looked closely enough.

“The new cleaner,” he repeated, as if tasting the words, a quiet chuckle in his throat. “Hm. You’ve certainly... made an impression.” His gaze flicked deliberately to the smoking pan.

E’Ming flared bright in the fireplace, voice sharp with eagerness. “It’s good! It’s wonderful! Best thing anyone’s ever made!” Banyue groaned audibly into her hands.

Hua Cheng stepped further inside, utterly unbothered by the chaos, as though strangers burning his dinner was the most natural thing in the world. “Then,” he said smoothly, looking at Xie Lian with that same faintly amused air, “I suppose I’ll have to try it.”

Banyue audibly gasped, standing from her seat with emphasis. "No! Master! Surely you can see it's basically poison?!" 

Xie Lian flushed, halfway between mortification and helpless laughter. “It’s really not very good,” he admitted, setting the pan down quickly as though to shield Hua Cheng from it. “I was only trying to help.”

E’Ming crackled indignantly, sparks leaping up the chimney. “Don’t listen to her! Don’t listen to anyone! It’s divine, divine I tell you, fit for gods themselves!”

Banyue peeked through her fingers, horrified. “Divine? It’s black! It’s like charcoal with oil on it! Master, please, you can’t—your stomach—”

But Hua Cheng merely leaned an elbow on the back of a chair, studying the scene as though it were a play performed for his amusement. His smile tilted wider, lazy and utterly at ease. “Charcoal, hm? I’ve eaten worse.”

He reached for the pan without hesitation. Xie Lian made a small, frantic sound of protest, but Hua Cheng waved it off with the ease of someone who had already decided. He lifted a morsel, examined it briefly, and then, with perfect calm, took a bite.

Silence followed. Banyue looked ready to faint. E’Ming roared with delight, flames shooting high.

Finally, Hua Cheng swallowed. His expression didn’t so much as flicker. “Not bad,” he said evenly, and his eye gleamed with mischief as it landed on Xie Lian. “Needs work. But not bad.”

Banyue nearly collapsed against the table. “You’re lying. You’re going to die, and you’re lying!”

Xie Lian’s cheeks heated as Hua Cheng took the pan from him as though it were some priceless treasure. “Wait, you really shouldn’t—”

But Hua Cheng had already picked up a fork and speared one of the blackened, oil-slick lumps. He examined it, then, without a moment’s hesitation, placed it into his mouth.

Banyue looked stricken, like she was watching a man walk into execution. “Master! No! It’s, it’s a death sentence! You’ll—”

E’Ming erupted in delighted crackles, flames sparking high with glee. “Yes! Yes! See, he loves it! I told you it was perfect! Brilliant! A feast!”

Xie Lian stared, mortified. “You don’t have to force yourself—”

But Hua Cheng chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed, utterly unfazed. His expression remained perfectly calm, save for the faintest upward curve at his mouth. He set the fork down with all the grace of a man leaving behind a fine banquet.

“...Delicious,” he said simply, as though it were fact. His eye glinted, unreadable but warm, resting on Xie Lian with an ease that made the words feel almost dangerous. “I’ve never had anything like it.”

Banyue made a strangled noise and dropped her forehead onto the table. “Never had anything like it because no sane person would eat that!”

E’Ming flared in triumph, practically purring, “Divine! Divine! He agrees with me!”

Hua Cheng only reclined back, entirely unruffled, and added in a tone as smooth as silk, “You’ll have to make it again sometime.”

Xie Lian thought he might actually faint. 

His hands hovered over the pan again, a surge of indignation flooding through him. “Well, if it’s not so bad...” he said, voice a little shaky but resolute. He leaned forward to spear a morsel with a fork, ready to prove that maybe it wasn’t as terrible as it smelled.

But before he could bring it to his mouth, Hua Cheng’s hand shot out with lightning speed, plucking the fork from the air and sliding it just out of reach. “Oh, no, no,” Hua Cheng said smoothly, voice light and teasing, “I’m afraid it’s all mine.” He lifted a bite to his mouth as though it were a delicacy beyond imagining. “It’s so… delicious, I simply must finish it myself.”

Xie Lian blinked, frozen between indignation and disbelief. “But—”

“I’ll make you something else,” Hua Cheng continued, smiling faintly, eyes glinting with that subtle amusement that made Xie Lian’s stomach twist in ways he couldn’t name. “I won’t compare, of course, but I’m not entirely hopeless, don’t worry. You just…  rest. Let me handle this one.”

E’Ming let out a triumphant spark, dancing along the hearth with obvious glee. “Yes! He’s enjoying it! Look at him! Isn’t it perfect?”

Xie Lian stared at the fork now hovering firmly in Hua Cheng’s hand, realizing with a mixture of chagrin and helpless admiration that no amount of protest would win him even a single bite. He could feel the unmistakable pull of the castle’s strange rhythm, here, nothing was quite what it seemed, and yet, somehow, everything was exactly as it was meant to be.

Hua Cheng chewed deliberately, savoring each bite with exaggerated care, his expression composed and calm, yet his eye glimmered with that secret, unspoken amusement. “Hmm,” he said after a moment, lips twitching into that faint, infuriating smile. “Next time, I’ll let you make something else. I’m sure you have hidden talents.”

Xie Lian’s cheeks flushed, half from embarrassment and half from the odd, unfamiliar warmth that fluttered in his chest.

Banyue, slumping back against the table with a resigned huff, glared at both of them with arms crossed as if they’d colluded to ruin her morning entirely. “I’m just going to eat cereal,” she muttered sullenly, “This is ridiculous.”

The castle settled into an uneasy, chaotic peace, the scent of burnt food lingering in the air, and Xie Lian realized he had never been anywhere quite like this before, and he was dreading the prospect of ever leaving this place.