Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - The First Day the Wind Softened

The sun was sinking over the Qinghe horizon, washing the world in hues of red and fading gold. Spring had finally returned, and the land seemed to stir awake from its winter slumber. Just as in years past, Zhao Dali, the fierce guardian of the merchant caravan, had once again come back to these familiar roads after a long journey through distant territories.

Like his blade and his fists, the years had honed and hardened him: his skills, his mind, his body… and quietly, without his noticing, his heart.

Perhaps it was age.
Perhaps it was seeing children laugh throughout  the villages.
Perhaps it was old injuries settling deeper into his bones.

But when they arrived at the old General Shrine and the lanterns flickered to life, the loneliness that had been growing in Zhao Dali’s chest stirred again, no longer something he could brush aside.

Night fell, and the shrine blossomed with festival warmth. Villagers poured in to greet the caravan, as if the travelers carried spring itself on their backs.

Zhao Dali’s favorite pastime had always been watching the wandering young heroes test their skills for Old Jin’s prize. Their wild kicks, their bright ambition, it reminded him of a younger self, when his eyes were still clear and the jianghu felt wide and full of promise.

But tonight, he did not join the crowd.

When sadness came creeping, he returned to the one refuge he trusted: martial practice.
He slipped into a quiet corner behind the shrine, where bamboo grew tall and untrimmed. Beneath the rustling leaves, he steadied his breath and moved through familiar stances.

Movements that had carried him through hardship, pain, and fleeting peace.

“Master Zhao! As always, practicing your martial arts.”

The warm voice reached him before the footsteps. Zhao Dali turned to see the young master of Blissful Retreat, Luo Tianxing, though most simply called him “young master.” He carried an air of gentle righteousness wherever he went.

“Y-young master. You startled me,” Zhao Dali said, stumbling over his words despite himself.

“Everyone’s excited tonight,” Luo Tianxing smiled. “New wares, the martial arts contest… I thought you’d be watching.”

That smile, just a simple curve of the lips, always softened Zhao Dali’s rigid heart. In all his years, he had crossed paths with countless faces, yet the young master’s presence lingered longer than most.

Most people looked past Zhao Dali, seeing only a shadow behind the caravan’s light. But the young master, he had eyes that noticed everyone, even those who had learned to fade.

“These old eyes are too tired to watch youths flail around like dying fish,” Zhao muttered.

Luo Tianxing laughed, bright and unrestrained. It surprised Zhao Dali, who wasn’t used to being taken seriously, let alone warmly. The young master stepped a little closer, expression softening in a way that made Zhao’s chest tighten.

“Master Zhao, when the youths see you watching, they strike a little harder and jump a little higher,” he said, voice glowing with quiet conviction. “They imitate your stances in the dirt. They talk about your strength. Your discipline. They say the shrine feels safer when you’re here.”

Something warm and unfamiliar stirred beneath Zhao Dali’s ribs.

He had always seen himself as a blade, useful, reliable, and forgettable. The idea that the younger generation viewed him as something steady, something admirable, felt almost impossible.

He cleared his throat and looked away.
“Tch. Children talk nonsense.”

But Luo Tianxing only smiled. Not a teasing smile, something deeper, gentler. Something that reached toward the quiet ache Zhao carried.

“Children do not lie about the people who protect them,” he said softly.

Zhao Dali turned aside again, unsure how to hold such tenderness.

For a moment, the sounds of the festival faded. Lantern light flickered between them as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them: the wandering young master with starlight in his eyes, and the weathered guardian who had forgotten what it felt like to be seen.

Only when the wind shifted, carrying incense and fresh bamboo, did Luo Tianxing finally step back.

“Master Zhao,” he murmured, “I’m glad you returned this year.”

The words were simple. Ordinary.
Yet they struck deep, echoing through the hollow spaces Zhao Dali had long ignored.

He bowed, not out of habit, but because he wasn’t certain his voice would hold steady.

“…Thank you, young master.”

And though he did not yet understand why,
that night Zhao Dali practiced his stances with a lighter heart
as if the weight of the years had eased,
if only by the smallest degree.