Archive of Our Own

The blade on her back is heavy. A burden she clings to, a keepsake she refuses to let go — a reminder and a promise — a heavy comfort in an unknown world that fights every day to break her spirit. The jianghu is not kind and her mind never rests. Under the golden light of an unrelenting sun, her body aches with echoes of the past, her attire a memoir to ghosts that don’t want to be gone. A red thread, a jar of wine, a heavy blade on her back. It is her burden, and it is her penance. And at night, they are the loudest.

At night, they meet in dreams.

Not in the hazy, half-real recollections of a restless mind. Nor in the blurry, foggy landscape of hopes and regrets, but in a crystal-clear image of life and longing, Blissful Retreat as vibrant and beautiful as it ever was before— Before.

It is the most shameful feeling. Happiness and anger and guilt, so thick it chokes.

In those dreams, they talk and they drink — and they fight. His smirk is sharp, amused — his eyes narrowed down at her, considering and challenging all at once. He’s steady and infuriating and so, so alive — it aches.

“Girlie, you fight like you have something to prove,” he remarks, fresh sweat on his forehead and smile self-satisfied at her heavy panting. He’s barely winded.

“Don’t I?” she snarks back, leaned heavily on her knee, braced on the longer of her twinblades. The way his lips quirk up is painful and the quick, sharp edge of it cuts to the core. “I wouldn’t have to if you were here,” she spits, so suddenly angry it bleeds down her throat, down her lungs — down through her weeping heart. It chokes her, this indescribable grief, it hurts to even speak, and yet— “You promised!”

His smirk falls. His blade lowers. A look in his eyes that’s hard to name, and even harder to see. It is unfair, it is infuriating — he should be here, with her, on this lonely road, on this lonely night, on—

“Pup…”

“NO!” Her voice breaks, hear eyes falling shut as she clutches at her weapon, at her last lifeline, at— at— “Don’t. Just…” A choked sound rips out of her on its own, dry and painful on her lips, too close to a sob to pass off as anything else.

It’s been days, weeks — months in the making. Seeing him, fighting him, smiling and laughing and talking like there was no tomorrow, no end to this endless dream, no lonely morning with only her ghosts’ keepsakes at her fingertips and a loyal horse for company. It crests over her suddenly, out of nowhere and all at once. The tears fall down her cheeks before she has time to feel them burn.

In her grief, she does not hear the sound of a sheathed blade, the rustle of clothes or the creak of leather. The only thing that breaks through is a touch — warm and rough and so, so impossibly gentle. Cradling her cheeks with a consideration that makes her freeze, makes her heart skip a beat and her mind quiet.

Yi Dao’s hands are just as she imagined them. Strong enough to crush bones and tough with scars and callouses earned from years of handling his blade. They’re so big they dwarf her face. She has never felt their warmth on her own skin — only through layers of cloth or curled into fists under her own blocking palm. They feel impossibly warm. Real. More real than anything else has all those months since he left her behind. It catches in her throat, steals her breath right from her lungs — when she finally looks up, his face is unreadable, eyes dark. He wipes away the tears slipping down her cheeks, watching with a gaze that feels charged, heavy with something unnamed, something burning. Burning like the fire that scorched her skin, torched her dreams and took him from her. When his eyes lift and their gazes meet, she longs to lean in, to grasp at his open jacket and pull. Pull hard enough to steal him away.

She wakes up alone.

Before her, the embers of last night’s fire are still glinting with red sparks, light wisps of smoke rising under the first hints of sun on the horizon. In her hands, she clutches the handle of a heavy blade, cradling it to sleep as if it would suffice in place of the one her soul longs for. The twinblades she normally uses rest in front of her, yet it is the Killerblade itself that she cradled to her chest — curled around for the night as if the weapon would keep her safe on its own; she would not be able to use it properly if it came to a fight. Near her side, Clip-Clop snorts as if sensing her awake, but the sounds of soft steps and quiet munching follows swiftly — he did not wake her in emergency.

Slowly sitting up, she never once loosens her grip, her body aching. Life on the road is not easy, tired muscles only just learning to tolerate the hard ground under her bedroll and the danger lurking around every corner. The tension of constant vigilance has long since settled in her shoulders, the knots painful but grounding. It’s mornings like this one, heavy from a dream that felt like a lost chance — a glimpse into should’ve-beens and what-ifs — that are the hardest to bare, to brave through into another day. It is tempting, then, to fall back into the dream, into oblivion with scant possibility of a better life. It is so, so tempting, but in those moments, she clings ever harder to the blade in her hand. Clutches it so hard in her grip she can feel the indents of the cord-wrapped handle fold into her skin, knuckles white and fingers digging in so hard her nails ache. She lets go only when the sun is up in the sky, when its warmth spills over the horizon and the reality stops shifting around her with ghostly echoes.

Looking down, she trails her fingers over the scabbard she had custom-made for the blade. To carry on her back securely and without interfering with the drawing of her twinblades. It was still a trial to learn to fight with the added weight skewing her balance, to move around the line of it crossing her back. The blade was almost as tall as her, reaching from the tip resting on the ground all the way up to her shoulder. It would’ve been easier to leave it be, to secure it to Clip-Clop’s side even, but no — how little time she’s already spent in the jianghu has taught her enough. You kept the things most precious to you close to your heart or they’d be as easily stolen as the pouch on your belt. So she hid strings of coins under her robes, kept the last jar of Parting Tears always on her side and secured the Killerblade in a sheath that would not let it fall from her back while the red thread stayed always on her wrist. This was her promise — to carry them with her, no matter what. It’s the least they deserved.

Overhead, the cry of a hawk tears her away from the sheathed blade laid out on her lap. It is a cruel reminder, an echo of the memory of Uncle Jiang’s decrepit shack and Yi Dao’s scoff, the tiles rough and cracked under their weight. And still, he humored her. Still, he agreed. Promised, for all the good it did him.

“Forgive me,” she murmurs, eyes falling shut. Her head hangs heavy, shoulders slumped with a weight that only keeps getting heavier. “I was not strong enough…”

Clutching the handle of his blade, she brings it up to her face — leans her forehead on the metal guard, murmuring a silent prayer no one will hear. A pledge of honor — a testimony of grief. Longing wrapped carefully with the mourning of whole lifetimes.

When her words finally fail her, she squeezes her eyes ever tighter and quiets the soundless sob raising in her throat. She presses two fingers to her lips and, leaning away, brushes the tips where her forehead just rested. Without looking back, she stands straight from her knees, and secures Yi Dao’s one left legacy to her back. She’s spent long enough pitying herself and the road to Kaifeng’s still ever longer. It’s time to move — the ghosts will follow.

*

The next time she comes into the dreamscape, it’s to an echo of that night. The usually sunny sky is blanketed in darkness, dotted with stars that wink at her with painful memory embedded in them. It’s not quite the cliff near the ruined temple, but it is an outcropping that overlooks the tranquil stillness of Blissful Retreat before it met its ultimate fate. Little lanterns and lights dot the village’s landscape, reflecting the night sky almost as well as the shimmering waters of the river beyond. The sight steals her breath away in an altogether different way than it ever did before, when she used to sneak back after sunset from many unadvised ventures. She barely ever paid attention back then, why would she, but now — now no amount of time spent admiring her lost home feels like enough.

When she finally tears her gaze away from the sight of her yet-to-be burned home it’s to find a fire roaring merrily farther to her side. Yi Dao’s there, as he always is, in these strange dreams. Sitting on a log with a wine jar in one hand, he does not acknowledge her where she stands right outside the circle of light the flames provide. There’s a pensive look in his dark eyes as he gazes over the quiet homes below and the glimmering river beyond, a tension to his broad shoulders that seems out of place. It is not unlike that night, when she came to him on a word of promise that ignited her heart, and yet she knows it is not a memory, not quite. Nothing in this strange dreamscape was as it seemed, and still — some things never changed. Like her home caught forever at its most serene, like Yi Dao’s dark eyes and the warmth thrumming through his body — like the fact he always remembers. The before, but also this — these dreams they share, implicitly and irrevocably connected. Like something would not let him go, would not let her move on. Like— like—

It gives her hope. Awful, horrible, aching hope. It hurts, sometimes, just to look at him. And yet— She cannot stay away.

The rustle of her steps breaks through the quietness of the night. They both still, as if caught in some invisible spell. His head turns, just slightly, towards her — the edge of his profile visible over his left shoulder — where she stands just a couple steps behind him. He does not look at her, not out right, but she’s aware he knows exactly where she is now.

Before a single word can slip past her lips — an apology, a plead for forgiveness at the tip of her tongue — Yi Dao scoffs and turns back to the fire.

“Thought you might’ve finally decided to stop coming here.”

She freezes, the words slashing through her like a blade — like the poisoned tip of a deadly scythe. Inexplicably, the hurt burns.

“Finally?”

“Yes, finally.” His voice sounds rough, harsh — a tick to his jaw like he’s gritting his teeth. “There is nothing left here for you but ghosts, pup. It’s time you finally moved on.” Back still turned away from her, he takes a long swig from the bottle, shoulders tight.

Defiantly, she clenches her fists and spits:

“And what if I don’t want to?”

“What if you don’t want to?” Yi Dao’s laugh is cruel, mocking and sharp as he shakes his head. He still won’t face her. “Then you are dumber than I thought. This is no place for you, leave and go back to your life.”

It burns, deep inside her — this hurt, this anger it awakens. How dare he?!

“No. No! I refuse!” Quivering with rage born of desperation, her voice trembles. “I won’t leave, not when my home is still here! No when you’re—” She cuts herself off, swallowing down the words — swallowing down her fear, her longing, and her hope altogether. The meaning is all too clear anyway.

“I’m dead, or did you forget?”

She flinches back — the reminder said so crudely, so without care. Yi Dao’s voice quiets then, rough and worn, yet still — he does not look to her.

“This is just a dream,” he says, fingers tights around the bottle. “You should wake up.” Acting as if it does not matter to him — if he’s alive or dead. Here or under ground already. If there’s even a chance at—

Her jaw tightens with defiant anger. How could she wake up? How could she let go now? When he’s still here, when she can still feel the warmth of his life if she stands close enough? When this — these dreams — feel more real than anything else these days, more real than most of her waking days? It had to mean something. She would not turn away, not now. Not when he still refused to even look at her.

“And why should I even listen to you?” She spits, her fists clenching. Poison fills her mouth, bitter and sharp, and it spills: “You’ve already broken the promise you made me, so what weight does your word even have?”

The reaction is immediate — Yi Dao’s shoulders snap tight with anger and he whips his head around, their eyes meeting for just a second. His gaze is storm incarnate, dark and blazing. She has not felt more alive than in this moment for weeks.

“You’d be wise to hold your tongue, pup.” He warns, voice a low, calm threat that feels more dangerous than any shout ever could.

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” She goads, even more infuriated when instead of giving in, Yi Dao’s scoff is her only answer. And when he makes to turn away again, something in her shatters. “If you truly meant for me to let you go, you would’ve said it to my face!” The accusation feels righteous, feels true — truer even for the way he ignores her, for the way he stills when she mentions letting him go. Scenting blood in the water, she gathers every bitter and lonely edge that’s been digging into her ribs and spits: “Truly, I did not think the mighty Killerblade was such a coward.” He slams the jar in his hand onto the earth, wine sloshing over the rim, and her lips split into a cruel, victorious smile. “Afraid to face such a small little sparrow like myself? And you call yourself a hawk, really—”

“Damn you, brat!” An edge bleeds through his voice — sharp and jagged, anger and exhaustion and something else she cannot quite name. When at last he raises to his feet, his body is riddled with tension — as if it takes everything for him to stay still — shoulders tight and eyes dark as he finally faces her. “You are testing my patience, and trust me, you do not want to see me lose it.”

Oh, but she does. She does so much it lights up her veins with excitement, sparks like lightning under her skin. I’ll do whatever it takes so you won’t send me away, she thinks — to herself, to the heavens, to the dream that keeps them here, together and whole, despite everything.

“Then make me.” She challenges, spine straight and eyes matching his blazing gaze. “Make me leave, make me shut up, I don’t care. I’m not leaving you here.” The words ring like a vow, weighty and true — something in Yi Dao’s face changes, a fleeting thing, there and gone again; tension releasing and tightening all at once. It makes her blood quicken, hot under her skin. “If you want me to let you go, you’ll have to fight me for it.”

His brows rise at that, incredulous, but the emotion passes quickly and Yi Dao’s expression hardens once more. A resolve that makes her shiver, dread settling heavily in her stomach. Instead of the spark of confrontation she wanted, it has turned into a duel she fears she has no chance in, not when he draws his body into a ready stance; calm, collected and dangerous all at once. A true warrior that fears nothing — and certainly not a little thing like her. She can only try and replicate it.

“Fine, then, so be it,” he says, a low growl that feels more like the sting of reprimand than the threat he’s proven to be. “But don’t go crying to me when you lose. You wanted this.” And before she has time to blink, to think, he attacks — a surge of energy in a punch that all but knocks her to the ground. Immediately, it becomes clear how much he’s been holding back in all their spars thus far.

The barrage of strikes is unrelenting, stronger than he’s ever used and faster than she’s ever expected. It’s a challenge to keep up even with her own inherent swiftness — blocking becomes useless, dodging only gets her so far. Yi Dao’s every strike is charged with energy that burns, as sharp as the edge of his blade and as hot as the flames keeping her warm at night. Even when she tries to replicate his technique, when she recalls all that she has learned since they’ve been parted, it barely gives her a scant inch to breath. He looks surprised, just for a second, as her parrying and answering blows start to carry her qi the way his own do, but it’s short-lived — and only serves to make his strikes that much harder.

“Give it up,” he barks, sending her back several paces. It winds her completely and when she rises up on a gasp, his jaw is tight — posture charged with tension that glints darkly in his eyes. “This is no place for you and you know it.”

“I don’t care,” she replies, panting as she stands back up to her feet. Muscles trembling, she uses the last of her energy to reinforce her stance — and meets Yi Dao’s stormy eyes with firm resolution. “As long as you’re here, I’m not letting go.”

Qi surging, she launches herself into a strike — a perfect copy of his opening move. Yi Dao’s momentary shock gives her the smallest of edges, lets her get close into his guard and punch, an energy-filled hit straight to his solar plexus. It lands — and does nothing at all. Because of course it doesn’t. It is his move, she should’ve know.

Catching her by the wrist as easily as if she were indeed just a little sparrow in the hawk’s clutches, he side-steps and kicks, slamming her down into the ground. The world tilts on its axis around her, blinking in and out as if reality itself has shifted, flickering with the pink-and-oranges of oncoming dawn.

“Wake up!” Yi Dao’s voice thunders — and the dreamscape’s blanket of darkness and stars reasserts itself as she gasps.

His weight is heavy on her hips, hand firm around the wrists he holds to her sternum, pressing her down into the soft grassy soil. The look in his eyes is as dark as the night sky above them, as indefinable as the thread keeping them both here, endlessly and without reason. He has never looked more beautiful to her than now.

Whether the thought has showed on her face, or through his own unknown reason, Yi Dao’s posture slackens in response, a spark of something shocked and uncomprehending in his gaze. It disappears swiftly, so much so she cannot be sure it even was there, but his hand tightens around her wrists and the sigh he lets out is heavy.

“You do not belong here, kid,” he tells her, weighted and yet, somehow, unconvinced. “There’s nothing left here for you. Leave, before it’s too late.” It sounds like a confession — a concession she does not understand, refuses to.

There’s a reason she’s here, she’s sure of it. And so she tells him, simply:

“You’re here. That’s enough for me.”

Blinking, she smiles — despite the ache behind her ribs and the tears slipping past her temples and into her hair. Despite the dreamscape’s dark sky and the morning’s loneliness awaiting her. Despite everything. She would not exchange him for anything.

A brush of pure shock passes over Yi Dao’s scarred face, lightening his eyes for just a second — and then he laughs, rough and just slightly strained. Shaking his head, he leans back and releases her hands from his grip. All at once, the air feels cool and alien, her own palm curling around her lonely wrist; a poor imitation. Still, she cannot do anything but look back when his amused gaze falls to her.

“You’ve really got some spirit, pup, stubborn as an ox, huh?” He muses, a familiar, knowing smirk lifting the corner of his mouth, a spark of something she dares not to name shining in his eyes. Gaze swiping over her one last time, he raises to his feet. “Alright, have it your way.”

The edges of his robes brush against her as he steps away, turning back to the fire.

“C’mon, on your feet! There’s enough wine for two here.”

His words echo with easy familiarity, open and inviting, but in the wake of his sudden departure, she’s left laying in the dirt with desperation burning in her gut — to catch the edge of his robes and pull him back. Make him fill out the hollow space of his absence with his warmth, with the weight he took away and the touch that still lingers on her skin; scarred and rough and everything she could ever want. It should be a shameful thought, but somehow, here and now, it only makes her burn that much more intensely.

“You coming or not?”

Blinking quickly, she turns to see Yi Dao already seated beside the fire, just as he was at the beginning of the dream, a jar of wine in hand. But this time, he’s looking right at her, one brow raised in question.

“Yeah,” she rasps out, then clears her throat. “Yeah, yes, I’m coming.”

His amused huff is her only answer as she scrambles to her feet. Brushing away all the dirt and grass off her robes, she tries to calm down her hammering heart — a frantic hummingbird trashing against the cage of her ribs — to no avail. Yi Dao’s back is already turned back to her, face to the merrily dancing fire.

Taking a long, drawn-out breath, she steps closer and sits down beside him. Close enough for their shoulders to brush. To feel the warmth emanating from under the layers of his clothing and count the tiny scars slashing his visage. When he does not comment, just handing her a wine jar with that smile of his, half-mocking and half-pleased, she can finally relax.

“Now, since you decided at being a persistent pest, entertain me. Tell me what trouble you’ve been stirring up,” he commands, humor heavy in his low voice.

The rasp of it almost makes her shiver, but she huffs instead, feigning offense. If the amusement sparking in his eyes is anything to go by, he’s all too aware of her act. It makes her pleased in a way she can’t quite explain. And so, she talks. About the stories she gathered so far, the techniques she’s learned — the wisps of Aunt Han’s past she uncovered. She talks until the sky warms with oncoming dawn and the fire burns out. And if, by the end of the night, she sits pressed closely to Yi Dao’s side — her cheek nuzzled into his shoulder — he does not push her away.

(And if, in the morning, she wakes up to find no sign of the impressions his armored robes should’ve left on her skin, there is no one to witness her disappointment but the sun and the lonely hawk in the sky.)

*

The next time she falls into a dream, it’s not to the familiarity of a tranquil Blissful Retreat or a merrily burning fire with a jar of wine at her side. The landscape is unfamiliar, a blank canvas of fog and hard ground, nothing more to see but an empty stage for the play of her mind. Yi Dao’s there, that she is sure of, down to the bone, even if she cannot see him — she can feel him, with an awareness that transcends consciousness, a resonance that she could recognize anywhere. And it’s more than that, too. It’s the warmth against her body — the breath fanning over her jaw and the touch slipping down her skin. It’s the weight keeping her steady, keeping her grounded; a weight her body shamelessly curves into — her waking longing finally boring fruit.

“Relax, girlie,” his voice rumbles into the space under her ear, a trail of shivers leaving her skin tender.

“Blade…?” she gasps into the hazy air of a potent fantasy, voice barely more than a breath — a nearly-silent confession, and a question she dares not ask.

A low chuckle vibrates into her own ribcage, a sound so intimately familiar it burns behind her eyelids.

“Been expecting someone else?” He teases her, amused and warm, and as carefree as if it’s just another day, another friendly spar — a mere blip in the grand scheme of things. As if this isn’t just another hazy dream in a string of nights that felt more real than her waking days, as if—

The sound that escapes her is more akin to a wounded animal than anything else — the grip around her tightens in response.

“Hush, pup, I’m here,” Yi Dao’s soothing murmur envelopes her like a spell, like the hand that he puts over her throat, a firm weight that covers her thundering pulse and cradles her jaw. It feels right there, like it belongs, but his words slash through her as cleanly as if cut by the blade she’s so used to carrying now. Because he is here, yes, in this hazy fantasy of hers, but he is also not, not really.

This Yi Dao, this figment of her longing imagination, is not the man that could’ve killed her that day at Kilnfire Ridge — the man that then pulled her out of the line of fire again and again and again, until it cost him his own life. And he is not the man she meets every other night in the dreamscape of her lost home, the one that remembers — the dreams, the spars, the fights, all of it. He’s not here, not truly, she can feel him, the echo of his resonance, the warmth of his touch and the raised ridges of his scars, but it’s a dull, unworthy imitation. Somewhere deep within herself, where the conscious awareness resides under layers of sleep and fantasy, she knows this truth intimately, and yet — it does not matter.

When his fingers tip back her head and the bristle of his beard scratches at the skin of her neck, she goes willingly, longingly, shivering with the caress that snatches her reason away. Yi Dao’s body is a solid, warm weight against her, his lips a soft touch over her ear as his voice rumbles into her:

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

An admission she could not hope to deny.

Trembling, she tries blinking away the wetness that has already blurred her vision into near blindness. It does not work — it couldn’t. The dream stays a foggy, hazy landscape of untold shapes and yearnful sensations. When she finally manages to catch Yi Dao’s face in her gaze, his visage seems smudged with painted brushstrokes; a watercolor ink spilled over tanned canvas, familiar yet completely different. Ghostlike almost — ethereal, the way dreams sometimes are. A figment of imagination, a lover’s longing made shape. Him and not. Yet, it does not matter. Yet, she finds herself embracing this fantasy, feeling scars under her fingers she never had the chance to see, pulling him closer the way she’s wanted for so long now.

“Yes,” she answers, truly, sincerely, “please…”

His mouth curves into a smirk, an expression all too familiar even when blurred by the veil of a dreaming mind. Eyes dark and half-lidded with hidden promises, he nudges her lightly, playfully, nose against nose, breath twinned with breath, as if to tell her “You’re mine now, pup, you can let go”. And so she does.

Darkness envelopes her the moment her eyes open, the near silent night heavy and still around her. It feels cool on her overheated skin, the slight breeze wafting through open shutters waking an altogether different shiver down her spine. The disappointment is a sharp, jagged thing, a torn open wound somewhere deep within the cage of her aching ribs, pulsing like a living thing with every breath. It chokes her, this unrealized longing, this fantasy her mind conjured that could not be farther from truth. At her side, the sheathed blade mocks her with the reality of its impossibility — it provides no comfort, yet she clutches the handle as if the act itself will realign the threads of fate and bring back the one it belongs to. She gasps, quietly — mindful of the others sleeping not far away — as the ache steals her breath and crests, blurring an already hazy sight. It’s a war to get herself to sit up. To regulate the air her lungs take in greedily, choppily, until the threat of sobs is no longer imminent. Then, and only then, does she realize she’s curled herself around the blade as if it was her last lifeline — forehead pressed against the metal guard and sheath clutched to her chest as if she was cradling a dying man in her arms. The realization is not a kind one — it would’ve thrown her back into her anguish if not for the soft voice drifting to her from the side:

“You must’ve cared for them really deeply.”

She startles, whipping back to see Big Zhao sitting up on his sleeping mat, eyes kind and face sympathetic in the low light spilling in from outside.

“Huh?” It escapes her blearily, still caught in surprise at his attention — if not for that, she would’ve apologized for waking him, but… well, she is not at her best.

Big Zhao smiles, lightly and full of compassion, a look that strikes at something painfully tender within her chest.

“The one that sword belonged to,” he explains, nodding at the blade. “You carry it with you at all times, even though you never use it. Whoever that sword belonged to, they must’ve been really important to you, hm?”

Fingers tightening around the sheath on instinct, she looks down on the weapon. It’s true — everything Big Zhao just said. The Killerblade was not hers to use. She kept it safe, she sharpened it alongside her own swords, and she carried it always, but she would never use it, even if she could. It was a legacy — and it was penance. A promise, one that would never come to pass, but that did not matter — she would keep this private oath, even if for herself only.

“Yes, they—” her voice breaks easily, trembling as she finds it in herself to answer, “they were.”

It hurts, to admit it, to use the past as if she’s not still half-convinced it couldn’t be true — not with her dreams, and her hopes, and his constant, insufferable presence, an echo of resonance that haunts her every step. How could it be anything but real?

Her eyes slip shut in a solemn reverie and she leans back on the blade, trying to find in it the strength to go on, to move when everything in her desires only to go back to the dream and never wake. She can’t be sure how long she stays like that, but it’s the light touch to her shoulder that draws her out of the cage of her drifting mind. Blinking out of it, she comes to the sight of Big Zhao leaned over her with a soft expression on his round face — without waiting, he ushers her up and to the table they’ve sat at just the day before.

“Come, young hero, you don’t look like you’ll get anymore sleep right now. Let’s get some tea.”

It’s still dark out, so it must’ve been just mere minutes, but in the time that passed Big Zhao has somehow procured a pair of incense sticks and poured them both cups of freshly brewed, hot tea. She stares at it dumbly, clutching the blade to her chest with the hand that’s not already cradling one of the cups. When did she even reach for it? Blinking away her confusion, she takes a sip, and the warmth spills down her throat in a comfort she didn’t realize how badly she needed until now. Gratefully, she cradles the cup with both hands and lets the sword’s handle rest on her shoulder as she sips.

“Thank you,” she tells Big Zhao, voice light and airy. How they haven’t woken up the rest is beyond her, but she won’t be ungrateful. Her breakdown didn’t need any more witnesses.

“Of course, that’s what friends are for,” he tells her easily, so unconcerned with his own declaration it dislodges something painful and heavy from her throat. It must show in her eyes, blurry yet again, because Big Zhao looks uncertain, almost flustered, for a single moment, before he reaches for the incense sticks and hands her one. At her questioning gaze, he explains with a light smile: “You know what they say, young hero — the smoke will carry your wishes up to the heavens so they can be heard. It’s worth a try, don’t you think? Who knows, maybe your important person will hear you too.”

With shaking fingers, she takes the incense stick and when the fragrant smoke starts rising into the air the ever unsaid wishes spill themselves all over her heart, unbidden. For Uncle Jiang and Aunt Han, wherever their travels took them, to be safe and healthy and still out there, for her to find, one day, fates willing. For— for Ruby, her brave, unshaken spirit, her unrelenting, stubborn courage, and her joyful, contagious smile — for her joy to never cease, her rest to— to be peaceful and easy, wherever she is now. For— For the people of Kaifeng. For Yingying and Granny Turtle, for Little Fu and Big Zhao, for Widow Zhou and her little one, for all their pain and their suffering to finally end, for better days to come, for a change, real change to finally be possible — for her own hands and heart to be steady when the time arrives that she can help. And for— for—

Breath caught between her ribs, she puts away the incense stick into its holder, lest she puts the smoke out with her shaking hands. Throughout it all, Big Zhao’s a quiet, steady presence beside her, not commenting, not rushing, just there — silent and comforting. When she finally comes up from within her own grief-stricken mind, tears at the edges of her lashes and afterimages of impossible dreams behind her eyelids, it comes pouring out on its own — her battered, lonely soul finally compelled to tell him, to tell someone, of the unending anguish she’s been carrying:

“He—” It catches in her throat, even then, the words she refused to utter for so long, the truth she did not want to believe. “He died protecting me.” Strangled like the heart within her ribs, bleeding all the way up her tongue — it does not feel like salvation. The tears blurring her vision burn as much as the unrelenting fire of that night did.

“Well, that sounds like a hero to me,” Big Zhao comments, not unkindly, but she shakes her head with a wet, incredulous laugh. She agrees, really, it’s just that he would’ve scoffed at such a notion.

“He hated heroics. Told me himself that very night. We were supposed to leave then, but — I saw my home go up in flames and I just— I couldn’t. Not when I had the skills to help, even if they weren’t enough. I told him that — how could I leave when my home’s burning? And he—” She laughs, again, bitter and hurt and trying to blink away the wetness burning in her eyes. “He tried to stop me. Keep me from going, to get me to leave with him, the way we were supposed to—” the way I asked him to, just the previous day, “—but I just… I couldn’t, my life was down there burning, and I couldn’t leave.”

It’s almost like she can smell the black smoke rising up to the sky from her burning home again, like she can see it before her just as it was that night, memory overlapping the darkness of the humble kitchen around them. Mind caught between here and there, now and then, with Yi Dao’s hard face against the backdrop of fire and ash, her home and life forever changed in just one night.

“That was very brave of you, young hero.”

Big Zhao’s words are soft, comforting, near-silent in the tranquil night that’s all but hushed in the face of her relived grief. She tries to smile, to acknowledge his effort, but the edges of it tremble too much to matter.

“I was the one that asked him to take me to Kaifeng just a day earlier, y’know? And he was ready to do so, he would have, I know that now, but when I refused to go? He had every right to leave me there, save himself the trouble. He should have. It was my home and it meant nothing to him, and yet—” She remembers his face, the frown on his brow and the embers reflecting in dark eyes as he held the burning log to her throat. Inscrutable and unmoving, caught in time as he measured her on scales she could not hope to guess at and, somehow, someway, found her worthy. It hurts all the more now, knowing what it cost.

“And yet he followed you into the fire, hm?” Big Zhao finishes for her, eyes kind and smile full of understanding. It’s almost enough to unmake her, until a new spark lights up his face. “Well, I don’t know what this great warrior of yours would think of it, but I’d say that does sound like a hero to me.”

Her smile, so unexpectedly blooming onto her face, feels far more sincere now. Shaky and blood-red from the swell of tears constantly on edge of falling, but she is grateful — for this little recognition, this small concession, a weight off her shoulders that feels, somehow, lighter now. She’s about to protest, still, because Yi Dao would’ve, probably, but just as she begins shaking her head, a weathered voice interrupts:

“A hero, yes,” Granny Turtle says, shuffling over with Yingying at her shoulder and a smile on her aged face, “or someone that cared just as deeply for you, young wanderer.”

“Granny!” She exclaims, hastily wiping away the proof of her naked mourning. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to wake you all up! Sorry, we could just—”

“Hush, young hero, we’re already awake, nothing you can do about that now!” Yingying interrupts her, mischief in her voice and a spark to her eyes. They sit down at the table with her and Big Zhao, their intention unmistakable. “Besides, that warrior of yours sounds like quite the character! I’d love to hear his story,” she adds, voice teasing, yet gaze heavy with an understanding that catches her off guard.

Unsure still, she glances at Granny, but her face is just as open and comforting, her smile soft. She reaches out a weathered, thin hand to cover her own with and its warmth is almost enough to break the rest of her spirit.

“Go on, child,” Granny encourages, croaky voice full of compassion, yet no pity — no false sympathy. Her eyes are clear, despite the hour, and meet hers with quiet resolve. “You sound like you need this and we’ll gladly share in your burden.”

The declaration catches in her lungs, a steely grasp so unexpected it strikes her silent, but when she looks upon their faces, she detects no lie — no deception. They look at her with quiet encouragement — with an understanding that transcends simple sympathy, a weight that she can recognize, even if its shape may differ. In them, she sees the faces of her lost family, of the people from Blissful Retreat, teasingly calling her Young Master and always happy to lend her an ear. It aches, but it gives her the strength to go on.

Shaking her head, she recalls that first time — the moment she met the infamous Killerblade and came out alive on the other side.

“It’s funny, really, we haven’t even known each other for long, or all that well, for that matter,” she admits quietly, eyes falling to her slowly chilling tea and her hand curling around the scabbard still resting on her shoulder. “He came looking for my Aunt and instead of taking him on his word, I decided to lead him on and cause all sorts of nuisances, thinking I’m protecting her from this big, bad villain.” She huffs lightly, recalling it now with a distant smile that feels like an echo of better times — Oh, how naive she’s been, how taken already… believing herself capable of outsmarting him. “Of course, then it turned out they already knew each other and I just made a fool of myself.” It comes out almost a chuckle, reflected back at her from Yingying, and Granny, and Big Zhao too, their faces amused yet eyes ever attentive as they listen, quiet and intent. The humor does not last, though, when she remembers how much it cost — how that one fight he all but refused proper treatment for might’ve as well been the nail in the coffin of his later fate. A fate that she still refuses to believe, against all reason, because… because… And yet—

“I can’t help but think — if I’ve just listened to him. If I hadn’t lead him on all those chases, if— If I hadn't left him, then maybe—” Her voice catches, wet and scraping against the inside of her throat like the claws of a blood-fanged beast. Tears sparkle at the tips of her eyelashes as she blinks, curls her hands ever harder around the delicate cup and a sturdy blade, jaw tight and aching from the strain of holding herself together, holding herself up. Was it all her fault, after all? Would he have lived, if only she’d… “—maybe he’d be here, right now. Maybe we could’ve escape together and he would— wouldn't have to—”

A raw, painful sound tears through her words, catches — strangled — at the tip of her tongue as her head hangs low, the weight of admission pressing down like a hanging blade at her throat.

“How did he die?” Yingying’s voice is soft as she asks, quiet and solemn, as if to not disturb the ghosts haunting her every step. She still flinches — her jaw clenched tight and her fingers clutching the Killerblade even harder in her grasp.

It’s hard to go back to that moment, impossible to revisit the night she’s refused to acknowledge for so long, but it feels inevitable now. All that hurt she’s carried ever since, all those lonely mornings under open sky — all the hope she’s clutched to her chest, as if it would mean anything. It aches.

“They attacked just as we were about to leave,” she admits, finally, unseeing eyes fixed on the smoke rising from the incense stick — on the ash and fire and black clouds of memories past. “We tried fighting them off, save as many people as we could. I don’t know for how long we fought or how many we managed to defeat, but they just— they kept coming. Some people managed to escape, but—”

The pain burns anew, the flash of red and the devastating awareness of who it belong to — she could barely think about it, the hurt still so fresh and bloody it painted her vision crimson. A hand lands on her shoulder, small and feminine, but no less firm in its comfort, and she shakes her head. Gathering the last of her strength to go on — to tell the story as it deserves.

“There was always more of them, like a flood, as if it didn’t matter how many we cut down, as if they didn’t care how many it took. They just… kept coming.”

Her fingers tighten around the blade she’s been all but clinging to, recalling the blood and sweat and ash on her tongue — the crimson already staining his robes when they reunited, the swiftness of his strikes despite the exhaustion in the line of his shoulders. No one knew the truth of it but her — no more witnesses to tell the tale or know its weight. She was the one to carry it now. It gives her strength to go on — to share what little she can, to speak the honor his deeds deserved.

“We ended up fighting in the underground cellar, where I’ve been stashing wine for years. Just the two of us against an army of assassins,” and a witch, but she does not dare to speak of her, lest her anger and grief blind her completely, “I was sure we would both die there. But… he said to me, you haven’t seen the jianghu yet, and—” Her breath catches — her voice fails, broken and brittle like the bones of her burned down home. Her eyes fall shut, wet and burning, as she remembers Yi Dao’s back against hers, his face right before— “He pushed me out of there,” —open and relived and, somehow, so, so gentle. “He pushed me out of there and blew the place down upon himself, the idiot.” She spits it out, like a curse, like a blade — like the look he gave her, right before the end. The sob that rips out of her hurts, choked and wet and barely muffled by the hand she presses over her face.

“Oh, young hero…”

Yingying’s arms are warm and solid as they come around her — the first real comfort she’s felt ever since her Aunt, since Ruby, since she went out on her own and never stopped dreaming of home, only to wake up cold and alone. It shatters something deep inside her, a hold that’s been keeping her upright ever since. The tears come flooding, pouring down her face with no regard for her chocked breath, no care for the sleeves they land on or the hands that tried to hide them.

“Oh, child,” Granny’s voice croaks, so full of compassion it hurts, “it is not your fault.”

She shakes her head, vehemently — they don’t know.

“You— you don’t understand. If I haven’t— haven’t set him up. If I just— just listened to him or— or went back—”

How many did he fight before the attack even happened? How many wounds slowed him down before even the witch showed up? How— how could he do that to her? When he promised—

“Oh, young hero, it was his decision,” Granny soothes, her weathered hands steady on her arms despite their inherent shakiness, “and he chose to save you. That is no small thing.”

“No, no, you don’t—” She won’t listen, she won’t, it’s not about that, it’s not, it’s— “He was supposed to be here.” The confession comes out a broken whisper, a ragged, bloody thing of grief and longing, just like the sobs tearing apart her lungs. “He was supposed to show me…”

Forgive me, he’d said, in that first, hazy dream, I promised to show you the jianghu, but…

She breaks, finally and completely, the way she hasn’t since her very childhood, since— ever, really. And, as her words fail her at last, here in the arms of the people that have welcomed her to this unfamiliar city, she bows her head into her trembling hands and cries. Like she hadn’t allowed herself ever since that night. Ever since finding the cellar sealed off from her and the red cape torn around a broken stump. She cries and cries and cries. For all of those she lost, for all of her lonely mornings and impossible dreams — for the people of Blissful Retreat, for her Aunt and Uncle, for Ruby, for—

She cries until there are no more tears to give — no more breath in her lungs to choke down sobs with. Until the sky outside starts purpling with the oncoming dawn and her eyes burn from exhaustion. Until she has no more to give but the empty shell of what’s left behind by the scorching fire of her grief. It’s not enough, it will never be enough, but it will have to do, for now. And as she is led by the people she already came to care for, as they lay her down on the sleeping mat, she does not let go of the blade in her hands. She clutches it to her chest even as they put the blanket over her shoulders, even as Yingying slips under with her, arms a steady embrace and fingers carding delicately through her hair. Soothing. Like the memory of Aunt Han’s gentle hands and Uncle Jiang’s steady presence, lulling her to sleep. And so, she lets herself be soothed. Lets her eyes fall shut and her mind drift far away — lets herself dream, yet again.

*

She remembers it clearly — the first time they met again, after that night, in the sunny landscape of her lost home. It’s been weeks, at that point, since Blissful Retreat went up in flames and ashes — since she woke up in a secluded corner of the Evercare Clinic to a solemn Yaoyao.

“I’ve found you on the doorstep the day after…” she explained, voice quiet and eyes downcast — there was no need to say what she meant, “I don’t know who left you here but… rumors are already spreading of your death, young master.”

It was a shock, at first, but even if she didn’t understand her reasons, it felt like something Aunt Han could’ve done. Later, when she mentioned it to Yi Dao, he answered with a scoff at her surprise, as if it should’ve been obvious from the start. “If anyone knows how to disappear, it’d the Water Lady herself,” he said, completely unconcerned, “Your Aunt made you a favor, pup. No one will look for you if they think you’re dead.” It made sense, of course, but still, she wondered. Why would Aunt Han leave her alone and disappear just like Uncle Jiang did, after all that happened? Wasn’t it Aunt Han herself that said to hell with the jianghu? And yet, she had left her there, up to her own devices, free to go out into the world with no word of goodbye or explanation — just old willow-darts and barely a lead on some mysterious Ember of the East left behind.

Maybe, she should’ve gone straight after the trail — taken the boat that was meant to ferry the lost people of Blissful Retreat far away, to safety that was no longer there, but… how could she? When her home was still blistering and the steady image of her parental figures had shattered irreversibly? With the only memories of her dearest people gone or buried, no bodies but a lone grave for the bravest spirit she have ever known and not even a trace of the man that saved her life? The cellar was collapsed shut — she’d checked. Immediately upon waking up and being able to walk, guided by dread and ache and the impossible hope of… of what? Finding it empty? Finding him, still there, somehow alive even days after? It was a cruel joke, to find it barred to her completely, no solace in a definite ending, just whispers and echoes haunting her steps ever after. And so, instead of taking the boat, of moving on, as she was supposed to, she clung to her lost homeland — to old rumors and wisps of memories carved into the very earth of Qinghe. To the willow-darts stuck in ages-old wood of the Bell Tower, to the glimpses of her Uncle’s past life coming to haunt him, to the tales of an assassin ready to sacrifice his life for his duty. She chased them all around the land surrounding her home and before she knew it, she was back at the burned-down site of their last stand — in the shadow of a tower that was supposed to save them.

That night, she went to sleep under stars more familiar to her than the horizon she woke up to every day. That night, she followed the ghost of her Uncle into a dreamscape of fragrant peach blossoms and the faces of people long lost surrounding her at all sides. To the bustle of preparations for a festival that would never come and to the rows of Parting Tears — and him, tall and proud and whole, with his blade on his back and a jar of wine in hand.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, pup,” he said, amusement think in his voice and smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. As nonchalant as if— as if nothing bad had happened, as if her home hadn’t burned down just weeks before, as if he hadn’t blown himself up for her without a second thought, as if—

“Wha— what are you doing here?” she asked, breathless and chocked and her heartbeat so frantic it shook her whole chest.

Yi Dao scoffed at her, as if it was stupid, as if he hadn’t been dead, as if—

“What do you think?” He mocked, the cadence of it so familiar it struck her still. “I’ve heard they have the best wine here, so—” He lifted up the jar in his hand, smirk curving higher and a spark to his dark eyes that woke something wild and hot under her ribs. “—I came to check for myself.”

Her heart stuck inside her throat, she wondered, incredulously, could it be? That he…

Watching as if he’d disappear at a mere blink, soaking in the mirage of longing and memory stood right in front of her, so strong and alive it ached. But then he took a long swig of the wine, his smile wide and satisfied, pleasure in a voice that still haunted her, and something in her cracked open, unraveling like the threads that have been holding her together ever since.

“It’s for the festival,” she said, forcing calmness into her words, hands braced on her hips as if it’d give her the strength she so lacked — the will to test this dream and not break with its weight. “You should leave it alone, or there won’t be enough for others.”

“Oh? Should I now?” Yi Dao’s brow rose, posture straightening in a way that made her own shoulders pull back. “And what if I don’t? Will you try and make me?” He put the jar back onto the stone ledge, face was no less defiant for it. Eyes daring her to push — dark with something reckless and challenging. An intent that awoke the burn of flames licking at her core.

Jaw tight, she met his gaze with boldness she hadn’t felt since they fought over the fire, that last night.

“Yes. I will.”

And Yi Dao smiled.

“Go on then,” he taunted, mouth curving up with a flash of teeth that made her shiver. When he reached for his blade, the metallic schliiing of it cutting the air might’ve as well sizzled sparks of pure fire down her spine. “Show me what you’ve got, pup.” And on the sight of his wild, daring smile — she did.

It only occurred to her later, much, much later, what it truly represented. Only after she danced her heart out at the celebration that never got to pass, after she woke up the next day, alone and drifting, after it all seemed like just another dream, another lost memory to haunt her. Because how could it be anything more? She’d seen it in his eyes, dark and unreadable, as she collapsed beside him, right at the end of it all, hair wind-swept and face aching from a smile that would not leave her. How could it be more than a dream? A fantasy to ease her ache and the goodbye she never got? It was right there, in front of her eyes — a fight that felt more like a dance than the clash of wills, a festival of joy and color that burst like fires of molten gold in the sky. A look on Yi Dao’s face that spoke of untold regrets and solemn promises.

It was a test, in the end. Are you ready for the true jianghu, pup? Or will you look for the nearest shore? His judgment, whatever it might’ve truly been, to her just looked like a goodbye.

“Take it,” he told her, handing over the blade that felt too heavy in her hands. “You can go now.”

“Go? Go where?” It stuck in her throat — burned under her eyelids — the look he gave her, a smile that wouldn’t reach his eyes.

“Wherever you want, girlie. The jianghu awaits — isn’t that what you always wanted?” Yes, she thought, and immediately after — no, you should come with me. The way he gazed at her then — it would haunt her forever. And still, he told her: “You should go and see it, pup. You’re ready.”

I’m not, she thought, furiously — desperately, not without you!

Forgive me, his eyes said, instead, deep and dark and full of regret, for this one promise I couldn’t keep.

When she woke up, it was to the still-smoldering bones of her lost home and the handle of a familiar blade clutched in her hands. It felt like the end then, a farewell they never got in life, and still — how could it be? When her body ached with the hours of a dance disguised as a fight? When a sword that should be lost under the rubble found its way to her side? When she still felt the heavy weight of Yi Dao’s gaze on her like a living, breathing thing? How could it be just a dream? And so, she did not let go, hasn’t let go ever since. Instead of boarding the boat for Kaifeng, she clung to the last threads of an unraveling mystery and a reckless hope that one day, after she woke from a dream that should be impossible, he would be there, alive and whole. It was an absurd hope, futile, really, with everything that she’d learned her whole life, but how could she leave the possibility behind? When just a couple nights after what felt like a last goodbye, she surfaced into the blissful dreamscape of sunny plains and jars full of long-gone wine, as if no time has passed at all?

Yi Dao’s look when he saw her was close to shocked, a mirror to the one he gave her defiance on that night, disbelief threaded through with confusion. But he was there and that was everything she needed.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Blade,” she teased, heart hammering so hard in her throat it seemed a miracle her voice remained steady. But it did, and it caused Yi Dao to huff in amusement, his mouth curving up into a smile. It would’ve cut her legs out from underneath her, if not for the way his gaze kept her captured completely.

“Stubborn brat,” he commented, no trace of reproach in his voice or face — just the smirk on his lips and a gleam in dark eyes, “Should’ve known you’d find your way back here.”

Her own smile, when it bloomed fully in rosy-cheeks and a warmth under her breast that felt almost scorching, was so wide it ached.

“Disappointed?”

Yi Dao only shook his head with a laugh before waving her closer, a jar of wine extended in invitation. She did not mind; he was there, and that was all that mattered.

Months have passed since that night. Since the attack that razed her home to the ground and their reunion turned farewell turned reunion yet again. Maybe it was foolish of her — it certainly would’ve been, in his eyes — to have stayed back in Qinghe on the fruitless hope that somehow, one day, he would raise from the dream and meet her on the morn of a new day. It never happened, no matter how often they fell into the dreamscape together — how often she talked about all the uncovered pieces of her family’s past or how much they battled on the white-green meadows of Blissful Retreat in full bloom. Sometimes, they fought at the height of scorned pride and aching regret. Sometimes, Yi Dao looked at her with a glint in his eyes and decided to test her mercilessly — wear her down until she was panting and breathless and feeling more alive than ever in her waking days. And sometimes, he would teach her the techniques he picked up in the jianghu, hands steady and voice a low, commanding rumble, before they rested by the fire with the taste of Parting Tears on their lips — she finally understood, then, the truth of its name.

“I wonder sometimes,” she mused, on one such night, eyeing the aged wine in her hand, “how strongly Aunt Han must’ve loved that Chu fellow,” Yi Dao’s gaze felt heavy on her in that moment, yet all she could think about was her Aunt’s face on that day, “to keep all those jars of the very first batch for so long…”

For her whole life she had no idea, not the slightest inkling, how her Aunt still waited for her lover to come back one day — to share with him the Parting Tears she’s saved for so many years. It was no wonder, then, how their fight shattered a bell that could’ve withstood heaven’s fury yet broke so easily on that love’s betrayal. And yet, beside her, Yi Dao scoffed.

“Huh?” She blinked, confused, the first embers of irritation sparking at her tongue. “So what do you think? You’ve traveled with him, has he not felt the same?” Somehow, she could not imagine it, would not imagine it — it felt like a dishonor to her Aunt’s years of longing. Longing that, maybe, resonated with her now more than ever, as she looked upon the face of a man already lost to her. A man that, with a frown on his face, delivered a harsh judgment:

“I think they were foolish, the both of them,” he proclaimed, voice hardened with years of solitude and the weariness of jianghu’s harsh reality.

“But—” she stammered, stunned by his words — by the quiet storm brewing behind his stony expression, “how could you say that?” Her own voice came out weak — heart skipping a quick beat as his dark gaze met hers briefly.

“How could I— that’s the only thing that can be said.” There was something in his look, a weight that she couldn’t quite guess the name of, but he turned away from her and the fire reflecting in his eyes seemed, somehow, even more sombre. “The jianghu is not kind and it takes away everything you have sooner or later. If they’ve loved each other so much, how is it that they didn’t find ways to still be together?” The reproach in his voice sounded rough — threaded with experience that couldn’t be disguised — hand tight around the handle of his Killerblade. A blade that, she knew, was forged in the fire of his brother’s ashes. It was not a happy story — a tale of loss she knew now intimately. It reflected back at her from the dark depths of his grim gaze. “All those years wasted, and what good did it do? Fools, both of them.” He turned away from her then, taking a drink from the jar in his hand, and her heart ached, the memory of Aunt Han’s anguish clear in her mind.

I regret it! She’d exclaimed back on that day, the river stained with the last of Parting Tears, forever lost in its depths, her face a mask of cracking sorrow, I regret it, okay? But what does a lifetime of regret do for me now?!

She did not understand then, still soaring high with the dream of wandering the vast jianghu, but after… nothing was as it used to be.

“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted, voice a quiet murmur as her heart weighted heavily in her chest, “she did regret it in the end, I think.”

At her side, Yi Dao shook his head, a light huff slipping from his lips.

“And what’s that regret worth now? They should’ve taken their heads out of the sands earlier, maybe then they’d…” He cut himself off, unsaid words echoing in the silent night all around them, their meaning all too clear — her heart ached in response, all too well acquainted with the what-ifs and regrets of her own loss, of the lonely morning awaiting her at the dawn of this dream. Yi Dao’s voice tore her out of it, gentler yet firmer than before, “Hey, chin up, pup.” Knuckles brushing under her jaw, he tipped her head back to meet his eyes — unreadable, yet comforting in the familiar weight of his gaze. “You’ve still got your whole life ahead of you, alright? Just don't waste it on cheap wine, I did not die for that.” And before she could even gasp in her outrage, he pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger and— scruffed her, like a— like a— well, like a pup.

Left with her mouth hanging open in shock and brain still rattling around her skull from the shake he gave her, she watched as Yi Dao laughed at her, loud and unrestrained, a wide grin caught in the corners of his mouth. It shone in his eyes and vibrated in the line of his shoulders as he drank deeply from the jar of the good wine they had. She could not find it in herself to be mad, then. At his words, all but forgotten in the face of his mirth, or the scruffing she just got — it was not even that rough, really, more… affectionate. Like ruffling someone’s hair, patting their shoulder, just… wholly Yi Dao. A bit wild, yet comforting. Kind. Even after everything.

She remembers it now, barely out from her spilled anguish, standing at the edge of a small clearing where jars of Parting Tears rest on a ledge made of solid, gray rock. Just like during their first reunion in this strange dreamscape, Yi Dao’s inspecting the wine, judging which one will be best, but contrary to that long-past night, now he notices her presence straight away. Shooting her a quick look over his shoulder Yi Dao stills — and then turns to face her fully, brow curved up.

“What’s with the long face?” he asks, nodding up at her expression with a frown. His gaze stays cautious, attentive, even as he delivers words that otherwise would’ve sounded like a tease, “Kaifeng’s turning out to be more trouble than you can handle, pup?”

She shakes her head, arms coming up to cradle her middle — a need to self-soothe she’s rarely ever felt in these dreams, with him. But now…

“It’s not that.”

A strange kind of anxiety churns in her gut, the remnants of grief pouring out unchecked still caught at the edges of her vision — in the fluttering beat of her heart. When she licks her lips, it tastes of salt and anguish, just freshly shed. Yi Dao’s gaze on her grows even heavier — she is not brave enough to meet it yet.

“What is it then? Huh? Speak up, this is unlike you.”

Hands curling into loose fists at her sides, she works her tense jaw for a moment — considers the words and questions pulling at her tongue, at the heavy tremble of her heart. She does not have the will to face some of them, their helpless wishes and impossible miracles, but others… maybe she was running from them for too long already.

“Do you think…” The sentence veers off, words disappearing in the leftover fog of her waking pain. Taking a long, deep breath, she steels herself and gestures to the landscape around them — Blissful Retreat tranquil and unburned. “Do you ever wonder what this place really is? And don’t tell me it’s a dream, it’s not.” Words rushing out of her with more force than expected, she meets Yi Dao’s frown with a spark of defiance igniting under the heavy shroud of grief still on her shoulders. It makes her own brows draw in tightly, a fresh wave of brazen rebellion rising under her ribs, hardening her voice. “I’ve had plenty of dreams since then and not one of them ever felt like this. So this can’t— can’t be just a dream. I know it isn’t…”

Yi Dao’s gaze on her hardens, dark eyes like flint, unmoved in the face of her naked hopes — laid out bare and trembling. His voice, when it reaches her, cuts just as surely as his blade.

“Really, you know it? So what is it, then? What could it possibly be if not a dream?”

The words sound like a taunt — like a challenge. Arms spread and expression heavy, he dares her to answer what cannot be answered. And even as she tries to raise to the occasion, as she opens her mouth to give voice to the foolish longings burrowed in deeper than her grief, nothing comes.

With a sigh, Yi Dao lowers his arms, face losing some of its hardness. He shakes his head, as if defeated — resigned almost.

“It doesn’t matter whatever else this could be, you should never consider this anything but a dream. You are courting insanity every time you follow down this road.” His voice softens the more he speaks, dropping into a low murmur as he steps closer, his own resolve chipped away by the anguish slowly hazing the edges of her vision. “You’re just dancing with ghosts now, pup, nothing more.”

Trembling, she exhales a breath that catches, painfully, right in her throat. Biting down on her lips, she tries to look away — to blink back tears that threaten to unravel her completely.

“That’s—” Her voice hitches, head shaking as her arms tighten around her middle. “That’s not fair…”

Eyes falling shut, stinging and blurry as she holds herself from falling apart, she does not notice as Yi Dao steps up close. So close she can feel his warmth radiating into her very core before his palm cradles the side of her face, skin rough and hardened in battle, yet touch so impossibly gentle it shocks her into a breathless gasp — into locking eyes with a gaze that carries experience beyond her years. It holds her still more surely than any other force ever could.

“I know,” he tells her, the brush of his thumb over the line of her cheekbone featherlight — as soft as the distant sadness in his face, “everyone always dreams of venturing into the jianghu, but no one’s ever prepared for what it costs. I wish I could’ve spared you its first lesson, but…” A deep sigh slowly lifts his chest — a weight all too easy to recognize, and yet too personal to truly learn. His gaze fleets over her, here and somewhere else completely, until she rises her hand, catches his wrist in her palm, and when their eyes meet again, his are twin pools of unspoken past, dark with awareness she is only beginning to learn.

“I’m sorry,” she says, out on a trembling breath, so soft it leaves almost a whisper — sorry for not listening, for getting you all tangled up in our mess, “I’m so sorry,” for not leaving with you when you told me to, for— for— Her breath hitches, fingers tightening around Yi Dao’s wrist to keep his palm where it is as her head shakes, eyes stinging, “I failed you, I should’ve went— went with you and—”

“Foolish pup.”

Eyes snapping up, a half-strangled, half-swallowed noise still caught in the back of her throat, she finds Yi Dao looking down at her with a wry smile on his lips. At her shock, his low huff rings with an all too familiar edge of amusement.

“It was also my decision to stay, or are you trying to take that away from me as well?”

“What?” She blinks, all at once untethered and left drifting, mind torn between grief and the sudden need to refute, “No, no, of course not! I—”

“Good,” he interrupts, palm sliding just that bit deeper along her jaw, her neck, the tips of his fingers buried along her hairline — it shocks her still as much as the look in his eyes, as heavy as it is amused, “then you can stop apologizing. My choices were my own, girlie, try to remember that.” His fingers curl around and under her chin, giving her head a slight shake as his mouth curves into a half-smirk. Then he takes his hand away, turning slightly, his head cocked in invitation. “C’mon,” he tells her, stepping back to the stone ledge with rows of Parting Tears.

Swallowing heavily, she forces herself not to chase desperately after his departed touch. The ghostly warmth still tingles at her skin, a brand too easily fading as she watches him sit down with his back against the gray stone, gesturing at her to join him. When she does, settling all too close to be decent, to not mean anything, he only gives her a side-long glance, lips curved in a slight smile. Lets her lean her weight on his shoulder, arm loose and braced just-so behind her back.

“Did I ever tell you why I agreed to take you to Kaifeng?” He asks, reaching for one of the smaller jars with his free hand, as nonchalant and relaxed as one can be. Only the weight in his shoulders — the tension at the corners of his eyes — reveals what still churns in the air around them. What makes her heart thump a heavy beat on her ribs and draw her knees close to her chest.

“Not really,” shrugging, she presses herself even closer to Yi Dao’s side, a strange, lightning-like feeling sparking over her lungs, “I thought maybe you decided to help me find Uncle Jiang so you could get to that secret Chu Qingquan talked about.”

Yi Dao huffs out a bark of a laugh, giving her a somewhat incredulous look.

“You haven’t figured that one out yet, pup? And here I thought you’ve been getting smarter.”

“What do you mean?” Ignoring the jab, she feels her brows draw into a frown. “Did you figure it out already and never told me?” The implication stings, yet seeing the quietly considering look in his eyes stills her tongue from lashing out. As usual, it turns out Yi Dao knew much more than he ever let on.

“I’ve meet your Uncle before, though I didn’t pay him much mind then.” He starts after a moment, the corner of his lips quirking up at the surprise surely showing all over her face. “Thought him like all those other noble types, so-called great heroes. Obsessed with their duty and saving everyone, all of them the same.” A snort leaves his throat as he shakes his head, but she dares not to interrupt, even if his derision sparks some irritation — weren’t he a hero now too? Yet, when he continues, his voice lowers into something quieter, more sober. “Birds of a feather, him and Chu. A man like that, do you think he’d so readily abandon his mission to raise a child in exile?”

His heavy gaze lands almost like a blow — a cup of freezing water emptied over her head. With her eyes wide, she opens her mouth in shock — hand instinctively rising to cover a pendant that no longer hung from her neck.

“You think…?”

“It’s as I said, this whole place built by the Water Lady herself, a paradise in hiding, you being raised and taught martial arts by someone like Jiang Wulang for all these years — who was it all for?”

“But…” His words, all too plausible, ring in her ears like bells, yet she finds them too hard to believe. She was just… the Young Master of Blissful Retreat, how could she be the reason… “The Aureate Pavilion didn’t come looking for me though and— and Aunt Han had her own secrets so I can’t—”

“I’m not saying that’s not true,” he interjects, almost gently. “But think, pup, why would Jiang Wulang raise a child that was not important to him? Even exiled, he could’ve found a way to continue his mission without that responsibility.” Seeing the disbelief in her eyes, Yi Dao sighs, head shaking slightly. “Believe what you want, but mark my words. Whatever secret Jiang Wulang was hiding, you were part of it.”

Done with explaining his reasons, Yi Dao brings the jar of wine to his lips and she’s left in a haze of confusion, mulling his words through years of observing her uncle, through the strange encounter with the man in black and her missing pendant. A suspicion burns in her mind, but the warmth by her side steals her attention away, not least because of the way Yi Dao rises his arm to loop it around her shoulders, heavy and comforting.

“Be that as it may, I still haven’t told you why I agreed, have I?” He reminds, looking down on her with a half-smirk rising the corner of his mouth.

The expression makes something jump and twist in her, a thrill that’s only slightly tampered by the heaviness in his eyes.

“So it wasn’t because…”

It’s a thought almost too heady to consider — almost impossible not to cling to when he shakes his head in response.

“In part, maybe. Chu Qingquan certainly would’ve had my head if I let a little bird like you venture in to the jianghu on her own, Jiang Wulang’s secret or not.”

The thought seems to bring him some humor, lightening up his features with sincere, fond recollection before he looks back to her and it’s swept away in a much more serious, somber expression. With the way Yi Dao’s gazing at her, she could almost think…

His words, when they come, are so low and hushed, the murmur wakes goosebumps along her skin.

“When you first asked me to take you to Kaifeng, I thought — this little brat? she won’t last a day in the jianghu with that sharp tongue of hers. I didn’t mean to agree, not at first, but…” His eyes trail lightly over her face, distant in memory yet all too present with how they make her shiver. When their gazes meet, at last, he does not look away. “I’ve seen enough already. Blissful Retreat was too small for a fledgling bird like you — you’d fly the nest before your wings grew proper feathers and fall into jianghu’s vast waters without the chance to see it properly. I thought, if I can take you with me, then at least I could prevent this little sparrow from shattering her wings before she can fly out on her own. And when the day came where we parted ways, you’d have grown into a hawk and seen the true jianghu.”

Heart hammering against her throat, she doesn’t dare to look away, to move even a single inch as if even a deeper breath could splinter apart the charged air between them. Idly, Yi Dao’s thumb brushes over the curve of her shoulder, a steady comfort amidst his admission, the heat of his touch seeping deep under her skin despite the layers separating them.

As if her every thought is plainly visible and open for him, Yi Dao gives her a quick smile, small and short; one meant in comfort, soothing despite the look in his eyes.

“I do not regret my choices, pup. When it came down to it, I’m glad I could at least make sure you’ve got the chance to see the true jianghu, even if I couldn’t be there to guide you through its waters. That’s all you’ve ever wanted, wasn’t it?”

At the sting of tears in her eyes, his grow darker, somber in memory and heavy with lost chances. Consumed by the need to offer the same comfort he’d given her so readily, she rises a trembling hand to cradle his face in an open palm. The bristle of his beard is softer than she expected, tickling as she traces light fingertips over the many scars dissecting the skin under his cheekbone. At her touch, his eyes turn half-lidded, a gleam to them that sparks like flint over her spine, and still — the air between them remains weighted, threaded through with loss that doesn’t want to be articulated. She can see it, in the depth of his gaze, the words that remain unspoken — yet still…

“My only regret is the hurt I caused you,” he tells her, a quiet, private concession, “I wish I could spare you the pain I brought on you, pup. The pain I’m still causing you, even if you’re the one refusing to let me go, you stubborn mule.”

How can he be smiling at her — she wonders hysterically, desperately — while saying such things?

“Blade…” His name escapes her in a hush, a strangled breath like a confession of her own, no words following but the sting of tears and the choked air in her lungs.

Her palm trembles where it rests on the curve of his jaw and something in Yi Dao’s face gives, softens. When his hand rises from her shoulder to curl around her cheek, almost a mirror of her own touch, it’s nearly enough to unmake her.

“I can’t promise I’ll stop pushing you,” he admits, voice low and rough, like it costs him to say it— “but you should know I never wanted to cause you such misery. I still don’t. I’d take it away, if I could.” —like the gentle brush of his thumb over her cheekbone is not making her want to weep.

“You could…” she breathes out — a secret no longer possible to keep.

Paying no attention to the spark of surprise in his eyes, she leans closer, heart ready to leap straight out of her chest and into his open palm. For a single moment, as Yi Dao follows her lead, as their noses brush and their breath mixes between them, she thinks he will let her — will welcome her kiss and press it back with a passion she’s been dreaming about. But the sigh he lets out is heavy as it swipes over her parted lips, as the hand at her neck tightens its grip to pull her back.

“Pup…” It’s no more than a murmur, so low and deep in his chest she can feel the resonance of her own grief in the rumble it carries.

The sound that escapes her cracks in half with futile desperation — with helpless hopes smashed to pieces at the finality of his rejection, at the pain that blooms under her ribs worse than ever before. Her hand slips down from his face, clutching at the edge of his robes as if its her last lifeline. And still, when Yi Dao nudges her to look up, to meet his gaze, she cannot deny him.

His eyes are heavy, dark with regret and an emotion she cannot — will not — try to name. It is plain on his face, in the rough, weighted breath lifting his chest under her palm. He looks like he’s about to speak, then aborts, head jerking to the side in a shake that stops halfway through. When at last he faces her again, it’s with a finality that cracks her bleeding heart open all over again.

“You deserve better than a dead man,” he says, and the pain that spears through her almost makes her wail in despair.

It chokes her, this hurt she can barely swallow down, sticking to her lungs like the grief that spills fresh tears down her face. Lips pressed so tightly together they ache, she shakes her head, her eyes falling shut in futile effort at halting this pain from consuming her. Yi Dao’s hand at the back of her neck, so big his fingers cover the side of her throat, tightens its grip just as her own clutch at the robes over his chest, numb against the warmth that should feel like safety and yet caused nothing but anguish now. And yet, when Yi Dao pulls her in, arm heavy around her shoulder, she goes willingly — presses her face right into the crook of his shoulder, the scent of leather, metal and the oils he uses for his blade filling her whole world, drawn in greedily into quivering lungs.

I’m sorry, she thinks she can hear, barely audible as Yi Dao’s beard tickles her forehead, I wish I could give you what you need, pup. I truly do, forgive me…

Shaking on sobs not allowed to pass her lips, swallowed down like blades cutting up her throat, she presses herself impossibly closer. Clings, desperately, as if she could climb right under his skin — fuse her being with his warmth and never depart this dream, this landscape of lost chances and impossible hopes. Arms tight around his neck, she trembles as Yi Dao all but draws her into his lap, cheek leaning heavily on the side of her head. His breath is deep and heavy against her ear as he embraces her, one hand steady at her nape, warm and big and half-tangled in her hair, and another on her lower back, stroking along her spine as if to soothe the ache he himself has caused.

It makes her shiver. Makes trapping the horrible, painful sounds back inside her lungs feel impossible — catches the single, pathetic mewl right at the tip of her tongue as Yi Dao pulls her in even stronger than before. As if just as desperate for the reality of this dream to turn true, as if trying to impress his resolve into her skin through touch alone. As if it would mean anything, come dawn.

I’m sorry, drifts around her in a low, cracking murmur, haunting like the ghost she refuses to let go — the ghost following her every waking moment. The source of her unending grief.

Maybe she should listen to him. Maybe she should let go and move on. Leave this dream behind and face the world without— without—

Under the trembling of her shoulder, beneath the bleeding wound of her heart, a spark of defiance ignites anew. It burns amidst the pain, a bittersweet ache amongst a sea of grief — how could she give up so easily? How dare he even suggest such a thing? Speak like that to her and then push her away? That was her promise to keep and she would not let him go, not even if the gods asked her to.

With a renewed flame in her heart, she holds on even tighter — draws in a long, trembling breath and pushes her face even deeper into the space beneath Yi Dao’s chin, into the warm cradle of his embrace. As if sensing the change, his own shoulders droop, tension slipping away on a sharp, heavy exhale that stirs the hairs by her ear and wakes gooseflesh on the bare skin of her neck. The gesture seems relived, resigned, as if he knew, instinctively and innately, the decision she came to, yet — his hold does not waver. Instead, it grows ever firmer, one arm encompassing all of her back easily to hold onto the side of her ribs, nose buried in her hair and chin brushing over the top of her head in a move almost close to a nuzzle.

Safe in his warm embrace yet again, she lets herself melt. Holds onto the leather lapel of his armored robe and falls, ready to do what’s necessary. Whatever it takes.

*

At night, they continue to meet. They speak nothing of what occurred — of the somber confessions laid bare and the charged heat rising between them. They drink the Parting Tears of their dreams, they fight as if they’re dancing around each other rather than sparring, and they keep trying to unravel the mysteries she encounters in her waking hours. Yi Dao’s eyes watch her sharply, dark and guarded, hungrier than ever before, yet steeped in the heaviness of regret and the futility of their immaterial bond, caught where none of them could truly reach.

It hurts, every single night. Aches. Burrows deep into her bones and cuts apart the weeping wound of her heart, but it is her only solace and her only hope. She would not let it go, no matter the pain.

In the light of day, outside the only space she longs to be, Kaifeng continues to test her. Not only with the desperation of common folk more visible than ever, all around her in the Forsaken Quarter, demanding both her heart and her resolve to please, young hero, help us, you’re the only one who can, but with the hidden underbelly of blood and suffering too, a cave full of cages and people driven insane by captivity and torture of kinds one would not chose to think about. It gnaws at her, poisonous fangs and hooked claws biting through the fine layers of not yet hardened armor shielding her soft underbelly, determined to wear her down. A young fledgling, with wings still not properly feathered, rings in her head in Yi Dao’s low timbre, half-mocking, half-gentle, the way only he managed to be, and yet — she refuses to back down. The voices of the people seem to cling to her lungs, vibrate between her ribs like cracked bells, a call to action she cannot leave unanswered. Even when her friends turn out to be not who she thought they were, golden-rot and painful past hidden under cat ears and the power of a nation behind a kind smile, she pushes on. Because of the poison swimming in her veins, yes, but also because the people of Kaifeng demand it of her — because Yi Dao’s reprimand for her stupidity was harsh and growled with strain at the corners of his eyes and his energy buzzing in a way she couldn’t ignore.

“Whole life ahead of you, yet you throw it all away! And for what?” he spat out when she’d told him about the stolen basin, about her impulsive agreement to drink from the vial, his eyes stormy and voice sharper than ever. It rang clear in his words, resonated easily with the tension rolling off his shoulders, and yet— When she came close enough to feel his warmth, to cup his bearded jaw in her palms, he let her.

“I won’t allow the poison to run its course,” she vowed, heart aching and drumming out the understanding of his fears on her own lungs. The rigid line of his spine did not lessen, but something in his eyes gave, just slightly.

“Good. You’ll do just that if you know what’s best for you,” it might’ve been intended a threat, but the low rumble of his voice gave away his true thoughts just as well as the way his chin dipped into the cradle of her hands, “You steal the antidote if you have to, pup. Or I’ll haunt you into the beyond to kick your arse for this recklessness, mark my word.”

“I know,” she smiled, letting herself lean closer, enjoy the way his beard tickled at her palms, “I’d expect nothing less of you.”

“Audacious brat,” he huffed in answer, finally a glimpse of a smile lightening the frown on his face. He caught her chin in-between his thumb and forefinger then, grip steady and sure, before giving her a light shake only to laugh at her floundering. “Serves you right,” he said, a smirk growing on his lips despite the sharpness in his eyes. Giving her another shake, he released his grip, an echo of his warmth still tingling on her skin. “Now get to it, pup, or I’ll have to kick your arse for dawdling here uselessly instead.”

She wouldn’t have minded, truly. Even after the air between them has grown heavy, charged with tension that sparked like smouldering embers and the aching regret from her hopeless, rejected longing given all but words to express. The awareness stays ever present, haunting like the ghosts of her past, yet unaddressed in the light of her waking days and their mounting urgency. And so — she pushed on. On and on, through the market full of masked people and banned tang coins, the only currency of survival, through the furnace full of molten metal and rooms filled with gold and robbed treasure. Through a fight that almost costs her her life, a fight that seems impossible, her twin blades against an evil man turned the looming golden figure of a fake god, ready to strike her down with the force of hundreds stolen souls. It is at that moment, where her arms weaken and her breath does not come, as it all seems like the end, when she feels it — the resonance. An echo of a song — the melody of hundreds of voices, giving her blade strength to strike the fake god down. When it is all said and done, when the Ember of East raises from their knees to face the prefect of Kaifeng, when the emperor passes a law that lights a new hope on the city and its common folk, it’s that moment — the song of daring belief and silent resilience reaching all the way into the bottom of the furnace, into the core of her blade and the heart behind her ribs — that will not let her rest.

It sticks to her all the way through the discussion the three most powerful people in Kaifeng have about their new policies, through the long, slow trek back into the Forsaken Quarter and the humble bedroll Granny Turtle let her use. Through the fussing the old croon gives her and the quick meal she forces on her, and then when she can finally rest, when she lays down to sleep through the last couple of the night’s hours, it still swims in her veins — how the energy of the common folk’s song gave her the strength to win.

She thinks about it as she falls into the dream — into the white-and-green, lush landscape of Blissful Retreat in full bloom. As she approaches the lone figure sitting beside the stream, sharpening his blade with quiet precision, methodical and focused in a way that makes her spine tingle.

It will not leave her mind. The clear, resounding echo of the people’s voice filling the shimmering air around her — the force of her strike gliding along the sharp edge of its resonance. The energy that filled her to the brim as she rushed the fake god to strike him down, stronger than she has ever felt before, just in that single moment. How could it be possible? If it was all meant to be an illusion? Just Aureate Pavilion’s tricks and the glimmer of gold treasure to hide them? When she could feel it, the force of people’s voices weaving through her own strike? How could she see it as anything other than proof? Proof that there was more, that there is a way to—

“Are you just gonna stand there and stare, or will you come over here?” Yi Dao’s voice drags her out of her mind, eyes dark and serious as he takes her in — all the exhaustion in her shoulders and the echo of a life-altering fight about her posture. It turns his features grim as he catches on, blade put away onto his back as he stands. “What happened? You look like hell dragged you through and spat you out, pup.”

“It’s over,” she says, but her mind is already far away. Back at the night a few long days ago, when she laid down in a coffin with a quiet desperation for solutions that would not reveal themselves, when she woke up in a poisonous fog with green lanterns to guide her through a maze of dead stalls and a man begging her for help.

The ghostly figures of marching soldiers shimmer at the edges of her vision as she blinks, remembering the immaterial armor she donned to follow them — the ethereal figure of a general waiting for a last battle to set him free. She thought it a dream, when she woke up back in the coffin, the spirit money floating on the day’s morning breeze, a memory of her blades meeting the spectral weapon of a long-dead general still reverberating in her arms, but now—

Now she looks at the furrow in Yi Dao’s brow as he crosses the space between them in a few, swift strides, his eyes stormy and hard as she remains frozen solid — could it be?

“What is it?” he presses, growls almost, tension clear in the line of his shoulders — in the strain just at the edges of his low tone. “Spit it out, pup, what’s over?”

The next breath she draws in is almost a gasp, eyelids fluttering as she blinks through the mirage of ghosts, golden gods and the green bloom of her lost home, only Yi Dao’s stark figure draped in deep cobalt and glinting silver standing out against the haze. Her world narrows down, just as his hands raise to her throat — covering the sides of her neck easily, his thumb right under her chin.

“Pup—” It sounds like it was meant to be a reprimand, yet lost its bite to concern somewhere along the way.

Shivering, she looks over the tightly drawn lines of his face — the frown shadowing a gaze that seems to look right into her very core. Overcome, all at once, with a fright of impossible hope just within reach, she catches onto his wrists — clings, as her throat works under his palms.

“I got the antidote, Kaifeng’s safe. The policies passed tonight should ease the people’s suffering,” she starts with, heart fluttering at how his posture uncoils immediately, rigidness giving way to something gentler, softer, even if still hidden under a frown.

“So you won’t suffer for your recklessness after all,” he sums up, as always unapologetic for digging into her careless actions, but as he tips her chin up to look her over, his eyes remain heavy, “yet you still come in here looking like you’ve seen into death’s eyes. Don’t play around with me, girlie, what’s this about?”

Despite the firm, gentle touch at her neck and the attentive, focused gaze locked onto her, she feels her heart thunder on her ribs with apprehension — with fear. Past dreams and halted conversations fleeting through her mind, but… Licking her lips, she tightens her grip, wills him to listen.

“I’ve fought a man that stole people’s souls to turn himself into a god. I felt the voices of the people give me strength to strike him down,” she tells him, words falling out quickly, urging him not to refute her — a frantic edge fluttering under her voice. At the disbelief slowly trickling onto Yi Dao’s face, she pushes closer into his palms, clings as if to impress her words into his skin. “It was real. As real as me and you — here, right now. Please, Blade, I know how it sounds, but—”

“But?” He interrupts her, voice hard as his expression turns from disbelief into grim reproach, “There is no but here. I’ve told you to stop chasing ways to make this anything more than it is.” His touch turns cold on her skin, stiff and unresponsive despite the heat he always exudes so easily, a look in his dark eyes that cuts her chest right open. “This is beyond reckless, you’ll turn yourself mad and what for?”

“FOR YOU!”

It rips out of her like a bloody dagger from a fresh wound, dripping viscera and trailing salt down her cheeks.

“Surely, you must know,” she hiccups, her voice breaking in two, frayed with torn edges, “you must know it’s all been for you.” She clings ever stronger as Yi Dao’s eyes widen in shock, body leaning away from her as if struck. Her grip turns deathly, bone-white, so hard he must be feeling it, even through the difference of their strength. She can barely give words to her deepest longings, yet… It slips away on a whisper, her eyelashes wet as her palms slide up Yi Dao’s hands, holding them against her. “Do you not know my heart by now?”

His shoulders droop down, slack with shock still carved into the lines on his face — if not for her grip, his touch would’ve left her skin already.

Heart pounding on her ribs, she watches the breath that shudders out of him, hard and drawn-out. On the tail-end of it, his expression transforms. His mouth thins into a harsh line, corners digging deep with disapproval, half-lidded eyes covering up pain with resolve that cuts a sharp, cold line down her back. No…

“And so you would waste away your life? Chase the impossible until you turn yourself mad and all of it for what? For a dead man? Foolish. Reckless. You—” His jaw clicks shut, muscles working as his fingers relax from the claws they turned into — digging into her skin as sharply as the words did into her heart, every single one spit with vitriol that made her breath catch and her heart freeze. But now his frown smooths out, just slightly, just enough to turn from burning anger into cold resolution, a flash of grief and pain transformed into grim acceptance.

The sight of it strikes a fear into her worse than any insult or rejection ever could — the frantic beat of her heart leaping straight into her throat.

“Blade—”

“No.” The refusal cuts through her words mercilessly, silencing her before she can utter anything more, and his whole posture sets as he straightens, eyes distant. Blank. As if he’s far away already, as if— “I won’t let you waste away for the sake of an impossible dream. I won’t have you on my conscience, no after…”

He exhales heavily and the look in his eyes — her heart stops, stutters, and then drops right into her stomach as he withdraws. Touch slipping away from her skin like a ghost of warmth and regret, falling through her fingers as if it was water, all at once immaterial and beyond reach. She’s still clawing away at the empty air where his hands just rested when he steps back, ignoring all of her silent and whispered pleas. Pain twists the corners of his eyes, his mouth, yet his face stays grim — set in stone. Unmovable. Like the mountains he used to split with his blade. A blade that no longer sat at his back.

“What do you mean?! Blade—” Her voice stammers in dread, words catching in her lungs at the way he shakes his head, so distant suddenly as if a chasm opened up between them in just a step.

“Don’t play stupid with me now, pup, you know exactly what I mean. This is no way to live. And if you won’t agree to leave on your own, then…” His whole posture hardens, the flicker of regret and pain still visible in his eyes fizzling away into something dark — something inexorable, harsh and resolute. “So be it. I’ll find a way to do so.”

Panic blooms sharp and biting under her ribs as he turns away, a set to his shoulders as if he truly means to leave. Not only this place, this dreamscape of unrealized longings and everlasting hope, but her, once and for all.

“NO!”

With a shout that tastes of blood and metal, she jumps forward—

“Don’t you dare leave me here!”

—catches him by the robes on his arm and pulls, energy pouring into her grip and Yi Dao all at once.

He stumbles, a flicker of shock passing through his face before it’s wiped away with an expression like thunder and a counter that almost sends her back a couple paces. And as their eyes meet, desperate against burning with pained anger, she realizes that this is it. That they would’ve always ended up right here — the dance they’ve been performing around each other, the endless nights of unspoken desires and simmering regret. She’s known it already, long ago. And, at this moment, when it settles deep into her soul, she is calm. Despite the tears stinging at her eyelashes, despite the tremble in her fingers. Hope sings anew in her chest, lush and untamed. She knows what to do.

“Have you lost your mind?!” Yi Dao spits at her, teeth bared, a wildness about him that reminds her of feral wolves, backed into a corner and ready to rip. It seeps under her skin, quickens her heartbeat until it thrums on her ribs like a warm drum, but instead of being scared, she feels herself raising to meet his challenge. And when he notices, because of course he does, the energy about him shifts, settling into something calmer — something far more dangerous. “This is not a matter you can just fight about and win, pup,” he warns, body settling into a familiar stance despite his words.

We’ll see about that, she thinks, determination bleeding into her bones — just a touch of vindictiveness carving a furrow into her own brow. The memories flit behind her eyes — the ghostly soldiers marching around her in endless servitude, the voices of the people carrying her strike into completion — the feel of his energy punching into her as they fought, so many weeks ago, bright and burning, alive.

“Let it go,” Yi Dao warns her, one more time, despite what they both know will inevitably happen. And so, with the shudder in her shoulders and the wetness clinging to her eyelashes, she sets her jaw and mirrors his stance.

“No.”

Energy sizzling at every point of her exposed skin, she descends upon him with the fury of countless nights burning on helpless hope — the spark of possibility singing in her veins like the song of a thousand voices guiding her blade.

Yi Dao meets her in the middle, as he had always done, an unmoving mountain against the storm of her pain and prayers. It is not a fight she intends to win, though, not the way he would think. Not because he knows her too well — knows exactly how to counter, how to anticipate her moves and use them against her — but because she’s not looking to overpower him. Not this time.

Her qi surges under her skin; leaves and debris swirling around their dancing forms as if stirred by the winds responding to her desperation. Every moment of connection, every opening she finds to touch — it pours. Swift as a river, unrelenting like the tide, she flows into every strike and pushes, energy leaving her in spades, in droves, to seep past Yi Dao’s defenses and into his very being.

“What are you doing?!” He barks, catching on quickly onto her gamble — not the meaning of it, no, but the utter strangeness of her intent.

She knows all too well she will not win a fight like that, her energy already waning, none of it put into the strength of a strike but to pour it out, pour it into Yi Dao’s and merge with his own. It will burn out before she has a chance to properly touch him, the way she knows, intrinsically, should be the way to do so. But he will not allow her, already dodging more than deflecting, already anticipating her every move, her every desperate attempt, and so she does—

“What I must,” she breathes out, barely anything more than murmur on a stray breeze, but he seems to hear it — his eyes widen, just slightly, his evasion off beat, just enough to—

Now, she thinks — and surges forward, recklessly, with all her strength.

Her energy slams into him, makes Yi Dao stumble, yet — somehow — he catches her arm still, too experienced to let her move slip past without counter. Intent on capturing her before she can go through with a plan he still hasn’t seen through, on caging her into stillness, he does not see the tell — and so, instead of countering his move, she pushes in.

They collide, two circling stars finally meeting at the event’s horizon, energy sizzling and coiling and twining together as they clash and stumble. Yi Dao’s hand on her hip is firm as he steadies them both, but before he can do anything more, she raises onto her tiptoes — and presses her lips right into his. Desperate. Hard and hungry and pleading, the way she longed for, all this time.

Truly, it is barely more than a simple kiss. Just a chaste little thing, dry and firm, his surprised grunt mixing in with the pitiful whine catching in her throat. Yes still, his fingers flex at her side — dig into the layers of her robes as if trying to reach skin, his body curling around her as if he, too, could possibly crave to get even closer. As he pulls her in, both arms strong and greedy at her back, as he presses his mouth into her, just the same way he pushes her chest into his own, no space, no emptiness, just heat and touch and longing, she moans, unabashedly, right as her lips part for him. And then, her energy fizzles out — gone, just like that.

She grows limp in Yi Dao’s hold, a doll with its strings cut off.

“Pup?!”

The dream spins and splinters around them as she blinks, only Yi Dao’s hand on her jaw and his panicked face an anchor that keeps her from slipping fully away.

“A’Lín!” he sounds frantic, shaking her as if to wake her up — cradling her into his chest with a desperation he has never shown before, “Talk to me, pup. Say something.”

Her eyelashes flutter weakly as he tries to pour some of his own energy into her, in vein. She smiles, feeble fingers brushing against his cheekbone, the scars littering his skin; a last attempt at wiping away that look from his face. When he catches her hand, traps it there, a new frown on his brow and the beginning of a reprimand surely on the tip of his tongue, she cannot help but think him beautiful. Just like this — leaned over her and closer than ever.

“Find me… when you’re back,” she tells him, her only remaining wish given voice. The last plea she could possibly ask for. And, on the sight of his surprise — the spark of understanding and disbelief in his eyes — she can finally let go.

When she surfaces, this time, to the bustle of her friends in Granny Turtle’s humble kitchen and her own body aching as if it’s been ran through with thousand blades, it’s to the inherent knowledge that she will not be coming back. That she will never see the lush landscape of her lost home in full bloom again. That the Blissful Retreat as she knew it from the impossible dream that felt more real than her waking days is lost to her. That she will not be able to go back — that she will not see him again. Won’t cross her blades with his to the beat of their hearts, a dance as old as time, won’t trade cut remarks and teasing comments as they sit around a fire with wine shared between their breaths. It’s over — this dream that bound them together. Innately, instinctively, she knows it to be true.

The air catches in her lungs, choking, as the grief surges and swells, for the loss of her only comfort — her only left connection, a thread that all but faded away. And yet — and yet — a voice, somewhere deep inside, whispers it is not the end. A twisted rope of dread and hope, of hurt and relief, that digs under her ribs until it pulls a near-silent whine out of her lips — pushes tears past her fluttering eyelashes.

“Young hero?” Voices stir beside her — the faces of new and already dearest friends gathering all around her as the world blurs, splintering at the edges of her consciousness.

Yingying’s worried face hovers over her as she frets, brushing away tears and hair out of her face. Granny Turtle’s concerned posture sways at the corner of her vision, the triplets holding each other behind and peering at her with hands clasped and fingers working restlessly, hiding without success. But it’s as she catches Big Zhao’s eyes, troubled yet attentive, that something inside her stills — settles — as if assured now, finally at peace with the oncoming dawn.

“They’ve heard,” she mutters, slurs almost, curled on her side, around the blade still clutched in her hands, but when she extends one palm to Big Zhao, he catches it readily — their eyes meeting with a spark of understanding. “They— they heard, Big Zhao, they had to,” she insists, impressing the words into her lips, into the air — into the world around them as if to make it true just by her will alone.

He squeezes her hand tighter in both of his, eyes solemn, serious, not an ounce of judgment or incredulity in his soft gaze. It feels safe, baring her most inner longings to him, even just this way, because he knows, already, what she means — and he does not refute her. He nods, instead.

At her side, Yingying stirs, a confused murmur leaving her lips:

“What did they hear, though?” she mutters, not really expecting an answer as she pets her hair, careful not to catch on the tangles made through a restless night. Still, she gets one:

“My wish.”

It catches, painfully, in her throat, a blade that cuts sharply as it goes out — bleeds all the way down her tongue and drips with salt from her chin. She blinks, rapidly, as the breath shudders in her chest — as her body trembles, overcome with grief and hope and the slightest glimmer of possibility that maybe, this time…

Big Zhao tightens his hold on her hand once more, drawing her out, drawing her in — to the present, to the light smile on his face, gentle and encouraging. Her heart thunders, the beat of a heavy blade against an unmoving mountain, and she does not look away as he says, with a sincerity that steals her breath:

“Then we will wait to see it come true with you, Young Hero.”

And her heart soars, hope burning anew.

*

Days pass. The Young Master of Blissful Retreat recovers, albeit slowly. With energy completely depleted, she gets it back bit by bit, drink, food and rest aplenty as Granny Turtle fusses over her and Big Zhao spoils her with sweets and fragrant noodles. When her strength comes back enough to let her explore the city again, she rents a place with two bedrooms, ostensibly so guests staying over would have somewhere to sleep — she does not think about the bed she claimed being big enough for two. Truly, the house was just a show of appreciation and favor — for her deeds on behalf of Kaifeng’s people — but with some care, it could make a good home, she thought. In the future when… if…

Days pass. The dreamscape does not open up for her again. When she dreams, it’s to the embrace of a fantasy — the longing touch of a wish, a plea. Sometimes, though, it’s almost as if she can see him. A lonely, traveling figure. Different robes, different blade, a stolen horse and a new weight upon the same broad shoulders. It is impossible, yet…

The thread she thought all but gone, faded with the last of her expelled energy in the landscape of a different reality, burns like a braided rope under her breast, bright and alive, willing her to hope, to go on and believe. And so, she does. With her heart on her sleeve, she trudges on, ever forward. When the doubts become too much, when they eat away at her sleepless nights and restless days, she finds people to help — causes to support. Helps a blind girl reach her home, searches tirelessly for a lotus noodles recipe, saves a doctor from vagrant bullies and distracts herself with the tales of long past heroes. The people warm up to her like cats to the gentle heat of a fireplace and Kaifeng calls her to action as if she belongs there, already. Yet still…

She looks out to the gates. Every day, and every night. Gaze drawn — moth to a flame, sun to the moon, the needle of a compass pulled straight to the north. It niggles at her heart, bites at her ribs, this untamed longing — this fervent anticipation, like a part of her knows, intimately, what lays just ahead. The impatience burns, but she holds true. Carries the blade on her back and waits, never too sure her wish will actually come to pass or if it’s all been an illusion, all along, a fantasy of her grieving, longing mind seeking consolation; the possibility cuts, down to the core, to the brittle bone and frying sinew. The mere thought of it, the chance she’d deluded herself into believing what’s impossible — hoping for a hopeless dream. It steals her breath, stings with fresh tears in her eyes. Makes her clutch the Killerblade ever closer to her heart, clinging to the one and only thing left of him, and yet — the quiet voice lodged deep inside her soul persists.

Find me, she told him, her energy spent — her heart full and lush with new faith, pear blossoms opening up after the first bite of frost. His touch had felt so real, so warm and grounding. How could she have imagined it? Imagine him? In all his infinite dualities, all the intricate details of a man she longed to know. When she confides her fears in Big Zhao, the one true and constant anchor since her very arrival in Kaifeng, he looks at her with gentle eyes, hand steady on her shoulder.

“What does your heart tell you?” he asks her, sincere — serious. No mockery, no disbelief, just the open heart of a friend.

She straightens under his attention, heart swelling — spirit steeling in determination. She does not need words to answer, just patience enough to wait. Until the gods deem her ready. Until it feels impossible to wait any longer, until she has all but forgotten to look out, to seek out his face in the crowd — until, weeks (months) later, on a completely ordinary day of errands and mischief, her world crashes, once more.

Wandering the calmer, less crowded streets near Sundries Market on the north outskirts of Kaifeng, she finds Big Zhao with a gaggle of enthusiastic children, their eye glued to his grand gestures and enthusiastic explanations of paper money. It is the same speech she has seen him perform countless times since the edict’s been put in place, never waning in his excitement — ever eager to educate and entertain the youngest of Kaifeng’s residents. She knows what will follow. The story that Big Zhao loves to tell — of a golden fire bursting from the top of a furnace and a nameless hero standing up for the common folk — is one hard to believe for anyone but the children keen on heroic deeds and magical feats. When protests from the jaded and skeptical adults arise, Big Zhao is quick to repel them:

“Well, I know someone who was there!”

To look around and catch her eye with swift awareness. Almost as if he knows she’s there, as if he can sense whenever she shows up during his grand retellings so he can catch her in the act and draw her in to participate in their little storytelling adventure. She does not mind, not really, and when he springs up, joyful eagerness in his round face—

“Young wanderer, young wanderer! Come, come! Show us how to draw that bread!”

—the gaggle of children at his heels, she goes easily. Lets herself be dragged to the table where the rest of Big Zhao’s youthful crowd waits, stars in their eyes and lips parted in awe. Tells her story as if she was there — a lowly participant, just a shadow of the true greatness, and yet, the children giggle. They whisper between themselves, trying hard not to point and draw attention, knowing better than to ask out right by now.

“How do you know all of it so well, young hero?” One of them asked, some weeks ago, eyes narrowed in thought.

“Are you the one from the story?!” Another questioned, voice high and shrill with excitement, eyes wide in wonder.

“Ahh, no, no, I was just a witness to the hero’s deeds! Really!” She denied swiftly — to curb the suspicion already rife within the common folk and spare herself the attention. Yet still, rumors spread.

No child or adult would ask outright, afterwards, but they’d always listen with rapt attention — bow to her as if she saved them personally, hand her gifts and extra noodles with no acceptance of refusal. It did not matter who listened to her story, they all seemed to know, somehow. Even now, she sees it in their eyes — the sparks of awe in the children, the quiet reverence from the adults sitting at nearby tables. Not all of them believed it, most of them didn’t, really, but the ones that do — they never turn their faces from her. Always there if needed, with a helping hand, a kind eye — a quiet moment to listen. It aches, in a weird, unfamiliar way — different from the one that haunts her lonely nights, that dogs her steps even when her mind’s occupied with another task, another adventure — another retelling for eager ears and sparkling eyes.

It’s in the middle of one of her stories then, as she describes the rivers of flowing gold and the looming figure of a fake-god, that she feels it. A frisson of tension. A spike of awareness sliding down her spine like the tip of a freshly sharpened blade. The hairs on the back of her neck rise on a gentle shiver and the next words die on her lips. She does not dare to even breath.

“Great Hero!”

“Young wanderer, what is it?”

“Big Zhao, what—”

“Hey, young hero!”

Voices rise all around her, confused and querying for attention, yet she does not hear them. The words blur, fading away as all her senses hone in, searching, seeking. There is something, someone, just at the edge of her perception — concealed, yet not at all; contained, yet unrestrained. Calm and steady and firm, yet wild with brimming potential, with the sharp, jagged edges of will and experience. It brushes against her like a question — like the first brush of permission, of belonging; a taste of hopes made flesh. Her breath catches — and her energy surges to meet it.

The street, the buildings, the people — all of it — fades away, a smudged painting seeping colors underwater, as she spins around, eyes searching franticly, desperately. The whole world might’ve as well disappeared for all that she can see through the pounding pulse of her heart, for all that she cares when—

“What’s with that face, pup?”

A voice. Low and rough and so, so familiar, a timbre that rings of the ease and warmth of countless shared nights. Out of place, out of time, out of dream, and yet — right here.

It strikes her still, frozen in place. Muscles locking up with breath trapped right within her lungs. She dares to turn her head, to seek that voice, to—

There. In the middle of the street, in one hand the reins of a horse, the other loose at his side — a half cape covering his left shoulder, robes singed and stitched together, an altogether different weapon on his back, and yet.

Yi Dao’s eyes are dark and heavy and bright as they meet her shocked gaze, the curve of his smirk a gentle blade at the edge of her throat. A specter of the night in broad daylight, the apex of her lonely dreams made whole again. No, impossible. Could it be—

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The air rushes out of her frozen lungs in a gasp, shaken loose by her swelling heart giving a single, heavy drum against the cage of her ribs. She dares not move even a single inch.

“Blade?”

A question, and a prayer. A thousand fears and dreams rolled into one, single plea.

Yi Dao’s smirk softens, his chin dips down — shoulders drooping low, uncoiling as if relieved, as if…

“Told me to find you, didn’t you, pup?” His eyes shine under the noon sun, sparking with embers under her heart, along her veins — her body coils, ready to— “Or have you changed your— Oof”

She does not wait until he finishes speaking. With two qi-fueled strides, energy buzzing as if primed to burst, she crosses the distance and crashes right into Yi Dao’s open arms.

The quiet rumble of his grunt almost disappears under the drawn-out sob spilling out of her throat. It is a dry, choked sound, muffled in the cradle between his shoulder and throat, arms thrown around his neck in a grip desperate enough to claw through fabric and skin alike — but Yi Dao catches her easily. With one hand at her lower back and one cradled under her thigh he lifts her weight effortlessly, letting her cling to him with all her strength — to push her face into his throat and clutch at his robes as if he’d disappear if she only let go for a single moment.

He balances them both with little to no effort, after the initial force of her jump pushed him back a step. Even with the heavy Mo Blade at his back and her whole figure wrapped around his middle with a crushing grip, he holds her with a gentle firmness that makes her tremble — another small sound muffled in the warm skin of his neck.

“Easy there, pup,” he murmurs, rough voice rumbling from his chest right into her own heart, “I’m here now, no need for tears anymore.” Her grip tightens, breath choppy as the side of his face presses into the wild mass of her hair, spilled out from the wide-brimmed hat that got blown off her head in her haste to reach him. It lays somewhere in the dust of the road, but she does not care, not now.

Finally gathering herself enough to lean back, to look, properly, at Yi Dao’s scarred visage, she finds herself entranced. Finds herself letting go of the cloak at his back to instead trace the new marks of survival etched into his rugged features. With trembling fingers she brushes a fleeting touch against his left brow, bisected in two by a jagged line at his temple; slips featherlight down to his cheekbone, where a faded light-pink of fresh burns blooms like a flower in spring. It is healed already, yet the air in her lungs freezes all the same, caught by memory, by the mirage of fire and death and loss.

Yi Dao watches her without a word, letting her look, letting her touch and tremble and process what cannot be explained. His hands remain steady, firm, one high on the underside of her thigh, one on the side of her waist, a strong arm around her lower back holding her weight easily. His thumb brushes soothing circles into her clothed skin and the warmth of his touch seeps through like the heat of a gentle flame, coaxing her out of the pit a still fresh grief tries to drag her back into.

Taking a long, drawn-out breath, she calms her buzzing energy into a lower pitch — traces the burn scars down his jaw, down the side of his neck and onto the sliver of exposed skin at his collar, where they disappear under familiar, weathered robes. Still his own, but worn from battle now — the chain-mail sewn into the fabric with strong thread warped from heat, the cords holding it charred and melted into the metal. It was hidden beneath his cloak, but now, as she clings to him, it has revealed the extend of damage — his whole left side holding marks of an explosion that should’ve killed him, that took him from her, a fire that ate away at life with no regards.

“How…” Her voice catches, stumbles over words that won’t come. Swallowing down the grief that tries to come up her throat, she looks back to meet Yi Dao’s dark, knowing gaze. The gentle heat in his eyes strikes her off guard — steals a beat from the heart under her breast as her eyes mist over, shaking fingers coming up to cradle his bearded jaw. It’s been cut differently — shorter at the sides, as if to hide the hair that’s just grown back over fresh scars. It tickles against her palm, as real as the heat of his core against her own, as the strength of his arms holding her up. Her eyes traces his familiar features with wonder, every new scar a testament to the impossible. When she speaks it into existence, barely more than a breath, it feels like a prayer: “You’ve survived.”

Against her awe, his expression twists, just for a moment — a shadow passing over his eyes, dark all at once. Her heart plummets, just for a moment, but his grip only tightens, reassuring.

“I don’t think I did, pup,” he says, grave and low and so, so gentle it breaks apart something fragile and hopeful inside her chest, something that, still, would not let itself be put down. Yet — just as her lips part and her vision blurs anew — the arm around her back slides up her spine, firm and steady and real, the grip of his hand on her thigh brimming with strength that could not be mistaken. Yi Dao’s eyes soften as he pulls her impossibly closer— “But then a certain little bird decided I still needed to fulfill the promise I made her,” —leaning his forehead against her own with a tender smile rising to his lips. “And she brought me back.”

On the other side of the street, a gaggle of children with Big Zhao at their helm watch the heroes’ reunion with bated breaths — giggles, whispers and aww’s aplenty as the two embrace, no regard for the passerby’s or the rules of decorum in their eagerness to be close again. It is plainly visible on their faces — the familiarity of their shared longing, a feeling that shines through every line of their entwined figures and shared gazes. A grief turned joy with trembling fingers and sure hands — a clinging heroine and her steady, lost love found anew. The young hero brims with it, the mourning she’s worn like a heavy shroud falling away to reveal a shivering happiness that blooms slowly like a flower under rising sun — unsure and still in disbelief, yet so intense it pours out in groves that make the onlookers gasp and cover their hearts in innate understanding. They pay them no mind, lost in their own little world, cradling each other with such tenderness and care it doesn’t feel right to witness and yet, how could anyone turn away?

Big Zhao watches the unfolding events with steady eyes and careful alertness, but even his attention is stolen away. He has seen the young wanderer push away her grief throughout all the weeks she’s spent in Kaifeng — has been there as it spilled over, one night of mourning and sharing tales of valor and sacrifice. And he’s been there when she defeated the fake-god and surged out of sleep with a desperate plea for a wish to come true on her lips. He thought her still caught in the snares of anguish, heavy with a heart full of yearning that would never be fulfilled, and yet. And yet.

The man she called Blade looks barely escaped out of death’s grip. Recovered, but still marked with freshly healed scars, a testament of escaping an ultimate fate — an explosion the young hero insisted had been his end. An explosion he caused to save her. A fire that should’ve claimed him, and yet. Here, on an ordinary Kaifeng street, the man holds her up as if she weighs nothing, a steady firmness to his grip and a murmur on his lips that makes the young hero tremble once again, a smile so bright blooming on her face it seems to light up the air around them. It almost hurts to look at. There are still tears in her eyes, and there are still too many curious eyes watching to make this into anything but the next big sensation among Kaifeng’s citizens. It would be talked far and wide within minutes, a broadly known story in just a day’s time, nothing to do about it now.

Sighing, Big Zhao can’t help his own private smile. Ah, young love, he thinks, as he swipes the fallen hat from the road, dusts it off, and goes to interrupt.

And, if he enjoys seeing the way the Young Hero scrambles off her returned beloved with a flustered blush on her cheeks and a nervous laugh that makes all the onlookers chitter with fondness, he does not say it out loud.

And, if the man measures him up with a dangerous glint in his dark eyes as Big Zhao hands the Young Hero her lost hat, he only acknowledges it with a light nod. No need to anger potential allies, no? So Big Zhao smiles, and shoos them along, and — when the Young Hero finally takes her beloved by the hand to lead him away — Big Zhao laughs, quietly, to himself.

Ah, young love, he thinks again. Young love indeed.