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He had genuinely believed Bai Yutang meant it when he tried to drown Zhi Hua.
Mercy had never been one of Bai Yutang's defining virtues where murderers were concerned. In his uncompromising worldview, compassion rarely left room for second chances. He despised evildoers with the same incandescent fervor as Zhan Zhao—perhaps even more fiercely, untethered as he was by the constraints of officialdom. Yet, even in his wildest estimations, Zhan Zhao had never imagined the proud rogue capable of this: tampering with an active investigation he himself had aided, obstructing the law, and then twisting that very law into a grotesque weapon for personal vengeance.
And yet, here they stood.
Bai Yutang lounged on the lakeside pier, casually admiring the scenery as though enjoying a tranquil, leisurely afternoon, while beneath the murky surface of the water, their captive hung upside down by a frayed rope.
Had he truly become the very thing he hated?
There was no time to dissect the horror of the thought. Zhan Zhao launched himself forward. A few swift, defensive strikes forced Bai Yutang back, creating a fleeting opening. Seizing the distraction as Miss Huo intercepted the rogue, Zhan Zhao hauled the dripping rope with all his might, pulling a gagging Zhi Hua to safety despite Bai Yutang's furious, venomous objections.
"Why did you save him?!" Bai Yutang snarled, his handsome features contorted in raw rage. "He killed Zhao Zhi'er and Ming Zhu'er!"
Who...and who?
For a fraction of a second, a surreal dread washed over Zhan Zhao. He wondered if this was some bizarre, twisted game the three of them had devised.
But the answer arrived moments later.
The very teenagers Bai Yutang had just named came stumbling out of the treeline, gasping for breath, their faces flushed from chasing the group all the way to the lake. They were alive. Whole.
Then there had been no conspiracy. No elaborate ruse.
Unfortunately, that left only one logical, devastating explanation: Bai Yutang was not in his right mind.
It was a terrifying conclusion, one Zhan Zhao would have rejected out of hand had he not already witnessed the insidious, mind-altering effects of the Nightmare Sky poison.
"Brother Bai, what are you talking about?" the boy asked, his voice trembling with utter bewilderment.
The realization settled, thick and suffocating. They watched in tense silence as the manic defiance in Bai Yutang's eyes slowly began to unravel into a profound, hollow confusion. For a terrible moment, the rogue seemed entirely lost within an invisible storm, trapped inside a labyrinth of thoughts none of them could see. Then, just as suddenly as he had slipped away, he emerged.
His erratic gaze swept across the shoreline before locking onto a specific point among the distant, shadowed trees.
He stared. Disbelief, stark and total, flooded his pale features.
Following his line of sight, Zhan Zhao braced himself for a threat—but found nothing more than a quiet, sunlit clearing. No assassins. No movement. Nothing at all.
Whatever phantoms Bai Yutang was seeing, they existed only for him.
"What do you see?" Zhan Zhao stepped directly into his line of sight, forcing the rogue to look at him. "Are you seeing things again?"
The expression staring back made Zhan Zhao's stomach wrench. There was too much ancient rage burning in those eyes. Too much blood.
"That day in the woods," Zhan Zhao said softly, the puzzle pieces clicking together with a sickening thud, "when you fought Zhi Hua... you weren't pretending to be affected." Understanding struck him all at once, cold and absolute. "You really were poisoned."
"I wasn't."
The denial was instantaneous. Uttered without a shred of hesitation. Without a shadow of doubt. Yet, even as the words left his lips, his eyes helplessly drifted right back toward the empty clearing.
"Even if Zhi Hua didn't kill Zhao Zhi'er and Ming Zhu'er, he's still a monster who deserves to die," Bai Yutang muttered, his voice vibrating with an intensity that bordered on dangerous fanaticism. For a brief, agonizing moment, he looked directly into Zhan Zhao's eyes, his gaze so accusing it felt as though he held Zhan Zhao himself responsible for the sins of the world.
"He ruined countless lives. If the authorities take him, he'll just get a quick, merciful execution." A cold, humorless smile curved his lips as he turned his face back toward the phantom trees. "Letting him die just once... is far too easy."
Zhan Zhao’s heart hammered violently against his ribs. It felt like speaking to a complete stranger wearing his friend's skin.
Once, he might have proudly claimed they shared the same righteous anger toward injustice. Now, however, he realized they were fundamentally different. While Zhan Zhao’s anger burned like a steady, controlled flame meant to illuminate the law, Bai Yutang's was an untamed wildfire. Devouring. Destructive. Blind.
The man continued to speak, each syllable dripping with such concentrated venom that had conviction alone possessed the power to kill, every criminal beneath Heaven would have dropped dead where they stood.
And suddenly, Zhan Zhao understood.
There had always been something deeper. Some festering wound hidden beneath Bai Yutang's easy, arrogant facade. Some private, agonizing grudge that had been rotting in silence for years, until the Nightmare Sky found the crack and tore it wide open.
Enough.
Before whatever ghost haunted him could drag him any further into the abyss, Zhan Zhao stepped decisively between Bai Yutang and the empty clearing, breaking the spell.
"Bai Yutang." His voice was a firm, grounding anchor. "What you're seeing isn't real. Snap out of it."
He reached out and tightly gripped the rogue's arm.
The effect was instantaneous. The rigid, coiled tension in Bai Yutang's shoulders violently faltered.
"Listen to me," Zhan Zhao pressed on, keeping his voice steady, commanding. "Zhi Hua cannot die yet. There are things I need answers to."
Bai Yutang's gaze shifted, blinking rapidly. He looked past Zhan Zhao toward the clearing one last time, and this time, his face visibly fell. The space was empty. The hallucination had vanished back into the recess of his mind.
Zhan Zhao knew it. And Bai Yutang knew it, too.
For all his reckless bravado, Bai Yutang was a frighteningly intelligent man. He understood exactly what had just transpired the moment he caught the lingering, protective fear shadowing Zhan Zhao's eyes.
"I went to see Zhi Hua earlier," the admission came quietly, tentatively. It was a jarring contrast to his previous vitriol, sounding entirely like a child confessing a horrific nightmare upon waking. "I wanted him to talk. I was... I was trying to help you."
A wave of profound relief nearly caused Zhan Zhao's knees to buckle. Zhi Hua was alive. The children were safe. And Bai Yutang had finally returned to him.
Without a second thought, Zhan Zhao stepped closer, closing the distance between them, his grip tightening on the man’s arm not to restrain him, but to ground him.
"We can deal with the rest later," he murmured softly, his tone melting into something fiercely protective. "Leave it to me."
Bai Yutang simply nodded.
For once, there was no sharp retort. No arrogant deflection. No mocking smirk. His eyes wandered aimlessly over the dirt, as though he no longer trusted the very organs that granted him sight.
The vulnerability of the sight unsettled Zhan Zhao far more than all the bloodthirsty fury that had preceded it. He quietly studied the familiar face before him—the tightly knitted brows, the sudden, sickly pallor beneath his sun-kissed skin, the firmly sealed lips.
And those eyes. Those brilliant, striking eyes that usually gleamed with restless challenge and wicked mischief now seemed unbearably, devastatingly lost.
It was agonizingly difficult to reconcile this fragile, fractured figure with the legendary swordsman who strode through mortal danger laughing, whose confidence bordered on audacity, who proudly refused to bow his head to anyone beneath the heavens.
Yet, here he stood, utterly exposed. And perhaps that was what frightened Zhan Zhao most of all.
Bai Yutang was a man who would rather bleed to death in silence than ever appear weak. Yet, he wasn't hiding his unraveling now. Not from him. He wasn't even trying to construct a lie.
"Bai Yutang," Zhan Zhao lowered his voice, enveloping them in a private quietude. "I'll take care of everything here."
Another slow nod. When Bai Yutang finally lifted his gaze to meet Zhan Zhao's, the frantic confusion had burned away. What replaced it was total, unreserved trust. It was written plainly, beautifully, across his features. If there was one person beneath Heaven capable of setting the shattered pieces of the world right, Bai Yutang believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was the man standing in front of him.
But beneath that trust lay something far heavier. A sorrow, deep and ancient—the kind born from wounds that had never been allowed to heal. Whatever phantom he had seen among those trees, it mattered to his soul.
Nodding softly to himself, Zhan Zhao slid his hand up from the rogue's arm, lifting his palm to gently cup the side of Bai Yutang's neck.
The reaction was immediate. Bai Yutang's eyelashes fluttered shut, his chin lowering slightly, leaning his weight into the warm embrace of the touch.
It was trust, but not the loud, performative kind he usually displayed through boastful wagers and dramatic challenges. This was something quieter. Something infinitely rarer. For a fleeting moment, he looked utterly exhausted, as though he had finally found a sanctuary safe enough to set down a crushing burden he had carried entirely alone for far too long.
Zhan Zhao almost let his hand linger. Almost.
But the harsh demands of reality still waited. Zhi Hua was shivering on the pier, the local officials would be arriving shortly, and a storm of political questions would inevitably follow.
"You can't stay here," the words came with exquisite gentleness. "Go back to the inn and wait for me."
Bai Yutang opened his eyes. A profound warmth lingered in them now, softening their sharp, lethal edges.
"Alright."
No argument. No prideful complaints. Just complete submission to Zhan Zhao's care.
Zhan Zhao gave the warm skin at the side of his neck a final, reassuring squeeze before reluctantly letting go. Turning to the others, he quietly instructed Miss Huo and the bewildered children to escort Bai Yutang back to the inn, ensuring he was given the space to rest.
Only after their figures began to retreat down the path did Zhan Zhao allow himself to watch them go.
The sight was almost absurd, a surreal paradox. Bai Yutang—the terrifying, peerless swordsman who haunted the nightmares of his enemies, the infamous White Rat who feared neither Heaven nor Earth—being ushered away like a chastened, weary child.
Yet, there was no mockery in Zhan Zhao's chest. Only an aching tenderness, and a quiet, unyielding certainty. If Bai Yutang was willing to entrust him with his weakest, most broken moment, then Zhan Zhao would carry that trust as fiercely and as carefully as he carried his own sword.