For days, the temple had been silent.

  Xu Lian spent most of them recovering, confined to the soft bed she had nearly died in. The days blurred together, marked only by the quiet arrival of warm food, the faint scent of medicinal herbs lingering in the air, and the distant presence of the one who had saved her.

  Mo Chen.

  He did not speak much. In fact, he barely acknowledged her beyond the necessary exchanges at meal times. His cold detachment was not cruel, but neither was it welcoming. He existed like a shadow in the periphery of her vision, always near yet never close. A presence that lingered, watching, assessing—but never engaging.

  And yet, she noticed.

  The meals he provided were simple but nourishing, filled with the kind of care that someone who had spent too long alone would not give without thought. The tonics and medicinal teas were precisely measured, potent, and effective. Even without speaking, even without looking directly at her for more than a moment, he was ensuring she recovered fully.

  She could not sit idly by any longer.

  She was not the type to remain helpless.

  So, when she finally felt strong enough, she began exploring.

  The temple was far larger than she had first thought.

  The halls stretched out like the veins of an ancient, slumbering beast, filled with relics of a time long past. Some rooms stood empty, their purpose lost to the dust. Others remained preserved in disarray—as if their occupants had merely stepped away, never to return.

  She moved carefully, not wanting to disturb what was not hers to touch. But the more she walked, the clearer it became—this place had not been tended to in decades.

  The air was thick with stagnancy, the windows long since shut against the world. Dust clung to every surface, scrolls and books sat untouched, their spines faded and brittle with age. Even the murals along the temple walls had dulled, their once vibrant colors veiled beneath the weight of neglect.

  Mo Chen had lived here for how long? Years? Centuries?

  And yet, it was as though he had simply existed among the ruins, rather than within them.

  She did not ask for permission.

  She simply began.

  Dusting the shelves, stacking the scattered scrolls into neat, careful piles. Some were too fragile to move, and those she handled with the gentlest touch. She wiped down tables, swept away cobwebs, opened windows that had not seen daylight in years.

  The old wood creaked in protest, stiff from disuse, but she persisted.

  And with every window she unlatched, light spilled in.

  Sunbeams stretched across the floors, illuminating places that had long been shrouded in dimness. The golden rays caught the drifting dust motes, making them swirl like stars trapped in an ancient, forgotten sky.

  She could feel the air shift, as if the temple itself were awakening from a long sleep.

  Mo Chen noticed.

  How could he not?

  She moved through the temple as if it belonged to her, tending to its forgotten spaces with a care that no one had given in lifetimes.

  At first, he considered stopping her. The temple did not need tending—not in the way she seemed to believe. He had lived in this stillness, in this cold, undisturbed silence, for so long that he had stopped noticing the dust, the dimness, the weight of time pressing down upon these walls.

  But then, he saw it.

  The way the light poured through the windows she had forced open.

  The way she moved, methodical yet unhurried, as if this was simply what she was meant to do.

  And something deep, something distant, stirred.

  Faint memories, like old yellowed lace, full of holes and dry rot, drifted at the edges of his mind. Familiar yet foreign. Fleeting.

  Someone had done this before.

  Someone had once walked beside him, hands dusted with ink and parchment, placing books in their proper order, laughing at the way he let the temple fall into quiet disarray.

  A voice—soft, warm, achingly familiar—drifted through the cracks of his fractured memory.

  "Honestly, Mo Chen, if I don’t organize these, who will?"

  The words were like a shard of glass, cutting through the numbness that had settled over him. His head ached, a dull, throbbing pain that seemed to echo the emptiness in his chest. His brow furrowed, his fingers twitching as if to grasp at something long gone.

  Who had spoken those words?

  The memory was there, just out of reach, like a shadow flickering at the edge of his vision. He could almost see her—her hands dusted with ink, her laughter like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. But the image slipped away before he could hold it, leaving only a hollow ache in its wake.

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  Did it belong to him at all? Or was it just another cruel trick of his mind, a phantom conjured from the haze of centuries? He had lived too long, seen too much, and yet the weight of those years had stripped away more than it had given.

  A trick of the mind. A fantasy of a past that did not exist.

  The thought burned, bitter and unrelenting. He exhaled slowly, the sound ragged, as if the act of breathing itself were a burden. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, grounding himself in the pain.

  It did not matter.

  The past was a wound that refused to heal, a scar that throbbed with every beat of his heart. And yet, it was not something worth chasing. To chase it would be to admit that it had meant something—that she had meant something. And that was a truth he could not bear.

  So he let it go, the memory dissolving like smoke in the wind.

  But the ache remained.

  The quiet had settled thickly between them, the only sound the faint creaking of old wood as Xu Lian forced open another warped window, letting in a fresh stream of golden light. The temple, once shrouded in cold, empty silence, now held the gentle echoes of her movements, the faint scratch of cloth against stone, the scent of dust disturbed after years of neglect.

  Mo Chen stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching her without expression.

  Finally, he spoke.

  "That is unnecessary—the cleaning."

  Xu Lian glanced over her shoulder, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Oh? So you prefer breathing in layers of dust?"

  He did not react to her teasing. "I do not need to breathe. And neither does this place."

  She sighed, turning to face him fully. "Fine. But I do."

  Mo Chen tilted his head slightly, regarding her with that unreadable gaze. Then, he spoke again, his voice low, measured.

  "When you live alone for long enough, these mundane things lose meaning. Dust, clutter, time—they are all just remnants of a world I no longer belong to." He shifted his gaze to the sunlight filtering through the now-open windows. "I have spent too many years as an observer of the world, not a participant. I have watched dynasties rise and fall, the great cultivators of ages past rise to power and crumble into dust. The world changes, people are born, people die, and yet, nothing truly shifts. It is an endless cycle."

  His voice deepened, taking on an almost imperceptible weight.

  "I am only waiting. Waiting for the world to end, for everything to disappear into nothingness. Only then, perhaps, my own existence will finally fade as well."

  Xu Lian’s fingers tightened around the dust cloth in her hand.

  She stared at him, then huffed out a sharp breath. "By the heavens, that is the most nihilistic, self-indulgent nonsense I’ve ever heard."

  Mo Chen blinked at her.

  She marched up to him, arms crossed. "So you’ve been watching the world for centuries like some brooding specter, just waiting for it all to end?" She scoffed. "That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard."

  His gaze darkened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. "And what would you have me do instead?"

  Xu Lian spread her arms. "I don’t know—participate? Experience it? Be something more than a ghost wandering through history?"

  Mo Chen let out a slow, quiet breath, his expression unreadable. "The world is not as grand as you seem to believe."

  Xu Lian gave him a skeptical look. "You say that as if you’ve actually tried to live in it. But from what I hear, all you’ve done is stand on the sidelines, refusing to take part. That’s not wisdom, Mo Chen—that’s cowardice."

  He stiffened slightly at that word. His eyes flickered with a sharp, unreadable glint, but he did not immediately respond.

  Encouraged by his silence, she stepped closer, tilting her head at him. "For someone as old as you, you sure are dumb."

  His gaze snapped to hers, sharp and pointed. "Excuse me?"

  Xu Lian grinned, enjoying his incredulity. "You heard me. The world is vast, Mo Chen. It’s more than just this cold, lifeless mountaintop. For someone who claims to know so much, you seem to have forgotten that."

  Mo Chen narrowed his eyes, but there was no true hostility in them—only a quiet, wary curiosity.

  "And what exactly do you propose?" he asked dryly.

  She smiled, stepping back and placing her hands on her hips. "A bet."

  His brow lifted ever so slightly. "A bet?"

  She nodded. "I bet I can change your view of the world."

  His expression remained carefully blank. "How ambitious of you."

  "Fate led us here, to this moment," she continued, ignoring his sarcasm. "You can dismiss it as coincidence if you want, but I don’t believe in wasted encounters. We were brought together for a reason, and I refuse to squander that."

  Mo Chen exhaled slowly, regarding her in silence for a long moment. "And how exactly do you intend to change my mind?"

  Xu Lian grinned. "Simple. By making you actually live. By making you see the world for what it is—not just some slow, dying thing, but something worth being a part of." She gestured to the temple around them. "You saw this place as nothing more than a ruin, but look at it now—just a little effort, a little light, and it already feels different, doesn’t it?"

  Mo Chen’s gaze flickered to the open windows, to the golden shafts of light that had cut through the dimness, illuminating the once-forgotten space. He did not speak, but he did not refute her either.

  She continued, softer now. "I don’t care if I came from nothing. If my life has been hard. I don’t believe tragedy makes life meaningless—it makes it more precious."

  Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, but her voice remained steady. "I could have died on that mountain, Mo Chen. You didn’t have to save me. But you did. And whether you admit it or not, that means something."

  His fingers twitched at his sides, but his expression did not shift.

  Xu Lian tilted her head. "You can spend eternity waiting for the world to fade, or you can actually do something with the time you have. The choice is yours."

  Mo Chen exhaled softly, his gaze studying her with quiet intensity.

  "You speak with certainty," he said after a long moment. "As if the world has been kind to you."

  She smiled, small but unwavering. "The world hasn’t been kind. But it hasn’t broken me, either. And that’s why I can still believe in it."

  He considered her words carefully, his sharp eyes studying her as if searching for the fault in her logic.

  Then, slowly, he looked away.

  "You are persistent," he muttered.

  Xu Lian smirked. "I have to be. It’s how I survived."

  Another silence passed between them—but this one felt different.

  The ice had not thawed, not completely. But a crack had formed.

  Mo Chen’s fingers curled slightly at his sides before he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "You are foolish."

  "And yet, here I am."

  He turned his back to her, the folds of his dark robes trailing behind him as he began to walk away.

  Then—he paused.

  Without turning, he spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

  "We shall see, then."

  Xu Lian watched him disappear into the depths of the temple, a slow smile curving her lips.

  She had won this round.

  But there were many more to come.

  And she was looking forward to every single one.