The sword practice over the past few weeks had drained her.

  Xu Lian had studied cultivation for years—but never like this. Theories inked onto yellowed scrolls had given her a foundation, but theory was nothing compared to the harsh reality of motion. Swordplay was not a mere extension of one’s body, but of one’s intent, balance, and breath. For the first time, she understood just how much her body lagged behind her mind.

  Her arms ached, her shoulders burned, and blisters had begun forming across her palms, raw and angry from gripping the wooden sword too tightly. She flexed her fingers against the porcelain tea cup, sighing at the warmth it provided.

  Across from her, Mo Chen sat in his usual silence, his posture elegant and composed. The contrast between them was almost laughable.

  She, a panting mess of aching muscles and disheveled hair.

  He, as still and unreadable as the mountains themselves.

  The courtyard was softer now, less cold, less forgotten. The sun, now past its highest peak, cast golden hues across the stone and softened the jagged edges of the world. The temple, once a place of stillness and shadow, did not seem so dead today.

  A gentle breeze drifted up from the valley, rolling over the edges of the courtyard and carrying with it the scent of damp earth and mountain air. The storm that had loomed in the distance was still there, but now only a backdrop—its black clouds reduced to mere smudges on the horizon, its lightning dim, its thunder swallowed by the wind.

  For once, there was more light than darkness.

  Xu Lian inhaled deeply, letting her eyes close for a moment as she sipped her tea. She had never truly understood what it meant to feel the weight of one’s own exhaustion—the satisfaction of it.

  A single lesson, and she had already learned so much.

  She set the cup down, running her sore thumb absently over the rim.

  Then, carefully, she turned her attention back to Mo Chen.

  "You’re quieter than usual," she remarked lightly, her voice gentle, careful.

  Mo Chen exhaled softly, his gaze fixed on the distant mist beyond the cliffs.

  "I was waiting," he said, lifting his cup to his lips.

  "For?"

  "For you to gather your thoughts."

  She smirked, shifting in her seat. "That’s a polite way of saying you expected me to complain about the training."

  His brow lifted slightly. "You were out of breath within the first thirty minutes. I would not have blamed you."

  Xu Lian huffed a small laugh but said nothing. Instead, she let the moment settle, the quiet stretching between them in companionable ease.

  Then, gently, like reeds bending with the wind, she probed again.

  "Mo Chen, tell me about your sect."

  She did not demand it. Did not press him.

  She simply asked.

  Mo Chen was silent for a long time.

  Then, without looking at her, he finally spoke.

  "It was a place of order and discipline," he said, his voice carrying the weight of memory, quiet but not fragile. "The sword was not just a weapon—it was a way of life, an extension of one’s Dao. The sect was built on the foundation that strength was not found in bloodline or fortune, but in one’s ability to wield intent, to carve one’s own fate with steel and will."

  Xu Lian listened intently, watching him—not just his words, but his breath, his fingers curled loosely around the porcelain cup, the subtle shift of his jaw when he paused.

  He continued.

  "We lived as a brotherhood, a sisterhood. The bonds were deep, forged through years of cultivation, training, and battle. We were not simply students and masters—we were family. The temple was always full of voices—too many voices, too many footsteps, too many dreams that believed they would reach eternity."

  His words grew softer toward the end, as if something had caught in his throat.

  Xu Lian, perceptive as ever, did not interrupt.

  She could hear it.

  The nostalgia. The quiet longing.

  The ghosts of something that had once been so full of life, now reduced to nothing but dust and memory.

  She could see it—the flicker of something deep and sorrowful in his gaze, even as he stared at the sky with the practiced ease of someone who claimed the past did not matter.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  For a man who insisted there was no point in dwelling on what was lost, he looked very lost in it now.

  Mo Chen exhaled slowly.

  "When the temple stood in its prime," he continued, "it was among the most revered of the sword sects. Its halls stretched wider than these ruins, its banners hung high above the clouds. The stone beneath our feet was not cracked with time, but polished by the tread of generations."

  Xu Lian felt her chest tighten.

  "And then?" she prompted softly.

  Mo Chen’s fingers tightened around his cup, the faintest movement, the smallest shift.

  "And then it was gone."

  The silence that followed was not empty.

  It was heavy—full of things unsaid, things too painful to be spoken aloud.

  Xu Lian stared at him, absorbing every subtle change in his face, every flicker of something that did not match the cold, distant image he tried so hard to maintain.

  He was not as untouchable as he wanted to seem.

  Not in this moment.

  She took a slow sip of her tea, choosing her words carefully.

  "Sounds beautiful," she said at last. "And sad."

  Mo Chen’s gaze finally flickered toward her, deep, quiet, cautious.

  She met his stare evenly, offering no judgment.

  Only understanding.

  Xu Lian traced the rim of her tea cup, her voice thoughtful. "I used to train in a small village. The master there always said a sword is only as strong as the hand that wields it. But I think it’s more than that. It’s the heart behind the hand."

  Mo Chen’s gaze sharpened, as if her words had struck a chord. "Your master was wise."

  She smiled faintly. "He was also a drunk. But even a broken clock is right twice a day."

  Mo Chen’s lips curved slightly, the faintest hint of amusement.

  Xu Lian’s voice softened, almost hesitant. "Do you ever miss it? The noise, the chaos, the… life of it all?"

  Mo Chen’s fingers stilled on his cup. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, so quietly she almost missed it, he replied, "Every day."

  The admission hung in the air, heavy and raw.

  Xu Lian smirked, setting her tea cup down. "You know, for someone who claims to have no interest in the past, you talk about it an awful lot."

  Mo Chen’s gaze flicked to her, his expression unreadable. "And for someone who claims to be exhausted, you talk an awful lot."

  She laughed, the sound bright and unexpected in the quiet courtyard. "Touché."

  As he turned his face back to the mountains, she took in every detail of him—the way the wind toyed with his ink-dark hair, the way his throat bobbed slightly when he drank. His jawline was strong yet refined, leading to the elegant curve of his throat, where the hollow of his collarbone disappeared beneath the folds of his dark robe.

  His nose was straight and noble, neither too delicate nor too harsh, but perfectly balanced, as if carved by the careful hand of an artisan who understood restraint. The high sweep of his cheekbones cast faint shadows in the shifting light, emphasizing the quiet austerity of his expression.

  His lips—always pressed in a line of cool detachment—held neither tension nor ease, only a kind of measured neutrality that gave nothing away.

  But it was his eyes that carried the most weight.

  Framed by long, dark lashes, they were half-lidded as he gazed toward the distant mountains, their depths reflecting the muted glow of the fading storm on the horizon. The wind continued to stir the loose strands of his hair, strands as dark as the night sky, catching the faintest glimmers of sunlight where they brushed against the elegant arch of his brow.

  For a man who claimed to be indifferent to the past, his face—as still as it was—seemed carved with ghosts of memories he refused to acknowledge.

  He fascinated her.

  Not just because of his power, not just because of the mystery that lingered around him like the remnants of an old legend—but because he was someone who carried so much weight and yet claimed it did not matter.

  He was complicated.

  And she needed to know more.

  She simply lifted her cup, watching as Mo Chen stared at the past he refused to acknowledge.

  And for the first time since she had arrived, she thought to herself—

  He is lonelier than he realizes.

  Mo Chen’s gaze lingered on the mountains for a moment longer, his expression as distant as the peaks themselves, as if he were still caught between the past and present. But the moment passed, and his features smoothed into their usual calm austerity. Without a word, he rose to his feet, his movements as fluid as water flowing back into its proper course.

  "The rest of the day is yours," he said, his voice as even as ever. "Use it well."

  She blinked up at him. "You’re not going to oversee my training?"

  He gave her a cool, sidelong glance, as if the question amused him. "I have already given you the foundation. If you cannot grasp it without someone guiding your every step, you will never truly master it."

  Xu Lian huffed softly but nodded, gripping her tea cup as she watched him turn away.

  His presence withdrew like the tide receding from the shore, leaving only silence in its wake.

  He crossed the courtyard without haste, the trailing ends of his robe barely whispering against the stone. The temple doors opened for him, revealing the shadows within, and just before he disappeared into the depths of its ancient halls, the flickering lantern light caught along the dark strands of his hair, making them gleam like polished ink.

  And then, he was gone.

  Xu Lian let out a slow breath.

  She stared at the temple entrance for a moment longer before finally looking back down at her tea. It had cooled now, the warmth it once carried fading into the crisp mountain air.

  She took another careful sip, letting the stillness settle over her like a thin veil.

  Mo Chen’s story had felt… achingly familiar.

  But why?

  She had read so many scrolls, so many historical accounts of fallen sects, but this… Something about this one lingered in her mind, like a word on the tip of her tongue, just beyond reach.

  Perhaps she had seen its name before, buried among the old records of the sword cultivation sects—perhaps it was something more.

  Either way, she was determined.

  She had to know more.

  If she could find anything—any trace of its past, of its teachings, of its fate—it might give her the answers she was looking for.

  And it might tell her more about Mo Chen.

  Her fingers curled tightly around the porcelain cup as she made her decision.

  Tonight, she would search the temple’s archives.

  And perhaps, in its forgotten scrolls, she would find the key to unlocking not just Mo Chen’s past, but her own future.

  ?? Themes I Write: Xianxia | Wuxia | Cultivation | Poetic Tragedy | Immortality & Fate

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