The mist clung to the Guī Xū Shānmài like a burial shroud, swallowing the temple’s edges as Mo Chen took his first step beyond its threshold.

  Home, he’d once called it. Now, it was a tomb for ghosts.

  The wind hissed through the courtyard, carrying whispers only he could hear—not pleas, not regrets, but a challenge:

  "You’ve lingered too long."

  Ahead, Xu Lian bounded down the mountain path, her peachwood sword bouncing at her hip. Zhen Wei strolled beside her, fan fluttering like a lazy butterfly. Neither looked back.

  Mo Chen exhaled.

  It was time.

  The descent was a silent funeral. Ancient cypresses bowed over the path, their roots clawing at crumbling shrines. The air tasted of moss and memory.

  Xu Lian moved ahead, light on her feet, her steps full of an eagerness that neither Mo Chen nor Zhen Wei shared. The morning still carried the crispness of dawn, and though the road ahead was long, her energy remained undiminished.

  Xu Lian paused beside a weather-worn statue, its face eroded into a faceless watcher. “Do you think it misses us?” she asked, tilting her head.

  Zhen Wei snapped his fan shut. “Stone doesn’t mourn. But you might.” He smirked.

  Zhen Wei, ever one to break silence, tapped his fan against his palm as he studied the road ahead.

  “It’s been some time since I last traveled this way,” he mused.

  “Tell me, Mo Chen, how does it feel to finally leave your lonely mountain behind?”

  Mo Chen didn’t so much as glance at him. “Peaceful.” Zhen Wei sighed dramatically.

  “Of course. What was I expecting? Nostalgia? Sentiment? Even a shred of wistfulness?”

  He gestured toward Xu Lian. “You, at least, must feel something about leaving behind the temple where you so diligently trained.”

  Xu Lian glanced over her shoulder, fingers brushing over the peachwood sword strapped securely at her waist. “I have everything I need right here.”

  Zhen Wei hummed, flicking his fan open. “Ah, yes. Your cherished sword. A tragic fate, truly, most maidens long for love, and yet you have pledged yourself to a block of wood.”

  Xu Lian giggled. Zhen Wei tapped his chin. “A profound romance, indeed. But tell me, if it is so precious, why does it remain nameless?”

  Xu Lian blinked, momentarily thrown. “What do you mean?”

  Zhen Wei gestured lazily with his fan. “Every great weapon carries a name, does it not? Mo Chen’s Beidou. The great swords of history, passed from master to disciple. And yet, yours remains blank. A pity, really.”

  Xu Lian frowned, running her fingers over the smooth, unmarked wood. The thought had never occurred to her before. Mo Chen, walking ahead, finally spoke. “A name is not given lightly.”

  By midday, the dense forest surrendered to golden fields stretching toward the horizon. Sunlight poured over the travelers like molten gold, baking the dirt road until it cracked underfoot. Zhen Wei's voice cut through the drowsy heat, as persistent as cicadas in high summer.

  "...and that's how I liberated a sacred wine gourd from a monk who'd forgotten the meaning of joy," Zhen Wei concluded, snapping his fan open with theatrical flair.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  Xu Lian laughed, the sound bright against the quiet fields. She hitched her pack higher, the peachwood sword at her waist tapping rhythmically against her thigh. "You've got a story for every li between here and the capital, don't you?"

  Zhen Wei's grin widened. "My dear Xu Lian, what is life but a tapestry of tales? Some men cultivate strength," he nodded toward Mo Chen's broad back, "some cultivate wisdom," he tapped his temple, "I cultivate stories worth telling."

  Ahead of them, Mo Chen's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. The only sound from him was the quiet creak of leather as his grip tightened on Beidou's scabbard.

  Xu Lian's eyes sparkled with challenge. She quickened her pace until she walked backward before them, the wind catching loose strands of her hair. "Then tell us a true story for once. We've walked since dawn, and you still haven't answered what matters most."

  Zhen Wei arched an elegant brow. "And what burning question keeps our young disciple awake at night?"

  "Who are you really?" The playfulness faded from her voice. "Not the flirting, the joking, the hero-playing. When you're alone at night and the mask comes off - who is Zhen Wei?"

  The fan stilled in Zhen Wei's hand. Even the birds seemed to hush in the fields around them.

  Mo Chen stopped walking.

  For three heartbeats, the only sound was the wind through the grain. Then Zhen Wei's lips curved into something too sharp to be called a smile. "Would you believe a wandering scholar? A disgraced noble? The bastard son of a celestial fox?" His voice dropped, losing its musical lilt. "I'm a man who believes the heavens keep meticulous accounts."

  His gaze slid to Mo Chen, who stood like a statue carved from mountain stone. "What about you, old friend? Still pretending the gods are blind?"

  The air between them thickened. Xu Lian glanced between them, the weight of something ancient and wounded pressing down on her chest.

  Zhen Wei continued, his voice softer now but no less intense. "The world overflows with cultivators who chase power like dogs after meat. But strength without purpose..." He snapped his fan shut with a crack like breaking bone. "That's not cultivation. That's greed wearing righteous robes."

  Mo Chen's breathing shallowed. The noonday sun beat down, yet his hands were cold. He remembered kneeling before gilded altars, the scent of sandalwood incense thick in his throat. The way the temple bells used to sound at dusk, calling the faithful to prayer.

  Memory crashed over him like a wave:

  …The acrid stench of burning scriptures

  …Qi Tian's blade glinting red in the firelight

  …Her fingers slipping from his as the temple collapsed around them

  His nails dug crescent moons into his palms. "They exist." The words scraped from his throat like gravel. "They watch. They simply don't care."

  Zhen Wei studied him for a long moment, the playful mask gone. In that unguarded instant, his eyes held centuries of sorrow. "Ah." A single syllable heavy with understanding. "So that's the wound that never healed."

  Xu Lian's hand drifted to her unnamed sword. The comfortable camaraderie of moments before now felt fragile as rice paper. She opened her mouth, then closed it, uncertain what bridge could span this sudden chasm.

  Zhen Wei broke the silence first, shaking out his sleeves with exaggerated nonchalance. "Well! Since we're sharing truths today..." He flashed a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "I once stole a emperor's favorite concubine's slipper and made her chase me through three courtyards before dawn."

  The tension shattered like dropped porcelain. Xu Lian groaned, throwing a clod of dirt at him. "And we're back to nonsense!"

  Mo Chen exhaled slowly, the ghosts retreating to the corners of his mind. As they resumed walking, he found himself listening more closely to Zhen Wei's ridiculous tale, grateful for the distraction from heavier thoughts.

  The road stretched onward, the afternoon sun painting their shadows long before them. Somewhere ahead lay Willow's Rest and its cursed waters. Behind them, the mountain stood silent sentinel.

  And between the two - three travelers, their secrets walking with them like unseen companions.

  The village at the foot of the mountains smelled of dust, dried herbs, and the faint tang of fear.

  Xu Lian inhaled the warm scent of roasting lamb from a nearby stall, her stomach growling. Zhen Wei flicked a silver coin between his fingers, grinning.

  "Just how deep are your pockets?" she squinted.

  "Deep enough to drown in, little disciple." He tossed the coin high—then snatched it back as a farmer shouldered past, his arms full of bundled sage and salt.

  Mo Chen didn’t react to their banter. His gaze tracked the farmer’s hurried steps, the way his eyes darted toward the south road.

  Whispers slithered through the market:

  "—heard Willow’s Rest lost another family last night—"

  "—black water in their well, can you imagine?—"

  "—if it jumps the river, we’re next—"

  Zhen Wei materialized at Mo Chen’s shoulder, voice low. "Trouble?"

  Mo Chen’s thumb brushed the hilt of Beidou. The sword lay still, but the air itself felt heavy. "Not here. Not yet."

  Xu Lian pointed ahead. "There’s the stable. Let’s get horses before—"

  A crash interrupted her. A clay pot shattered near the well, its contents—murky water streaked with gray silt—splattering across the stones. The villagers froze.

  A woman hissed, "Fool! You brought water from the south?"

  The guilty man paled. "It’s—it’s not from Willow’s Rest! Just the mill creek!"

  No one moved to help him clean it up.

  Zhen Wei’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Ah. Superstition. How… convenient."

  Mo Chen turned toward the stable. "We’re leaving before dark."

  And there we have it! ?? The first steps into the unknown have been taken! ???♂????♀??

  doing the most ??, Mo Chen is suffering in silence, and Xu Lian is just vibing with her sword. (It’s fine. She loves it. Who needs romance when you have a weapon of destiny? ??)

  names and timing? ?? Something tells me Mo Chen knows more than he’s saying... ??

  A long road, a whole lot of storytelling, and the slow but steady unraveling of fate. ?? Stay tuned, dear readers! And as always... thank you for joining this journey! ???

  ?? Current Work: "When the Heavens Turned Away" (天道无归 – Tiān Dào Wú Guī)

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

  ?? Find Me Elsewhere:

  patreon.com/WriterVoidQuill

  https://ko-fi.com/voidquill