Yanwei stayed still, hand falling limply from Linglong's forehead like a blade finally dulled. The wind stirred his hair, lifting the strands gently before letting them fall again. The glow in his eyes—always sharp, always precise—remained, but the wear around them told a different story.
He looked like a blade left in battle too long.
His breathing was shallow. Not ragged, not broken—but thin, thinned in that dangerous way only someone on the brink could manage without collapsing. Sweat slicked his temple, and the trail of blood at the corner of his lips had darkened, already drying. His spine was straight, but his body betrayed him in small ways—tremors in his fingers, the slight dip of his shoulders, the near-imperceptible drag of his breath.
He was clearly exhausted.
And yet, he didn't fall. Not even close.
Yun was already moving before her thoughts could fully form.
"Yanwei!"
She ran to him, feet light but urgent, crossing the debris-strewn battlefield in quick, sharp strides. Her heart slammed against her ribs, panic coiling in her gut like a second heartbeat. She reached his side just as he exhaled again—his composure still intact, but barely.
"You're—" she began, but her voice caught. She had no words sharp enough, soft enough.
She dropped to her knees beside him.
Her hands reached out instinctively, hesitated, then gently hovered near his arm—as if afraid even touching him might tip the balance he was holding onto.
"You said you'd be injured," she whispered, eyes wide. "But this…"
Yanwei turned his head slightly. His eyes found hers.
"I'm fine," he said, but even that was a lie wrapped in iron.
Up close, she could see the truth of it—how the blood vessels in his eyes had begun to tint red, how his limbs trembled, how his breath refused to steady.
But even so, his gaze was unwavering.
Then, without warning, he looked away—from her, from the blood, from the battlefield—and lifted his chin toward the false sky above. The light there was soft, filtered through clouds that never moved, cast in eternal afternoon. It was a lie dressed in serenity.
He stared at it for a long moment, as if drawing strength not from the realm itself, but from the act of remembering where they were—and what needed to be done.
"Prepare," he said finally, his voice low and controlled.
Yun blinked. "Prepare…?"
"If your family ever questions what happened here," Yanwei continued, not looking at her, "the story is this: Jiang Yu and Zhang died in battle. Hundreds of disciples fell to the hands of that demon. And the treasure—"
He exhaled through his nose, tired but sharp.
"—no one managed to obtain it. That's the memory I imprinted in Linglong's mind."
Yun's eyes widened. She turned slightly, looking toward Linglong's unconscious body lying still beside the cracked stones and dried blood.
"There's a small chance she'll unseal the truth. Some souls are stubborn. But don't concern yourself with her. Or her family."
Now, his eyes flicked back to Yun—cool, unreadable.
"Focus on your side. If things go wrong, I'll need you thinking ahead. Not hesitating."
Yun nodded once, firm and silent.
The illusion of calm held for now—but something was already shifting beneath it.
A silence stretched between them. Brief. Heavy.
Then Yanwei smirked.
His tongue swept across his lips, slow and deliberate, before his voice dropped—quiet, intimate, laced with something darker.
"When we meet again," he murmured, "let me taste you completely."
Yun froze.
The words struck her harder than any blade. Her breath caught, and before she could stop herself, her gaze dropped to the ground—heart stammering, cheeks burning red. Her fingers curled into her robe.
She nodded.
Small. Shy. Almost too quickly.
And when she looked up again—
Yanwei was gone.
Not a single trace of his presence remained. No fading footsteps. No parting breath. Just the crackled earth and the weight of his absence, as if he'd never stood there at all.
Except—
A voice boomed through the hollow battlefield, loud enough to rattle the air itself.
"Leave her alone. Don't let her see you."
It echoed like a command not meant for Yun, but for something else entirely—something hidden, something watching.
Yun turned sharply, eyes scanning the empty space around her.
But there was nothing.
Only the wind. And silence.
Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that something was still near.
Obeying him
…
As soon as Yun's gaze faltered, Yanwei disappeared into the distance—beyond her reach, beyond her line of sight, vanishing like a ghost into the chaotic remnants of the battlefield. It was a hundred meters, then several hundred more, before he finally slowed his pace, the vast space of the secret realm now his domain.
Amidst the quiet expanse of the secret realm, where the noise of battle was but a faint memory, a figure suddenly materialized.
A man—his silhouette sharp against the serene backdrop of distant hills and scattered trees.
It was Yanwei.
His body, covered in blood and dirt, stumbled forward as if barely holding himself together. His breath came shallow, labored. His posture, once so straight and unyielding, was now fragile, a man just barely standing.
"Fuck!" he hissed, his voice strained, almost a rasp. Before he could catch himself, the sharp taste of iron rose in his throat.
He didn't manage to brace himself in time. Blood spilled from his lips, streaking down the side of his face and soaking his robes. The crimson stain spread quickly, his body trembling as the wave of pain finally reached its peak.
Yanwei staggered a few steps forward, his body leaning against a nearby rock for support. The serenity of the place, with its distant hills and quiet trees, felt so far removed from the chaos he'd just left behind. It should've been a welcome reprieve, but instead, it felt almost like a mockery. The pain gnawed at him, creeping up his spine in jagged waves.
"This is probably the first time I've felt this pain… since I was reborn," Yanwei muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse. The blood dripping from his lips was a sharp reminder of the toll he had just paid. His body, shaking slightly from the effort of staying upright, barely contained the rage that simmered beneath his cool exterior.
"The backlash of altering someone's mind… it's an insane toll on my body." He pressed a hand to his temple, wincing. "After all, I don't want my soul to bear the brunt of it. Soul injuries are much harder to deal with. The medicine needed to treat it is rare, and techniques… don't even get me started. And even though I've got that rare technique of mine, it still takes longer to heal than the body can handle." His fist clenched, frustration seeping into his voice. "So I chose to put the backlash on my body instead. I didn't know it was this bad already, goddamn it!"
He pushed himself away from the rock, swaying slightly before he steadied himself. The anger, mingled with the exhaustion and lingering pain, surged through him. His body might be broken, but his mind remained sharp—despite everything.