The rain had arrived quietly that night, washing away the dried blood and cursed ash that clung to the ruins of Cloud Veil Sect. Soft drizzles draped the forest in mist, and the rhythmic patter of droplets on tent cloths echoed through the Nine Gates temporary camp. It was a strange contrast to the chaos earlier—a forced peace, heavy with exhaustion.
Wei Lan lay unconscious, his face pale against the dim lantern light. Disciples moved silently, applying salves and fortifying barriers. Shen Yun sat nearby, wiping his sword clean, but his eyes kept drifting to the still form of the boy who'd blocked an attack for Li Feng.
He hadn't expected it. Not from Wei Lan.
Nor had he expected Li Feng to jump in front of him either.
It left a strange heaviness in his chest.
Li Feng stood near the treeline, away from the fire. His figure, bathed in rain and moonlight, looked sculpted from ice and crimson flame. His robes were soaked, yet he didn't move. Raindrops rolled off his dark hair, falling into the grass with every slow breath he took.
He was thinking—of the puppet that nearly killed Shen Yun, of Wei Lan's unconscious body, and of the faint golden fire that had flashed on Shen Yun's wrist.
The Scarlet Mark.
It wasn't a rumor anymore. It was here, walking beside him, breathing the same air. Shen Yun.
He remembered how the boy had looked when he turned toward him after the fire attack. Not fearful. Not grateful. Just… confused. Maybe even trusting.
"Trust," Li Feng muttered to himself. "How long can I hold it?"
Later that night, the rain lightened, and the campfire was rekindled. Most disciples rested or meditated in their tents, leaving only a few awake.
Li Feng returned to the fire. He sat in silence, sharpening his blade, his eyes flickering up when Shen Yun appeared across from him, holding two bowls of warm broth.
"There was extra," Shen Yun said simply.
Li Feng didn't answer, but he accepted the bowl.
They sat like that, quietly eating. The fire popped softly between them.
For a long while, neither spoke.
Then Shen Yun broke the silence, stirring his spoon. "You used fire to protect me. I thought that was… forbidden."
Li Feng's tone was even. "Nothing is forbidden in battle."
"Still, you could have let me get hurt."
"I could've."
Shen Yun narrowed his eyes. "But you didn't."
Li Feng glanced at him then, unreadable. "You're part of this mission. I protect all my men."
"I'm not really your man."
A beat passed.
Then Li Feng muttered, "Maybe not yet."
Shen Yun's ears turned red, but he didn't answer. The fire crackled again.
After a while, Shen Yun spoke again. "You said earlier, during the fight—that you wanted to see if I'd rise or fall. Why?"
Li Feng put down his bowl. "Because the world is full of weak men with great power. It rarely ends well."
"So you think I'm weak?"
Li Feng looked at him. "I think you're angry. I think you're grieving. And I think you haven't decided what to do with it yet."
Shen Yun's hand tightened around his bowl.
He wasn't wrong.
Li Feng leaned back slightly, his red robes brushing the wet grass. "When I was younger, I lost someone too. Not to death… but to power. That kind of loss doesn't leave scars. It burns you from the inside."
Shen Yun didn't reply. But for the first time, he didn't feel so alone in it.
Morning came with thick fog curling around the broken halls of the sect ruins. The mission was complete, and their return to Nine Gates was swift and silent.
Wei Lan was carried back by talisman flight. Shen Yun sat beside him, adjusting the straps gently. He didn't like the boy's pale complexion.
Once they reached the sect, Wei Lan was taken to the healers, while Shen Yun was summoned to Li Feng's private training courtyard.
It was vast—quiet, empty except for a stone table and a few lotus plants blooming in the pond nearby.
Li Feng stood waiting.
"You asked about the mark," he said as Shen Yun entered.
Shen Yun blinked. "You saw it?"
"I did."
A pause.
Then: "I won't ask how you got it. But I will ask what you plan to do with it."
Shen Yun looked away. "I don't know. I just want to survive."
"Surviving with power is different from surviving without it," Li Feng said. "The world will come for you. It already has."
"I didn't ask for any of this," Shen Yun snapped. "I didn't want to lose my sect. My shifu. My home."
"Power doesn't ask if you want it," Li Feng replied. "It simply arrives."
Silence stretched between them again.
Then Li Feng turned, picking up a practice blade from the rack. He tossed another toward Shen Yun.
"Train with me."
Shen Yun caught it instinctively.
He stared. "Why?"
"Because the next time something attacks you, I might not be there."
And so they sparred.
For hours, blades clashed in the soft morning light. Shen Yun was skilled but raw, fast but emotional. Li Feng countered with cold precision, always calm, never wasteful.
After Shen Yun was knocked back for the sixth time, he groaned and flopped onto the grass.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "You fight like a ghost."
Li Feng arched a brow. "A ghost doesn't leave bruises."
Shen Yun laughed—surprised by himself. "I hate you."
"You say that, but you're still here."
Their eyes met.
And something shifted—something delicate, unspoken.
Later that evening, Li Feng ordered warm meals brought to the garden. Only he and Shen Yun sat beneath the lanterns, steam curling from their bowls.
"You should rest," Li Feng said, gesturing to Shen Yun's bruised arm.
"I've had worse," Shen Yun replied, taking a bite. "Besides, I don't really sleep."
Li Feng was silent a moment. Then he said, "Nightmares?"
Shen Yun nodded slowly. "Always the same. My sect burning. My shifu dying. Me… being too weak to do anything."
Li Feng's voice lowered. "You weren't weak. You were outnumbered."
"It doesn't matter."
"It does."
Shen Yun looked up sharply.
Li Feng met his gaze without flinching. "One day you'll see that."
The lantern flickered in the wind. Shen Yun looked away.
He didn't know what Li Feng truly wanted. He didn't know what this growing warmth between them meant. But tonight, with warm food, a quiet fire, and the sky clear for once… he allowed himself to breathe.
Just for a moment.
But peace, as always, was fleeting.
Deep in the woods bordering the Nine Gates territory, another camp had been formed—one that smelled of blood and rotting incense.
The leader of the Shadow Serpent Sect watched the flames in his brazier twist into images of Shen Yun.
"So the phoenix rises again," he murmured. "And the Iron Flame draws too close."
He turned to his assassins.
"Next time… we strike at the heart. Let the boy see what fire really feels like."
And thus, the embers beneath the surface began to glow brighter.
To be continued...