The courtyard behind the Nine Gates Sect's eastern hall was unusually quiet that morning.
Sunlight filtered through the peach blossom trees, scattering soft pink petals across the stone tiles. Shen Yun sat under one of the trees, peeling the skin off a crisp pear Li Feng had casually tossed him earlier. Across from him, Li Feng calmly stirred a steaming pot of congee with a wooden ladle, sleeves rolled back, looking more like an aloof scholar than the Iron Flame feared by half the cultivation world.
It had been days since the Cloud Veil mission. Since Wei Lan's injury, Shen Yun had noticed something shifting between him and Li Feng — not something loud or obvious, but subtle. Like warmth lingering after fire.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Li Feng asked without turning, his voice dry.
"I didn't think sect leaders cooked," Shen Yun replied, amused.
"I don't. I'm making an exception. Try not to die from the honor."
Shen Yun chuckled, surprising even himself. "A bit salty for breakfast talk."
Li Feng side-eyed him. "So don't eat it."
They ate together under the blossoms. For once, no swords clashed, no talismans sparked. Shen Yun let his guard down slightly, enough to enjoy the warmth of food, the quiet breeze, and the strange comfort of being near someone who, despite everything, hadn't tried to hurt him.
Li Feng poured him another bowl. "You're improving," he said, almost too casually.
"Because I didn't trip over my own sword this morning?"
"You didn't trip. You fell with purpose."
Shen Yun laughed out loud. It startled a few birds in the branches above.
From across the stone walkway, hidden in the corridor's shadow, Wei Lan stood watching.
He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. He was only passing through.
But the sound of Shen Yun's laughter — light, bright — rooted him in place.
His eyes flicked to Li Feng's face, softened in a way Wei Lan hadn't seen in a long time. And for a moment, something in Wei Lan's chest tightened.
He remembered when he had been the one laughing beside Li Feng.
Flashback.
Wei Lan had been fifteen, newly promoted to Li Feng's personal guard. Back then, Li Feng was still the cold prodigy being groomed for leadership, and Wei Lan had been the only one who dared tease him during training.
"You're stiff," he had said once after a sparring match. "Loosen your stance or you'll age twenty years before you're thirty."
Li Feng had smirked, only once, and said, "Worry about your own knees, old man."
They used to eat together often. Sometimes just the two of them, sometimes with a few others. It was never officially declared, but everyone knew: Wei Lan was the one Li Feng trusted most.
Until he wasn't.
Back in the present, Wei Lan's eyes dropped. He turned away before anyone noticed, before that tight feeling spread too far.
Back under the tree, Shen Yun set his bowl down. "You always like this with people?"
Li Feng raised a brow. "Like what?"
"Grumpy, but then... mildly generous. You're like an overcooked dumpling. Hard outside, soft inside."
Li Feng looked like he was about to throw the ladle.
"I'm joking," Shen Yun grinned.
"Careful," Li Feng muttered. "People who joke with me often regret it."
"But not you," Shen Yun said, serious for a moment. "You haven't hurt me. Even though you had a thousand chances."
Li Feng's eyes lingered on him. "You're not what I expected."
"Is that a compliment?"
"I haven't decided."
For a brief moment, their eyes met. Neither spoke.
That evening, Shen Yun practiced alone near the bamboo forest. The mark on his wrist still pulsed faintly, growing stronger with each day. He could feel something stirring — like destiny curling its fingers around his fate.
"Don't slack off."
Li Feng's voice cut through the silence as he stepped into the clearing.
"You again," Shen Yun said, pretending to groan.
"Thought I'd watch you trip over your sword again."
Shen Yun twirled his blade. "I fall with purpose, remember?"
Li Feng actually smiled — faint, but real. "Then show me."
They sparred beneath the moonlight.
It wasn't a battle. It was dance. Shen Yun, nimble and fast, Li Feng, precise and unreadable. Sparks flew. Laughter slipped through their strikes.
Wei Lan watched from a balcony above, unseen, a shadow behind the lanterns. He watched until they stopped sparring. Until Shen Yun slipped and Li Feng caught him with one hand.
Until Shen Yun laughed again.
And this time, Wei Lan didn't smile.
Back in his room, Wei Lan sat alone by candlelight.
He touched the scar on his shoulder where the cursed spear had struck him.
"He's not like me," he whispered. "He's more…
...alive."
But I was here first.
He closed his eyes.
And outside, the first raindrop fell.
To be continued...