A pale dawn bled through the broken peach trees, their gnarled branches clawing at the windows like restless fingers. The storm had not passed — only changed its face. Now the rain fell in a quiet, relentless drizzle that made the whole estate feel drowned, the air wet enough to cling to skin.
Shen Jiu sat by the low brazier, its coals burning low and red, his hair damp from washing his face. The scent of old incense and rain mixed with the faint, coppery tang of iron. He didn't know if it came from the cracked walls or the nightmares that still clung to him.
Across from him, Wen Li carefully spread out the talisman slips she'd retrieved at dawn. Most were shredded — strips of protective paper scattered across the halls as if a child had torn them apart. She dipped her brush in fresh ink and spoke without looking up.
"Shixiong, it's growing stronger."
Shen Jiu rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaustion pressing down on him like a hand. "Or bolder. Perhaps it knows we're close."
Wen Li paused her brush mid-stroke. "And if it's not a spirit at all?"
He lifted an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
She met his gaze. In the pale light, her eyes looked bruised, purple shadows blooming beneath them like violets. "This place… doesn't feel like a haunting. Not exactly. It's like it's feeding — reshaping itself around us."
Before he could answer, a shadow moved in the doorway. Luo Wen stepped inside, drying his hands with a cloth that looked suspiciously stained at the edges — a rusty brown that did not belong to ink or earth.
"Shixiong," he said, voice soft as silk. "It's not good for you to be near cold drafts. Let me help."
Before Shen Jiu could protest, Luo Wen crossed the room and knelt beside him. He reached for the ends of Shen Jiu's hair — damp strands that clung to his collarbones — and gently began to towel them dry. His fingers combed through the knots with a care that bordered on reverence.
Wen Li's brush scraped across the parchment, the sound too loud. She averted her eyes, forcing her breath to stay even.
"You don't need to do this," Shen Jiu said, his voice softer than he intended. He should have pulled away — should have, but did not. The warmth of Luo Wen's touch was a small mercy in the damp chill of the room.
"But I want to," Luo Wen murmured, his breath brushing the curve of Shen Jiu's ear as he leaned closer. "It's my right, isn't it?"
Shen Jiu frowned at that — at the odd phrasing — but Luo Wen's fingers pressed into his scalp, working gentle circles that made the edges of his irritation dull, like a blade dipped in honey.
"It's not a right," Shen Jiu said, trying for firmness. "You're not my servant."
"No," Luo Wen agreed. His eyes lifted — dark, deep — and locked with Shen Jiu's. "I'm yours."
---
They ventured deeper into the manor that afternoon, talismans and binding spells in hand, each step echoing down long, empty corridors where the floorboards creaked like old bones. Murong Ji was nowhere to be found — not that she'd offered them anything since they'd arrived. The few servants who lingered flitted through the shadows like drifting smoke, heads bowed, mouths sealed shut.
In the western wing, the mirrors grew stranger.
Wen Li paused before one — a full-length panel set into a carved door — and watched her reflection flicker. For a heartbeat, she saw herself smiling, her robes bright and new, a pair of hands resting on her shoulders.
She flinched and spun around. No one. No hands. The corridor behind her was empty — but her reflection still lingered, its eyes a shade too dark, its smile a fraction too wide.
"Don't look too long," Shen Jiu said, appearing at her shoulder. He pressed a slip of talisman paper to the glass, murmuring a binding prayer. The reflection rippled, then stilled.
"I'm trying," Wen Li breathed. She wiped a bead of sweat from her lip. "But it's like they want us to see something we shouldn't."
"Or something we already know," Shen Jiu said.
He glanced over his shoulder. Luo Wen was standing at the far end of the hall, fingers grazing the mirrors as he walked — his eyes fixed on the distorted images within. He looked calm, almost pleased.
"Luo Wen," Shen Jiu called. "Stay close."
Luo Wen turned, lips curving into a gentle smile. "Of course, Shixiong."
But his eyes didn't match the sweetness of his voice.
---
They took a narrow staircase up to the abandoned guest wing, where the missing junior disciples had once slept. The air was thick here — heavy with mildew and a faint sweetness that turned Shen Jiu's stomach.
He pushed open one of the doors. The bed was untouched — covers pulled back neatly, as if someone had just risen for dawn training. But the mirror above the headboard had split into a dozen jagged pieces, each shard reflecting Shen Jiu's face at a slightly different angle.
He stepped closer. The reflections seemed to shift — the faces smiling when he did not. He caught a flicker of red in the corner of one shard: a robe that did not belong to him. He blinked — gone.
Luo Wen appeared behind him, so close his breath stirred the collar of Shen Jiu's robe. "Shixiong," he murmured, "you shouldn't let them see you alone."
"I'm not alone," Shen Jiu said. But even he could hear how uncertain it sounded.
Luo Wen's hand drifted up, brushing a lock of hair behind Shen Jiu's ear. His fingers lingered on the curve of his neck, thumb resting in the hollow where his pulse beat.
"You're never alone," Luo Wen whispered.
---
Wen Li found the next clue — a scrap of silk tucked beneath a dresser in the far room. It was stained with something dark and sticky, its edges burned as if it had been half-devoured by acid.
"It's a piece of their uniform," she said. Her fingers trembled as she held it up. "Whoever — whatever — took them didn't just kill them. It fed on them."
Shen Jiu studied the silk, noting the strange smell — sweet, cloying, the same scent that clung to the mirrors.
"An illusion spirit?" he said. "Or a fragment ghost?"
Wen Li shook her head. "No. Spirits don't… twist reality like this. This is older. It feels like… resentment made flesh."
Luo Wen's laughter was so quiet it barely disturbed the air. Shen Jiu turned sharply.
"Something amusing?"
Luo Wen tilted his head, his eyes soft as a lover's, yet his smile did not reach them. "Just that you're clever, Shixiong. You think you can name this thing — bind it in your mind — but it's not a spirit."
He stepped closer, so close that Wen Li instinctively backed away. His fingers drifted up, brushing the side of Shen Jiu's throat. "You feel it too, don't you? It's not separate. It's inside these walls. Inside us."
A chill trickled down Shen Jiu's spine. "What do you mean?"
Luo Wen's thumb pressed gently against the pendant that rested over Shen Jiu's heart. "If you're afraid, I'll protect you. I'll swallow all of it. Would you like that?"
---
That night, they slept in the central shrine room — the only place left that had no mirrors. The walls were bare stone, damp with age, the floor covered with old talismans that cracked underfoot like brittle leaves.
Wen Li sat closest to the door, her back straight, her fingers never straying far from her brush and ink. She hadn't spoken since dusk — only nodded when Shen Jiu tried to reassure her that they were close to the root of the corruption.
Shen Jiu laid out his bedding. He was too tired to argue when Luo Wen dragged his futon right beside his own, so close their blankets overlapped.
As the rain drummed on the roof above, Shen Jiu's eyes drifted shut — yet sleep felt thin, a fragile skin stretched over something deep and dark.
He didn't notice when Luo Wen's fingers found his hand under the covers, twining their fingers together. He only knew the touch was warm.
He dreamed of the corridor again — but this time, the mirrors were gone. The white walls bled with ink that spelled out names he couldn't read. Luo Wen stood before him, robes dripping crimson, eyes black and endless.
"You promised," the figure said, voice so low it rattled the air.
Shen Jiu shook his head. "I never —"
"You did," the figure repeated. "You chose me."
The darkness coiled around his ankles, a thousand silk threads binding him in place. He tried to pull back — but a hand cupped his face, thumb pressing against his lips.
"You're mine," the figure breathed.
Shen Jiu's eyes snapped open — heart hammering — to find himself staring at the shrine's cracked ceiling. Rainwater dripped somewhere in the corner, a slow, steady sound.
Luo Wen lay beside him, still holding his hand. Their fingers were locked so tightly that the blood had fled his knuckles. Luo Wen's eyes were open, staring at him with an intensity that felt like drowning.
"Bad dream?" Luo Wen asked softly.
Shen Jiu tried to pull his hand away. Luo Wen's grip tightened, almost painfully.
"Don't," Luo Wen said, voice a hush that trembled at the edges. "Stay here."
Shen Jiu's breath caught when Luo Wen leaned forward, forehead brushing his temple. His other hand drifted up to rest over Shen Jiu's heart — pressing the pendant into his skin.
"It'll keep you safe," Luo Wen whispered. "As long as you're mine."
---
The rain kept falling. The mirrors in the far wings cracked deeper. And somewhere inside the house, a voice echoed through the stones — a voice that sounded almost like Shen Jiu's, yet laughed like something that had never been human.
And Luo Wen, curled against his Shixiong's side, smiled into the darkness — knowing this house would never let him go.