Another month bled away.
The Demon Monarch had still not arrived, though his coming was spoken of in every courtyard and hall. Even the wind seemed to carry the weight of it.
When Xinyu first heard the news, his fingers had tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles blanched. He could picture that towering figure in black—his presence, suffocating and cold. The thought alone had turned his eyes red.
If that man truly came here, Xinyu didn't trust himself not to charge forward blade-first.
But he could not be reckless. Not now.
So he trained. Days and nights blurred together into a rhythm of movement and breath, steel and frost. His qi pulsed against the cold air like heat off a forge.
It was during one of those nights, under the thin silver light of the moon, that something inside him broke—no, opened. His sword strike landed, and the air itself seemed to shudder. A new current of power surged up through his veins, dizzying and fierce.
Lingque had been watching from a distance, her expression briefly breaking into surprise. Without a word, she traced her fingers in the air, weaving a shield of shimmering energy around his courtyard.
The next morning, word had already spread: Chen Xinyu had broken through another stage—an accomplishment disciples took years to reach—yet he had done it in mere months. Shock rippled through the sect like a stone dropped into still water.
And though the whispers carried awe, the air around Verdant Cloud Sect felt tighter than ever, like the pause before a storm.
It was said Hua Ling would depart for his father's domain within days, yet his steps remained rooted in the sect's quiet courtyards. He did not leave — only waited, as though the snow-frosted days themselves might delay the inevitable. In those passing mornings and long, blue-lit nights, he and Chen Xinyu did not once cross paths. A thread, once taut, now hung slack between them.
Qingze, watching from the periphery as he always had, noticed the change with a silent ache. His young master had grown restless, yet oddly hollow — the sort of loneliness that left no outward crack for comfort to slip in. Qingze knew him too well; since the age of ten, Hua Ling had spoken little and kept fewer friends. There had been only one — a mortal girl from a war-torn village — who had coaxed laughter from him. But her name had been buried in ash the day the Demon Monarch's campaign swept through her home. The war took her; the silence after took the rest of him.
In Chen Xinyu's quarters, candlelight flickered over a pale face. The nascent-stage breakthrough had wrung his strength dry; though his qi pulsed stronger than before, his body had yet to catch up. A-Fu entered quietly, bearing a tray with a porcelain bowl of steaming medicine. The boy had passed his own entrance trials, a new disciple in name but already showing a steadiness beyond his years.
"Mochen-shixiong is waiting outside," A-Fu murmured after setting down the bowl.
Xinyu, brows knitting faintly, rose and stepped into the corridor. Mochen was standing there, shoulders relaxed as though he had been waiting longer than he would admit.
"Shidi, why aren't you coming in?" Xinyu asked.
Mochen's mouth curved, but not with his usual flippant ease. He followed Xinyu into the room; A-Fu slipped away. From the fold of his sleeve, Mochen produced a small bundle of cloth, inside of which rested a single round pill.
Sitting opposite Xinyu, Mochen said quietly, "Yu'ge… I need you to trust me. Take this."
Xinyu tilted his head. "What is it?"
"A pill to help you break through another stage." Mochen's voice was level, but his gaze was intent.
It was, in truth, an antidote — the counter to a poison Chi Ruyan had given Xinyu long ago, a poison that had slowed his cultivation, dulled his potential. Without it, Xinyu's strength would have soared far sooner.
Perhaps it was the tiredness in his limbs, or the quiet steadiness in Mochen's voice, but Xinyu didn't press further. He took the pill, swallowed it without suspicion.
Mochen watched him in silence, his eyes darkening with something unreadable. After a long pause, he asked — almost too quickly — "Yu'ge… may I hug you?"
When Xinyu glanced up, Mochen laughed it off, "It's fine. Forget I asked. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
But Xinyu shook his head, stepped forward, and wrapped his arms briefly around him. "Shidi, of course."
For a moment, warmth seeped into Mochen's chest, so sharp it hurt. When they parted, he left with the thought lodged deep: I will protect you, even if it costs me my life.
—
In the great hall, Sect Leader Jiang sat in silence, turning a letter over and over in his hands. Its seal was heavy black wax, stamped with a demon crest. The Demon Monarch would be arriving personally to retrieve his son.
Why come himself? What lay beneath such courtesy?
Master Zhou entered then, dust still on his cloak from hurried travel. "Sect Leader Jiang."
"You're back."
Zhou inclined his head. "Why is he coming?"
"We can't yet know," Jiang replied, his expression unreadable. "But I suspect it is not for simple family reunion."
Zhou left the hall with unease coiling in his gut. He sought out Xinyu at once, but the boy was not in his quarters — he was outside in the snowbound training grounds, sparring with A-Fu under Lingque's watch. Lingque's sleeves swept in arcs of pale light, her qi twining with Xinyu's own. The young man's strikes had grown heavier, faster — enough to make even her draw deeper from her reserves.
"Shizun!" Xinyu's voice lifted when he spotted Zhou, bright as winter sun. He bowed low.
Zhou closed the distance and pulled him into a firm embrace. "My boy… already at the nascent stage." There was pride there, but also the faint weight of worry.
Xinyu smiled, eyes alight. "I am Shizun's student, after all."
"Hah. True enough." Zhou's laugh warmed the cold air, if only briefly.
A-Fu and Lingque exchanged a glance, stepping aside to give master and disciple space. Zhou placed a hand on Xinyu's shoulder. "Come. We have much to discuss, you and I."
The snow fell more thickly then, muffling the sounds of the training ground. Inside the small side chamber, the air was warmer, but Zhou's gaze was grave as he sat across from his disciple. The storm outside had not yet reached the sect — but it was coming, and soon.
Chapter 65 – continuation
Master Zhou's sigh was long and quiet, like a draft slipping through the seams of the room. For the past two months, he had thought of nothing but how to send Xinyu away from the sect before danger arrived. But now that the day was upon them, all his careful arguments and reasoning seemed pitifully flimsy.
"Xinyu," he began, voice low, "you must leave the sect for now. I will accompany you."
"No," Xinyu answered without hesitation. His tone was polite, but unyielding.
Master Zhou pressed again, each word heavy with urgency. "This is not a matter of pride. If you stay, you—"
"Shizun," Xinyu cut in, looking up at him with the same stubborn clarity he had since the day they met, "if you came here to convince me to run away, save your breath. It will not fix any of my problems."
The refusal landed like a stone in water—no ripples, only the weight dragging down. Master Zhou's shoulders slumped; his lips parted, but nothing came out. The boy he had watched grow from an unruly disciple into someone frighteningly resolute was already beyond persuasion.
Hopeless, Zhou could only watch him go, sword in hand, back straight, heading toward the training grounds.
Snow flurries whispered down from the eaves, dusting the sect paths. On his way, Xinyu saw Hua Ling. They hadn't spoken in days—passing each other like strangers in the same world. Xinyu inclined his head in a brief bow, intending to walk past.
A hand caught his sleeve. "I need to talk to you," Hua Ling said.