The chimes grew louder until they filled the air, each note rippling through the snow like a stone in still water.
Ruo Han blinked—and the world shifted.
One moment he was riding between Xiyue and Ling Han, the next he stood alone in a courtyard bathed in moonlight. The pines were gone. The snow was gone. But the cold remained.
Before him knelt a younger version of himself, hands bound, a crimson brand burning at the base of his throat—the mark of a sect traitor.
Younger Ruo Han: "You could have stopped it."
The voice was his, but rawer, full of betrayal. "You could have saved me… but you didn't."
Pain stabbed through his chest. He tried to step forward, but his feet sank into the floor like it was water.
Far away—yet somehow in the same space—Xiyue saw a different scene. He was standing in a burning training hall, smoke clawing at his lungs. And through the flames, a figure lay sprawled on the floor, blood pooling beneath them.
A familiar voice rasped:
Voice: "You swore to protect me, Brother…"
Xiyue's grip on his sword faltered. That face—he hadn't seen it in years, not since—
He lunged forward, but the hall seemed endless, the figure just out of reach.
Ling Han's vision was quieter but no less cruel. A dark cell. Chains at his wrists. And outside the bars, Ruo Han's silhouette… turning away.
Ling Han: "You wouldn't…"
But the figure didn't answer.
And then—through the illusions—something strange happened. The visions bled together, each man suddenly able to see the others'.
Xiyue saw the traitor's brand searing Ruo Han's neck. Ling Han saw the burning hall and the fallen figure. Ruo Han saw the chains around Ling Han's wrists.
And they realized—none of this was random. The field wasn't just showing their fears.
It was showing their guilt.