Morning light, like the gentlest of thieves, slipped through a narrow gap in the heavy curtains and laid strands of pale gold across the dim bedroom.
Jane woke in a rare haze of languid half-consciousness.
Deep in her body lingered a fatigue—soft, subtle, and unmistakably the kind that came from being thoroughly used. Every muscle seemed to hum with the memory of last night's madness. For someone like her—someone who lived on a razor's edge and never let her guard down—this kind of exhaustion felt unfamiliar.
But heavier than the physical weariness was what surged up the moment she fully came to herself: a tangle of emotions she couldn't name cleanly.
Almost without thinking, she reached to the side.
Cold. Empty sheets.
Qianye… wasn't there.
The realization hit like ice water poured straight over her head. She snapped awake, heart sinking hard—relief and loss twisting together like vines around her ribs.
Relief, because she still didn't know how to face him.
Last night's storm—driven by anger, jealousy, and a fierce urge to possess—had stripped away every layer of careful control she'd ever built. It had exposed the darkest, most stubborn part of her in full light. Now that she'd calmed down, shame, regret, and a thin thread of fear made it nearly impossible to imagine meeting Qianye's clean, bright emerald eyes.
His absence spared her the awkward confrontation—at least for the moment.
But it also made the disappointment sharper, heavier, blunter.
Had he simply… left?
Not even a question. Not even a look.
Was he disgusted by how rough and out of control she'd been? Or… did he already have someone else in his heart, and her touch had felt humiliating, unbearable?
Her mind filled with the image of Qianye looking at her with revulsion—maybe even fear—and her heart clenched so tightly it turned sour, like she couldn't breathe.
She buried her face in the pillow, where a faint trace of his herbal, grassy scent still lingered, as if she could smother the suffocating thoughts by drowning in that tiny remnant of him.
She stayed like that for a long time, turning over and over in the sheets, until the sunlight outside grew brighter and more merciless. Finally, Jane drew a breath and forced herself upright.
The soreness in her body sharpened with every movement, a silent reminder of everything that had happened. Barefoot on the cool floor, she gathered the clothes scattered everywhere and dressed in silence, piece by piece.
She needed to wash up. She needed to straighten out her thoughts.
More than anything, she needed to find Qianye.
No matter what the result would be, running away had never been Jane's style.
The washroom upstairs was small, but kept impeccably neat—just like Qianye himself.
Jane stared at her reflection. Her face was pale, a faint shadow beneath her eyes. And along her neck and collarbone—places her clothes didn't fully cover—there were still marks she'd left on purpose last night: proof of possession and punishment.
She turned on the tap and splashed cold water over her face, hard, again and again, trying to scrub away exhaustion and the chaos inside her head.
When she went downstairs, her steps grew lighter without her noticing—careful, almost hesitant. She'd already prepared herself to see an empty shop… or to meet Qianye's coldness head-on.
But when she reached the bottom step and looked into the living room, she froze.
Morning sunlight flooded the space, gilding everything with warmth.
At the familiar little round table with its plain cloth, Qianye sat quietly.
He'd changed into clean, light-colored clothes. His soft silver hair caught the sunlight like it was glowing, and that signature cowlick still stuck up stubbornly, as if refusing to submit to reality.
His eyes were lowered, long lashes casting gentle shadows. He looked absent-minded, lost somewhere far away.
On the table were two takeout bowls stamped with the logo of Koi Ramen, with chopsticks and a spoon set neatly beside them—carefully prepared, unmistakably for her.
Warm broth and noodles scented the air, mixing with the shop's faint herbal fragrance. Together they formed a strangely reassuring atmosphere—safe, domestic, real.
Hearing movement at the stairway, Qianye lifted his head and met her eyes.
Jane's heart jumped straight into her throat. She searched his face for anger, hurt—anything negative.
But there was nothing like that.
His emerald eyes were still clear. No accusation. No chill.
Only a quiet, hard-to-read calm—and something softer, faint as a shadow.
He didn't speak. He simply looked at her for a few seconds, then raised a slender hand and pointed lightly to the seat across from him… and the ramen waiting there.
That was all.
No words—yet Jane felt the heart she'd been holding up with shaking hands finally settle, as if gently lowered into place.
He wasn't angry.
If he were, he wouldn't have prepared breakfast. He wouldn't have waited for her in this calm.
Warmth rose in her chest—relief so strong it almost hurt—followed immediately by guilt even deeper than before. Her throat tightened and she couldn't find a single word, so she only nodded, walked over, pulled out the chair, and sat down.
She lifted the lid.
A rich bone broth aroma rose in a comforting wave.
It was exactly what she liked: simple, clean-tasting pork bone ramen. The noodles lay neatly in the soup, topped with a few thin slices of char siu, a soft-boiled egg, bamboo shoots, and scallions—everything balanced, everything just right.
They ate in silence.
Only the faint sounds of noodles being lifted, of a spoon tapping the bowl now and then. Sunlight spilled through the window and left quiet patches of light between them. Time, somehow, slowed—thick and sticky, as if it didn't want to move forward.
Jane ate fast—almost wolfishly.
Part of it was real hunger; last night had drained her completely. But part of it was that she needed something familiar—something solid—to fill the hollow anxiety inside her, and to gather the courage for what she had to say.
When she finished the last sip of broth and set the bowl down, Qianye was nearly done too. He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin, careful and tidy as always.
Silence returned.
But this time it wasn't awkward. It felt like waiting—mutual, deliberate.
Jane inhaled. Her hands tightened under the table. She lifted her eyes to his and finally spoke, voice hoarse with lingering sleep and unmistakably serious.
"Qianye… about last night…"
She paused, searching for words, then chose the simplest and most honest sentence.
"I'm sorry. I lost control." Her gaze dropped. "I'm sorry for doing something that excessive to you."
She lowered her head, bracing for anything—rebuke, anger, forgiveness.
But what she expected never came.
Qianye shook his head—small, almost imperceptible.
"No," he said softly, but clearly. "The one who should apologize… is me."
Jane snapped her head up, stunned. "You…?"
Qianye didn't explain right away. His eyes fell, and his fingers twisted the napkin unconsciously, like something inside him was struggling to break the surface.
Sunlight warmed his face, making his skin look almost translucent. Between his brows was a heaviness—an ugly shade of self-blame.
"Jane," he said, voice rough with pain, "there's something I haven't told you."
"I… I awakened a very… unusual ability."
He looked up. His emerald eyes were full of unease, guilt, and fear that ran deeper than words.
"It's… complicated. It seems like it can affect people around me—especially… people who get close."
His voice dropped lower, uncertain and self-doubting.
"I don't know when it started. I don't know how much it's influenced things. I've been trying to control it, but…"
He drew a breath as if it cost him everything to say the next part.
"I'm afraid… that maybe, even a long time ago—before I ever realized—this power was already there… and it influenced you."
His cheeks flushed with shame, and he couldn't even finish cleanly.
"…That it made you… do things last night… that weren't truly you. That weren't what you wanted."
He spoke in broken phrases, the fear spilling out unevenly.
"If it weren't for me, you wouldn't…"
Wouldn't have become possessive. Wouldn't have snapped from jealousy. Wouldn't have done the rough, hurtful things she'd done.
He was trying to carry it all—placing Jane's "sin" onto his own shoulders, using his own kindness as a blade turned inward.
The moment Jane understood, something inside her unlocked.
That was why he hadn't run.
Why he'd made breakfast.
Why his eyes held no anger—only that bleak calm and a sadness he couldn't hide.
He was blaming himself. He was blaming himself for her loss of control.
The realization burned clean through the last shadow of doubt.
Before Qianye could keep spiraling—before he could finish tying every knot of guilt around his own throat—
Jane moved.
She shot up from her seat, leaned across the small table, and in Qianye's startled gaze, she lifted both hands and cupped his face.
The motion was forceful—unavoidable—yet the instant her palms met his skin, that force softened into something almost painfully gentle.
Then she lowered her head and pressed her lips to his.
This wasn't last night's kiss—punishment, possession, hunger with teeth.
This kiss was long and deep, filled with a fierce tenderness and a wordless confession.
She used it to stop his self-denial, to silence every sentence where he tried to make himself the villain, to wrap him in her breath and her certainty.
Qianye went rigid at first.
Then, under that familiar-and-yet-new intensity, he softened. The hand that tried to push her away lost strength and fell, and instead his fingers caught at her clothing near her waist—weak, instinctive, clinging.
His emerald eyes blurred with shock and thinning air; his lashes trembled.
The kiss lasted until the sunlight itself felt like it had frozen around them—until Qianye nearly melted where he sat.
When Jane finally pulled back, Qianye was limp with dizziness, cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused, breathing uneven.
Jane gathered him into her arms and held him close, pressing his cheek against her chest, letting him hear the hard, fast beat of her heart.
"Idiot," she murmured, voice low and husky—affectionate, unyielding.
"Listen to me, Qianye."
Her fingers combed through his silver hair in slow, steady strokes, and she felt the faint tremor in him.
"I understand your fear. I understand that you're the kind of person who always drags the blame onto yourself until you can barely stand."
"But I'm telling you—what happened last night may have been impulsive, it may have been ugly, it may have been my worst side… but it was not the result of some power forcing me."
She drew him back just enough to make him look at her.
"My feelings for you started a long time ago. They are real. They are mine."
"Yes," she admitted, eyes burning, "I was jealous. I was angry. I was afraid of losing you. Those emotions aren't pretty."
"But they're mine. They happened because I care too much."
"Your ability might be strange," she said, each word steady as a nail driven into wood, "but it can't rewrite my heart. It can't create desire out of nothing. It can't fabricate the instinct in me to want you, to protect you, to keep you."
Her fingertips traced lightly over his still-swollen lips, her gaze softening into something that could drown a person.
"If anything… maybe it makes you even harder to resist."
Then she looked him dead in the eye and said it like a vow:
"So don't carry this on your back."
"My feelings. My choices. My loss of control."
"If there are consequences, I'll bear them. Not you."
"All you need to know is this: with or without that power—"
"I love you."
"Completely. Irreversibly."
"And that has nothing to do with any external force."
Sunlight filled the room, wrapping them in warmth. Last night's storm didn't disappear, but it settled into something clearer—something newly defined by breakfast, a kiss, and a confession that refused to bend.
Sharo Golden Week arrived—the rare kind of holiday New Eridu didn't often get.
The city's streets and alleys seemed injected with boiling noise. Neon signs flashed harder than usual, crowds laughed louder, sales speakers blared cheerfully, and somewhere—always somewhere—pop music spilled into the air, trying to drown out the city's permanent undertone of pressure and the Hollow's distant whisper.
But all that noise ended at the foot of Wei Feidi.
At the gate of Yunkui Mountain, it stopped as if sliced by an invisible line.
Below was the mortal world's rolling bustle.
Above was silence—deep and old.
Mountain wind slid through ancient trees, carrying the clean scent of soil and leaves… and, faintly, the Hollow's lingering sweetness in the air, like rot and metal and something wrong.
Stone steps, slick with moss, wound upward into clouds.
Yixuan walked those steps alone.
She wore plain Daoist robes. Her silver-white hair was loosely gathered at the back of her head, and a few strands brushed her indifferent cheek in the wind. Her orange eyes, ringed faintly with green inside, were like deep pools that reflected none of the holiday's color—only a stillness tempered by years.
Even her signature cowlick seemed to droop, as if it could sense her mood.
In her hands she carried a simple food box.
She walked neither quickly nor slowly. Every step landed with calm weight, as if she weren't walking but performing an old ritual. Mist dampened the hem of her robe. She didn't seem to notice.
Her sister Yijiang's grave lay on a quiet slope, facing the direction of the Zero Hollow—where their drifting lives had first crossed paths… and where Yijiang's sword light had once carved a final ending into the world.
The gravestone was simple:
"Yijiang, 12th Head of Yunkui Mountain."
Cold. Severe.
Before it rested the recovered branch Yixuan had once found—time had not erased its old gentleness.
Yixuan stood in front of the stone for a long moment. Wind tugged at her sleeves and made them snap softly, making the place feel even more silent.
Then she knelt.
She opened the box.
There were no delicacies. No mountain treasures.
And not the char siu buns she had once loved—the symbol of a warmth from the days when the sisters had leaned on each other to survive.
Since Yijiang's death, Yixuan couldn't taste that bun's sweetness anymore.
And today, they'd been sold out.
"I'm sorry, Sister," she said quietly. "I'll make up this year's portion next year…"
Her voice stalled, as if it had almost slipped into another name, another thought—then withdrew.
Inside the box were only clear liquor, two plain white cups, and a few simple seasonal fruits and vegetables.
She poured the liquor evenly.
One cup she set before the grave.
One she held in her own hand.
The clear liquid trembled faintly, reflecting her expressionless face and the thin clouds drifting overhead.
"Sister," she said, calm as if reporting a fact, "they say something called Sharo Golden Week has arrived. Down the mountain… it's very lively."
She paused, as if listening to the wind for an answer.
"Yunkui Mountain is fine."
"Among the disciples I've taken… Fufu has improved a lot. Still too restless. Yinhu's talismans are finally… readable. Shiyuan still insists on looking older than he is."
She spoke of mundane things—flat, measured, like a routine briefing.
But when she mentioned the Qingming Bird, something in her voice shifted, almost too small to catch.
"I refined the Qingming Bird technique again," she said, fingers unconsciously rubbing the cold cup. "Maybe I still can't fully control it. But at least… it lets me see a little further through the fog."
Her eyes lifted toward the distance, toward the invisible weight of the world.
"You… did you see too much of the future back then?" she asked softly. "Is that why you were so decisive?"
It was a question she'd asked herself countless times.
In countless sleepless nights.
In solitary moments with the Qingming Sword.
She tilted her head back and drank her cup dry.
The liquor burned down her throat, but it brought no warmth—only a deeper clarity, colder than ice.
"TOPS is reaching further and further. The Choir's shadow is moving again."
"New Eridu looks prosperous," she said, gaze fixed far away, "but inside, it's like a bigger Hollow. It could swallow everything at any time."
A sharpness flickered in her eyes.
"Sometimes I wonder… if you were still here, what would you choose?"
"Would you do what you did back then—burn yourself down to cut through the dark?"
"Or would you find a better way?"
No answer came.
Only the wind's low groan through the trees—like a sigh.
She remembered the last white light that had devoured her sister.
She remembered Yijiang after losing everything—eyes empty and lost—looking at her and asking, softly:
"Who are you?"
That coldness had been worse than any Hollow corrosion.
"You told me to live well," Yixuan murmured, half to herself, half to the stone. "I lived. I inherited the position. I guarded Yunkui Mountain. I carried your responsibility."
"But Sister…"
Her fingertips brushed the gravestone, gentle as if wiping dust from a loved one's shoulder.
"This road is very lonely."
She was strong enough to drive back Ether and tear through monsters. Strong enough to read omens and break curses. Strong enough to face any enemy without a tremor.
But in front of this solitary grave, the part of her that was simply Yixuan—not the Head of Yunkui Mountain—could not help but surface.
She didn't cry.
Perhaps those tears had already vanished with her sister eleven years ago, dissolving into that white light.
She only stayed kneeling, arranging the offerings neatly, and poured herself another cup.
Time seemed to slow here too. The sun's angle shifted. Her shadow stretched and mingled with the stone's shadow until they became one shape.
This ritual wasn't for comfort.
It was for remembrance.
To remember warmth—and to remember loss.
To remember her sister's final choice—and the road she herself had to walk alone.
When the sun finally sank, staining the horizon a brutal orange-red—like the fire that had once burned the world—Yixuan rose.
Her knees were stiff from kneeling, but she still stood straight, like an old pine on the mountain.
She looked at the gravestone one last time. In her gaze were longing, memory, and a thousand words that never became speech—only a quiet determination.
"There are still matters to handle," she said, as casually as any ordinary farewell. "I should go down the mountain."
"And, Sister… I cast a divination," she added, voice nearly flat. "It said I'll soon meet someone bound to me by fate."
"But that fate…" she frowned faintly, almost self-mocking, "is strangely complex. Even I can't see through it."
She turned and walked down the stone steps without looking back.
Her pale robe disappeared into dusk and rising mist, as if she'd never been there at all.
Only the untouched cup of clear liquor at the grave—and the faint lingering scent of it in the air—remained as proof of a quiet companionship that crossed life and death.
Wind moved through the pines.
The waves of sound could have been a requiem.
Or a horn calling someone forward.
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
Uma Musume, But I Only Have Five Years Left to Live (Chapter 178)
Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 150)
Ben Tennyson Wants to Join the Justice League ( 126 )
TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter110)
Yu-Gi-Oh! — Transmigrated into the White Dragon Girl (Chapter190)
"Is this chat group even serious?" (Chapter105)
I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter225)
Can Playing Games Save the World? 65
Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 77
From Junkman to Wasteland 66
Weekly Refresh of Overpowered 31
I'm Grinding Proficiency Like 46
From Kiana, Lord Ravager, Onwa 195
Honkai: Is This Still the Prev 42
Elf: My Starter Pokémon Is Inc 65
Warhammer: My Primarch Is Remi 170
From Demon Slayer to Grand Ass Volume2/5
The Way the Umamusume Look at 68
Uma Musume, but My Cheat Power 225
Naruto: Weaving the Future, Be 65
Zenless Zone Zero, but Kamen R 76
Multiverse Crossover: The Perf 66
My Cyberpsycho Girlfriend 65
Uma Musume: The Dark Trainer 210
Uma Musume: A Calamity Born fr 154
I, a Reincarnation-Loop Player Volume4/30
The Violent Girl Group Is Beat 115
Uma Musume: The Horse Girl Who 67
Uma Musume: From Beginner 130
Becoming a Horse Girl, I Will 85
Uma Musume: I Want All 105
I Can Copy Unique Skills 100
Summoning an Evil God, but the 70
Supernatural Multiverse 90
My Harem Is Indescribable 85
Jujutsu Kaisen: Heroic Spirit 90
"I'm just a Valkyrie passing through." 68
Uma Musume: Today Is Another Romantic Battlefield 100
Still playing traditional Honk 69
The Most Filial Son Under Heav 75
What Should I Do After Switchi - Volume2/3
Reincarnated as a Demon, Skill 60
Hell-Difficulty Dungeon? 55
Transmigrated as Sukuna 71
Checking In in Demon Slayer 75
The Reincarnating Trainer of Tracen Academy 80
I Refuse to Become a Heroic 66
My Best Friend Into a Slime? 58
A Saiyan Stands Above Marvel 65
What Do You Mean by Using a Lab Mod to Be the Hero? 63
Tanya Starts from Re:Zero 59
Why did they assign me to Uma 55
MYGO Beauties 56
DanMachi: Emiya the Giant Hero 45
The Gacha Merchant Who Started 49
Honkai's Otherworld? Wait—Who Are You People?! 36
Emiya Shirou, Determined to Slay Every Curse and Evil Spirit 35
The Uma Musume Who Became 30
I'm Definitely Not the King of 35
After Maxing Out Every Class 35
My patreon : patreon.com/queen_sin
My patreon : patreon.com/queen_sin