I was lying on a wooden table, cold.
It wasn't the cold of a draft blowing in, but the cold of blood nearly draining away, seeping out from between my bones. My eyelids were too heavy to lift, and my ears buzzed, like insects crawling inside. But I was still awake, because the gash on my Shoulder still hurt—not a sharp pain, but a dull, throbbing ache that followed my Heartbeat.
Someone was squatting beside me.
Lu Jiuxuan.
He didn't speak, dipping his finger in blood and drawing symbols near my wound. His movements were steady, but his hand was trembling. It wasn't fear; it was exhaustion. He had held on this long after that battle purely by sheer willpower.
“Don’t sleep,” he said again, his voice hoarser than before.
I didn't answer. It wasn't that I didn't want to, but my throat felt choked with dust. I wanted to move, but my arms wouldn't obey. I could only rely on my breathing to sustain my Consciousness. With every inhale and exhale, my chest rose and fell. The Pendant rested coolly against my skin.
He withdrew his hand, pulled a piece of cloth from his robes, dampened it with medicine, and gently pressed it onto my shoulder. The pain made me gasp, but it also cleared my head somewhat.
“The bleeding has stopped,” he said. “If you can hold on for another half an hour, we can leave.”
I kept my eyes closed and didn't reply.
He stood up, his steps slightly unsteady, and walked to the corner of the wall to stick his sword into a Brick Crevice. The Sword Body was still vibrating, emitting a faint hum. He leaned against the wall, took a breath, and reached up to undo his sword belt.
“You…” I wanted to ask if he could still hold on, but before the words left my mouth, he suddenly staggered.
It wasn't that he couldn't stand steady; it was that the sword suddenly vibrated.
The sword seemed alive, shaking within its sheath. With a *weng* sound, a surge of energy violently exploded outward. Lu Jiuxuan reacted quickly, raising his hand to suppress it, but it was too late.
Sword Qi swept over, striking the Outer Robe covering me.
The fabric flew off with a *hiss*, spinning as it hit the wall before falling back down.
I froze.
He froze too.
I was wearing the Coarse Cloth Robe issued by the Academy. It was loose and had several holes, and the cuffs were covered in grime. The buttons had already come undone when he carried me in, and now that the robe was flipped up, the collar gaped open, revealing only a thin, old undershirt beneath, washed pale.
He reached out to steady me, his Instinct making him grab for my Shoulder, but my body shifted slightly, his palm slipped, and he ended up pressing directly onto my chest.
Time stopped.
His hand went rigid, and I froze too. Neither of us moved; we even held our breath.
Three seconds.
He snatched his hand back violently, as if burned, stepping back half a pace. His earlobes were red enough to drip blood.
“I… it’s not…” He opened his mouth but couldn't form a complete sentence, his fingers trembling as he pointed at the sword. “It was… out of control.”
I slowly sat up, my movements slow—partly due to the shoulder pain, and partly because my mind hadn't caught up. My hand reached for my collar, pulling the robe tight, buttoning it up one by one, my knuckles turning white.
The wind sighed softly outside, and a Withered Leaf scraped against the Window Lattice. I looked down at my own trembling fingertips and suddenly realized—that instant wasn't just awkwardness.
Something flashed in his eyes that I didn't clearly see. But it wasn't panic, nor was it helplessness. It was a certain emotion forcibly suppressed, like a flame shrinking back into the ashes when the wind blows.
I opened my mouth, wanting to say, "It's fine," but the sound was stuck in my throat.
Lu Jiuxuan had already turned his back, shoving the sword back into the Brick Crevice, this time with more force. The Sword Body hummed incessantly, as if unwilling to be restrained.
“It hasn’t been… very obedient lately,” he murmured, his tone regaining its coldness, though the end of the word sounded weak.
I didn't reply, only pulling my collar tighter.
The Pendant still rested against my chest, icy cold, yet it reminded me of the way his hand moved when applying the medicine—steady, precise, and light, as if afraid of shattering something.
And now, the owner of those hands stood with his back to me, his shoulders and back pulled rigidly straight, like a wall separating him and me.
I suddenly wondered, what exactly was he afraid of?
Afraid of the sword losing control? Or afraid of himself losing control?