The smell of crushed petals filled the room. They were meant to conceal the sharper scent of medicinal herbs, and they did. Haoran, however, found them no less unpleasant. He rubbed at his nose, his heightened senses proving more a burden than an advantage.
He shifted to his side and looked toward the lantern. The light cast a muted red across the room, a particular shade he knew well enough. There was no mistaking the Bixia infirmary once one had seen it. The window stood wide open, and even though winter was ending, the wind still carried enough bite as it slipped through the room.
The blankets covering him were thin, offering little warmth. Haoran considered getting up to close the window, but he could also draw qi through his meridians and warm himself that way. He chose the latter. Moments later, he opened his eyes, the sweat beneath the blankets leaving his skin clammy.
He was doing it wrong. Was he? He frowned at the thought. It was the most basic of magical workings; there was no doing it wrong, not for someone like him, not with something so simple. Yet here he was, overheated and sweating beneath a thin blanket. He threw the covering aside and pushed himself upright.
Cold air drifted into the room, stirring the curtains—long, blue gauze-like veils that appeared almost purple in the red light of the lantern—before brushing against his skin.
He sighed, irritation beginning to rise with the anger he had not yet managed to settle. He focused on his breathing, this time trying to cool his body while forcing his thoughts into order. Neither seemed particularly easy.
The room itself was spacious, the bed beneath him softer than necessary. Haoran stared at the ceiling for a long moment before lowering his gaze to the thin convalescent robes draped over him. His expression tightened faintly.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and let the cold meet his feet before standing. The open window drew his attention again, and he moved toward it, intending to close it. But as he stepped closer, his gaze dropped to the courtyard below. Cheng Tangyue, his father, stood there in conversation with Elder Songhe, their figures silvered by the moonlight.
Haoran’s heart stopped.
Whatever intention had carried him from the bed dissolved at once. He stepped away from the window and settled back onto the soft mattress. He made no move to pull the blankets over himself.
Let the cold bite. It would keep him awake, after all.
No sooner had he done so than the door opened with a soft sound.
Haoran was already moving. He rose and straightened, his posture settling into form as Elder Songhe entered the room.
Without hesitation, he bowed deeply.
“Elder Songhe.”
Songhe regarded him for a moment before stepping further inside, the door closing quietly behind him.
“How are you feeling today?”
The question was simple, but Haoran did not answer immediately. He straightened from the bow, his gaze lowering slightly, not in avoidance but in thought, then spoke without embellishment.
“I feel anger.”
Songhe nodded once, accepting the answer without surprise or correction. The silence that followed was brief, but neither seemed inclined to fill it. When Songhe spoke again, his voice remained as calm as before.
“Do you have questions?”
Haoran looked up at him then. Hesitation crossed his face for the briefest instant before he gave a small nod.
“Yes, Elder Songhe.”
He waited, but Songhe did not prompt him. Haoran took the silence as his cue and began. “Xiangdao Village?” His voice tightened slightly. “The girl, Ziyan?”
Songhe’s expression changed, something in his presence sharpened, his attention narrowing as he spoke.
“The demon of Xiangdao Village remains elusive. Qiang Bifeng has not yet captured it, but he is close on its trail. As a result, the abducted children have not been recovered.”
He paused.
“However, protective measures have been established within the village. There have been no further reports in the past three days of children falling into comas, nor have there been any additional abductions. Ziyan is safe with her parents. I believe she is no longer in danger.”
Haoran absorbed the answer in silence. Some of the tension in his expression eased, though he did not seem to notice it himself. After a moment, another thought surfaced.
“I have been asleep for three days?”
“Yes.”
The reply came without delay, and something shifted behind Haoran’s eyes.
Three days? Three days had already passed since...
He left the thought unfinished and moved on to his next question, his voice steady at first, though something beneath it strained against the control he kept over himself.
“Before Hui Fen... passed...” The word caught, but he forced it through. “I saw his aura. It was gold.”
He did not phrase it as a question, yet uncertainty clung to the words all the same.
Songhe nodded once. “Yes.”
He said nothing more. The single word settled between them, insufficient. Haoran’s gaze sharpened as he searched the elder’s face for something more, some indication of what it meant, the why and how. If there was an answer, it had to come from this immortal.
It did not.
The silence stretched thin between them until Songhe spoke again, his voice unchanged.
“Shouldn’t you ask first how it is you survived a demon’s blade through your heart?”
The words struck Haoran cleanly.
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He said nothing. He only looked at Songhe, his eyes still searching the elder’s face for answers.
Songhe began to explain.
“You possess within you a fire lotus, one that contains a draught of my immortal essence.”
Haoran’s brow furrowed faintly.
“I placed it within your spiritual core the night after Ling Feng,” Songhe continued. “If you do not remember, it is because you were unconscious, on the brink of death. The lotus brought you back.”
The words settled heavily, but they resolved nothing.
“When I returned to the infirmary the following morning to retrieve it, you had already departed.” Songhe paused, his gaze remaining fixed on Haoran. “Listen carefully, Cheng Haoran. The demon’s weapon carried a concentrated level of malice. When it pierced your heart, that malice came into contact with the immortal essence within the lotus, and the two opposing forces clashed inside you. It was that collision that banished the demon, and at the same time, the lotus preserved your life.”
Haoran said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Songhe studied him for a moment longer before continuing.
“I have come today to answer these questions, and to take back what is mine.”
Haoran nodded, the motion mechanical.
He bowed lightly. “Yes, Elder Songhe.”
Songhe’s gaze settled on him again, this time with greater intent.
“As for your question regarding Qiang Huifen’s aura, the answer is simple enough.”
Haoran drew a breath.
“He was born immortal. Hence the color gold.”
Haoran did not understand. The meaning could not reach him.
Songhe continued, “And that being the case, it can only mean Qiang Huifen cannot be dead.”
The words seemed to echo through Haoran’s mind, disorienting him, disrupting the already uneven rhythm of his breathing and faltering heartbeat.
His knees gave way.
He neither braced himself nor resisted as the world narrowed around him, collapsing inward beneath the weight of what he had just heard.
He cannot be dead.
Choked sobs escaped him, but no tears came. His chest tightened as though a knot were being fastened around his heart, cutting and choking at the same time. His hands curled loosely at his sides as he knelt on the cold marble floor, his forehead touching the ground.
For a long while, he remained there.
How much time passed, he could not tell.
Eventually, Songhe cleared his throat.
The quiet sound carried enough weight to cut through his collapse and remind him whose presence he was in.
Haoran stilled. He drew in a breath, then another, gathering himself enough to rise. It was not graceful. His eyes were red-rimmed, his breathing still uneven, his movements careless of dignity. He made no effort to conceal any of it.
“Forgive me.”
The words came without address or bow.
Songhe did not reprimand him. Instead, the elder stepped forward and, with two slender fingers, tapped his forehead, then his chest.
The world stopped.
There was a complete severing between will and body. Haoran remained conscious, aware of the shift, aware of the sudden stillness that had taken hold of him, but unable to move a single muscle.
Songhe caught him before he could fall.
“Breathe.”
Haoran was laid back onto the bed, his body arranged with clinical precision. Only his eyes moved as tears, finally, began to slip silently across his temples and into his hair, unacknowledged.
Songhe covered him with a thin blanket, shielding him from the chill in his helpless state. Then, slowly and deliberately, he began to draw the fire lotus out.
As he worked, Songhe spoke.
“The rumors that the Qiang Clan are descended from gods are true. Buried, suppressed, and dressed as myth, but true nonetheless.”
His fingers moved with steady control, forming mudras that made the air pulse with shimmering light.
“The matter, however, is more complicated than lineage alone. Qiang Huifen knows of his blood, and at the same time, he does not.”
There was a faint pause, measured, as though he were weighing how much to reveal.
“Grandmaster Zhenwu sealed his immortality when he was a child. Not to diminish him, but to temper him. Power gained without effort breeds arrogance.”
The lotus began to emerge. Pain followed, sharp and invasive, as though some vital organ were being pulled out of him. Haoran’s body reacted instinctively, every muscle straining, every nerve alight, but he could not react.
Songhe drew the fire lotus fully into his hand. Its faint glow pulsed in the air, alive, before it vanished with a wave of his hand.
Haoran closed his eyes, wanting to scream. Anger pressed hard against his chest, fed by the painful helplessness that had been following him from one moment to the next. And now, the immobilization, the invasion of his body, leaving him with nothing to do but lie there and endure it.
Songhe then opened the robes at the side of his chest, revealing the dressed wound beneath. He peeled away the dried herbal dressing, exposing the fresh knife wound beneath it.
Haoran winced mentally.
Songhe placed three bead pills into the wound. The flesh closed almost immediately, leaving behind only a red mark, the color of dawn.
Only then did Songhe resume speaking.
“Qiang Huifen may not be fully aware of what he is, but his immortality is real. The demon’s assault did not merely wound him. It broke the seal placed upon him by his father.”
Haoran struggled to focus, to listen, forcing his scattered thoughts back toward Songhe’s voice.
“That is why you saw the gold aura. It was not a transformation. It was a revelation.”
A brief pause followed.
“He is alive. He is only in a deep sleep. So rest assured, Cheng Haoran. Your brother will wake.”
Songhe lifted his hand and tapped lightly, once at Haoran’s forehead, once at his chest.
The stillness shattered.
Sensation returned all at once, weight, breath, the ache of his body. But Haoran did not move. He lay where he was, staring upward, his mind a tangled mess.
Songhe stepped back.
“One last matter,” he said.
Haoran’s eyes shifted, barely.
“Qiang Huifen has been taken to Haoyang Sect, where there is a Soul Cauldron, the only artifact capable of restoring him properly. I am afraid he will not return for a long time.”
The words passed through Haoran like static.
“In his absence, you are to rise to the position of scion, unchallenged. Rest, heal fully, and be ready when that comes. Before then, do not make any decisions that may disrupt your ascension.”
Songhe turned, his robes shifting softly with the motion. Without another word, he left the room.
The moment the door closed behind him, Haoran broke.
He turned onto his side, then forced himself up. Something inside him demanded movement. He wanted to run, to find his sword, to fight, to scream at the top of his lungs, anything that would give the storm inside him somewhere to go.
He did not get far.
His legs failed him, and before he could hit the floor, arms caught him.
Strong. Familiar.
Cheng Tangyue.
Haoran did not look up. He did not need to. The moment the hold tightened around him, he clutched at his father’s robes like a child, his body shaking as the emotions tore through him without restraint.
Raw cries broke from him, one after another, until there was nothing left to hold back.
And he wept.