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Xiao Xingchen reached Yueyang with the sun at his back, low in the sky.

Clouds hung heavy overhead. The air tasted of rain, and lightning flashed over the horizon in jagged lines of pale fire. Yueyang bustled still, its streets lit by lanterns, its taverns filled with light and warmth. The stalls that lined the town’s main road were mostly shuttered, though a few merchants were still in the process of securing their wares. Xiao Xingchen felt their eyes follow him. He nodded in greeting, and was offered hurried words of welcome and goodwill. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

The town grew darker the farther from its gates Xiao Xingchen went. The streets turned narrow, crowded by houses that huddled against each other under patched roofs. Xiao Xingchen’s steps slowed. He peered down dank alleyways, unconcerned by the stench of garbage and the sight of dead, rotting things. Gleaming eyes watched him from the shadows – strays, mistrustful and full of fear. Xiao Xingchen wondered how badly he would be bitten, were he to offer them a hand.

The heavens opened. Cold rain sliced down, drumming over stone and earth. Xiao Xingchen’s robes grew heavy and stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He pushed on, unwilling to turn back, though only demons would roam the streets in such inauspicious weather.

“Did you lose something, mister?”

Xiao Xingchen turned sharply toward the young voice. He saw no one at first, but childish laughter pulled his gaze up, to a rooftop slick with rain. A boy of nine or ten sat perched on the roof’s edge. He grinned down at Xiao Xingchen, black eyes sparkling with mischief.

Xiao Xingchen swallowed a broken laugh. “Yes,” he called out once he could force his mouth to move, his tongue to lift.

“I can help you,” the boy offered. “But not for free.”

“I will pay,” Xiao Xingchen agreed.

The youth looked him over, assessing. “Come inside,” he bid, and disappeared through a sizeable hole in the roof.

Xiao Xingchen stared after him for a moment before he made his way to the front door. The house was small and shabbily built. Xiao Xingchen was not a tall man yet he found himself stooping to pass under the sloping doorway. The bite of wind and rain lessened once he was inside, though the walls and ceiling bore enough holes to ensure the house’s inhabitants were never far from nature.

The boy waited for Xiao Xingchen in what had once been a family room. There was a raised bit of flooring to one side, with a rectangular space cut in the middle for a pot to be suspended over a fire. The wall directly adjacent had collapsed almost entirely. The room opened up to a garden, or perhaps the forest that ringed the town. Xiao Xingchen was not sure how far he had walked that night. He was not entirely certain the room and boy were real.

“Are you a cultivator?” the boy asked. He watched Xiao Xingchen closely, bright eyes curious and cautious but not cruel, not yet.

“I am,” he told the boy. “My name is Xiao Xingchen. What may I call you?”

“Xue Yang,” the boy said easily, like it didn’t matter, like it meant nothing.

Xiao Xingchen swallowed phantom blood. “It is good to have met you, Xue Yang.”

Xue Yang shifted in his seat, his eyes darting away and then back to Xiao Xingchen, no longer as cocksure. “What’re you looking for, Master Cultivator?”

Xiao Xingchen tried to think of something to say that would not send the boy running into the storm. “It is a small matter. I would be glad to pay for your hospitality tonight, and look into it come morning.”

He offered the boy whatever money he carried, pouch and all. When the boy made no motion to take it, he set the pouch on the floor between them and withdrew. Xue Yang looked at him like he had lost his mind.

“I won’t give it back,” he warned.

“I won’t ask you to,” Xiao Xingchen said.

The pouch disappeared somewhere in the boy’s oversized robes. “You can stay. But only until tomorrow!”

“Thank you,” Xiao Xingchen said. He rose, bowed to his host, and retired to another room so he could panic and plan unobserved.

Xue Yang was gone in the morning. Xiao Xingchen had expected as much, and did not bother searching for the boy. He left a note of thanks and two wrapped candies where Xue Yang had sat the night prior, and departed himself.

The storm had torn through the slums like a demon. Many houses missed their roofs or doors, and a few had collapsed entirely. The roads ran with mud. Xiao Xingchen walked slowly, careful not to thread over some bit of roofing or piece of pottery that might prove salvageable and be missed by its owner. His robes were spelled against mundane stains, and retained their luminescence despite the waterlogged terrain. It was a practical use of cultivation. Even so, Xiao Xingchen was tempted to lift the spell and let his hems drag in the dirt. He did not, but the urge was slow to fade.

Merchants already lined the main streets, the air bright with the din of inns and households preparing to begin the day. Xiao Xingchen was hailed a few times, and offered a few minor jobs that were thought to require the skills of a cultivator. He refused only one – he had no knowledge of divination, and had rather strong thoughts about the relative value of determining auspicious dates and directions and the cultivators who offered such services – but agreed to look into the rest. His morning was spent dealing with a minor haunting and what turned out to be a rat infestation rather than a malicious spirit. It was good, honest work, and he was relieved to feel joy in helping people. He had not been sure he would be capable of it, knowing what he did about himself and the world.

A woman called out to him as he passed under a wide balcony. Green vines wove around the banisters, lush with leaves and large, pale flowers. The woman wore a robe stitched with yet more blooms. She leaned over the balcony’s side, her sleeves flapping in the air as she sought to catch Xiao Xingchen’s attention.

“Master Cultivator! Would you not spare a moment of your time?” she implored.

Xiao Xingchen nodded in acquiescence. A servant girl hurried down to meet him, and took him from the street through a verdant courtyard. More servants bustled in the house proper. Their party grew to four by the time they reached a well-furnished inner study, where the lady from the balcony waited with an entourage of her own. The girl who had led Xiao Xingchen into the house bowed and withdrew from the room. The two men who had trailed behind remained where they were, just out of sight but near enough that Xiao Xingchen could feel their presence at his back.

“Please, sit,” the lady in the flower robes said, and gestured to a plush settee.

Xiao Xingchen sat. The woman watched him from across a lacquered table. A porcelain teapot steamed gently between them, distorting her face.

“Thank you for indulging this foolish woman,” the lady said.

“Do you require a cultivator’s aid?” Xiao Xingchen asked, purposefully direct and clumsy. He watched the servants, not their mistress, and was not surprised to see their expressions twist into something dark.

“Not at all, not at all,” the woman said, waving her hand in dismissal. Her eyes danced and her smile had Xiao Xingchen’s own lips twitching. She was a creature of charm and joy. “I only hoped that you may entertain us with a story of your travels. Life is so dull for women, ah,” she sighed, teasing.

“Your home is beautiful,” Xiao Xingchen offered, less a compliment than an observation.

“My husband is most gracious in his care for my comfort,” the lady agreed evenly. Her eyes drifted to the teapot.

A servant woman, one of three flanking their mistress, rushed to offer cups. The lady stopped her with a subtle gesture. She held her flowing sleeve back and raised the pot herself. Xiao Xingchen leaned forward to offer his cup.

“Help,” the lady whispered, a breath of sound that melted in the air between them.

Xiao Xingchen sat back. The tea was fragrant, and tasted of peach blossoms. The scent put him in mind of an encounter with a forest spirit, which he related in as pleasing a manner as he could to the lady and her companions. The lady smiled with delight, and begged for another story as soon as he was done. The servants watched them both.

The sun was high in the sky when Xiao Xingchen took his leave. He refused an invitation to lunch, and bowed to the lady in parting. She rose to return the gesture. Her stomach was swollen, the bump barely noticeable under the opulent spill of her robes. Had she remained seated, Xiao Xingchen would not have noticed her condition.

A servant escorted him to the front gate. Xiao Xingchen tripped as he was stepping over the raised threshold, and had to lean against the man briefly for support. The talisman that slipped from his sleeve into the servant’s outer robe went unnoticed.

The house itself was almost aggressively unobtrusive when observed from the street. It fit neatly between two manors with similar build, its façade lacking lavish ornaments or indeed any mark of status. Xiao Xingchen made note of the location and departed without a second glance, lest he betrayed his interest.

There were children playing in the street. A group of them dashed by Xiao Xingchen as he inspected a baker’s display, jostling and shouting for their parents. He watched them disappear into the crowd. It was a nice thing to have somewhere warm to return to, someone kind waiting for your voice.

The morning jobs had yielded a few coins. Xiao Xingchen did not work for payment, but he accepted what was offered freely, painfully aware of how much money mattered in the world below the mountains. He spent his earnings on sweet rolls and meat buns, and carried the package gently so he would not bruise its contents. Xue Yang could probably use more greens in his diet, but Xiao Xingchen did not think he would be able to force a young boy to eat what he did not wish to, and any food was better than none.

Xue Yang’s home looked worse in the light of day. The ceiling sagged obviously in the places that it was not missing entirely, and the earthen floor was pitted with holes and marks. There were dark smudges on some walls that Xiao Xingchen chose not to examine too closely.

Xue Yang himself was still absent. Xiao Xingchen wondered if the boy lived there at all, and wavered on whether to wait or leave the food and hope it was found. Xue Yang’s wrists had been much too thin in the sleeves of his patched robes. He tried not to think of how the boy hid his left hand in his sleeve at all times.

A clatter overhead directed Xiao Xingchen’s eyes to the ceiling. Xue Yang peered down at him from the roof, his round face upside-down and framed by broken shingles.

“You’re back,” the boy observed.

Xiao Xingchen raised his oil-stained package. “Have you eaten?” he asked.

Xue Yang stared at him. He withdrew from view only to thunder down into the house proper a moment later, raising a cloud of dust and Xiao Xingchen’s blood pressure.

“Be careful! What if you fall and hurt yourself?” the cultivator scolded, the words scared out of him and thus sharper than he would normally allow.

Xue Yang’s eyes went wide. “Sorry,” he said.

Xiao Xingchen expelled a sigh and strode forward, pressing the bag into the boy’s hands. “No apologies necessary. Please, have this.”

He withdrew, and clasped his hands in front of his body in preparation to bow. Xue Yang grabbed his sleeve and tugged, then hastily let go once Xiao Xingchen looked at him.

“We’ll share,” the boy declared.

Xiao Xingchen opened his mouth to refuse – he had purchased the food for Xue Yang, his own cultivation level was already high enough that he did not require much in terms of sustenance – but the stubborn set to the boy’s jaw gave him pause. Xue Yang was extending a kindness. Xiao Xingchen would be a fool not to encourage the boy.

“Thank you,” he said.

They settled on the raised floor. Xiao Xingchen unpacked the food, and took care to present it nicely, using the paper bag and thinner sheets of rice paper the baker had used to wrap the buns as make-shift serving plates. Xue Yang watched him. The boy waited patiently to be served, and ate quickly once he was, though he was obviously doing his best not to scurf the food down. Xiao Xingchen nibbled on one of the meat buns. He ended up offering half of it to Xue Yang anyway, demurring that he had already eaten.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Xue Yang asked. The food was gone, and they were sitting in somewhat awkward silence, observing the trees and sky through the ample window of the ruined wall.

“Not entirely,” Xiao Xingchen said.

Xue Yang seemed to relax somewhat. The boy scooted a little closer, though still leaving plenty of moldy floorboards between them. “Could I – maybe I could help? I know the town better than you do, and I owe you for, you know, the food.”

“You do not owe me anything,” Xiao Xingchen said, heart in his throat, “but I would appreciate the help.”

The boy’s smile struck Xiao Xingchen like a sword through the stomach. Open and sweet and terribly, painfully familiar. He swallowed through a bout of nausea, and smiled as gently as he could.

“Are there demons in town?” Xue Yang asked.

“Very likely,” Xiao Xingchen answered, then wondered if he should have admitted such a thing. But Xue Yang did not seem afraid. The boy leaned close, his whole face lit up in his excitement.

“Yeah? You gonna fight them? Drive them out?” He bounced a little in place, seeming younger than his age. Xiao Xingchen smiled despite himself.

“Only if there is no other way,” he said.

Xue Yang cocked his head, his shaggy hair falling into his face. “But demons are bad. They hurt people.”

“Some do. Most do not give us much mind, and only ask we do the same. Coexistence is often difficult, and generally not recommended, but there are always exceptions.” Xiao Xingchen had not come upon such a case himself, but he knew it was theoretically possible for a spirit – demon or deity, the line was often blurred – to reside among humans without trouble. If the scrolls gathering dust in various Sect libraries were to be believed, gods had lived alongside humans at some ancient point in time.

Xue Yang did not look convinced, but nodded gamely. “What sort of demon’re you after?”

“I do not yet know,” Xiao Xingchen said. It was the truth, in more ways than one.

He took his leave not long after. There was a job waiting for him in town, and he meant to return to the manor with the flowering balcony once the sun set.

Xue Yang came with him to the house’s crumbled gate. “You can come back here, if you have nowhere else to go,” he offered in parting.

Xiao Xingchen smiled, and gave into the urge to pat the boy’s fluffy head. “Thank you.”

Xue Yang startled. He didn’t shy away or tell Xiao Xingchen off, so perhaps it was not entirely the wrong thing to do.

“Find me when you need help! Don’t forget!” the boy called after him.

Xiao Xingchen waved back. He had no intention of leaving Xue Yang to this ruined house, or the dark path that stretched from its doorway to a rooftop in Yueyang Chang. Xiao Xingchen did not believe in auspicious dates and lucky stars. The future was what one made it, and he would make it as bright as he could, for both himself and the boy who wore his killer’s smile.

Two rabbits lay dead in a pen.

It was a comfortable cage, inlaid with soft straw and large enough for its fluffy inhabitants to hop around and play. The door was secured with a simple bolt. The rabbits’ owner, a young woman with a sickly complexion and red-rimmed eyes, explained that the animals had been well just the night prior. She had woken to find them huddled together, cold and still.

“They are too young, and both of them together? Oh, it must be the work of something unnatural, it must! My poor little ones,” the woman’s voice broke into a sob.

“May I examine them?” Xiao Xingchen asked.

The young woman nodded. She had a servant open the cage, but Xiao Xingchen stopped the man before he could extract the bodies and reached in himself. The rabbits were small enough to fit neatly under his hands. There were no physical injuries to be found. When he directed a burst of qi into the rabbits’ stiff flesh, he found something else missing as well.

Xiao Xingchen withdrew. “Was the cage kept here?” he asked, thinking of all of those who could have passed through the reception hall of a large manor in the dead of night.  

The young woman shook her head. “They lived with me, in my rooms,” she said.

“Who cared for them?” Xiao Xingchen asked.

“I did. I did everything for them, I do not understand how this could have ever,” the lady pressed her sleeves to her eyes, hiding her tears.

Her father, an elderly man with a severe face, had been observing the proceedings silently. “Do you suspect something, Master Cultivator?” he prompted.

Xiao Xingchen wished to turn the question on the man. The lord of the house did not appear moved by the rabbits’ fate or his daughter’s grief. Yet he had sent for Xiao Xingchen, invited him into his home and asked for his aid. Xiao Xingchen bowed his head, demurring, “I prefer not to guess. If I may, I would like to speak with members of your household.”

“Granted,” the man agreed, and sent out a servant to instruct the staff to come in for questioning.

“Privacy is of import,” Xiao Xingchen said once the room was ready, and the first of a line of servants sat before him.

The words were not favorably received. The young woman was adamant about staying, and was only persuaded away when Xiao Xingchen gave his word that she will be made aware of all that was uncovered.

Her father beckoned Xiao Xingchen close once his daughter departed, waving his personal attendant away. The man’s eyes were hazy, a milky veil hiding most of the world from his sight. He watched Xiao Xingchen with narrowed intent.

“I know little of cultivation, but I have heard of the darker paths some take to attain spiritual power. If such a person exists in my household, I must know,” he commanded.

“I understand,” Xiao Xingchen said, and bowed low as the man took his leave.  

Parting screens were brought and arranged to seclude a section of the large hall, providing Xiao Xingchen and his anxious visitors a semblance of privacy. Xiao Xingchen took care to keep each man and woman an equal time, so as not to rouse suspicion toward any one individual. He learned about the household little by little. By the time a richly-dressed young man thundered his way through the screens and demanded to be seen, Xiao Xingchen was well aware of the rift that existed between the master of the house and his son.

“What’s this about A-Lei’s rabbits dying?” the youth demanded. He was no more than sixteen, sporting a wisp of a mustache and bristling like an irate porcupine.

Xiao Xingchen bid the last servant goodbye, and waited until they were alone to address his companion. “My name is Xiao Xingchen. What may I call you, young master?”

“Sheng Fei,” the youth said.

Xiao Xingchen gestured to the empty seat. Sheng Fei sat and glared mulishly.

“The rabbits?” he said, demeanor very much like that of his father.

There was tea. Xiao Xingchen served to his host, and spoke quietly, as even and nonjudgmental as the pouring water.

“There are many paths to cultivation. Some are more dangerous than others.”

Sheng Fei was still. “There are no cultivators in our family, Master Xiao. No one blessed with a spark that can form a golden core,” he bit out.

“A certain kind of cultivation does not require a spark,” Xiao Xingchen noted.

Sheng Fei rose with a clatter that sent his teacup tumbling. He stared at Xiao Xingchen, face white, and left without speaking a word.

Xiao Xingchen tidied away the man’s cup and tea in time for the next person in line.

The sky was dark when Xiao Xingchen passed under the flowering balcony. No one called out to him, and he heard not a whisper of a human voice from behind the manor’s tall walls. If there were lanterns lit within, their light could not be marked from the street.

A flower fell at his feet just as he left the manor’s shadow. Xiao Xingchen picked the stray bloom and placed it in his pocket, where it resumed the shape of a paper talisman.

The night promised to be bitter. A cold wind urged Xiao Xingchen down the street, stinging at cheeks and lips and nose. Stars budded in the heavens. Xiao Xingchen watched them, wondering if he had died under these same stars. Did the heavens ever change?

Did men?

A dark mass slammed into Xiao Xingchen, forcing him into a sliver of a passageway. Xiao Xingchen bore the rude attention silently. He had been aware of his pursuer for some time, and did not attempt to defend himself, allowing his assailant to usher them both deeper into the shadows.

“Young Master Sheng, is this truly the best time and place?” he said when the frantic pushing stopped at last.

The man’s features were hidden by a long, hooded cloak. He drew back at Xiao Xingchen’s words. Xiao Xingchen grabbed his arm before the youth could flee – he had no time for games of cat turned mouse.

“Young Master-”

“Do not call me that,” Sheng Fei snapped, sounding afraid for all of his bravado in tracking Xiao Xingchen down and forcing this encounter.

“Master Rabbit, then. Will that serve?” Xiao Xingchen asked, half in jest.

Sheng Fei sputtered, but did not argue. He glanced over his shoulder, as skittish as his new namesake.

“Is it true? What they say about – about cultivating yin energy?” he asked, words so low they were barely audible over the whistle of the wind.

“Demonic cultivation can lead to severe depletion in yang energy, especially in an inexperienced cultivator,” Xiao Xingchen answered the poorly-worded question. He could lead the man in circles all night long, but doing so was not his purpose. Had their previous encounter gone as Xiao Xingchen had planned, the youth would already know what he needed instead of chasing after him in the dark and putting himself under further suspicion.

“But there was nothing – I am fine,” Sheng Fei swallowed, then forged on with false bravery, “You already know, don’t you? That it was me. I – I killed–”

He swayed in place, and had to lean against the wall for support.

“How did it happen?” Xiao Xingchen said.

“I didn’t mean to,” Shen Fei said, “Shije loved them so much, I would never – I was only following the text, I didn’t know anything like this would happen!”

The man was obviously distraught. Xiao Xingchen had not believed his actions guided by malice, but had no words of comfort to offer, either – what was done was done, and it carried its consequences. Ignorance did not preclude responsibility, or erase guilt.

“Do you have the text with you?” Xiao Xingchen asked.

Sheng Fei produced a scroll from his robes, and offered it with trembling fingers. Xiao Xingchen unfurled the parchment carefully. He read through the sloping calligraphy that had led Sheng Fei astray, each word a stone in his stomach. When he was done, he tucked the scroll away. Sheng Fei didn’t ask for it back.

“The instructions you received are correct, but incomplete,” Xiao Xingchen told the man.

“Why did they die?” Sheng Fei asked.

Xiao Xingchen thought of how to answer, what he might say to make Sheng Fei understand without provoking defensive anger. He took a breath, and settled on a lesson he had learned from his own master.

“There are many paths to cultivation. Most thread those established by great Sects, their progress judged against that of cultivators who had gone before them, their talent molded to fit existing expectations and standards. Cultivation is not a safe pursuit, but there is protection to be found within a Sect, as well as guidance and help in time of need.

There are others who forge their own way – rogue cultivators who wish to change the existing order, for good or bad. These trails widen with the number of apprentices a cultivator accepts, and some become proper Sects over the years, their rogue ways codified into an accepted way of life.

Demonic cultivators are . . . an exception. Their paths are almost always solitary, with little guidance save that which they discover themselves and the snatches of information learned from like-minded souls. The margin of error in such cultivation is great. The use of yin energy, engaging ghosts and ghouls and the dead – it is all an anathema to other cultivators, and forbidden without examination. What you have acquired,” Xiao Xingchen gestured to where he had tucked away the scroll, “attempts to solve a crucial failing encountered by those who wish to cultivate without a golden core: the lack of a reserve of yang energy that can be harvested and focused outward. The author has discovered a way to capture the necessary energy from outside sources.” The rabbits, their souls smothered under dark yin. “It seems to be, ah, effective.”

Sheng Fei bowed his head as he listened. His shoulders were hunched, his face hidden. When he spoke, his voice shook, caught between terror and anger. “I didn’t choose A-Lei’s rabbits,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know what I had done, what had happened, until they were gone. What if I had taken from someone else? My sister, she is sick – what if I had–”

“You did not,” Xiao Xingchen said firmly. “You will not, now that you know.”

“Yes,” Sheng Fei agreed. He gathered himself then, and turned to Xiao Xingchen with a low bow fit for a servant rather than the son of a wealthy man. “Master Xingchen, this one is unworthy and thankful for your guidance. This one will not attempt what has been forbidden again.”

Xiao Xingchen wished he could believe the man, but there was a reason demonic cultivation persisted despite the steep price its arts demanded. Power of this kind was addictive. He suspected that even righteous cultivators, if cut from their cores and usual means of cultivation, would sooner turn to yin energy than quietly retire to a civilian life.

“Do not follow others blindly,” he said, and hoped that it would be enough.

“I will not,” Sheng Fei promised.

Xiao Xingchen nodded. “I will not visit your home again. You must tell your sister what happened, or she will be forever troubled by her loss.”

Sheng Fei bowed his head, but agreed to this, as well.

“One last thing, Master Rabbit,” Xiao Xingchen said. “Do not seek revenge against the one who provided you with this scroll.”

Sheng Fei bristled right up. “And why would I not?”

“Because you will fail,” Xiao Xingchen said simply.

The youth did not seem to like this one bit, judging by the audible grinding of his teeth. “You find him, then,” he said.

Xiao Xingchen sighed internally. A demonic cultivator was unlikely to linger long in a place where they may expect discovery and persecution. Sheng Fei shared the little he remembered of his encounter with the dark cultivator. The youth found his memory strangely muddled, which came as no surprise to Xiao Xingchen.

“I will do my best,” Xiao Xingchen said.

Sheng Fei departed with another deep bow. Xiao Xingchen meant to follow the man into Yueyang’s streets after an appropriate amount of time had passed, but a glance around the deserted space gave him an idea. There was just enough room for Xiao Xingchen to sit. He laid the paper talisman he had left in the flowering manor on the ground in front of him. It was a simple design, among the first talismans taught to junior cultivators and meant to serve as a parameter check before engaging a potentially unstable area. The talisman recorded spiritual energy and returned to its caster. The symbols inked in the paper would glow if it detected a malcontent spirit within the area the talisman was sent to inspect. The brighter the glow, the more powerful the spirit.

Xiao Xingchen waved his hand over the talisman to activate it anew. He had to cover his eyes a moment later, the tiny passageway washed blank under a flood of pale light.

The talisman dimmed under Xiao Xingchen’s fingers. Xiao Xingchen sighed shakily, and reached into his robes for brush and parchment.

If there was a monster hiding in Yueyang, Song Lan would need to know.

Xiao Xingchen spent the handful of hours between sunset and sunrise in the crowded alley. The letter he had written to Song Lan took longer than he had expected to compose, and he found little interest in wandering afterward, feeling weary and heartsick. He studied the yin cultivation scroll instead. A stray cat discovered him at some point and made itself at home in his lap. Xiao Xingchen scratched it under the chin absentmindedly while he read. It was a small thing, and rather skinny, but it purred with the might of a mountain lion.

Just before dawn, Xiao Xingchen put together a simple paperman and sent it off with a burden of two wrapped candies. The cat darted off on its own once he rose to leave. Xiao Xingchen watched it wiggle its way under a gate and thought, rather foolishly, about purchasing dried fish to carry in his sleeve.

He avoided the main streets. There was likely more work to be found in town, but Xiao Xingchen had not come to Yueyang to practice cultivation. Had the town not been in Yueyang Chang territory, he would have alerted Sect cultivators of what he had uncovered instead of sending a hurried missive to Song Lan. As it were, the local Sect was better kept as far away from Xue Yang as possible.

Xiao Xingchen sighted the pointed roof of a temple. He turned his feet in its direction, and studied the building as it came in sight. The structure seemed new relative to its surroundings, the red paint adorning its roof and walls gleaming under the morning sun. There was little in terms of decoration – no ornaments or carvings, no gilded tiles. The grounds, though well-kept, lacked the display of manicured greenery common to places allotted to the gods.

The temple’s great doors opened with but a press of Xiao Xingchen’s fingers. Incense scented the air inside, thick and potent. There were no icons, nor statues. Xiao Xingchen walked through long, empty halls, until he reached a small room furnished with a low table and a single cushion. Incense burned in a corner. He sat on the cushion, and found a teapot and cups in reach. The tea was warm and smelled of rain.

“Thank you,” Xiao Xingchen said.

The temple was black on the inside, the walls so tall and the light so dim that the ceiling was lost to shadows. Xiao Xingchen closed his eyes. The tension and fear and grief eating at his insides bled out with every breath he took, until there was nothing but the darkness left, comfortable and familiar.

This was death. Xiao Xingchen remembered it well – the coffin, the dark, the voice that led him out and beyond the confines of flesh and wood and earth.

Xiao Xingchen opened his eyes. He brought out the cultivation scroll he had confiscated from Sheng Fei. Creating a new tracking talisman was the work of a few moments. Xiao Xingchen placed it inside the scroll and rolled the parchment back up, letting the talisman absorb what it could. He settled in to wait. The tea was pleasant, the incense carrying a sharp tang that cleared the mind.

Xiao Xingchen’s thoughts turned to Xue Yang. He’d had no plan beyond finding the boy when he had arrived in Yueyang. Having met him, Xiao Xingchen could not imagine allowing a future in which Xue Yang grew up into a remorseless killer to come to pass.

Mercifully, the boy did not appear to be yet infected by the peculiar madness that had made him so dangerous in his adult years. There was calculation in his eyes, yes, and eagerness to learn about the darker aspects of cultivation, but that was per course with the interests of boys of his age. The turning point must be yet to come. Xiao Xingchen refused to consider the ruin of Xue Yang’s left hand as indication of imminent bloodlust. Xue Yang had pointed to the missing finger as his reason for slaughtering the Yueyang Chang Sect, yet he hardly seemed in the grip of vengeful thoughts at present. His true wounds ran deeper and had never been given a chance to scar.

How could Xiao Xingchen prevent what had already come to pass once? How could he persuade a boy who had known only hardship and pain to love the world, to cherish life – in himself, and in others?

The darkness offered no answers. Xiao XIngchen collected the demonic scroll and rose. He bowed twice before he left the temple; once to the heavens, once to the earth that swallowed all living things.

It was nearing midday. Xiao Xingchen had not felt the passage of time inside the temple, but was not surprised to find so many hours gone. He hesitated in choosing a path to follow. The crowds that gathered at Yueyang’s heart held no appeal. He was neither wanted nor expected anywhere, a stateless state of being that had once brought peace and impartiality to Xiao Xingchen’s dealings with the world. Xiao Xingchen was not certain this was still true for the man he had become. Whether he had matured, or tarnished, he did not know.

He did know that he was lonely, and had been for a very long time.

The wind shifted. With it came a tug at Xiao Xingchen’s sleeve, and the whisper of paper over cloth. The paperman Xiao Xingchen had sent to Xue Yang was doing its valiant best to climb up its master’s robes. Xiao Xingchen smiled, offering the poor thing a hand. The paperman stilled as soon as it lay in his palm, becoming but ink and paper once again.

“How’d you do that?”

Xiao Xingchen raised his eyes, startled to hear a familiar voice. “Xue Yang,” he greeted the boy hiding under the checkered shadow of a cherry tree.

Xue Yang jogged over. Xiao Xingchen had the paperman stand in his palm, to the boy’s delight. Xue Yang giggled when the paperman took a theatrical bow.

“It is a fairly simple spell,” Xiao Xingchen said. “I could teach you, if you like.”

Xue Yang’s smile slipped off his face. The boy stared at Xiao Xingchen with wide eyes, expression so open and vulnerable Xiao Xingchen almost swept him into a hug.

“Why?” the boy asked.

Xiao Xingchen sought a way to explain his interest without sounding mad. “You altered the spell,” he said, and raised his hand. The paperman danced in his palm on one leg. The other was slightly blackened, thick with dirt and a little bit of Xue Yang’s blood. Without the impediment, the paperman would have flown back to Xiao Xingchen’s side, too quick for a young boy to follow. Instead, it had hopped along like any flesh and blood being, bowed to obedience under the weight of Xue Yang’s fledging core. “Well done. I do wish you had not hurt yourself, however,” he added, unwilling to encourage the boy’s use of darker forms of cultivation, however accidental.

Xue Yang stared at Xiao Xingchen with black, black eyes. His silence pulled more words from Xiao Xingchen. A desire to have the boy understand, have him know his worth, urged him share more than was perhaps wise.

“You are talented, and bright, but you cannot master cultivation without aid, or form a healthy golden core on your own. I would very much like to teach you, if you will have me as a teacher. If you wish to learn.”

Xue Yang exhaled harshly. He rushed close, grasping Xiao Xingchen hands in his own. The paperman was crushed between their palms.

“Please,” the boy said, voice cracking, “Please.”

Xiao Xingchen drew Xue Yang into a careful embrace. He expected the boy to pull away; after a still, silent moment, Xiao Xingchen almost stepped back himself. Xue Yang threw his own arms around him, then, sobbing brokenly. Xiao Xingchen wished he knew how to comfort the boy. In the end he could only hold him, and let him cry.

“’m sorry,” Xue Yang whispered after a time. He withdrew, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched.

Xiao Xingchen kneeled so he could look the boy in the eyes. “I am happy to have a student so eager to learn.” He spoke over Xue Yang’s flustered attempts to have him rise, and dried the boy’s wet cheeks with his sleeves.

Xue Yang’s smile was small and watery. Xiao Xingchen’s throat grew tight. He patted the boy’s head and rose, shaking murky memories away.

They took a walk through market after all. Xue Yang shed his sadness quickly, the boy’s personality much better suited to laughter and smiles. He pointed out places and people of interest to Xiao Xingchen, darting this way and that but never straying farther than a few steps from the cultivator’s side. Unsurprisingly, he lingered near shops that specialized in weaponry and armor. Xiao Xingchen steered him away. The boy was too young for a sword of the kind he admired, and likely too inexperienced to wield a blade at all.

Yueyang was a merchant town, but not all of its residents relied on trade as a source of income. Fertile fields stretched beyond the sprawl of markets and crowded neighborhoods. The soil was recently turned, the canals dug in neat rows overflowing with water due to the recent rains. Xue Yang amused himself by hopping across a narrow stream that ran parallel with their path and back again, his energetic zig-zagging at odds with Xiao Xingchen’s measured steps. There were people about, tending to crops and animals. Xiao Xingchen was a little worried that Xue Yang may shy away from the curious glances cast their way, but the boy appeared to either not notice or not mind the attention.

They reached a grove of four apple trees. Xue Yang clambered up one as soon as Xiao Xingchen announced they would be taking a break.

“Careful!” Xiao Xingchen exclaimed, watching the boy skip from branch to branch in search of one sturdy enough to bear his weight.

Xue Yang grinned at him. He settled on a thick branch midway up the tallest of the trees, legs swinging freely in the air. “Don’t worry, shizun! I won’t fall!”

Xiao Xingchen made a small noise of surprise, flustering internally. The title was appropriate – he was to be the boy’s teacher, after all, and was in fact about to call Xue Yang down for his first lesson. It was still strange to hear himself addressed in such a way.

Wind pulled at Xiao Xingchen’s robes, accompanied by a sharp, metallic whistle. Xue Yang called out in alarm. Xiao Xingchen was already turning, hand on his sword, only to break into a wide smile.

“Song Lan!”

“Xiao Xingchen,” Song Lan greeted in turn. The cultivator stepped down from his perch on his sword. Fuxue flew into its scabbard as he advanced, blade and man moving together with grace Xiao Xingchen had often admired.  

Xiao Xingchen could suddenly not keep himself still. He met Song Lan halfway, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. Song Lan’s beloved face retained its placid cast but his eyes widened slightly. Xiao Xingchen knew his friend was startled, and that he was hardly acting as himself. Still, he could not help laughing. How good, to see Song Lan again! How sweet, to have him look at Xiao Xingchen without bitterness or loss or grief weighting his gaze.

The thought slowed his steps. This was not his Song Lan, Xiao Xingchen remembered – and he was not this Song Lan’s Xiao Xingchen.

“Thank you for coming,” he said softly.

Song Lan nodded. His eyes swept from Xiao Xingchen to Xue Yang, who had come down from his perch at some point and now stood at Xiao Xingchen’s elbow. Xiao Xingchen was somewhat concerned to find the boy glowering at Song Lan. Surely, he could not already dislike the man!

“This is Xue Yang,” Xiao Xingchen introduced. To Xue Yang, he said, “This is Song Lan. We followed the same master, and I consider him my dearest friend.”

Song Lan’s breath hitched ever so slightly. Xiao Xingchen glanced at the other man and found him looking as serene as he ever did, except for the flush dusting his cheeks and ears. Xiao Xingchen fretted, hoping his friend had not pushed himself too hard to reach him quickly.

Xue Yang’s scowl only deepened. He crossed his arms and looked away pointedly, nose in the air.

“Xingchen, is there somewhere we may talk?” Song Lan asked.

Xiao Xingchen hesitated. He glanced at Xue Yang, wondering if he should leave the boy alone so soon after promising his protection. Xue Yang grabbed his sleeve before he could think of how to word his worry into an answer.

“Shizun can use my place. His friend, too,” he offered.

“Thank you,” Xiao Xingchen said, smiling. Xue Yang was truly a kind boy. 

Xue Yang led the way to his home. He glanced back at Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan often enough that Xiao Xingchen worried he would run into something, but the boy navigated streets and people with ease, quick of foot.

“Shizun?” Song Lan asked quietly.

“Later,” Xiao Xingchen murmured back.

They reached the dilapidated house with plenty of sunlight left. The sight of the crumbling building had Song Lan’s brows furrowing. Xue Yang directed them to the large room he favored. He disappeared deeper into the house, leaving the adults to talk. Xiao Xingchen did not delude himself in thinking the boy was not eavesdropping from somewhere. As the first thing Song Lan did when they were alone was put up silencing charms around the room, his friend was of a similar mind.

“I searched for you,” Song Lan said.

Xiao Xingchen could not think of a response.

“You have wandered far,” Song Lan continued. His eyes were on Xiao Xingchen, gaze measuring.

Xiao Xingchen wet his lips. Yueyang was indeed far beyond the area he patrolled. If Song Lan had searched for him, then the man had likely tracked Xiao Xingchen’s hurried path through the mountains. To attempt misdirection at this point would be an insult to Song Lan’s intelligence, and an entirely futile endeavor besides.

“There is something I must see through,” he said.

“Is it the boy?” Song Lan asked.

Xiao Xingchen nodded.

“Will you tell me?” Song Lan asked.

“In time,” Xiao Xingchen said.

Song Lan accepted this with a firm nod that promised to hold Xiao Xingchen to his word. “I received your letter,” he said, letting the subject of Xue Yang drop.

Xiao Xingchen smiled, his eyes soft with gratitude. Song Lan was a loyal friend. Too loyal, in the end, for his own good.

Song Lan was looking at him strangely. Xiao Xingchen took a breath, realizing he had remained silent much too long. He hurried to recount what he knew of the lady with the flower robes and her home. “Her husband is not very well known in town. He moved his household to Yueyang only recently, and is often away on business.”

“The servants?” Song Lan asked.

“Of a number greater than necessary for the running of a household of that size. None of them are Yueyang-born, or known to the town. The men I encountered were combat-trained,” Xiao Xingchen answered.

The manor was less a home and more a stronghold – or a prison, depending on one’s perspective.

“There are wards around the property,” Xiao Xingchen continued. “I was not able to inspect them closely, but I have reason to believe them charms of concealment rather than protection.”

Xiao Xingchen produced the tracking talisman he had left in the manor and let it float in the air. Some of the stored energy had dissipated, but what remained was enough to light up the entire house and its surroundings.

The talisman burned away not long after activating, the paper worn by the onslaught of yin energy. The room dimmed. Xiao Xingchen waited to hear Song Lan’s interpretation of the soft warmth that lingered in the air. His eyes caught on Xue Yang. The boy stood in a doorway that bled shadows, his pale face soft with wonder. Xiao Xingchen beckoned him close.

“Xingchen,” Song Lan warned.

“It is fine,” Xiao Xingchen told him.

Song Lan did not agree, judging by the downward turn of his lips. He took down the silencing charms and stepped back, to observe. Xiao Xingchen shivered under the weight of his eyes.

Xue Yang approached readily enough. “What was that?” he asked, nearly bouncing on his heels.

The boy’s excitement drew a smile from Xiao Xingchen. “Energy,” he answered.

“Smells like peaches,” Xue Yang said.

Xiao Xingchen drew a startled breath. He glanced at Song Lan, and found his friend watching Xue Yang contemplatively.

“Does it?” Xiao Xingchen asked.

Xue Yang nodded, then seemed to notice the adults’ scrutiny and grew hesitant, bright eyes dropping. “I – maybe I made a mistake.”

Xiao Xingchen bent so he could see Xue Yang’s face. “You did not make a mistake,” he told the boy. “You sensed what we could not, and we are grateful that you did.”

Xue Yang smiled, sweet and small. Xiao Xingchen smiled back. He straightened, and turned to Song Lan. “The flowers embroidered on the lady’s robes. They were peach blossoms.”

Song Lan raised a brow, his glance Xue Yang’s way pointed. Xiao Xingchen was not about to send the boy off again. If Xue Yang was truly to become his apprentice – and Xiao Xingchen was still in a bit of shock over that, for various and conflicting reasons – keeping his work as cultivator from the boy would be not only counterproductive, but impossible, especially once they took back to the road. So he watched Song Lan back, gaze placid, until his friend sighed and gave in.

“A tree spirit, held against her will,” Song Lan said.

“She is expecting a child,” Xiao Xingchen reminded.

They fell silent, each man absorbed in his own thoughts. The course of action was clear on its face. The risk of the spirit turning malevolent and wreaking havoc upon the town was high, made all the more dire by the sheer amount of power contained behind the manor’s unassuming walls. It was their duty as cultivators to act timely.

The child, however – the child complicated matters.

“She asked for my help, knowing that I am a cultivator,” Xiao Xingchen said.

Song Lan nodded, his lips a hard line. “There is too much that is still unknown. I will attempt to approach the manor, and study its defenses. Please, wait for my return,” he bid.

“I will accompany you,” Xiao Xingchen said, but Song Lan was already shaking his head.

“The servants will recognize you,” he said.

Xiao Xingchen pursed his lips. “Not to the manor, then. There are a few things I would like to pick up from the markets in preparation for dinner. I will wait for you elsewhere in town.”

Song Lan looked at him with some bewilderment, which translated in a slight widening of his eyes and softening of his mouth. “I will purchase what is necessary,” he said at last.

The man could be singularly pig-headed when he so chose. Xiao Xingchen held in a sigh. He decided against arguing, and gave Song Lan a short list of produce. Xue Yang made a face at the mention of cabbage. Xiao Xingchen smiled at him in a way that told the youth he would eat his vegetables and like it, and then tried to give Song Lan money.

“There is no need,” Song Lan said, still with that curious expression on his face. He left before Xiao Xingchen could explain that there was a need and that he had been taking on work precisely so he could make such purchases – or alternatively, chuck a handful of coins at his friend’s beautiful, stubborn head.

It was difficult to hold onto irritation, even had Xiao Xingchen wished to be petty. He was much too relieved to have Song Lan near to entertain any ill feelings. There was plenty to do besides, Xue Yang’s lessons chief in importance.

Xiao Xingchen took a seat on the raised floor and waved the boy close. Xue Yang came to him with haste, sitting in his best approximation of Xiao Xingchen’s own straight-backed pose.

“We will begin with inscription lessons,” Xiao Xingchen announced.

He produced a scroll of a simple cultivation text used by beginners from his traveling pouch, along with ink and spare parchment, which he offered to Xue Yang. The boy accepted the materials with slouched shoulders.

“’m not good at letters,” he admitted, curling his left hand into a fist under the cover of his sleeve.

Xiao Xingchen was in fact surprised the boy could read and write at all. “Practice will help. It is the same with sword work, and cultivation,” he said.

Xue Yang’s eyes lit up at the mention of swords and cultivation. He took to his assigned task with great care, copying paragraph after paragraph in as neat a script as one unused to holding a brush could hope to produce. Xiao Xingchen read the text out loud as the boy worked, keeping pace with the movements of the brush. He had Xue Yang pause after every few sentences and read back what he had written. The first few times the boy made a mistake, he flustered and ducked his head. Xiao Xingchen encouraged him with smiles and soft words until he resumed again. The minute stumbles petered off more quickly than Xiao Xingchen expected. Xue Yang truly was a very bright child.

Song Lan found them with their heads bent over a second scroll several hours later. Dusk had fallen outside. Talismans glowed on the walls and ceiling, casting the room in warm light.

“Song Lan, welcome back,” Xiao Xingchen greeted. He smiled at his friend; the man made a rather strange picture, standing at attention under a wide hole in the roof, a sack of produce slung over his shoulder.

Song Lan set his burden down and approached, eyes falling to the scroll Xue Yang was copying. He nodded once in approval.

“Good work,” he praised the boy.

Xue Yang stiffened, as if bracing for something – critique, perhaps, or some snide comment, judging by the tight set of his jaw. When Song Lan said nothing further, he looked to Xiao Xingchen for guidance.

“You did very well,” Xiao Xingchen assured. He collected the practice parchment and the scroll, putting both away. “Enough for today, I think.”

Dinner was to be a simple stew. Xiao Xingchen shared his plans for their meal, only to realize that he had neither a pot to cook in, nor bowls in which to serve. In another life, he had carried such things per routine. A quick check through his pouch revealed nothing but a few scrolls, herbs, and blank talismans. He glanced at his friend, an apology on his lips.

"Did I forget something?" Song Lan asked, misinterpreting the cause of Xiao Xingchen's downcast expression.

Xiao Xingchen laughed softly. "No, I did. I forgot that cooking is done over a fire, not in thin air."

Song Lan looked at him strangely, which was turning into something of a pattern. The man proceeded to produce a pot and cooking utensils from his traveling pouch – the very same set Xiao Xingchen remembered carrying himself, in a future he hoped would never come. He hid his confusion behind a smile.

“Thank you, Song Lan,” he said.

They needed wood to kindle the hearth. Xue Yang volunteered, and Xiao Xingchen let him go, but only after the boy promised not to stray too far out or climb any more trees. Xue Yang seemed bemused by the concern. He dashed out into the dark, disappearing between the trees that ringed the house before Xiao Xingchen could change his mind and call him back.

“Come,” Song Lan bid.

Xiao Xingchen reluctantly turned his eyes away from the ruined wall and the spot he had last seen Xue Yang.  He followed Song Lan to a stream the man had marked on his way back. The water was clear and cold. They made a quick work of washing the vegetables, then filled the pot and their own waterskins before returning to the house. Xiao Xingchen’s steps were more hurried than usual. He did not wish for Xue Yang to come back and find them gone.

“This is a poor place for a child to live,” Song Lan said quietly. They were still alone, and Xiao Xingchen was doing his best not to worry over the fact. He had long finished preparing his share of the vegetables. Song Lan was still working through his, his hands moving with none of the anxious urgency that had Xiao Xingchen glancing out into the woods every few seconds.

“It is,” Xiao Xingchen agreed.

“There are children who have far less,” Song Lan noted.

Xiao Xingchen pursed his lips. “He is meant to be a cultivator, Zichen.”

Song Lan’s eyes glistened in the low light. Xiao Xingchen swallowed, and looked away.

“I know that I am not fit to be a teacher,” he began.

“You would be a good teacher,” Song Lan said, sounding so sure Xiao Xingchen was momentarily at a loss for words.

“You are kind, and patient, and wish to help others even when you probably should not,” Song Lan continued. “The boy would be lucky to have you.”

Xiao Xingchen’s lips trembled. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to hug Song Lan and never let go. “I am very selfish,” he said instead.

 “We all are, in some things,” Song Lan said.

Xiao Xingchen wanted to tell him, then. It was hardly the time or the place, and he could not dare hope for Song Lan’s reaction to be favorable. Still, his heart hurt for holding the words back. Song Lan deserved the truth.

“Shizun! I’m back!”

Xue Yang thundered inside. He had a tall stack of dry branches clutched to his chest, which he deposited proudly at Xiao Xingchen’s feet.

Xiao Xingchen patted the boy’s head. “Thank you, Xue Yang. I will get dinner started. If you would follow Song Lan to get washed up?”

Xue Yang’s face fell. Song Lan, too, seemed in mind to argue. Xiao Xingchen shooed both out, and then spent some time staring after them as they took down the path he and Song Lan had followed earlier. Song Lan’s robes were much finer than Xue Yang’s, and they walked with some distance between them. Still, with both dressed in black and the height difference, they looked a bit like father and son – or perhaps an older brother, taking care of his didi. Xiao Xingchen laughed under his breath. He wondered what domestic role he fit in such a scenario.

The stew was simple, in that Xiao Xingchen had made it so many times as to go through the motions without having to think about the steps involved. Song Lan and Xue Yang returned to the pot bubbling merrily over a small fire. They were both rather wetter than Xiao Xingchen had expected. Xue Yang was scowling with all his might, looking like a drenched, grumpy kitten. Song Lan wore his own frazzled look better, though his hair was a right mess and his sleeves were dripping.

Xiao Xingchen swallowed his laughter. He put on a stern look, and directed his companions to take a seat near the fire.

“He pushed me in first!” Xue Yang said, spilling his sins unprompted.

Song Lan sniffed. “I did not push you. I was helping you wash your hair.”

“Who needs your help?” Xue Yang demanded.

Xiao Xingchen handed each a bowl. “Do not bicker,” he sighed.

Xue Yang settled with a grumble. Song Lan accepted his own dinner with a nod of gratitude. Their fingers brushed over the bowl. Xiao Xingchen smiled softly, then remembered himself and withdrew as if scalded. He focused on his own bowl, cheeks red.

The silence did not last long. Food and the warmth of the fire mellowed Xue Yang’s mood, and he forgot his ire at Song Lan in favor of asking the very many questions he had about cultivation and the world beyond Yueyang. Xiao Xingchen did his best to answer the boy. He steered the conversation away from certain topics, and refused to dress any of the cultivation work he discussed in unearned grandeur. Xiao Xingchen even shared a time he had failed a client. It would not do to have the boy think him more than he was, or believe that cultivation was the answer to all woes.

“Shizun is too modest,” Xue Yang said in response to this last story. The excited shine in his eyes had Xiao Xingchen sighing internally. Truly, Xue Yang was proving to be a most dedicated pupil, and not entirely to the youth’s benefit.

“Heed the lesson,” Song Lan chided.

Xue Yang’s smile turned to a childish scowl. He seemed very close to sticking his tongue out at Song Lan. Xiao Xingchen held in his laughter, not wanting to antagonize the boy further.

Song Lan was, unfortunately, not quite finished. “I do agree that your Master is taking a larger share of the blame than he ought. The fault for that particular case was shared between us,” he said.

Xiao Xingchen shook his head. “It was my inability to perceive the currents of conversation, of emotion, that led us astray. The fault was my own, dear friend. You must not always be so quick to share my burdens.”

Song Lan stilled. There was something hurt in his eyes, and Xiao Xingchen nearly wept to see it. He did not regret saying what he had. It was but the truth, and Song Lan could do well with a reminder. Xiao Xingchen did not want the man following him blindly down a path that may well lead to a grave once more.

“It is time for sleep,” Xiao Xingchen announced.

There was not much to tidy away. Xue Yang helped douse the fire, the boy oddly quiet. He showed them to another room when they were done – a small, cramped thing without windows. It had a working door, however, and no holes in the walls or ceiling. Xue Yang’s bedding was piled in a corner. It consisted mostly of straw and a few robes that had long turned to rags. He shyly tried to offer it to his teacher.

“Thank you, A-Yang, but there is no need,” Xiao Xingchen told the boy. He explained his intent to meditate through the night.

Xue Yang accepted this readily enough, smiling at Xiao Xingchen with rather more awe than simple meditation warranted. It was only after he left the boy nestled in his makeshift bed that Xiao Xingchen realized he had called to him with parental familiarity. He flushed, comforting himself with the thought that the boy had not seemed to mind the slip.  

Xiao Xingchen turned from Xue Yang’s door, and nearly ran into Song Lan’s chest. He managed not to yelp like a child. The glare he sent up at his lurking friend melted into a wide-eyed look when he felt Song Lan’s large hand on his brow.

“You should rest,” Song Lan said, and withdrew his hand.

Xiao Xingchen’s face burned where Song Lan had touched him. “I would like to visit the stream again. Would you stay here, with Xue Yang?” he asked.

Song Lan nodded after a short pause. Xiao Xingchen thanked his friend. He went off to collect the bowls and pot, for washing, and took his bundle outside.

The night sky was filled with stars. Crickets sang in the bush, the humming of owls and other nocturnal creatures lending the darkness life and warmth. The tension in Xiao Xingchen’s shoulders eased gradually. By the time he reached the stream he could breathe again.

Washing a pot and three bowls did not require nearly enough time or effort to serve as a good distraction. Xiao Xingchen was still restless by the end of it, and in no mind to return to Xue Yang and Song Lan. He extended his senses briefly; upon finding himself alone, he quickly stripped from his robes and stepped into the stream, gritting his teeth against the cold. The water was not too deep. He found a good place to sit near the bank, and set to scrubbing himself down as quickly as he could. There was soap in his pouch – a simple, scentless blend he and Song Lan preferred. It cleansed the grime and sweat from his skin and hair faithfully.

Xiao Xingchen shivered. He slid down until the water closed over his head. His hair tangled around his face and neck, further fracturing his sight. His mind was pleasantly blank. The cold had seeped into his bones, the gentle current and the shift of small stones under his curled feet a meditation all on its own.

The world turned. Xiao Xingchen felt arms around his body and thrashed, but his assailant had him pinned. He was pulled out of the stream. Song Lan’s face swam into focus above him, tight with anger. He pulled Xiao Xingchen into his lap and covered his shoulders with his own outer robe. Xiao Xingchen’s protests and attempts to move were met with a cold glare.

“How long were you in the water?” Song Lan demanded. He held Xiao Xingchen’s hands between his, sharing his warmth and qi. Xiao Xingchen trembled violently. He had not realized how cold he had been until he felt Song Lan against him.

“Not long,” he said, though in truth he did not know.

Song Lan pulled him closer. Xiao Xingchen could feel the blood rising in his cheeks, scalding hot under his chilled skin.

“My robes,” he said, motioning to where his clothes were piled.

“When you are dry,” Song Lan said. His hold was looser now, and he was very pointedly not looking at the man in his arms. If Xiao Xingchen struggled, he would likely be freed.

Xiao Xingchen did not struggle.

“What did you find in town?” he asked.

“Nothing good,” Song Lan said. “The manor is indeed warded with charms of concealment, and its doors and windows are under guard. Nearby merchants cannot name those who live there, although they say that servants from the manor purchase their wares regularly. The manor's master has been away for a long time.”

“I would think that enough to fuel gossip and suspicion,” Xiao Xingchen said.

“So would I,” Song Lan agreed.

Xiao Xingchen remembered Sheng Fei, the youth’s inability to recall the person who had sold him a most damning object. “I wrote to you about a scroll,” he said softly.

Song Lan’s arms tightened minutely before the man appeared to consciously relax his hold. “You suspect a demonic cultivator involved here, as well?”

“It could be the same man, or a few cultivators working together.” Xiao Xingchen said.

“We should alert the Yueyang Chang Sect.”

Xiao Xingchen shook his head. “No, that will be – not necessary,” he finished weakly.

Song Lan finally looked at him. “You suspect they are already aware,” he guessed.

Xiao Xingchen had not, not until Song Lan raised the possibility. His primary concern was keeping Xue Yang as far away from Chang Cian as he could. However, it did seem unlikely that such obviously unnatural happenings could have escaped the notice of local cultivators. He did not believe the Chang clan involved directly, but they may well be turning a blind eye to the workings of a more powerful Sect within their territory.

“We should still approach them, ask for an explanation,” Song Lan said.

They had come to a crossroads, Xiao Xingchen realized. He could continue to insist that they keep away from the Chang estate without providing a good reason, or otherwise allow Song Lan to go to them alone – both actions that would hurt his friend.

Or he could tell Song Lan the truth.

Song Lan waited patiently for him to speak. Always so gentle, Song Lan. Always so forgiving.

“You have seen Xue Yang’s hand,” Xiao Xingchen said softly.

Song Lan nodded. “His left hand is missing one finger. I assumed it an old injury from a childhood accident, or perhaps a birth defect,” he said.

“A cultivator crushed Xue Yang’s hand when he was very young,” Xiao Xingchen said. “It was not an accident, and the cultivator responsible was not satisfied with maiming a child. Xue Yang was beaten and demeaned. I,” Xiao Xingchen took a shuddering breath, his eyes hot, “I will not seek help from this man, or trust any information he may offer.”

“Is there proof?” Song Lan asked after a short silence.

“Xue Yang’s word,” Xiao Xingchen said.

Song Lan let out a frustrated snarl. They could not pursue this, not now and perhaps not ever. Xiao Xingchen leaned into Song Lan’s warmth. He shared Song Lan’s anger. He understood, too, why Xue Yang had sought vengeance against the Yueyang Chang Sect on his own terms. There was no excuse for slaughtering innocents, but the blame for that bloody night did not rest solely on Xue Yang’s shoulders.

Xiao Xingchen rose. He dressed quickly, and found Song Lan with his face averted and his ears red when he turned to return the man’s robe. The pot and bowls went back into Song Lan’s traveling pouch. They fell in step easily, sharing the road home in comfortable silence.

The house was quiet. Xiao Xingchen peered in on Xue Yang, his heart eased by the sight of the boy curled under a spill of old robes, deeply asleep.

“You should rest, as well,” Song Lan said when he returned to the room they were to share for the night.

Xiao Xingchen wished to argue, but his eyes burned and his body was still shivery from the water. “Just for a few hours,” he allowed.

Song Lan seemed pleased with that. He beckoned Xiao Xingchen close, offering his lap as a pillow. Xiao Xingchen flushed.

“That – I cannot impose,” he flustered. A selfish part of him did not want to refuse Song Lan’s warmth at all.

“You will not sleep well on the floor,” Song Lan said. The dusting of red on his cheeks undermined his matter-of-fact tone. “Please,” he said quietly when Xiao Xingchen hesitated, “Your . . . sickness was severe. Your body needs the rest, even if your mind does not.”

Xiao Xingchen went to his friend, eyes averted partly out of embarrassment, partly to hide his confusion. He rested his head against Song Lan. A black robe fluttered over him, carrying Song Lan’s scent and warmth. Xiao Xingchen swallowed his protests. He did not remember the illness that so concerned Song Lan, but could not think of a way to tell his friend without causing further worry, or suspicion.

“Thank you,” Song Lan said.

Xiao Xingchen drew the black robe tighter around himself, his chest hollow with a phantom ache.

The morning dawned bright and crisp. Xiao Xingchen slept through the night, despite his initial resistance and sincere belief that he would not be able to keep still for more than a few hours, if that. Perhaps his body truly had needed the rest.

Song Lan departed for town not long after he was released from his duty as Xiao Xingchen’s pillow. He meant to gather information on the peach spirit and her jailors, as well as seek work that would provide cover, should his presence in Yueyang be questioned. Xiao Xingchen let him go reluctantly. Had Xue Yang not needed his attention so urgently he would have joined his friend in town, whatever Song Lan’s thoughts on the matter.

Instead, Xiao Xingchen spent a pleasant morning foraging the forest for fruit and roots with an exuberant bundle of energy. Xue Yang did not walk as much as bounce from place to place. He was quick to dart after anything that caught his teacher’s eye, hunting after berries and mushrooms and herbs with single-minded enthusiasm. Xiao Xingchen had to hold the boy away from a particularly thorny cluster of shrubs. Xue Yang pouted at being treated like a little kid, though he was quickly mollified when Xiao Xingchen took the opportunity to explain the difference between poisonous and edible plants, and the importance of avoiding prickly vegetation.

Once they had all they could carry, Xiao Xingchen had them sit under a tree to practice calligraphy. Xue Yang was surprisingly patient with the lesson given the abundance of distractions all around. He did stop to chase after a bunny that emerged from behind the roots of a nearby tree, but he did not go far and dropped the furry creature readily enough when Xiao Xingchen bid him do so.

“We could’ve had it for lunch,” the boy complained.

“It was too young, and small,” Xiao Xingchen said. “Besides, we have collected enough food. It is wasteful to take more than what we need.”

Xue Yang scuffed the toes of his worn sandals in the dirt. “It was soft,” the boy said quietly.

Ah, Xiao Xingchen thought, so he hadn’t really wanted to hurt it. He wondered how many soft things Xue Yang had been forced to kill in order to survive.

“Come, let us go back,” he said, and patted the boy’s head.

They had time for more lessons after lunch, and another trip to the stream. Xiao Xingchen handed Xue Yang soap and a spare set of his own robes. He took the boy’s clothes away to wash further downstream, soothing Xue Yang’s embarrassed protests with a reassurance that such things were not uncommon among traveling partners, and that he and Song Lan often shared laundry duties between them when on the road. The explanation seemed to satisfy the boy, though he did not look any less embarrassed.

Xiao Xingchen took his time. Xue Yang’s robes were worn and coarse, and required several soapy rinses before they could be deemed properly clean. Xiao Xingchen spread them on a rocky bank to dry under the sun. Xue Yang joined him not long after. The boy looked strange in white, all the more so for clutching the skirts of Xiao Xingchen’s robes up so they would not drag in the dirt.

“You do not need to worry about staining the fabric, it is spelled to resist ordinary wear,” Xiao Xingchen explained, smiling at the adorable sight.

The length was troublesome, so he showed Xue Yang how to fold the robes around his middle and secure the excess fabric with a belt. It did not make for the most elegant of dress, but Xue Yang did not seem to mind and Xiao Xingchen was relieved to have the boy in sturdier clothing. The robes would keep away most pests, as well as protect Xue Yang from mundane scrapes and bruises.

Song Lan was waiting for them when they returned. His eyes lingered on Xue Yang briefly, the only indication of surprise over the boy’s new attire. Xue Yang puffed up a little in response. Xiao Xingchen had to mask his laugher under a cough.

“Anything?” he asked Song Lan quietly while they completed mundane tasks in preparation for dinner.

Song Lan nodded. They came to a silent agreement to pursue the topic further at a later time, when they were alone.

There was no shortage of things to discuss over dinner. Xue Yang boasted to Song Lan about all the fun he and Xiao Xingchen had had without him, gesturing animatedly as he retold bits and pieces of the day’s lessons. He sounded very much like a child telling their parent of their day at school. Song Lan kept a straight face through the deluge of words, though his eyes sparkled. Xiao Xingchen had to hide his laughter in his bowl more than a few times.

“Thank you for today, you were a great help,” Xiao Xingchen told the boy as they were cleaning up. He patted Xue Yang’s head, stalling his stuttered denials, and handed the boy a sweet. Xue Yang’s eyes lit up.

“Thank you, shizun,” the boy chirped.

Xiao Xingchen smiled. “Time for bed,” he said.

Xue Yang dashed off, pausing only to bid a shy goodnight to Song Lan.

“The candy,” Song Lan said as soon as they were alone.

“It helps him,” Xiao Xingchen said, a touch defensive. It was such a small indulgence, and it made Xue Yang so happy. He was hardly spoiling the child.

“The sugar will keep him from sleep,” Song Lan said.

Xiao Xingchen smiled; Song Lan, ever pragmatic! “It is alright, once in a while.”

They retired to their shared room in comfortable silence. Xiao Xingchen paused in the doorway, bewildered by the nest of hay and what seemed to be Song Lan’s spare robes. Song Lan herded him inside.

“I am not tired,” Xiao Xingchen protested.

“We will see,” Song Lan replied.

Xiao Xingchen donned his sternest expression. Song Lan, bless his cold face, did not so much as blink an eye.

Xiao Xingchen huffed, but sat in the makeshift bed. “You will be picking out straw stalks from your robes all year,” he muttered.

Song Lan put up silencing charms. He hesitated when he approached Xiao Xingchen, and took a seat on the floor next to him rather than on the straw mattress.

“Lord Fei has disowned his son,” Song Lan said.

Thoughts of teasing Song Lan over his strange shyness fled Xiao Xingchen’s mind like startled birds. “On what ground?” he asked.

“Lord Fei did not announce his reasons, but there are whispers about demonic cultivation,” Song Lan said.

Xiao Xingchen’s heart dropped. “Where is Shang Fei now?” he asked.

“He has been sighted in the neighborhood of the peach manor,” Song Lan said.

“I will seek him out tomorrow,” Xiao Xingchen decided. “He knows me, and may be willing to speak of what has happened.”

Song Lan agreed. “Xue Yang will not be happy to have me instead of you,” he said.

Xiao Xingchen smiled fondly. Song Lan was not so difficult to read for one who knew him as well as Xiao Xingchen, his worry plain in the tightness around his mouth and eyes. “He likes you,” Xiao Xingchen assured. “Talk with him tomorrow. Be gentle, and patient.”

Song Lan nodded seriously. Xiao Xingchen patted his hand, smiling at the bemused look he gained in return. They had not touched much in his previous life. It seemed a sad thing, in retrospect.

“Sleep with me tonight,” Xiao Xingchen said, and flushed to the roots of his hair. “Next to me,” he hurried to amend, but Song Lan spoke over him, quiet and certain.

“Yes.”

Xiao Xingchen’s breath caught. “Yes?” he repeated, and heard the whine in his voice, the gutted, wretched desperation.

Song Lan closed the distance between them. Their lips met, clumsy, soft pressure, again and again, growing hotter and slicker with every shared breath. They moved together. Xiao Xingchen wound his arms around Song Lan’s neck; Song Lan’s fingers wrapped around his hips, their hold possessive.

“Yes,” Xiao Xingchen whispered in Song Lan’s mouth, “I love you. Yes.”

Song Lan laughed softly, startled and happy. Xiao Xingchen kissed the sound from his lips, and pulled him down, had them lie side by side on the bed Song Lan had made for him.

“I love you,” Song Lan said.

Xiao Xingchen closed his eyes, his vision blurred, and breathed in the scent of snow and frost.

He woke up in a coffin.

There was no air. The earth was hot, and all tasted of death, of ashes. Xiao Xingchen thrashed, clawing at anything he could reach. He could not go back. He did not want to burn, and be remade, and leave this life unlived.

“Xingchen,” someone called.

The voice pierced Xiao Xingchen’s panic. He was urged up by strong hands, his head swimming. Song Lan was there. Bile rose in Xiao Xingchen’s throat, stomach clenching sickly.

“Don’t die,” he pleaded. “Don’t be dead.”

Song Lan hauled him up. He was saying something, but Xiao Xingchen’s ears were filled with the same syrupy darkness that coated his mouth and lungs. “Fire,” he heard, then, more terribly, “Xue Yang.”

Xiao Xingchen tore from the room on unsteady legs. Flames had eaten the walls, and the ceiling creaked like a yao beast snarling in the dark. Xue Yang’s room was empty. His bed was torn, and there were scratches on the floor, deep groves dug by dragging feet.

“He is gone,” Song Lan said in his ear, pressed close to his back.

They stumbled out together. The house burned, and black smoke rose tall in the sky, like from a funeral pyre. Xiao Xingchen coughed until he spat blood. His golden core would purge his body from the smoke and ash he had inhaled, but the fear clouding his mind would not go away soon.

He gripped Song Lan by the shoulders. Song Lan held him, his soot-stained face worried and grim.

“They must have followed me back. I am sorry,” he said.

Xiao Xingchen kissed him. He inhaled deeply, lungs smarting, and said, “We will find him,” with the certainty of a god.

Song Lan drew a basic containment circle around the property, preventing the flames from spreading onto neighboring structures. He brought back a small, blackened censer, and offered it to Xiao Xingchen. The incense contained within smoldered still. The sweet, heavy scent had Xiao Xingchen’s nose wrinkling in displeasure.

“Nag Champa,” he said, though the scent was not quite right. The herbal blend was favored as a sleeping aid, but its notes were much softer in its pure form.

Song Lan turned the censer over. A talisman was adhered to the metal base. The paper had mostly burned away, but what remained pointed to a simple amplification spell.

“It was buried near the room we shared,” Song Lan said. His face was cold with anger.

They could have burned alive. Xiao Xingchen shuddered, horrified at the thought of Song Lan falling to ashes next to him as he slept on, caught in his nightmares. “They did not mean for us to die,” he said, calling upon reason to quell his own fears. “They simply wanted us out of the way.”

Xue Yang had been the target from the start.

Song Lan’s glower grew more pronounced. “Does the boy possess something of value, something a demonic cultivator may want?” he asked.

“Xue Yang is of value,” Xiao Xingchen said softly, and knew that Song Lan heard the silent, to me, to us. Their attackers wanted something else entirely, and meant to barter for it with Xue Yang’s life.

“Xingchen,” Song Lan said, voice hard with anger and hurt at being kept in the dark.

An alarm rang in the distance. Song Lan held back his questions. They fled before the first concerned townsfolk arrived; the house was beyond salvation, though Xiao Xingchen mourned the loss of whatever precious things Xue Yang may have kept hidden between its walls.

It was early still. Yueyang was soft with sleep and gray shadows, its twisting streets affording the two cultivators suitable cover. Xiao Xingchen led the way. He held Song Lan by the hand, his grip tight, his eyes on the black temple rising in the distance.

“Through here,” he whispered once they reached the temple’s gates.

Song Lan followed Xiao Xingchen inside. Xiao Xingchen wondered what it was that Song Lan saw in the temple’s stead. The doors closed behind them, the outside world disappearing with barely a sound.

Song Lan stilled. “Xingchen, this,” he began, eyes wide.

“It is a temple,” Xiao Xingchen explained. “Come, this way.”

They walked the long, empty halls together. The small room was where it had been the first time Xiao Xingchen had visited. There were two cushions this time, and two steaming cups of tea on the low table.

Xiao Xingchen sat. After a moment, so did Song Lan. He watched Xiao Xingchen with dark eyes, brows furrowed, mouth tight in displeasure. Xiao Xingchen steeled himself.

“Who are you?” Song Lan asked.

Xiao Xingchen laughed, startled. It was not a mirthful laugh. “I am Xiao Xingchen,” he said, “but not the Xiao Xingchen you know. Or rather, not only.”

Song Lan grabbed his arm. He leaned in close enough that Xiao Xingchen could taste his breath, his eyes frozen solid. “What have you done with him?” he demanded.

“Now, now. Is that any way to treat your lover?”

Song Lan had Fuxue drawn and pointed at the man in red before Xiao Xingchen could utter a word of objection. The man had not been there a moment ago, and he had been there always. He smiled a wolf’s grin. His single eye curved ever so slightly, glinting like a scythe in the dark.

Xiao Xingchen moved between his friend and the Ghost King. He gripped Song Lan’s sword hand, silently begging the man to lower Fuxue. Song Lan did not budge, though he shifted the sword so Xiao Xingchen would not be in danger of its blade.

The Ghost King laughed. He waved lazily; Fuxue flew from Song Lan’s hand to its sheath at Song Lan’s back.

“Sit,” the Ghost King bid.

They sat without quite meaning to. The Ghost King turned his attention to Xiao Xingchen, the weight of his gaze enough to bow the cultivator’s shoulders.

“So. You’ve already lost the boy.”

Xiao Xingchen could not look at Song Lan. He willed his hands not to shake as he produced the demonic scroll from his robes. The Ghost King watched him, a lazy smirk on his lips.

“This is the object I was tasked to find,” Xiao Xingchen said with a lot more certainty than he felt.

“Is it?” the Ghost King asked.

Xiao Xingchen spread the scroll atop the table, and called the talisman he had tucked within the parchment to his hand. The spell ignited. Black light swallowed the room, thick and real, earth piling over their heads to swallow them whole. The power contained in the scroll belonged to no living spirit. It bore the mark of a god, and not one who dwelled in the heavens.

“Fair enough,” the Ghost King said.

The darkness lifted. Xiao Xingchen inhaled deeply, lungs burning.

“Who are you?” Song Lan asked – whether of Xiao Xingchen or the Ghost King was unclear.

“My name is Hua Cheng,” the Ghost King said. He nodded briefly, a mockery of a bow, and did not bother to straighten from his sprawl in the kingly chair that had appeared on the other side of the table. To Xiao Xingchen, he said, “Your task is complete. You may take your leave.”

Xiao Xingchen snatched the scroll back. “They took Xue Yang because of this,” he blurted.

Hua Cheng raised an eyebrow, clearly asking why he should care.

“I will return the scroll when Xue Yang is safe,” Xiao Xingchen said.

“This is not knowledge for mortal eyes,” the Ghost King said. He made no move to take the scroll back though he could have done so easily, as he had demonstrated by banishing Fuxue. His expression reminded Xiao Xingchen of a cat studying a cowering mouse.

The scroll had already been seen, and used, and Xiao Xingchen did not for a moment doubt that Hua Cheng himself had peddled the damned thing to Sheng Fei. Xiao Xingchen would not dare question the Ghost King’s motivation. He bowed his head low, and did not let go of the scroll.

A cold hand wrapped around Xiao Xingchen’s wrist. Xiao Xingchen turned to Song Lan, startled. His friend watched him with suspicion and worry, and Xiao Xingchen’s heart hurt for putting that look on his face.

“Tell me,” Song Lan said.

Xiao Xingchen glanced at Hua Cheng, lost. Song Lan growled and pulled at his captured wrist. “Is this how far your trust in me goes?” he asked.

“I – I cannot,” Xiao Xingchen said, and hated himself, despised having to keep this from his friend. He was not allowed to discuss the circumstances around his presence in this time. The Ghost King had said as much as he carried Xiao Xingchen’s soul to the living world, though he had not explained what may happen if Xiao Xingchen did. Nothing pleasant, surely. Xiao Xingchen had been given a task and sent off on his way, into a body that had once been his but felt foreign, too light around his aged, bruised soul.

“This place is not of the mortal realm,” the Ghost King said in that same bored, dangerous tone he said everything else, “You may speak freely.”

Xiao Xingchen hesitated, fearful still. There was so much to say, and so little that would not hurt Song Lan. He cursed himself for not being more patient, for baring his heart to Song Lan while holding so much of himself back. The betrayal of a lover was surely worse than that of a friend.

Song Lan grew impatient with his silence. “You are pale, and gaunt, and seem to have aged years in the span of an hour. I can barely feel your qi. Is this Hua Cheng,” he spat the name out, not giving the Ghost King a single glance, “a demon? Have you – Xingchen, have you been cultivating yin? Was that what caused your qi deviation?”

Xiao Xingchen shook his head in bewilderment at the questions, each one more damning than the last. “Qi deviation,” Xiao Xingchen repeated, latching onto the one thing that he felt somewhat able to address, “I have never – oh, is that how it happened?” he asked, of Hua Cheng.

The Ghost King shrugged. “Bringing a soul back in time is not easy. Your body had to absorb decades’ worth of knowledge and mental wounds. I was not entirely certain you would survive.”

“He almost did not!” Song Lan snarled. To Xiao Xingchen, he said, “Your fever was dangerously high, Xingchen. I left your bedside to fetch a healer. You were gone when I returned, and no one knew where.”

Xiao Xingchen remembered, then – waking up in a cramped bed, in a room that smelled of sweat and sickness. He had stumbled out of the room and the hut it belonged to, mind overheated. The first few days on the road had passed in a blur. He had not known which set of memories to believe – the ones that told him he was nineteen and happy to be out in a world that was new and curious, or the nightmares that spoke of where his path would one day lead.

“You spoke the boy’s name, in your fever,” Song Lan said.

“Xue Yang is special,” Xiao Xingchen said quietly, not knowling how to explain.

The Ghost King snorted inelegantly. “He is indeed. Second chance at life, and the first thing you do is adopt a lunatic. Daozhang, I am surprised you lived as long as you did, the first time around.”

Xiao Xingchen could not help the slight pursing of his lips. His faults were many, but he did not at all like the Ghost King’s offhand comments about his young charge. “Xue Yang has done nothing wrong,” he said.

The smile on the Ghost King’s face held nothing pleasant. “Oh? Shall we let your friend decide?”

Hua Cheng snapped his fingers. The world fell away, or perhaps it was Xiao Xingchen who tumbled down a chasm. “Please, no,” he begged, but it was too late.

Xiao Xingchen covered his eyes with his sleeve – or rather, his sunken eyelids. He tried to turn away from Song Lan, to hide. Song Lan did not let him. The man pressed on his raised arm gently but firmly until Xiao Xingchen’s face was uncovered.

“How?” Song Lan asked. His voice trembled.

“Shall I show him?” the Ghost King offered blandly.

“No!” Xiao Xingchen cried. He did not want Song Lan to see all that had happened, to live it anew. The Ghost King would not care to spare Song Lan unnecessary hurt. He would show him everything, leave him reeling and heartsick. “No,” he said, quieter, “I will tell him.”

“Your eyes,” Song Lan said. His fingers hovered in the air near Xiao Xingchen’s face; he could feel their warmth. “What happened? Who – who did this?”

The Ghost King laughed. Xiao Xingchen hurried to speak before the deity said something cruel.

“I did, in a different time.”

Xiao Xingchen did his best to explain. He told Song Lan that his soul had traveled back from a desolate future, that he was the Xiao Xingchen Song Lan knew, yet not. His friend listened silently. Xiao Xingchen wavered on how much to tell the other man. He revealed most of Xue Yang’s sins in the end, reasoning that Song Lan should be aware of the boy’s potential for destruction.

“What happened to you?” Song Lan asked, once Xiao Xingchen could bring himself to speak no more.

“I died,” Xiao Xingchen said simply. He wondered if his throat bore a tell-tale scar, if Song Lan had already guessed what kind of death Xiao Xingchen had chosen.

“I was blind long before I lost my sight,” Xiao Xingchen said. “Hua Cheng has granted me a chance at redemption that I do not deserve. I swear to you that I will do all in my power to ensure that no harm comes to you or those you hold dear.”

“You care about Xue Yang,” Song Lan said. “You cared for him when he was a killer, and you care still, knowing what he might become. Is this why you decided to come back? To save him?”

There was something a little angry, a little ugly in Song Lan’s tone. Xiao Xingchen clenched his hands into fists, overcome by the sudden urge to smack his friend over the head.

“I came back for you,” he snapped. Song Lan inhaled sharply, having the gall to sound surprised; Xiao Xingchen did smack him, then, hitting his arm. “If you must hate someone, hate me – Xue Yang has done nothing wrong yet, but I have.”

Song Lan caught his flailing hand. “I am sorry,” he said.

Xiao Xingchen shook his head, breathing through the panic that had clawed up his throat and was still to recede. “You are not at fault. I-”

“You, Daozhang, are not a god,” Song Lan interrupted firmly. “You are allowed to fail, to make mistakes, to ask for help. Ask for my help, Xingchen,” he bid.

Xiao Xingchen swallowed. He felt fragile, a breath from breaking. “Help me, A-Lan,” he said.

The world returned with Song Lan’s smile. Xiao Xingchen blinked back tears. “Yes,” Song Lan said, and kissed him softly.

The Ghost King was gone when they parted. The demonic scroll was still in Xiao Xingchen’s lap, and the cultivator hurried to secure it in his robes. Xiao Xingchen bowed to the empty room. Song Lan bowed as well, displaying far greater reverence than he had shown Hua Cheng when the deity had been actually present.

The hour was still early in the outside world. In fact, the sun had not moved at all, still a hazy blur on the distant horizon. Xiao Xingchen lengthened his strides. “Xue Yang must be at the manor,” he said, though in truth he had no real way of knowing where Xue Yang might have been taken. The connection between the peach spirit and the cultivators responsible for Xue Yang’s disappearance was tentative. Sheng Fei would be the best source of information, but the youth was not in a position to help.  

 “Do you mean to approach them openly?” Song Lan asked.

“What use is there of doing anything else?” Xiao Xingchen replied. “They wish for us to come. I believe we will find the manor quite accessible.”

“Like any good trap,” Song Lan noted. He did not oppose the idea, however; it was in Song Lan’s nature to seek the most direct course of action.

Xiao Xingchen slowed his mad pace. “Perhaps I should go in alone,” he said. Song Lan could scout the property for another way inside, perhaps surprise their hosts.

Song Lan snorted. “We go in together, we go out together,” he said, and that was that.

They walked in silence. Yueyang was uncharacteristically quiet, the air heavy and gray though there was not a cloud to be found in the sky. The flowering manor was entirely devoid of color. The scent of peaches permeated all, sticky and rotten-sweet.

“The gates are open,” Song Lan said.

Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan walked over the raised threshold together. Four men waited for them just inside the walled courtyard. Their faces were hidden under heavy cloaks. They wore swords at their waists, and stank of dark energy.

“Follow us,” one of the men said.

The men led them into an older section of the manor that Xiao Xingchen had not seen during his visit. They were joined by four more who followed behind Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan, herding the cultivators along like cattle for slaughter. Xiao Xingchen wondered, too late, whether the men meant for them to leave this encounter alive.

They were ushered into a large, empty structure that had once been used to store straw and rice. Its walls were carved with glowing sigils. The symbols looked wrong, and when Xiao Xingchen realized why, he almost cursed out loud.

“You are harvesting the energy of a living being,” he said, too angry to mind his tone.

“It’s not human,” the man who had bid them follow said. “What does it matter?”

Song Lan grabbed Xiao Xingchen’s arm. Xiao Xingchen sought to calm himself, but fear and anger left him too raw to maintain his characteristic composure.

“We have the scroll. Where is Xue Yang?” he said.

A few of the men took off their cowls. There were more than twenty men now, all cultivators, some in the possession of rather powerful cores. Xiao Xingchen was comfortably certain that he could take them all on his own. The energy the sigils fed into the room posed a far bigger problem. There was no telling how it might enhance the parasites that fed upon it, or affect Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan’s own cultivation.

“The boy is unharmed. He will be returned to you when the Divine Scroll has been delivered into our master’s possession.”

The man who spoke was among those who had chosen to keep their faces covered. His voice was worn with age, his speech pattern one common to nobility and those who occupied high positions in righteous Sects. Xiao Xingchen shared a look with Song Lan.

“I will see Xue Yang first,” Xiao Xingchen declared.

The hooded man motioned, revealing a pale, veined hand adorned by a golden ring. Xiao Xingchen may have paid closer attention to this potential clue, were it not for the fact that another cloaked man had gone to his knees at the back of the hangar and pulled open a hidden trap door. The man retrieved a limp Xue Yang from beneath the floorboards. The boy’s face was black with soot though his robes shone white, untouched by the fire. Bruises swelled his cheeks.

Xiao Xingchen let out an inhuman sound of rage.

“You kept him buried?” he hissed. “You kept him in a place fed by perverse magic and greed?”

The old man staggered back. There was something wrong with his qi, Xiao Xingchen realized distantly. He couldn’t worry about it. The blood in his ears drummed, insistent. Shuanghua was in his hand, though he couldn’t remember drawing the sword.

Song Lan drew Fuxue. Cultivators scattered around them, the darkness in the air growing almost corporal. The yin-fed sigils leeched Xiao Xingchen’s strength and thinned his connection to Shuanghua. It did not matter, Xiao Xingchen decided; he would fight without his cultivation, if it came to that. He did not know what they stood against, but then again, neither did their captors. Xiao Xingchen was not the young cultivator they thought him to be. He had decades’ worth of combat experience, and more at stake than any of the men in the room save Song Lan realized.

The man who held Xue Yang threw back his hood. “It’s alright, Master Xiao! I have him!” Sheng Fei called.

Xiao Xingchen's stomach lurched. That brave, stupid boy! He was grateful to have Sheng Fei's aid in securing Xue Yang, and happy to find the youth keeping to the righteous path. However, both boys were beyond Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan’s reach at present. The number of hostages had effectively risen by one.

“You are being most ungracious guests,” the older man said. He had evidently done the same calculation as Xiao Xingchen, and sounded much too pleased with the results. “Perhaps we should demonstrate how serious our master is?”

The man made a gesture in the air, fingers bending oddly. The sigils carved in the walls flared. There was a sharp, snapping sound, like that of wood breaking.

Sheng Fei screamed and fell to his knees. His right arm hung strangely, broken at the elbow.

“Do not hurt them!” Xiao Xingchen cried. He produced the scroll, and felt the eyes of all in the room go to him, to the parchment clutched in his hand. “What does your master want with this? What could a merchant possibly do with a scroll of demonic cultivation?”

Tree roots rose from the earthen floor. They seemed to tremble as the sigils thrummed; peach blooms fluttered in the air.

The old man laughed. “Merchant? The man who owned this house and married a monster has been dead for months, boy. My Master’s aims and reach are beyond your understanding.”

Wen Ruohan, or Jin Guangshan?  Xiao Xingchen wondered. Both men sought what they should not, and spread tragedy like a plague.

Someone screamed, deep within the manor. The voice was feminine, quickly overtaken by another, half a dozen more. Cold sweat budded over Xiao Xingchen’s skin. She knew, he thought. The spirit had been waiting for her husband all this time, but she knew now, and would wait no longer.

“We need to leave,” Song Lan said.

“You will not leave this place alive,” the old man told them.

The sigils beat like hearts. They fed power into the room, and the men glowed with it, their eyes bleeding pale light. The first man to swipe at Xiao Xingchen did so with so much might that he scorched the ground and part of the wall when Xiao Xingchen dodged. The man raised the sword again, closing in fast. Song Lan called a desperate warning.

The yin cultivator’s head exploded in a whirlwind of pink-stained petals.

The old man fell back. He called for his men, demanded something, but his voice was lost under a high, hollow sound – the wail of wind through barren branches. The peach petals were falling faster now. The yin cultivators were screaming; the petals consumed their flesh, Xiao Xingchen realized. The roots that rose from the floor curled around their legs and up their torsos, keeping them still.

Xiao Xingchen ran to Sheng Fei. The boys were unharmed, though Sheng Fei shook badly and seemed beyond speech. Xiao Xingchen took Xue Yang from him. Song Lan helped the youth up, hurrying him to the exit.

They ran. The manor creaked around them, moaning like a dying thing. Xiao Xingchen saw the peach spirit in the garden. She was not entirely human, her hair made of flowers, tall branches spearing from her forehead like antlers. She had her hands wrapped around her swollen belly. Her robes were stained red, the peach blooms embroidered in the fabric now colored in rusty hues.

“Thank you, Master Cultivator,” she said, her voice that of rustling leaves.

Xiao Xingchen bowed. “I was too late.”

“We are free now,” the spirit said. “It is enough.”

Xiao Xingchen bowed again. Song Lan urged him forward, toward the main gates. They crossed over the threshold.

When Xiao Xingchen turned to look, the peach spirit was gone. So was the manor and everyone within.

“That was troublesome,” said the Ghost King.

Xiao Xingchen drew back, clutching Xue Yang close to his chest. The Ghost King had appeared beside him as if he had always been there.

"I have the scroll," he said, and fumbled one-handed to procure it.

The Ghost King waved his hand. The scroll appeared in it, just as Xiao Xingchen discovered its absence in his own robes. "Job well done," he said. "You may go."

Xiao Xingchen hesitated. "What will happen to the spirit?" he asked.

"She will go back to her kind, and live as she did before her ill-fated romance," the Ghost King said.

"And her child?" Xiao Xingchen asked.

Hua Cheng watched him with dark amusement. "You are awfully nosy, little cultivator."

Xiao Xingchen ignored the slight. "The babe is half human. Life among monsters and spirits will be dangerous, and unkind."

"Do you believe its fate will be any kinder here?" the Ghost King asked. His single eye slid to Xue Yang. The boy was unconscious still, his bruised face nestled in the crook of Xiao Xingchen's neck.

Song Lan moved to stand between Xiao Xingchen and Hua Cheng, jostling poor Sheng Fei in the process. "We shall take our leave," he said.

The Ghost King smirked. He patted Sheng Fei's head, and held out the scroll to the dazed youth.

"I trust you to deliver this to the right person this time, as well," the deity said.

Sheng Fei blinked. The youth's mouth fell open. "You - Master Xiao," he cried, turning to Xiao Xingchen, "This is him! This is the man who sold me the scroll!"

The Ghost King patted Sheng Fei's arm this time, the broken one. Sheng Fei flinched, then gasped in surprise when he felt no pain, the bone whole once again. He looked at Hua Cheng with wide eyes.

"Say thank you," Song Lan bid.

Sheng Fei bowed so low his head nearly touched his knees, his words of gratitude and alarm melting into a panicked bubble of speech.

"That is that, then," the Ghost King said to Xiao Xingchen, and smiled his wolf grin. "Unless you are not done being nosy."

The god fell apart before Xiao Xingchen could ask what he meant. A cloud of silver butterflies scattered on the wind, dispelling the last of the oppressive energy that lay over Yueyang. The sun shone bright in a sky spun from pale silk.

Sheng Fei held the scroll carefully. He looked from Xiao Xingchen to Song Lan, his face drawn in misery. "What am I to do with this?" he whispered. "My father - well, I guess he is not that anymore," he laughed harshly, and drew his sleeve over his eyes.

"Open the scroll," Xiao Xingchen bid.

Sheng Fei stared at him with watery eyes. He unrolled the parchment under Xiao Xingchen's encouraging gaze, and gasped when he saw its contents.

"This is not the same scroll," the youth said.

"It is," Xiao Xingchen said. "Its purpose was always the same."

Song Lan glanced over the scroll, and looked at Xiao Xingchen with a question in his eyes. Xiao Xingchen shook his head. He had not known that the scroll was mean to help them. The array detailed in the scroll held in Sheng Fei's trembling hands was not the one that had stolen the rabbits' life. It had been reshaped into something new, a protective spell that would shield cultivators against yin energy in the heat of battle. Xiao Xingchen's mind swum with possibilities. He thought of the yin iron, of a boy who had sacrificed so much to stop Wen Ruohan's mad machinations, and stroked Xue Yang's hair.

"Song Lan," Xiao Xingchen whispered, "I do not believe I am done being nosy."

Song Lan snorted. "I would be surprised if you were. Come," he said to Sheng Fei, gently pushing the boy forward, "Show us the way."

"Where are we going?" Sheng Fei asked.

"To show your father the scroll, and tell him of your bravery," Song Lan said.

Sheng Fei stumbled. He made a broken sound and nodded furiously, eyes shining.

Sheng Fei was received with hostility, allowed through the gates only because of his companions. But his father was not a cruel man. He loved his son, and was eager to hear something that would absolve his sins, even if he pretended otherwise. Upon learning of Sheng Fei's part in breaking down what Xiao Xingchen described as a demonic sect, the man rose from his seat and struck the boy over the head - gently - and then pulled him into his arms, calling him a fool.

Sheng Fei presented the divine scroll to his father. Lord Fei, in turn, gifted it to Xiao Xingchen.

"Cultivation is not our path, Master Xiao. This will be of greater use to you."

Xiao Xingchen accepted the scroll, and the subsequent offer to remain a few days. They were provided with spacious rooms. Song Lan followed Xiao Xingchen into his own, and watched as his friend laid Xue Yang out on the bed. The boy curled into himself with a soft whine. Xiao Xingchen soothed him, and drew the covers over the small, shivering body.

"Thank you, A-Lan," Xiao Xingchen said.

Song Lan bent his head, and kissed him. "You should rest, as well."

Xiao Xingchen shook his head. He had plans to discuss with Song Lan, a future that spread before him - before them both - in a tangle of red strings.

Xue Yang cried out sharply. The boy sprang up, legs and arms flailing, and called, "Shizun, shizun!" as if his heart was breaking.

"I am here, A-Yang," Xiao Xingchen said, and drew the struggling boy up, into his arms. "You are safe. We are here with you."

Xue Yang quieted. He clutched at Xiao Xingchen's robes and looked from him to Song Lan, crying silently. "They burned you," he sobbed.

"They most certainly did not," Song Lan scoffed.

Xue Yang sniffed, trying to hold back his tears. "You came back," he said softly. "No one ever comes back."

"We will always come back for you," Xiao Xingchen promised.

Xue Yang lost the fight against grief. He bowled into Xiao Xingchen's chest and cried hard enough to shake them both. One of his small hands - the one missing its smallest finger - clutched at Song Lan's sleeve and held tight.

They stood like that until Xue Yang calmed. Xiao Xingchen did not stop his minute rocking even when the boy fell back asleep, needing the comfort himself.

"I will not give him up," Xiao Xingchen told Song Lan.

Song Lan sat next to him on the bed, and laid his hand on the boy's back, then gripped Xiao Xingchen's hand. "I will never ask you to," he said.

Xiao Xingchen exhaled a relieved breath. He laid his head against Song Lan's shoulder, and closed his eyes.

He wondered what Song Lan would have to say, when he learned that their next destination was to be a brothel in Yunping.