Jian regalia

Shun's regalia, a Silver Jian untouched by time or gravity, floated beside him, its blade shimmering with a pale white glow that cast delicate reflections against the jagged walls.

The sword didn't merely hover; it hovered through the air with a soft, almost reverent grace, trailing behind him like a loyal ghost, an extension of his very soul. Its elegance suited him—regal yet humble, luminous yet quiet, a beacon in the dim light of the underground sanctuary.

The glow it emitted was gentle, not harsh or blinding, but soothing, like the final breath of winter before the thaw. It wrapped itself around Xin's heart, dimming the embers of sadness, rage, and the chaotic ricochet of emotions that churned within him. The ache of old wounds, the echoes of betrayal, the weight of responsibility—all softened under the Jian's light. It was a balm, a quiet comfort that steadied his steps as he walked, his boots echoing faintly against the stone floor.

"This is the miasma's effect," Shun murmured, his voice low and slightly unsteady, as if he were convincing himself as much as his companion. "I… I hope it's helping."

Xin, walking beside him, nodded silently. His eyes, rimmed with the dull red of exhaustion, lingered on the regalia for a moment longer. Even now, with fatigue etched into his slumped shoulders and heavy steps, he seemed transfixed—perhaps even comforted. The silver glow reflected in his gaze, softening the weariness that clung to him like a second skin. The Jian wasn't just a weapon; it was a lifeline, a quiet promise in a world that demanded too much, too fast.

They moved together through the winding paths of the Summit, the crystalline corridors gleaming with veins of glowing mineral that pulsed like frozen lightning. The walls seemed alive, humming with the energy of the sanctuary—a haven carved from survival, a refuge for those who had fought and bled to reach it. As they approached the town's living quarters, Shun couldn't help but notice the glances from those they passed. Hunters, their armor scuffed and dented from recent battles, nodded respectfully, some placing a fist over their heart in a gesture of gratitude or acknowledgment. Civilians, clutching loved ones or peering from behind weather-worn curtains, offered quiet smiles. There was no parade, no fanfare, but Shun didn't need either. These people were alive. That was enough.

Xin remained close, his presence a steady anchor despite his silence. His steps were slower than usual, each one a testament to the toll of their journey, but he kept pace with a determination that spoke louder than words. The fatigue was stitched into his movements—the slight drag of his boots, the subtle hunch of his shoulders—but there was a resilience there, too, a refusal to falter.

The living quarters came into view, a cluster of tall, angular buildings grown from the mineral-rich stone of the Summit. Their walls, streaked with glowing veins, radiated warmth and security, a stark contrast to the cold, unforgiving world beyond. Shun slowed as they reached one of the doors, the silver Jian gliding to a stop beside him, hovering midair like a vigilant sentry. Its light pulsed softly, casting a serene glow over the threshold.

"I've been thinking," Shun said, his voice quiet but deliberate as he turned to Xin. "You and Raven… you seem close."

Xin blinked, his dark eyes meeting Shun's with a flicker of surprise.

"I figured it'd be better if you two shared a room, sorry if it caused any problems" Shun continued, scratching the back of his neck, a touch of awkwardness creeping into his tone despite the regalia's regal presence. "We're running out of space as it is, and—well… I thought it might help. Having someone familiar nearby. Someone to talk to. Or not. Whatever works."

Xin's gaze drifted to the cracked patterns in the stone floor, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he nodded, slow and somber. "It's okay," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Shun could have let the moment fade there, let the silence carry them into the safety of the room. But something urged him to press forward, to bridge the gap between them. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a quieter, firmer tone.

"Xin… can I tell you something? About friends...About comrades."

Xin's posture stiffened slightly, a subtle shift that betrayed his unease, but he didn't pull away. That was permission enough.

"I've been betrayed before," Shun began, his eyes tracing the glowing veins in the wall as if the memories were etched into their patterns. "By someone I trusted more than I probably should've. It broke me in a way I didn't understand until years later. I kept asking myself—why didn't I see it? Why didn't I stop it? And worse… was any of it real to begin with?"

Xin remained silent, but his gaze shifted to Shun, wide and attentive, drinking in every word.

"I built walls," Shun continued, his voice steady but laced with the weight of experience. "Walls so high no one could climb them. I told myself that comradeship was just another trap, another way to get hurt. But when the world starts burning down around you—and you're standing in the ash, trying to find one breath of clean air—you learn something."

He turned to face Xin fully now, the silver Jian circling idly above his shoulder, its glow casting soft shadows across his face. "You learn that comrades aren't the ones who don't hurt you. They're the ones who stay even after they do. Even after you do. They're the ones who run into the fire with you, not because they have to, but because they want to."

A silence settled between them, not awkward but full—full of weight, of meaning, of the unspoken burdens they both carried. The Jian's light pulsed gently, filling the space with its quiet warmth.

"I don't know what you're carrying," Shun said, his voice softer now, almost tender. "But I know it's heavy. And I know it's real. Just… don't carry it alone."

Xin looked down, his throat tightening visibly. For a long time, he didn't speak, his silence a heavy thing, fraught with the ghosts of his own past. Then, a small, almost imperceptible nod, a gesture so subtle it might have been missed if Shun hadn't been watching so closely.

Shun's lips curved into a faint, reassuring smile. He reached for the door, his fingers brushing the cool stone handle. "Room's yours. Raven's probably already inside. I'll check in on you both later."

"Thanks," Xin murmured, his voice barely audible, a fragile thread of sound in the quiet hallway.

He stepped through the threshold, his silhouette swallowed by the dimly lit room beyond. The door closed with a soft click, leaving Shun standing alone in the corridor, his hand still resting on the handle. For a moment, he stared at the door, as if he could somehow will away the pain he knew Xin carried, as if he could erase the scars that lingered beneath the surface.

The silver Jian hovered beside him, its light washing over the stone walls, over his face, over the quiet hallway. Shun closed his eyes, letting the faint hum of the regalia fill the silence. It was a sound he knew well, a constant companion through battles and losses, a reminder of who he was and what he fought for.

There was still so much to do—wounds to heal, battles to fight, a world to rebuild from the ashes. The weight of it pressed against him, heavy and unrelenting. But for now, in this fleeting moment of quiet, this was enough. The people he'd fought for were safe. Xin was safe. And that small, fragile nod—that tiny gesture of trust—felt like a victory in itself.

Shun exhaled, his breath mingling with the cool air of the corridor. He turned, the Jian gliding smoothly behind him, its glow a steady beacon in the dimness. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with dangers both seen and unseen. But as long as he carried the light of his regalia, as long as he held fast to the bonds he'd forged, he knew he could face it.

One step at a time.