A night in temple 2
Chapter 12:A night in the Temple
The dim lantern cast flickering shadows on the wooden walls. The scent of aged parchment and burning incense lingered in the air, but the room was silent. Unnaturally silent.
Jian Hu entered, carrying an armful of firewood, but the moment he stepped inside, he sensed something was off. His sharp instincts prickled.
His gaze moved between the two figures before him.
Li Xin sat motionless, staring at the ground, his expression hidden beneath the curtain of his dark hair. His fingers rested against his knee, relaxed—too relaxed. The kind of stillness that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, right before a storm broke.
Across from him, Xiao Yi leaned lazily against the wooden table, one hand propping up her chin. But her gaze was razor-sharp.
Jian Hu frowned. "What happened here?"
Xiao Yi exhaled slowly, her lips curling into something that was almost a smile.
"What had to happen already did—years ago." Her voice was light, but there was an undeniable edge beneath it. She tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Something knowing.
"Now, all that's left are meaningless echoes," she mused. Then, her gaze flickered toward Li Xin, sharp as a blade. And she drove it in.
"You think walking away cleanses you?" Her voice was quiet, almost gentle. But the words were anything but.
"Tell that to the ones who died waiting for you to return."
The room seemed to shrink.
Jian Hu's fingers tightened at his side, sensing the shift in the air.
Li Xin's breath hitched—just slightly. A ghost of a reaction, but enough.
Xiao Yi didn't stop. She had found the wound, and she pressed harder.
"You didn't leave to find peace," she said, her voice steady. "You left because you were a coward."
Silence.
A single moment where nothing moved.
Then—Li Xin stood.
Not with his usual calm, nor with the detached grace of a man who had left everything behind. No. This was something different.
It was anger.
It was fury.
Like a gust of wind breaking free from stillness, he rose in a single fluid motion.
"A true martial artist does not mourn over what has already passed," he said, his voice low, yet edged with something raw. Something unshakable.
"He carves his own way. He sets right what is wrong in the present."
Jian Hu stiffened. This was not the passive, indifferent man they had traveled with. This was someone else.
Then But before he could react Li Xin moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
Jian Hu barely had time to register the shift in weight before...A blur
A sharp breath caught in Jian Hu's throat. Instinct screamed.
Li Xin was already in front of him.
Too close.
Jian Hu's body tensed. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs. Years of training had wired his muscles to react—to defend, counter, fight back.
But he didn't.
Because Li Xin's eyes met his.
And for a single heartbeat—Jian Hu hesitated.
It wasn't just anger he saw.
It was something deeper.
Rage. Guilt. A storm barely held together.
A man teetering on the edge of something irreversible.
Then,Cold steel whispered.
Jian Hu felt the weight on his waist lighten.
His sword was gone.
In one swift, precise motion, Li Xin had drawn it from him.
Jian Hu exhaled sharply, his body locking up. The martial world had a custom,you do not wield another's sword without permission. It was a sign of trust, of understanding or of challenge.
But when Jian Hu looked at Li Xin's grip on the weapon**tight, controlled, yet trembling ever so slightly**he understood.
This was neither a test nor a mockery.
This was a man reaching for something he had lost.
The hesitation lasted a single breath. Then, Li Xin turned and strode toward the courtyard, disappearing into the moonlit night.
Jian Hu stood frozen, staring after him. His chest felt tight.
He should have stopped him. He should have said something.
But he didn't.
Because in that moment, as Li Xin's figure vanished beyond the temple walls, Jian Hu realized something.
Li Xin wasn't just holding a sword.
He was holding a past he had been running from.
Before either of them could react, Li Xin moved like lightning.
Jian Hu exhaled slowly, watching his retreating figure. "That… was not the same person we've been traveling with."
Xiao Yi chuckled softly, though there was something unreadable in her eyes.
"No," she murmured. "That was the person he used to be."
Without hesitation, they followed him into the night.
Jian Hu and Xiao Yi stood at the entrance of the courtyard, their gazes fixed on the lone figure beneath the moon.
The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the autumn leaves, carrying with it the faint scent of incense from the distant temple halls. The stone-paved courtyard stretched wide under the silver light, its silence undisturbed—except for the sound of cloth shifting, feet gliding, and a sword cutting through the night air.
Li Xin moved.
He did not attack.
He did not cut.
Instead, he danced.
His movements were fluid yet precise, each strike tracing arcs of cold light, each step measured with the elegance of a master. His robes billowed with the force of his motion, his long hair flowing like ink spilled across the wind. The sword in his hands gleamed like a thread of moonlight woven into steel.
For the first time in years, he let the blade guide him.
It was a sight to behold—like a fairy dancing beneath the heavens, otherworldly and untouchable. The scene was stunning, as though the moon itself had descended to illuminate his form.
Jian Hu felt a strange weight settle in his chest. This was different.
This was not the Li Xin who had spent his days selling steamed buns in an unnoticed corner of the world. This was someone else—the man who had once carved his name into the martial world, a specter of the past reborn in a single breath.
Yet, Li Xin was not at peace.
His heart pounded—not from exertion, but from the storm inside him. The past clawed at him, tearing through his mind in flashes. Screams. Blood. A sky swallowed by flames.
He had been furious.
But anger alone was useless.
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. If the past refused to be buried, then he would carve his own path through it.
His grip on the sword tightened, his movements quickening. He spun, the edge of the blade slicing through the moonlight itself, as though severing the weight that clung to him.
Jian Hu, still watching, murmured under his breath, "I never thought I'd see this side of him."
Xiao Yi remained silent for a long moment. Her eyes never left Li Xin.
Finally, she whispered, "It's not the side of him that surprises me… It's the fact that he chose to show it."
The night wind carried their words away, lost in the quiet song of steel under the moon.
Chapter 12: Ashes of the Past
The night air was cold, but the storm within him burned relentlessly.
Under the pale moonlight, Li Xin moved like a shadow given form—his blade carving through the empty space with silent precision. Yet beneath the sharpness of his movements, his body was unraveling.
Screams. The shrill cries of children. The dying gasps of men who once stood tall. The scent of blood—thick, metallic, suffocating.
His grip on the sword tightened, his knuckles turning white. His breath came in short, uneven bursts, his chest rising and falling under the weight of something unseen. A faint tremor ran through his fingers, but he did not stop. He could not stop.
The past refused to stay buried.
His vision blurred. The courtyard around him wavered, swallowed by the ghosts in his mind. His knees threatened to buckle, but his body moved on instinct, cutting through the air with the grace of a man balancing on the edge of a blade.
Then—
A single note drifted into the night.
Soft at first, barely noticeable beneath the roaring in his head. But then another followed. And another. Like ripples on still water, breaking through the chaos piece by piece.
Li Xin's sword wavered mid-air.
Jian Hu stood at the edge of the courtyard, his silhouette half-lit by the glow of lantern light. The flute in his hands gleamed faintly, his fingers gliding over the instrument with effortless grace. The melody that spilled forth was neither fast nor slow, neither joyful nor sorrowful—it simply was.
Like the wind whispering through ancient pines.
Like the murmuring of a distant river.
Like the passage of time, unbound and eternal.
The song wove through the cracks in Li Xin's mind, threading into the spaces between his ragged breaths. The storm inside him did not vanish—but its fury softened, its edges dulled.
His pulse steadied.
His steps became smoother.
The sword in his hands no longer felt like a weight, nor a weapon—it simply moved as an extension of himself. The rhythm of his movements adjusted to the melody, as though his body had surrendered to the harmony of steel and sound.
Jian Hu's gaze did not waver. He was not merely playing a song—he was anchoring Li Xin back to the present.
At the entrance of the courtyard, Xiao Yi watched in silence.
For the first time that night, the corners of her lips curved into the faintest of smiles.
Then, without a word, she turned and stepped back inside.
The night wind carried the lingering notes of the flute into the darkness. And in its embrace, the restless storm within Li Xin began to settle—like waves retreating from a weary shore.
A few moments later, Li Xin finally lowered his sword.
The air was still. His chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm, the tension in his limbs fading like mist before dawn.
Jian Hu slowly removed the flute from his lips, his expression unreadable. "I suppose even a blade must breathe."
Li Xin did not respond immediately. He simply gazed at the sword in his hand, the cold metal reflecting the moonlight.
For the first time in a long while, the past did not feel so heavy.
Without another word, he sheathed the sword and turned toward the temple. The night had not erased his scars—but it had allowed them to rest, if only for a moment.
Jian Hu watched him go, a knowing look in his eyes. Then, with a quiet chuckle, he followed.
The wind whispered through the courtyard, carrying away the last echoes of the song.