Chapter 12

Three days after the incident, Qinghui finally woke.

But this wasn't the room he remembered.

The scent of camellia incense lingered in the air. Rich brocade curtains framed a tall window, where a meticulously trimmed bonsai rested on the sill, its leaves trembling under a soft breeze. Ornate decorations adorned the walls—carved screens, painted scrolls, silken drapes. It was too luxurious, too quiet.

Qinghui lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His mind wandered—not to the wounds on his body, but to that dream. That man.

"Till we meet again," the voice had said, fading like mist.

His expression was blank, but his eyes told another story. There was a sadness there. A kind of quiet grief he didn't yet understand.

His waist still ached faintly, and his legs had not completely healed. Oddly, his back—which had been pierced by the roots—showed no scars. Not even a mark. As if none of it had happened. And yet he remembered the pain vividly.

Before he could think further, the door creaked open.

The sect's Daifu entered, carrying a wooden case of tools. He paused upon seeing Qinghui awake, then let out a long sigh and rubbed his temple.

"Spacing out already?" he muttered. "And here I thought you'd leap up screaming about ghost vines and evil children."

Qinghui didn't react.

The Daifu frowned. Trauma, perhaps. Spiritual stagnation. Or maybe just soul fatigue. He reached for his acupuncture needles and rolled up his sleeves with a sigh.

"Don't worry," he said with forced cheer. "I'll have your senses flowing in no time!"

As he raised the first needle—gleaming in the light—it gave a faint glint, almost mischievous.

"Let's start with—AH?"

The needle struck air. Qinghui had dodged.

Automatically.

The Daifu blinked, baffled. He tried again—swish! Qinghui's body twitched away once more, still expressionless.

One more attempt.

Dodge.

Then again.

Dodge.

The Daifu began to sweat.

"You little...!" he growled, now genuinely irritated. "Stop acting possessed and just let me poke you!"

With exaggerated fury, he channeled Qi into his palm and raised his hand high, ready to strike with all the force of his practitioner's pride.

Only for someone to grab his wrist mid-air.

"...?!"

He turned—and nearly jumped out of his skin.

"L-Lan-gongzi!"

Lan Zeyan stood beside him, hand cold as iron. His eyes were sharper than frost, his tone cutting through the room like a blade.

The Daifu shrank a little. "Heh... just, uh... trying to restore circulation...?"

Before Lan Zeyan could respond, a soft voice called—

"...Lan-gongzi?"

It was Qinghui.

Lan Zeyan's stern gaze softened instantly as he turned. Releasing the Daifu's arm, he crossed the room and approached the bed.

Qinghui sat upright now, his hair unkempt, bed robe hanging loosely off one shoulder. There was no hostility in his expression—only a faint daze, like a dreamer still caught between two worlds.

Lan Zeyan clicked his tongue and leaned down without a word, gently pulling the robe closed and tying it properly. His hands moved with quiet care, like he'd done this a hundred times before.

"You..." Qinghui blinked, "this isn't the same robe as before."

"Mm. It isn't," Lan Zeyan replied. "I changed it."

Qinghui's eyes widened slightly. "You didn't have to. The first time I came here I was half-naked."

He glanced over Lan Zeyan's shoulder at the Daifu, who was now awkwardly pouring tea with shaky hands.

Lan Zeyan's gaze followed his.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

"From today onward," he said coldly, "no one is allowed to touch this man's body without my permission."

The Daifu froze mid-pour.

Tea spilled.

His eye twitched. "Ahaha... Y-Yes! Understood, Lan-gongzi!" He gave a stiff bow and shuffled backward toward the door. "Well then! I shall now... vanish respectfully! Please enjoy your... intimacy—I mean—recovery! Recovery!"

He slammed the door behind him so fast that the teacup rattled.

Qinghui blinked, then smiled softly.

Lan Zeyan turned back just in time to catch it.

"You're smiling," he noted.

"I suppose I am," Qinghui murmured.

Lan Zeyan sat beside him, finally allowing himself to relax a little. "How are you feeling?"

"My legs still hurt," Qinghui replied honestly, "but not as much as before."

"You were unconscious for three days."

"...I see."

Qinghui looked down at his palm, fingers curling slightly.

"What happened to the child I was trying to save?" he asked. "Did you find him in the cave?"

Lan Zeyan nodded. "We did. He was the host of the Root of Sentiment."

"Host, huh..." Qinghui murmured. "That explains it. His body was wounded, but he moved like nothing hurt. And those roots... always aiming for me. He even knew exactly where his 'father' was."

Lan Zeyan watched him carefully. Something in Qinghui's voice had shifted—less confused, more resigned.

"Qinghui..." he began. He wanted to ask about the illusion—the masked man, the tearful voice. The dark realm.

But Qinghui interrupted quietly, eyes still lowered.

"You were right."

Lan Zeyan paused.

"I was a burden."

"...No—"

"But is it wrong to want to know who I am?" Qinghui's voice cracked faintly. "I lost everything. I don't even know if I have the right to complain. But I..."

He trailed off.

Lan Zeyan didn't let him finish.

In one motion, he leaned forward and pulled Qinghui into a tight embrace.

Qinghui stiffened—surprised—but didn't pull away.

Lan Zeyan's arms around him were steady, warm, unyielding. His scent carried faint sandalwood, and for a moment, Qinghui remembered nothing else.

They stayed like that for several breaths.

Not quite lovers. Not yet strangers.

Qinghui remained still in Lan Zeyan's arms.

The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, it was almost too comforting—like warmth you didn't realize you were freezing without.

Eventually, Qinghui's voice broke the quiet.

"...You're warm," he murmured, his tone half-surprised.

Lan Zeyan didn't respond. He only pulled him in a little closer, his chin resting lightly against Qinghui's shoulder.

"I thought," Qinghui continued softly, "I'd wake up alone."

"You didn't."

Qinghui's fingers curled lightly into the front of Lan Zeyan's robe. "I keep having dreams. But when I wake up, I'm not sure which part is the illusion."

He pulled back just enough to look up at him.

"That man I saw... in the dream. He felt so familiar. But I've never seen him before. And yet I felt..."

He paused, searching for the word.

"...guilty."

Lan Zeyan studied him closely. "What did he look like?"

Qinghui hesitated.

"I don't remember his face. His hair covered most of it. But he wore ceremonial robes... black and white. He said strange things, like he knew me. And at the very end..." He looked away. "He smiled."

Lan Zeyan was silent for a moment, then said, "You don't have to explain everything right now."

Qinghui looked surprised. "But I thought—"

"You've been fighting alone in your head for too long."

Lan Zeyan's voice was calm, but the weight behind his words anchored deeply. "If you keep blaming yourself for every unknown, you'll never heal."

"I don't know how to heal," Qinghui admitted, voice low. "I don't even know who I was. Or why I can feel other people's pain so easily. I just—" He clutched his chest lightly.

There was a beat of quiet.

Lan Zeyan reached out again, gently brushing a strand of hair from Qinghui's cheek. His fingertips were calloused, but his touch was careful—as if afraid Qinghui would vanish if handled too roughly.

"...Then start with the things you do remember," he said. "You remember your name. You remember that I'm Lan Zeyan. You remember this room. The warmth."

He leaned slightly closer. "Let that be enough for now."

Qinghui's eyes softened.

"...You make it sound easy."

"It's not," Lan Zeyan admitted. "But you're not alone anymore."

Another silence. But this one was softer, like a blanket drawn across a sleeping heart.

Then—faintly, shyly—Qinghui asked, "...Did you stay by my side these past three days?"

Lan Zeyan blinked. His ears went slightly red.

"...I had guard duty," he muttered. "Also, the Daifu kept trying to stab you in your sleep."

Qinghui huffed a small laugh. "You could've just said yes."

"..."

Lan Zeyan didn't answer.

But he didn't deny it either.

Qinghui leaned back against the pillows, exhaling slowly. The pain in his legs flared a little, but it was manageable. The kind of pain that told you you'd survived something.

"Lan-gongzi," he said quietly, "will you still help me... even if I'm not who I think I am?"

Lan Zeyan turned toward him. There was no hesitation in his eyes.

"I will," he said. "Even if who you were is someone I can't yet understand. Even if you become someone else tomorrow."

He looked away for a moment, then added under his breath—

"...Even if it means I'll have to watch you walk toward a fate that doesn't include me."