The silk-curtained stage still shimmered with warm hues of lamplight and music, the performer's voice threading through the clamor of heartbeats like smoke from incense coils ascending to heaven.
The crowd watched with rapt silence, breath caught between reality and a dream spun from song and longing. No one noticed the moment His Highness Hua Ling quietly rose from his seat and slipped into the night like a silken thread drawn loose from precious brocade.
He moved as though pursued by ghosts only he could see.
Past lacquered columns and over polished wooden decks that reflected lantern light like liquid gold, his steps faltered until he reached the carved railing of the boat. There, with both hands gripping the wood as if it were the only thing tethering him to the mortal world, he leaned forward.
His shoulders trembled like leaves before storm, his breath caught and shallow as a drowning man's. His fingers turned white with strain, and his lips parted—but no sound came, no words to explain this sudden weakness.
Chen Xinyu had followed, and now stood behind him in mounting alarm.
"Dianxia?" he called, voice low but urgent as prayer. "What's wrong?"
Hua Ling didn't respond—couldn't, perhaps.
In the shifting light of lanterns and water reflections dancing like scattered stars, Xinyu saw the sheen of sweat on his temple, his tightly clenched jaw speaking of pain suppressed, the shimmer of qi gone awry like a river breaking its banks. The elegant calm of His Highness had shattered like a porcelain cup dropped on stone—beautiful fragments scattered beyond repair.
Without hesitation, Xinyu stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder with gentle urgency. "Dianxia, I'm taking you somewhere quiet. Hold on to me."
He didn't wait for permission or protest.
Drawing Hua Ling's arm around his own shoulder, he half-guided, half-carried him down the corridor until he found an empty guest chamber near the far end of the deck. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and lake mist—peaceful, isolated, safe. The paper windows were closed against prying eyes, the silk bedding untouched and pristine.
Xinyu lowered Hua Ling onto the mat with careful precision and carefully placed a cushion beneath his head. The young man's breathing was ragged as torn silk, eyes shut tight against invisible pain that carved lines into his perfect features. His fair skin, now tinged with grey like dying moonlight, was damp to the touch.
Xinyu knelt beside him and gently pressed a folded handkerchief to his forehead, wiping away the sweat with trembling fingers that betrayed his calm facade. Then, steadying himself with deep breath, he reached out and clasped Hua Ling's hand. Through their joined palms, he let his qi seep into the other's body—softly, steadily, like spring water sinking into cracked earth desperate for rain.
"It's alright," he murmured with conviction he didn't feel. "I'm here, Dianxia. I'm not going anywhere."
From the bed, a faint voice answered him like wind through reeds.
"Xinyu..."
He leaned in closer. "I'm here. What is it?"
Still half-lost in distress, Hua Ling's breath stirred against his cheek as he said with effort, "The demon cultivator... he's here tonight. You must go—look for him."
Xinyu frowned with stubborn concern. "Are you mad? I'm not leaving you like this."
But Hua Ling's voice had regained some clarity, strengthened by borrowed qi. "You've transferred your energy to me. That's sufficient. We can communicate through it now. I'll guide you from here."
Xinyu hesitated, torn between duty and something deeper he couldn't name.
Hua Ling opened his eyes just enough to meet his gaze—dark pools reflecting lantern light. "Go."
Reluctantly, like one leaving a battlefield before it's truly safe, Xinyu rose to his feet. He turned one last glance at the figure lying on the bed—fragile, yet stubbornly luminous as dying stars—and then stepped back into the corridors of revelry and danger.
The air outside was thick with song and noise that pressed against eardrums. He pressed two fingers to his pulse and whispered silently through their connection, "Dianxia. Where should I look?"
The reply came, faint as wind through distant reeds: "Second floor. He's important to their plans. You'll feel him when close."
The staircase was choked with people, most too drunk or dazzled to notice anything amiss in their pleasure. Xinyu wove through the crowd with practiced grace, his robes catching on lantern poles and idle hands. "Excuse me," he muttered more than once. "Move, please—"
Then he saw him.
The man from earlier—the one who had not applauded, had not smiled, had watched the performance with eyes that saw too much. Sitting in a place of honor with servants pouring wine for him like he was a lord, though no one named him aloud in fear or respect.
Xinyu's eyes narrowed with hunter's focus. He took a step forward.
And then—shoved. Hard. His shoulder clipped by deliberate force, his balance broken like snapping twig. He stumbled, fell to the floor, palms scraping against the wooden panels with stinging pain.
By the time he stood again, brushing dust from his robes, the man was gone—vanished like morning mist.
"Dianxia," he whispered inwardly through their bond. "I lost him. But I saw his face clearly."
The qi-thread pulsed in response, calm and firm as anchor stone. "That's enough for now. Return to me."
But before he could move, a familiar shriek reached him across the crowd.
"Xinyu!"
Lingque had appeared, dragging Tang Tang by the sleeve with divine determination. She rushed up to him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Where did you disappear to?"
"He wasn't feeling well," Xinyu answered truthfully. "I took him to rest."
Lingque squinted with knowing gaze. "In a bedroom?"
He sighed with exasperation. "I'm going back to check on him."
As he turned to leave, she caught his sleeve with insistent fingers. "We're leaving. Take him back to the inn."
He nodded. "Alright."
The corridor had emptied slightly by the time he returned to the room, most guests having moved to other entertainments. The door creaked open softly like a secret being revealed.
Inside, Hua Ling was seated, back against the wall, head tilted to one side in slumber's embrace. The moonlight filtering through the paper panes lit the angles of his face in pale silver, like an immortal carved from jade and sorrow.
Xinyu stepped in, silent as falling snow, and knelt at his side. He hesitated a moment, fingers hovering, then reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from Hua Ling's brow with tender precision.
Just then, those long lashes fluttered like butterfly wings. Eyes opened slowly, focusing.
"...Xinyu?"
Startled, Xinyu jerked back as if burned. "There was—your hair—on your face, I was just..."
But Hua Ling caught his wrist gently, his touch cool and lingering like autumn water. "Why didn't you wake me?"
"I—I just arrived," Xinyu lied weakly, ears reddening. "I was about to..."
The door slammed open with dramatic violence.
Lingque stood there, staring with wide divine eyes.
Xinyu's hand was still caught in Hua Ling's grasp.
The silence stretched like pulled taffy.
Lingque flushed scarlet as sunset. "Ah—I see. Sorry! I'll—I'll leave you two alone."
"Chicken, get back here!" Xinyu shouted, ears burning red, yanking his hand away with more force than necessary. "Nothing happened!"
But Hua Ling only smiled faintly with knowing amusement.
Xinyu helped him up with careful hands. "Come. Let's go."
Outside, the night had deepened to velvet-black and bitter-cold. The lanterns no longer reached as far, their light swallowed by encroaching darkness.
In the far-off shadows of the town, behind carved stone walls and forgotten doors, a single candle flickered inside a sacred cave like a beacon for the damned. A man stood before it, his features hidden beneath the flicker of flame and shadow that danced across cruel features.
"The seventh night approaches," he murmured, lips curled into a smile that promised suffering. "It is time."
Around him, figures in dark robes bowed low like penitents before altar.
"We shall hunt."
On the town's main street, Lingque was leading Tang Tang home, weaving through the crowd that had grown thick and chaotic. They clutched each other's hands with desperate grip.
But suddenly, the crowd thickened impossibly.
Bodies pressed together like sardines. Laughter turned loud and raucous, almost manic. Lingque was pushed sideways, knocked off balance by invisible forces. Her grip slipped like water through fingers.
Tang Tang vanished.
"Tang Tang?!" she called, panic clawing at her throat.
She spun around wildly, searching. Her little friend was gone—simply gone.
"Tang Tang!"
She darted through people, asking frantically with mounting desperation. No one had seen. No one had noticed. No one cared.
Then—just as she caught a glimpse of Tang Tang's skirt in the alley beyond like a ghost's trailing sleeve—a hand wrapped over her mouth.
She tried to scream.
But no sound came—silenced by dark magic.
And then she, too, was gone—pulled into shadow as if she'd never existed at all.