The descent was harder than the climb.
Stones shifted beneath his steps, sliding loose with each press of his foot. Roots jutted where mist blurred the ground, catching at his shoes. The stream roared louder below, hidden still but close enough that its voice seemed to echo in his bones.
Qiyao moved slowly, keeping his weight low, one hand braced against rock whenever he could. Still, the slope was treacherous. His legs, already tired from the climb, trembled faintly beneath him.
The lilies pressed warm against his back. Each time the path slipped, it was not himself he thought of first, but them.
Halfway down, where the trail narrowed to a ledge above the stream, his foot caught on wet stone. The world tilted.
His body pitched forward, balance gone. The roar of water surged loud in his ears.
Instinct moved faster than thought. He twisted sharply, forcing his shoulder against the rock wall, arms bracing to shield the pack. The lilies thudded safe against his back, but pain lanced through his leg as his shin struck stone.
He gasped, breath sharp in his chest. For a moment, he clung there, one hand gripping a root, body pressed to rock, heart pounding.
The mist curled around him, indifferent. The stream raged below.
Slowly, with steady breath, he righted himself. The ache in his leg was deep, sharp with each step he tested, but not broken. He could still walk. He would walk.
The lilies were safe. That was enough.
He descended more cautiously after that, each step deliberate, his body leaning into the slope as though bowing to it. The pain in his leg throbbed with every movement, yet he did not allow his face to tighten. Pain was secondary. The bundle upon his back was what mattered.
When at last the trees thickened again, their needles whispering above, he allowed himself a slow breath of relief. The mist thinned slightly here, light breaking through in patches. The sound of the stream grew clearer, guiding him downward.
At the river's bend, the stones waited as before. He crossed carefully, the water pressing cold against his ankles, but his balance held.
And then the grove opened before him once more.
By the time Qiyao reached the edge of Zhuyin, the sun had lowered, gold spilling faint across the fields. His steps were uneven, favoring one leg, though he kept his back straight. The bundle pressed firm between his shoulders, fragrant still.
A figure moved at the far end of the path.
Granny Xuemei.
She was carrying a basket, willow-bound, filled with herbs freshly gathered. Her steps were unhurried, her posture steady despite her age. When she looked up and saw him, she paused.
Her sharp eyes took in the damp of his clothes, the faint limp, the way he bore his pack as though carrying something fragile. She set the basket down beside her feet.
"You've been to the mountain."
It was not a question.
Qiyao inclined his head. His voice was calm, though his breath was still faintly uneven. "Yes."
Her gaze lingered on him, then softened briefly toward the bundle at his back. "And you found what you sought."
He did not answer at once. He only adjusted the strap of his pack, his expression quiet.
Granny Xuemei's eyes narrowed slightly, as though reading more than he spoke. At last, she gave a small hum, neither judgment nor praise, only acknowledgment.
"You walk with pain," she remarked, her tone practical. "Your leg speaks louder than your face does. Go on, then. Rest it before it grows worse."
Qiyao bowed faintly, a gesture of respect, and continued on.
As he passed, Granny Xuemei bent once more to lift her basket. But her eyes followed him for a moment longer, a glint of something unspoken within them—curiosity, perhaps, or memory. Then she turned back to her path, leaving him to his.
When Qiyao reached the shrine, dusk was folding into night. Fireflies floated low among the bamboo, their faint lights drifting like scattered embers.
He lowered his pack onto the veranda with care, as though setting down a treasure. His leg ached sharply as he bent, but he made no sound.
Inside, he unwrapped the bundle slowly. The lilies, though shaken, lay safe and uncrushed, their petals still gleaming pale in the dim light. Their fragrance spread at once, soft but sure, filling the small space.
For a long time, Qiyao simply knelt there, gazing at them.
The pain in his leg was real, but distant. What mattered was that the flowers had come home with him.
And in the hush of the shrine, he allowed himself a breath of relief—one that trembled faintly, yet carried the first true weight of peace.
The shrine was silent but for the steady song of crickets beyond the grove. Fireflies floated low, their small lights weaving faint trails in the dusk. Inside, lilies perfumed the air, their fragrance soft and lingering, as though holding the night together.
Shen Qiyao stood at the threshold, his body heavy from the climb, his skin streaked with mud, his hair damp with sweat and mist. The pain in his leg throbbed faintly with every shift, but deeper than pain was weariness—a weariness that reached his bones.
He did not light a lamp. He did not need one.