The morning should have been uneventful.
Ling Yue thought so at first.
The sky was clear, the air warm, the village unhurried. Children ran past with half-finished breakfasts, laughter echoing between houses. A normal day — precious precisely because of its simplicity.
Ye stood beside her near the well, watching it all with an intensity she had come to recognize.
"You're doing it again," she said.
"Doing what?"
"Looking like you're memorizing everything."
He smiled faintly. "Old habit."
She didn't like that answer.
---
It began with a scream.
Not loud — not panicked — just sudden.
A child stumbled near the eastern path, collapsing as if his legs had forgotten how to hold him. His mother dropped to her knees beside him, calling his name over and over.
The crowd gathered quickly.
Ling Yue pushed forward instinctively, kneeling beside the child. His skin was cold. Too cold for the warmth of the day.
"This isn't illness," she murmured, pressing her hand to his wrist. "It's like something drained him."
Ye was already there.
He didn't touch the child.
He didn't need to.
The faint distortion in the air around the boy tightened painfully against his senses — the residue of something unseen passing through, feeding carelessly.
A remnant — stronger than before.
Careless.
Hungry.
Ling Yue looked up at him, fear sharpening her voice. "You've seen this before."
"Yes."
"And you didn't tell me."
"Because telling you wouldn't stop it."
The child gasped suddenly, breath returning in a rush. Color flushed back into his face.
Relief rippled through the crowd.
Ling Yue stared at Ye.
"You didn't touch him," she whispered. "How did—"
"I didn't," Ye interrupted quietly.
That wasn't a lie.
He had done less than before.
And it still hurt.
---
By evening, word had spread.
Not panic — not yet — but worry. Whispers clung to corners. Doors closed earlier than usual.
And someone else noticed.
The cultivator returned.
This time, he did not pretend to be passing through.
He stood at the edge of the square as lanterns were lit, his gaze calm, calculating.
Ye felt the pressure immediately — a weight settling across the village like a held breath.
Ling Yue stood closer to him than usual.
"Who is he?" she asked.
"Someone who asks the wrong questions," Ye replied.
The cultivator smiled, stepping forward. "Or the right ones."
His eyes locked onto Ye.
"You're an interesting presence," he said mildly. "The land twists around you. The air behaves."
Ling Yue's heart pounded.
Ye bowed his head slightly — not in submission, but restraint.
"I live quietly," he said.
"Quietly," the cultivator echoed. "Yes. That's what concerns me."
Silence spread.
The villagers shifted uneasily.
Ling Yue's fingers brushed Ye's sleeve — a silent plea.
He straightened.
"This village has done nothing wrong," Ye said. "If you're looking for imbalance, look elsewhere."
The cultivator's gaze flicked to Ling Yue.
"Oh, I am."
Ye felt it then — unmistakably.
The thread tightening.
Not visible.
Not spoken.
But present.
He stepped half a pace forward — placing himself between Ling Yue and the cultivator without thinking.
The cultivator's smile faded.
---
That night, Ye did not go home.
Ling Yue found him near the river, standing where moonlight fractured across the water.
"You were going to leave," she said quietly.
He didn't deny it.
"You're not safe near me anymore."
Her laugh was brittle. "You don't get to decide that alone."
He turned to her, conflict bare in his eyes.
"They will come again," he said. "Stronger. Less patient."
"Then we'll face it together."
He shook his head. "That's not how this ends."
Her chest tightened. "You sound like you've already chosen."
"I have."
"For who?" she demanded.
"For you."
The words landed between them like a wound reopening.
---
She stepped closer, pressing her palm to his chest.
"I don't care what you think you owe the world," she said fiercely. "I care what you owe yourself."
His breath hitched.
"And what do I owe myself?" he asked softly.
She looked up at him — eyes bright, unyielding.
"To stay," she said. "As long as you can."
For a moment, he almost agreed.
Almost.
Instead, he lifted his hand and rested it over hers.
"I will stay," he said. "Until I can't."
She leaned into him, resting her forehead against his.
"Then don't disappear without telling me," she whispered.
He closed his eyes.
"I won't," he promised.
This time, the lie broke something inside him.
---
As Ling Yue returned home, Ye remained by the river.
The water was too still.
At its edge, something faint stirred — not a bloom, not yet — just a subtle gathering, as if the world itself were holding space for what was coming.
Ye watched it silently.
He did not know the exact moment his time would end.
Only that it had begun to count down.
And when it did, he would not hesitate.