The wind howled. War banners snapped and whipped in the air.
Si Moheng led the army at full speed. You Qing swung up onto her horse and rode with three generals close at her side. She tightened her grip on the reins until her knuckles blanched. The pounding of the saddle made her breathing rough and unsteady, yet she still clenched her jaw and held her posture.
This was not unfamiliar to her—
Back in the years she spent in the Underrealm, the Underrealm Emperor had taught her with his own hands how to ride. She had stumbled again and again, even fallen more than once, only to be hauled back up by that steady, warm voice:
"Don't be afraid of the horse, Qing'er. If you want to master it, you must first steady your own heart."
Now, with the gale screaming past her ears, that lesson rose again in her chest. She drew a deep breath and rode shoulder to shoulder with Si Moheng.
When the army reached a clearing in the forest, they halted briefly to rest.
Firelight dyed the wasteland red.
You Qing sat quietly beside the flames, yet all she could see was endless barrenness. In that moment, her thoughts slipped beyond her control, dragged deep into the past.
She remembered the day she had finally returned to her bloodline—when her father, You Nian, had spoken with her by lamplight, knee to knee.
"Garo was the first friend I ever made."
You Nian's voice had been calm, but a faraway tenderness flickered in his eyes.
Back then, the Underrealm was torn by ceaseless conflict between the Rift-Yao tribes. Garo and his younger sister, Wanluo, had long drawn covetous stares and filthy rumors—Wanluo's beauty made her a target.
That day, an argument exploded within the tribe. Garo was forced to the ground by several burly men, his arms pinned so hard he couldn't fight back. Crude laughter filled his ears.
And before his eyes—
Wanluo was shoved into a corner. Her hairpins came loose, her clothes were yanked and tugged. Her struggling and furious curses only earned louder, uglier jeers.
"If I hadn't arrived in time…" You Nian said softly, "I fear they would have had no one left in this world to rely on."
He had saved the siblings, severing the bullies' arrogance with a single sweep of sword qi. And that day, he had said one sentence to Garo:
"One day, I will bring order to the Rift-Yao. Innocent people won't have to live trembling in fear anymore."
You Qing still remembered the way her father's eyes had burned—bright, unshakable.
But the Garo of that time had only stared at him blankly, even thinking it ridiculous.
Order? In a place like this? What a foolish dream.
Yet as days passed, he watched You Nian never retreat: walking through blood-soaked battlegrounds while shielding the weak; standing amid political undertows while refusing to abandon his faith.
Garo's heart began to change, little by little, in that silent companionship.
He trained beside You Nian. He began to believe that "bringing order" might not be delusion—
but a vow worth giving a lifetime for.
Tutan.
Our meeting with him could only be described as: no fight, no friendship.
He had been a guard of some Rift-Yao tribe—huge, powerful, famous across the lands. Because of a misunderstanding, he clashed with me and Garo out in the wasteland. Blade and spear screamed; the shock of it even cracked stone walls. In the end, none of us gained the upper hand—yet respect was born from strength.
After that, he kept coming to spar. Eventually, he simply joined our path.
Who would've thought such a rough, blunt brute would have the softest heart?
He always carried abandoned orphans and stray beasts back with him. A grown man, bustling around for the sake of small, helpless lives.
I teased him that his strength shouldn't be spent only on killing—
it should be used to protect the people who needed it most.
Tutan threw his head back and laughed.
"Then I'll protect you all!"
And so he became the backbone of the Rift-Yao.
Lianyu.
The opposite of Tutan in every way.
He'd been withdrawn since childhood, terrified of crowds—so afraid he would rather starve than ask anyone for food. When we found him, he was curled in the wasteland, thin as bone, nearly at his last breath.
It was Tutan who carried him back, forced him to eat, and shielded him from wind and cold.
Later, Lianyu was still quiet, still awkward with closeness—
but he poured his entire existence into formations and hidden weapons.
From that moment on, he became my most silent—yet most reliable—piece.
Feng Mian.
He was not someone I sought out.
He came to us on his own.
That night, firelight shook, and he stepped out from the shadows—eyes cold as deep water, a smile at his lips like poison wrapped in honey.
"Why must the Rift-Yao live like beasts in eternal night? I have illusion arts to shatter an enemy's will. I have phantom drugs to confuse the mind. Without a single soldier, I can shake Yao Capital… even control the Realm Emperor."
He paused, voice lowering—like a spark slipping into the human heart.
"So long as the Saintess and the Five Yao no longer protect the Yao Realm, the people of Rift-Yao Underrealm City will finally see sunlight again."
In the firelight, Garo and Tutan were visibly moved. Lianyu lifted his eyes, his gaze uncertain.
And I—
I stayed silent for a long time before answering:
"If that's truly possible… then why spill more blood?"
That was the moment the "four generals" first took shape.
But who could have imagined—
that promise of light would become the deepest shadow of all?
Her thoughts sank so far she didn't notice someone watching her from across the flames.
A moment later, Si Moheng extended a cup of hot tea toward her.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked quietly.
Gu Xingyu's fingers paused as she accepted it. She shook her head, her gaze drifting somewhere distant.
"Moheng… have I ever told you? My real name is You Qing."
Si Moheng's eyes sharpened. He stared at her without speaking.
She took a small sip. Her voice was like the wind at night—soft, yet stubborn in its resolve.
"Qing means sunlight. After rain comes clear skies—it means hardship and darkness will pass, and hope will come again. My father gave me that name to remind me… no matter what happens, I must always remember to lift my head and look at the sky."
Si Moheng's fingers tightened slightly around the rim of his cup.
"You are my sunlight," he said in a low voice.
You Qing froze, lifting her eyes to meet his.
In that instant, all the unfinished darkness and thorns seemed to soften into a warmth she could lean against.
A beat later, the corner of her lips lifted—faint, sly.
"Are you flirting with me?"
The fire painted her face gold. Her words were light, but something in his chest tightened anyway.
Si Moheng swallowed, his gaze never wavering as he stepped closer.
"If you're willing to listen," he murmured, "I can say words like that to you for the rest of my life."
"Qing'er. A-Qing. You Qing…"
His eyes, cold and deep by nature, turned so intent it was almost possessive.
"Those names—only I'm allowed to say them."
He moved in, reached out, and drew the cloak back over her shoulders where it had slipped. His tone left no room for argument.
"The Five Yao call you Xingyu. I won't."
His fingers finished smoothing the fabric, careful—yet final.
"In front of them, you are Xingyu. In front of me—
you will always be You Qing."
She stared at him, her heart surging, unable to reply.
—In that moment, she understood.
This wasn't merely a name.
It was the way he claimed her in the deepest part of his heart.
Si Moheng suddenly crouched halfway down, bringing himself level with her. Firelight stretched his shadow over her.
He took her fingers and, slowly, pressed her palm to his cheek. His features were cold to the touch—yet he shivered faintly at her warmth.
"Qing'er…" His voice dropped, hoarse, almost rough. "Sometimes I wish you were a little more selfish."
His eyes held hers—dark tides without a bottom, carrying a desire he had suppressed for too long.
"Stop thinking about the realm. The people. The Five Yao…"
His grip tightened, pressing her hand more firmly to his face, his stubbornness edging toward something like a plea.
"Only think of me."
A brief silence.
Then his lips trembled, and the last sentence fell out—half oath, half cage:
"And only me."
She knew.
His loneliness and pain made him crave a world that belonged only to him—
the way he had survived the dark prison, the madness, the years of clawing his way back from the edge.
Her eyes burned with heat. She swallowed down the ache, and her voice came out clear and steady.
"Moheng, I can listen to you. I'm willing to understand you. But if you want me to look at only you—"
Her fingers trembled, yet she didn't pull away. Her gaze stayed unwavering.
"Can you promise me that what you ask of me… won't make me regret it someday?"
She took a breath, forcing honesty to the surface.
"The pain in your heart—I may not fully understand it. That's exactly why I can't agree so easily. Because I haven't lived your suffering… I can't say I'll follow you completely."
Si Moheng stilled. Dark currents surged in his eyes.
He let out a low laugh—one that carried a restrained, cutting pain.
"Understand me?" he murmured. "Have you ever truly understood me?"
His gaze sank, voice cold—and trembling.
"Have you ever watched someone you cared about die right in front of you… while you were powerless to stop it?"
His throat tightened.
"Have you ever lived among madmen, fighting every single day just to stay alive?"
His voice dropped, sharpened into a line.
"You haven't walked my hell. So what gives you the right to say you understand me?"
You Qing's chest tightened, sourness flooding her heart—yet she did not retreat.
She reached out and laid her hand over his arm, her voice soft but unmistakably clear.
"You're right. I haven't lived all of your suffering. Your pain is yours alone—how could anyone truly walk it for you?"
She looked into his eyes, utterly serious.
"But Moheng… understanding doesn't mean suffering the exact same wounds."
Her hand tightened slightly.
"Understanding means that when you hurt so much you can't breathe, I'm willing to stay by your side—
and bear it with you."
Her voice lowered, gentler, steadier.
"I won't tell you to 'let it go' or 'look on the bright side.' I know that would be cruel."
"But if you're willing… I will stay. I won't let you carry it alone."
Firelight shook. Her words were light, yet stronger than iron.
"Moheng, your wounds don't need me to deny them. And no one has the right to rush you into healing."
"All I want is this—
when you feel the darkness closing over you… you can see me beside you."
Her voice fell between the flames, quiet—
yet heavier than any vow.
Si Moheng froze.
His fingertips trembled.
That sentence—I won't let you carry it alone—was like a blade of light, ripping open the fog inside him.
His breathing turned ragged. His throat worked, and the dark in his eyes surged too violently to hide.
"…Do you have any idea," he whispered, voice so hoarse it nearly vanished,
"how long I've waited to hear that?"
In the next instant, he yanked her into his arms.
The force of it trembled, as if he were afraid she might disappear again.
"Qing'er…"
He buried his face against the curve of her shoulder, voice low and crushed.
"If you're truly here… I can endure anything. I can let anything go."
"But if you're not—"
He couldn't finish.
The rest poured up like a tide—then was swallowed back down, forcibly, into silence.
You Qing could barely breathe in his embrace, yet she felt it—
the loneliness and pain he had buried for years, so thick it could not dissolve, leaking out little by little.
She lifted a hand and patted his back gently. Her eyes reddened, but her voice stayed steady.
"I'm here, Moheng."
"I'm here. I've always been here."
Si Moheng held her tightly. His breathing was heavy at first, then gradually steadied. The violent, repressed malice in him seemed to finally find an exit—softening, loosening, fading under her quiet comfort.
In the deep night, there was only firelight—
and the sound of two breaths becoming one.