The rain did not stop all at once.
It thinned, softened, then lingered as mist that clung to skin and stone alike. The overhang held, barely, its shelter incomplete but sufficient. No one complained. No one suggested moving on before bodies had fully recovered.
That, Wang Lin realized, was new.
Before, movement had been instinctive. Now, staying was a choice that carried its own weight.
He sat quietly, back against cool rock, watching droplets fall from the edge of the stone in irregular rhythms. The emptiness within him felt steady, unprovoked. No pressure pressed against it. No attention demanded response.
Mei Niu shifted closer, not seeking warmth, not seeking relief. Simply present.
"You are quieter," she said softly.
"Yes," Wang Lin replied.
"Not withdrawn," she clarified. "Settled."
"Yes."
She rested her shoulder lightly against his arm. The contact was unremarkable in form, but the bond stirred gently in response. Not pulling. Not tightening. Just acknowledging proximity.
"This place lets us stop," she said.
"For now," Wang Lin replied.
Ying Yue approached and crouched nearby, shaking water from her hair before stilling again.
"No movement on the lower slopes," she reported. "And no eyes on the ridges."
"That does not mean they are gone," the feline beast kin said quietly from a short distance away.
"No," Ying Yue agreed. "But it means we are not being rushed."
That mattered.
The group remained under the overhang longer than planned. Packs were adjusted. Damp clothing wrung out and laid where the air could reach it. Quiet conversation resumed in fragments, small exchanges that did not demand attention but built familiarity all the same.
Wang Lin listened without inserting himself.
For the first time since others had begun walking beside him, the group did not orient around his presence. They did not wait for him to speak. They did not glance toward him for permission.
They existed.
That eased something in his chest he had not realized was tight.
As the mist lifted slowly, revealing the valley below in muted layers of gray and green, Mei Niu spoke again.
"When they hurt that woman at the crossing," she said quietly, "you chose to stand."
"Yes," Wang Lin replied.
"And when the testers came," she continued, "you chose not to escalate."
"Yes."
"And now," she said, "you are choosing to stay."
Wang Lin considered that.
"Yes," he said.
She looked at him then, really looked, her expression thoughtful rather than searching.
"You are learning that movement is not the only answer," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "Sometimes staying shows more."
She smiled faintly. "That scares people."
"Yes."
Ying Yue listened without interrupting, her expression unreadable. When Mei Niu fell silent, she spoke.
"You are becoming predictable," she said.
Wang Lin did not argue.
"But not in action," Ying Yue continued. "In values."
"Yes," Wang Lin replied.
"That is harder to attack," Ying Yue said. "And easier to surround."
"Yes."
The honesty of it sat between them without tension.
As the light shifted again, the group prepared to move, not because danger pressed, but because stagnation invited it. Wang Lin stood and stretched slowly, testing his balance. Fatigue remained, but it was even, no longer sharp.
Before they left, one of the humans approached him. Not the nervous one. Another, older, eyes lined with years rather than fear.
"You did not tell us to rest," the man said.
"No," Wang Lin replied.
"But you did not stop us either," the man continued.
"No."
The man nodded. "That made it ours."
"Yes," Wang Lin said.
"That matters," the man replied.
They moved on shortly after, descending the higher path as it curved back toward gentler terrain. The land opened gradually, the sky clearing enough to let light through again.
As they walked, Wang Lin felt it.
Not attention.
Anticipation.
Somewhere ahead, someone was deciding whether to approach openly or not at all. Not a test. Not an ambush.
A choice mirroring his own.
He slowed slightly, letting the group adjust naturally.
"We will meet someone soon," he said calmly.
Ying Yue's ears flicked. "How many."
"Few," Wang Lin replied. "And undecided."
Mei Niu's voice was steady. "Then we do not rush."
"No," Wang Lin agreed.
They continued at the same pace, neither inviting nor avoiding what lay ahead.
Wang Lin felt the truth settle with quiet certainty.
Refusal had taught him how to stop others from acting through him.
Intervention had taught him when stopping was necessary.
But staying, choosing to remain present without forcing motion, was teaching him something else entirely.
That stability was not stillness.
It was commitment that did not demand attention.
And that, he suspected, would be the heaviest weight of all to carry going forward.