The black mountain had spat them out like something the earth itself regretted swallowing.
Three months of silence, of wounds that closed only to reopen in dreams, of nights when the only sound was the slow drip of blood from self-inflicted cuts no one bothered to heal
They returned to Crimson Flame Sect not as fugitives, not as conquerors
They returned as ghosts who had forgotten how to stay dead
The outer barrier recognized Su Qingxue first — the formations rippled like water disturbed by a stone thrown long ago
She stepped through without pause, silver hair catching the dying afternoon light
Her face was a mask of perfect composure, but her eyes
her eyes were the color of winter lakes that had frozen over cracks too deep to mend
Ling Xue'er followed, steps small and deliberate
The betrothal hairpin still gleamed in her black hair — not as ornament now, but as accusation
She walked with the posture of someone carrying her own coffin
Xiao Yang came last
His face had sharpened in the months away; the boy who once begged for scraps of respect was gone
What remained was leaner, colder, eyes the color of molten gold that had cooled into something unreadable
He did not look at the sect with hatred
He looked at it the way a man looks at a childhood home he knows he can never enter again — not because the door is locked, but because he has become the thing that should never be allowed inside
The first disciple to see them dropped his sword
The second screamed
By the time they reached the central plaza, the sect had become a painting — thousands of frozen figures, breaths held, waiting for the canvas to tear
Zhao Tian stood at the forefront, sword already naked in his hand
His face was a ruin of rage and grief; the handsome young master features had hollowed, eyes sunken from sleepless nights
When he saw Ling Xue'er, something cracked inside him — audible, almost, like bone under pressure
"You…" His voice broke on the single word
Then again, softer, more terrible: "Xue'er.
She met his gaze
There was no defiance in her eyes
Only recognition
The same recognition one gives a childhood friend seen across a battlefield after years apart
"I'm sorry," she said — not loudly, not dramatically
Just three words, quiet as a confession in an empty temple
Zhao Tian's sword trembled
He took one step forward, then another, until he stood close enough that she could smell the familiar scent of his robes — pine and forge-smoke, the same scent she used to bury her face in during stolen moments
He lifted his free hand as though to touch her cheek
Then he saw the marks
The small, deliberate scars along her collarbone, half-hidden by fabric
The way she held herself — not like the innocent saintess anymore, but like something that had been used until it learned to use itself
His hand dropped
"You let him…" The sentence died
He looked at Xiao Yang — not with murder, but with something worse: incomprehension
"Why?
Xiao Yang answered without raising his voice
"Because I could.
The words landed like stones in deep water
No one moved
From the elevated steps of the Grand Elder's hall, Zhao Wuji appeared
He had aged
Not in body — Nascent Soul cultivators do not wrinkle like mortals — but in the way a mountain ages when the wind has carved every soft line away
His hair was fully silver now, eyes the color of spent coals
He descended the stairs slowly, each step measured, as though walking on glass that might shatter if he hurried
When he reached the plaza, he stopped ten paces from Su Qingxue
They did not embrace
They did not speak at first
They simply looked
In that silence, centuries passed again
Finally Zhao Wuji spoke — voice low, almost gentle, the way one speaks to a beloved animal that must be put down
"You came back.
Su Qingxue inclined her head — the smallest possible acknowledgment
"I never truly left," she said
"This place still remembers me
And I still remember what it cost.
Zhao Wuji's gaze drifted to the scars on her exposed collarbone, then to the way Ling Xue'er stood slightly behind Xiao Yang — not hiding, but positioned like a second blade
He exhaled — a long, weary sound
"I dreamed you would stay away," he said
"That you would find some corner of the world where you could be happy
Where you would not have to look at me and remember what you threw away.
Su Qingxue smiled — small, sad, almost tender
"I tried," she said
"But happiness is a lie we tell children
What we found was truth
And truth is heavier than any lie.
Zhao Wuji looked at Xiao Yang then — really looked
"Young man," he said, "do you understand what you have done?
Xiao Yang met his eyes without flinching
"I understand exactly what I have done.
A long silence
Then Zhao Wuji nodded once — as though accepting a verdict he had already known
He turned to the gathered elders, to the disciples, to the sect that had once been his pride
"Stand down," he said
Murmurs
Shocked whispers
Zhao Tian's sword clattered to the stone
Zhao Wuji did not raise his voice
"I am still Grand Elder
And I say: stand down.
He looked back at Su Qingxue — one last time
"If you stay," he said quietly, "there will be war
Not with swords
With whispers. With poison. With righteous sects calling for your heads
You will drag this place into ruin.
Su Qingxue's smile never wavered
"Then let it burn," she said
Zhao Wuji closed his eyes
When he opened them again, something final had settled there
He turned and walked back up the steps — slow, unhurried, the steps of a man who has already buried everything he loved
Zhao Tian stared after him
Then he looked at Ling Xue'er — one last, broken look
She did not look away
She only whispered
"I'm sorry.
He dropped to his knees — not in surrender, but because his legs simply forgot how to hold him
Xiao Yang stepped forward
His voice carried across the plaza — calm, cold, carrying the weight of everything they had lost and everything they had become
"We are staying.
No one cheered
No one protested
They simply watched — as one watches a wound that will never close
And somewhere deep inside Xiao Yang, the system stirred — soft, almost amused
Welcome home.