The silver light was cool on their faces, a gentle balm after the harsh, white glare of before. The path, now wide and smooth, felt solid beneath their feet, its surface threaded with faint, barely visible veins of green that pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm, like a sleeping heart. The only sound was the scuff of their boots and the soft, rhythmic drag of Shen Miao's limp form as Yingluo carried her. The girl's weight was a familiar, dead anchor, a constant reminder of the price of their quest.
Gao Lian walked a few paces ahead, her posture straighter than Yingluo had ever seen it. There was a new stillness to her, a predatory quiet that was more unsettling than her old, restless energy. She moved with a liquid grace, her healed hands flexing and curling at her sides as if remembering a new shape. She was no longer just a warrior with a cursed weapon. She had become the weapon.
