The outcrop was a cold refuge, its jagged walls shielding Luochen and Xiaoyu from the wind that swept through Yanshan Pass. Dawn crept in, pale and unforgiving, casting a gray light over their battered forms. Luochen slumped against the rock, his shoulder a throbbing mess of blood and torn muscle, his ribs a dull ache beneath the saber scar. Xiaoyu sat beside him, her knees drawn up, staring at her hands—Jianren’s blood crusted beneath her nails, a stain she couldn’t scrub away. The gulley’s carnage lay behind them, a fresh grave in their wake, but Bao Zheng’s shadow loomed ahead, the summit mere hours away.

Luochen shifted, wincing as his wounds protested, and pulled his cloak tighter against the chill. “We need to move soon,” he said, voice hoarse. “They’ll find the bodies—track us.”

Xiaoyu didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on her hands, her breathing shallow. The fire that had driven her through the caravan, the stronghold, Jianren’s betrayal—it was gone, snuffed out by the weight of her brother’s blood. Luochen reached for her, his hand hovering, then settled on her shoulder, firm but gentle.

“Xiaoyu,” he said, softer now. “Look at me.”

She flinched, then turned, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow. “I killed him,” she whispered, the words brittle. “My own brother.”

“You set him free,” Luochen said, his grip tightening. “He was theirs—Zheng’s puppet. You gave him an end he chose.”

Her lips trembled, a tear cutting through the dirt on her cheek. “He was all I had left of home. And I put a dagger in his heart.”

Luochen pulled her closer, ignoring the flare of pain in his shoulder, and she didn’t resist, her head resting against his chest. “I know what it costs,” he said, his voice rough with his own ghosts. “Meiqi’s gone, Tian’s dead, and it still hurts. But we’re here—still breathing. That’s what matters.”

She clutched his robe, her fingers digging in, and her breath hitched. “I don’t know if I can keep going,” she admitted, barely audible. “Zheng’s left—everything’s left—but it feels hollow now.”

He tilted her chin up, meeting her eyes with a steady gaze. “You’re not alone,” he said. “I’m with you—through the Pass, through Zheng, through whatever’s next. You’re my reason now, Xiaoyu.”

Her breath caught, the words sinking in, and she searched his face—scarred, bloodied, but alive with a fire that mirrored her own when it burned. Slowly, she nodded, a faint spark rekindling in her eyes. “Together,” she said, echoing their pact from the ravine, and this time it held weight beyond survival.

He smiled, faint but real, and brushed the tear from her cheek. “Together.”

They sat in silence, her warmth against him a fragile tether, and he let the moment linger—too rare, too precious in the storm they’d walked through. Then she pulled back, wiping her face, and reached for her pack. “Your shoulder,” she said, her voice steadier. “Let me fix it.”

He didn’t argue, stripping off the blood-soaked bandage as she rummaged for cloth and water. The wound was ugly—swollen, ragged, seeping—but not festering. She cleaned it with careful hands, her touch a quiet balm, and rebound it tighter, her fingers lingering on his skin.

“You’ll make it,” she said, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Stubborn bastard.”

“Had a good teacher,” he replied, flexing his arm. The pain was sharp but bearable, and he nodded thanks, pulling his robe back on.

She tended her own arm next, the dagger gash a thin red line, and they shared the last of their provisions—crumbs of bread, a strip of dried meat. It wasn’t much, but it fueled them, pushing back the edge of exhaustion. The Pass stretched below, the fortress’s smoke a dark plume against the cliffs, and they mapped their next move in low tones.

“Summit’s today,” Luochen said, tracing the scout’s map in the dirt. “Zheng’ll be in the main hall—guarded, expecting trouble after Tian.”

“Jianren said fifty men,” Xiaoyu added, her voice flat at his name. “Traps too. We can’t go in blind.”

“There’s a back approach,” he said, pointing to a jagged line. “Cliffside—narrow, but it skirts the gate. Gets us close to the hall.”

She nodded, tracing her dagger’s edge. “Risky. But we’ve got no choice.”

They gathered their gear, the outcrop’s shelter fading behind them as they descended toward the Pass. The path was treacherous—loose shale sliding underfoot, the wind biting at their wounds—but they moved as one, Xiaoyu steadying Luochen when his leg faltered, he pulling her up when the climb steepened. The fortress grew larger, its walls a grim promise, and by midday, they reached the cliffside trail—a ledge barely wide enough for their boots, the drop sheer and deadly.

Luochen led, his sword sheathed to free his hands, the rock cold against his palms. Xiaoyu followed, her daggers tucked close, her breath a steady rhythm behind him. The trail twisted, the fortress’s rear wall looming above, and they paused at a overhang, peering down at the hall—a squat, fortified building with smoke curling from its roof.

“Guards,” Xiaoyu whispered, nodding to two sentries at a side door, spears glinting.

“We take them quiet,” Luochen said, drawing his dagger. “No alarms.”

They dropped onto the ledge below, silent as shadows, and struck—Luochen’s dagger piercing one guard’s throat, Xiaoyu’s slashing the other’s neck. The bodies slumped, blood pooling, and they dragged them into the brush, hiding the evidence. The door creaked open under Luochen’s push, revealing a dim corridor—stone walls, flickering torches, the distant hum of voices from the summit.

They slipped inside, hugging the shadows, and moved toward the hall. The air grew heavy, thick with tension, and Luochen’s wounds pulsed with every step. Xiaoyu’s hand brushed his, a fleeting reassurance, and they pressed on, the corridor opening into a balcony overlooking the main chamber.

Below, Bao Zheng stood at a long table, his armor black and gleaming, his voice a low growl as he addressed a dozen clan leaders—hardened men with scarred faces and cold eyes. Fifty soldiers lined the room, armed to the teeth, and traps glinted in the shadows—spiked pits, tripwires, a fortress within a fortress. Zheng’s presence was a blade, sharp and commanding, his gray hair tied back, his hand resting on a broadsword.

“He’s there,” Xiaoyu breathed, her daggers tightening in her grip. “Jianren was right—too many.”

Luochen scanned the room, his mind racing. “We can’t take them all,” he said. “Not like this.”

Before she could reply, a horn blared—sharp, urgent, echoing through the Pass. Zheng’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing, and the chamber erupted into motion. Soldiers drew weapons, clan leaders shouted, and Luochen’s gut sank. The gulley—they’d found Jianren’s body, the soldiers’ corpses. The hunt was on.

“Move!” he hissed, pulling Xiaoyu back into the corridor. Boots pounded below, voices barking orders, and they ran, the fortress waking like a beast roused from sleep. The side door was ahead, their only chance, but as they reached it, a squad burst through—ten men, spears and sabers flashing.

Luochen drew his sword, pain forgotten, and met them head-on. His blade slashed through a spearman’s chest, then parried a saber that grazed his arm. Xiaoyu flanked, her daggers a deadly blur—she gutted one, spun, and stabbed another’s throat. Together, they carved a path, blood slicking the stone, but the numbers pressed, forcing them back.

An arrow whistled, striking Luochen’s pack, and he stumbled, his shoulder tearing wider. Xiaoyu shielded him, her dagger deflecting a spear thrust, and they retreated into a storeroom—crates and barrels their only cover. The soldiers surged in, and Luochen felled one, his sword heavy with blood, but a saber caught his leg, dropping him to one knee.

Xiaoyu screamed his name, her daggers flashing, and took down two more, but the rest closed in, relentless. Luochen pushed up, slashing wildly, his vision blurring—blood loss, exhaustion, the end creeping close. Then a shout cut through—a familiar voice, sharp with command.

“Stop!”

Jianren’s squad froze, and Zheng strode in, his broadsword drawn, his eyes cold as ice. But it wasn’t Jianren’s voice—Luochen’s mind reeled, clinging to the memory of the gulley. Zheng loomed over them, his presence a storm, and Xiaoyu stepped forward, daggers raised, shielding Luochen.

“You,” Zheng growled, his gaze locking on her. “The girl who killed my dog Tian. And the swordsman who’s bled my men dry.”

Xiaoyu spat at his feet, her voice venom. “You burned my village. Took my brother. You’re next.”

Zheng laughed, a sound like breaking stone. “Jianren’s dead, then? Good. Weak links snap.” He raised his sword, the soldiers parting, and Luochen struggled to his feet, his blade trembling in his grip.

They were cornered, bleeding, outnumbered—Zheng’s trap closing tight. But Xiaoyu’s eyes met Luochen’s, a silent vow, and they braced for the end, together on the broken path they’d carved.