The hollow was a fragile sanctuary, its rocky walls cradling Luochen and Xiaoyu as the last embers of the Bao Clan stronghold faded into the dawn. The air was thick with ash and the faint tang of blood, the Pass a silent graveyard behind them. Luochen slumped against the stone, his shoulder a shredded ruin, his leg numb beneath the saber scar, his breath shallow and wet. Xiaoyu knelt beside him, her arm bandaged, her side bruised, her daggers resting in the dirt—Jianren’s blood still clung to one, a stain she hadn’t wiped away.

The fire had done its work—the main hall was ash, the Bao Clan’s power broken, Zheng and Tian mere memories in the dust. But the cost was etched in their bodies, their souls—Jianren’s second death a fresh wound, Meiqi’s ghost a quiet echo. Luochen’s hand found Xiaoyu’s, their fingers interlocking, slick with blood but warm with life.

“We made it,” he rasped, his voice a threadbare whisper. “They’re gone.”

She nodded, her eyes red but steady, leaning against him. “For them,” she said, her voice soft. “For everyone.”

He managed a faint smile, his chest tight with more than pain. “You’re still here. That’s what I fought for.”

Her breath hitched, and she squeezed his hand, her gaze searching his—scarred, fading, but alive with a light she’d come to need. “Don’t talk like that,” she said, her voice trembling. “We’re getting out—together.”

He didn’t answer, the truth a weight he couldn’t voice. His wounds were deep, too deep—blood soaked the dirt beneath him, his strength slipping with every breath. He’d known since the hall, since Jianren’s last gasp, that this was his end. But Xiaoyu—he’d kept her alive, and that was enough.

They rested, the dawn’s light creeping over the cliffs, a pale glow that softened the Pass’s harsh edges. Xiaoyu tended his shoulder again, her hands shaking as she pressed fresh cloth against the wound, but the blood wouldn’t stop, seeping through her fingers. “Hold on,” she whispered, a plea more than a command. “We’ll find a village, a healer—”

“Xiaoyu,” he cut in, gentle but firm, his hand catching hers. “It’s done.”

She shook her head, tears welling, and pressed harder, her voice breaking. “No. You don’t get to leave me—not after all this.”

He pulled her close, his arm weak but insistent, and she buried her face in his chest, her sobs muffled against his bloodied robe. “You’re stronger than me,” he said, his voice fading. “Always were. Live—for both of us.”

“Don’t,” she choked, clutching him tighter. “I can’t—I need you.”

He kissed her forehead, his lips cold against her skin, and whispered, “You were enough.”

His breath rattled, a final, shuddering exhale, and his hand slipped from hers, falling limp. Xiaoyu froze, her sobs catching, and pulled back, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Luochen?” she said, shaking him. “Luochen!”

He didn’t move, his face peaceful, the scars softened in death. She screamed—a raw, primal sound that echoed through the Pass—and collapsed over him, her tears soaking his chest, her hands gripping his robe as if she could pull him back. The hollow held her grief, the wind carrying it like petals scattering in a storm.

Minutes stretched, her cries fading to whimpers, and she sat up, wiping her face with a bloody sleeve. The Pass was silent, the fire’s smoke a distant haze, and she looked at Luochen—his sword beside him, his eyes closed, a warrior at rest. She’d lost Jianren, her village, everything—but Luochen had given her a reason, a tether, and now he was gone too.

She rose, her legs trembling, and gathered their gear—his sword, her daggers, the map stained with their blood. The hollow wasn’t safe—soldiers might still roam, scavengers drawn by the fire—and she couldn’t stay, not with him like this. She dragged stones from the cliff’s edge, her wounds protesting, and built a cairn over him, each rock a silent vow. The last covered his face, and she pressed her hand to it, whispering, “Wait for me.”

The sun climbed higher, its light cold but clear, and she turned from the hollow, Luochen’s sword slung across her back, her daggers at her waist. The Pass stretched before her, a wasteland of ash and memory, and she walked, her steps slow but steady, the weight of his blade a comfort against her grief.

She reached a rise overlooking the stronghold’s ruins, the hall a smoldering husk, bodies scattered like broken dolls. The Bao Clan was dead—Zheng, Tian, Jianren, their legacy burned to nothing—but the victory tasted of dust, hollow without Luochen’s voice beside her. She knelt, pulling a lotus flower from the scrub—wilted, its petals curling—and set it on the ground, a marker for them all.

The wind rose, fierce and wild, and she stood, letting it tear at her cloak, her hair, her scars. Petals lifted from the flower, spinning into the Pass, and she watched them go, a silent farewell. “For you,” she said, her voice steady now, and turned south, the road beyond the cliffs a faint promise.

She walked alone, the Pass fading behind her, Luochen’s sword a weight she’d carry forever. The storm clouds parted, a sliver of sunlight breaking through, and she didn’t look back—her path was forward, her vengeance complete, her heart a fire tempered by loss. The petals danced in the wind, a fleeting beauty against the ash, and Xiaoyu vanished into the dawn, a blade unbroken, her story hers alone to write.