The night stretched long and cold, the river’s chill clinging to their bones as Luochen and Xiaoyu trudged through the valley. The Bao Clan camp was miles behind, its fires a faint smear on the horizon, but the weight of their failure pressed heavier than the damp cloaks on their shoulders. Bao Tian had slipped through Luochen’s fingers, wounded but alive, and Xiaoyu’s hesitation had carved a rift between them deeper than the river they’d crossed.

They found shelter in a shallow cave carved into a hillside, its mouth half-hidden by tangled vines. The air inside was damp, smelling of moss and earth, but it was dry enough to sit. Luochen dropped his pack, wincing as his wounded leg throbbed, and began peeling off his soaked robe. Xiaoyu sat across from him, her back to the stone, staring at the cave’s entrance as if expecting pursuit.

“Check your gear,” he said, voice rough. “Wet steel rusts.”

She didn’t move, her daggers still sheathed, her hands clenched in her lap. “I don’t need your orders,” she muttered.

He ignored her, unwrapping his sword and wiping it down with a scrap of cloth. The blade gleamed faintly in the dark, its edge nicked from Tian’s armor but sharp enough to kill. He worked in silence, the rhythmic scrape of fabric on steel filling the cave, until Xiaoyu’s voice cut through.

“You blame me,” she said, not a question.

Luochen paused, glancing at her. Her face was shadowed, but her eyes caught the faint light—hard, defiant, yet cracked with something softer. “You froze,” he said flatly. “Tian’s still breathing because of it.”

“And you’d have done better?” she snapped, leaning forward. “If it was Meiqi standing there, alive, wearing their mark—tell me you wouldn’t hesitate.”

He set the sword down, his jaw tightening. “Meiqi’s dead. Jianren’s not. That’s the difference.”

“Is it?” Xiaoyu’s voice rose, sharp as her blades. “You’re chasing a ghost, Luochen. I saw your face in that tent—rage, not reason. You’d have fought the whole camp if I hadn’t pulled you out.”

He stood, the cave’s low ceiling forcing him to stoop, and glared down at her. “I’d have had Tian’s head if you hadn’t stopped for your traitor brother. Don’t pretend you saved me—I was ready to finish it.”

“Finish it?” She surged to her feet, closing the distance between them. “You were bleeding, outnumbered, and half-blind with hate. You’d be dead, and I’d be alone on this damn road!”

They stood inches apart, breaths harsh in the confined space, the tension thick enough to choke on. Luochen’s fists clenched, his wound pulsing with every heartbeat, but her words stung deeper than the arrow had. She wasn’t wrong—he’d lost himself in that tent, the red haze of Meiqi’s memory driving his blade. And yet, Xiaoyu’s faltering had cost them just as much.

He turned away, pacing to the cave’s mouth, and stared into the dark. “We’re both fools,” he said finally, voice low. “Chasing shadows that cut us deeper than any sword.”

Xiaoyu didn’t respond, but he heard her sink back to the stone, the rustle of her cloak loud in the silence. The wind outside sighed through the vines, carrying the distant howl of a wolf. Luochen rubbed his face, exhaustion settling into his bones, and returned to his spot, easing down with a grunt.

“Jianren,” he said, breaking the quiet. “Tell me about him.”

She stiffened, her fingers tracing the scar on her jaw—a habit, he realized, when the past clawed too close. “Why?”

“Because he’s in our way,” Luochen said. “And I need to know if you’ll freeze again.”

Her eyes narrowed, but after a long pause, she spoke, her voice steady but threaded with old pain. “He was my shadow growing up—two years younger, always following me. We’d fish in the river, climb the hills, fight with sticks pretending we were warriors. He was soft, though—cried when he fell, hated blood. I thought he’d grow out of it.”

She stopped, swallowing hard, and Luochen waited, sensing the weight of what came next.

“When the Bao Clan came,” she continued, “I hid. Jianren didn’t. They took him—spared him, I guess, because he was young. I thought he’d died with the others. For years, I carried that guilt—my little brother, gone because I didn’t fight.” Her voice cracked, and she looked down at her hands. “Seeing him tonight… alive, with them… it’s like losing him all over again.”

Luochen nodded, the story settling into him like damp earth. He saw Meiqi in his mind—her smile, her screams—and understood too well. “He’s not the boy you knew,” he said. “Bao Clan took that from him, same as they took everything else.”

Xiaoyu’s gaze snapped up, fierce. “He’s still my blood. I can’t just—”

“Cut him down?” Luochen finished. “You might have to. He chose them over you tonight.”

She flinched, the truth a blade between them. “I know,” she whispered. “But knowing doesn’t make it easier.”

He leaned back, staring at the cave’s ceiling, its jagged lines blurring in the dark. “Meiqi was gentle,” he said, the words spilling out unbidden. “A healer’s daughter—soft hands, softer heart. We met by chance, me bleeding from a fight, her patching me up. She hated the sword, hated what I was, but she stayed. Said I could be more.”

Xiaoyu tilted her head, listening, and he pressed on, the memory a wound he couldn’t close.

“Bao Tian came for me—old grudge, some job I botched for their rivals. I was away when they hit our village. Found her in the ashes, gutted like an animal. She didn’t fight, didn’t run—just begged them to stop.” His voice broke, and he clenched his fists to steady it. “I buried her with my hands. Swore I’d bury Tian with her.”

The cave went still, their stories hanging in the air like smoke. Xiaoyu’s hand hovered near his, then settled on his arm, her touch light but firm. “We’re not so different,” she said, her voice soft. “Both bleeding for the dead.”

He looked at her, her scar catching the faint light, and felt the rift between them narrow—just a little. “Maybe,” he said. “But the dead don’t care who bleeds.”

She pulled back, wrapping her arms around herself. “Then why do we?”

He had no answer, only the ache in his chest and the fire that refused to die. They sat in silence, the night deepening outside, until Xiaoyu spoke again, her tone shifting.

“Yanshan Pass,” she said. “Tian’s hurt. He’ll be there, weaker. We can still end this.”

Luochen nodded, grateful for the shift back to purpose. “Zheng too, maybe. Your fight, mine—they’re tangled now.”

“Convenience,” she said, echoing their earlier pact, but there was a flicker of warmth in it.

He smirked, faint but real. “Call it that.”

She reached into her pack, pulling out a small bundle—dried meat and a flatbread, scavenged from Heitu. “Eat,” she said, tossing him half. “We’ll need strength.”

They ate in quiet, the simple act grounding them. Luochen’s leg ached less with food in his stomach, and Xiaoyu’s shoulders eased, the tension bleeding out. For a moment, the cave felt less like a tomb, more like a pause between storms.

Then the vines rustled.

Luochen snatched his sword, Xiaoyu her daggers, and they were on their feet in an instant. A figure stepped through—tall, cloaked in black, a curved blade gleaming at his side. His face was hidden by a hood, but his stance screamed danger, deliberate and calm.

“Nice hideout,” the stranger said, voice smooth as oil. “Luochen and Xiaoyu, I presume?”

“Who’s asking?” Luochen growled, stepping in front of Xiaoyu, blade raised.

The man chuckled, pulling back his hood. His face was angular, pale, with eyes like a hawk’s—Gu Yin, a name whispered in the martial world, an assassin who killed for coin and whim. “Bao Clan sends their regards,” he said. “You’ve been busy.”

Xiaoyu hissed, daggers poised. “How’d you find us?”

“Tracks,” Gu Yin said, gesturing at the ground. “Wet boots leave marks. Sloppy, for two so skilled.”

Luochen’s mind raced. Tian must’ve sent him—fast, too fast. “You’re here to die, then,” he said, grip tightening.

Gu Yin smiled, thin and cold. “Not tonight. I’m just the shadow before the blade. Run if you want—won’t matter. Yanshan Pass is where it ends.”

He stepped back, melting into the dark before they could strike, his laughter lingering like a curse. Luochen lunged after him, but Xiaoyu grabbed his arm.

“He’s baiting us,” she said, breathless. “We move now, we’re dead.”

Luochen shook her off, chest heaving, but he knew she was right. Gu Yin was a ghost—chasing him blind was a trap. “Yanshan Pass,” he muttered. “He’s warning us.”

“Or taunting us,” Xiaoyu said, sheathing her daggers. “Either way, they’re ready.”

He nodded, the cave suddenly too small, too exposed. “Then we get there first. Rest’s over.”

They gathered their gear, the brief respite shattered, and stepped into the night. Gu Yin’s shadow stretched ahead, a promise of blood and reckoning. Luochen glanced at Xiaoyu, her face set with new resolve, and felt the bond between them harden—not trust, not yet, but something close. Yanshan Pass loomed, and with it, the end of their ghosts—or their lives.