His fingers trembled, and as he lifted his eyes from the letter, she was there, standing at the threshold of the chamber, her silhouette framed by the pale light from the corridor behind her.

Li Wuxin's breath caught in his throat. He had hoped, prayed, that it wouldn't be her. But there she was, clad in the black armor of the Southern Army.

The girl who had once been his ally stood before him, and yet there was no warmth in her gaze, only the cold steel of a soldier.

"A spy?" he asked, his voice tight with a bitter sense of disbelief.

"A soldier," she replied, her tone flat, unyielding.

Her words struck harder than steel. Each syllable was like a blow to the chest. But there was no time to be angry, no time to dwell on betrayal. The cold reality of the situation sank in, and his mind raced; he had to act, had to move quickly.

Without another word, he spun on his heel, his eyes scanning the compound for the one person he knew would still be alive, Xu Moyao. The thought of him, of the life he clung to, drove Li Wuxin forward.

He straightened up, his mind confused, caught between uncertainty and anger, when at that moment, he noticed a subtle movement of Lan Boxiao's head. "He's in the room at the end of the corridor," she announced, her tone impassive, before turning on her heel and leaving the room without another word.

Without thinking, he surged forward, his body moving faster than ever.

He found Xu Moyao in the small, dark chamber with stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of mildew, and the only sound was the faint drip of water from the ceiling. Here was Xu Moyao, blood soaking his robes. The scene was a cruel reminder of the brutality of their world.

The moment his eyes fell on Xu Moyao, shock froze his breath—but then instinct shattered it, and he hurled himself forward, desperate to break him free.

"Xu Moyao" Li Wuxin breathed, kneeling beside him. The words felt useless, hollow. "I'm here."

A flutter of lashes, a faint stirring of breath. Xu Moyao's hand trembled as it reached out, grasping at nothing before finding its way to Li Wuxin's. There was no strength left in him.

As Li Wuxin yanked at the chains, the cold metal clattering to the stone, Xu Moyao collapsed into his arms, his body limp and broken, as he sank against him like a dying leaf caught in a storm.

With desperate care, Li Wuxin helped him to his feet, feeling every painful, labored step as Xu Moyao leaned heavily on him. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one a fragile ember of life, flickering dangerously low. The weight of Xu Moyao's body, heavy, suffocating.

And then, as they moved through a ruined gate, Li Wuxin felt it, the silent tears that fell from Xu Moyao's eyes, wetting his shoulder as the man leaned fully into him. The grief, the pain, the relief of knowing that Li Wuxin was there for him. 

It all poured out in that one moment.

Xu Moyao did not speak. But in that unspoken moment, in the weight of his fragile body, everything that had been unsaid between them seemed to unravel, each tear of Xu Moyao a thousand words that neither of them had ever found the strength to speak.

Li Wuxin said nothing. There was nothing left to say. He simply held him closer, his own heart aching in time with Xu's labored breaths and tears.

The sound of boots striking stone echoed ahead of them.

Li Wuxin froze.

Out of the darkness, soldiers emerged, four, five, maybe more, torches in hand, blades drawn, their faces unreadable beneath their helms.

Kneeling Li Wuxin gently cradled Xu Moyao’s head in his lap, just as Xu Moyao had in the cave, the weight of the world pressing down on him as he held him close, feeling the warmth of his breath, fragile and fleeting.

Silently, instinctively, Li Wuxin tightened his hold around Xu Moyao, not in panic, but gently, protectively. As if, by holding him closer, he could shield him from what was to come.

Xu Moyao leaned into him, too weak to stand on his own, but his fingers curled faintly into Wuxin's sleeve.

The soldiers didn't shout. They didn't rush. They simply advanced, slow and certain, like wolves circling wounded prey.

Li Wuxin's breath caught in his throat. His eyes darted, searching for a way out, but there was none. The ruin behind them, the soldiers ahead.

And then, hands seized him from both sides.

"No!" he snarled, trying to twist free, but more hands came, forcing him back. He fought like a cornered animal, teeth gritted, arms straining to keep hold of Xu.

But it was no use.

They tore Xu Moyao from his grasp.

He reached out, fingers brushing fleetingly against Xu's shoulder before it was gone, dragged from him, limp and bleeding.

"Let him go!" Li Wuxin cried.

They had him.

And this time, there would be no escape.

He reached out one last time, but before his fingers could close, and then, the world tilted. 

Darkness swallowed him whole.

When Li Wuxin awoke, he was bound in iron.

The cold bit into his skin like a second spine. Shackles locked his wrists high against the wall, forcing him to kneel in a position designed for submission, for suffering. The chamber around him was carved from ancient dynastic stone, worn smooth by centuries of despair. Its silence was suffocating, not the peace of stillness but the oppressive quiet of a place that had forgotten the world above.

Torches lined the walls at irregular intervals, their flames flickering low and uncertain, casting feeble, trembling shadows that danced like dying spirits across the cracked stone.

In the center of the room stood a basin—broad, ancient, its purpose unclear, its water utterly still. Black as obsidian. Reflecting no image, no light. Wuxin stared at it, dazed, wondering if it was simply water… or something far darker.

The soldiers had come to inspect him, their gazes cold, he had been beaten, but they said nothing more before leaving him in his broken state.

Time passed. Or perhaps it didn't. There was no sun here, no way to mark the passing of hours or minutes. Each second stretched out like a blade drawn slowly across the skin, endless and sharp. His body ached—muscles torn, blood dried and crusted against his back—but the real torment was the silence.

Until it broke.

Footsteps. Echoing down the corridor, slow and deliberate, like a drumbeat counting down to something inevitable. The clink of armor with each step, heavy and fated, made Wuxin’s stomach knot with dread. He lifted his head, every breath a struggle, and fixed his eyes on the door. It loomed before him like the mouth of some vast and terrible beast, carved black against the torchlight, ready to swallow him whole.

Then—

They brought him in.

Xu Moyao.

He entered not walking, but dragged—his bare feet scraping across the stone floor, each movement leaving a faint smear of red. He hung between two soldiers, head down, hair matted to his face with blood and sweat, his body too broken to carry itself.

Xu Moyao’s skin was pale, drained of life, but not of dignity. Even now, as his legs faltered and his breath rasped shallowly through bruised ribs, he didn’t make a sound. Dried blood traced the line of his jaw, and his eyes—barely open—searched blindly, desperately.

Until they met Li Wuxin’s.

Even through the veil of agony, of exhaustion so deep it reached into the marrow of his bones—there was a flicker. The smallest flame.

Recognition.

A thread. Fragile, frayed—but unbroken.

Li Wuxin cried out, the sound raw and hoarse. He strained against the chains, the iron biting into his wrists until blood welled fresh beneath the cuffs. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but reaching him.

“Xu Moyao!”

But the soldiers didn’t pause. They dragged him forward, indifferent to his weight, his suffering, to the man kneeling in chains who screamed his name like it was the only word left in the world.

Then the beating began.

One strike.

A second.

Then another. A fourth. Fifth.

Each blow landed with the sound of something vital being torn apart. The thud of bone against boot, of flesh yielding under force. Xu Moyao’s body jerked violently, breath hitching, no longer a gasp but a shudder. Blood spilled from his mouth, down his neck. Still, he didn’t cry out.

“Stop!” Wuxin screamed, voice breaking, the chains rattling in fury. “Please, stop!”

His pleas were swallowed by the room’s pitiless silence. The soldiers did not look at him. Another strike came, this time to Xu Moyao’s ribs. A terrible, wet crack echoed through the chamber.

"ENOUGH!" Li Wuxin cried, the word ringing through the stone chamber like the final stroke of a gong before an execution. "Please... I’ll do anything! Just stop!"

Still, they said nothing.

Mercy was not among them.

One soldier grabbed Xu Moyao by the hair and yanked his face toward the torchlight.

“Look at him!” Wuxin begged, tears now falling freely. “He can’t even stand…”

No one answered.

And then—the last strike.

It was different. Final.

A sound like thick wood snapping under too much weight.

Li Wuxin knew instantly: a rib, maybe more. XuMoyao’s body twisted with the blow, then slumped completely, the life seemingly gone from him.

Silence fell like a shroud.

No one moved.

Li Wuxin didn’t scream again. He simply collapsed forward, forehead to the blood-slick stone, his body shaking with silent sobs that wracked his entire frame. He had nothing left—not voice, not strength, not hope.

The soldiers tossed Xu Moyao into the basin before leaving with the others.

A splash.

Blood darkened the water into ink, swirling like smoke beneath the surface.

“NO!” Lin Wuxin’s scream tore through him, endless.

He lunged, chains tightening, slicing deeper into his skin. But the only thing he reached was emptiness. His cry echoed through the chamber, unanswered, until even that faded.

And he was alone.

He watched until the surface of the basin calmed, until the ripples vanished and the water lay still once more—black, unbroken.

Like nothing had ever happened.

He wanted to die.

Right there.

Right then.

But that would’ve been mercy.

And mercy was not a thing he would be given.

They would keep him alive.

So he would remember.

So every time he closed his eyes, he would see Xu’s broken body sinking into stillness. Hear the sound of ribs shattering, of breath failing, of chains rattling in time with his screams.

But worst of all—he would remember the warmth.

The firelight on Xu Moyao’s cheek that night in the capital, when the streets were quiet and the world seemed almost kind. The way he had laughed, just once—unguarded—when Li Wuxin burned the rice. He’d teased him, and Wuxin had pretended to be angry. But neither had spoken of what lingered in the air after—the silence thick with something unnamed.

A hand brushing too long.

A look held too intently.

If only he had spoken then.

If only he had reached out and said what he felt.

If only.

But there would be no more chances. No more firelight. No more laughter.

Just this.

This memory. This pain. This silence.

So this would be the only image he'd carry with him until the end of his days.

Xu Moyao, eyes closed, lips parted, hair floating like silk in black water.

The love he never named.