He didn't know where he was. Not yet.

Xu Moyao walked forward, each step sinking slightly into the vaporous ground, silent. He had no armor, no sword, and his breath was heavy.

He heard a whisper. Very faint. Behind him? In front? He turned, but the mist remained unchanged, uniform and without any markers. The whisper returned, clearer this time. A word, maybe a name. Too brief to grasp.

Then he saw them.

At first, just one. A man, standing, dressed in rags stained with mud and blood. His face bore a strange expression, somewhere between reproach and surrender. Xu Moyao stopped. His heart skipped a beat—no, it couldn't be. And yet, he was sure. This was the first soldier whose life he had taken. The first man he had killed with his own hands.

A second figure appeared. Then a third. They emerged from the mist one by one, as if summoned by being looked at. Soldiers. All staring at him.

He stepped back. But the shadows did not move. They just looked at him. Silent.

And Xu understood.

This place wasn't a field. It was a memory. Or a judgment. And those faces—he had seen them before, long ago, twisted in pain, fear, or simply lifeless. He remembered each of their names. And he knew the reason they were here. Himself.

His breath shortened.

He tried to step forward, to touch one of the dead, to say something, anything. But instead of drawing closer, the mist withdrew with them. As if this dream world refused contact.

Then, the whispers returned. Louder. Harrowing. Cries, weeping, prayers from mothers he had never heard, but carried within him. Echoes of pain he had never felt, yet had caused. Each sound, a blade to the heart.

He collapsed to his knees in the dust. Shattered.

But even here, his words were lost. He covered his ears, but the noise wouldn't stop. The dead still watched him.

One figure stepped forward. Much smaller than the others. A child, thought Xu Moyao.
The child's silhouette extended a hand toward him, still silent.
"I'm sorry... I don't even remember you," Xu Moyao whispered. At the thought that he might have killed an innocent child, his soul trembled, as if something sacred within him had cracked, beyond repair. The little boy gently shook his hand, as if insisting Xu take it. After a moment's hesitation, he did; his hand was cold, like that of a corpse.

Xu Moyao lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the small hand held in his own.
He walked without knowing where he was going. Each step seemed to pull him deeper into an endless abyss. His tears fell silently, and with every step, a new one slipped free. He made no effort to stop them.
The boy walked beside him without a word, as if he knew. As if he understood everything.
Xu had killed so many innocents, the number was lost to memory. And among them... a child. A child.
The tears he shed now were born from that one truth, that irreversible, unforgivable truth.
The world around him was a web of pain he had woven with his own hands. And now, all he could do was weep for them. For those he had taken. For those he had failed to save.
He squeezed the boy's hand a little tighter, reaching for the warmth in it, as if that small spark of innocence could soothe the shadows in his heart.

But deep down, he knew — nothing would ever lighten this burden. No forgiveness, no comfort could erase what he had done. Each step birthed new faces, new bodies. Enemies. Innocents. An endless human tide.

The boy guided him, and then, in the distance, Xu saw a familiar figure. A young man, a lance piercing his chest. He still held his saber, and a faint smile rested on his lips.

"Zhang..."

Xu took a step forward, arm outstretched.
But the ground gave way.

He fell. Into a void, endless, the voices chasing him as he plunged. And just before the darkness swallowed him completely, he heard one last sentence, clear as crystal:

"Farewell, little brother."

He awoke with a gasp, breathless, his face soaked in sweat—but not only that.
Tears glistened at the corners of his eyes.

Reality had returned. But the weight on his chest remained.
It took a long while for him to fully come back to himself. At last, he noticed the doctor seated beside his bed, a towel in his hand, ready to wipe his tears, and a warm smile on his face. His gaze drifted into the doctor's, lost without resistance. His breath started to slow, and he finally managed to speak, "I don't need your pity." With slow motion, he lifted his hand to brush aside the doctor's, still suspended mid-air. " My general, you're hurt, but your pride won't let you admit it, will it?" Xu Moyao realised, the first time he had heard the doctor's voice, she was cold and firm, now she was much gentler and warm. The doctor insisted again to wipe his tears, but this time Xu Moyao didn't try to stop him.

Later that day, Li Wuxin was gone testing some ointment

The rain had become a relentless downpour, the sound of it battering against the tent like a constant, rhythmic drumbeat. Inside, the air felt warm but heavy, saturated with the smell of damp earth, medicinal herbs, and the faint hint of cooked rice. Xu Moyao had been lying motionless for hours. His back pressed against the narrow cot, his arms crossed over his chest, and his gaze fixed on the canvas above him. The shadows from the oil lamp flickered softly, casting distorted shapes that mirrored his turbulent thoughts.

He hadn’t moved since waking up. His body ached, but it wasn’t the physical pain that held him still—it was the weight of his mind, a mind burdened with memories and regrets that no amount of sleep could wash away. His dreams were still vivid in his mind, as if they lingered in the corners of his consciousness, haunting him like shadows that refused to fade.

The mist, the soldiers, the child—he could still hear their voices, feel their eyes on him. It was as if his past had risen from the grave, pulling him back into a world where the dead had unfinished business with him.

The flap of the tent stirred, and the soft sound of footsteps reached his ears. He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the presence, but he knew who it was. No one else would enter without permission.

Lu Xiaoquian stepped inside the tent, carrying a small bundle of fresh herbs in her hands. She was dressed simply, her posture was composed, her steps measured, but there was a quiet vulnerability in the way she moved.

She didn’t speak immediately. She placed the herbs down beside his cot, carefully arranging them on the table next to the untouched bowl of porridge, and then she turned to face him. Her eyes studied him for a moment, not with pity, but with a quiet understanding that made him feel exposed.

"General Xu," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "I brought these for you. They’re for your recovery. Li Wuxin says you should rest and eat, but... I thought I could help with the herbs."

Xu Moyao remained silent, his gaze averted, his body tense. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate her gesture. He just... wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to accept kindness from anyone.

"You don’t have to keep coming," he said, his voice flat, though there was a thread of something else beneath it. Weariness, perhaps. Or something else he couldn’t quite name.

She didn’t flinch at his coldness. She had learned not to. "I want to," she said simply, her eyes never leaving his. "Li Wuxin asked me to, but I also wanted to help. You’ve been through a lot."

Xu Moyao didn’t answer, but the quiet weight of her words hung in the air between them. His fingers tightened slightly around the blanket, as if trying to control something inside him that threatened to slip free. He felt exposed—like a wound laid bare, one that no bandage could cover. He wasn’t ready to open up. Not to her. Not to anyone.

But she was still standing there, waiting. Not pushing, but not leaving either. It irritated him.

"You’re not a soldier," he muttered, the words coming out sharper than he intended. "Why are you even here? You’re not cut out for this..."

She didn’t seem offended. In fact, she seemed almost amused by the accusation. "I’m not," she agreed. "But I’ve learned that life doesn’t ask whether we’re ready. It just happens. And sometimes we find ourselves in places we never imagined."

He turned his head toward her, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And what place is that? The place where you tend to the wounded, mending broken soldiers?"

Her expression softened, her lips curving into a faint smile. It wasn’t a smile of joy, but of quiet resilience. "I wasn’t always here," she said, her voice quieter now, more personal. "I didn’t choose this life."

He said nothing, his eyes still fixed on her. There was something in her voice, something that made him pause. She was young—barely eighteen—but there was a depth to her that suggested a life much longer than her years.

Lu Xiaoquian sat down on the small stool by his cot, folding her hands in her lap. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak, but when he didn’t, she continued, her words slow but deliberate.

"I lost my family when I was fourteen," she began, her gaze distant as she stared down at her hands. "A raid. It wasn’t even soldiers—it was bandits, just desperate men looking to take whatever they could. They came through our village like a storm. My father... he tried to protect us, but they killed him first. My mother and little brother, too."

Xu Moyao stiffened, the words striking him harder than he expected. His thoughts briefly turned inward, memories of his own past—of his actions on battlefields, of the faces of the fallen.

"I was left for dead," she continued, her voice steady, though there was a sadness in her eyes that didn’t fade. "I don’t remember much about what happened afterward. Just the pain. The feeling of everything being ripped away from me." She paused, her gaze finally lifting to meet his. "But Li Wuxin found me. He saved me, though he didn’t know me. He didn’t say much. He just worked, patched me up, and took care of me."

Xu Moyao didn’t know what to say. He just listened.

"He didn’t ask questions," she went on. "He just did what needed to be done. And that’s why I’m here now. To help others the way he helped me. I... I want to make him proud. He saved my life, and I want to be someone who can do the same. Even if I’m not as skilled as him. I want him to know I didn’t waste the chance he gave me."

Her words settled over him like a heavy blanket. Xu Moyao, for the first time in a long while, felt a tightness in his chest, but not from pain. It was... something else. Something he couldn’t name.

"You speak of him like he’s your family," he said, his voice softening slightly.

She nodded, a small smile on her lips. "He is. He’s the older brother I never had. I know he doesn’t always show it, but I think he cares. And that’s enough for me."

Xu Moyao looked at her, his eyes still hard, but something inside him had shifted. "You’re stronger than I thought."

She didn’t react to the compliment, but there was a slight glimmer in her eyes, like a flicker of hope. "I’m not strong," she replied quietly. "I just learned to keep going."

The room fell into a silence that stretched longer than either of them expected. Xu Moyao’s thoughts drifted again, back to his own past. To the blood on his hands. To the faces of those he had killed. He knew that pain—the weight of guilt—but he had never allowed anyone to see it. To understand it. Not until now.

"Why do you do this?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Why do you help people when you’ve already lost everything?"

She looked at him, her gaze unwavering. "Because... someone has to. Because I can. It’s the only way I know how to make sense of all the things I’ve lost."

Xu Moyao’s gaze dropped to his hands again, the weight of her words pressing heavily on him. There was a truth in them that he couldn’t escape. He had spent so many years running from the consequences of his actions, burying the grief deep inside. But Lu Xiaoquian—this girl who had every reason to hate the world—had chosen a different path. She had chosen healing.

He didn’t speak again for a long while. His mind was spinning, caught between memories of the dead and the possibility of something... different. Of redemption. Of change.

Finally, when she stood to leave, she paused by the entrance, her hand on the flap. "General Xu," she said softly, looking back at him. "You should talk to Li Wuxin. I think... you might find that you have more in common than you realize."

Her words hung in the air long after she had left, and Xu Moyao sat in the dim light, his thoughts swirling.