"Dugu Bo," Yusheng said softly, eyes still on the misted pools. "Can you fetch one of the old wines we buried here?"
The Poison Douluo looked up from a patch of midnight dewgrass. "You're asking for wine? At this hour?"
Mei Rulan glanced back as well. "You're not… drinking, are you?"
Yusheng shook his head.
"Then what for?" she asked, her voice lighter now, though laced with quiet wonder.
He paused before answering.
"I'm visiting someone."
Lu Shen, watching carefully, spoke next — not joking now. "Someone important?"
Still no answer.
The silence grew thoughtful — solemn.
"…An old friend," Lu Shen finished for him, softly.
"Do you want company?" he asked.
"No," Yusheng said simply.
Dugu Bo returned with a large gourd, wiping away the moss and dirt that clung to it like time itself. "What's the occasion?" he muttered. "Seems a shame to waste good wine without a reason."
Yusheng accepted it gently.
"There is no celebration," he replied. "Only remembrance."
He traveled alone, in simple white robes, carrying nothing but the wine and the quiet burden of memory.
The village was small — so small it didn't appear on most maps. It nestled in the folds of the southern hills like a place the world had left untouched. Children played barefoot. Chickens roamed freely. And when Yusheng arrived, the people looked up as though the sky itself had come down to walk among them.
Women whispered. Men exchanged glances. Elders watched in silence.
He didn't speak to many.
Just one man — called Old Jack — who wasn't quite as old as he pretended to be.
Old Jack gave a low, respectful bow. "Soul master. We rarely receive visitors. What brings you to such a forgotten place?"
Yusheng smiled — gentle, knowing.
"I'm here to pay respects to someone who once called this place home."
Jack blinked. "Someone from the past?"
Yusheng's gaze turned distant.
"A man with a child. He came here to disappear."
Jack said nothing for a moment, then gave a small, sad nod. "Ah. I understand."
It was the smallest house — nearly collapsed, roof patched with dry grass and worn cloth. No name. No sign. No proof anyone lived there.
But Yusheng knocked anyway.
Inside, a man stirred — heavy limbs dragging from sleep, a child's soft cries echoing faintly behind him.
"Who…?" he murmured.
A voice, like spring wind through old trees:
"It's me. Yusheng."
There was silence. Then the door opened.
And in the shadows, two old friends stood facing each other — one worn by battle and guilt, the other ageless in spirit but heavy with mercy.
They didn't speak. Just embraced.
Years of pain and loyalty exchanged without a word.
The man — whose name the world no longer spoke — had lost everything: the woman he loved, the home he fled, the reputation torn to shreds by lies and war. He lived only for the child behind the curtain — and now, for the friend who still remembered his name.