The wind no longer felt like ice.
It used to sharpen her senses, cool her breath, and silence the heat of unworthy thoughts.
Now, it lingered—like touch on skin.
Leng Xiyue stood at the center of the Frost Petal Courtyard, surrounded by pale lotus ponds and spectral ice blossoms that never melted.
The moon above her was full.
The sword in her hand trembled.
"Control," she whispered.
But the blade pulsed—not with killing intent.
With memory.
---
Sword Qi Gone Wrong
She drew a breath and began her form:
Step. Slash. Spin.
Inhale. Twist. Project.
The steps were perfect.
She had trained them ten thousand times.
But halfway through the Cold Edge Flow, her sword wavered—
-curved
—and traced a motion not in the manual.
A motion that mirrored a gesture Long Tian made during their Mirror Qi duel.
Her breath caught.
The sword slipped.
The ice beneath her feet cracked, thin lines spreading out like veins.
"No," she muttered. "No, not—again."
---
Cultivation Disruption
She tried to meditate instead.
Lotus position. Closed eyes. Internal flow.
But as she summoned her Qi, the flow bent unnaturally around her lower dantian—circling slowly, as if seeking something warm.
Then it surged upward…
…and her breath hitched.
She bit her lip, hard.
"This isn't… this isn't spiritual deviation."
It wasn't random, or chaotic.
It was resonant.
Her Qi wasn't trying to break.
It was trying to reach out.
---
A Memory That Wasn't Hers
She opened her eyes.
The moonlight shimmered through the frost-laced tree branches above her.
And for one heartbeat—
She saw him.
Long Tian. Shirt loose. Eyes unreadable.
Hands reaching toward her—not with hunger… but with something worse.
Acceptance.
Her heartbeat pounded.
The image vanished.
---
Her Confession to the Sky
"What did you do to me?" she whispered to the wind.
She gripped her sword so tightly that blood welled between her fingers.
But the cold didn't numb her anymore.
"You didn't touch me. You didn't mark me."
"And yet… my body remembers you."
"Why?"
---
The Sword Speaks
She lowered her sword into her lap and whispered a technique meant for calming heart demons.
But the blade replied.
Not in words.
In a slow, faint vibration—like a heartbeat within steel.
She felt its warmth where none should exist.
And at last, she broke the silence.
"If I see him again," she whispered,
"I'll either destroy him…"
"…or…"
She couldn't finish.
She stood abruptly, sheathed her sword, and turned away.
But her breath stayed uneven.
And the sword?
Still warm.
---
In the Distance
Atop a cliff beyond the courtyard, a woman cloaked in shadow watched silently.
She'yan.
Eyes like red glass. Smiling faintly.
"The blade remembers the fire," she said.
"And fire... waits for the sword to burn itself."
---