Night

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The night was as tranquil as water.

Yet tonight, it was not as ordinary as other nights.

At the edge of night, the shroud encircling this brightly lit city—Abyssal Pool Mountain—almost blocked out the sky on this side. Beneath the moon, only the outline of the mountain was visible, as if a dome had descended, erecting a barrier to obscure the world beyond the city. Though Dingtan Mountain was not the city’s actual boundary, it always gave the illusion of one.

One could say the city dwelled within the mountains, but for such a vast city as Yexiao, it would be difficult to conceal it with a single peak. The undulating hills and ridges merely “enclosed” the city, but only this stretch, profound and strange, its peaks touching the heavens, had earned this mysterious name—Abyssal Pool.

Here was but an unremarkable corner of Abyssal Pool Mountain.

An open ground, paved with stone tiles, bordered with stone railings and a stone stele, with only a few lamp posts casting their cold, faint light.

The lamp posts stood by the railings on the edge of the cliff, facing the city, barely illuminating this deserted place.

By that dim white light, one could see the solitary stele in the center of the open ground. It looked battered, half its height buried askew in the soil, one end worn almost beyond recognition. The inscribed characters, though still visible, were mottled and faded. Aside from this patch of open ground, darkness reigned here. Nothing could be seen of what surrounded it—whether forest or something else, none could tell.

Beyond the eerie stillness, there was nothing to feel here.

Perhaps silence itself was not so bad—a tranquility befitting a mountain night.

Yet at this moment, that unremarkable ancient stele began to manifest something unusual.

Silent, yet dead as the grave. Suddenly, the surrounding light began to recede, darkness surging in—not mere shadow, but as if blood seeped from the seams of this uncanny night. Looking around, one realized that, at some unknown point, only that “shadow” remained; even heaven and earth had been blotted out. This anomaly, appearing from nowhere, consumed the light, tainted the night, even corroded the very shadows, until all sound, all light and shade, vanished—obliterated.

Only the stele remained.

In the void, that lone ancient stele began to ooze black liquid from one side, like blood—dark as the night itself. From the carved traces of the characters, from the cracks in its broken surface, the “blood” flowed, slow and viscous, until it touched the void.

Astonishingly, at the instant of contact, faint ripples stirred in the emptiness.

In a blink,

The silence returned to the night, light and shadow reclaimed this unremarkable corner, all restored to normal.

As if nothing had happened, the battered stele stood quietly as before, its inscriptions mottled and hard to read, no trace of seepage. The darkness had receded, the night serene as ever.

Or was it?

Tonight, the mountain’s night felt colder than usual, a strange unease mingled with the chill.

The moon’s light often shrouds solitude, but now it reached the point of sorrow. Beneath the black shroud, an unspeakable oppression pressed down, making one’s heart tremble. The night was as always, yet the uncanny stillness, the oppressive silence, the faint light struggling against the darkness—all signaled something amiss. Something had stained the usual night with an unfamiliar shade of sorrow, altering the solitude of this nameless place.

Everything seemed as before—just as peaceful, just as lonely.

Yet a fleeting disturbance rippled the pool.

The night had only just begun.

Perhaps there would be no more visitors tonight, but on such an unusual night—

Who could say for certain?

The silence broke; a faint “clink, clink” echoed from the darkness. Only in such utter stillness could one catch such subtle sounds.

Resounding footsteps, strong and deliberate, shattered the night’s hush.

At this hour, few would frequent this place. Looking toward the sound, within the reach of the lamplight, a tall figure gradually emerged from the shadows.

Before his full silhouette was revealed, his presence was already clear—clad in white, black-haired, exuding extraordinary resolve.

When the young man stepped into the light, his features became distinct.

He wore crisp white clothing, his black hair spirited and lively. His posture was perfectly upright, eyes clear and determined, gazing straight ahead—piercing the darkness. Standing there, he was like a fragment of daylight transposed onto the night, banishing the gloom.

The faintly cold moonlight illuminated him, revealing, under his fitted white clothes, a body honed through countless trials. He stood tall and natural, every movement radiating power. If one looked closely, there were a few irregular marks on his neck—scars of unknown origin.

Such a dashing young man seemed utterly out of place in this desolate night.

He folded his arms, gazing at the city, a grave look on his face, murmuring to himself:

“It’s already so late.”

But the heaviness did not linger long on his face. His brows slowly relaxed, and he actually laughed softly—a bright, natural, and comforting sound, bringing a hint of morning light to the lonely night. His laughter was clear and crisp, punctuated by a jingling sound—if one listened closely, it came from the trinkets hanging at his waist.

Several key rings hung from his belt, but not only keys dangled there—many odd and curious items, some recognizable, some not. With his laughter, these assorted objects clinked together melodiously.

The light, cheerful sound added a touch of leisure to the night, yet something inside the young man remained taut.

Wu Zhuming—he should not have come here.

Tonight should have been just another ordinary night for him, yet now he found Abyssal Pool Mountain strangely unfamiliar, even though he had lived at its edge for many years. Why come here so late, in such emptiness? Even Wu Zhuming himself was not entirely sure…

He looked up at the sky; the waning moon hung over the city. He felt none of the moon’s usual gentle beauty, only an indefinable strangeness—something was amiss, though he could not say what. The odd sensation stretched from the moon above the sea of clouds down into his heart, lingering and unresolved.

Before he could shake off this bizarre feeling, a tremor surged in his ears—his head suddenly unbalanced, dizzy and light-headed. He steadied himself, the sensation faded, replaced by an inexplicable fatigue.

When he looked up at the moon again, it was still the same pale disk against the sky, nothing discernibly different. Perhaps, he thought, he was just being paranoid after today’s events.

After all, his mind was not really on the moonlit night. He lowered his head, ignoring the biting wind and the cloudy sky—but…

Wu Zhuming closed his eyes.

Except for one thing—a strange occurrence he had witnessed.

As for what kind of “strange occurrence,” Wu Zhuming could not say precisely. The memories were fragmented: first, frenzied noises in darkness; then, a shadow as dark and bizarre as blood. And then, a black line, like blood dripping from the heavens. The more he thought, the less he understood. In quiet meditation, a half-remembered, cryptic phrase surfaced:

“The long night has passed, solitude will be no more.”

Someone else had told him this, but he never understood its meaning. “Solitude will be no more”—as if addressed to someone specific. The words lingered in his mind, impossible to forget.

From the horizon to this spot, from the city to “White Rock,” from that radiant light until Zhuming himself—city’s bustle and this place’s solitude were polar opposites. If not for some reason, who would come to this lonely spot in the dead of night to keep company with the piercing wind?

This mysterious phrase puzzled him.

Yet he could not let it go—could not help but ponder it. Because the one who spoke it… When Wu Zhuming emptied his mind, the vivid memory remained: the black, uncanny strangeness that matched the night’s stillness, and the frenzied figure that did not. What was it? Perhaps he should not have taken that path, should not have stumbled across that scene, that person, that strangeness. He should not have seen—

The figure torn apart by blood-red madness.

“Hmm?” Just as he tried to grasp a clue, some noise disrupted his thoughts. He instinctively became alert to this subtle change. The night had absorbed another presence—another sound, not far off, footsteps—human. To think that this typically deserted mountain corner would receive a second visitor so late.

But as Wu Zhuming made out the footsteps, his wariness faded, and he turned away.

The steps were slow, yet heavy and powerful, each one cracking the night’s silence.

As the sound grew closer, Wu Zhuming did not turn around, instead absorbed in his own thoughts, seemingly indifferent to whoever approached him. Or perhaps, it simply didn’t matter who it was.

A sudden rush of wind hit him—he hadn’t anticipated it, had no time to react, and took the blow head-on. The force was considerable, but even so, Wu Zhuming only stumbled, crashing into the railing with a dull thud.

“Hmm? Didn’t dodge—what’s got you so preoccupied?” The voice was deep and steady. Wu Zhuming straightened, regained his composure, and turned.

The large, robust figure nearly blocked Wu Zhuming’s view—a man about his age, but whose very presence radiated a pressure different from Wu Zhuming’s. He had short, ashen hair, exuding a wild, rugged quality. His entire demeanor was marked by an earthy, humble, untamed spirit. He projected a calm, extraordinary steadiness. In his eyes, besides the same resolve as Wu Zhuming’s, there was a faint, hidden sharpness.

He was a little taller than Wu Zhuming, but it was not his stature that was daunting—it was his aura.

“Not easy to find you,” the man continued, stepping beside him.

Wu Zhuming regarded him with a look of resignation and replied, “Li Cang, next time you announce your arrival, try using less force. If you knock me off the cliff, you’ll regret it!”

The man, Li Cang, chuckled, then as if recalling something, said: “Remember that one time, late at night like this, when I insisted on taking the dangerous trail, boasting I could climb the Heavenly Steps with my eyes closed? Ended up falling. You followed, and somehow, we didn’t tumble all the way to the foot of the mountain. Where did we end up? Was it you who carried me back? I don’t quite remember.”

Wu Zhuming smiled wryly and shook his head. “I tried to stop you, but got dragged down instead. Of course you don’t remember—you slept soundly on my back. You were fine in the end, but Shang Ye was worried sick. She called Brother Yun, who searched all day, then scolded me for another day.”

After he finished, seeing Li Cang silent, Wu Zhuming glanced over—his face had softened into a gentle smile. That expression was one only those close to Li Cang, often Wu Zhuming and Shang Ye, would see. Wu Zhuming smiled inwardly; it was rare for Li Cang to say so much at once.

Wu Zhuming and Li Cang were more than friends; they had been together since childhood, utterly familiar with one another. They had known each other for over a decade—how many years, exactly? Wu Zhuming could not recall. They had grown up side by side, and though the scenes of their youth were vivid in memory, somehow, they had become young men together.

Now, the two stood side by side under the lamplight, their shadows cast behind them. In the silence, though no words were spoken, understanding passed between them. Li Cang leaned against the railing, gazing at the city, expressionless, as was his habit. Yet now, lost in thought, he unexpectedly broke the silence:

“Zhuming, don’t you feel it’s all gone by so fast…” The abrupt remark made Wu Zhuming turn his head. “What?” Li Cang straightened, continuing, “When we’re together, it’s unforgettable.” Wu Zhuming blinked, but before he could reply, Li Cang spoke again, slowly: “Meeting you, meeting her—everything that happened after feels like an instant. Even after all these years, the memory of the day we met, the moment I saw her, is still vivid. If not for the innocence of childhood, we wouldn’t have had all those times together. I suppose our persistence back then shaped the present. Hard to forget those days.”

Hearing this, Wu Zhuming was a bit surprised. He turned, seeing Li Cang lost in nostalgia. Wu Zhuming replied, “Why bring up such distant memories? Ancient history, really.” Yet as he spoke, he too was reminded of their childhood, though it did not weigh on him as it seemed to for Li Cang.

“Ancient history, but unforgettable—aren’t you the same, Zhuming? From our first meeting until now, so much time has passed… She remembers all of it. Whenever we got scolded, she was always there, sometimes even scolding us herself. Now that she’s not here, it always feels like something’s missing.” Li Cang shook his head, then gazed up at the sky, eyes fixed. After a long pause, he said,

“That night, too, was moonlit—just like this. Or perhaps I’m being overly sentimental. Looking at the moon, I have a strange feeling. Was it the same back then? Or different? I can’t recall.”

Wu Zhuming listened and simply smiled. “You’re not usually so nostalgic. It’s not a special day, yet you’re moved by the scene. It’s just like always—so many years, what’s there to worry about? We still have plenty of days together ahead.”

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After saying this, he suddenly recalled the strange incident from earlier. His instincts kept warning him of something out of the ordinary—a foreboding, a sign of the unnatural. Was it really the same as always? Wu Zhuming trusted his eyes more than his doubts. He closed his eyes, lost in thought, unable to dismiss the matter, and returned to his earlier state of mind. Suddenly, he thought of Shang Ye—if only he were as clever as she, he wouldn’t be troubled by this.

As Wu Zhuming pondered, he glanced sideways, meeting Li Cang’s piercing gaze. That cold, emotionless face sent a shiver through him—he realized he had left Li Cang to the side again.

Li Cang frowned. “What are you thinking about?” Wu Zhuming snapped back, “Oh, nothing, just some trifles. There’s been a lot to worry about lately.” He smiled, rubbing his eyes. Looking up, seeing Li Cang still frowning with concern, Wu Zhuming slung an arm around him and grinned:

“Whatever it is, there’s nothing to worry about, right?”

Li Cang stared at him a moment, then answered without expression, “You think I can’t tell when you’re absent-minded? Whatever it is, it’s up to you. All these years, you’ve always made your own decisions.” He waved dismissively, heading off into the darkness. Wu Zhuming quickly asked, “Where are you going?”

“For a walk,” he replied without looking back. “Something’s odd in the mountains, so—”
“Then all the more reason for me to go.” Seeing Li Cang’s stubbornness, Wu Zhuming relented, thinking his earlier encounter must have been a coincidence. That person was surely gone, or Li Cang wouldn’t have come here—and besides, Li Cang was not someone who needed his concern.

“Wu Zhuming.” Halfway across the clearing, Li Cang stopped, turned back, and—on a face usually devoid of expression—wore a faint smile. “I can’t control you anyway. Although she told me to keep it secret… but seeing you so restless, I’ll tell you—she should be here soon. This time, I’ll leave you two alone. Once she arrives, you won’t be thinking about anything else.”

Wu Zhuming was momentarily stunned, about to reply, but Li Cang had already disappeared briskly into the darkness. Wu Zhuming chuckled helplessly, but involuntarily thought of “her” smile, and couldn’t help but smile himself.

“Is that so, nothing else will matter?” He closed his eyes; perhaps he hadn’t noticed that his earlier worries had vanished, leaving only a smile on his face.

Only his solitary shadow swayed in the lamplight. The night was silent, and for now, his troubles could be set aside. “I never did tell him about what happened today.” Wu Zhuming recalled the scene—it hadn’t frightened him, for Wu Zhuming was rarely afraid, but that strangeness could not be underestimated. He thought of Brother Yun—perhaps he would have a solution. Time slipped by unnoticed; Wu Zhuming gazed at the distant city and closed his eyes.

Once his sight faded, it was impossible to sense time’s passage—whether he slept or not, he could not tell. In that half-dream, half-waking state, he seemed to see boundless light, night and day reversed and inseparable, infinite black and white, beneath the endless sky, a pool of clear water rippled.

He opened his eyes, a vague feeling lingering in his heart.

Leaning against the railing, perhaps simply too tired, Wu Zhuming gazed quietly at the city, the light of unwavering resolve always present in his eyes. No matter how lonely the night, it could not extinguish that glow.

Silent, silent, he gazed alone at the city until, at last, loneliness was no more, and the night was no longer silent.

The evening breeze brushed his face, and Wu Zhuming turned instinctively.

Her black hair fluttered in the breeze, her smile quietly blossoming in the cold, moonlit night. In the silence, only her shadow stood beneath the moonlight. Now, Wu Zhuming was in the lamplight, and she stood under the moon.

A form so familiar, now before his eyes. As she approached, Wu Zhuming could clearly see her.

Clad in black, she stood tall and poised; her hair, like a waterfall, cascaded down, a belt loosely cinched at her waist accentuating her slender strength. Her deep black eyes sparkled like gems—calm, yet not cold. She bore an easy, unrestrained grace, at once part of the night and distinctly her own.

She smiled at Wu Zhuming, meeting his gaze. She seemed a sudden apparition, yet her presence was vivid, almost tangible.

It seemed Wu Zhuming had dozed off, or he would have noticed her arrival. “Sleeping here, you might never wake,” she said, her voice clear and lively.

Wu Zhuming straightened. “But you’re here now, aren’t you?”

Shang Ye—the third person, as Li Cang had said. Wu Zhuming, Shang Ye, and Li Cang—their bond was deeper than friendship, though they hadn’t all met at the same time, they had been together since early on. By now, they had spent many years together.

As for the relationship between Shang Ye and Wu Zhuming, it could not be described in a single word, as Li Cang put it. What exactly it was could not be gleaned from their own lips. But at the very least, the foundation of close friendship would never change. Even Li Cang’s occasional odd smiles at the two hinted at the nature of their connection.

Standing together in black and white beneath the light, one saw they shared a similar inner radiance, but their similarities only highlighted their distinct selves. Wu Zhuming’s white garb stood out against the night, his steadfast light a beacon in darkness. Shang Ye, hand on her hip, eyes calm, even with a touch of disdain as she regarded the city—but perhaps not the city itself. She embodied the night’s mystery and spirit, yet also a fire and self-assurance unlike the night.

But tonight, her eyes held a different emotion—beyond calm, there was a thread of worry.

Shang Ye would not let Wu Zhuming keep staring; she turned away. “Li Cang never listens, and I thought seeing me would at least surprise you,” she teased, her brows raised. Wu Zhuming, ignoring her earlier odd expression, replied, “Don’t I see you every day? Hardly surprising. Still, seeing you always makes me happy, every time.” Shang Ye smiled, quietly moving to the railing. She gazed at the city, her eyes flickering with a different light than usual, her thoughts elsewhere since arriving.

Night flowed slowly, time slipping by in silence.

The two sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Shang Ye looked up at the moon, silver light spilling over her black hair. She gazed upward for a long moment, worry flickering in her eyes, then peace. She lowered her gaze, murmuring, “If it hadn’t happened so suddenly, at least…” She glanced at her left hand, blinked, and her expression returned to normal.

What was she thinking? Wu Zhuming glanced at her and saw her brow furrowed, uneasy, as if caught in her own thoughts—so unlike her usual cheer, now more calmly introspective. Though Wu Zhuming was familiar with these moods of hers—indeed, they occurred often—he still asked, “Shang, is something wrong? You seem worried.” Shang Ye met his gaze, replying calmly, “Just a small matter, nothing worth mentioning.” But for her to be so absorbed, it could not be trivial, Wu Zhuming thought. Still, she made no effort to hide it, knowing full well Zhuming could see through her.

He let it go, sitting on a bench. “Li Cang came and went—no idea where now. Shang, let’s wait for him. You—” Wu Zhuming’s words trailed off; Shang Ye seemed not to hear, her unease apparent.

Wu Zhuming recalled today’s events, sensing Shang Ye’s abnormality. He closed his eyes, pondering what to do, when suddenly he felt a shift in the air. As he opened his eyes, a gust of wind snapped back; looking up, he saw Shang Ye, at some point, standing before him, smiling as ever. Had something happened? he wondered.

When Wu Zhuming rose, he saw Shang Ye looked stranger still—not just preoccupied, but as if deeply conflicted within herself. Such moments were rare; few things could trouble Shang Ye. Though Wu Zhuming knew her well, worry crept in, and he even forgot what had occupied him before.

There was a long silence; Wu Zhuming would not just watch her brood forever. He decided to tease her, as he had since they were children—hoping to lift her spirits as before.

Shang Ye, meanwhile, closed her eyes, shook her head, hesitated—forgetting Wu Zhuming was even there, muttering to herself: “Never thought it would be so sudden… but if my worries are right, even if they’re just overthinking, I can’t let Zhuming and Li Cang…” “Zhuming?”

Shang Ye realized Wu Zhuming was standing before her, all sunshine, breaking her reverie. She relaxed, smiling brightly. “What is it?” she asked, meeting his gaze.

Before she could react, Wu Zhuming lifted her into the air—one hand supporting her, the other steadying her, holding her close. Shang Ye’s first thought was of childhood—had he not carried her like this before? Now grown, he rarely played such tricks. She laughed, sitting calmly on his arm, letting him carry her, twirling freely under the moonlight.

“Ha, Shang Ye, you’re not very talkative tonight.”

Shang Ye smiled down at him, her black eyes holding his gaze.

She replied, “Sometimes it’s just a little difference. Tonight is one, perhaps I am too.”

“Is that so? To me, being with you never really changes.” Wu Zhuming steadied himself, not wanting to let go.

Shang Ye gazed into the distance. “Yes, if always with you. But things rarely go as we wish, or else—” her voice trailed off, eyes fixed on the city.

Whether or not he heard, Wu Zhuming grew more animated. “If we could always be together, there’d be nothing to worry about.”

After that, they looked at each other, neither speaking. At last, Shang Ye smiled lightly. “Zhuming, let me down—are you planning to hold me forever?” Wu Zhuming came to himself, setting her down gently. They looked at each other in silence.

Not lovers, yet they almost forgot as much.

Wu Zhuming turned to the city, spirits high. Hoping to lift her mood, he found his own lifted instead, as if the day’s gloom had been swept away. He put his feelings into words: “Shang Ye, perhaps I worry too much. You’re not quite yourself today, but really, you never need me to worry. Every time, you find your own way out. Brother Yun always says you’re the one who causes him the least worry, even when Li Cang and I drive him crazy… From the start, you’ve always been the calm, self-assured one—the most thoughtful of us three. I’m sure Li Cang thinks so too. The one who believes in their own path more than anyone—such is the person etched in my heart. Then and now, no matter what, the three of us are together, aren’t we? You hardly need me to remind you.”

He turned, hoping to see her smile again, as usual.

But she did not.

Shang Ye, still smiling, was so calmly composed it unsettled him.

“Zhuming, perhaps you’re wrong. Perhaps I’m not the most steadfast one. Perhaps, without you two, I could not always be confident and calm. But if I said that I, you, and Li Cang must part—what then?” She stood before him, a faint smile on her lips, and continued,

“And what if that day is today?”

Her even, measured words sent Wu Zhuming’s heart plunging into icy depths—his smile and vigor vanished. “To leave… what does that mean?” He did not say it aloud, nor dare to ask. He had never considered such a thing. It was as if a blade pierced his heart—impossible, what was she saying? With no warning, just like that? He could only disbelieve, be confused, and doubt. His thoughts were a tumult, yet nothing showed on his face—he was no longer a child, easily swayed by words. He clung to the notion this was her joke—yet Shang Ye was not one to jest lightly. His worry deepened, more than before. So, his mind set, he steeled himself: Leave? Shang Ye, you’re a wicked one, trying to scare me—what nonsense. If that’s so, I’ll just keep you here.

He turned to Shang Ye, only to see an entirely different, hearty smile—her calm was gone as if it belonged to someone else. Approaching him, she caressed his face, smiling gently, her tone soothing: “How could it be true, Zhuming? I just wanted to see you fret—turns out you believed me. That’s the you I know. If I ever left you or Li Cang, I’d be heartbroken, wouldn’t I?” Her voice was like magic—natural, gentle, yet piercing the heart. Her fingers brushed his cheek, making disbelief impossible. Wu Zhuming wished it were a joke, but seeing Shang Ye’s strangeness tonight, he doubted it was only words.

He told himself, true or false, it no longer mattered. If he feared loss, he would hold on; if he feared parting, why not embrace her? Hesitation was not his way. He made up his mind.

Wu Zhuming, unmoving, met Shang Ye’s gaze; her clear eyes left her uncertain how to react, until his seriousness dissolved into a warm smile. Wu Zhuming saw the depth in her eyes—but Shang Ye, looking at him, felt a sudden confusion. In her heart, something warned: No—not now.

As Shang Ye withdrew her hand, Wu Zhuming caught her wrist, tightened his grip gently, and lowered it. He said clearly,

“Shang Ye, I believe you… May I say something, Shang, will you listen?”

Shang Ye’s face was unreadable, staring blankly as if at something unseen, her thoughts elsewhere, letting him hold her hand. He continued:

“Shang Ye, I’ve never thought of parting. If that day comes, I…” Wu Zhuming’s words faltered.

Shang Ye did not meet his eyes, her face troubled and conflicted… she closed her eyes briefly, something in her heart entangling her, reason unknown even to herself. The closer Wu Zhuming drew, the more he spoke, the heavier her unease and doubt became. She did not resist, but… worry weighed on her—not because of any barrier between them, but something inside her now ensnared them both.

Shang Ye withdrew her hand from his grasp, and the words he meant to say were swallowed.

Unable to tell her, perhaps due to some obstacle, Wu Zhuming felt he had betrayed his own resolve—nothing had changed. Not only had he gone against his principle, he had belittled his own firmness, acting like someone who hesitated at every step, all due to his own inexplicable uncertainty.

In the suffocating silence that followed, Shang Ye looked at the city while Wu Zhuming, recalling a similar moment long ago, pointed to a spot in the city’s sea of lights. Shang Ye looked—there was a humble house still lit, different from the surrounding darkness. Wu Zhuming said, “Brother Yun is up late again. No matter how many times I tell him, he never listens—whenever something important happens, he works day and night. For someone his age, still so stubborn.”

His bright laughter always melted the coldest gloom. Shang Ye closed her eyes, smiling, “You’re not much better—just as stubborn. If he hears you calling him old, he’ll scold you, like this.”

She rapped Wu Zhuming on the head, feigning severity: “You rascal, I’m not that much older! Even back then, we were always called four siblings!” They looked at each other and laughed.

The night was cold, but not as lonely as before.

Footsteps sounded behind them—slow and measured.

Li Cang returned; before he even appeared, Shang Ye called out, “When did you start sneaking around?”

A tall figure emerged from the darkness; Li Cang curled his lip, “Sneaking? More like you were too focused on someone else to notice me.” Shang Ye feigned ignorance; as he approached, he glanced repeatedly at Wu Zhuming, who blinked back.

Li Cang’s presence brought the three together again. Shang Ye, with a curious look, asked, “You seem pleased—did something good happen?” Li Cang wedged himself between them, glancing oddly at Shang Ye, “No good fortune, just happy at this time of night. If anything, when I left, I saw someone being blown by the wind—she didn’t get hit, though. Shang Ye, if Zhuming hadn’t opened his eyes, what would you have done next?” Wu Zhuming, puzzled, looked at Shang Ye, who sighed, “So you saw. Well, whatever happens, I’m not afraid. You weren’t spying the whole time, were you?” Li Cang smiled, replying as always in his even tone, “Not my fault I paused. Didn’t expect to see you two so close when I came back—made it awkward to come out.” Changing the subject, Wu Zhuming asked, “Where did you wander off to?” “To Feather Pool.” “That far! You move fast.”

Li Cang shrugged, “No big deal. Besides, going quickly has its benefits, doesn’t it?” The others shook their heads lightly.

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So they bantered, talked of this and that, mixing care and recollection. Such conversations—how many times over the years? Their long companionship had tightly bound them together. In more than a decade, they’d made plenty of memories—from youth to independence, their childish faces now only preserved in photos, replaced by the backs they showed now. Supporting one another, as their “fourth brother” would say, “When they’re together, everyone thinks they’re siblings.” He always added, “Seems I’m an outsider,” leaving the three at a loss for words.

The three of them, close together—such ordinary gatherings were part of their shared memory.

Li Cang, in passing, mentioned meeting a strange person on his way up the Heavenly Steps. Before Zhuming could ask, Shang Ye said she too had met someone who left a deep impression—her look suggested this person was indeed remarkable. Zhuming noted that they hadn’t taken the same path up the mountain, so it was unlikely they’d met the same person. Unexpected, to encounter so many odd people so late on Abyssal Pool Mountain. Zhuming began to suspect the strange event he witnessed earlier was not mere chance.

While Zhuming pondered, Li Cang, too, noticed Shang Ye’s oddness—he’d sensed it watching them from the dark. Looking at Wu Zhuming, he seemed absent-minded again; Li Cang almost wanted to give him another jolt. After a moment, he simply smiled, “Let it be,” and straightened up.

Suddenly, his relaxed demeanor vanished; he stiffened, grimacing in pain, quickly turning to confusion. Hand to his chest, head down, eyes fixed. “Li Cang, what’s wrong—is it your…” Shang Ye noticed first; Zhuming then turned, seeing Li Cang’s expression—so unfamiliar, like that day in childhood.

Li Cang recovered, saw the two staring, and replied in a low voice, “It’s nothing, don’t worry.” But his face was thoughtful, gaze averted.

Zhuming saw Li Cang’s unease. “Li Cang, your Red Mark.” Both he and Shang Ye knew of the old scar on Li Cang’s chest. Whenever they asked about it, he’d say, “Nothing worth mentioning.” Now, Li Cang’s face was grave, brow furrowed; when Zhuming tried to look, Li Cang brushed his hand away. “No need… why now, and only this time…” he muttered.

Li Cang’s rigidity lasted only a moment before he returned to his stern composure, standing upright instead of leaning on the stone railing. Zhuming noticed that Li Cang’s clothing was soiled at the hem—a recent change, likely tied to the person Li Cang had just mentioned.

This “mark” had accompanied Li Cang for most of his years; he knew how to handle it. Neither Wu Zhuming nor Shang Ye would pry—they knew that, even in agony, this man feared nothing, his will and spirit deeper than the mark itself.

Shang Ye smiled, “Let’s hope it’s nothing serious.” Li Cang didn’t reply, but his expression eased.

Though each was lost in private thoughts, their concerns were for themselves and each other. Wu Zhuming recalled the three of them, hand in hand as children—the beginning of their companionship, their happiest, carefree days. Now, not much had changed. He looked at Li Cang and Shang Ye—nothing to hide between such old friends. Even if Shang Ye was sometimes mysterious, Li Cang not talkative, and he himself stubborn—all small matters. He thought,

If there is a problem, it can’t be anything bad.

Wu Zhuming lowered his head, as if smiling, and said brightly, “You two are strange enough tonight—has this happened before? So many years—how many days have passed in a blink? But just talking with you both now, I’m content. I don’t know why, but with you, I can never feel troubled.” He looked up, beaming at them. “In the end, being with you two is what reassures me most.”

Shang Ye and Li Cang exchanged glances. Wu Zhuming felt joy from the depths of his heart—together, he could forget everything else… He laughed as always, his delight undiminished.

Hearing this, Shang Ye could not look away from his smile. She thought of her own worries and indecision. Looking at the city, she silently made a resolution. For the first time, she said,

“Zhuming, Li Cang, walking this road with you—meeting you, meeting Brother Yun—has been my life’s greatest fortune. The past with you is something I never want to lose. Those days are engraved in my heart… Yes, it seems there’s nothing to worry about now.” She spoke to them, but also to herself. Facing them again, she said,

“Isn’t that so? From this day on, as always.”

Her enthusiastic response, that radiant smile—this was the Shang Ye they knew.

Finally, she looked at her own left palm, contemplating. With a mischievous grin, she murmured, “So, all the preparation wasn’t in vain after all.” Only she could hear this last remark; all the others saw was the return of that unique, fate-defying look to her face.

Li Cang smiled faintly; Wu Zhuming looked calmly at Shang Ye—she needed no reminders, that much was clear. There was nothing for him to worry about now.

With all three present, and one thing yet undone, there was no need for concern or confusion. Since Shang Ye had pledged so warmly, he should do the same; with Li Cang here as witness, it was the perfect time.

Wu Zhuming moved closer to Shang Ye; now was truly the right moment. His optimism was usual, but just then, strangely, he recalled the odd event from earlier. He noticed the night’s difference in the corner of his eye—tonight truly was lonely and cold, different from before, but what exactly?

He approached Shang Ye, making her look up at him, Li Cang by his side.

He reached out to embrace her, the words on his lips. He remembered how his heart quaked at the mention of “parting”—the reason was obvious. There was no need to hesitate; he looked at Shang Ye.

But—strange.

Shang Ye did not look at him; her gaze fixed on the moon.

Looking up, was the moon so broken?

Only a pallid, icy light remained—clearly the moon, yet unable to illuminate the sky,

As if mocking.

He understood—not the moon, but the sky, this night,

So it was, both illusory and false.

The night swallowed the moonlight,

And when the moonlight finally faded,

Wu Zhuming felt

a tearing pain.

His arms, which had sought to embrace Shang Ye, instead clutched his own chest. He staggered back, quickly turning away, back to the others—shock and agony surging together, breaking over him.

A strange, painful, oppressive sensation so intense he could barely breathe—his whole body wracked with stinging pain from skin to heart. He bent double, mumbling, “What is this…” struggling in silence.

He looked up in shock; the night had obliterated the moon, the silver disc completely devoured by darkness, light vanishing bit by bit. The faint glow could not pierce the blackness; between shadow and night, something else lurked. Darkness and night were nearly the same—without the moon, it was unnoticeable.

Whatever shrouded the moon was no cloud; Wu Zhuming could not be mistaken. Though hard to see, it was only in the act of eclipsing the moon that he sensed something amiss. Why hadn’t he noticed before? The waning moon failed to light the sky around it, as if wrapped in darkness, embedded in night.

But even recognizing this “mutation” didn’t alleviate his pain. If not for his extraordinary endurance, the agony would have made him cry out. Even as he endured pain that could kill, his face showed no struggle, though he knew the others would notice—no, he didn’t want that. Gritting his teeth, he tried to hide his condition; the pain left him unable to think.

To others, only his posture was slightly hunched, but in truth, he was suffering beyond imagining. His instincts told him the pain’s source was not the night; a vision flashed in his mind—was it that thing? Before he could ponder, a new wave of agony and oppression struck.

The others did not notice his distress; Li Cang was distracted since his own pain, unlike him, and Shang Ye, her confidence and clarity restored, was close to the answer she’d sought all night. Zhuming fought to suppress his abnormality; he would not trouble the others, perhaps out of sheer stubbornness—his will refusing to yield. An ordinary person would have long since fainted.

After a while, the pain began to subside, but as it lessened, the oppressive, bizarre sensation in his chest deepened, prickling through his whole body. The suffocating feeling of being trapped did not abate, nor did the deep pain vanish—it just focused on his chest.

“I’m going—something’s bothering me,” Li Cang said abruptly, turning to leave. At the edge of darkness, he stopped and looked back. “You two slowpokes—maybe I’ll make a promise too. From now on, just as things are, that’s enough. At least, that’s what I want, and I’ll make it so. Zhuming, Shang—farewell.” Shang Ye smiled in parting. Zhuming should have replied, but as he spoke, he felt something wrong in his throat. Li Cang didn’t wait for his goodbye. He glanced at the sky, pondering only he knew what, and walked away.

Now only he and Shang Ye remained.

When Wu Zhuming turned to Shang Ye, her face was calm as ever. She had found her answer, perhaps aided by the two men, but now Zhuming had no strength for joy. Shang Ye was gazing after Li Cang, but even so, she seemed to sense something wrong with Zhuming. As she turned, he embraced her from behind. Even that small act was all he could manage now.

Yes, this was her—confident, wise. A pity he could only express himself through a hug. It seemed appropriate, yet now felt almost ironic. Though close together, Shang Ye could not sense his pain. He let go; perhaps she was reassured. With his back to her, Zhuming lifted his collar.

Black-purple lines—a strange, sinister mark sprawled across his chest.

His torso bore other scars, old and new, barely visible. But this black-purple at his heart was unfamiliar—certainly, he didn’t welcome this uninvited “tattoo.”

Like a venomous serpent at his heart, the mark crept outward, pain and suffocation intensifying. Zhuming was shocked to find himself paralyzed, utterly suppressed by this poisonous, mysterious pattern.

He tried to keep Shang Ye from noticing while struggling to break free. Dizzy, his mind flashed with unfamiliar scenes: a boundless, mirror-like lake, a woman gazing up at the dusk sky, distant mountains below. The vision vanished in an instant. Zhuming had no time to ponder its meaning; the relentless pain made calm thought impossible.

Why? he wondered. When? Where? Through his clothes, straight to his heart. No—not right. The tearing sensation surged again; he clutched his chest. Everything was so strange—today, the moon, the night, Shang Ye, Li Cang, himself. He remembered—wasn’t something wrong? That place, that person, that anomaly—he had seen it today, hadn’t he? This black-purple—wasn’t it familiar?

“I have to go, Zhuming.” Shang Ye’s voice reached him, calm as she walked toward the edge of darkness, the lamplight touching the tips of her black hair, her calm tinged with sorrow. “Zhuming, it was right to spend today with you—even if it was just an ordinary day… Wait a little longer, Zhuming. Today is not a day for lingering.” She glanced back, saying, “For now—goodbye.” With that, she left a faint smile.

The two stood back to back; Zhuming could not grasp Shang Ye’s meaning. He wanted to hold her—she was right there, but felt impossibly distant. What had he missed? He did not know.

But, didn’t he still have unfinished business? His promise, his resolve—did they still matter, or would there be another chance? Shang Ye was no longer lost; she needed nothing now… And he, oppressed by this strange mark, could not say a word. Though he had a chance, he felt he had made an irrevocable choice, watching Shang Ye’s retreating back—so near, yet unattainable. Perhaps the strangeness had affected him, but today’s Wu Zhuming was not as unwavering as before. He raised his hand slightly, uncertain if it was in farewell or reluctance.

Shang Ye looked up at the dark sky, a faint smile on her lips. “The moon is gone too? I knew this day would come… Well, perhaps that’s not a bad thing… When will the next time be?” To whom she spoke, none could say.

Wu Zhuming stood alone under the lamplight—he could not see her, but surely Shang Ye was smiling, untroubled. Only her silhouette remained, receding into the darkness, her voice fading, her figure finally vanishing.

He was alone in the night.

He looked at the sky; the strange night lingered, darkness seeming endless, his small figure nearly swallowed within it. She was gone, though he could still tell himself: There is still a chance. Yet the regret in his heart could not be dispelled. “Can I really?” Wu Zhuming closed his eyes; the resolve in them remained—the night, the pain, could not steal his light. His lips curved upward, smiling at something unknown. Straightening, he clenched his fists, his unwavering resolve all that remained.

The “serpent” would not stop its torment. Wu Zhuming seemed to wrestle with himself; only now did cold sweat bead on his brow. As if compelled, his gaze fixed on the stele facing the city; the ancient inscription was clear in the lamplight:

“Fallen Moon Pool.”

Behind the stele, the mountain loomed black as night, oppressive as a demon, the inscription seeming to portend something. Wu Zhuming had no energy to ponder its meaning.

In the silence, only he remained. As if to mock him, the thing at his chest ceaselessly gnawed, pain flooding him, mocking his inability even to keep his dearest ones close, laughing at the futility of today’s resolve. How strange—everything today was strange. Wu Zhuming’s eyes were fixed, unmoving. “Why?” he wondered. As he did, all faded into the night, soundless.

But didn’t he understand?

To him, even the most unusual things were but trivial corners of existence,

Single-minded release, laying down confusion—if only for now. When Wu Zhuming looked up again, the night still surrounded him, the cold wind embracing his body.

All had departed, vanished into difference,

Only the unchanging

stern night remained.