The Nanyang Sect, the inner gate, a small bamboo-grove courtyard put in order ahead of time.

On the bed a young man in a Nanyang white robe lay with his eyes half-closed, his breathing long and slow.

That the eyes did not close fully was inborn caution; the long slow breathing meant the weariness of the spirit-soul.

On that pale face there was at last a little less coldness, and a rare softness in the handsome features.

As though he were remembering the flatbread at the roadside in Baiyun County, a bowl of chive-leaf noodles on the drill ground of the Qingzhou Demon-Suppression Bureau, the lamb soup he had finished in two sittings a thousand miles apart, and the throat-burning medicinal wine in the ruined temple on Xitai Mountain.

And after that—

Shen Yi's face turned abruptly indifferent. His fingertips moved slightly and reached for the crook of his arm without thinking.

A saber had once rested there. Now his hand closed on nothing.

His long slow breathing quickened without reason. His clear eyes opened, and a cold severity rose in them.

"My story is told."

At the window, where golden light was falling, Li Xuanqing turned his head and showed a frank smile; then said, with some curiosity, "But it seems you're covered in stories yourself."

"……" Shen Yi raised his brows and let his body relax again.

And moved his gaze away with some impatience.

Because there was also an old woman standing quietly beside Senior Xuanqing, the two of them shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the setting sun.

Nobody wanted a bowlful of that for his breakfast, and he was no exception.

"Since Sect Master Shen is awake, we will take our leave."

Only now did the Baohua Sect Master understand why Xuanqing had made a special request for her to come and stand watch, when this Sect Master Shen was only taking a short nap. It was clear enough: that young man truly had very little sense of safety.

"Your disciple withdraws." Xuanqing saluted meticulously and pushed the wooden door open.

Telling Shen Yi his story…