The light barrier at the exit of the mystic realm slowly lit up in the morning mist. As Bai Qingxue stepped out, a mountain wind rushed over her, carrying the scent of pine needles unique to the Xuantian Sect.
At this moment, Bai Qingxue's robe was still flecked with crushed ice from the depths of the rift valley. The ice shards shimmered with an extremely faint silver light in the morning sun, looking like frost that would never melt.
Her spiritual power flowed quietly through her meridians; her new realm, the late stage of Foundation Establishment, was already seventy to eighty percent stabilized.
Lu Xueqing followed half a step behind her, a section of the white bandage on her left shoulder peeking out from beneath her collar.
As the two walked back to the mountain gate, the outer sect disciples they met along the way stopped in their tracks. Their gazes lingered on Bai Qingxue for a moment before they stepped aside to the edge of the path, bowing their heads in salute.
Only after Bai Qingxue walked past did the rustling whispers begin to rise.
“Martial Aunt Bai's aura... has it grown stronger again?”
“I heard she had only just broken through to mid-stage Foundation Establishment before entering. How long has it been? Can one really progress by leaps and bounds in the mystic realm?”
“What do you know? She has an Ice-attribute Heavenly Spiritual Root...”
Bai Qingxue's pace was neither fast nor slow. Her silver-white hair fluttered up and down in the mountain wind, and the Frost Moon Chant swayed gently at her waist, making a tiny clinking sound like colliding icicles.
The discussions fell upon her ears like rain on ice, sliding off and vanishing without a trace.
Bai Qingxue had never cared about these voices.
When she returned to her courtyard gate, the dry branches of the old plum tree stretched toward the sky in the twilight.
Yet its branches were still bare, devoid of new leaves.
It had only been a month since she entered the mystic realm, but it felt as if a long time had passed...
With these thoughts in mind, Bai Qingxue pushed open the courtyard door.
The wooden door let out a low creak, sounding like a voice that had been waiting for someone.
Then, Bai Qingxue saw something on the stone table.
On the stone table, the bottom of a coarse ceramic cup was pressing down on a piece of fine silk. The handwriting on the silk was delicate and neat, each stroke written with earnest care, as if the writer had reviewed it several times to ensure there were no mistakes before finally deciding to leave it.
Bai Qingxue walked over, picked up the piece of silk, and glanced at it.
Four words, with no signature and no date.
“Welcome back.”
Bai Qingxue recognized the handwriting.
Ye Qingyao's handwriting was always exceptionally neat.
It wasn't because she had practiced calligraphy, but simply because she was earnest.
Every stroke landed exactly where it was supposed to, neither overstepping nor showing off. It was as if the writer feared others wouldn't see it clearly, or feared she hadn't written it well enough, making her write with extra effort, extra care, and extra devotion.
Bai Qingxue held the silk, not putting it down immediately.
The twilight spilled over from behind her, making the surface of the silk glow faintly. She stared at it for a moment, then folded it.
She pressed the crease very lightly.
So lightly, as if she were folding something that would be opened again.
She placed the folded silk in the corner of the stone table. That spot was near the edge of the old plum tree's shadow, where it wouldn't be blown away by the wind or made brittle by the sun.
It was as if that corner had been deliberately set aside, a space reserved for something from the very beginning.
Then, Bai Qingxue looked down at the coarse ceramic cup.
The chip on the rim faced outward, just as before.
There was a ring of dried water stain at the bottom of the cup, very light in color, as if it had held tea, or perhaps just plain water.
Bai Qingxue picked up the cup.
Her finger pad traced a circle along the rim.
The chip was a small indentation beneath her finger pad—rough yet smooth, its sharp edges worn away by countless touches.
Bai Qingxue traced it once.
Then she traced it again.
Then she placed it back where it was. The bottom of the cup tapped against the stone surface with a very soft click.
At the courtyard gate, Lu Xueqing stood still.
She did not walk in.
She had stopped the moment Bai Qingxue pushed open the door, as if blocked outside by an invisible barrier.
Leaning against the doorframe, her gaze fell upon Bai Qingxue's hand.
Lu Xueqing recognized that cup.
She had known of its existence for quite some time.
When Bai Qingxue first entered the Xuantian Sect, she had no tea sets at all, only a few coarse ceramic cups to entertain guests.
Most of them had vanished over time,
but this one, with the small chip on its rim, had never been replaced.
Lu Xueqing had asked once back then, “Why not go get a new set? There are plenty at the cave dwelling.”
Bai Qingxue had replied, “No need.”
At the time, Lu Xueqing hadn't thought much of it.
Bai Qingxue had never cared about external possessions. She wouldn't replace her robes when they grew old, nor would she discard a hair ribbon washed to fading. Feeling nostalgic over a cup didn't seem particularly strange.
But later, Lu Xueqing found out.
The owner of this cup was named Ye Qingyao.
She was Junior Sister Bai's so-called old acquaintance from Yunzhou...
Lu Xueqing shouldn't have cared.
She wouldn't know what was written on the silk if she didn't ask, and not knowing meant she could pretend it didn't exist.
It had nothing to do with her who had placed the cup there. That cup had been with Bai Qingxue longer than she had, so it belonged there in the first place.
She shouldn't have cared.
But Lu Xueqing did care.
She cared so much that her chest tightened, her fingers clenched her sleeves, and her wound felt as if it were about to tear open again.
At this moment, Lu Xueqing desperately wished to take Bai Qingxue back into the mystic realm.
At least there, Junior Sister Bai mostly belonged to her...
“Senior Sister Lu?”
Bai Qingxue turned her head.
Bai Qingxue's voice was very soft, as if traveling through a thin layer of ice.
When those light-colored eyes looked over, there was only a very faint trace of doubt within them.
Bai Qingxue seemed to have sensed something, yet she wasn't sure what it was.
Lu Xueqing let go of her sleeves.
In that split second, she made a choice.
She suppressed everything. Her clenched fingers relaxed, her tense back softened, and she sealed the sour undercurrent in her chest deep within her heart.
Then she curled the corners of her mouth into a natural smile, as if she had rehearsed it countless times.
“It's nothing. You've just returned, so get some rest early. I'm heading back.”
Bai Qingxue parted her lips, seemingly wanting to say something.
But Lu Xueqing didn't wait for her to speak.
She turned and walked down the stone steps. Her boots tapped against the bluestone slabs one after another, her pace slightly faster than usual.
One, two, three.
She took each step very quickly.
So quickly that the wound on her left shoulder began to throb, so quickly that the mountain wind howling into her sleeves felt freezing cold, and so quickly that her breathing grew uneven.
Yet, Lu Xueqing never slowed her pace.
After walking over a hundred steps, Lu Xueqing stopped.
She turned her head slightly to glance back at the courtyard gate.
Twilight spilled over the mountain ridge, casting the outline of the courtyard wall into darkness.
The wooden door was still open, not yet closed.
Bai Qingxue hadn't closed the door.
Was she waiting for someone?
Lu Xueqing withdrew her gaze and continued walking down.
The wind rushed down from the peak, making her robe rustle loudly. The wound on her left shoulder throbbed dully beneath her clothes, a heavy, aching pain that seemed to remind her of something.
What was she thinking?
She didn't know what she should be thinking.
Junior Sister Bai had merely picked up a piece of silk and a cup, nothing more.
There were only four words on the silk.
There was only a ring of water stain in the cup.
Those were all things left behind by Ye Qingyao; they had nothing to do with Bai Qingxue.
No, they did.
Junior Sister Bai kept them.
That was just habit.
Lu Xueqing told herself that it was just habit.
Junior Sister Bai was actually a nostalgic person.
Nostalgic about things, nostalgic about people, nostalgic about everything.
She kept the cup simply because she was used to having it. She kept the silk simply because she felt it would be wrong to throw it away.
It was all just habit.
But the word “habit” was a trap in itself.
What is a habit? A habit is a person's daily routine, a reaction they make without thinking, the underlying color left behind after being repeatedly immersed over a long period of time.
Bai Qingxue had grown used to Ye Qingyao's presence.
She was used to Ye Qingyao's handwriting appearing on the stone table. She was used to the chipped cup being used by someone else. She was used to a corner of the courtyard being occupied by the traces left behind by another person.
These habits had nothing to do with Lu Xueqing.
Lu Xueqing walked to the gate of her own courtyard, pushed it open, and stood in the yard without moving.
The twilight poured in from behind her, stretching her shadow very long onto the bluestone ground—like a lingering hesitation that refused to enter the house, like a sense of loneliness nailed to the earth.
She looked down at her own hand.
That hand had been clutching her sleeve so tightly just moments ago; now that she let go, there were several faint red marks on her palm.
Lu Xueqing raised that hand and pressed it against her chest.
Her heartbeat.
At this moment, her heart was beating slightly faster than usual, but not to the point of losing control.
Yes, just a little faster.
Lu Xueqing felt her heart was like a gently plucked string, humming softly, unsure of when it would finally fall silent.
Lu Xueqing recalled the movement of Bai Qingxue's fingers when she had picked up the coarse ceramic cup just now.
Bai Qingxue's hands were beautiful, with well-defined knuckles and slightly cool fingertips.
That hand was as steady as a mountain when holding a sword, and as swift as the wind when forming hand seals, yet it had been so incredibly gentle when picking up that cup.
Lu Xueqing pulled her hand away from her chest.
The red marks on her palm were fading, but the sour ache in her chest remained.
Lu Xueqing walked into her room and closed the door.
The twilight was shut outside, and the room fell dark.
She felt her way to the table and sat down. She didn't light a lamp, simply sitting there as she listened to the mountain wind howling outside the window in gusts.
The wind made a low whistling sound as it blew over the courtyard walls, like someone whispering in the distance—unclear, and unnecessary to hear clearly.
Lu Xueqing closed her eyes.
But what appeared before her eyes was not darkness, but Bai Qingxue's face and everything in that courtyard.
In that courtyard, she hadn't been present.
Ye Qingyao hadn't been present either.
Yet Ye Qingyao's cup was present, Ye Qingyao's silk was present, and every trace Ye Qingyao had left in that courtyard was present.
But Lu Xueqing was not.
She had stood at the gate, and Bai Qingxue hadn't invited her in.
She could only stand there and watch, and Bai Qingxue hadn't tried to hide it.
Nor did Bai Qingxue need to.
Because those movements were habits, her baseline, the things Bai Qingxue did when no explanation was required.
She was merely a bystander.
Right?
Lu Xueqing recalled the words Bai Qingxue had said when she turned around as they entered the courtyard.
“Senior Sister Lu?”
Bai Qingxue's voice had been very soft, with a faint trace of doubt in her eyes. It was as if she had sensed something, yet was unsure of what she had sensed.
Lu Xueqing had said, “It's nothing.”
She had lied.
When she lied, Bai Qingxue had glanced at her. It was a brief glance, lasting only a fraction of a second, but Lu Xueqing felt that Bai Qingxue had seen something in that instant.
Junior Sister Bai saw it, but she didn't ask.
Lu Xueqing knew that Junior Sister Bai was respecting her desire to keep it to herself.
Just as Bai Qingxue respected Ye Qingyao.
Respect was Bai Qingxue's way.
But sometimes, respect was crueler than cold indifference.
Lu Xueqing opened her eyes.
The room was very dark, with only a thin layer of twilight's afterglow on the window lattice paper, looking like a piece of faded paper with illegible handwriting.
She stood up, walked to the window, and pushed it open slightly.
In the distance, Bai Qingxue's courtyard lay in that direction.
From this distance, she could only see the dark rooflines and a few dry branches stretching past the courtyard wall.
The old plum tree hadn't bloomed yet; its bare branches in the twilight looked like an ink wash painting, with minimalist strokes and profound meaning.
Had that door been closed?
Lu Xueqing watched for a moment, then shut the window.
She didn't want to look anymore.
She was afraid of seeing that the door had been closed, and equally afraid of seeing that it was still open.
Closed meant Bai Qingxue had no need to wait.
Open meant Bai Qingxue was waiting for someone else.
Neither outcome was what Lu Xueqing wanted to see.
She only wanted to see Bai Qingxue's door open for her.
She only wanted to see Bai Qingxue pick up her cup, tracing the rim with her finger pad.
She only wanted to see Bai Qingxue fold her note carefully and place it in a corner where the wind couldn't reach it.
She was Lu Xueqing. She had never been so petty. She had never felt that she needed to be placed in a corner and treated with precious care by anyone.
But now she knew.
It wasn't that she didn't need it. She simply didn't dare to need it.
Because she feared that once she started to need it, she would want even more. She would want Bai Qingxue to look only at her, to rely only on her, to have only her traces left in her life—with no other person's cup, no other person's silk, and no chips or water stains left by anyone else.
This way of thinking was wrong.
She knew it was wrong.
Bai Qingxue was not anyone's private property.
Anyone's cup could be placed in Bai Qingxue's courtyard, anyone's note could be left on the stone table, and anyone could be held in her heart.
She, Lu Xueqing, was merely Bai Qingxue's senior sister, a companion fighting alongside her, someone who could be trusted with her back.
She had promised Bai Qingxue that she would walk her own path and wouldn't interfere with Bai Qingxue's path.
Between the two of them,
that was all.
But...
How could she possibly manage that?
She wanted to possess Bai Qingxue solely for herself.
She wanted Bai Qingxue to rely only on her.
She wanted Bai Qingxue's courtyard to contain only the traces she left behind.
This thought was like a thorn, piercing deep into Lu Xueqing's heart.
Lu Xueqing walked to the bed, sat down, and unwrapped the bandage on her left shoulder.
The wound was exposed to the cool night air, its edges slightly red but not worsened.
Bai Qingxue's work was clean, stopping the bleeding completely; healing was only a matter of time.
Lu Xueqing looked at the wound.
She suddenly wondered: if the wound worsened tonight, would Junior Sister Bai care about her even more?
The answer, most likely, would be yes.
...
In the distance, inside Bai Qingxue's courtyard, the twilight had already spilled over the walls.
The shadow of the old plum tree fell on the ground like a quiet palm, fingers splayed, grasping at nothing.
Bai Qingxue walked into the main room and closed the door.
The door hinges let out a low creak, identical to the sound when it was pushed open, only this time, it was the sound of closing.
The piece of silk was still folded in the corner of the stone table.
The coarse ceramic cup was still upside down on the saucer, the chip on its rim facing the direction of the door, as if waiting for whoever came next to flip it over and pour a cup of plain water, or tea.
The wind blew through the courtyard, rustling the dry branches of the old plum tree and lifting a corner of the note on the stone table.
The silk fluttered slightly, then fell back down.
The crease remained, very faint.
As if it could be opened at any moment.
As if it would never be discarded.
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