Chapter 63 – Snow Between Us
The first snow of midwinter had not stopped falling for days. By the time Chen Xinyu decided to return to the sect, a thin frost had already crept into the seams of the earth, locking every path in brittle white. He had been away for a month. The days had been long enough for the air between breaths to cool, for the rumors to fade, for the moon to wax and wane without his presence.
He came back dressed in the plain clothes of a commoner—blue sleeves bound neatly, hair tied high, a traveling bundle on his back. At his side walked A Fu, the boy who had, in this short month, become more than a passing acquaintance. A Fu's hands were raw from cold, but his eyes still carried the unyielding clarity of someone determined to change the course of his life. He would not say it aloud, but in the quiet space of his own heart, he had already chosen the path of a healer.
They passed through the city gates, then climbed the mountain road that curved upward into the sect. The snow here was deeper, wind sharper; the sky a heavy gray, as if weighed down by all the unsent letters of the world.
At the registry hall, A Fu was given a room and told the date of his entrance exam. Xinyu left him there and returned quietly to his own quarters, the silence of his absence still clinging to the doorframe. He did not tell anyone he was back.
That peace lasted only until the door banged open with the force of a storm.
"Chen Xinyu!"
He barely had time to lift his head before Lingque was inside, hair bristling, eyes narrowed like a hawk's. He instinctively stepped back, nearly toppling a chair in the process.
"Calm down, please—"
"Calm down? You vanish for a month without a word and you want me to calm down?"
She was seconds away from transforming, her qi bristling like feathers in a gust. Xinyu held up both hands, coaxing her down with quiet words until she finally let herself be steered to the table.
"I had reasons," he said at last. "Stop being mad at me."
"Then speak."
His gaze lowered, lashes shadowing his eyes. "I broke through. Late Golden Core stage."
For a heartbeat she simply stared—then she was on her feet, beaming. "Really? You're nearly at Nascent Soul!" Her hug was fierce, almost bruising.
Xinyu returned it with a faint smile. "Not that close."
The room soon filled with warmth and noise as Lu Rourou, Lan Xueyao, Yan Zheng, and Shen Yao arrived one by one. They pulled him into embraces, scolded him for disappearing, and celebrated his advancement. Shen Yao's voice carried a thread of awe.
"Shizun will be proud."
"Where is he?" Xinyu asked.
"Out on an important mission," Shen Yao replied.
A small shadow crossed Xinyu's expression. He missed his master.
It was Rourou who shifted the air again. "By the way—have you heard? Crown Prince Hua is returning to his realm in a few days."
The words struck like a pebble on thin ice, the crack running silent and deep. Xinyu's chest tightened until each breath scraped against his ribs. It should have been a relief. Distance would mean forgetting. It was for the best—for both of them.
He exhaled, long and slow.
Shen Yao chuckled. "I'll miss that cold, majestic face."
"I'll miss seeing that handsome face," Rourou sighed.
Lan Xueyao waved a hand. "There are others."
They left. The room felt colder.
That night, he lay in the dark, the memory of that kiss surfacing unbidden. The way it had burned in his chest. The uncertainty in Hua Ling's eyes afterward. Did he think about it? Or had he been disgusted? Best to bury it. Best to let snow cover it all.
But the mark at his neck began to throb, faint at first, then searing—like molten iron pressed to skin. Pain drove him to his knees. He staggered toward the door, barely managing to open it before the cold air swallowed him whole.
The last thing he remembered was snow rushing up to meet his face.
When consciousness flickered again, voices swam above him. A Fu's worried tone. Another—deeper, steadier—saying, "I found him outside."
Hua Ling.
Through the haze, he felt the memory of a broad back, the faint scent of frost and sandalwood. He had been carried here.
Hua Ling stayed long enough to confirm from A Fu that Xinyu's life was not in danger—then he left without looking back.
Later, A Fu explained it in his casual way: "A tall, really good-looking guy found you in the snow and piggybacked you here."
Xinyu knew without asking.
Night had deepened by the time he stepped outside. The snow glowed faintly under the moon. By the pond stood a lone figure, hair loose, gaze fixed on the reflection of the moon. His side profile was softened by the frost, almost gentle
Hua Ling's voice came like a blade in the cold. "Still running away, like always?"
Xinyu halted. The space between them was thin—an inch of moonlit air, but it felt like an ocean. He bowed out of habit. "Your Highness."
For a moment Hua Ling said nothing; the winter wind combed his hair back like dark silk. Then he stepped forward—closer than propriety allowed—and closed the distance with a move that was more hunger than command. Before Xinyu could shrink away, Hua Ling's hands reached for him and gripped his arms, not roughly, but with an intent that rooted Xinyu to the frozen earth. The prince's palms were firm and alarmingly warm against the thin fabric; the pressure was a question and a promise all at once.
"You keep running," Hua Ling said, each word hoarse with something that might have been anger or longing. "You remember that night. Don't pretend you don't. Why did you do it?" His fingers tightened a fraction as if to puncture the lies Xinyu might try to hide behind.
Heat rushed up Xinyu's neck. The moon caught on his lashes. He swallowed, the confession lodged like ice. "Your Highness probably hates me," he said, voice small and brittle. "I was drunk. Forget it. Punish me, if you must…but forget it."
Hua Ling's grip did not loosen; instead, he leaned closer until the space between their faces vanished and Xinyu could feel the slow, steady drag of the prince's breath. "Why are you pushing me away?" Hua Ling demanded, low and sudden. "Admit it—you like me."
The words landed like hail. Hua Ling's hands, still at Xinyu's arms, seemed to hold him in place not merely to receive a confession but to deny a flight. For a heartbeat Xinyu's world narrowed to the palms clamped at his sleeves. He could have told the truth then, could have let the night untie whatever knot he had tied inside his chest. Instead his mouth closed and the bitter thing in his throat rose.
"When did I ever say I liked you?" Xinyu said, and the words cut him as much as they cut the prince.
Hua Ling's knuckles blanched around his forearms. The sound of distant snow was the only witness. Then Xinyu's voice, raw and sudden, spilled out like a wound opened too quickly: the name of his parents, the glimpse of the assassins, the nightmare soaked in blood. "Your father—he killed them. I saw it. I was in their blood. I hear their screams every night. You must remember who you are. Let me go."
At that, the hands that had held him fast changed: the grip was still, then loosened as if some unseen frost had burned it away. For the first time since he stepped forward, Hua Ling's composure fractured. The shadow that passed over his face was not mere anger but a thunder of disbelief and something like grief.
"What did you say?" he breathed.
Xinyu said it again and fell to his knees, the confession finally burning out of him. Hua Ling—prince, son of that very man—did the thing that neither of them could have foreseen: he knelt down as well and wrapped his arms around Xinyu, not as a possessive fury but with a soft, stunned tenderness. For an instant they were no longer title and subject, only two people trembling under the same cold sky.
Then Xinyu pushed free, rose, and walked into the night. "Let's not meet again," he said without turning.
Hua Ling remained where he was, hands unclenched, the winter settling like an accusation between them. The snow fell, indifferent and white, burying their footprints one after another.