The descent from Sunset Peak was slow and silent. The wind cut between the pines, cold and sharp, but neither of them seemed to feel it much. They walked in the darkness, hand in hand.
The blood on Zhì Yuǎn's right wrist had already dried, forming a dark crust that stuck his skin to Yù Qíng's fingers. She did not loosen her grip. He did not try to pull away either. What they had sealed on the peak remained firm throughout the entire descent.
Zhì Yuǎn walked differently. The particle that had entered his chest at the summit had not disappeared. It was still there, heavy, just below his sternum. With every step, he felt his own body denser, as if his bones had grown heavier. The usual lethargy was gone, replaced by a strange, constant clarity.
Yù Qíng walked half a step behind, her eyes fixed on her husband's broad back. She tested the new reality by deliberately dragging her feet, letting her body weigh backward, forcing him to pull her. It was a silent way of measuring whether he was still the same — whether he could still bear her weight.
Zhì Yuǎn did not stumble. He simply continued descending, pulling her with ease, as if the extra effort meant nothing.
When they reached the cabin, the interior was dark and smelled of old straw. Zhì Yuǎn lit the oil lamp with his left hand. The yellow light flickered across the bamboo walls.
Yù Qíng stopped in front of him. Her eyes dropped to their joined hands, where the marks of her nails were still visible beneath the crust of blood. She raised her free hand and passed a finger over the wound with care.
"Your skin is warm," she murmured. Her voice came out low, tense. "And your chest… it's different. It feels heavier."
Zhì Yuǎn did not answer immediately. Instead, he suddenly pulled his right hand, bringing her body against his. His left hand slid down to Yù Qíng's waist and held her firmly.
"If I became light enough for the wind to carry me away," he said, voice low and calm, "how would you drag me back to bed?"
Yù Qíng lost her breath for a second. Then a small, possessive smile appeared on her lips. She pressed her forehead against his chest, hiding her face.
"I'm sorry…" she whispered, voice muffled against his tunic. "I squeezed too hard."
Zhì Yuǎn said nothing. He simply passed his hand slowly across her back. The air inside the cabin was warm and still. Yù Qíng slid her hands down his arms and guided him to the bed.
"Sit," she said hoarsely. "I'll get hot water to clean your hand."
---
Yù Qíng returned shortly after with a wooden basin. Steam rose slowly. She sat on the edge of the bed, facing him, and pulled Zhì Yuǎn's right hand into her lap. With a damp cloth, she began cleaning the nail marks one by one, with slow, focused movements. The water turned pink with blood.
Zhì Yuǎn watched her face as she cleaned.
"When we were children," he said after a while, "you used to watch me fixing things in the square."
Yù Qíng did not lift her face. She continued passing the cloth over his skin.
"You always knew what was wrong," she murmured. "You looked once and already understood where the force was being lost."
"It was just paying attention," he answered. "Looking at the pieces, feeling where the friction was wrong. Nothing more."
He paused, feeling the warm cloth press against the wound.
"And today on the peak?" Yù Qíng asked, finally raising her face. Her eyes were damp. "What happened?"
Zhì Yuǎn turned his hand and held her fingers against his own chest, exactly where the heavy sensation still lingered.
"The veil tore," he said simply. "I was no longer just looking at things from the outside. I felt the weight of the air. I saw how the light recedes and the cold advances. As if the world had threads I had never noticed before."
Yù Qíng was silent for a few seconds. Then she leaned forward and touched his face with her free hand.
"You can see whatever you want in the world," she whispered, her warm breath against his lips. "As long as you never forget me."
Zhì Yuǎn held the nape of her neck and pulled her into a kiss. It was not gentle. It was heavy, direct, as if he wanted to confirm that she was still there. Yù Qíng responded immediately, gripping his tunic with force. The basin of water was forgotten on the floor.
He laid her on the bed without hesitation. The weight of his body pinned her against the mattress, and Yù Qíng received him with the same hunger, her legs opening to pull him closer. The room filled only with the sound of their breathing and the friction of straw.
---
When quiet returned to the cabin, the oil lamp had already gone out.
Yù Qíng was completely exhausted. She threw herself onto her side, draping one long leg over Zhì Yuǎn's thighs and spreading her hand across his chest, fingers lightly digging into his skin as if she still needed to make sure he was there. Within minutes, sleep took her.
Zhì Yuǎn stayed awake.
He felt the heat of her body against his, the sweat still clinging to both their skins, and the constant weight of her hand and leg. For a few minutes, he simply lay in the dark, staring at the bamboo ceiling.
Then, something changed.
It was not an explosion of power or a dramatic sensation. It was subtler. As if, after what happened on the peak, his mind had gained a new direction to look. He turned his attention inward, almost by instinct.
And he saw.
Not with his eyes, but in a direct and clear way. He could feel the internal structure of his own body — bones, muscles, tendons. And deeper, he saw narrow, almost dry channels, like paths that had never truly been used. In the center of his chest, exactly where the heavy sensation had lodged, there was an empty space.
Zhì Yuǎn remained still, analyzing.
He had never done this before. He had always observed things from the outside. But now he could look inside himself with the same precision he used to repair wood or mechanisms. He saw where the problem was: those internal channels were too closed, too dry. If he truly wanted to use what had entered his chest, he needed to open space.
He tested it.
He breathed deeply and tried to push that heavy density into the channels. Pain came immediately — as if he were forcing something through a pipe that was far too narrow. But he did not stop. He simply continued breathing, pressing, feeling where the resistance was greatest. With each cycle, he saw a little more. He saw the channels trembling, saw the most closed points.
He did not know how much time passed doing this. He only knew that, after several attempts, something began to flow. Little, but enough for him to understand that it was possible.
---
When he finally stopped, his body was hot and sweating. He opened his eyes and slowly turned his face toward Yù Qíng, careful not to wake her.
She continued sleeping deeply, her face buried against his neck, her breathing warm and steady. Her hand still pressed lightly against his chest.
Zhì Yuǎn observed her for a few seconds.
Then, with the same attention he had used on himself, he let his perception descend over her body.
He saw.
He saw the same narrow, dry channels inside Yù Qíng. He saw how her body remained tense even while sleeping — muscles always ready, as if she never fully relaxed. As if, even unconscious, she was prepared to grab, pull, and not let him go.
Zhì Yuǎn kept looking at her in the dark.
He understood, in that moment, that it was no use if only he changed. If he continued opening these paths alone, one day the difference between them would become too great. And Yù Qíng… she would never accept being left behind. Even if it hurt. Even if it broke her. She would simply hold on tighter.
He raised his left hand and placed his warm palm on her back, pulling his wife's body a little closer against his own.
If he was going to walk this path, she would walk it with him.
He would not leave her any other choice.