The temple courtyard was awash in pale sunlight, thin mist curling over the flagstones. The scent of sandalwood drifted through the air — faint, lingering, as though afraid to disturb the silence.

Standing amid that stillness was the Daoist.

He held a fan in one hand, its painted lilies swaying softly as he turned his wrist. His robe, pale as frost, caught the light in soft folds. Black hair brushed his shoulders, a single red bead glinting faintly by his ear.

He looked almost unreal — like a celestial spirit who had wandered down from the clouds and forgotten how to return.

A traveler paused at the gate. His boots were dusted with soil, his blade still faintly stained from the road. Yet all thoughts of weariness fled the instant his eyes met the figure before him.

Li Mingye raised his gaze — calm, unhurried — and their eyes met.

Time stilled.

The world around them blurred: wind, leaves, birdsong — all vanished into a single heartbeat.

The cultivator’s breath caught. Words gathered in his throat, but none dared escape.

The Daoist’s lips curved, a faint smile blooming like ink in water. “You’ve come far,” he said softly, voice carrying the rhythm of flowing springs. “The mountain is not kind to strangers.”

The wanderer could only nod — a foolish, wordless gesture. His hand tightened on his sword hilt, not out of threat, but to keep it from trembling.

Li Mingye tilted his head slightly, dark lashes lowering. “You need not speak,” he murmured. “Your eyes already do.”

For a moment, the breeze lifted — the fan unfolded, petals dancing across the painted silk. And in that single, unguarded instant, the traveler knew he was lost — not to battle, nor to fate — but to the quiet grace of a man who seemed untouched by the dust of the world.

But Li Mingye knew him.

He had known him since the day years ago when rain had drenched the mountain paths, and he had found this same man — wounded, feverish, clinging to life by the riverbank.

Back then, he had carried the stranger into the temple, tending to him with steady hands and silent prayers. For weeks they shared the hush of candlelight and the sound of falling rain. The man had left with the dawn, leaving only a single word of thanks — and the faint scent of iron and pine that lingered long after.

And now, as the sunlight caught the wanderer’s face, the Daoist felt that same old ache beneath his calm. He had told himself he had forgotten. That the past was but a ripple in the stillness of his heart.

Yet the moment those eyes met his again, the still water stirred.

“You’ve returned, Yan Su. ” he said quietly — more to himself than to the man.

Yan Su blinked, his throat working soundlessly.

He hadn’t expected to be remembered.

He hadn’t expected the monk to remember him.