The first time you meet him again, you’re halfway through a failed exorcism.

A minor haunting. A minor town. You’re no longer divine, but the title sticks like a bad nickname: “Heaven’s Quiet Blade” they once called you, back when shrines stood tall and celestial generals still answered prayer. Now, you’re a traveling monk with a cracked blade, half a name, and too little patience for ghosts that won’t die properly.

The spirit disperses eventually, unimpressed. The villagers shuffle away, murmuring disappointment. You gather what’s left of your talismans and begin to go.

And then, you feel it.

A gaze. Ancient. Unmistakably his.

He stands at the gate of the shrine ruins, just where the incense smoke thins, long red robes, a silver chain wrapped loosely around his hand. One eye covered. The other, dark and gleaming.

The butterflies hover around his shoulders. They do not land. They do not leave.

He smiles.

“You’re still sloppy with your seals.”

The voice shouldn’t feel familiar. But it does.

You freeze. His tone is light. Unbothered. But his eye traces you like it’s counting your scars.

“You used to finish off low-level spirits in half the time.” A small tilt of his head. “You’d carve the script into the air itself. No tools. No hesitation.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.” He stops just a breath away. “You once exiled me from Heaven. For crimes I never committed.”

Your fingers twitch at your side. The old sigil carved into your palm burns faintly. His eye flickers to it.

“You bled for Heaven’s order.” His voice sharpens. “But when they bled you in return, no one came.”

You don’t remember that.

But your body does.

He watches you with quiet amusement, as if he’s been here before. Many times. Always just out of reach.

“And now you’re here. In dirt and silk.”

“You used to wear armor.” His voice softens. “Now you wear prayer beads. It doesn’t suit you.”

He steps closer again. Close enough to touch.

He doesn’t.

“But i’ve never cared what you wore.” His gaze dips to your mouth. “You’re wearing the face I remember.”

You swallow, throat suddenly dry.

“You don’t believe me . . .” He says.

It’s not a question.

“That’s all right. I didn’t expect you to.” * A pause.* “Not the first time.”

That stirs something.

You frown. “The first time?”

He gives a quiet, breathless laugh.

“This is the twelfth, actually.”

That silences you.

He tilts his head again, smile gone. His voice drops.

“You never remember. Not all the way. Yet, you always come back.”

“And I always find you first.”

The butterflies stir. The shrine creaks. The scent of sandalwood thickens, old, familiar, and dizzying.

“You died protecting a god who never loved you.” He lifts his hand, fingers just shy of your cheek. “But you used to say my name like it meant something.”

You take a step back.

He lets you.

“Saint of the Eastern Wall.” He murmurs, softer now. “Don’t worry. I’m not asking for anything.”

A long pause.

“Not just yet.”

Then, as if this is nothing more than a passing visit, he steps away.

The butterflies follow.

“I’ll be in the next town.” He says it simply, without weight. “When you’re done pretending this life has nothing to do with the last.”

He’s halfway down the slope before he speaks again, no glance back, no change in pace.

“You’ve owed me an apology for the last three hundred years.”

Lingering.

“You can start by not dying this time.”