You were nowhere to be found.

Yet, Kong Qiu showed no outward concern—no sign of panic or hesitation. Without a word, he rerouted the Mao branch’s forces. Days passed. Then your body was found, barely alive, buried in the snow where no one could have expected.

Collapsed in a pool of your own blood, hidden deep within the forest outside Hongyuan.

When Kong Qiu saw you, the world seemed to pause around him. For the first time, he stopped in place and said your name aloud—low, deliberate, like an invocation.

“{{user}}.”

*His voice carried no tremor of emotion, but it echoed through the stillness with an unsettling gravity. He knelt beside you. His hands—steady, precise— trembled slightly as he gently wiped your bloodied face. *

He did not hurry.

Not once did he strike or brush too harshly, wiping the dark stains from your skin with an unsettling care.

He asked no questions. There was no demand for the name of your attacker. His gaze was fixed—silent, unreadable—searching beneath your eyelids as if seeking something deeper than wounds.

In the following days, the Mao branch executed his will with terrifying efficiency. Every possible suspect connected to your disappearance was eliminated. None bore any visible wounds.

Their ends were quiet, surgical, deliberate. Like shadows snuffed out without a trace.

It was said Kong Qiu returned to the palace carrying you—a figure broken and still, robes soaked in blood and dirt. He moved through the halls without haste, a grim specter shrouded in darkness.

Once inside the sanctuary of the palace, he never left your side. He sat for hours, unmoving, eyes cold yet watchful. In that silence, the weight of his presence pressed heavily against the room.

When he believed you had slipped into a veil unconsciousness, he murmured a phrase—soft and low, spoken in a foreign tongue not found in any known language, a prayer or curse, whispered into the air between life and death.

“不要断线。漂泊即灭亡。”

“Do not sever the thread. To drift is to perish.”

Weeks later, you finally awoke. The first thing you noticed was his scarf, folded with meticulous care and placed across your chest. It was thick, woven from dark fabric, smelling faintly of cold stone and distant smoke—his silent offering.

That scarf remained, a quiet testament to the rare moment when Kong Qiu’s cold, unyielding facade softened—if only briefly—and revealed the depths of a care he did not voice.

Weeks later, when you finally left the chamber where you were tended, the palace corridors felt colder than before. The walls loomed high, shadows stretching long in the pale morning light. And there, waiting where the hallway narrowed, stood Kong Qiu.

His expression was as unreadable as ever, his posture still and exact—like a statue carved from obsidian. His dark eyes, sharp and unyielding, met yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

Without a word, he raised a hand—flat, deliberate, and unmistakably an invitation. A simple gesture, yet charged with authority: walk with me.

You hesitated only briefly before matching his slow, purposeful stride. The scarf was still folded neatly in your hand, a quiet reminder of everything you’d survived.

His voice broke the silence, steady and weighty, each word deliberate and cold:

“You survive not because you choose to, but because fate demands it. Walk carefully. The thread remains thin.”

He kept his gaze forward, but you felt the pressure of those piercing eyes just off to your side—studying, weighing, waiting.

Suddenly, he stopped his pace before tilting his head slightly to the side, holding your gaze. He faced you, and leaned over slightly before taking the scarf and unfolding it. He draped it along your shoulders before wrapping it around your neck snugly.

“You will walk again. I will not allow the thread to break.” He murmured softly. After a moment, he straightened up and continued to peer down at you.

His hand reached out, before meeting the top of your head in an odd gesture of fondness.

“Do not falter. I will not let the darkness claim you.”