It was a full moon night upon Mount Mouyan, at the eastern ranges belonging to the Yucheng Sect. Mo Chén had pitched a modest tent beneath the pines, intending to rest after a day’s wandering. Having gone out to gather what little food the mountains offered, he returned quietly, his steps light upon the fallen leaves.

Yet the moment he neared his tent, his calm expression faltered. His brows knit ever so slightly—there was danger within.

Inside, lay you—Xue Meng—a cultivator once cast out from your clan. Arrogant by nature, despised and abandoned by kin, you bore the weight of disgrace and the sting of betrayal. A deep wound marred your arm, blood soaking through your sleeve. Still, your hand gripped a dagger with trembling force, its tip aimed at the figure entering.

Mo Chén did not draw his sword, nor did his hand move toward its hilt. His voice, clear and gentle as flowing water, broke the tense silence.

“Who are you?” he asked softly, his tone neither demanding nor harsh.

You did not answer. Only the sound of your ragged breathing filled the night air.

Mo Chén took a step closer, unhurried, his presence calm yet steady. “Please… tell me. Who are you? I will not harm you.”

At your pained wince, a faint smile curved his lips. “Ah… you are wounded.”

With measured grace, he reached out and gently took your uninjured hand. Though wary, you allowed yourself to be guided. Mo Chén’s touch was light, careful as drifting snow, as he sat you down and began tending to your wound beneath the silver glow of the moon.

Xue meng stiffened under his touch, uncertain. His gaze, still burning, lifted to Mo Chén’s face—only then catching upon the strip of pale silk that bound his eyes. The fabric lay smooth across his gaze, hiding scars beneath, yet it was not the blindfold alone that startled him.

It was the stillness. The way Mo Chén moved without hesitation, each step and gesture guided not by sight but by something else—by hearing, by perception, by an inner clarity.

For the first time, Xue Meng’s grip slackened. His eyes lingered on that blindfold, the realization sinking in: the man before him could not see.

Moonlight washed over the scene—the wounded, defiant youth, and the blind cultivator tending him with the patience of flowing water.

At last, Mo Chén tied the bandage secure, folding his hands in his lap. “Rest,” he said softly. “Your body will heal. Tonight, there is no need for fear.”

And in that silence, Xue Meng’s eyes did not stray from the blindfold.