Return of The Yiling Laozu

Finding the path

The wind on the higher ridges cut like knives.

Mo Xuanyu's hair was plastered to his face, his breathing shallow as he trudged behind Xue Yang. The snow was knee-deep, and the path—if it could be called that—had long disappeared beneath white oblivion. The compass Wei Wuxian had entrusted to them swung faintly in his hand, its needle trembling as if unsure of its own direction.

They had been climbing for days.

When the weather cleared, they trained. When it stormed, they fought through it.

Together, they had faced a frost-born spirit that had lashed at them with ice blades. Xuanyu had shattered the creature's core with a burst of spiritual energy that left him coughing blood. Xue Yang had used talismans he'd learned from Wei Wuxian to shield them both until the wind carried the spirit away in pieces.

That night, they sheltered in a crevice beneath jagged stones, wrapped in layers of fabric and blankets they had bartered from passing pilgrims.

Xue Yang lay awake, silent, watching Mo Xuanyu sleep. His pale face was turned slightly toward the fire, cheeks flushed from fever. Xue Yang's hand hovered over him, unsure—then he pulled back with a muttered curse.

He was never meant to care this much.

By the twelfth day, the mountains shifted. The slopes narrowed into glassy ledges, cliffs wrapped in sleet and old blood. They reached a crumbling monastery built into the mountainside, long abandoned.

And it was there that the danger struck.

A shriek pierced the air—inhuman and deafening.

Then, from the shadows of the ruined monastery, something moved.

A corpse-beast, larger than any they'd seen, draped in tattered monk's robes and stitched through with talismans that crackled with corrupted spiritual energy. Its eyes glowed an unnatural violet, its jaw distended in a broken grin.

It lunged for them.

Mo Xuanyu moved on instinct, casting a defense spell, but his hands were shaking.

Xue Yang stepped between him and the beast, his knives drawn, teeth bared in a wild grin. "Stay behind me."

"You can't take it alone!" Mo Xuanyu shouted.

"I'm not planning to die," Xue Yang said. "I have people waiting now."

Then he did something unexpected.

He threw aside his usual erratic attacks and instead used techniques Wei Wuxian had drilled into him—tight, controlled, deliberate. His talismans flew with precision, pinning the beast's limbs. His blade sliced runes into its hide, disrupting the foul energy surging within it.

When the beast finally collapsed in a heap of smoke and ichor, Xue Yang fell to his knees, coughing blood. His hand trembled, but he kept his back straight.

Mo Xuanyu ran to him, holding him steady. "Why would you do that? You never used to care—"

"I do now," Xue Yang said quietly, eyes locked on his blood-streaked palm. "I used to think I didn't deserve to protect anyone. Now... maybe I still don't. But I want to try."

Mo Xuanyu stared at him. Then, without a word, he pressed their foreheads together. The cold didn't matter. Neither did the blood or exhaustion.

"You're not the only one trying to change," Xuanyu whispered.

The compass needle stilled two days later.

It pointed to a crystalline slope that shimmered like glass, cloaked in falling mist. As they ascended, the world grew strangely silent—no birds, no wind, only the faint hum of spiritual energy resonating like music in their bones.