The candles had just gone out.
Yuren didn't scream, because he was brave.
He did, however, latch onto Zhaoyan's arm like a cat falling off a rooftop.
"Okay, okay," he whispered, heart racing. "It's fine. Totally fine. Just a spooky voice saying we were never supposed to meet. Classic ghost flirting."
Zhaoyan stayed still, gaze fixed on the window where the voice had echoed from.
Then—nothing.
No spirit. No shadow. Just moonlight.
After a few tense minutes, Zhaoyan said calmly, "It's gone."
"Oh good," Yuren muttered, still holding on to him. "Then I'll just stay here, clinging to your arm like a lifeline until I feel emotionally secure again. So... maybe next year."
Zhaoyan sighed, but didn't push him off.
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside, silence stretched—until Yuren realized something far more terrifying.
"Wait. There's only one bed."
Zhaoyan looked at the narrow cot. Then at Yuren. "I'll sleep on the floor."
"You've got bad knees."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that, actually. I saw you wince when you kneeled during morning meditation."
Zhaoyan pressed a hand to his forehead like Yuren was giving him a migraine. "We'll share."
"Scandalous."
"You sleep like a corpse anyway."
Yuren grinned, kicked off his boots, and flopped onto the bed like a starfish. "I'll take the left side. The haunted side."
They lay there in silence, back to back. The mattress was stiff, the blanket thin, but neither said a word.
Then, quietly:
"Zhaoyan?"
"…What?"
"That memory we saw earlier. The one with your ancestor and the red-robed guy. Do you think they were… like, you know?"
Zhaoyan turned slightly. "Lovers?"
"Yeah."
"…Maybe."
Yuren waited.
"No judgment," he said softly. "If it was something like that."
Zhaoyan stayed quiet for a long time. Then: "If they were, then their story ended in betrayal. Pain. War."
Yuren turned to look at him in the dark. "And you're afraid history's repeating itself."
Zhaoyan didn't answer.
But Yuren heard the truth in the silence.
---
The next morning, they returned to the altar room. The scroll was gone—but something had changed.
Behind the altar, a crack in the wall had formed overnight. Inside, tucked between bricks, was a piece of cloth—stained and ancient—with a familiar moon symbol, and scribbled writing barely visible.
Zhaoyan read aloud:
"Seal her flame before the seventh moon. Or the world will burn again."
Yuren's mouth went dry. "Seal who's flame? Who's 'her'?"
Zhaoyan didn't reply.
But his eyes flicked to Yuren.
Yuren pointed to himself. "Wait, ME?! What do you mean her is ME?! I'm just a guy with anxiety and cursed luck!"
"You're not," Zhaoyan said quietly. "You never were."
Before Yuren could freak out properly, the air around them shimmered. A sigil lit up under their feet—unfamiliar and ancient.
Zhaoyan shoved Yuren behind him just as a figure materialized in the doorway—tall, cloaked, face hidden.
They didn't speak. Just raised a hand—and the ground trembled.
Zhaoyan drew his sword.
Yuren did the only reasonable thing: he grabbed a vase and yelled, "I'm fragile and unpredictable!"
The figure struck.
Zhaoyan parried. Sparks flew. The clash of spiritual energy cracked the walls.
Yuren dodged falling debris, his talismans lighting up mid-air. He threw one—it stuck to the intruder's chest, glowing gold.
The figure hissed.
Then vanished.
Gone, like smoke.
The sigil under them dimmed.
"Okay," Yuren gasped. "That was not a hallucination. Unless we both had the same one."
Zhaoyan stared at the spot where the figure had stood. "They were testing us again. And they're getting stronger."
Yuren nodded, then groaned. "Can't we go back to almost dying in the east wing? This is getting too real."
Zhaoyan looked at him, eyes unreadable. "You asked me last night if we're repeating history."
"…Yeah?"
Zhaoyan stepped closer.
"If we are," he said softly, "then this time, I'll fight fate."
Yuren blinked. "Is that a metaphor or a weird romantic confession? Because I'm very confused and a little flustered."
Zhaoyan turned away, but his ears were red.
Yuren grinned.
---
Elsewhere, deep underground, the masked figure stood before a frozen altar of blood.
"She's awakening," the voice whispered. "The liar's blood stirs. The moon child is beginning to see."
Behind them, another masked figure entered. A new voice, sharper, feminine.
"And when they remember what they were… what then?"
The first figure said nothing.
Just stared at the flame that danced between their hands.
---
To be continued…