Jin Mu moved through the refectory with a calm precision that belied the coiled tension in his gut. Dawn poured cold light through the lattice windows, striping the long tables in bands of gold and shadow. Apprentices in plain robes jostled for breakfast rations—steamed rice, pickled greens, thin porridge that steamed in cracked bowls.
He took a modest portion and carried it to the farthest corner of the hall. There, he could eat undisturbed, unnoticed. The hum of voices washed over him without touching.
Today is the day.
He forced himself to chew, to swallow, to appear ordinary. But every moment felt like standing on the lip of a collapsing ledge.
She would die today.
And if she died—if he did nothing—her sister and the entire household would follow.
Not because he wanted to save her. He had no illusions about that. He had never felt anything but contempt for Bai Yuelin—her cutting words, her aristocratic disdain, her fondness for humiliating disciples born in gutter alleys.
But the consequences of her death had rippled out in ways no one had anticipated. He knew because he had lived them—once.
The knowledge sat in his chest like a brand.
I will not watch them all burn again.
He forced himself to finish the last mouthful of rice. The spoon rattled in the bowl. His fingers were not as steady as he pretended.
When he emerged onto the outer terrace, she was already there.
Bai Yuelin stood framed by the high arches of the covered walkway, her hair gleaming white as frost under the morning sun. She wore the silver-edged robes of her house, cinched tight at the waist, every fold precise. A slim ceremonial blade hung at her hip, its scabbard inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
She was alone, which was rare. Her retinue was never far—eager to bask in her reflected status. But today she lingered by the rail, watching the sunrise over the courtyard below.
Even from a distance, her posture radiated cold authority. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. A sovereign in miniature.
He had always thought she looked like a queen carved of ice. Beautiful, immaculate, and utterly pitiless.
And he could not let her leave this building.
His mind sketched possibilities. He needed a pretext—something to delay her without exposing his knowledge of what would happen.
If she stepped beyond these walls today, she would take her usual path to the archives. At the second turning, she would cross the inner bridge—where a hidden sigil trap would activate.
Its explosion would hurl her into the gorge below.
Her body would never be recovered.
Her sister—Bai Qingyan—would accuse their rivals of sabotage. The investigation would spiral into blood feud. Before the year's end, Qingyan and half her kin would lie in unmarked graves.
That war had gutted the sect's middle ranks. Worse—it had set in motion alliances that eventually led to Shen Yan's betrayal.
If I can stop this one death… perhaps I can fracture the whole chain.
He did not delude himself that he was a savior. He would have left her to her fate if the cost were hers alone.
But too many others had died.
He drew a steadying breath and approached.
Her pale gaze flicked to him, eyebrows rising a fraction.
"Ah. The gutter-bred upstart." Her tone was all silken contempt. "Come to bask in the presence of your betters?"
He inclined his head. "I came to deliver a message."
"Oh?" She turned to face him fully. "What makes you think I am interested in the babble of the lowborn?"
His patience strained, but he kept his voice level. "The elders requested that no one pass beyond the hall until mid-day. A… security concern."
Her lip curled. "What nonsense is this? No one informed me."
"It was a sudden development."
"How convenient." She folded her arms. "And you, of all people, were chosen to relay it? How flattering you think I am so gullible."
His teeth ground together behind a polite smile. "I am merely doing as instructed."
She stepped closer, so near he could see the faint blue veins beneath her porcelain skin.
"You presume much," she murmured, voice low and sharp. "You imagine that donning those robes makes you my equal. You imagine that a handful of talents can erase the stain of your birth. It cannot."
"I don't imagine anything," he said softly. "Least of all your approval."
Her eyes widened, just a flicker. Then narrowed to icy slits.
"You are beneath me," she hissed. "And you will remain so, no matter how high you claw. Now get out of my way."
She moved to brush past him.
Damn.
He had no more time for words. He seized her wrist.
Her gasp was sharp as a blade. "Unhand me."
"Forgive me," he said. "But you are not leaving."
She wrenched against his grip, shock flaring into fury.
"You dare lay hands on me?"
"I do."
"You will pay—"
The last word cut off as he pushed her back against the wall, not roughly, but with implacable force.
In that moment, she looked at him not as a nuisance but as something alien—someone who would not obey the unspoken rules.
"You have no idea what you risk," she whispered, voice trembling. "If my house learns of this—"
"They will not," he said. "Because you will still be alive to tell them."
For an instant, their gazes locked—hers bright with outraged disbelief, his flat as hammered iron.
She opened her mouth to retort.
The boom of a distant sigil detonation rolled through the corridors—muffled but unmistakable.
Her eyes flew wide.
"What—"
"That," he said, releasing her wrist, "was meant for you."
For a heartbeat, she simply stood there, chest heaving, lips parted.
Then she turned, striding to the railing. Far below, a plume of dust rose over the inner bridge.
He watched her shoulders stiffen as realization took hold.
When she faced him again, some of the arrogance had bled from her expression.
"You…knew."
"I did."
"Why?"
He looked past her, into the deepening light.
"Because your death would not have ended with you."
She swallowed. For the first time in all the years he'd known her, she seemed unsure.
"And you expect me to thank you?"
"No." He met her gaze. "I expect nothing."
But as he spoke, memory uncoiled—unbidden, merciless.
He was standing in the embers of Bai Qingyan's manor. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the choking sweetness of burned silk.
Bodies lay everywhere—retainers, kin, children.
He had arrived too late.
In the courtyard, Bai Qingyan knelt beside her sister's severed hand. Her face was a ruin of grief.
When she looked up at him, her eyes were black hollows.
"You did this," she whispered.
"No," he had said, voice ragged. "No—I tried to stop—"
"You did nothing," she said. "You watched. As you people always do."
A crack split the night. Flame erupted from the main hall, a pillar of orange that painted her face in monstrous light.
He took a step toward her.
"Don't," she said. "Don't you dare pretend you care."
He reached for her—
—and the floor caved beneath them, and everything became falling and heat and darkness.Both survived.Hate festered.
Jin Mu's breath caught as the vision receded.
When he focused again, Bai Yuelin was watching him with a strange, searching look.
"You don't care for me," she said. It wasn't a question.
"No."
"Then why—"
"Because too many died who didn't deserve it."
The silence stretched between them, brittle as glass.
Finally, she lifted her chin.
"I will not forget this," she said quietly.
"I don't expect you to."
A door banged open down the hall. Voices echoed—servants shouting, elders demanding reports.
She turned without another word and walked away, each step measured, the proud tilt of her shoulders restored.
But she paused once, just before the corner, and looked back.
He could not read her expression.
Then she was gone.
He stood there long after the hallway emptied. The taste of ash lingered on his tongue.
He had changed the course of something.
Whether for better or worse, he did not know.
But as he drew a slow breath, he felt the tiniest easing of the pressure in his chest.
I will not watch it happen again.
Not this time.