Li Yuren was convinced that nothing made a place look more haunted than fog rolling in at sunset. Well, except maybe fog rolling in at sunset while your only company was a man who looked like he hadn't smiled since birth.
Shen Zhaoyan walked a few steps ahead, silent as always. His robes flowed like water, his sword gleaming faintly at his back, as if daring the shadows to try something.
Yuren, naturally, was stumbling on every third rock.
"I'm just saying," he muttered, rubbing his ankle after his third almost-death-by-pebble, "if we die here, I want it noted in the official report that I was against coming into the haunted ruins at night."
Zhaoyan didn't look back. "You insisted we follow the trail immediately."
"Yes, well. That was before I saw the trail involved crawling through cursed fog and dodging vengeful chickens."
"I believe there was only one chicken."
"It had friends."
They came to a stop at what remained of an inner hall. The old Wei Sect must have been grand once—stone floors etched with faded talismans, broken lanterns hanging like skeletal limbs, and columns wrapped in old wards now frayed and flaking.
Yuren knelt by the center of the room, where ashes and shattered offerings lay.
"Someone's been here," he said, poking a still-warm coal. "And it wasn't us. Unless you're secretly a pyromancer with a flair for dramatic entryways."
Zhaoyan knelt beside him, his expression unreadable. "The spell residue is fresh. Summoning, most likely. High level."
"Well, that's just rude," Yuren muttered. "Didn't even leave snacks."
Suddenly, a sharp clang echoed from deeper within the ruins. Yuren immediately drew his sword—an elegant blade with a not-so-elegant pink tassel tied to the hilt.
("It was a gift!" he'd once said. Zhaoyan had refused to comment.)
They moved cautiously through the broken halls, shadows dancing along cracked walls. Every sound echoed twice. Once in front of them—and once behind.
Yuren couldn't help but mutter under his breath, "This feels like the start of a ghost story. The kind where the loudmouth dies first."
Zhaoyan, as always, ignored him.
---
They turned a corner—and found a boy.
No older than fifteen, pale, trembling, robes torn. He stood alone near a collapsed statue of some long-forgotten sect founder.
His eyes were wide with fear. "Help me," he whispered. "It's coming."
Yuren stepped forward, lowering his sword slightly. "Hey, hey, it's okay. What's coming?"
The boy didn't answer. Instead, his eyes rolled back—and his mouth opened far too wide.
A whisper spilled out. Not in his voice. Not in any human voice.
"The seal has broken… the debt must be paid…"
Zhaoyan moved like lightning, slicing through the air with a single sharp motion. A burst of black mist exploded from the boy's body and fled into the floor, howling.
Yuren caught the boy before he fell, his body limp but breathing.
"What the hell was that?" he asked, staring at the spot where the mist had vanished.
Zhaoyan's voice was grim. "Possession. Something bound to this place. Ancient."
"You're being specific again. I hate when you do that."
---
They took the boy back to a nearby abandoned courtyard. Zhaoyan lit a small flame in his palm and placed it under a hanging charm—one that glowed bright orange, warding off further spirits.
Yuren watched the boy sleep, arms crossed, worry hidden behind a lazy smile. "So. Do we tell the elders now, or do we let them figure it out after someone else gets possessed and starts speaking in ghost tongues?"
Zhaoyan sat near the outer wall, staring at the moon through a broken window. "They'll want proof. They always do."
Yuren raised an eyebrow. "You mean the glowing talismans, cursed stone, and evil mist monologues aren't enough?"
Silence.
"…Fine. We'll dig deeper."
Yuren stood and brushed off his robes. "But first, tea."
Zhaoyan blinked. "Tea?"
"You expect me to fight demons and ghosts without caffeine?"
---
Five minutes later, Yuren had somehow conjured a small fire, a dented teapot, and two cups that didn't match. He poured tea with the grace of someone who'd clearly done this on many midnight missions.
Zhaoyan took the cup, staring at it like it might be poisoned.
"It's not cursed," Yuren promised. "Probably."
He sat cross-legged, sipping dramatically. "So. Shen Zhaoyan. Serious cultivator. Favorite of the elders. Dead inside. Tell me, what tragic backstory made you like this?"
Zhaoyan didn't blink. "I met you."
Yuren nearly choked on his tea. "Was that—was that a joke? Did you just—did you make a joke?"
Zhaoyan calmly sipped his tea. "Must have been the cursed mist."
"…I'm framing this moment in my memory."
Their eyes met again. This time, Yuren didn't crack a joke. And Zhaoyan didn't look away.
Something shifted in the silence between them. A moment too soft for warriors, too loud for cowards. The moonlight caught the edge of Zhaoyan's face—sharp cheekbones, unreadable eyes.
Yuren exhaled slowly. "You're hard to figure out, you know."
Zhaoyan turned back toward the sky. "Good."
---
In the distance, a bell rang.
Not a real one. An echo. Faint. Wrong.
Zhaoyan stood. "That came from the forbidden wing."
Yuren sighed and stood too. "Of course it did. Nothing good ever happens in a place called the 'forbidden wing.'"
They left the courtyard, the boy still resting under protective wards.
As they walked, Yuren leaned in and whispered, "If I die, you have to cry at my funeral. Loudly. Like, dramatic weeping."
Zhaoyan didn't even look at him. "I'll consider it."
"You're so romantic."
To be continued