The world returned slowly, at first no more than faint whispers of wind and dim shadows flickering against Han Long's eyelids. Consciousness came and went, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand, elusive and distant. Finally, after what felt like an eternity drifting in the void, Han opened his eyes.
He stared blankly at the rough, wooden ceiling, his vision slowly focusing. Sunlight seeped through cracks between the planks, dust particles dancing lazily in the golden rays. The room around him was humble—a small hut with bare wooden walls, sparse furnishings, and a simple table beside the bed.
Han struggled to recall where he was, memories trickling back in fragmented bursts of pain and rage, his brutal battle with Elder Kong, the humiliation of defeat at Kai Feng's hands. His fists clenched weakly against the blankets, the bitterness almost overwhelming.
A quiet creak of the door drew Han's attention. He turned his head, painfully slow, his muscles aching deeply. Standing in the doorway, bathed in sunlight, was a figure he hadn't expected to see again-Meng Yao.
"It's you?" Han rasped, his voice dry and cracked.
Meng Yao's gentle eyes met his, widening in relief and surprise. A warm smile softened her features. "You're finally awake."
She quickly crossed the room, kneeling beside the bed, her delicate fingers reaching out instinctively to touch his forehead. Han flinched slightly, unused to gentleness, yet desperate for it.
"You've been unconscious for nearly two weeks," she explained softly, her voice tinged with concern. "Your meridians were strained. Kai brought you here after stabilizing your Qi. Elder Kong insisted you recuperate away from the sect, at least until you've recovered enough."
Han's jaw tightened at the mention of Kai Feng, the shame burning freshly once more. "So he spared me out of pity?"
Meng Yao shook her head gently, her eyes compassionate but firm. "No, Han. Kai…he did it out of respect. He chose mercy, even knowing what you had done."
Han's eyes darkened, his pride warring against gratitude, bitterness mixing with confusion. But as Meng Yao's hand gently brushed his hair from his forehead, he found his anger dissolving slightly beneath her tender touch.
"Have you been staying at Obsidian Peak all these while after you left home?" he said after a brief silence, carefully watching her expression. "Why are you here, taking care of me?"
Meng Yao lowered her eyes briefly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "Kai told me you were injured and alone. I couldn't leave you in this condition, not after what you did for me. The recovery of my sight, I owe that to you."
Her words should have brought Han satisfaction, but instead, he felt an inexplicable ache deep within his chest. Perhaps gratitude was not what he wanted from Meng Yao.
"You don't owe me anything," Han murmured quietly, his voice rough with barely hidden vulnerability. "I never helped you out of charity."
Meng Yao replied, her eyes meeting his with calm understanding. "Whatever reasons that you had for saving me doesn't change the fact that I can now see this beautiful world because of you. Taking care of you while you recover is the least I can do."
She stood slowly, smoothing the front of her pale green dress. "Rest for now. You're still weak. I'll bring you something to eat soon."
Han watched her retreat, her footsteps fading softly behind the closed door. Left alone again, he stared at the ceiling, confusion churning through him. Meng Yao's gentleness was unfamiliar and unsettling, tugging at emotions he'd kept hidden even from himself.
He drifted back into uneasy sleep, haunted by visions of her kind eyes and gentle hands.
In the days that followed, Meng Yao settled comfortably into a routine, visiting several times daily to care for Han's needs. Each morning she arrived just after sunrise, carrying warm porridge, fragrant with herbs to speed his recovery. She fed him patiently, never rushed, her movements gentle and precise, never betraying irritation or resentment.
Han grew accustomed to her presence quickly, each interaction softening his sharp edges, dulling the fierce anger he usually carried. He found himself anticipating her visits, heart quickening whenever the door creaked open.
One morning, Meng Yao arrived with a woven basket full of fresh fruits and steamed buns, the scent immediately filling the small hut.
"You cooked all this yourself?" Han asked, voice carefully neutral to hide his pleasure.
Meng Yao nodded with a shy smile, carefully arranging the food on the table beside him. "I learned a little cooking while staying at Obsidian Peak. I thought you might appreciate something more flavorful than porridge."
As she carefully peeled the fruit, slicing each piece neatly, Han watched her quietly, admiring the focused expression on her face. He found her graceful, her presence calming yet provoking turmoil within him. His feelings confused him, for jealousy stirred whenever she mentioned Kai, the thought of them together cutting deep.
"Do you enjoy staying at Obsidian Peak?" Han asked abruptly, unable to suppress the question any longer.
Meng Yao hesitated slightly, then nodded. "The people there have been kind. Especially Kai. He helped me regain confidence when I was lost. It's peaceful, comforting in a way I hadn't known before."
Han's heart twisted painfully. He frowned, a bitterness creeping into his voice despite his attempt to hide it. "You sound happy."
Meng Yao glanced up, catching the unspoken tension beneath his words. Her eyes softened slightly. "I am. But happiness doesn't erase gratitude. Nor does it make me forget those who have helped me."
Han felt her words pierce deeper, an unspoken truth lingering between them. She didn't see him as he saw her—no matter his sacrifices or efforts, he remained overshadowed by Kai Feng, whose virtue and compassion effortlessly eclipsed Han's selfish attempts at affection.
Yet Meng Yao continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "But it's not that simple. Happiness doesn't come from the place alone. It's who you share it with."
Their eyes locked, an unspoken question lingering heavily in the air between them. But before either could break the fragile silence, Meng Yao quickly turned away, focusing intently on arranging the food once more.
Han stared at her profile, the graceful line of her jaw, the slight flush of her cheek. The realization hit him abruptly—he'd fallen in love with her. Not just infatuation, not mere attraction. A feeling deeper and more vulnerable than he'd ever allowed himself before.
Yet, despite the ache that filled his chest, he said nothing. She belonged to a brighter world, one he'd never inhabit. To express his feelings openly would only burden her further.
More days passed, the rhythm of Meng Yao's visits unchanging. She nursed Han patiently, encouraging him gently as his body gradually regained strength. She cleaned his wounds meticulously, soothing balm applied with care, her fingers lingering softly, each touch a balm in itself.
One evening, as twilight bathed the hut in gentle hues of purple and pink, Meng Yao sat quietly beside Han's bed, carefully changing his bandages. Her movements were unhurried, filled with quiet tenderness.
"Meng Yao," Han finally spoke, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Why do you keep coming back? You've done enough."
Her fingers paused, eyes briefly lifting to meet his, gentle yet firm. "Because you matter to me. And because you've suffered enough, Han. I know there's kindness in you."
Her sincerity cracked something deep within him. Unable to hold back any longer, he reached out, capturing her wrist gently. "Meng Yao… I never expected you to stay."
She stilled, eyes wide, breath caught softly. He felt her pulse quicken beneath his fingertips.
Slowly, she smiled—a gentle, bittersweet expression.
Han felt warmth spread through his chest, tenderness he'd never known filling the empty places within him. Their eyes met, speaking silently what neither yet dared voice aloud.
The moment passed gently, leaving a quiet understanding between them. For now, it was enough.
As Meng Yao continued her gentle care, Han closed his eyes, letting himself finally accept the warmth she offered, for now, to savor this fragile peace, grateful for every quiet heartbeat they shared together in the fading twilight.