The boy still held the cup.
It had long gone cold, yet he hadn't moved. He sat beside the silent man, unsure whether to ask questions or simply remain still like the trees. The breeze touched his cheeks, and the sun moved slowly across the sky—as if it, too, was unsure whether to disturb the man beneath the pine.
Hun Ye had not spoken since his last word.
But the boy could feel something in the air. It was not pressure and not energy. Just… a presence.
The kind that didn't need to be known to be felt.
The boy glanced down at his cup again.
"…It's bitter."
"Tea often is," Hun Ye said gently, eyes still half-closed.
The boy hesitated, then asked, "Did you really make them disappear?"
Hun Ye didn't answer. Not because he was unwilling—but because it wasn't important.
The boy looked again at the place where the bandits had stood. There was not even sign of violence and not even a footprint.
"Are you a spirit?"
"No."
"An immortal?"
Hun Ye's lips curved, barely.
"There were too many words and too many titles. All of them mean the same thing after long enough."
The boy lowered his voice. "Then… are you a god?"
Hun Ye opened his eyes and looked at the boy fully for the first time.
There was no glare, no weight, no divine judgment. There present is only stillness.
"A god," he repeated softly, as if tasting the word after a long time.
"I once stepped above what they call God. I saw beyond it. And in the end, I found nothing there."
The boy frowned. "Nothing?"
Hun Ye nodded slowly. "There was only sky and silence and me."
The boy didn't know what that meant. But he felt that trying to understand it would take him the rest of his life.
They sat that way for some time. The boy's heartbeat finally slowed. The tension in his shoulders faded.
For the first time in days, he wasn't afraid.
The leaves rustled softly above them. A cloud passed over the sun. The mountains sighed.
Then the boy spoke again,but hesitant.
"…My name is Lin Shu."
Hun Ye remained quiet, but his gaze was attentive.
"I live in the lower valley," Lin Shu continued. "We have farms and goats. My uncle teaches archery. He says I'm no good at learning."
Hun Ye didn't respond.
"I wasn't trying to spy," Lin Shu said quickly. "On those bandits, I didn't know. When I just went up the hill to look for hawk feathers. They saw me and then, I ran."
Hun Ye nodded.
"And now they're gone," the boy whispered. "Because I ran into you."
Hun Ye tilted his head slightly, as if the idea of fate amused him.
"No," he said. "They're gone because they stepped where they shouldn't have."
Lin Shu blinked. "But if I hadn't—"
Hun Ye raised a hand, not to interrupt, but to quiet the flow of unnecessary thought.
"They would have disappeared the moment they threatened anyone near me. It wasn't about you."
"Oh…"
The boy stared into his cup again. Then he said quietly, "Thank you."
Hun Ye poured more tea.
Down in the valley, someone was watching the sky.
An old man in a worn robe stood at the mouth of a broken shrine, his eyes locked on the horizon. The birds had flown oddly this morning. The air felt heavy. And something deep in his bones had begun to stir.
Behind him, a scroll trembled on its own.
He hadn't felt this in decades not since the collapse of the East Star Sect and not since the old emperor had spoken of the Forgotten Era.
He turned to the scroll.
Its seal had cracked.
The name written within was unreadable erased by time, buried under dust.
But the heavens remembered.
He whispered the only thing he dared to say.
"He's returned."
Back on the cliff, Lin Shu finally asked the question that had been scratching at his heart.
"…Will they come for you now?"
"Who?"
"The people who can feel your presence that were strongest ones, immortals and the ones who watch the skies."
Hun Ye stirred the tea with a slender twig.
"They will."
"You don't seem worried."
"I'm not."
"But… what if they come in armies?"
Hun Ye looked at him.
"There is no army."
Lin Shu's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Hun Ye said softly, "there is no army strong enough to matter, no formation vast enough to touch me and not sword long enough to reach."
He plucked a pine needle from the ground.
"This," he said, holding it out, "is more than enough."
Lin Shu looked at the needle.
It was just a pine needle, thin and fragile.
But he didn't doubt it.
That night, Lin Shu stayed by the tree.
Hun Ye lit no fire, ate no food and spoke no more words.
But the boy slept deeply, curled against the roots of the pine. There were no beasts howled, and no insects chirped. It was as if the mountain itself had chosen to protect that spot.
And far above, the stars rearranged themselves.
Very quietly and subtly.
As if making space for someone who had once stood among them.
In the morning, the boy woke to find the man still seated.
He was in same position, same expression and same cup of tea.
"Will you stay here?" Lin Shu asked, brushing dust from his cheek.
Hun Ye looked at the sky.
"I will stay," he said, "until something makes me move."
"What would make you move?"
Hun Ye didn't answer.
He looked over the horizon.
Somewhere, across the lands, old powers were on move. Not because they knew his name—but because the heavens had whispered. And the heavens never whispered without reason.
And so, the world would soon remember what it tried so long to forget.
But Hun Ye did not rise.
He remained seated.
Because gods could move, and kings could rage.
But he… had tea to finish.