Past—

Pain was a virtue.

It kept Qian Meng tethered to the world of the living, one aching second at a time. His mind was drifting, unaware of how he'd fallen at the edge of a river that splashed chilling water onto his gore-covered skin. His eyes were open, but he couldn't move—he only stared at the fast-moving stream with a sense of detachment. Out of the corner of his eye, Qian Meng could see a glowing ward portal. That was his only ticket to survival, but even if the prince could stand, he wasn't sure he wanted to. Perhaps dying was his destiny, after all.

There was a certain measure of peace in the thought.

"Are you alright?"

Sick shock flared through his chest. And at first, Qian Meng ignored the voice. He assumed it was his foolish mind giving him false hope. In reality, he did not know how he got here, nor how much time he had left before he lost too much blood.

"Gods above…"

The owner of the voice kneeled beside him, proving that either his hallucination had evolved or someone really happened upon him. Their robes were a deep navy edged in silver, and Qian Meng felt regretful when the fabric at the person's knees was soaked through with blood in mere seconds. He tried to reach out, to push the man away, but all his fingers managed was a weak twitch. The person brought two fingers to his wrist, checking for a pulse. It was there, but weak and thready.

The man who found him stood with a sigh, rubbing one hand across his mouth. Whoever this was, they were so near death he was unsure of how they were still breathing, and if they stood a chance at recovery, it was imperative to move them. The Noelani Temple high in the mountains was known for their progressive healing methods, and he was almost certain they could help.

"I'm going to move you now. I'm sorry," he told the injured young man.

Qian Meng couldn't refute it nor express his gratitude. He could do nothing but groan low in the back of his throat as his body was jostled. The person picked him up, cradling Qian Meng's limp form close to their chest and supporting his lulling head with a forearm. It gave the prince a view of their face.

A handsome man had found him, most likely a cultivator for how otherworldly his beauty was. Cobalt eyes shining with intelligence, straight long blond hair pulled back by a carved silver hair ornament, and a tall stature lined with lithe muscle. To any would-be foe, just looking at him was enough to instill unease. Qian Meng recognized his features as hailing from the north for his twin had the same ones gifted to him by their long-dead mother. Again, he tried to speak, but could not move his mouth. The man must have noticed his attempt, for the cultivator's eyes roved down to meet Qian Meng's glassy, dark gaze.

"Don't worry. I am taking you to my temple. There, you will receive the care you need."

The only thing Qian Meng could do was lick his cracked lips and struggle to keep his eyes open. Darkness pulled at him, wished for him to sleep. Qian Meng didn't want to. He wanted to ask how he got here and where his family was and what happened to them. Because, at the end of the day, family was still family.

Even if he didn't love them.

⚔

The next time Qian Meng awoke he was in a bed of white silk with an aching body wrapped in bandages stained a bloody crimson. Agony thrummed along every vein, forcing his skin to tighten. The prince winced, twisting his head from side to side to take in his surroundings. No one else was in the room, and it was clearly a sick bay. The calming color of cream overtook the space, a medicinal scent teased his nose, and on the far wall was a long counter of glass bottles full of herbs. Empty beds lined the space, and the scent of amber incense burned somewhere nearby.

He turned his face back to the polished ceiling, trying to swallow past the dry lump in his throat. Qian Meng didn't remember how he got here, nor where these injuries stemmed from. Had his father taken it a step too far? Was this the infamous palace infirmary? He'd never had the privilege of seeing it before, let alone being treated by a physician. Perhaps he could call out to get some answers.

The prince tried to sit up, but the pain grew dizzying, forcing a low groan past his lips. It was enough to alert someone, though. A stout woman popped her head around the partition screen near the door, raising her brows when she saw him up and struggling to move.

"Wait! Don't!" She yelped, flying around the screen to push him into the bed once more.

Qian Meng coughed while trying to speak, so the woman rushed to get him water, helping him to drink. He allowed her to touch him just enough to support him and drank it in greedy gulps. Once his throat was no longer on fire, he laid back with a soft exhale, closing his eyes. He already felt wrecked, and he'd barely been awake for ten minutes.

"How long was I asleep for?" He croaked.

The healer stood up, one hand on her hip as she surveyed him from head to toe. "Two weeks. But, if I were you, I'd be asking if I'm going to make it or not."

Qian Meng blinked slowly. Never mind surviving, that hadn't been very high on the prince's list of worries in a great while. Two weeks was a long time to be out because of an injury, though. Had the hunt—zang! A flash of pain roared through his skull at the brief thought, forcing him to curl in on himself. His vision grew blurry enough that he had to close his eyes.

The prince rubbed a hand across his sweating forehead, breath shaky. Okay, so no trying to remember anything until grasping some concrete answers, duly noted. The healer gave him a worried look before gliding to the medicine counter. Her hands flitted from one jar to the next, reminding him of a hummingbird. Graceful, yet forever moving.

"So, this is the palace sickbay?" He asked.

She got to work on grinding down a plethora of herbs, her back facing him. "This is a sickbay, but it is in a temple, not a palace."

Qian Meng's brows furrowed. He must've been truly close to death for his father to even consider sending him to a nearby temple for treatment, let alone doing so. It was so surprising he had to confirm it once more.

"I'm at Achak?"

At that, she turned, brow raised. "No, you are in the Noelani Temple. Do you not remember?"

Shock spiraled through him as he shook his head. No, he most certainly did not remember. Despite his body's protests, he sat up against the headboard, trying to quell his rising panic. Noelani… That was the temple to the north that stood high above the kingdom of Honarvar. He'd only heard of it from Miss Mao, his mother's dear friend. How in the world had he gotten here?

The healer pursed her lips as she began steeping a pot of tea. He watched her closely, waiting in patient silence. Whatever information she had, he wanted it desperately. Whatever happened in Pondlightian had to have been terrible for him to end up in his mother's home country. When the woman finished, she poured the first cup, tossed it into the sink, and then brought it over. She forced him to drink three servings before sitting down beside him and grasping his hand. The bitter taste remained in his mouth, but he was grateful for the almost immediate relief the tonic gave him.

"I'm sure you want to know more about your situation, then." He nodded, so she continued. "The Grandmaster's son found you at the foot of a nearby ward portal on his way down the mountain. You were gravely injured, nearly dead, when he brought you here. I've done my best to heal you, but you'll have lasting ailments, I'm sure."

"No one else was with me?"

She shook her head. "Not that I know of."

He stared back at her for a moment, not knowing what else to say. She probably didn't even know his name, let alone where he came from or what happened to Pondlightian. And there was no use asking the questions if she didn't have the answers. It would be a fruitless endeavor. Instead, he let his tired body fall limply into the pillows at his back, basking in the fuzzy glow of the pain medicine. The healer, who expected him to ask more questions, raised a good-natured brow.

"You don't want a report on your injuries?"

He shrugged, then immediately regretted it when a wave of pain flew through him. "No, because I'll heal. This isn't the first time something like this has happened."

The woman's curious expression darkened as her eyes roved down his body. She'd treated him extensively while he was asleep and noted the terrible whip lashes on his legs, back, arms, and even hands. The newest of them were across his cheeks and down his spine, to which she'd stitched up.

The older ones were jagged and raised, betraying the fact that they weren't taken care of properly when healing. It made the physician sick to her stomach to wonder how many bones he'd broken and whether they healed correctly on top of all the scars. There was no place on this man's body that went undamaged, and her patient was so unbothered by it it sent chills down her spine.

"Yes, I noticed that," she replied, trying her best to act casual. "Who did this to you?"

Qian Meng was the one to raise a brow this time. "The fresh ones, or the scars?"

She flinched, looking away. "Both."

The prince almost felt bad for making a joke of it. He knew no one else found it funny, and maybe he didn't either, deep down. But sarcasm and humor had always been easier than admitting the truth.

"I'm going to skirt around that question by asking one of my own. Has there been any unsettling news about Pondlightian as of late?"

The healer jolted, glancing up at him with wide eyes when someone else answered for her.

"Yes, but why do you want to know?"

The voice was deep and smooth, rolling over Qian Meng like a steady river. This was a cultivator, no doubt. Qian Meng could feel the man's qi thrumming through the air, and could almost taste it on his tongue. Without even turning to look at the man, he knew him to be a steady companion and a powerful ally should you get on his good side. Footsteps echoed through the sick bay as he came closer, stopping at the foot of his bed. He was tall, blond-haired, and the look in his azure gaze was intense. As if he could pull out every secret one held in their mind should he look hard enough.

Qian Meng tried not to let it unnerve him.

It didn't quite work.

"It's personal," he muttered, glancing away.

His fingers tapped an unknown beat along his thigh as an outlet for his anxiety. The man's eyes dropped to his hand before roaming back up.

"Then I'm afraid I cannot tell you."

A familiar snarl tried to surface on Qian Meng's face, but he curbed it. "Why not?"

The cultivator's lips tilted up at the corners as if he found Qian Meng's anger amusing. "The Noelani Temple doesn't make a habit of accepting strangers into our sacred grounds. You are one of the few, and I believe the fact that we saved your life proves us trustworthy enough to know the bare minimum."

His words were exceptionally factual with little bite to them. The prince found there was no way to refute the claim, and so he stopped drumming his fingers and looked up at the cultivator, lips pursed.

"My name is Qian Meng, son of Qian Wei, High King of Pondlightian. I don't remember how I became injured, nor how I ended up here in the Neolani mountains."

"Thank you for being honest," the cultivator replied with a low bow. "I am Xue Ping, son of Grandmaster Xue and temple guardian. This is our resident physician, Shi Zongying."

Qian Meng bowed to both of them as best he could. "It is a pleasure to meet you. Now, please tell me the news of my home."

The two exchanged a glance before Xue Ping let out a weary sigh. "I am sorry to inform you of this, but the palace of Pondlightian has been burned to the ground. It seems there were no survivors but you."

Qian Meng heard Xue Ping's words, but it took him far longer to process them. His mind spun with endless possibilities for how it could have happened, and his mouth went dry at the slight jump of joy he felt at the fact that his wretched family was dead. But then he thought of Miss Mao and her daughter, and how likely it was that they, too, had died. His heart shriveled, and Qian Meng did his best not to let his eyes water.

"Oh," he said.

Xue Ping waved the healer away so he could take her place at the prince's bedside, settling in a whirl of navy silk. The cultivator didn't dare ask whether he should contact Achak to inform them Qian Meng was alive. Judging by the man's appearance and nature, he had been regularly beaten, and while Xue Ping didn't wish to assume things, who else could harm a prince but the king himself? He doubted the young man wanted to return to rule a ruined empire his wretched father had broken.

"The official statement was issued late last week. The king fell to an inside traitor who was also killed in the fight, leaving nothing and no one behind. You were most likely injured during the altercation. Achak has taken over courtly duties as best they can while the chosen replacement is brought up to speed."

Qian Meng furrowed his brows. "Alright."

Silence stretched between them as Xue Ping watched the young man closely. The cultivator found him odd in the way he carried himself; as if the prince cared for nothing while also caring too much. Not to mention the young man's writhing dantian full of untapped spiritual power. Which was untouched, but honed as if someone had recently begun teaching him the bare minimum about cultivation. And if that were the case, perhaps Xue Ping could kill two birds with one stone.

"I will alert no one of your survival should you wish for it to remain a secret," he mused, eyeing the prince.

Qian Meng looked up from his twisting fingers, gaze wary. "What do you mean by that?"

Xue Ping shrugged. "I would not presume to know what you've been through, but it's obvious to me you were mistreated. When in the Jianghu, one cannot move freely. However, now that your bonds are severed, you've been gifted the rare opportunity to break free. To write your own destiny."

Qian Meng stared at the cultivator for a moment, mind racing. Write your own destiny. Words such as those were dangerous. They led to false hope, to broken promises written in blood. He'd made a similar promise once, had told someone he would go back with them—zang! Pain roared through his skull again, punishing him for trying to recall the past. A sweat broke out across his forehead, and Xue Ping stood up. Stepping toward a basin of water beside the bed and dunking a cloth into it to hand over. The prince took it, mopping up his forehead with his eyes averted.

"How will I do so? I have no home, no money. As soon as I leave this temple, I will be no more than a street beggar."

Xue Ping flexed his fingers, calling attention to the plethora of silver rings adorning them. They winked in the light filtering through the towering windows, sparking a sense of haunting familiarity the prince couldn't quite place. It terrified him to think there was a well of memories he couldn't access, and Qian Meng could only hope time would reveal them.

"You have a powerful soul, Qian Meng. I could sense it immediately when I felt your wrist beside that icy river. Your spiritual power roared through me, shocking me to my very core. Someone like you is destined for more, and whether that'd be greatness or tragedy is yet to be seen. All I know is that the Heavens led me to you, and thus, I will extend an olive branch."

He watched the cultivator take a few steps away, turning toward the windows and crossing his arms behind his back. Below them was a swath of ivory clouds with the sun high above them. It bathed Xue Ping in the celestial light of dawn, his golden hair turning an iridescent shade of silver, highlighting just how close to the Heavens cultivators truly were. It took Qian Meng's breath away, and the idea of becoming someone like Xue Ping, of honing whatever power this man claimed him to have, was intoxicating.

"What kind of olive branch?"

Xue Ping glanced at him. "Become my disciple and cultivate toward the Heavens."

The prince blinked at him, mouthing opening in shock. Out of all the things this man could have said… This felt the least likely. How was he, a broken man without a drop of reputation to his name, worthy of training beneath a master of the Neolani Temple? It made little sense. Qian Meng licked his lips, trying to gather enough wit to speak.

"You want me to be your disciple?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

The cultivator remained by the window, fingers running along the carved edge and eyes distant. "The Blue Sea may yet turn into Mulberry Fields."

Qian Meng furrowed his brows. "What?"

Xue Ping turned his head to look the prince in the eye, one hand extended toward him. The look on his face was transcendent, almost otherworldly. A shiver ran down the prince's back at the sight, and he could do nothing but return the gesture, palm up. The cultivator took it, wrapping his hand around Qian Meng's forearm and clenching it.

"The transformations of the world are unknown to us, and time brings significant changes. This is a calling, I can feel it."

Qian Meng swallowed hard, eyes stinging. "Then I will put my trust in you, master. Forgive me, but I cannot kotow in this state."

Xue Ping's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Do not worry, formalities can be taken care of when you are well. From this day forward, your courtesy name will be Qian Fa, for new beginnings."

The two smiled at one another, beaming in the shimmering hope of what was to come.