The wind howled through the mountain pass, carrying with it a biting chill that gnawed at Li Wuyang's bones. The snow fell in thick, unrelenting sheets, blanketing the jagged peaks and narrow trails in a sea of white. He tightened his fur-lined cloak around his shoulders, his breath visible in the frosty air as he trudged forward. The path was treacherous, the kind that demanded every ounce of focus, but Li Wuyang moved with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years navigating these mountains. His sect's training had prepared him for worse, or so he told himself.
It was on this desolate trail that he saw her.
At first, he thought it was a trick of the light—a flash of crimson against the pristine snow. But as he drew closer, the shape resolved into something unmistakably human. A figure lay sprawled in the snow, their dark hair fanned out like ink spilled on parchment. The crimson he had seen was blood, stark and vivid against the pale canvas of winter.
Li Wuyang hesitated. His sect's teachings echoed in his mind, a stern warning from his elders: Trust no one in these mountains. Strangers bring nothing but trouble. He glanced around, half-expecting an ambush, but the only sound was the mournful whistle of the wind. The figure didn't move.
Against his better judgment, he approached.
The stranger was a young man, his features delicate and almost ethereal, like a porcelain doll left out in the cold. His skin was pale, nearly translucent, and his lips were tinged blue. Blood seeped from a wound on his side, staining the snow beneath him. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, and his long lashes fluttered faintly, as though he were caught in a restless dream.
Li Wuyang crouched beside him, his gloved hand brushing against the stranger's icy cheek. The man stirred at the touch, his eyes fluttering open to reveal a gaze as sharp and piercing as shards of glass. For a moment, Li Wuyang felt as though those eyes could see straight through him, peeling back layers of pretense to expose the core of his being.
"You…" the stranger murmured, his voice barely audible above the wind. "You came…"
Before Li Wuyang could respond, the man's eyes closed again, his body going limp. The sect's warnings screamed louder in his mind, but something deeper within him—something instinctual and unyielding—urged him to act. He couldn't leave this man to die.
With a grunt of effort, Li Wuyang hoisted the stranger into his arms. The man was lighter than he expected, his body unnaturally cold, as though the winter itself had seeped into his veins. Ignoring the protests of his muscles, Li Wuyang carried him to a nearby cave, one he had used as shelter on previous journeys.
The cave was small but dry, offering a reprieve from the relentless snow. Li Wuyang laid the stranger down on a bed of dried leaves and set about building a fire. The flickering flames cast long shadows on the walls, their warmth slowly chasing away the chill that clung to the air.
As the fire crackled, Li Wuyang turned his attention to the stranger's wound. He peeled back the blood-soaked fabric, revealing a deep gash that ran along the man's side. The injury was severe, but not life-threatening—at least, not yet. Li Wuyang rummaged through his pack for a clean cloth and a small jar of medicinal salve, his movements quick and efficient.
The stranger stirred again as Li Wuyang tended to his wound, a faint groan escaping his lips. His eyes opened, their glassy sharpness softened by pain and exhaustion.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "I owe you my life."
Li Wuyang shook his head, his focus on the task at hand. "Don't thank me yet. You're not out of danger."
The man's lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're kind," he said. "Too kind for your own good."
There was something in his tone—a hint of amusement, perhaps, or something darker—that made Li Wuyang pause. He glanced up, meeting the stranger's gaze. For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of something in those eyes, a glint of calculation that belied the man's fragile appearance. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a look of gratitude so sincere that Li Wuyang wondered if he had imagined it.
"What's your name?" Li Wuyang asked, breaking the silence.
The man hesitated, as though weighing his options. "Xue Ling," he said finally. "My name is Xue Ling."
Li Wuyang nodded, committing the name to memory. "I'm Li Wuyang. What happened to you? Who did this?"
Xue Ling's expression darkened, and he looked away. "It's a long story," he said quietly. "One I'd rather not tell."
Li Wuyang didn't press. He had his own secrets, after all, and he knew better than to pry into the affairs of others. Instead, he focused on finishing his work, wrapping the wound with clean bandages and ensuring Xue Ling was as comfortable as possible.
As the night wore on, the storm outside showed no signs of abating. The fire crackled softly, its warmth filling the small cave. Xue Ling drifted in and out of consciousness, his murmurs of gratitude growing fainter with each passing hour. Li Wuyang sat by the fire, his thoughts a tangled web of unease and curiosity.
There was something about Xue Ling that didn't sit right with him. The man's beauty was almost otherworldly, his demeanor calm and composed despite his injuries. And yet, there was an undercurrent of something darker, something that made Li Wuyang's instincts prickle with warning.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the feeling. He was being paranoid, he told himself. The sect's teachings had made him wary of everyone, but not every stranger was a threat. Xue Ling was injured and helpless, and Li Wuyang had done the right thing by helping him.
Still, as he glanced at the sleeping figure across the fire, he couldn't shake the sense that he had stepped into a game far more dangerous than he realized.
A fox pretends to shiver, red on snow,
A hero's heart swells—what fools don't know.
Charity melts frost, but not the ice within,
Kindness, dear boy, is the first deadly sin.
The words echoed in his mind, unbidden, as though whispered by the wind itself. Li Wuyang frowned, pushing the thought aside. He was no fool, and he wasn't about to let his guard down.
But as the firelight danced on Xue Ling's porcelain skin, casting shadows that seemed to shift and twist like living things, Li Wuyang couldn't help but wonder if he had already made a mistake.
The storm raged on, its howls a mournful symphony that seemed to echo the unease in his heart. And in the depths of the night, as the snow fell in endless waves, Li Wuyang felt the first stirrings of doubt.
What had he gotten himself into?