The winds over the southern ridge of the Thousand Veil Sect stilled.
Not a single bird.
Not a whisper of chi.
Even the trees bent away.
Lian Ming had arrived.
He wore simple robes—gray, sleeveless, tied with a single black thread. His flute hung untouched at his hip. His presence did not overwhelm like the Executioners or Envoys.
But the moment he stepped onto the sect's land, over a dozen protective seals deactivated. Not broken—bypassed.
He wasn't an intruder.
He was once a part of this legacy.
Xu Shen stepped out alone.
Yue Qian tried to follow—but he raised a hand.
"This one's mine."
She paused, lips parted to protest—but stopped.
She saw the look in his eyes.
It wasn't anger.
It was remorse.
Xu and Lian stood across from one another at the garden edge—an old place carved from stone and silence, where cherry blossoms never fell.
Lian bowed once.
Xu returned it.
"It's been… what?" Lian said, voice soft. "Three thousand cycles?"
"Since Life #992," Xu answered.
Lian smiled faintly. "You remember."
Xu nodded. "I always remembered you."
Silence.
Then Lian reached for his flute.
Xu tensed.
But Lian didn't raise it to strike.
He played.
A simple tune—melancholy, like rain on graves. Notes that pulsed with soul-light. Each one carrying fragments.
Laughter in a courtyard.
Two boys standing beneath lightning.
A promise sealed in fire: "If I fall, you carry my name."
Then…
A battlefield.
A broken blade.
Xu Shen walking away while Lian bled, calling his name.
Xu closed his eyes.
"I failed you."
Lian stopped playing.
"I know."
"I chose the war. I chose the sect. I chose to rise—while you died."
"You did."
Xu met his gaze. "And I'm not asking for forgiveness."
Lian nodded.
"Good."
"Because I didn't come to forgive you."
He raised the flute now.
Golden wind spiraled.
The cherry blossoms froze mid-fall.
"I came to see who you are now."
"Not as a brother. Not as a legend."
"But as the one who left me behind."
The duel began—not with blades.
But with song and memory.
Lian's flute formed illusions of the past, forces shaped by regret. Xu countered not with strikes—but with clarity, using soul-stabilized fragments of those same lives to anchor himself.
They moved without hate.
But with pain.
Like two men holding the same mirror—and trying not to break it.
The final note struck.
Xu stood, hand burned, lungs full of dust.
Lian lowered his flute.
And smiled.
"Not bad," he said. "You didn't break."
"I rewrote the ending," Xu said. "This time, you walk forward too."
Lian raised a brow. "And what now?"
Xu extended a hand.
"You still want a name that matters?"
Lian stared at it.
Then took it.
"Then call me brother… once more."