Yunxiu · Conversa

The night passed, and the master sank into snoring like a sated beast. Yunxiu slowly struggled out from under the brocade quilt, every bone in his back screaming. He stepped barefoot onto the carpet, the silk slipping from his shoulders to reveal a patch of bruises, like spilled ink spreading on Xuan paper. The high fever burned from the depths of his bones. When he pushed open the door, the night wind rushed in, but it couldn't cool him down—a fire inside was tearing at every vein, while a layer of ice wrapped around his skin. He dragged himself forward by holding onto the pillars of the corridor, stopping every three steps. All the lanterns in his vision dragged out golden tails, blurring into a hazy river of light. His body temperature was too high. So high that his brain felt like boiling porridge, leaving only a single thought: go back, go back to his own small courtyard, close the door, lie down, even if he burned to death. When he stumbled into that courtyard, his legs gave out and his knees hit the ground first, but he fell into a warm embrace carrying an unfamiliar scent. At that moment, his sanity snapped completely. In his fever-muddled brain, only an instinctive reaction remained—hold on, just like holding onto his mother's cooling body when he was five, or holding onto Sister Qingle's bloody fingertips when he was seventeen. He clutched the other's collar, his forehead resting against that warmth, and squeezed out a sentence from his parched throat with his last ounce of strength: "Save me..." The voice was as quiet as the sound of ashes falling to the ground.