The Unbroken Flow

Fan Quan's eyes fluttered open, his body stiff and cold against the forest floor. The canopy above swayed with a rhythm that felt out of place, almost too calm, as if the world itself didn't care what had happened. A sharp ache radiated from his ribs, but it was nothing compared to the hollow weight in his chest.

He sat up, the ground spinning beneath him for a moment. The fire was gone, just ash scattered across damp earth. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, the taste of iron still clinging to his tongue.

"Feng Rui," he muttered, her name barely more than a breath.

Then he saw her.

She lay in the clearing, her back to him, her body still. The blood pooling beneath her was darker now, seeping into the soil like it belonged there. Fan Quan stumbled to his feet, his legs weak beneath him, but he forced himself forward.

"Feng Rui," he said louder, his voice cracking as he dropped to his knees beside her. He rolled her onto her back, his hands trembling. Her face was pale, her eyes closed, lips parted slightly as if she were just sleeping. But she wasn't.

"No…" He whispered the word, shaking her gently at first, then harder. "No. Wake up."

But her body was cold. Lifeless. The weight of it was undeniable.

His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest tightening as he stared down at her. She had betrayed him—had lied to him, used him, cut him deeper than anyone ever had. He should have hated her for what she'd done. For how easily she had twisted his trust into something sharp and cruel. But as he sat there, staring at the woman who had once been his closest ally, his heart betrayed him in return.

"I didn't want this," he said through gritted teeth, his voice breaking as tears burned his eyes. "Even after everything… I didn't want this."

Memories of her smile flooded his mind—quick and fleeting, like sunlight slipping through the cracks of their broken world. He remembered the way she'd laughed the night they'd stolen bread from the market, how she had teased him for being too careful. And yet, beneath those memories lurked others, darker ones. Her words like venom, the glint in her eyes as she walked away that day, leaving him bleeding and broken.

But even then, he had followed her. Always.

"Why did you do this to me?" His voice was raw, anger rising now to drown out the grief. "Why couldn't you just stay away?"

The forest was too quiet, the weight of its silence pressing against him. He looked down at his hands, still streaked with her blood. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. He had spent so long chasing her, trying to make sense of the chaos she had left in her wake. Trying to save her, even when she didn't deserve saving.

And now she was gone.

His fingers dug into the earth as a raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, echoing through the trees. He wanted to claw at the ground, to tear apart the world that had taken her from him. But all he could do was collapse beside her, his forehead resting against her shoulder as tears spilled freely down his face.

The last time she had looked at him, her expression had been one of pity. "You're just a piece of the chessboard," she had said, her voice cutting through him like a blade. "That's why you'll always lose."

And maybe she had been right. He had been too weak, too willing to forgive. Even now, even after this, some part of him still wished he could turn back time. To stop her from going down the path that had led them both here.

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves above, but it did nothing to break the suffocating stillness. Fan Quan forced himself to look at her again, at the face he had once trusted more than his own. He reached out, his hand brushing a lock of hair from her forehead, his touch so gentle it almost hurt.

"I would've forgiven you," he whispered. "I would've done anything."

The words hung in the air, unanswered, as the forest closed in around him. For the first time, Fan Quan truly felt the weight of the void she had left behind—not just in the clearing, but in him. And he knew it would never be filled.

The wind continued its slow dance through the clearing, stirring the ash and leaves into faint spirals around them. Fan Quan stayed there, his body motionless except for the occasional shudder of his breath. He wasn't sure how long he knelt by Feng Rui's side—minutes, hours—it all bled together, much like the crimson stain beneath her.

Eventually, the ache in his knees and the weight in his chest forced him to move. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled himself upright. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, unsteady and foreign as he stood.

He couldn't stay here. Not with her.

The thought was unbearable, but it was also true. The forest wouldn't let him linger. He glanced at her one last time, his hand twitching as if he might reach for her again. But he didn't.

Instead, he turned away.

The first step was the hardest. His boots scraped against the dirt, breaking the fragile silence. His hands hung limply at his sides, stained with the evidence of her end, as he stumbled toward the edge of the clearing. The trees loomed ahead, their shadows deeper than before.

He tried not to look back, but he failed.

Her body lay crumpled in the clearing, a pale figure swallowed by the dark earth. The sight twisted something deep inside him, something he didn't think he could ever fix. But he forced himself to keep walking. Each step felt heavier than the last.

By the time he reached the edge of the forest, the memories started creeping in again.

He could still see her face that night in the village, the way she'd leaned close to him, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered her plan. The way she had laughed, so soft and cruel, when she saw the doubt in his eyes. "You'll understand one day," she'd said, her voice full of secrets he would never unravel.

He had trusted her, even then. Even when her words made his stomach churn and his instincts screamed to walk away. She'd been the only one who truly understood him—until she didn't.

Until she'd turned her back on him.

Fan Quan clenched his fists as the memories came faster now, sharp and relentless. Her betrayal wasn't just a moment; it was a knife that had been twisted over and over again. Every lie, every half-truth, every decision she had made without him. And yet, some part of him had kept hoping. Hoping that she might return to who she had been before the world had hardened her edges.

But that part of her was gone now. Maybe it had been gone long before today.

The forest opened up ahead, revealing a narrow path winding down toward the river. The sound of rushing water broke through the haze of his thoughts, grounding him in the present. He followed the path, his steps heavy, his eyes fixed on the ground.

He didn't know where he was going. It didn't matter. All he knew was that he couldn't stop moving. If he did, the grief would consume him whole.

When he reached the river, he knelt by the bank, cupping his hands to splash cold water on his face. It did little to chase away the numbness that had settled over him, but it was enough to keep him upright.

As he sat back, his gaze drifted to the reflection in the water. His own face stared back at him—tired, bloodstreaked, haunted. But it wasn't just his face he saw. Feng Rui's shadow lingered there, just behind his eyes, as if she were watching him from somewhere he couldn't reach.

The wind shifted again, carrying with it the faintest scent of smoke. Fan Quan froze, his hand hovering over the water as the smell stirred something in him—something old and buried, yet undeniably real.

He turned his head sharply, scanning the treeline. There was no one there, no movement, no sound. But the sensation remained, prickling at the edges of his awareness.

It wasn't possible. She was gone. He had seen it. Felt it.

And yet…

Fan Quan stood, his muscles tense as he stared into the forest behind him. For a moment, he thought he heard something—a faint whisper, barely louder than the rustle of leaves. It was her voice.

Or maybe it was just the memory of it, refusing to let him go.

Fan Quan stood for a long moment, his body poised between flight and the oppressive stillness of the forest. He could still hear her voice, faint and teasing at the edges of his mind, as though she lingered just out of reach. But she was gone. Truly gone. And the longer he stayed here, the stronger her shadow would cling to him.

He turned back to the river and knelt once more, washing the blood from his hands. The cold water stung as it bit into his skin, forcing his thoughts to sharpen. He let the current take the redness away, watched it swirl downstream and vanish into the distance. It felt symbolic, but only in the shallowest way. There was no river wide or strong enough to carry away what he felt.

When his hands were clean, he rose, adjusted his cloak, and began walking downriver.

The city she had spoken of—Lanxi, the Sapphire Gate—was far to the south. Feng Rui had mentioned it only in passing once, her tone unusually soft, almost wistful. _"If there's a place that might understand you,"_ she'd said, _"it's there. Though I doubt they'd accept you as easily as I did."_ Her smirk had made it impossible to tell whether it was a jest or a warning.

At the time, Fan Quan had dismissed it. He hadn't needed anyone else's acceptance; hers had been enough. Now, the words felt heavier. Lanxi. A city known for its cultivators, its scholars, and its fiercely guarded knowledge. He'd heard tales of it, of the sects that governed it and the seekers who journeyed there in search of enlightenment—or power.

He didn't know what awaited him there, but it was the only direction he had left.

The journey south was arduous, the wilderness growing denser and more perilous as the days passed. Fan Quan moved through it with practiced ease, his steps sure and his senses sharp. The nights were the worst, though, when the silence pressed in and the stars seemed to mock him with their distant indifference.

He tried not to think of Feng Rui during those nights. Tried, and failed. Her face appeared in every flicker of firelight, her voice in every whisper of the wind. He hated it. He hated her. And he hated himself more for still feeling the weight of her absence.

It was nearly two weeks before the landscape began to change, the thick forests giving way to rolling hills and the faint glow of civilization on the horizon. The closer he got to Lanxi, the more travelers he encountered—merchants with their wagons, pilgrims in threadbare robes, and warriors with blades strapped to their backs. Some gave him wary glances, others ignored him entirely. He was glad for the latter.

Lanxi came into view just after sunset on the fifteenth day, its towering walls catching the dying light like polished silver. The city sprawled across the hills, its gates flanked by statues of dragons carved from jade. Lanterns hung from every archway, casting a warm, golden glow that seemed at odds with the weight Fan Quan carried in his chest.

As he approached the main gate, the noise of the city reached him—a cacophony of voices, laughter, and the occasional clang of steel. It felt alive in a way that the forest never had. He pulled his hood lower over his face, his steps careful as he joined the line of travelers waiting to enter.

The guards at the gate were sharp-eyed, their uniforms pristine and their weapons well-maintained. One of them glanced at Fan Quan as he passed but said nothing, dismissing him as just another wanderer.

Inside, the city was a labyrinth of narrow streets and towering structures, each one more ornate than the last. The air smelled of incense and spices, a heady mix that made his senses reel. Fan Quan kept to the shadows, his gaze flitting from stall to stall as he searched for a sign of where to go next.

He remembered Feng Rui's words again, the way she had spoken of Lanxi's sects with something like disdain. _"They think their books and their rules make them untouchable. But they don't know what real power is."_

Her words felt like a challenge now, one he wasn't sure he could face. But he'd come this far, and there was no turning back.

He stopped at a small tea house near the edge of the market district, its lanterns dim and its patrons quiet. It was the kind of place that promised discretion, and that was exactly what he needed.

The proprietor, an older man with a scar running down his cheek, raised an eyebrow as Fan Quan entered. "You're not from here," he said, his voice rough but not unkind.

Fan Quan shook his head. "No. But I need information."

The man studied him for a moment, then nodded toward a table in the corner. "Sit. And order something. Information isn't free, but I'm not a thief."

Fan Quan sat, his back to the wall, his eyes scanning the room as the man brought him a cup of tea. "What are you looking for?" the proprietor asked, his tone casual but his gaze sharp.

Fan Quan hesitated, then leaned forward. "The Sapphire Gate. How do I find it?"

The man's expression shifted slightly, curiosity flickering across his face. "The Gate? That's not something just anyone can walk into. Why do you want to go there?"

Fan Quan met his gaze, his voice low but steady. "Because someone told me it's the only place that might understand what I am."

The man didn't respond right away, his eyes narrowing as he considered the answer. Finally, he nodded. "You'll need more than determination to get in. But if you're serious, I can point you in the right direction. For a price."

Fan Quan slid a small pouch of coins across the table without hesitation. "Tell me."

The man pocketed the coins with a faint smile. "South district. Look for the jade pavilion with the crimson banners. Tell them you're seeking the Writ of Admittance. If they don't laugh you out of the city, you'll have your answer."

Fan Quan nodded, his hand tightening around the tea cup. He didn't thank the man, didn't say another word. He simply rose and walked out into the night, the weight of his purpose settling over him once more.

The South District of Lanxi was a world unto itself—a tangled maze of narrow streets lit by lanterns and crowded with voices that hummed like an uneasy swarm. Vendors hawked their wares, shadows shifted in the alleys, and the air was thick with the scent of street food and incense. Fan Quan moved through it like a phantom, his hood pulled low, his focus sharp.

The jade pavilion the proprietor had spoken of wasn't hard to find. It stood out among the modest surroundings, its intricate carvings and lacquered pillars gleaming under the lantern light. Crimson banners hung from its roof, embroidered with symbols that seemed to pulse with hidden meaning. A pair of guards stood by the entrance, their uniforms plain but their postures radiating discipline.

Fan Quan approached cautiously, his steps measured. The guards noticed him immediately, their hands drifting toward the hilts of their swords.

"State your business," one of them said, his voice firm.

"I'm seeking the Writ of Admittance," Fan Quan replied, his tone as steady as his gaze.

The guards exchanged a glance, their expressions inscrutable. The one who had spoken looked him over again, his eyes lingering on the way Fan Quan carried himself—his posture, his hands, the faint aura of danger that clung to him.

"Wait here," the guard said finally. He turned and disappeared into the pavilion, leaving Fan Quan alone under the scrutiny of the remaining sentry.

The minutes stretched, the hum of the district fading into a distant murmur. Fan Quan didn't move, didn't fidget. His mind was already preparing for the possibility that this was a trap, that the guard would return with a dozen more to drag him into some hidden cell. But then the doors creaked open again, and the first guard returned.

"Follow me," he said, his tone neutral.

Fan Quan stepped inside, his senses on high alert. The interior of the pavilion was even more opulent than the outside, its walls adorned with tapestries and its floor inlaid with patterns of jade and gold. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of lotus blossoms.

He was led to a small chamber at the back, where an older woman sat behind a low table. Her robes were simple, but her presence was anything but. Her silver hair was tied into a high knot, and her eyes were sharp, piercing him with the weight of someone who saw far more than she let on.

"You're not the first to seek the Writ," she said without preamble, her voice calm but edged with steel. "What makes you think you're worthy of it?"

Fan Quan hesitated. He'd expected questions, but not this one. He clenched his fists at his sides, the faint tremor of anger rising unbidden. _What makes you think you're worthy?_ It echoed too much of the doubts he'd heard before—from strangers, from enemies, and most damningly, from Feng Rui herself.

"I don't know if I am," he admitted finally, his voice low but firm. "But I was told this city is the place to find answers. To prove myself."

The woman studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she gestured to the table. "Sit."

Fan Quan obeyed, lowering himself to the floor. The table between them held a single scroll, its ends capped with gold. The air around it seemed to hum faintly, as if it carried a presence of its own.

"This is the Writ," the woman said. "To even attempt its trial is a risk. Many have failed, and some never return. If you choose to pursue it, you'll be bound by its rules, and there will be no turning back. Do you understand?"

Fan Quan nodded. "I understand."

"Then listen closely," she continued. "The trial of the Writ is not about power. It is about resolve. The strength of your spirit, not your blade. If your heart wavers, if you carry doubt or regret, it will consume you."

Her words struck him like a blow. Doubt. Regret. He had carried both for longer than he cared to admit, and they weighed on him still. But beneath them burned something else—a stubborn flame that refused to die, no matter how many times it had been smothered.

"I'm ready," he said, his voice steady.

The woman inclined her head, her expression softening slightly. "Then take the scroll. When you are alone, unseal it and follow where it leads. Your path will be revealed, but only if you are willing to walk it."

Fan Quan reached out, his fingers brushing against the smooth, cool surface of the scroll. It felt heavier than it should, as though it carried the weight of something far greater than its size. He bowed his head briefly in thanks, then rose to his feet.

"Good luck," the woman said, her voice quieter now. "You'll need it."

Fan Quan left the pavilion without a word, the scroll tucked safely into the folds of his cloak. The night air hit him like a wave, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city.

He didn't linger. He moved through the streets quickly, his steps guided by instinct more than purpose, until he found himself at the edge of the district, where the city gave way to open land. There, under the pale light of the moon, he stopped and unfurled the scroll.

The symbols etched onto the parchment glowed faintly, shifting and rearranging themselves as though alive. A single line of text formed at the center, its meaning clear despite the strange script: "The road to strength lies in the City of Jade Steps. Offer truth at the gate."