After a long silence, Xiao Lian, her head buried between her knees, finally spoke.
—"I haven't slept in three days," she said. "I just can't. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that place. That hallway where everyone hates me. They throw stones at me, and I can't even defend myself. I'm trapped in the body of my younger, more helpless self, reliving it all. I hate myself for being weak. I can't stop it, and it frustrates me. I can't even talk to the others anymore without snapping, without getting irritated."
Lin Yuan looked at her silently. The Tranquil Willow Breathing technique had begun to help her, but a few days weren't enough to erase years of abuse... let alone the poison left by that damned spiritual rat. Since he'd met her, she had been the most fragile, the most melancholic. Maybe that's why he saw a reflection of himself in her.
—"The chains of your past are still with you," Lin said calmly. "But they don't own you. They can't."
Xiao Lian felt anger. Not at him—at herself. Since opening up to Lin Yuan, she had tried to accept herself, to change… but nothing seemed to work. Worse: now that she had regained control of her body, her memories grew even more vivid. No longer plagued by gangs or merchants, she now had room for nightmares.
She clenched the stones in her hands harder. Her hands were bleeding. She hadn't even noticed.
She looked at him with fury and fear.
—"I've tried, okay?! I gave it my all, but it gets worse every night. Maybe I should just leave. Ever since the nightmares began, I can create threads out of nothing. And you know what? When I'm irritated, I want to use them. To hurt. To destroy. To hurt you. What if that's who I am? What if hatred lives inside me and never goes away?"
Lin stood up abruptly. He walked over to her and gently pressed his forehead against hers, unfazed by the spiritual threads tightening dangerously around his neck.
—"Then you'll face it. Not alone. If you think that's who you are, I'll be there with you. But don't give up just because someone else—or your own past—told you who to be."
He held her bloodied hands over his, while the spiritual threads trembled in the air.
—"If hatred truly lived inside you... these hands would be stained with our blood. Not your own. If your soul were poison, we'd all be gone by now. But look at them"—he softly closed her fingers over her wounded palms—"only you are bleeding. Do you see? Monsters don't devour themselves, Xiao Lian. The ones who suffer, the ones who resist… they're the ones the world fears to name."
He remained by her side, voice soft:
—"I'll sit with you every night if I have to. I'll shield you with branches, with songs, with light, with whatever I have. But you are not alone. Not anymore."
Xiao Lian looked at her own hands. Thick tears rolled down her face. The threads that trapped her released with an invisible sigh. Then, in a deep sob repressed for years, she threw herself into Lin Yuan's arms, soaking his clothes with blood and tears.
—"You know why I don't fear you're a monster?" Lin said as he held her, smiling gently—"Because monsters don't cry. And you… you are made of tears."
That night, he slept beside her. Every time she stirred, he whispered soft words, held her hand. And when the nightmares came, he was there, so she could fight them.
At dawn, the spirit finally gave in. It broke like a wisp of smoke, freeing her.
DING
[Reward unlocked: Successful purification of spiritual residue]
[+40 points | Relationship with Xiao Lian strengthened | Side effects removed]
Lin Yuan smiled. At last, that girl could sleep in peace.
But the joy didn't last long.
Ben came running, out of breath. He had gone to look for Roman… and couldn't find him anywhere.
—"Lin... Roman's gone. He left last night. Didn't say a word."
That Night in Baishan
Roman had returned to the city.
He walked the familiar streets in silence, brushing against the walls and lampposts as if touching the remnants of a forgotten home. He returned to the alleys where he had slept, stolen, fought, and fled. There, in that concrete scar he once called refuge, he left his art.
He painted a self-portrait. Then crossed it out.
He painted wings. Then chained them.
And screamed.
It was how he breathed. It wasn't enough, but it held him together—a brief release of his identity.
When he finished, he thought of Xiao Lian. Maybe he overreacted. Maybe she hadn't rejected him. Maybe... he should go back and apologize. Leaving without a word had been wrong. He'd bring a gift for everyone—something to say I didn't know how to stay.
Lost in thought, he took a shortcut through the side streets. As he walked, he searched his backpack for the pigments he would use for his apology. But when he looked up—it was too late: three silhouettes blocked the alley. Familiar faces. Sharp smiles. The shadow of a gang sealing the exit.
The Northern gangs.
They recognized him instantly. They had been tracking him since he entered the city. His name had a price now—seen as a deserter in the streets. As a follower of Lin Yuan.
—"Well, look who's back. The pathetic elf. What happened to your little mountain paradise, huh? Couldn't handle sleeping in hay?"
Roman, ever skilled at avoiding danger, acted fast. Without a word, he leapt toward a nearby wall. He pulled out the climbing spikes from his backpack—tools of every street artist—and began to climb. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to escape.
—"Leaving already? Shocker," one mocked. "Maybe that cowardice is why your little girlfriend's going to pay. What if one of us finds her first?"
Another followed up cruelly:
—"Chen Li, now that you mention it, I'd gladly take that cursed blood. After kicking her around, maybe I'll let her warm my bed. I'll make her think I care. Ha ha ha..."
Roman stopped. Not because he had romantic feelings for Xiao Lian. But he would never let them talk about his people that way. His blood boiled. He shouted from the top of the wall:
—"You filthy trash. You're lower than scum. If there's justice in this world, you'll all die like dogs."
The gang members only laughed. Roman, who had reached the top of the wall, threw a paint-stained stone at them. Then another. And another. Jars of pigment, sticks, rocks—everything he had became a weapon.
The gang, bruised and furious, shouted back.
—"Come down here if you dare, you worthless elf!"
But Roman didn't know: they already knew his tricks. They were just buying time by letting him throw things.
—"Idiot," one of them muttered.
Suddenly, from the other side of the wall, a gang member had climbed up unnoticed. With one swift strike, he threw Roman down.
Roman landed straight on a flowerpot. He felt a dry crack in his right arm. He tried to get up—but couldn't. Broken. His vision blurred and his head buzzed. Footsteps approached slowly, confident of their prey.
—"Damn, John. Perfect shot. Almost poetic."
John scoffed and walked off.
Chen Li, the gang leader, crouched and grabbed Roman's head, forcing him to look at him.
Chen Li spat near his face.
—"Think you can paint over what you are? Your mother died screaming your name, and you… you pretend to be free. We don't forgive deserters."
Another thug joined in.
—"Thought you were better than us? Mountains, kids, dreams? Just because your mom wanted you to be a painter you think you stopped belonging to these streets? Wake up, idiot! You're just like us."
He let go of him with disgust.
Roman, bleeding, in pain, barely able to move, could only reach one bitter conclusion: I shouldn't have left.
No, he thought painfully. The mistake wasn't leaving. It was not being strong enough to teach them a lesson.
They brought bats. Sticks. Chen Li gave the order:
—"Start."
And they beat him.
They beat him with all the hatred they had. As if the color he carried in his hands reminded them of everything they couldn't be.
When they finally stopped, Chen Li approached what was left of Roman—a trembling body, between blood and unconsciousness.
—"Tell Lin Yuan this is just the beginning. He thought he was a hero for standing up to the gangs. Thought he was free on his hill. But Falcon has returned. And now, we're hunting him."
Roman, adrenaline fading, body broken, his mind faltered. He saw, through drops of blood, his broken mural of wings.
Ironic, he thought. The chains always win... right?
Until, finally, he lost consciousness.