Chapter Text
Tuoba’s hands had long since gone numb, the ropes biting so deep into his wrists that he could feel the sticky warmth of broken skin. Every twitch of movement made the fibers grind into raw flesh, and the dull throb had spread all the way to his shoulders. His jaw ached too — part gag, part the bruises blossoming across his cheekbone.
After Tamutuo, he’d promised himself he was done with this sort of thing. No more reckless detours. No more playing the hero. Just business, kept clean and simple. But old partners hadn’t taken kindly to him stepping back, and for a while his “employees” had been doing double duty as both servers and bodyguards.
They weren’t bad fighters — far from it. But compared to Master Hua and Master Hei?
Tuoba swallowed. They weren’t even playing the same game. Those two were… forces of nature. Beautiful, merciless storms that ordinary men like him could only watch from afar.
He gave a humorless little sigh, then winced as the motion tugged at his cheek. He could almost see Master Hua’s expression when he heard about this: that jade-carved mask of disdain, as cold as it was perfect.
The chair beneath him was a miserable contraption — iron frame, edges digging into the back of his arms, his spine aching no matter how he shifted. He’d given up trying to find a comfortable angle hours ago. Or was it days? The damp air swallowed all sense of time.
A single naked bulb swung from the ceiling, its light buzzing and faltering, as though each flicker might be the last. The shadows seemed to shudder with it, swelling and retreating, alive in ways Tuoba very much did not want to think about.
Cold crept in from under the warped door, licking at his ankles and crawling higher until his thin shirt felt soaked through. His chest tightened with another shiver. If he didn’t die from bruises or knives, he’d probably leave this hole with pneumonia. Assuming he left at all.
His only hope — and equal fear — was that word of his kidnapping would spread. That Master Hua, or perhaps Master Hei, would come. He could already imagine their arrival: swift, merciless, furious. And then, once he was safe, their wrath would turn on him for letting himself be taken in the first place.
Better fury than abandonment, Tuoba told himself grimly.
The memory of how it happened still tasted of smoke. He’d seen the men tailing him near the restaurant, and to keep them away from innocent diners, he’d lured them into an alley. Two of them, he could handle. And he had, until the smoke bomb went off and masked reinforcements poured in.
He’d woken in a stone corridor, dragged into this pit like cargo.
He had gotten his hits in — a solid kick dropped two of them before he bolted. For a few shining seconds, it had worked. Until the tunnels twisted, every turn wrong, until the dead end slammed shut his escape.
Then the ropes, the chair, the jeering threat: don’t damage him too badly, keep the face recognizable.
Lucky him.
At some point he’d blacked out, and when he came to, his captors were gone, leaving him propped neatly upright again, as though some invisible hand wanted him aware and waiting.
The copper tang at the edge of his tongue told him his lip had split; his whole body throbbed with bruises. But he’d survived worse. What he couldn’t shake was the way the wind found its way into the cracks, sighing low and mournful, like the groans of something trapped.
Tuoba stiffened. The wooden crates stacked around him creaked softly, once, then again, as though settling. But nothing moved.
This isn’t a tomb, he told himself firmly. It’s just a mine shaft. Just a mine.
But the thought coiled anyway, whispering through the back of his mind: what if it wasn’t?
What if the stories Master Hei had told — the kind of stories Master Hua even admitted to be true — were waiting for him here in the dark?
Sweat prickled down Tuoba’s back as his mind replayed details he very much did not want to recall. His mouth went dry, forcing him to swallow hard.
Had that really been wood creaking? Or long nails dragging across the surface?
Was the wind catching in cracks of stone—or something else breathing?
Even the rats scuttling nearby—were they hunting scraps, or fleeing from something larger, hungrier?
And why hadn’t his kidnappers come back?
A thought struck him cold: what if… something had already gotten them?
His pulse spiked. The ropes pinned him upright, no way to make himself smaller, no way to shield his throat or his chest. He felt suddenly displayed, helpless, an offering waiting to be taken.
Another gust of air snaked under the door, cold as a grave. This time he saw it—mist curling in tendrils, stretching toward him like reaching fingers.
A dull thud landed just outside. Tuoba jolted so hard the chair squealed against the floor. His ears rang with the silence that followed. Then—faint, deliberate steps. Barely a whisper of contact with the ground, accompanied by the swish of something soft, like fabric stirring in the dark.
A shadow fell across the gap beneath the door.
The knob turned.
Tuoba’s body went taut, a bowstring ready to snap. He flicked his gaze around the room in desperation—same stone walls, same stacks of crates, one single exit. Nowhere to run.
Unless—
He rocked his weight forward, scrambling upright on bound legs. Shuffling in tiny, frantic steps, he edged toward the stacked crates, angling for the narrow gap between wood and wall. If he could just wedge himself in—
A click.
The door began to open with the groan of rusted hinges.
Tuoba whipped his head around. Body twisting and realized his mistake only when the world tipped and he crashed to the ground in a heap.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it —white fabric.
That was all it took. He squeezed his eyes shut, heart battering his ribs, and mentally rattled through every prayer he knew, stacking them one on top of another in a desperate pile: protection charms, ghost-warding chants, even half-remembered mantras from childhood. Anything.
Footsteps circled him. Slow. Stalking.
This was it.
He was dead meat.
Killed by a ghost in a place he never should have been, just because someone decided to tamper with the past.
Sweat beaded on Tuoba’s temples as he clenched his eyes tighter shut, praying harder than he ever had in his life. He could feel his heart pounding like a drum against the ropes pinning his chest, the air around him heavy with that unnatural silence.
Nothing happened.
And somehow that was even worse.
As the silence stretched on and on he finally couldn't take it anymore.
Slowly—carefully—he cracked one eye open. Just a sliver. Enough to see—
White fabric.
A pale arm reaching for him. Thin. Too thin.
Tuoba muffled a strangled yell, jerking backward so violently he crashed into the stack of crates. One toppled from the top, splitting open on impact and sending up a choking cloud of dust. He coughed until his eyes watered, half-convinced he was already suffocating on ghostly ash.
When he finally managed to blink through the haze, the “arm” was still there—but now he saw it properly.
Not bone. Not rot.
A sleek baton, extended and held loosely in a gloved hand.
And crouched beside him—no haunting specter, no Forbidden Woman—was Master Hua. White coat, pale rose shirt, white pants and hair immaculate even in the flickering light. He wasn’t reaching to drag Tuoba’s soul into the underworld—he’d only been prodding him with a stick.
Master Hua’s gaze rested on him, sharp and unimpressed. One perfect brow rose in silent judgement.
Tuoba went limp with relief, flopping back to the floor like a fish out of water. He’d never in his life been so happy to be insulted by an expression.
And he thought—maybe, just maybe—there was the faintest flicker of amusement in Master Hua’s eyes, and for that alone he’d suffer this indignity again.
Then footsteps echoing down the hall caught their attention.
Quick. Heavy. Coming closer.
In a blink, Master Hua was on his feet, the white coat flaring like a blade in motion. One hand closed the door without a sound, the other slid into his coat as he stepped back again. A true white knight standing between Tuoba and any incoming danger. The baton remained angled low, ready. A living silhouette of poise and menace.
Tuoba barely had time to hold his breath before the door was kicked open. The frame shuddered—
—and a knife thunked into the wood at head-height, quivering.
A warning shot. Deadly precise.
A man in black burst through, moving fast, a hand sliding into his dark coat as if reaching for a weapon—then stopped dead. His body language melted in an instant, shoulders loosening into a cocky slouch. The bulb’s flicker caught on the huge pair of sunglasses perched on his nose as he raised his hands in mock surrender, mouth curling into a lazy grin.
“Easy there, Hua'er.”
“Xiazi.” Master Hua’s tone was dry, clipped.
For a heartbeat they stared at each other, tension strung tight. Then Hua’s lips curved, soft and knowing. Xiazi chuckled low in his throat, dropping his hands. The air in the room shifted, warmed, as if some invisible blade had been sheathed.
Master Hei tugged the knife from the wood and, with a flick of his wrist, collapsed it into its concealed form. He held it out, handle first. Master Hua studied the gesture, studied the hidden eyes behind those shades, and only after a deliberate pause accepted the blade. Their fingers brushed in the exchange—whether accident or not, Tuoba couldn’t tell but he had no complaints either way.
Together they looked like two halves of a whole: Master Hua in sharp white drape and fine gloves, Master Hei in worn black leather and jeans. Contrast and complement, yin and yang.
And then—at the exact same time—they both turned their heads to him.
Tuoba froze, wide-eyed.
Hei’s boot tapped his leg, light and mocking. “What shall we do with this one, Hua’er?”
“I’m not sure.” Master Hua’s voice was silken with disdain. “Originally, I meant to take him back. But he seems to enjoy being a worm in the dirt. It would be cruel to pull him from his natural habitat.”
“Mmmmfhh!” Tuoba protested through the gag, wriggling in outrage.
Master Hei actually threw his head back and laughed, deep and unrestrained.
Rude! Tuoba sulked inwardly, though not truly angry. He’d let them mock him forever if it meant hearing that laughter, light and easy, cutting through the danger like sunlight.
“Alright, alright,” Hei Xiazi drawled, clapping a hand on Master Hua’s shoulder and tilled his head down. For a moment it even looked like he might rest his head there—and Master Hua let him. No shrug, no glare. Just quiet acceptance. Tuoba nearly wept with happiness.
“Let’s not be too mean. He may be a worm, but he’s your worm. And a useful one, no?” Master Hei tilted his chin toward Tuoba. “Let’s get him out of these ropes. I’m sure he’ll show his gratitude with a very fine meal at the restaurant afterwards.”
Tuoba nodded frantically—then winced as something in his side twisted sharply, pain flashing white-hot. He froze, unable to breathe.
The flicker of darkness that crossed Master Hua’s face in that instant was worse than all the ghosts Tuoba had ever imagined.
Cold. Lethal. Even thought gone in the next breath, it left Tuoba trembling, shame and terror knotting in his gut. It was a good thing Tuoba never ended up on Master Hua's bad side. He had not planned to after getting thought a lesson and saved in Tamutuo but that expression just then quenched even the tiniest flicker of what-if's. No. Xie Yuchen was not someone anyone should want as an enemy.
The sudden urgent need to pee crawled into Tuoba's consciousness, making him squirm in discomfort.
Master Hei crouched by his side then. Blade flashing once before sliding cleanly through the ropes. The bindings gave way with a rough snap, and Tuoba hissed when the sudden freedom sent needles of pain flooding into his arms.
“Easy,” Master Hei muttered, steadying him with a surprisingly careful hand as he pulled Tuoba to his feet.
Tuoba swayed, half from dizziness, half from exhaustion—but before he could find his balance, his boot came down on something brittle.
Crack.
A thin shard of porcelain gave way under his heel, the sound sharp as bone splitting. Powder—fine, gray, and clinging—puffed up in a ghostly cloud around his shoe.
Tuoba froze.
Master Hei’s grip tightened on his arm while Master Hua’s eyes, sharp as glass, darted to the floor. And in that suspended heartbeat, the air itself seemed to recoil.
The hairs on Tuoba’s neck stood on end. Something unseen stirred in the silence.
Master Hei was the first to speak, voice thick with forced humor. “Hostage rescued. Time to go.”
Master Hua gave the smallest nod, already heading toward the door with quiet urgency and glancing down the corridor while Master Hei guided Tuoba right after him.
They had just stepped into the corridor when the flickering bulb overhead gave one last convulsive flash—then popped in a rain of sparks, making them jump and plunging the room behind them into black.
For a breathless moment, they were left with only the dim, uneven glow of a single light source further down the corridor, its reach barely enough to outline the stone walls.
And in that frail light, Tuoba saw it—pale puffs of mist leaving his mouth, each exhale trembling in the cold air. Not just his. Master Hua’s and Master Hei’s as well. The air had gone suddenly frigid, their breaths ghostly, visible.
Then, as the silence stretched, another sound joined it.
Scrape.
A long, dragging slide, metal or bone grating along stone.
Tuoba’s heart thudded painfully in his chest.
Scrape… pause… scrape.
And under it, weaving through the cold, a sound like ragged breathing was audible.
The light at the corridor’s end began to flicker.
And with every blink of shadow, the dragging scrape seemed closer.