The first thing Li Yuren saw when he opened his eyes was a chicken.
Not a majestic phoenix. Not a spiritual beast.
A chicken. Sitting on his chest. Judging him.
"Seriously?" he muttered, brushing the bird off like an annoying cousin. It flapped its wings and left in a flurry of feathers, leaving Yuren lying flat on the mossy tiles of a rooftop. Again.
He groaned and sat up, wincing. "How many times can one man fall off a roof before the heavens intervene? Or at least send a mattress?"
"Three," a voice answered from behind him. Cool. Calm. Slightly disappointed.
Li Yuren sighed. "Ah. Zhaoyan. My favorite voice of judgment."
He turned slowly, already knowing what he'd see.
There stood Shen Zhaoyan, arms crossed, looking like a statue carved by a very bitter sculptor. Perfectly tied robes, sword slung across his back, not a strand of hair out of place.
Meanwhile, Yuren was covered in dirt, twigs, and what might have been chicken poop. Balance, as always, was a lie.
"You were supposed to be investigating the ruins of the old Wei Sect," Zhaoyan said flatly. "Not… whatever this is."
"I was!" Yuren protested. "I was investigating. The rooftop was involved. Also gravity."
Zhaoyan's brow twitched. A tiny flicker. In Shen Zhaoyan language, that was equivalent to full-blown rage.
---
The old Wei Sect had been silent for years—ever since it burned down in what the elders called a "tragic fire" and Yuren called "someone poking a very cursed seal with a very dumb stick."
Now, mysterious noises had started again. Shadows with no bodies. Whispers no one wanted to claim. Elders talked. Disciples panicked. And who did they send?
Li Yuren. The most "expendable yet difficult to kill" cultivator they had.
Lucky him.
---
They walked together through the ruins, stepping over scorched wood and ancient talismans. The air was thick, not with smoke, but with something older. Something that hummed in Yuren's bones.
He paused near a collapsed altar. There, barely visible under the debris, was a blackened stone with strange characters—half-sealed, pulsing faintly.
"Don't touch it," Zhaoyan said immediately.
"I wasn't going to!" Yuren snapped, hand already halfway there.
They both stared at each other.
"…Fine. I was. But only to poke it gently."
Zhaoyan sighed. "Your definition of gentle is what started the 'Headless Goose Incident' last month."
"That goose was asking for it," Yuren muttered. "It had murder in its eyes."
Before Zhaoyan could respond, a sudden gust of cold wind whipped through the ruins. The talismans fluttered. The stone glowed faintly. And then—
A whisper.
Low. Twisting. Ancient.
Yuren stepped back. "Did you hear—?"
"I did."
They both drew their swords at the same time.
(Okay, Yuren drew his half a second later. He was distracted by a particularly annoying leaf in his sleeve.)
From the shadows, something moved. Fast. Inhuman. Like smoke and bones and teeth all tangled up.
Zhaoyan moved first—elegant, deadly, precise.
Yuren followed—chaotic, flashy, accidentally kicking a rock into his own shin mid-fight. Together, somehow, they made it work.
The thing hissed and vanished into the ground, like it never existed.
---
After a tense silence, Yuren sat on a broken pillar, panting. "Well. That was fun."
Zhaoyan looked at him. "You're bleeding."
Yuren glanced at his arm. "Ah. So I am."
Zhaoyan reached for a cloth to wrap it, and for a moment, their hands brushed. Yuren looked up. Their eyes met.
Silence.
Wind.
One chicken in the background let out a dramatic bok.
Yuren cleared his throat. "If this is the part where you confess undying love, I'd prefer flowers first."
Zhaoyan wrapped the bandage tighter. "If this is the part where you pretend to be charming, I'd prefer silence."
They stared at each other.
Then Yuren grinned. "So romantic."
---
To be continued…