Laike’s brisk return to Yunji before dawn saw him with no time to catch up on the sleep he’d lost to Tian Yuhui’s trap, so Laike went about his day without delay instead. When the sun rose and draped the mountain in mist, Xueyu found his favourite disciple practicing archery on wooden targets hidden in the wet stair-step rocks of the expansive Yelu falls that wrapped round the eastern cliffs of Yunji and fed the falls and rapids that eventually coalesced into the mouth of the river flowing south to Fanxing. Laike’s day was like any other day: breakfast, prayers, training, study, cleaning, dinner. That boy without a shadow of his own was typically enthused by the small differences in every day’s duties but this day saw him listless, distracted.

At dinner, Laike barely ate. He was elsewhere in his head, thinking of the letter he didn’t get to read. He gave the majority of his food to a table full of children, always famished as they grew strong under Jiling’s watchful eye, Xueyu’s guidance.

Settling in the library soon after, the boy fell asleep with his face in a dusty tome of myths and legends; old heroes and epic quests; honourable deeds and wicked plots.

Xueyu had been watching him all day. Diligent in his care, ready in his worry, he observed Laike’s food get divvied up, his minor missteps during the day, his every stumble—unseen to normal eyes for how small they actually were—catalogued and marked, kept track of, noted. Normally he wouldn’t worry over the boy not eating. He knew Laike was a tender-hearted thing, raised to help those who could not help themselves before seeing to his own needs. Xueyu was typically very proud of his favorite disciple when he saw fit to share (and share food, to boot), but this was abnormal.

This time it was strange.

Something was wrong.

Xueyu was a diligent walker of hallways. He was a sentry always ready for trouble, a guard always looking to put things out of place back into their correct spots. He sought out Laike after his dinner, hoping he went to his room to rest and reluctantly finding that estimation of placement wrong. Xueyu took to the main hall instead, pausing when he saw a light flickering in a pane of frosted glass set into the strange remnants of an old door reformed into one newer. He stepped into the library with a quiet motion, on careful footsteps.

It seemed that the people Xueyu cared for the most were always falling asleep in the books they were reading. It made the swordmaster’s mind beg the question: if these books were so boring, why did they spend so much time reading them?

Of course, that wasn’t a fair assessment of Launshi’s vast collection of spiritual tales and grimoires full of literary folklore. It wasn’t their faults and he knew that deep down—it was the commitment of these people that wore them down; the dedication to their days and the expansion of their circles of knowledge.

He approached the passed out boy and laid a gentle hand on his back.

“Hey,” Xue murmured with the affection of a concerned father, “Lai.”

Laike bolted upright, shadows writhing like snakes in the palm of his hand on instinct, always wary of threats. When his head whipped around and his hazel eyes caught the concerned features of his master, the whorling of his blade ceased; the shadows fled in a glittering fall of volcanic dust. The boy was relieved.

“Master Xueyu,” he greeted, bowing his head before he turned back to his book, a little ashamed that he’d been caught unaware. “I’m sorry; I wasn’t being vigilant.”

“I’ve noticed,” Xueyu replied, bending his knees at the boy’s side. “Are you feeling alright, Laike? Do I need to call a doctor for you? You haven’t been yourself today.”

“Please don’t concern yourself with me, shifu,” Laike replied, eyes tracing a single sentence on the page before him over and over until it was a jumbled pile of nonsense sound looping through his head; till a hero’s response to a villain’s betrayal became the la, la, la, la, la of Yuhui’s illegible poem. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I have been occupied by my thoughts; distracted by Prince Yuhui. I want to construct a better, more effective ward for him, but I am afraid I’m not experienced or intelligent enough to fulfill this task.”

“Don’t say that about yourself.” The older man was stern when he needed to be, willing to snap back at every moment Laike found doubt within the light of himself. “Sometimes it’s best to ask for help, or take a break from what you’re doing. Maybe, right now, it’s better if you get some rest. A rested mind is a clear mind, the morning is the beginning of a new day. Prince Yuhui has learned to live around his troubles, and he will be okay until you figure something out. I’m sure of it.”

“I am finding it difficult to quiet my mind,” Laike admitted, laying his forehead back on the table. “I should be better despite being sleepless. You taught me to be better despite my circumstances—am I faltering in what I’ve been taught?” The boy lifted his head, chin taking the post his forehead had relinquished. “Shifu: is this what happens when one becomes emotionally compromised?”

“Laike, no. Everybody has limits. You know this. You know that sometimes it is better to see the situation for what it is, to take a step back and approach from another angle.” Xueyu combed a hand through the boy’s hair, a fleeting touch full of the sort of pride he reserved only for that one youth. “This is still very new to you and you can’t expect to master it all at once. Jiling has been seeing this boy since she was young and she is wise well beyond her years. Take a break. Go lay down. Sleep and come back to it. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

Laike shifted, lifting his chin from the table so he could look at Xueyu. “I’m also nervous about debuting against the Millipede next week. I am afraid I will fail and bring you shame. I train and train and train, but I can’t seem to free myself from the grasp of my thoughts. How did you overcome this when you first challenged an artifact?”

“Challenging for an artifact is very different from the routine of training. This is a very sought-after artifact, to be sure, and there are going to be a lot of people out there trying to get it for themselves. For me? I just look forward to the fight. It’s a chance to experience new things, to test yourself on a field that really matters, see the reward of all the effort you’ve put into your learning.” Xue leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table, chest angled toward his pupil. As a man meant for the sunshine, he looked very out of place in this room full of paper, simple in the wide world of their dignity. “Trust, Lai. I wouldn’t have wanted you to go for it if I didn’t think you could do it, I wouldn’t send you out there before you’re ready. If you think losing a battle will bring me shame, then you don’t know the depth of my pride. You’re going to do great. You would’ve done great five years ago, but you weren’t old enough.” The older man softly laughed.

“I would have been more confident then,” the boy grumbled as he sat up straight and leaned over, carefully closing that old, dusty book. “Thank you, shifu.” He paused. “Strategically, is it better in arena if I cast a shadow? They don’t know me yet—will they know what I can do?”

The swordmaster turned his head in thought. “It depends on how you want to approach the challenge. You will only get one opportunity to fake a shadow before everyone knows that about you, so it should be used wisely. We can talk about it more before the match, okay? When we come up with a more solid strategy. Don’t worry about it right now, it’s excess burden in that overthinking head of yours.”

“Okay, okay.” Finally, the shadowstalker laughed: a short, huffy thing that replaced an exhale with the slightest bit of sound. “I’ll try to stop thinking about it. I’ll try my best to remain in the present moment—no future trouble, no past mistakes, just now. Okay?”

“That’s right, just enough space for you to relax until it’s time to make a move.” Xueyu brought a hand to Laike’s back again, reassurance never wasted on his star student, that boy he treated like blood. “Did you get enough to eat tonight? If you’re still hungry, I can make you food. Or have something sent to your room.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll begin my day training early at Yelu again,” Laike confided as he rose, arms soon reaching above his head as he yawned and stretched. “You can bring me something then if you want. I’m sure this will catch up to me in the morning. We can discuss strategy—or just watch the morning mist as it settles into the day. I think I’m too preoccupied and tired to feel hungry tonight.”

Xueyu nodded his agreement to this plan, watching the boy as he stood. “Alright then. Go rest, catch up on your lost hours.”

That obedient boy bowed shortly to his master before he shot him a wan grin—a silent bit of unspoken gratitude for the watchful eye of his care. “Goodnight, shifu. Rest well when sleep finds you.”

Without any further delay, Laike retreated to his private quarters, hidden away in the winding halls of the cultivator dormitories carved deep in Yunji’s side.