The bonfire crackled in the night wind, sparks rising and glittering briefly in midair before the cold gale swallowed them, erasing them into the boundless darkness. Shen Xiu sat beside the fire, a pine branch in hand, gently stirring the burning logs. Flames danced in his pupils, reflected in eyes as clear as crystal, as though the firelight had poured some strange warmth into them. Liu Qingyan leaned against his shoulder, wrapped in a thick cloak, breathing quietly. Her eyelashes trembled faintly in the firelight, as if she were having a peaceful dream.
Nights on the snowfields were especially long, and especially quiet. After the battle, the black patterns within the ice had completely faded away, yet Shen Xiu could still sense a faint tremor lingering deep in the frozen earth beneath his feet, as though the land itself were slowly healing the wounds torn open across it. He gently closed his eyes and sent the power of lightning into the ice, tenderly brushing across the areas that darkness had corroded, repairing the damaged veins of the ice plains bit by bit. The process was slow and gentle, like a mother soothing a frightened child to sleep.
About half a shichen later, the trembling deep within the ice finally subsided completely. Shen Xiu opened his eyes and felt the breath of the entire snowfield become much clearer. The vitality that had been suppressed by dark energy for seventy years was slowly reviving—the moss beneath the snow began to show the faintest green, seeds buried in the frozen soil silently began absorbing nutrients, and several snow foxes hibernating in the distance turned over and sank into an even more peaceful sleep. All of it was happening on a microscopic level invisible to the naked eye, yet he could sense it, like