Confluence: Goddess Reborn

I got a few days off.

After two straight weeks of training with Shen Kexian—punctuated by dramatic water blasts, emotional breakdowns, and near-death magical rebound events—he finally said the words I never thought I'd hear from his mouth:

"We've improved. Take a few days off."

Just like that.

No scrolls. No lectures. No cryptic one-liners delivered while bleeding into his sleeve.

So I did what any responsible, emotionally-avoiding person would do.

I kept myself busy.

I rearranged my jewelry box. Twice. I watered a potted plant I'm pretty sure is fake. I reread half a romantic scroll before realizing the main character reminded me too much of Ming Yu and promptly threw it under the bed.

It had been almost three weeks since he left for Daqi.

Twenty-one days of silence.

Of absence. And I missed him so much it made my chest ache in quiet moments.

Night was the worst.

Every time the wind rattled a screen or a twig snapped outside my window, my heart jumped like a fool. I'd glance up, half-hoping—no, half-believing—that I'd see him there, somehow. Just standing in the shadows, smirking, saying something dry and protective and too soft for anyone but me to hear.

But the window stayed empty. And the nights stretched long.

Eventually, I'd had enough of feeling sorry for myself.

"Xiaohua," I said, rising from the floor like a tragic ghost, "we're going shopping."

She blinked. "Shopping? You mean like… picking fabrics from the storage room?"

"No. Out. Real shopping. Town. Stalls. Merchants with questionable pricing and tea that's too sweet."

She gasped, clapping her hands. "Finally! I was beginning to think you'd fused to your mattress!"

I was halfway into my outer robe when a knock came at the door.

A servant poked his head in. "Consort Li, Lord Shen Kexian requests to accompany you on your outing."

I stared. Xiaohua stared.

"What?" I said flatly.

The servant bowed again. "He says he is in need of new robes. His previous sets have been… 'irreparably compromised' during training."

I groaned. "You mean ripped in half from being slammed into stone repeatedly by water strikes?"

The servant nodded. "His words were more poetic, but yes."

I sighed. Deeply. Spiritually. "Fine. Tell him he can come."

Xiaohua turned to me, wide-eyed. "You're letting him join us?"

"He's bleeding in half my memories at this point. Might as well let him pick out something not covered in magical scorch marks."

Besides, if I didn't keep moving—even if it meant dragging Shen Kexian along—I'd go insane waiting for someone who might never come back.

***

The town was alive with sound.

Drums thudded from a nearby stage, children darted between vendors, and the scent of grilled buns and cheap incense floated in the heat. Everywhere we turned, there were people—shoppers crowding tight alleyways, elders sipping tea under awnings, little performances springing up in every plaza. Laughter, clapping, hawking voices—it was all too much.

Shen Kexian didn't buy a single thing. Not one.

He followed behind me and Xiaohua with his hands calmly tucked behind his back, expression unreadable as ever, offering exactly zero opinion on hairpins, scarves, or—tragically—sesame buns.

"Are you going to get something?" I asked at one point, annoyed.

"I'm observing," he replied.

"Observing what?"

"Your taste in poorly stitched fan tassels."

"Why are you like this?"

He just smiled faintly and fell back in line.

The crowd thickened as we reached the central square. A small troupe of dancers had taken the stage, spinning in silks under the midday sun, and a gathering had formed—tight, loud, shoulder to shoulder. I turned to Xiaohua for a comment, but she wasn't there.

Gone. Vanished into the sea of fans and waving sleeves. Panic flared in my chest.

I turned quickly, trying to find her in the crowd. The sun pressed down hard, the air thick with heat and perfume and chatter. I could barely breathe. My heartbeat spiked.

"I need a moment," I muttered, already ducking down a side alley—narrow, shaded, mercifully quieter.

Shen Kexian followed behind me. But then—he stopped. I felt it before I heard it. That shift in the air.

He stiffened beside me, his posture suddenly alert, eyes sharp.

"Keep walking," he murmured, voice low and tight. "Someone is following us."

I didn't look up. Just kept moving.

Our footsteps echoed too loud in the narrow alley. The buildings leaned inward, blocking the sun. The edge of town was close—barely a few turns away.

Then it happened.

Two figures in plain robes dropped from the rooftops, landing hard in front of us. Faces hidden behind plain black masks, their movements precise—too precise. No theatrics. Just cultivators trained for one purpose.

Assassination.

Before I could even react, Shen Kexian stepped forward, sleeves flaring as he drew a short, curved blade from inside his robe with practiced ease.

"Stay behind me," he said, voice clipped.

Then he moved. Fast.

Steel clashed as he blocked the first strike, then parried the second. They were strong—too strong. Not amateurs. Not mercenaries. These were elite fighters. Their movements were calculated, synchronized. They came at him from both sides, pressing him back step by step.

And I—

I stood there. Useless. Helpless. Watching.

Because again, here I was—no weapon, no training, no defense.

My pulse screamed in my ears. My legs wouldn't move.

Shen Kexian blocked another blow, just barely. His breath was ragged. He was good, better than I'd ever seen him—but he was being cornered.

One of the masked men brought his blade down—fast, brutal, aimed to kill.

And then—

Clang!

Another blade intercepted it midair. The shock of steel-on-steel cracked through the alley.

A second figure leapt into view, landing between Shen Kexian and the masked man like a ghost made real.

Tall. Steady. Sword drawn.

My breath hitched.

The masked man staggered back, eyes flashing behind the fabric.

The newcomer raised his head, turning slightly—just enough for the light to catch on his face.

And time stopped.

"Ming Yu." The name left my mouth like a prayer. He came back!

He didn't look at me right away. He looked at the two men trying to kill us and in that moment, I remembered exactly what it felt like to be protected. He glanced at Shen Kexian—just a single, sharp look—and said, "Protect her."

Then he moved.

Sword in hand, he charged straight toward the two masked cultivators, striking fast and clean. There was no hesitation. No wasted movement. He fought like someone who had done it too many times to be nervous—each motion precise, his blade slicing through the air like it belonged there.

And he was good. Better than Shen Kexian. Faster, more fluid, the kind of warrior that looked like he breathed in battle.

But it was still two against one.

And the longer it went on, the tighter my chest became. Because in a fight like this, it wasn't about skill. It was about time. About pressure. About who would make the first mistake.

And someone always did.

I could feel it coming. That edge, that moment where everything could tip and someone I loved could fall.

A surge rushed through me—hot, wild, protective. It didn't come from reason. It came from something deeper. I turned to Shen Kexian, breath short. "Kexian," I said. "We need to do something."

He looked at me, chest heaving from the earlier fight.

I reached out with my hand.

For a split second, he just stared—like he was trying to read something in my face. Then understanding dawned.

"You're serious," he said.

"Yes."

"It will be intense."

"I don't care."

He grabbed my hand. There was no gentle warmth this time. No slow build. Just fire.

The rage poured through the connection instantly—thick and suffocating. It was cold and hot all at once, like being dropped into a river of flame and ice. It burned. My skin felt like it was peeling from the inside out.

But I didn't flinch. I didn't shut it out. I dove deeper and I found it. That same hidden flicker—that tether buried beneath the fury. The safe feeling. The quiet ache. It was there, waiting, like it always had been.

I grabbed it. And then I twisted it. I fed it everything I was feeling. The fear. The grief. The love. I reached down into the pit of that power and poured in the memory of Ming Yu's voice, the comfort of his arms, the need to protect him.

Not just desire. Purpose. And the power responded. It didn't explode. It aligned.

Suddenly, everything around us shifted. The air dried—like the heat before a storm. The humidity vanished in a heartbeat.

And then water appeared—from nothing—coalescing next to Shen Kexian's free hand like it had been waiting for permission to exist.

He moved without hesitation. One sweep of his arm and the water launched forward—not as a wave, but as thousands of gleaming needles, each one sharp as steel and humming with intent.

They struck the nearest cultivator in a blur of motion.

He screamed. Then dropped to the ground, coughing violently, blood pouring from his mouth. The second attacker didn't pause. He grabbed his injured comrade by the shoulder, yanked him upright, and in a blink, they were gone—disappearing into the trees with the speed of someone who knew they'd just lost.

Silence rushed back into the alley like a gasp held too long.

My hand was still in Shen Kexian's. It took everything I had not to let go of Shen Kexian's hand.

The power was still pulsing between us—laced with fire and emotion and something that felt too big for any single body to hold. My fingers twitched from the strain. My knees were shaking.

But he didn't let me bear it alone.

Slowly, carefully, he drew the power back. Pulled it inward, contained it, until the storm we had unleashed settled into something quieter, something bearable. Then, only then, did he let go.

The moment our hands separated, my strength vanished.

I collapsed to the ground, knees hitting the stone as my breath came in short, frantic gasps. My vision swam, the world tilting just enough to remind me that I'd pushed too far again. The edges of my sight blurred, my limbs heavy and trembling.

But then—Arms around me. Familiar. Solid.

Ming Yu.

He dropped beside me in an instant, hands on my shoulders, eyes wide with concern.

"Mei Lin," he said, voice low, urgent. "Are you alright?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

Instead, I reached out, wrapped my arms around him, and pulled him in tightly, burying my face into his shoulder. My whole body ached, but I didn't care.

"You're back," I whispered.

He held me close, gently, as if he was afraid I might shatter in his arms. One hand stroked my back, steady and soothing. "Yes," he said softly. "I'm back."

And for a moment, just that—just him—was enough.

Then, from behind us, came a sharp, dry cough.

Followed by the unmistakably annoyed voice of Shen Kexian. "Touching," he muttered, dragging in a strained breath. "But if we could save the heartfelt reunion for later, preferably somewhere not lined with lurking assassins... that would be ideal."

I turned my head just enough to glance at him.

He looked exhausted. His shoulders sagged. He was wiping blood from his mouth with the sleeve of his robe like this was just another unfortunate Tuesday.

I gave him a weak, watery smile. "Thank you."

He gave me a look that said I regret everything.

"Let's go," he said, voice low, tight. "Before someone else decides they want a piece of the Goddess of Water."

And just like that, the moment passed.

The danger wasn't gone.

But Ming Yu was back.

And for now, that was enough.