Chapter 5: Teaching

Night in the Red Desert was a different kind of day.

When the wind died down, moonlight poured onto the boundless dunes like liquid silver, making every grain of sand shimmer with a cold light.

In the distance, the scales of sand lizards occasionally reflected the glow like shards of a broken mirror.

Nearby, a campfire burned low, crackling as sparks rose and died like fleeting heartbeats.

Jin sat on the eastern side of the fire, his back straight but relaxed.

The wound on his left shoulder had scabbed over, and the scorpion venom scratches on his right arm had faded to a light brown.

He was meticulously sharpening a dagger with a whetstone — his movements were slow and steady, not for the sake of killing, but out of habit.

The firelight illuminated his profile: slightly curled black hair fell over his forehead, tinted a deep chestnut by the flames.

His jawline was sharp, his nose high, and his dark red eyes were as quiet as extinguished embers.

Only when he looked at Xue Yin did a faint, imperceptible warmth flicker within them.

A scar ran diagonally from his eyebrow to his cheekbone, adding a rugged edge to his features.

Xue Yin leaned against a rock, resting with her eyes closed.

Under the moonlight, her silver hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall, emitting a faint silver aura — it was her bloodline itself breathing, a purity that bordered on the divine.

Her lashes were long and dense, casting shadows like butterfly wings beneath her eyes.

Her pale skin was nearly translucent, with a faint silver glow shimmering occasionally at the side of her neck.

She wore a plain white linen garment with a high collar and long sleeves that covered her slender but strong frame.

On her lower abdomen, a pink magical rose mark lay dormant.

It felt slightly warm to the touch — a covenant from a god and a hunting order all in one.

She suddenly opened her eyes and met his gaze.

Jin quickly looked away.

“Master.”

He handed her a roasted sand rabbit leg, the meat meticulously shredded.

“Teach me alchemy.”

Xue Yin took the meat but didn’t eat it, resting it on her lap.

Her starlight eyes reflected the fire, and for a moment, she seemed dazed.

‘Does this boy really see me as his master?’

“Alchemy isn’t cooking soup,” she said.

“It’s about guiding the magic within the materials and making them obey.”

She took a small ceramic jar, several sprigs of Moon-glow Grass, and some Sandthorn Root from her bag.

She crushed the Moon-glow Grass in her palm and pinched out exactly 3 grams.

“A fraction more, and the medicinal properties will be too violent. A fraction less, and it will have no effect.”

She sliced the Sandthorn Root with her dagger, taking only the center.

“Impurities on the edges will affect the purity. They must be stripped clean.”

She placed the ceramic jar 3 inches from the fire.

Too close, and the magic would be incinerated; too far, and the materials would never wake up.

“Watch the color of the flames.”

She pointed to the edge of the fire.

“When the bluish-white turns to orange-red, the elements are at their most active. That is when you add the ingredients to let them fuse.”

Jin held his breath, his eyes fixed on her.

He had seen her call forth a curtain of water in the mine shafts, but now he saw her fussing over a mere 3 grams of powder.

‘So true power isn’t just about tearing the world apart,’ he realized, ‘it’s about taming every strand of magic.’

“Stir it clockwise, 7.5 turns,” she commanded.

“Too fast and the magic will dissipate. Too slow and the impurities will solidify.”

He followed her instructions, his wrist incredibly steady.

The liquid gradually thickened, and a faint golden film of light floated on the surface — the sign of magic blending with the essence of the materials.

Xue Yin suddenly bit her fingertip, letting a single drop of blood fall into the jar.

“Master!” Jin exclaimed.

“High Elf blood is the best catalyst,” she said, her expression unchanging.

“But 1 drop is enough. Any more would be counterproductive.”

She used the tip of her dagger to stir gently, blending the blood with the liquid.

A moment later, the potion separated into layers: the top was as clear as moonlight, while the bottom was as dark as ash.

She took a clean piece of cloth, placed it over the mouth of the jar, and slowly filtered the clear liquid into another empty container.

The resulting liquid shimmered like liquid stars.

She split the filtered medicine into 2 portions, drinking 1 herself and pushing the other toward him.

“Drink. It will ease the old injury on your left shoulder by morning.”

Jin held the ceramic jar, the steam rising from it.

He suddenly asked, “Did you teach others like this before, Master?”

The firelight flickered.

“No.”

She looked into the distance.

“I was an only son. My mother always used to say, ‘Zhou Yao, if you don’t get into a good university, how are you going to survive?'”

As the words left her mouth, she froze.

This was the first time in 3 years she had mentioned “Zhou Yao.”

‘Why am I telling him this?’ she wondered.

She couldn’t explain it herself.

Jin didn’t ask about the name.

He just lowered his head and blew on the medicine.

“And now?”

“Now?” The corner of her mouth quirked.

“Now, teaching an apprentice saves money. A life is worth more than gold, but 1 copper coin can still buy a life.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the scent of medicine and the sound of the fire.

After a long while, Jin spoke in a soft voice.

“When I was 7 years old, my village was slaughtered by goblins. They… they dragged my mother into the barn. I hid under the stove and heard her cry until her voice went hoarse and she stopped making any sound at all.”

He paused.

“Later, I was picked up by a mercenary group and used as ‘bait’ — to lure monsters, scout minefields, and test poisons. I survived because I learned one thing: when people don’t treat you like a human, you should stop treating yourself like one.”

Xue Yin remained silent for a long time.

She didn’t look at him, but she felt a slight tug in her chest.

It wasn’t pity, but a sort of indefinable ache.

She lowered her eyes, her voice softer than usual.

“Were you afraid?”

Jin hesitated.

“I was,” he said.

“But eventually, I got used to it.”

“Habit is more terrifying than fear.”

Xue Yin finally turned to look at him.

“If you get used to being bait, you’ll forget that you’re a person too.”

Jin met her gaze, his dark red eyes swirling with complex emotions.

“What about you, Master?” he asked.

“After 3 years of running and hiding, what are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of being caught alive,” Xue Yin answered quickly, as if she had thought about it countless times.

“I’m afraid of becoming a vessel, of being flayed and vivisected, and of dying without an ounce of dignity.”

She paused, her voice dropping lower.

“But mostly, I’m afraid that no one will remember I ever existed.”

Jin didn’t speak.

He just watched her, something softening deep within his eyes.

After a long silence, he asked quietly, “And now? Are you still afraid?”

Xue Yin didn’t answer immediately.

She watched the campfire, the light playing across her face.

“I am,” she said, her voice like a faint sigh.

Then she paused, her eyes downcast, and the corner of her lip curved into a tiny smile so fleeting it was almost invisible.

“But… maybe not as much anymore.”

Those words were quiet, but they made Jin’s heart skip a beat.

He saw that fleeting smile — it was so faint, like mist in the desert night that vanished in an instant.

But because of its fragility, it felt real.

It wasn’t an act of charity or pity; it was the first time someone who had hidden themselves for 3 years allowed themselves to drop their guard, just a little, in front of another person.

Jin said nothing.

He just looked at her, his heart skipping a beat before thumping heavily against his ribs.

“When we reach Moon-glow Fortress,” Xue Yin said, her tone returning to its usual flat delivery as if that moment of softness had never happened, “I’ll find a way to get you a blank identity. You can leave. There are free ports in the Southern Territories where no one will check your past.”

Jin was stunned.

“Are you chasing me away, Master?”

“I’m not chasing you away.”

Xue Yin didn’t look at him, her fingers unconsciously rubbing the edge of the ceramic jar.

“I’m giving you a choice. You aren’t bait anymore. You have the right to choose.”

Jin was silent for a moment, then he suddenly laughed.

There was a grit like sand in his laugh, but also something tender.

“But I’ve already chosen,” he said.

“Master is teaching me alchemy, so I should finish learning. I want to learn more things from you in the future, so don’t think about chasing me away.”

“That’s all the ambition you have?”

“There’s more.”

He looked straight at her, his gaze unwavering.

“I want to protect you. Not because of a covenant, but because you treat me like a person.”

Xue Yin said nothing.

She just kept her head down, staring at the jar in her hands.

Moonlight fell on her silver hair, creating a faint aura.

Jin couldn’t see her expression; he only saw her fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the jar — and then loosen.

She pulled a piece of paper from the folds of her ledger and handed it over.

“Starting tomorrow,” she said, her voice a fraction softer than before, though she likely didn’t realize it, “I’ll teach you how to refine Obscurity Powder. Ingredients: sand lizard venom glands, Shadowclaw Grass powder, and morning dew.”

Jin’s eyes lit up.

“Can you teach me how to write the formula too?”

“Don’t blame me if my handwriting is ugly.”

She handed him a charcoal pencil.

The two of them leaned toward the fire, their heads almost touching.

Her silver hair brushed against his shoulder armor; he kept his breathing light, afraid to disturb this rare moment of peace.

Xue Yin suddenly felt a strange sensation — he was too close.

Close enough that she could smell the warm, toasted scent on him, and close enough to see the fine shadows his lashes cast in the firelight.

She wanted to move back an inch, but she didn’t.

The corner of her mouth twitched upward.

This time, Jin saw it.

But he lowered his eyes, pretending not to notice, and focused on tracing those crooked characters, one stroke at a time.

***

The night grew deeper.

Xue Yin leaned back against the rock to rest.

Jin tidied up the ceramic jars with quiet movements.

Suddenly, she spoke softly.

“When I purified your infection last time, I felt a power inside you. It was violent, like a volcano that had been forcibly locked away. What was it?”

Jin’s hand stiffened, his knuckles turning white.

“When I was a child, my magic went out of control and nearly burned the village down,” he said, his eyes downcast and his voice calm.

“So a seal was placed on it to suppress it.”

“Just that?” she pressed, her gaze as sharp as a blade.

“That power doesn’t seem like something a normal demon would have.”

Jin was silent for a moment.

He looked toward the distant dunes, avoiding her eyes.

“Master,” he whispered, “there are some things I can’t say yet. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s…”

He paused, his voice dropping even lower.

“It’s that I’m afraid that if you knew, you would stay far away from me.”

Xue Yin stared at him for a long time before finally looking away.

“Suit yourself,” she said coldly, but she didn’t push him further.

“But remember — whenever you want to talk, you can tell me.”

Jin blinked and looked up at her.

Xue Yin had already closed her eyes, appearing as if she hadn’t said anything at all.

Only her silver hair fluttered slightly in the night breeze.

He said nothing, only silently adding a handful of dry wood to the fire.

The flames jumped higher, illuminating both their faces.

Xue Yin suddenly asked, “Do you believe humans and demons will ever stop fighting?”

Jin was taken aback.

“I don’t,” he answered bluntly.

“War isn’t about winning; it’s about stealing. Humans steal mines from the Demon Realm, and demons steal Source Crystal Fields from the Human Realm. Today you burn my village, tomorrow I slaughter your city — it’s just a cycle.”

“And Moon-glow Fortress?” She looked toward the south.

“‘Where heroes return, where glory remains’ — do you think that’s hope, or a cage?”

Jin scoffed, poking at the fire.

“The names carved on those city walls are casualty numbers, not people. Those who go in either die on the front lines or become weapons. This so-called ‘glory’ is nothing more than shackles for the living and an epitaph to keep the dead quiet.”

A flash of approval flickered in Xue Yin’s eyes, but she remained cold.

“Smart. Then you should know — we aren’t going there to find hope. We’re going there to find a way to survive.”

“I know.”

He looked her in the eyes.

“That’s why I’m going with you. Not because I believe in Moon-glow Fortress, but because I believe in you — that you won’t turn me into ‘bait,’ and you won’t let me become just a ‘number.'”

Xue Yin didn’t respond.

She lowered her head and finished the last of her medicine.

Then, she turned her face slightly and glanced at him.

That look was light and fleeting, but it was no longer as cold as a winter star — it was like moonlight hitting ice; cold, yet filled with light.

Jin stood frozen.

By the time he regained his senses, she had already looked away, leaning against the rock with her eyes closed.

The fire grew weak, and the sparks scattered.

The two of them sat with their backs to the rock, each guarding their own piece of silence.

But tonight, there was the scent of medicine, the glow of the fire, and an unpoken promise:

I trust you, so I will teach you;

You trust me, so you will stay.