SS CH23

Chu Xiwei had imagined the scene of their reunion many times, but when it truly came to pass, not a single one of those scenarios played out.

The reason was simple: Ye Fusheng had fainted again.

After calling out that one “A-Yao,” as if he had finally set down a heavy stone from his heart, the long-taut bowstring of his nerves suddenly snapped. Neither the unbearable itching nor the stabbing pain could suppress the overwhelming fatigue washing over him, so his head tilted to the side, and he plummeted cleanly into a dark dreamscape. This time, it was not a trap of sinking consciousness, but a perfectly ordinary rest.

It left Chu Xiwei sitting by the bed, forcing himself to breathe deeply to keep from spitting up blood in frustration.

He desperately wanted to shake the man awake, but upon seeing that deeply exhausted face, his heart felt a strange, uncomfortable squeeze. He hesitated in place for a moment, then, with a face as dark as a storm cloud, he applied the medicine and bandaged the man before flicking his sleeves and heading out.

He walked so fast that he nearly collided with Sun Minfeng, who was returning with medicine. The “Ghost Doctor” scrutinized Chu Xiwei’s retreating back for a good while before shaking his head: “He has a worse temper than a girl—is it that time of the month for him?”

The two subordinates trailing behind him heard such treasonous words and could only look at the sky or the ground, pretending they had just heard a gust of mountain wind.

Chu Xiwei stormed out with his head full of grievances. He wandered for a while, and as his anger slowly simmered down—not wanting to head back, but unwilling to drift around like a headless fly—he decided to pay a visit to the former site of Duanshui Manor.

Two days had passed since the catastrophe at the Duofeng Assembly. All of Guyang City was under complete martial law. Armed martial artists were visible everywhere, and the common folk were terrified, not daring to look or speak too much for fear of inviting disaster.

Chu Xiwei arrived, treading on the faint, dim light of the pre-dawn horizon. The fires at Duanshui Manor had long since been extinguished, leaving only broken walls and ruins shrouded in the night. The plaque above the gate was shattered, and the basalt stele in front of the gate had collapsed by half—it no longer held any resemblance to its former glory.

“Heroes of the generation rise from among us, but the passage of time in the Jianghu compels us to age.”

Such a short sentence, yet it demands that generations pay for it with their flesh, blood, and bones, until finally, they perish together, fighting until the very end.

“Cutting water with a blade”—from this day on, it was truly severed.

Chu Xiwei shook his head and lifted his foot to enter, but suddenly heard the sound of a xiao (vertical flute) rising, blowing away the scattered stars in the sky. The melody was deep and distant, continuous as a thread.

In an instant, there were rising tides and crashing waves; in a heartbeat, it turned into a deep valley, the notes weeping as if the River of Forgetfulness were winding through the human world, eventually returning to the Bridge of Helplessness.

It was a piece called “Sending the Soul.”

Chu Xiwei stood where he was, listening for a while, and asked in a low voice, “Besides Xie Li, who else is inside?”

His subordinates, who had been guarding the perimeter, appeared from the shadows and knelt on one knee. “Returning to the Sect Master, a white-haired Daoist arrived an hour ago to pay his respects. It was inconvenient for us to reveal ourselves, so we could only watch him enter. Er Niang has already followed him in.”

Chu Xiwei nodded and followed the sound, stepping over the scorched earth and rubble until he finally reached the former site of the Qianlong Pavilion.

The elegantly constructed veranda had long since been burned to ash, leaving only a pond that remained as it was that day. The muddy water was filthy; from time to time, one could see fish and shrimp killed by the heat, along with the debris of the building soaking in the mire.

The corpses in the manor had already been cleared out by the martial artists who had rushed to the scene. The body of Xie Zhongshan had slid into the water, and though it was intact when fished out, it was a pity that Xie Wuyi—a hero of his generation—had died in the inferno, and in the end, they could not even piece together a complete corpse.

The remains were placed in a high-quality nanmu wood coffin. Xie Li was trembling like a chick frozen in mid-winter, reaching out a shaking hand to push the coffin lid. Whether his strength was too little or his courage too faint, he only pushed it open a thin slit before he could go no further. His knees went weak, and he collapsed, sobbing bitterly over the coffin, while a lamp flickered beside him, casting light upon the desolate ruins.

The moment Chu Xiwei approached, he heard a sound so faint it was almost imperceptible—it was Er Niang signaling a warning.

He glanced at her hiding spot without changing his expression. The sound of the xiao had not ceased, nor was there even a hint of a stuttered, short breath. It showed that this person’s internal energy was incredibly steady—it was terrifying.

The piece “Sending the Soul” ended. After a brief pause, the melody switched; this time, it was “Rebirth.”

Chu Xiwei focused his gaze. Standing by the pond was indeed a Daoist, his back turned to him, pressing the xiao against his lips. His frost-white hair was loosely tied with an ebony pin. His slender, lean frame—lanky for a man—was draped in a black-and-white Daoist robe. His demeanor was calm and natural, as if he were not here to pay respects to the dead, but to see off a chance acquaintance.

Chu Xiwei waited patiently for him to finish the song. When the music ended, the Daoist turned around, revealing a face of indifference.

Just looking at his back, he seemed like an old man of over a hundred years, but looking at his face, he appeared to be in the budding prime of youth, like white plum blossoms in full bloom.

Like a jade tree in a vast, cold land; his elegance was naturally born.

In the twenty-some years Chu Xiwei had lived, he had seen all sorts of people, but this was the first time he had seen someone whose mere appearance could make his heart skip a beat.

This person seemed perfect to the point of lacking human warmth, and cold to the point of being unapproachable.

The white-haired Daoist’s eyes held a handful of high-mountain frost, and his face was like a stagnant pool of deep water. Even his voice sounded like clashing ice and breaking jade—cold and detached: “This humble Daoist is named Duanqing. I have disturbed you.”

As he spoke, he hung the jade xiao back at his waist, where it hung alongside a silver flask the size of a palm. Holding a horsetail whisk, he began to walk toward Chu Xiwei. At that moment, Er Niang, hidden in the shadows, instinctively tensed, but Chu Xiwei signaled for her not to act rashly.

The Daoist calling himself “Duanqing” did not stop beside Chu Xiwei, as if they were merely strangers passing by, but Chu Xiwei spoke up to stop him: “Please wait a moment.”

Duanqing turned his head: “Is there something?”

“I ask this out of rudeness, but are you an acquaintance of Duanshui Manor?” Chu Xiwei felt as though there were still residual heat from the fires beneath his feet, and he secretly frowned, though his smile remained unchanged. “Such a vast foundation ruined in a single day—it is truly lamentable. If you have the heart to be here, why not stay a few more days?”

Duanqing replied, “I had a single meeting with the old Manor Lord years ago; it cannot be called a friendship. I was merely passing through, heard of the tragedy, and came to pay my respects.”

Chu Xiwei narrowed his eyes. Xie Zhongshan had been confined to the manor for the past three years, but he hadn’t left Guyang City for many years before that. So his meeting with this Daoist… was likely a decade ago.

Yet, observing his appearance, he looked at most to be in his thirties.

As he pondered this, Duanqing’s gaze fell on Xie Li and he remarked, “The young master lost his family at a young age and has led a life of wandering—it is a fate filled with misfortune. However, there is victory to be found in danger; he will have his own achievements in the future. The spirits of Duanshui Manor can rest in peace.”

Xie Li was still kneeling, lost in his grief, unsure if he had heard or not. Chu Xiwei smiled. “Is the Daoist good at divination?”

“A wandering practitioner from the wild, I only understand a little,” Duanqing glanced at him. “You have sorrow locked in your heart, young master. Great joy and great sorrow are most damaging to the body; I ask that you let go of your burdens. Otherwise, it will not only harm yourself but also endanger others. Sometimes, following one’s heart is not necessarily a bad thing.”

Chu Xiwei’s heart skipped a beat, but his smile did not waver; the hand inside his sleeve slowly tightened.

The atmosphere in the courtyard turned icy until Duanqing shook his head: “To speak deeply to a shallow acquaintance—that was my mistake.”

“Thank you for your words, Daoist. I was thinking incorrectly just now. I apologize to you,” Chu Xiwei bowed in apology and added, “However, I have an unreasonable request, and I hope you will not refuse to enlighten me.”

Duanqing shook his head. “My meager skills are not worth displaying. What I said just now was only because I observed the instability in your internal energy, hence my reminder. Why speak of enlightenment?”

Chu Xiwei lowered his eyes, perfectly masking the flash of brilliance in them. “If you are willing to agree, whether you are right or wrong, I can grant you one favor.”

“Is a promise from the Master of the Baigui Sect so easily obtained now?” Duanqing looked at him. “A promise is as heavy as a thousand catties. It is easy to say, but sometimes, the price for it is much heavier.”

“You are indeed someone who understands the world,” Chu Xiwei curled his lips. “I am no gentleman, but I keep my word. I wonder what you think?”

Duanqing did not answer, so Chu Xiwei took it as his consent and said, “I would like you to perform a divination for someone. It is just that I do not have his birth date or time, and his name is also inconvenient to disclose. Do you have a way?”

Most fortune-tellers would have thrown their bamboo sticks in his face upon hearing such a request, but Duanqing looked him over twice. “Then please write a character, young master.”

Chu Xiwei paused for a moment and said, “Ye (葉).”

Duanqing contemplated this for a moment. “I cannot calculate this.”

“Why?”

Duanqing swept his whisk, clearing away the smoke and dust. His tone remained flat and plain. ” ‘Ye’ also means ‘to return to the ancient’—it signifies the old. I suspect that both you and this person are dwelling in the past, finding it difficult to move forward. Such hesitation is truly unwise. Furthermore, ‘leaves flying, leaves falling’ (Ye fei ye luo). The former is drifting and uncertain; the latter returns to the roots and sinks into the mud. It is a fate of a lifetime of wandering, ending in death. Now that this fate has fallen into your hands, this person’s life no longer belongs to himself, but is held by you. Your thoughts dictate his destiny, and what I say… does not count.”

Chu Xiwei was silent. After a long while, he said, “You are truly a master of calculation.”

Duanqing said, “Not so. I merely look at things through the lens of people, and judge recklessly. Since the deal is struck, I ask that you fulfill one thing for me.”

Chu Xiwei nodded his agreement, and he heard Duanqing say, “Please hand Li Feng over to me.”

Chu Xiwei’s gaze hardened. “Such a wicked and vile person is not worth dirtying your hands.”

Duanqing remained noncommittal. “Are you going to break your word?”

“I said I would keep my word; naturally, I will not renege,” Chu Xiwei smiled and signaled to Er Niang, who understood and left. “It is just that handing Li Feng over to you is equivalent to handing over the talons of the Zanghun Palace. You are a person of the outside world; I fear this will bring you unnecessary trouble.”

“I am aware of this.”

With that said, Chu Xiwei didn’t speak further. “My subordinates are taking Li Feng to the West City Gate. I have also prepared a carriage to send you on your way. Please.”

“Thank you.” Duanqing took a step, then suddenly paused. He unhooked the silver flask from his waist and handed it to Chu Xiwei. “You have provided me with convenience; I have nothing else to offer, so please accept this wine. The sun and moon do not share the same sky, but mountains and rivers will meet again. Farewell.”

The frost-like figure vanished from his sight. Chu Xiwei held the silver flask in his hand, looked at Xie Li—who had stopped crying and was organizing the coffin—and after a moment of thought, decided not to say anything, preparing to return.

Instead, it was Xie Li who called out to him. The young boy’s throat was hoarse from crying, and his voice sounded more mature: “Master Chu, the Duanshui Saber… for you.”

He unslung the precious saber, which carried the century-long foundation of Duanshui Manor, from his back. Holding it with both hands, he carefully presented it to Chu Xiwei.

Chu Xiwei did not take it, only looking at the top of his dirty head. “If you give it to me like this, are you reconciled?”

“Father said to give it to you, so I must give it to you,” Xie Li looked up. “I said I would take it back, and in the future, I certainly will.”

“Heh, I shall wait,” Chu Xiwei smiled. He reached out and took the Duanshui Saber, as easily as if he were picking up a piece of ordinary iron of no consequence.

Xie Li watched him leave, then looked back at the coffin and the ruins scattered all over. A ray of sunlight spilled through, stretching his small shadow long.

It was as if a child, in this very instant, had become an adult.

Time flashes by, and years pass in a blink.