SS CH90

Gu Qifang had been waiting here for thirteen years.

They say that when people die, they are most prone to overthinking, and even someone as carefree as her was no exception. When she was on the verge of collapsing, only two people constantly crossed Gu Qifang’s mind: one was Duanqing, who was holding her, and the other was Gu Xiao, whose whereabouts were unknown at the time.

She couldn’t bear to part with Duanqing, but she was even more worried about Gu Xiao.

A mother knows the child she raised. Gu Qifang knew that Gu Xiao’s temperament took after hers; it’s just that he hadn’t yet been tempered by the countless storms of life, nor had he learned to see through the sorrows of parting and the joys of reunion.

She had thought she still had plenty of time to teach him, but unforeseen storms arose, instantly placing life and death right before her eyes. With a thousand words left unsaid, she was about to leave this world full of regrets.

The lives of those in the Jianghu are not their own. Gu Qifang had always thought she might meet a violent end one day, but no matter which ending she envisioned, she never meant to drag Gu Xiao into such bloodshed.

The hardest cage to escape in this world isn’t one forged of iron and steel, but the prison of one’s own making. Drawing a circle on the ground and calling it a jail, for when the heart bears shackles, there is no freedom even at the ends of the earth.

Gu Xiao might never recover from this, or he might go to extremes—either becoming a crippled ruin or turning into a madman like Helian Yu.

If that happened, she wouldn’t be able to rest in peace even if her soul fell to the Nine Underworlds.

Therefore, her final dying request was for Duanqing to find her stubborn little disciple and tell him that his Shifu didn’t blame him; it wasn’t his fault.

She wanted Gu Xiao to personally scatter the first handful of soil over her grave, so that all the past could be buried in the decaying earth, washing away all lingering regrets and wiping clean all resentment and guilt.

Gu Qifang had waited thirteen years, and she had finally waited for the wanderer to return home and lay her… to rest.

Her burial site was beneath the unblooming plum tree in the Qishuang Courtyard.

Duanqing opened the ice coffin, and Ye Fusheng personally lifted the long-cold, stiff body out, walking step by step from the darkness back into the light.

He walked slowly, his vision blurred by tears, his throat choked with sobs, and his jaw clenched dead tight. Yet the arms holding her were remarkably steady, as immovable as solid rock.

Duanqing led him all the way to the courtyard before reaching out to take Gu Qifang. He quietly watched as Ye Fusheng bent down, took the shovel resting beneath the tree, and began digging up the dirt, shovelful by shovelful.

His movements were very slow. From late afternoon until dusk, Ye Fusheng didn’t utter a single word. Tears and sweat dripped together into the soil until he finally dug a large pit.

Only then did Duanqing finally speak. “That is enough.”

Ye Fusheng’s body shuddered. Dropping the shovel, he slowly turned around. His gaze traveled gradually down from Duanqing’s face, ultimately fixing upon the smile lingering at the corners of Gu Qifang’s lips.

Nearly choking on his breath, he struck his own chest fiercely.

Gu Qifang’s remains had been cleaned and arranged by female disciples of the Supreme Palace when she was originally placed in the coffin. But now, away from the freezing pool and ice coffin and having been outside for an entire afternoon, the frost clinging to her body had melted, revealing the distinct pallor and emaciation of the dead. Removing his own outer robe, Duanqing carefully wrapped her in a layer, finally covering her head and face before personally lowering her into the earthen pit.

It was an unimaginably simple burial, thirteen years late. Duanqing couldn’t help but feel he had wronged her and owed her immensely. Even though he had now become a walking corpse with a heart as still as dead water, a dense, continuous ache still pulsed through all the bones and meridians in his body.

His hand fumbled in his sleeve pocket, pulling out a wooden box. Inside was a time-worn ebony hairpin, its head carved with two tiny peach blossoms.

Placing the wooden box beside Gu Qifang, Duanqing stood up and said to Ye Fusheng, “Cover her with earth… If you have anything to say, do it now.”

Ye Fusheng fell to his knees. Instead of using the shovel, he scooped up the dirt with his bare hands, trembling as he sprinkled it over Gu Qifang.

Tugging at the corners of his mouth, he spoke in a hoarse voice. “Shifu, your wicked disciple left without a word thirteen years ago, and has come today to send you off…”

Standing behind him, Duanqing remained expressionless, his gaze unrippled.

“Letting an elder like you sleep in such a cold place all these years is my fault. I came back too late… Don’t be lazy at night, send me a dream to scold me. Hitting me a few times is fine too.” Smearing his dirty hand across his face, Ye Fusheng continued. “Back then, after we parted at the Weeping Blood Cave, I went back to Feiyun Peak, but I didn’t see you or Shiniang… I wandered everywhere, but no matter where I went, I had no home.

“Do you remember Chu Yao? That chubby little boy who loved hugging your leg and acting pitiful. When I picked him up and brought him back to the heavenly capital, I took him as my disciple. I originally thought I could pass down the Jinghong Blade, but I never expected human hearts to be more deceitful than heaven’s will… In order to investigate the Burial Soul Palace’s background, I reorganized the Lueying, only to uncover an even more unbearable truth.” Covering her with dirt handful by handful, Ye Fusheng—who had grown accustomed to burying everything in his stomach over the years—seemed to have the floodgates of his heart blown open in this moment, rambling endlessly about past events he hadn’t mentioned in years. “Our Jinghong lineage, ah… ever since our grandmaster, we’ve been schemed against. Those people, ah, don’t treat human life as anything. In their eyes, there’s only a broken chair, and they only think about how to climb onto it. They don’t care how much blood and bone they trample beneath their feet…”

He was speaking for Gu Qifang to hear, but also recounting these thirteen years to Duanqing. The white-haired Daoist listened quietly, his silhouette as motionless as an ancient tree.

“Ten years ago, I killed the person who colluded with Helian Yu to scheme against you. But I also failed Chu Yao, turning a perfectly fine imperial grandson into a commoner, reduced to wandering the Jianghu. I failed him, but I do not regret taking revenge. Still, in the end, it was a betrayal…” Ye Fusheng sniffled. “For the past ten years, overestimating my own capabilities, I became the imperial court running dog you despised the most. I did many things I hated, but fortunately… in the end, I didn’t betray the greater good of the common people, nor did I violate the sect’s precepts. Today, I still have the face to kneel before you and ramble on.”

Layers of thin soil had already obscured the corpse’s form. Ye Fusheng continued to scatter dirt, as if trying to bury the past events he had hidden in his heart for over a decade along with her.

“This autumn, the battle at Jinghan Pass was dire. I originally thought I was going down there to kowtow and apologize to you. But I was saved by someone, encountered a grown-up Ah-Yao, and now I’ve even reunited with you and Shiniang… Heaven, after all, smiled upon me once. I didn’t lose out.”

With bloodshot eyes and hot tears streaming down his grimy face, Ye Fusheng finally scattered the last handful of earth and bowed deeply, kowtowing three times.

In truth, he still had much he wanted to say, but reaching this point, he felt it was enough.

Those unfinished words churned in his chest before finally condensing into a single, short sentence: “Have a safe journey, benevolent Shifu. Your disciple kowtows to send you off.”

Only then did Duanqing move.

His slightly cool palm, condensing a trace of internal energy, chopped down on the back of Ye Fusheng’s neck. As the man finished his final kowtow, his body went limp, caught by the crouching Duanqing.

Both immense joy and immense sorrow harm the organs, let alone in Ye Fusheng’s current condition. Allowing him to conduct the burial and bid farewell was only proper, but now, it was enough.

Daoist Duanqing wasn’t very good at comforting people, so it was better to just let him hold onto that thread of relief and get a good night’s sleep.

He hoisted the unconscious man onto his back. Truthfully, Ye Fusheng was now nearly as tall as he was, but Duanqing still carried him steadily, just as he had carried the child Gu Xiao home on Feiyun Peak all those years ago.

Having been secluded in the Supreme Palace for thirteen years due to unforeseen circumstances, Duanqing’s knowledge of Ye Fusheng’s affairs over the years was extremely limited. Taking in the words he had just heard, he mentally sketched a timeline with the head and tail cut off. Even if Ye Fusheng had omitted the countless near-death encounters and dilemmas, it was still shockingly convoluted and tragic.

As he carried Ye Fusheng, the sunset’s afterglow spilled across his head of white hair, seeming to add a touch of warmth to the unmelting alpine snow.

Duanqing stared at the unmarked new grave beneath the plum tree for a long time before saying faintly, “He came back. He’s had a very hard time these past years. Don’t be angry; I will watch over him from now on.”

Pausing, the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, seemingly wanting to smile. Unfortunately, his entire face seemed to have calcified; he could only maintain the illusion of picturesque features, but he could no longer smile.

A trace of almost imperceptible sighing sorrow appeared in his eyes as he murmured softly, “Rest in peace.”

After saying these words, Duanqing carried Ye Fusheng toward the living quarters. The setting sun dragged his shadow long across the ground, as if he still lingered over the grave behind him. But alas, as light and shadow shifted, the living and the dead were ultimately on divergent paths, moving in opposite directions.

Duanqing did not look back, and naturally, Ye Fusheng, resting on his shoulder, did not either.

There is an old saying in the mortal world: “In parting by life or death, do not look back.” Because once you turn to look, you will inevitably breed unbreakable attachments, leaving the departed unable to rest in peace and the living unable to let go.

Duanqing felt that Gu Qifang had already waited long enough these thirteen years; he shouldn’t let her stumble on the road to the Yellow Springs.

Not looking back meant nothing to him. Even if his eyes couldn’t see her, his heart remembered her; therefore, there was not a single place in heaven or earth where she did not exist.

And by personally burying Gu Qifang, Ye Fusheng seemed to have buried his thirteen years of muddled or sober days along with her. From then on, with a wave of his hand, he would bid farewell to the old dreams of the past and live the life he was meant to live.

Death does not necessarily make all burdens light, and the living can rarely find peace in their hearts.

One should borrow a sliver of warmth from the lingering sun, and with a smile, bid an old friend farewell in the evening glow.