SS CH24

By the time Ye Fusheng woke up, it was already the morning of the second day.

The morning light was just beginning to break, slicing through the clouds like silk and tailoring the horizon with hues of sunset. A breeze blew the window sash ajar, letting in a few scattered golden leaves. He lay on the bed, staring blankly for a while; his entire body still burned with the residual ache and itch as if his flesh and blood had been stripped away and were just now growing back, making him wish he could just faint again.

“If you’re awake, don’t pretend to be dead, or you’ll be the death of me.” Sun Minfeng wandered over to take his pulse. “Your pulse is steady, though your energy and blood are deficient. There’s nothing critically wrong for now; just chew on some red dates and brown sugar later.”

Everything in his vision returned to focus, and the bone-piercing pain in his right leg had vanished; his body felt surprisingly light. Ye Fusheng recognized Sun Minfeng, and after kneading together the fragmented memories from before he fell unconscious, he finally pieced them together: “Many thanks for saving me… where is your Sect Master?”

“Out for a stroll.” Sun Minfeng picked him up with zero gentleness and shoved a handful of peanuts at him. “Eat. Just boiled—won’t cause inflammation.”

Ye Fusheng: “…”

The two of them sat there cracking nuts like hamsters for a while. Ye Fusheng looked at Sun Minfeng’s playful eyes and raised an eyebrow: “Does Master Sun have something to ask me?”

Sun Minfeng thought for a moment and nodded in admission: “Are you a duanxiu (gay)?”

Ye Fusheng nearly choked to death on a peanut.

“Looks like you’re not.” Sun Minfeng sounded slightly regretful. He asked again: “Then do you think my Master looks like a duanxiu?”

Ye Fusheng pounded his chest, finally catching his breath, and said: “He… he is still young; it is too early to talk of such things.”

The look Sun Minfeng gave him was as if he had seen a ghost.

“If you two aren’t duanxiu, then I really don’t understand.” Sun Minfeng crossed his legs, squinting at Ye Fusheng’s sickly complexion. “Neither kin nor lover, so why on earth would he…”

Before he could finish, a person walked into the doorway. A cold voice cut through the air: “Ghost Doctor, if you have nothing better to do, then go treat your own long tongue first.”

Hearing that voice, the hand Ye Fusheng had free secretly clenched the quilt, then slowly relaxed. He looked up to see Chu Xiwei entering the room, his face as dark as water. He set a small silver flask onto the table with such force that the entire table rattled.

The child had grown, and so had his temper.

Looking at his demeanor, and thinking back to when they were under the Wanghaichao, Ye Fusheng was struck by a sudden, weary realization. Ten years had passed; things had changed, and people had changed. It was hardly a good time for drinking and pleasantries, let alone the fact that between them lay either the “stale accounts” of the past or almost insurmountable blood feuds.

The fact that Chu Xiwei hadn’t chopped him into pieces to feed the dogs was already a massive surprise. Ye Fusheng figured that as the elder, he really shouldn’t hold these things against him, so he flashed a smile and waved: “You’re back? Come, sit.”

Sun Minfeng was always good at reading the room, so he rolled out smoothly. A moment later, his voice drifted from outside: “Master, I’m off to save the world! You two take your time chatting!”

Once he left, the atmosphere in the room didn’t soften; it became even more awkward. Chu Xiwei stood in place and stared at Ye Fusheng for a long time—long enough to make the smile on the other man’s face grow stiff—before he finally walked over. He didn’t sit, but instead looked down at him from above. His lips curled, his tone tinged with amusement: “Ye… Fusheng?”

Ye Fusheng rubbed his nose, feeling unaccustomed to this shift in perspective: “It’s just a name; you can call me whatever you like.”

“That’s true. I used to call you… ‘Master’.” Chu Xiwei looked at the few strands of frost-white mixed into the black hair draped over the other man’s shoulders. He felt a lump in his throat, and the hands he held behind his back clenched and relaxed. “But do you think you are still qualified to bear that title?”

Ye Fusheng felt a prick in his heart, but his smile didn’t fade: “A-Yao, the older you get, the more awkward you become. When you were small…”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about when I was small!” Chu Xiwei suddenly reached out and clamped his hand around Ye Fusheng’s throat, pressing him back against the wall with such force that the back of his head struck it, sending a jolt of pain through him.

They were inches apart, their breaths mingling, every detail of their eyelashes visible, yet two people standing this close were separated by an insurmountable chasm.

At the edges of Chu Xiwei’s irises, an unnatural dark red was faintly emerging. His voice was very soft, and he wore a smile on his face, but his eyes were churning with a tempest.

He said: “I truly want to kill you, Master.”

Ye Fusheng steadied his breathing and beamed a smile at Chu Xiwei: “Alright.”

Having said that, he closed his eyes, even dropping his instinctive defenses. He allowed his vital point to be held with an air of composure, his attitude so natural that it seemed as if no one were threatening his life, but rather as if he were just looking to take another quick nap.

Chu Xiwei’s gaze traced over the man’s face inch by inch. His palm trembled a few times before he slowly drew it back.

“I’ve waited ten years for your life; I can wait a little longer.” He retreated to the table. “However, I truly didn’t expect that when we met again, you would have fallen to such a state.”

“Thirty years on the east bank, thirty years on the west. Who hasn’t had their share of bad luck?” Ye Fusheng opened his eyes and shrugged. He looked Chu Xiwei up and down, shaking his head: “Though, they say girls change eighteen times by adulthood, I didn’t think boys changed even more. Back then, you weren’t even as tall as my ribs—shoes and all! You were a little chubby ball, your fat jiggling when you ran. When I made you practice qinggong and hoisted you onto the plum-blossom piles, you were like a meatball skewered on a bamboo stick…”

“Shut up!” Chu Xiwei had held a position of power for many years and hadn’t been teased about his black history in a long time. He felt a flash of annoyed embarrassment, but when he met Ye Fusheng’s crescent-moon eyes, all his anger flooded back, choking his chest.

He gritted his teeth: “Ye Fusheng, do you really think I won’t kill you?”

Ye Fusheng gestured at his own neck and blinked: “I’ve been keeping this head in storage for you for ten years; you’re welcome to come and take it anytime.”

The feeling of a dog biting a tortoise with no place to sink its teeth in made Chu Xiwei feel even more irritable. He caught sight of the silver flask he’d just set on the table, snatched it up, and took a swig.

The next second, his face twitched, and he turned to spit it out. He coughed wretchedly, a flush of red rising over his pale skin.

The wine was colorless and tasteless, and he had tested it for poison with a silver needle beforehand, but the moment it touched his tongue, it felt like a mouthful of goldthread plant and chili water. It was both bitter and spicy, stinging his throat. The little bit he had swallowed felt like he had gulped down a handful of rusty knives.

Ye Fusheng watched in surprise. He kicked off the quilt and got out of bed, reaching out to pat Chu Xiwei on the back to help him catch his breath: “What’s wrong?”

Chu Xiwei was choking so hard he couldn’t speak. He covered his mouth, suppressing the churning nausea in his stomach. The dark red in his eyes faded instantly, leaving only the tears brought on by the irritation, which made his eyes look like shimmering autumn water.

…Back then, when that little chubby kid was bullied by him, he used to have that exact same look, on the verge of tears.

Watching him like this, a flower bloomed in the ruins of Ye Fusheng’s heart—it was fragile and trembling, yet it tickled him with a strange itch.

He poured Chu Xiwei a cup of hot water and picked up the little silver flask to examine it closely. It was palm-sized and exquisitely crafted; it didn’t look like a cheap item. He leaned in to sniff the mouth of the flask, but there was no strange odor. Rather than wine, it seemed to be a flask of clear water.

He took a tiny sip of the liquid, and his entire body stiffened.

Chu Xiwei felt the hand patting his back suddenly pause, followed by a slight tremor. He panicked, grabbing Ye Fusheng’s hand in return, and looked up to find that the playful smile on the other man’s face had vanished instantly, leaving only a dazed, at-a-loss expression.

“Canglu…”

Chu Xiwei was stunned: “What’s wrong with you?”

Ye Fusheng’s hand tightened subconsciously; the silver flask cracked a thin fissure, and the liquid leaked out, soaking his hand. He seemed to wake from a dream, loosening his grip and pouring the remaining liquid into a cup, filling it to the brim.

He looked at Chu Xiwei, his eyes reddening, his lips trembling: “This… who gave this to you?”

“…A white-haired Daoist. His Daoist name is Duanqing.” After a moment of hesitation, Chu Xiwei asked, perplexed: “Do you know him?”

“Duanqing, Duanqing…” Ye Fusheng repeated the name over and over, until Chu Xiwei almost suspected that the medicine Sun Minfeng had given him was fake and he had gone insane.

Just as he was about to head out and drag the quack doctor over, Ye Fusheng suddenly grabbed his hand.

Chu Xiwei had lost the Ice Soul Bead; his martial energy was no longer stable, and his body temperature was slightly high. Ye Fusheng, however, had a low body temperature due to the medicine and his frailty. When their skin touched unexpectedly, it was as if fire and ice had collided—one shuddered from the scorching heat, the other trembled from the icy chill.

Chu Xiwei froze, shaking off his hand with a sour expression: “What are you doing?”

“A-Yao, where is that man?” Ye Fusheng looked at him. As their eyes met, Chu Xiwei could see a spark suddenly ignite in the other man’s eyes.

It was as if someone on the verge of death had been suddenly brought back to life in this very moment.

He felt inexplicably uncomfortable and spoke with a sharp tone: “Why?”

“A-Yao, take me to see him. After I see him just once, from then on, whatever you say, I will agree to.” Ye Fusheng clutched the little silver flask; his face was expressionless, but his eyes were wet. “I’ve never begged you for anything in my life. Just this once—please, say yes.”

This reckless, degenerate vagabond was almost never this serious. Even during that life-and-death pact ten years ago, he had only said lightly: “You want to kill me for revenge? Fine. Ten years from now, this life will be yours.”

Wealth was like floating clouds, and life and death were as trivial as dust. Chu Xiwei had always believed that there was no person or thing in this world that could shake him.

Until now.

He felt an inexplicable distress, as if the flower he had been waiting for had finally bloomed, only to be snatched away by someone else first. His hand, hidden in his sleeve, slowly clenched until his knuckles were white. The red in his eyes flared up again, but he kept his expression calm: “Oh? Really?”

Ye Fusheng didn’t notice the danger in his words. He kept his eyes fixed on the silver flask and nodded heavily.

“I saw this Daoist three hours ago. If you want to see him, I can take you to chase him down now, but…” Chu Xiwei pressed his hand onto Ye Fusheng’s shoulder with deliberate slowness. “First, tell me—who exactly is he?”

Ye Fusheng hesitated for a moment: “He is my…”

Chu Xiwei’s eyes narrowed slowly, his fingers unintentionally hooking into Ye Fusheng’s shoulder acupuncture point.

“…Shiniang (Master’s Wife/Spouse).”

The murderous aura that had been building up was pierced by a needle, leaking out and vanishing completely.