Rough fingers brushed the child’s tender cheek. Gu Ruhui crouched in silence, the hem of his black robe gathering dust and grit, but he did not care.
He remembered being six years old himself, when his home was ruined, his family dead, and he fled through the world rootless, with no one to lean on.
The look in Xue Cuo’s eyes now was the same as his then.
For mortals, the last barrier between life and death is their parents. His had died young, and so he had learned that truth far too early.
“Don’t cry.”
Sword cultivators, perhaps, were all made of wood. Gu Ruhui pressed his lips together, glanced once at the half-severed leg on the ground, and gently covered Xue Cuo’s eyes. “Don’t look anymore.”
Xue Cuo instinctively clutched his hand. Gu Ruhui felt the dampness in his palm. His voice was cold as iron, heavy as stone: “I’ll take you back home. All right?”
“Gege… Xiao Gu-gege.”
The tears Xue Cuo had held back for so long burst forth like a broken dam. He didn’t know whom to tell. His friend, once so alive, now had so little left.
No soul, no true spirit.
Nothing remained.
Yet he had done nothing wrong. He died, and Xue Cuo could not save him. He could not save Lu Xiaoyou.
All his words stuck in his throat. He wept until no sound came out, feeling himself too weak, too small, utterly powerless.
But then strong arms lifted him. That person did not hush his sobs, nor mock his helplessness, as if he had seen this many times before. “Shixiong, don’t cry. Your friend is still here. Do you want to gather him up properly, and take him home?”
Did he?
He did. But he didn’t dare. He didn’t know how to face what was left of Lu Xiaoyou, soul scattered, spirit gone.
His soul-calling talismans were useless. Even Her Ladyship’s divine name availed nothing.
Xue Cuo had watched the talismans flare at the horizon and gutter out. A whole person reduced to scraps, a body too broken to piece together.
Tears rolled one by one down his cheeks. Clutching his robe front, his voice broke with sobs. Pain pressed down in his chest, heavy enough to choke him, and he wanted to pour out everything unsaid: “If I hadn’t helped him—would he still be alive?”
“I can’t find anything. He’s gone.”
“Why?”
“Was I wrong?”
Gu Ruhui had no answer. He didn’t know the past, and so could say nothing. He lifted his shixiong awkwardly, then, after a pause, patted his back. No one had ever done that for him, so he did it clumsily.
His gaze fell on the broken sword. “Your friend… was he a swordsman?”
“A swordsman needs only one belief to draw his blade, and fears neither life nor death.”
He looked around, then slowly removed his hand from Xue Cuo’s eyes. “Shixiong, lift your head.”
Red-rimmed eyes blinked up. Xue Cuo followed his gesture. Gu Ruhui pointed. “The sword intent lingering there is very like the one left by this sword.”
Holding Xue Cuo, he swept his sleeve wide, sending forth his own sword Dao to resonate.
All at once, the Dao scars and wounds around them resounded with a roar of blades. The sounds were short, fierce, striving upward.
That sword intent bore no confusion, no grief, no pain. Instead, it was filled with only defiance and resolve.
One man. One sword.
Though only one man and one sword, yet he dared to face heaven and earth.
Xue Cuo watched, tears welling again, but this time without the same bitter sting. Little White Cloud nestled against him, tenderly wiping away the drops from his face.
Gu Ruhui too gazed at the sword Dao, long lashes trembling. “Shixiong, there is no regret in his sword intent. That means his foe is dead. If life is full of sorrow, what joy is there in living? If death holds no regret, what fear is there in dying?”
These were the words he had not finished saying before, and his shixiong had not finished hearing.
He didn’t know if they helped, but it was the truth he held. If it gave comfort, that was enough.
Xue Cuo’s crying ceased. He fixed his eyes on the sword Dao above. At some point, a dishevelled figure landed beside them.
Fang Longxi’s hair was a mess. He surveyed the desolate realm, sighed softly, and understood.
He hadn’t expected an elder’s hand to pull him away. By the time he returned, the matter was already settled.
He uncorked his wine gourd, took a swallow, and felt the emptiness within. This world was too cold to shelter the loyal and the righteous.
He too had once made a grand commotion, but no one understood, and in the end, only a few lives were lost.
Another mouthful of wine. He did not greet the children of the secret realm, but staggered towards the exit.
“Fang-shibo.”
He halted, scratched at his neck, and turned. Xue Cuo stood beside Gu Ruhui. “Can you help me preserve the Dao marks and sword intent in this realm?”
Fang Longxi grinned. “I can. But why leave them?”
Xue Cuo wiped his tears, bowed low. The child’s voice was stubborn, burning, as if ready to consume all: “For justice. For fairness.”
The smile faded from Fang Longxi’s face. He stayed silent for a long while.
Then he took another swig, wincing at the bite. “This matter’s over. The one who died was just a mortal without backing. What justice is there? The fact you leave here unharmed is already because the elders stayed their hands.”
He paused. “If you insist on offending them—Xue Cuo, there are countless ways to make someone vanish. Don’t throw away your own life for someone who’s dead.”
“In the end, this whole mess has nothing to do with you.”
Yes, nothing to do with Xue Cuo. The matter was neither great nor small, and all for the sake of someone unrelated. How far could a child like him possibly go?
Gu Ruhui hesitated, then said quietly, “Shixiong, he has no regrets.”
Xue Cuo fell silent for a long while. The child clumsily picked up the broken half of the sword. He was small enough to be lifted with ease, yet the blade seemed to weigh a thousand catties in his hands. Word by word, he forced out: “But, I refuse to accept it.”
Fang Longxi froze, then suddenly burst into laughter. He laughed so hard he could not stand straight, pouring wine into his mouth as he wheezed, until it spilled down his chin and soaked his robes.
At length the laughter ebbed. “Very well. From this day on, I’ll keep the secret realm sealed. I’ll wait for you here.”
Xue Cuo nodded. “All right.”
Fang Longxi cast his gaze over the scattered traces of sword intent, then tipped out the last of his wine onto the ground. He looked back at Xue Cuo. “Boy, you take after your mother, not your father.”
Xue Cuo froze, his voice catching. “Fang-shibo… you know me?”
Fang Longxi chuckled, slapped his belly, and sighed. “I don’t. Just a careless remark, that’s all. Tell me, though… how has your mother been these past decades? I’ve not set foot outside in a very long time.”
Xue Cuo shook his head, glancing at Gu Ruhui. Gu Ruhui bowed respectfully. “Shiniang* and Shifu are not presently at Liuyun Peak. They did not tell me their precise whereabouts.”
(*TN: another address for one’s master’s wife.)
Fang Longxi gave a disappointed grunt. “So be it. Off with you, then.”
With a sweep of his sleeve he sent the two boys out of the secret realm. Slouching in his tattered shoes, he leaned back against the clouds, already snoring as if dead drunk. Beside him, the stone dragon sprawled with eyes tightly shut.
Xue Cuo and Gu Ruhui had scarcely stepped out of Fei’e Palace when they saw a group waiting at the gate. Kong Yun strode forward first, scanning him up and down. “Xue Cuo.”
Xue Cuo scrubbed at his face, his voice still nasal, his eyes plainly red from weeping. “Xiao Yun.”
Kong Yun frowned, stern. “What on earth happened? Let’s go, let’s find somewhere you can tell me about it.”
He seized Xue Cuo’s hand to lead him off, but another youth blocked the way. Thin and solitary, with cool eyes, he said evenly, “Shixiong is returning to Liuyun Peak.”
Kong Yun gave a contemptuous snort, wholly unafraid. “You say he’s going back, and so he must? What’s the point of returning? What’s there worth going back for?”
Three sharp questions, brimming with distaste for Liuyun Peak.
“Come instead to my residence. Wen Renyi and the others are waiting for you at Diquan Mountain.”
The moment he left the secret realm, he had seen elders storming towards Fei’e Palace with dark, thunderous faces. And since Xue Cuo had not emerged for so long, he had feared for his friend’s safety and kept vigil here.
Xue Cuo nodded. Gu Ruhui silently released his hand. Xue Cuo took a step with Kong Yun, then faltered and turned back.
Gu Ruhui’s lashes trembled. Xue Cuo dropped his head, sniffling. “Xiao Gu-gege… thank you for today.”
Gu Ruhui was quiet as a painting. A faint lift at the corner of his mouth. “Shixiong, think nothing of it.”
Kong Yun slung an arm over Xue Cuo’s shoulder, sheltering him beneath his own small wings, and cried, “Let’s go, Back to Diquan Mountain. Tell me everything!”
The two drifted away on Kong Yun’s cloud.
Gu Ruhui stood with his hands clasped behind him. After a while, a striking Daoist in flowing robes landed beside him. It was Zhuo Qingyuan. Beaming, he called out, “Gu-shidi, long time no see! Come, join me for a hearty drink!”
Gu Ruhui said lightly, “No need.”
Zhuo Qingyuan’s smile wavered, but quickly returned. He threw an arm about Gu Ruhui’s shoulders. “What’s this? Only a few days apart, and you’re already treating me like a stranger?”
Gu Ruhui turned away, descending the steps. “Our paths diverge. There’s no making plans together.”
Zhuo Qingyuan frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
Gu Ruhui paused, looking back. His lashes long as feathers, eyes dark as ink. But he said nothing, and walked on.
Zhuo Qingyuan watched his retreating back, flicked open his folding fan with a sigh. “Sword Immortal’s disciples are all freaks. It’s bad enough that Gu Ruhui won’t share a drink with me, but now even that boy Lang Cui keeps refusing me. Infuriating!”
Meanwhile, high on the cloud, Xue Cuo told Kong Yun everything. Kong Yun’s face darkened to a sickly blue with rage. “Despicable! Those human scum. Utterly shameless, shameless beyond belief!”
At Diquan Mountain, Wen Renyi and the other disciples had been gathered, discussing talisman craft. When they saw Kong Yun and Xue Cuo arrive, they all let out sighs of relief.
But Kong Yun was still blazing with fury, ranting in half-sentences no one could follow.
Startled, Wen Renyi asked, “Xue-shixiong, I heard many elders went to Fei’e Palace today. Was there some grave affair?”
Xue Cuo alighted from the cloud, meeting their concerned eyes. His heart felt leaden.
Which of them had not risked their lives to enter Wendao Palace? Which of them was not the sect’s treasured seedling, nurtured as an immortal root? Yet now an unseen blade hung over every neck.
Would the death of a single person be enough to rouse them?
Zhu Xiaoyou’s soul had scattered before his eyes. Could he really watch these innocent disciples march into the mountain of the Immortal Gate, only to be ground to ashes?
Xue Cuo no longer wished to draw the others in. But just then Kong Yun burst out: “Xue Cuo, you can’t shoulder this alone. No one could. You need me, you need all of us.”
