Chapter 9: “Are You Pleading For Him?”

Upon hearing the words “Hold out your hand,” Lin Shijin instinctively froze. The image of Feng Rugao holding a ruler flashed unbidden through his mind.

Startled, he forgot about the injury to his palm. His hand knocked against the table; pain shot up his arm, his face twisted, and he let out a low groan.

His palm had already been swollen, the sides of his fingertips marked red; now the swelling looked even worse.

Lin Shijin’s fingertips twitched. Before he could react, the youth before him stepped forward and took hold of his wrist. His expression was cool, but the emotion in his eyes was impossible to miss.

He was calling him stupid.

Lin Shijin somehow understood this perfectly, and it put him in a faintly foul mood. As the other held his wrist, he tried to pull back; Sheng Rufei pressed down to stop him.

“Don’t move.”

Sheng Rufei’s reprimand was neither harsh nor gentle. He pinned his wrist, opened the small black porcelain bottle on the table, scooped out a little ointment with a wooden stick, and began applying it to his palm.

The salve was cool; the pain faded at once, so Lin Shijin stopped struggling. Unfortunately, Sheng Rufei clearly had no skill in tending to wounds since he kept poking him.

And each poke hurt far more than hitting the table.

“Can’t you…” Lin Shijin muttered under his breath, “you’re poking so hard, it hurts.”

Sheng Rufei’s lips tightened a fraction. He lightened his touch, though his aura grew frostier, and slowly applied the ointment to both hands.

Once the salve had been spread across his palms, the pain was gone. Lin Shijin found it rather miraculous, though it did smell faintly bad. “How is this salve made?” he asked.

“A demon beast’s saliva. It reduces swelling and dulls pain.”

Lin Shijin had been about to lean closer for a sniff; upon hearing this, he immediately pulled back, putting a safe distance between himself and the stench, faintly disgusted.

He was easily distracted. Now that Sheng Rufei was carefully applying the salve, the annoyance in his heart eased a little. Sheng Rufei even bandaged his hands… badly. The gauze was crooked, the ends tied into two ugly bows.

Just like the bow he had once tied around his neck. One glance made it obvious they came from the same hand.

“Shizun told me to come here and copy the sect rules. How am I meant to copy anything like this?”

Lin Shijin wiggled his clumsily wrapped fingertips. As he spoke, the cold, pale finger bones of the youth opposite brushed lightly against them. Instantly, his fingers felt light, as though the ruler had never struck them at all.

A white glow rose and faded at Sheng Rufei’s fingertips. “This will do. The spell lasts two shichen.”

“From now on, you will come to my courtyard every day and copy the sect rules for two shichen.”

Lin Shijin flexed his fingers. Even through the gauze they no longer stung. But this also meant spending four hours with Sheng Rufei every day.

Soon enough he remembered he still had a mountain of rules left. How was he going to finish copying them in half a month. He threw Sheng Rufei a glance and said, “I can only copy four or five pages in two shichen. Shizun told me to finish in half a month. There’s no way I’ll make it.”

“You haven’t even begun. How do you know you can’t?” Sheng Rufei replied, mild as ever. “If you work diligently, even if you don’t finish, Shizun won’t blame you.”

He hoped that was true. He didn’t have another option… he couldn’t simply refuse.

For the time being, Lin Shijin believed him. He had always found it easy to trust Sheng Rufei; after all, he was the protagonist, and he already knew from the original novel that Sheng Rufei’s character was impeccable.

So he quickly sat down to write, wanting to finish and go home. He copied earnestly, and Sheng Rufei, being quiet by nature, didn’t disturb him. Their short period of co-existence passed quite peacefully.

Sheng Rufei meditated. Even with his eyes closed, he was aware of every movement within the room.

An hour later, he opened his eyes and instinctively looked towards Lin Shijin. His gaze paused upon the rules being copied.

Several sheets had piled up. The handwriting on them resembled a dog’s scrawl. One had to squint to work out what was written.

Not only that, he realised the youth wrote exceedingly slowly. Slower than any ordinary disciple. Like a child learning for the very first time: slow, crooked, and shaky.

No wonder he couldn’t finish.

Lin Shijin sensed him looking. Sheng Rufei’s brows were faintly furrowed, his expression making his feelings far too obvious. Lin Shijin himself was tired; he set down his brush to rest.

“Who taught you to write?”

Lin Shijin wasn’t worried. They hadn’t seen each other in years; Sheng Rufei knew nothing of the original owner’s past.

“I only recognised the characters. I didn’t really write much,” he answered vaguely.

And Feng Rugao hadn’t even asked why he had failed to finish copying. The very memory irked him. Feng Rugao had glanced at his work and immediately ordered Feng Qing to fetch the ruler.

Sheng Rufei said no more. After two shichen, Lin Shijin returned to his own courtyard.

The spell faded. His hands, wrapped in those hideous gauze bows, throbbed whenever he moved. When he took off clothes or lifted objects, it made his fingers sting. Only staying still was painless.

He endured the pain and copied the rules twice more, nearly memorising them. The sight alone made his head spin.

And so, for half a month, he went to Sheng Rufei’s courtyard every day. With no time left to visit the Library Pavilion, all he thought about was finishing the rules. But by the day Feng Rugao had set, he still hadn’t completed them.

He carried the thick stack to Changming Hall, finding Sheng Rufei already there, apparently discussing something with Feng Rugao.

“Disciple greets Shizun.” Lin Shijin knelt, face expressionless, head bowed. With his appearance, Sheng Rufei excused himself and withdrew.

His gaze lingered for a heartbeat.

Feng Rugao told him to rise. Lin Shijin stood, carrying the stacks of sect rules that he’d copied and passed the pages to Feng Qing, who handed them to Feng Rugao.

A single glance was enough for Feng Rugao to know roughly how many times he’d copied them. He turned his gaze to him and asked, “Why have you not finished?”

“This disciple writes slowly,” Lin Shijin said nervously, lips pressed together. “I cannot even complete fifty copies a day.”

Calluses had formed on his fingertips; they ached with the slightest contact. He rubbed them anxiously with his thumb as he nervously waited for Feng Rugao’s verdict.

The silence stretched. Lin Shijin felt as though even his breathing disturbed the hall. Eventually, Feng Rugao spoke.

“In a few days, your Su-shixiong has a mission. You will accompany him to gain experience.”

Lin Shijin answered softly. Feng Rugao did not mention copying the rules again. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief, bowed, and withdrew.

After he left, Feng Qing watched his retreating figure before speaking. “He seems rather afraid of you.”

Feng Rugao’s eyes shifted, though he said nothing. He watched the youth’s silhouette vanish, his steps as quick as if the hall were haunted.

“You also think I should not have punished him?”

Feng Qing shook his head. “Of course not. But I imagine the Seventeenth Young Master would not understand your feelings.”

Feng Rugao looked away. His form melted back into the shadows, silently growing still. His gaze, now that the youth had gone, returned to its usual indifference.

Like the statue in the centre of the hall: untouched by the dust of the mortal world.

When Lin Shijin stepped outside, he found Sheng Rufei still waiting there. The youth stood tall and slender, white hair falling loosely about him. Hearing movement, he turned his head.

Recalling how he had nearly cried previously at Sheng Rufei’s, Lin Shijin felt belatedly embarrassed. As they walked past one another, the red thread brushed lightly between them.

“Sixteenth shixiong, I’ll head off now.” He said to Sheng Rufei, with his tone politely distant.

Now that he no longer needed to copy the sect rules, he would have no reason to visit Sheng Rufei again.

Sheng Rufei watched him go. Only a few days earlier their interactions had been almost familiar; now that they no longer needed to cross paths, the distance returned instantly.

He remembered the youth bent over the desk every night copying the sect rules until midnight. Lowering his eyes, he stepped back into the hall.

He reached the side chamber and bowed. The door was shut; only a silhouette showed through the paper window.

“During this training, keep a close watch on your shidi. Do not allow the slightest mishap.”

“Yes.”

Sheng Rufei and Feng Rugao had never been close. Though Feng Rugao was his shizun, he had never once taught him swordsmanship, leaving him instead to the elders. In truth, this shizun and disciple were quite estranged.

Usually, he merely obeyed Feng Rugao’s orders. But this time, after giving his answer, he did not leave.

The silhouette in the window did not speak, waiting patiently. Feng Rugao knew he had something to say.

“He copies rules every day, under my supervision in my courtyard. He has never slacked off. But his talent is poor… far worse than ordinary disciples.”

Hence the crooked writing. Hence failing to complete even a thousand copies in half a month.

Sheng Rufei’s tone was even, but he was clearly waiting for a response.

Silence fell. The hall grew colder. The silhouette did not move.

“Are you pleading for him?”

Separated by the door, Sheng Rufei could not see Feng Rugao’s face, but Feng Qing within could clearly sense his mood that had shifted somewhat colder.

Sheng Rufei lowered his gaze. “This disciple would not dare.”

He waited. No reply came. Knowing he had overstepped, he bowed and withdrew.

Lin Shijin felt far lighter now that he no longer needed to copy the sect rules. He liked going down the mountain. It would be lively, and he could buy picture-books in town.

He hadn’t found anything useful about soul-bonds in the Library Pavilion. Although Sheng Rufei had behaved himself recently and hadn’t touched the red thread again,

He still wanted the soul-bond undone.

Perhaps the Three Thousand Worlds would offer something. The mortal realm was vast; he might find information there.

He recalled the plot of the original novel. Many of Sheng Rufei’s future “stock-investor gongs” were encountered in the Three Thousand Worlds. More than he could count on one hand.

Demons with bounties over two hundred thousand spirit stones, famed exorcists of the great sects, and many within Fuguang as well. Like Xue Ning, the former chief disciple…

Counting on his fingers, he sat at his desk, candlelight flickering over his face. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the red thread around his wrist felt tighter than usual.

It’s existence felt more noticeable, yet it was still untouchable. It was only a tad tighter and didn’t have that much of an effect.

Since it didn’t hinder him, he ignored it. One day he would break the annoying thing anyway. He climbed into bed and soon fell asleep.

After he drifted off, the red thread slowly loosened, slipping free from his wrist. It crept upwards and came to rest around his pale, slender neck.

The red thread coiled about his throat, brushed the small mole there, and tied itself into an ugly little bow.