Lin Shijin finally understood what Feng Rugao was getting at. His face reddened slightly. Did Feng Rugao take him for a fool? How could he possibly agree to drink a bowl of crane soup? Bone-refining hurt abominably. He had no intention of suffering that every single day.
The man’s fingertips brushed his lips, wiping away the speck of soup there. The touch made him uncomfortable; he leaned very slightly back, cast a quick glance at the bowl in Feng Rugao’s hand, and shook his head at once.
Feng Rugao withdrew his hand, his tone cold. “You dislike it?”
This wasn’t a matter of liking or disliking. Lin Shijin pushed away the spoon, movements unhurried but resolve unmistakeable.
“I won’t drink Spirit Crane Soup again. Could we… not do bone-refining?”
It was a question thrown back at him. Feng Rugao studied him a moment before replying, “Naturally not.
“Your cultivation is far too weak. Even if you trained diligently for ten years, you might still fail to stand out.”
This little fool still had no idea his spiritual roots were mediocre… just slightly worse than those of a common disciple, in fact. Lin Shijin, of course, thought that while he might not match Sheng Rufei, he should at least be on par with the average.
He had absolutely no grasp of his true condition. Besides, he had no ambition to excel.
“Shizun… I don’t want to become exceptionally powerful, like Shixiong,” Lin Shijin said quietly, trailing his fingers across the brocade quilt. “I just want enough ability to protect myself. I’m tired of being grabbed and carted off.”
Xue Ning and Jun Yewu could pin him down with ease; even in the original story, Sheng Rufei had been unable to face them head-on. Could he possibly stand a chance?
“They all think I’m an easy target,” Lin Shijin mused, then added to Feng Rugao, “I don’t need to be the strongest. I just need to be a hard persimmon they can’t squeeze.”
He felt very pleased with his own metaphor and nodded to himself.
Yes, just don’t be the softest one.
Feng Rugao regarded the boy opposite him. The boy seemed to have entirely persuaded himself and now waited expectantly for Feng Rugao’s approval.
“Aim for the top, and you might land in the middle,” Feng Rugao thought. The boy before him was plainly a soft persimmon… easy to press, liable to draw trouble, simply built to be bullied. To cut off potential problems at the root, he decided he might as well raise the boy’s cultivation to something exceptional.
“If you don’t wish to be seized and hauled about,” Feng Rugao said, “your cultivation must rise.”
But bone-refining hurt unspeakably. Lin Shijin didn’t dare recall it; his body still felt hollowed out, and Feng Rugao was unyieldingly rigid.
He argued until his lips were sore, all to no avail.
So he simply fell silent. He refused the crane soup, lay upon the soft couch, unable to sleep, and turned his back on Feng Rugao.
Several injuries still ached… some were old ones, some from bumping against the stones of the medicinal spring. He hadn’t even inspected them; he hadn’t the strength.
He tossed and turned, sleep eluding him. Feng Rugao, apparently free of all other duties, remained seated beside him the entire time.
Something came to mind. He looked over several times before quietly asking, “Shizun… why did you punish Shixiong the other day?”
Sheng Rufei, taciturn as always, had refused to tell him. Despite being gravely wounded, he’d still gone to practise swordsmanship, refusing even a moment of rest.
“He committed a fault,” Feng Rugao said. “When one errs, one is punished.”
But punishment ought to have its limits. The sight of those shocking whip marks came vividly back to him. The mere thought was painful. He simply could not imagine what grave mistake Sheng Rufei could possibly have made.
Sheng Rufei, who was always the most well-behaved.
He sensed that Feng Rugao had no intention of elaborating, so he said nothing more. His gaze dropped to the red thread at his wrist. After staring at it for a while, sleep crept in; he felt utterly exhausted.
The youth soon drifted off, his breathing shallow, one hand clutching the quilt. His sleeping posture was hardly elegant; his profile in repose was quiet, lending him a touch of striking clarity and stripping away some of his usual lively spirit.
Feng Rugao slowly set aside the book he had been reading and looked at the boy on the bed. The whole of Changming Hall lay silent; he seemed one with its stillness.
Only the boy on the couch felt living, warm, complete.
Lin Shijin slept straight through until deep into the night. His strength had recovered somewhat. Though he still felt wretched, he could at least rise.
Upon waking, he found the side hall empty. Feng Rugao must be in the main hall. He got up slowly, and before leaving, felt a faint sense of impropriety.
So he went back, carefully folded the small brocade quilt, squared it neatly in a corner, arranged the tiny pillow just so. The embroidered lambs on both made him pause.
Feng Rugao had prepared these things for him? After tidying the soft couch, he made sure he had only occupied that one area and thus had nothing else to disturb.
He went to the main hall, saluted, and noticed a silhouette in the adjoining chamber.
“Shizun, this disciple will return now.”
Feng Rugao made no reply, which signified permission. Lin Shijin rose and withdrew.
Outside, the night was very deep indeed. Changming Hall lay a ways from his courtyard; he trudged along, thinking gloomily that he would likely be summoned again tomorrow.
To endure bone-refining every day… no wonder he felt half withered.
When walking alone, Lin Shijin was usually rather careless. Today he was drained, his steps slow, his eyes roving. Thus, even in the darkness, he eventually spotted Sheng Rufei.
Not far from Changming Hall, yet still some distance. Lin Shijin hadn’t seen him at first glance, but the shape of the figure quickly struck him as familiar.
A youth stood beneath a tree, sword in hand, his back cold and solitary.
“Shixiong—”
Lin Shijin called out softly. His voice was low and unclear in the night air; he wasn’t sure Sheng Rufei could hear.
The figure in the shadows moved. Sheng Rufei turned, paused briefly, then walked towards him.
“Shixiong, why are you here?”
He was genuinely surprised. What was Sheng Rufei doing near Changming Hall at this hour?
“To reflect before Shizun,” Sheng Rufei replied, his eyes briefly sweeping over him, his tone slightly stiff. “I saw you in the side hall. Did Shizun punish you?”
So he had been worried. Lin Shijin felt oddly moved. Had Sheng Rufei truly been waiting for him?
He felt embarrassed at the thought. He hadn’t known Sheng Rufei was waiting outside. “No punishment… I went into the medicinal pool with Shizun and fainted.”
Lin Shijin held out his hand. His fingertips were still red, the skin almost looking scalded. It had been burned in the medicinal spring, and the redness hadn’t faded.
“It hurt terribly,” he murmured. “And Shizun wants me to go every day.”
In truth, he had lasted barely a quarter of an hour before passing out.
With no one else to confide in, and Sheng Rufei willing to wait for him, he spoke more freely, his voice still raspy from the burns in his throat.
“I begged Shizun, but he wouldn’t relent.”
A cool sensation touched his wrist. Sheng Rufei had taken hold of it, lowering his eyes to the red marks. “Why didn’t you show these to Shizun?”
Instinctively, Lin Shijin didn’t want to. If he showed Feng Rugao, Feng Rugao would surely think he was acting pitiful to avoid training.
“If Shizun wanted to see, he would see.”
“It’s not just my hands… my whole body’s like this.” Lin Shijin glanced at the sky. “Shixiong, were you waiting outside for me all this time?”
He slept little as it was; heaven knew when Sheng Rufei had arrived. And soon, it would be time to go to the Sword Pavilion again.
Sheng Rufei gave a soft “Mm.” “Go back.”
They walked in single file, Sheng Rufei ahead. The red thread between their wrists shifted gently as they moved. Lin Shijin lagged behind, unable to keep up.
“Shixiong, you should go ahead,” he said, abashed. “I can make my way back.”
The youth in front paused, then slowed his pace. Evidently he did not intend to abandon him.
Lin Shijin’s aches flared anew. He longed to reach his courtyard quickly; the red thread wound loosely around his wrist. The path, usually unremarkable, felt endless tonight.
Perhaps he had not recovered his strength; his pace grew slower and slower. When they were still some distance from their courtyard, Sheng Rufei stopped and crouched down.
Lin Shijin almost walked into him. He blinked, not understanding.
Sheng Rufei set his sword aside, turned his head slightly, and said coolly, “Get on.”
Was he offering to carry him?
Lin Shijin was indeed exhausted. Ordinarily thick-skinned, he became shy when someone showed him genuine kindness.
“Shixiong, I can walk.”
He distinctly remembered the wounds on Sheng Rufei’s back.
Sheng Rufei rested a long fingered hand on his sword hilt. “It’s fine.”
“You’re too slow.”
Ah, so he was simply too slow? Lin Shijin found that easier to accept, though he still hesitated. “Shixiong, your back’s still injured.”
When Sheng Rufei repeated, even more coolly, “Get on,” he wavered. For some reason, he didn’t want Sheng Rufei to be displeased, so he slowly climbed onto his back.
Sheng Rufei carried a faint scent of fallen plum blossom. Once Lin Shijin settled onto him, the youth rose with effortless steadiness.
Lin Shijin wrapped his arms around his neck, taking in the close view of Sheng Rufei’s hair. It was silvery white, like a veil of frost beneath the moonlight, pale and beautiful.
Sheng Rufei bore him back, and Lin Shijin tried hard not to touch the wounds on his back. “Shixiong, did you apply medicine earlier?”
Sheng Rufei only answered with a brief “Mm.”
Being carried, Lin Shijin no longer felt weary. He couldn’t stay still; he reached up to touch Sheng Rufei’s hair. It was very soft… remarkably soft for someone so cold in temperament.
He couldn’t resist a gentle ruffle, whispering into his ear, “Shixiong, your hair’s lovely.
“So soft.”
“Do you like touching your own head?”
Who asks such a question? His curious fingers brushed Sheng Rufei’s temple, almost grazing his earlobe.
Sheng Rufei avoided the mischievous hand. It was the first time in his life anyone had praised his white hair.
People admired his looks, envied his sword-bones, but no one had ever praised his naturally white locks.
After all, they were the mark of an anomaly.
He didn’t answer. The youth behind him touched his hair again, voice full of envy.
“Shixiong, I wish I had the same colour.”
Lin Shijin sighed softly. “I want hair like yours.
“It looks fierce. If mine were silver like Shixiong’s, maybe no one would dare lay a hand on me.”
Sheng Rufei: “…”
*
Author’s Note:
Lin Mianmian: The lighter the hair, the tougher the fighter.
