Lin Shijin remained in the side hall. After Feng Qing had left, he closed the door behind him and sat by the bed, scribbling the date on a piece of paper.
There were fewer than ten days left in the month. He would endure for another ten days. He couldn’t afford to anger Feng Rugao again; if Feng Rugao refused to let him go to Wuxiang Mountain, all his efforts would have been for nothing.
He concentrated for a while, recalling the question Sheng Rufei had asked him. His mind became a tangle of thoughts, which he quickly dismissed.
His focus didn’t last long. Lin Shijin soon felt drowsy. His back was still sore, and he had been on his feet all day. Curling himself into a ball in the corner of the bed, he gradually drifted off to sleep.
Changming Hall was brightly lit. The candles flickered slightly, and once the young man had fallen asleep in the corner, a figure appeared by the bed.
Feng Rugao stood silently, watching him. The shadows of the trees outside the window swayed gently as time slipped by unnoticed. Only at dawn did the figure finally vanish from the hall.
Now, in Changming Hall, Sheng Rufei would no longer come to summon him. Lin Shijin woke on his own in the morning, and rising felt even more laborious without Sheng Rufei; his head nodded drowsily as he struggled to stay upright.
While putting on his shoes, a flash of silver caught his eye. He looked up and was startled.
Feng Rugao had appeared quietly, standing not far behind him, and Lin Shijin had not noticed him at all.
…He hadn’t even said a word upon entering.
“Shizun?” Lin Shijin called.
He wanted to ask why he hadn’t knocked, but remembering that this was Feng Rugao’s hall, he silently repeated three times in his mind that he mustn’t anger his master and swallowed his words.
“You don’t need to attend class for the next few days,” Feng Rugao said.
Lin Shijin felt Feng Rugao was far too arbitrary. He had been punished for being late before, yet now his shizun could lightly say he needn’t go at all.
Thinking this to himself, he said, “There’s nothing for me to do in the hall anyway, so I might as well go to class.”
“I’ve already found medicine to suppress the side effects of the Snow Lotus Sacred Heart. It won’t impede my actions too much; at most, I’ll be slightly slower.”
At most, a voice would still whisper in his ear, tempting him to curl up in bed, but he could simply ignore it.
Lin Shijin adjusted his clothes. He felt a touch near his temple; the man had easily untied his hair crown, letting his dark strands fall freely.
“Shizun?” Lin Shijin turned instinctively. Feng Rugao held the hair ribbon between his fingers. “It’s crooked.”
Lin Shijin felt slightly embarrassed. He wasn’t a true ancient disciple; all immortal sect members were expected to tie their hair up for sword practice. Ever since arriving, he had tied his hair poorly, never quite mastering it.
This sort of delicate task was beyond him.
With his hair falling to the sides, Feng Rugao pressed him down onto a stool. A bronze mirror sat on the table. Lin Shijin watched as the man’s fingers gathered his hair into place.
Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, he said, “Shizun, I can do it myself.”
Feng Rugao did not respond, continuing to smooth his hair, his fingertips resting lightly on Lin Shijin’s shoulders to keep him still.
Lin Shijin struggled slightly, but then remembered Feng Qing’s words: it was just tying hair, no need to oppose Feng Rugao at every turn. He relaxed.
“Feng Qing.”
Feng Rugao’s summons drew Lin Shijin’s gaze. He wondered what his shizun intended. Feng Qing appeared beside them, holding a new hairband.
Lin Shijin: “…”
He couldn’t understand why he needed a different hairband. His original one was standard issue for disciples in Fuguang; practically everyone had one.
His expression betrayed his confusion. The man behind him paused and said, “Too ugly.”
Lin Shijin pursed his lips. He didn’t think it was ugly. In Feng Rugao’s hall, his shizun even dictated the hairband he wore.
He comforted himself silently: only a few days left. He could endure. Once he left Fuguang, it would be over.
The hair was tied up again. Feng Rugao chose a light crimson hairband with a pinkish tone. Lin Shijin hadn’t thought it ugly before, but now, wearing it, he found it dreadful. If he went to the Sword Pavilion like this, Jing Qiuhong would surely laugh.
“Shizun, isn’t this… a bit ugly?” he asked tentatively.
Feng Rugao paused before saying, “Feng Qing.”
Lin Shijin felt a pang of dread. Feng Qing reappeared with a brand-new Daoist robe on the table. It matched the hairband in colour, with delicate brocade patterns.
It looked very flashy, and wearing it would make him look like a fluttering butterfly.
“Just put it on; then it won’t look ugly,” Feng Rugao said.
Lin Shijin hesitated. Weighing his options, he whispered, “Can I not change? My current one’s fine.”
He had never known Fuguang had robes in this colour. And that they could look so awful.
Meeting Feng Rugao’s gaze, he saw the cold expression. “No.”
Lin Shijin remained seated, unwilling to move. Seemingly reading his concern, the man was silent a moment before adding, “If you change, I’ll take you down the mountain later and remove the Love Lock for a day.”
Lin Shijin almost thought he had misheard. He did want to leave Fuguang, but not with Feng Rugao. Still, at least the Love Lock could be removed.
Conflicted, he asked hesitantly, “Does Shizun keep his word?”
Feng Rugao ignored the question.
A quarter of an hour later, there was movement behind the screen. Lin Shijin emerged, hesitantly, holding his old robe. Already handsome, he now appeared even more spirited in the light pink robe, like a budding autumn flower.
The embroidery on the cuffs was exquisite. He clasped his wrists together, brows furrowed in discomfort, slightly embarrassed, his ears tinged pink.
Both Feng Rugao and Feng Qing looked on. Feng Qing’s lips twitched, as though words failed him. Feng Rugao’s gaze lingered, not leaving Lin Shijin for some time.
“Shizun, just for today,” Lin Shijin whispered, bargaining. “You promised you’d remove the Love Lock.”
The man was silent, then said, “Feng Qing, take him to the Sword Pavilion.”
The preparations had taken some time. Having his hair tied, clothes changed, and dawdling on the way. So by the time they arrived, class was almost starting.
“Feng Qing, does Shizun have odd taste?” Lin Shijin muttered, unable to help himself. The outfit felt awkward, and he noticed Feng Qing’s expression mirrored his unease.
Feng Qing cleared his throat. “Sword Master’s taste is impeccable. This outfit suits you, Young Master.”
“It looks very good,” Lin Shijin said.
It just… emphasised his naivety. Like a fluttering butterfly, his movements now appeared even more childish.
He believed Feng Qing and relaxed slightly. Arriving at the Sword Pavilion, Feng Qing explained to the elders on his behalf, and they let him in.
His attire drew attention. He noticed many gazes upon him: Sheng Rufei, Chunhe, Mu Wanqing, and Jing Qiuhong.
Lin Shijin blushed, embarrassed. He forced himself to sit beside Jing Qiuhong, who leaned in, whispering:
“Did you come to practice swordsmanship, or to attract attention?” Jing Qiuhong teased. “If Lord Feng hadn’t brought you, the elders would have scolded you.”
“Not my choice,” Lin Shijin muttered. “Anyway, just for today.”
“This colour suits you, but if you practise later, the elders will scrutinise every move.”
Lin Shijin wasn’t focused anyway. He came to class because Sheng Rufei was here, and he kept him in mind.
In class, they sat in pairs. Sheng Rufei sat alone at the front, near the elders. Lin Shijin and Jing Qiuhong were towards the back.
From his seat, Lin Shijin could see Sheng Rufei’s back. Today he wore a black robe, standing straight; he wondered about the state of the injury on his back.
He could also see Sheng Rufei’s profile. Always attentive, Sheng Rufei was a model disciple, often responsible for compiling texts.
Distracted all day, Lin Shijin went to practise in the afternoon. Jing Qiuhong patted him on the shoulder.
“You’ve been absent-minded all day. It’s only early autumn, and you’re already thinking about spring?”
Lin Shijin’s face flushed. “What? I’m thinking about what the elder said, not… spring.”
A hasty denial that only betrayed him further.
Jing Qiuhong, seeing this, whispered, “Some disciples were staring at you. You drew a lot of attention today.”
He had noticed before. The youth was handsome but quiet, seldom interacting with peak disciples. Normally, he wasn’t easily noticed.
Today, though, the attention was unmistakable. Especially one male disciple, who had been watching him intently.
The youth, however, remained rather oblivious and hadn’t noticed a thing.
“This was chosen by my shizun,” Lin Shijin said, his lips pressing together slightly, unwilling to explain further.
Jing Qiuhong raised his eyebrows in surprise. Feng Rugao? He could scarcely imagine Feng Rugao liking such a colour… yet it made sense. Feng Rugao was notoriously fearsome. Now he even dictated what his disciples wore. It was terrifying.
They exchanged a few words before heading out to practise swordsmanship, having left a little late, trailing behind the others.
All the disciples were at the back of the Sword Pavilion’s grounds. Lin Shijin casually picked a quieter spot. He stayed with Jing Qiuhong, keeping a distance from Sheng Rufei, who was with Chunhe and the others.
He usually preferred the corners where few people ventured. Today, after practising his sword for a while, he caught sight of a figure in the corner of his eye.
A young man was standing there.
He was a disciple from their peak and looked vaguely familiar. Handsome, but his gaze flickered nervously, ears flushed bright red.
“Lin… Lin-shidi,” he stammered.
Lin Shijin was caught off guard. Before he could react, the youth took two hurried steps, pressed something into his arms, and then disappeared in a flash.
Completely inexplicable.
“Oh my!” Jing Qiuhong immediately leaned in, amused, peering at the item in Lin Shijin’s hands. “A token of affection, perhaps?”
Lin Shijin found it odd. That couldn’t be the case. They had never spoken, and he didn’t even know the other’s name.
Once the young man had gone, the surrounding disciples began to stir, teasing him openly, many glancing his way.
Chunhe looked over, a hint of surprise in her expression. “He’s giving Lin-shidi his sword tassel, isn’t he? He’s always liked him, often asking around about him.”
Mu Wanqing stole a glance, then quickly looked away. The Sword Pavilion had few female disciples; most were men. Lin Shijin was rather exceptional, seemingly more popular than the female disciples themselves.
Part of it was that the female disciples were not easily flustered. Unlike the distant youth, who seemed soft, delicate, almost as if he might melt at the slightest touch.
“Sheng-shixiong?”
Sheng Rufei’s gaze followed the direction of the youth in the distance. His aura was contained, his cold, indifferent features shadowed with a subtle weight.
