Lin Shijin laughed. He thought it ought to be sweet as well. Sheng Rufei only took a single sip before pushing the rest towards Lin Shijin’s lips.
The meaning was clear: it was for him.
When their eyes met, Lin Shijin could not help feeling that Sheng Rufei was harbouring slightly improper intentions. That morning he had given Sheng Rufei his leftovers; now Sheng Rufei was making him drink the mung bean soup he himself had already tasted.
Still, he did not mind very much. He drank the rest in one go, and it seemed as though even the air beside him cooled. His fingertips brushed lightly against Sheng Rufei’s.
“Shixiong, you still haven’t answered my question.”
He meant the matter of selling little reed-woven animals here in future.
Sheng Rufei touched his hair and said softly, “No.”
Lin Shijin looked at him without speaking, waiting for an explanation.
“If you stay here,” Sheng Rufei said quietly, “I won’t be able to see you. I would worry.”
“Alright.” Lin Shijin did not press further. The illusion array had yet to be fully understood; it was better for now to remain at Sheng Rufei’s side.
…
Sheng Rufei scarcely rested all day. Only at noon did he pause to eat. It was still coarse steamed buns; the porridge had simply been replaced with pickled vegetables.
Lin Shijin could tell that because of him, Sheng Rufei had taken on more work. The steward, seeing that Sheng Rufei was capable, did not object.
It was not until nightfall that the labour ended. Lin Shijin waited until dark and watched Sheng Rufei collect his wages. It was a heavy string of silver coins, two full strings in total.
“Shixiong—”
Seeing him approach, Lin Shijin hurried forward. After a full day’s labour Sheng Rufei had not broken a sweat. Lin Shijin edged closer and secretly sniffed at him. There was no unpleasant smell at all.
Only the faint fragrance of fallen plum blossom was gone.
“Shixiong, working alone all day. Isn’t it tiring?” Lin Shijin asked softly. “I secretly tried lifting the sacks earlier. They weren’t that heavy. Shall I come help tomorrow?”
“No.”
Sheng Rufei caught his wrist. Lin Shijin instinctively tried to pull back, but Sheng Rufei turned his hand over.
Two deep red welts marked his palm.
Lin Shijin flushed faintly. The burlap had been rough; he had scraped himself without noticing.
“It looks worse than it is. It doesn’t really hurt.”
Sheng Rufei said nothing. Under that dark, steady gaze, Lin Shijin fell silent. When Sheng Rufei pressed lightly at the bruises, a flicker of pain made him want to withdraw his hand. But he was held fast.
After a moment, Sheng Rufei released him and led him away from the riverbank.
They walked hand in hand. Passers-by assumed they were brothers. The market district was not far.
“Shixiong, are we going to buy something?”
A quiet hum of assent.
Night had fallen; the market was ablaze with lantern light. People flowed endlessly through the streets. Lanterns spun gently in the trees, stretching into a long river of fire in the distance.
Lin Shijin’s eyes could hardly take it all in. “What are we buying?”
Then he tugged Sheng Rufei’s hand. “We mustn’t spend recklessly. The money was hard-earned. If we waste it, today’s labour will have been for nothing.”
Sheng Rufei was usually frugal… though always generous with him.
“Mm,” Sheng Rufei said, glancing at his earnest expression. “Just buns.”
Lin Shijin had barely eaten at noon. His palate, long accustomed to delicate pastries, could hardly stomach coarse bread and greens.
“Oh.”
So that was all. Yet the thought of Sheng Rufei buying buns for him made him unexpectedly happy. At once his stomach growled loudly.
He clutched at it, eyes widening. “Shixiong! My stomach never growls, even when I’m hungry. Am I really being affected by the illusion array? Am I turning into an ordinary person?”
Though he lived much like a mortal, he was not truly one.
Sheng Rufei rested a hand lightly against his abdomen through his robes. “Your spiritual power has dissipated. Combined with the illusion array, your body will show outward changes.”
Outward only.
Lin Shijin let out a breath of relief.
…
They stopped at a bun stall. Sheng Rufei bought two steaming pork buns and placed them in his hands. They were warm and fragrant. When he bit into one, hot broth spilled out.
Far better than porridge and wild greens.
After finishing both, Lin Shijin returned to their shabby little dwelling in high spirits.
Inside, he lit the ever-burning candle. The flame flickered over his fingertips.
“Shixiong, how many more days must we stay?”
“Not long,” Sheng Rufei replied. “Give me your hand.”
Lin Shijin obediently extended it. The red welts had already turned a dark bluish purple.
The medicinal wine stung faintly as it was rubbed in. Sheng Rufei worked patiently until the bruising dispersed, then wrapped the palm carefully in gauze, finishing with a bow.
In the past, Sheng Rufei’s bows had always been crooked and unsightly. Today’s was neat, the curves precise and delicate.
Lin Shijin stared at it for a long time, something strange stirring faintly in his chest. When he met Sheng Rufei’s gaze, he quickly dismissed the thought.
“Shixiong, truly, I can help tomorrow—”
“I am not tired,” Sheng Rufei interrupted quietly. “If you come with me, I would worry.”
Lin Shijin pressed his lips together. He could not refute that.
…
They lay down together on the narrow bedding. Two grown men sharing a pallet inevitably meant arms brushing arms, legs touching legs.
“Shixiong,” Lin Shijin murmured into the dark, unable to sleep, “what does this illusion array truly intend? It turns us into ordinary people first… and then what?”
He could feel Sheng Rufei’s breath against his skin, feel him nuzzling lightly at his neck.
These past two days the closeness had grown more frequent. It almost felt as though Sheng Rufei wanted him.
Yet there was restraint. A careful holding back.
The restraint itself was torment.
“Ordinary people must endure the seven sufferings of the mortal world,” Sheng Rufei said softly. “Birth, ageing, sickness, death; separation from those one loves; meeting those one hates; unfulfilled desire; clinging that cannot be released; and the blazing of the five aggregates.”
He opened his eyes slowly. In the darkness, they reflected Lin Shijin’s face.
“Which do you fear most?”
Lin Shijin thought for a long while. Since entering the immortal sect, he had never considered such things. Immortals lived long lives; sickness and ageing slowed with cultivation.
The others… he had not yet experienced them.
“It must be death,” he said at last. “I want to live well. I’m afraid of pain. I don’t want to be hurt… and I don’t want Shixiong to leave me.”
He stared at the bare rafters above.
“I know you have a blood feud to avenge. You must uphold your Dao. You would not promise lightly…”
“And Shizun… I seem to owe him much. If he wished to separate us, he would have countless reasons. We could not refuse.”
His thoughts tumbled over one another. The soul calling itself Fuheng, the Qiushui Sword, the unresolved soul-bond.
“In truth, I was always afraid. At first I feared death. But now that you are here, I’m not afraid anymore. You carry far more than I do… yet you never tell me.”
He had spoken so much.
When he finally met Sheng Rufei’s eyes, he saw a look he had never seen before.
“Shixiong?”
What he truly meant was simple: they were only one step away from laying everything bare. If Sheng Rufei would cast aside his misgivings, he would cast aside everything as well.
He would choose him without hesitation.
His heart burned bright and fierce, like fireworks against the night. It only needed the smallest spark to set the darkness alight.
In the still, low-roofed room, only the two of them remained, reflected in one another’s eyes.
Sheng Rufei lowered his gaze. His voice was faint.
“You truly… remember nothing.”
A trace of irony touched his lips, hidden in shadow.
“I have a blood-soaked vengeance yet to repay. Xiao Jin, will you wait for me?”
“When I have avenged myself, I will formally ask for your hand.”
His voice was low, coaxing.
Lin Shijin, gazing at that face, felt dizzy. The word yes rose to his lips… And then—
A cold, crawling numbness shot up his spine.
The red thread about his wrist tightened, slowly drawing taut, twisting into a violent and dreadful curve.
As though, should he utter that single word, it would snap his wrist in two.
