The night flickered with uneasy lamplight.
Behind layers of gauze curtains, the rare incense exhaled a fragrance like drifting violet mist. Two figures could be glimpsed within the chamber. One stood sideways by the writing table, bent slightly as he examined the characters upon it. The other, clad in a robe as white as new, sat upon an Eight Immortals chair, leaning close as he spoke.
Drawing nearer, one could hear a voice say, “Grind the ink.”
Yin Feixue unhurriedly opened the inkstone, took up the ink stick, and began to grind it with care. Xue Cuo rolled back his sleeves and spread out the thousand-year paper once more. After a brief hesitation, he took up the silver-tipped brush and dipped it deep into the ink.
That hand was steady and assured. The brush moved like a dragon in flight, swift and fluid across the xuan paper, forming a single line of characters. When he finished, he gave the brush a light flick. “Well?”
[When the time comes, Heaven and Earth lend their strength; when fortune departs, even heroes are constrained.]
Yin Feixue rose and stepped behind Xue Cuo, bending slightly to admire the writing. “Not bad.”
Xue Cuo lifted his gaze to him just as Yin Feixue lowered his own. Their eyes met, their breaths mingling. The young man’s pupils were clear as lake water, reflecting Xue Cuo’s figure within them.
Xue Cuo instinctively looked away. “Handwriting reflects the man. Your Majesty’s brushwork here is bold and unrestrained, yet calligraphy values both breadth and restraint, the balance of lifting and pressing, of pause and motion. If one indulges too much in sweeping freedom, the structure is lost, and it will not do.”
Yin Feixue caught the implication. “You mean my writing is poor?”
Xue Cuo did not quite know how to answer. He hooked the brush lightly, considered a moment, then braced one hand against the table and caught Yin Feixue’s hand with the other, half drawing him into his embrace. With a lift of the brush, he wrote three grand, flowing characters upon the paper: [Yin Feixue]
“What do you think of these three?”
The character for “Fei” seemed to rise like wind, stirring ripples across the lake of the heart.
Yin Feixue’s expression remained calm and composed, as though nothing were amiss. Yet at some unknown moment, a pair of soft, furry ears had appeared atop his head, and his golden eyes were slowly narrowing into vertical pupils.
Xue Cuo was intent upon his writing when he suddenly felt something strange. Reaching out with his free hand, he grasped a handful of soft, snow-white fur. Glancing down, he saw a thick, rounded tiger tail, standing stiff and straight.
“My King?”
Yin Feixue set down the brush. “It has been happening often of late. Perhaps my demonic arts are slipping out of control.”
“Truly?”
Yin Feixue paused, then swiftly drew back his tail without answering. Instead, he said, “You rarely come. Spar with me for a while.”
At the mention of a fight, Xue Cuo brightened at once. The two spoke no more of anything else, turning instead to exchanging techniques. In the end, they lay down side by side, feet touching, and drifted into drowsiness.
Yet Yin Feixue did not truly sleep until dawn. The great cat feigned rest through the night, but the tiger ears would not vanish, nor could he still the rippling of his heart. And so the night passed.
They would have to part again, and who knew when they might next meet.
Yin Feixue escorted Xue Cuo from the city. He had meant only to see him as far as Changqin Lake beyond Tiandu City, yet as they walked and talked, Changqin Lake became Acacia Grove.
There the pear blossoms bloomed in dazzling profusion. They descended from the clouds and wandered along a path strewn with fallen petals, speaking for a long while.
At last, there was nothing left with which to prolong the farewell. Yet neither of them took the first step.
Yin Feixue was reluctant to let him go, yet had no reason to keep him. Still, he thought, if he truly missed Xue Cuo, or if Xue Cuo missed him, then wherever he might be, he would go to him. Nothing in this world could bar his way. He was far freer than that peacock, and far stronger than any rival who might covet him.
Between him and Xue Cuo, in the matter of feeling, there had always been equality. There was no need for hesitation or coyness.
“My King, I have plaited this tassel for your sabre.”
“A tassel?”
“Very well. That silver brush, in Tiandu City, is as good as half a lord’s seal. Within Fangzhou, you may command freely with it.”
“This…”
Xue Cuo hesitated, then laughed lightly and closed his hand around it. “Very well.”
A faint smile lingered in Yin Feixue’s eyes. His silver hair streamed in the wind, pure as snow beneath the radiant pear blossoms.
He lowered his head and opened his arms, drawing Xue Cuo into an embrace. The wind stirred the flowering trees, and his cloak fell about them both, as though they had become one.
It was perhaps too intimate. Xue Cuo tipped his head back. The sky was bright, white clouds drifting, butterflies dancing among the blossoms. The beauty of it all made it feel, for a fleeting moment, entirely fitting.
“Xue Cuo, travel safely. Do not forget to write to me.”
“I will remember.”
“Go on. I will watch you leave.”
“Farewell.”
Yin Feixue released him. Xue Cuo rose upon the clouds, not flying quickly. When he reached the height of the white clouds, he looked back.
The young man in white robes and dark armour stood by the lakeside, hands clasped behind his back, watching him in silence, as though unwilling to part.
Something stirred faintly in Xue Cuo’s heart, though he could not name it. He looked for a while, then a while longer, before turning and departing upon the clouds.
If the world were without trouble, if all under Heaven were at peace, if the Great Dao were already in harmony, then perhaps he and Yin Feixue would have been nothing more than idle wanderers, roaming mountains and waters, laughing freely, seeking enlightenment amidst the mortal world, living out their days in untroubled ease.
Xue Cuo gave a faint inward smile, then guided the Supreme Freedom Technique and returned to Goddess Peak in the Qianyun Marsh.
The moment he landed, he saw Ren Shu and Xuan Zhao sit upright. They had clearly been waiting for him a long time.
“Xiao Cuo, you’re back.”
“Xue Cuo, this is no small matter, it’s deadly serious. A plague god has arrived near the Qianyun Marsh, bearing a decree personally issued by the Heavenly Dao. If you ask me, now that those above have begun descending, this calamity is almost certainly a great tribulation of sainthood, with immense karmic weight. The best course now is to pack up at once and run.”
Xuan Zhao leapt to his feet, springing high on the spot, as though he wished to retreat straight into his tortoise shell and flee. Ren Shu looked troubled, though he remained comparatively composed.
He pressed Xuan Zhao down. “Master Xuan, Xiao Cuo has only just returned. Speaking so hastily, he will not understand.”
Xuan Zhao’s eyes widened as he stamped his foot. “What is there not to understand? That is the Plague Star Lord of the Heavenly Dao, descending with a heavenly mandate to afflict all living beings. Take my advice, Xue Cuo. Tell your lady to hide, and hide far away. Why not seek refuge with that foolish dragon? He has regained his fleshly body and is the only dragon under Heaven, blessed with fortune. It is a safe haven.”
Xue Cuo rubbed his temples. “Master Xuan, enough. Sit and explain it properly.”
Ren Shu hurried to calm Xuan Zhao, then drew Xue Cuo down to sit. “After you left, I made my usual patrol of the marsh. In the southeast, I saw a bank of red cloud. At first it seemed nothing, but the calamity cloud swelled with the wind and quickly covered several mountains. Then… a great plague descended.”
“I sought guidance from the Goddess of the marsh, but she gave no reply. Only the Qiankun Bowl spread wide, blocking the red clouds.”
“Last night, a number of mortals afflicted by the heavenly plague gathered at the edge of the marsh, begging to be allowed in.”
“I refused.”
“This morning, I found this.”
Ren Shu drew out a small red slip. It was a treasure imbued with the authority of the Heavenly Dao. Carrying it for a single day had already weighed heavily upon him, yet he dared not let others glimpse it.
Xue Cuo’s expression hardened as he took it. Upon the red slip, in gold characters, were written:
[Heaven sends pestilence to bring disease, to punish the impious and chastise the multitude.]
[I am a righteous deity of the Heavenly Dao, the Great Plague Star Lord. By command I descend to spread pestilence. Open the barrier at once.]
Seeing Xue Cuo’s gaze grow colder, Ren Shu said, somewhat uneasy, “I asked Her Ladyship. The decree is genuine. This Great Plague Star Lord truly descends by Heaven’s will.”
Xue Cuo turned the slip between his fingers, his eyes flickering. “If this Great Plague Star Lord is so capable, why does he not open the barrier himself?”
Ren Shu faltered. “That…”
Xue Cuo smiled faintly. “Ren Shu-gege, I ought to have told you earlier, but the time was not right.”
He paused. Xuan Zhao, seeing he meant to speak plainly, immediately cut in, “You blockhead, I tried to tell you before and you would not listen. Now listen well. I shall say this only once.”
“This is no ordinary calamity of Heaven and Earth. It is a tribulation of sainthood. Such a tribulation appears perhaps once in countless ages, bearing great opportunity and immense karmic ties.”
“A plague god descending? Bah. That is merely a pleasant way of putting it. They have heard of the chance to attain sainthood, but being already ascended, they cannot descend lightly. So they cripple their own cultivation and fall to the lower realms to seize the opportunity.”
“Today a plague god, tomorrow a god of fortune, a god of joy. Hah. We miserable lot would do well to keep out of this muddy water. Better you return to your temple. Xue Cuo and I will take Her Ladyship to seek refuge with the little golden dragon. Find a quiet place, sleep a thousand years or so, and it will all pass.”
Xue Cuo caught Xuan Zhao by the ear. “Master Xuan, I think you are asking for another thrashing from Her Ladyship.”
Xuan Zhao flushed crimson. “You… what nonsense are you spouting?”
Ren Shu’s pupils had widened. The weight of it all had yet to settle. He pressed a hand to his forehead. “This… give me a moment. Xue Cuo, did you already know?”
Xue Cuo spread his hands. “Not entirely. But Master Xuan must have known earliest. After all, he is well-travelled and long-lived. A tribulation of sainthood would hardly trouble him.”
Xuan Zhao puffed out his chest, though a hint of guilt flickered across his face. “Naturally. I have been dead for over eight thousand years. What would I not know? Even those Five Direction Goddesses… ahem.”
Realising what he had let slip, he hastily covered his mouth, his face darkening as he shot Xue Cuo a glare.
Xue Cuo laughed softly and slung an arm about Ren Shu’s shoulders. “Gege, do not worry. Come with me to the barrier and see what sort of figure this Great Plague Star Lord truly is.”
Ren Shu was still absorbing the revelation as the three of them left the temple and flew to the edge of the barrier.
The Qiankun Bowl enveloped the entire Qianyun Marsh, unbreakable. Beyond the southeastern edge, the sky stretched for a thousand li in crimson, shrouded in a blazing red cloud.
Xue Cuo narrowed his eyes. Beyond what the naked eye could see, the vital essence of countless living beings was being drawn into that cloud, condensing into its red mass. Mortals stripped of their fortune aged swiftly, sickened, and died, falling in swathes along the boundary.
