Lin Shijin did not leave the room the next day either. He seemed dazed, almost hollowed out, curling himself into the corner like a forgotten stone… motionless, withdrawn.
Lin Fuheng said nothing more. He touched his own eyes; they still ached faintly, swollen from the morning.
“…Forget it.”
The previous day he had witnessed with his own eyes what Sheng Rufei had done. He had called out several times and failed to wake him. Best not to meddle. If he involved himself further, he might grow so incensed he would never live to see the youth reclaim Qiushui.
Lin Shijin remained in the same position for a long time before finally rising to fetch paper and brush from the tea table. As he walked, he felt something amiss. I wasn’t pain exactly, but an unfamiliar discomfort.
A dull soreness. And something else, difficult to describe.
Cultivators did not require the ordinary bodily functions of mortals; their bodies were typically clean and untroubled by such discomfort.
Lost in his low spirits, he gave it little thought. Nor had he looked in a mirror, otherwise he might have noticed the distinct bite mark upon his ear.
He returned to his corner with paper and brush and hesitantly began to write.
After finishing, he found it unsatisfactory. He crossed out words, rewrote them, hesitated again. Only once the ink had dried did he fold the paper and tuck it into his robes.
He did not wish Lin Fuheng to see it and had shielded the page carefully while writing, unaware that the other had observed everything clearly from behind.
After much internal struggle, the youth had written only a single line, the characters crooked and clumsy as though scratched by a dog:
Cultivate diligently. Become strong enough to protect Shixiong. Do not anger Shixiong.
Lin Fuheng nearly choked on a mouthful of blood.
“….”
After a long moment, he swallowed it back down, face dark.
At least the youth had finally resolved to improve himself. The determination appeared genuine. He would withhold comment.
Lin Shijin, still afraid of being seen, carefully tucked the note into the front of his robes, keeping it close to his heart, as though it were something precious.
He did not remain indoors long. Soon he went out to inquire about the temple’s situation. The Scourge-Slayer Envoys had already discovered the monks’ corpses. The matter had been reported to the major immortal sects.
The sword light lingering upon the bodies unmistakably belonging to Feng Rugao. This had also been reported to Fuguang. It was possible Feng Rugao himself would need to come to the Three Thousand Realms.
Sheng Rufei had been summoned by the elders who had hurried to Jinyue Temple and had yet to return. After gathering what information he could, Lin Shijin returned to the courtyard.
Everyone here was a stranger. The only person he knew, the only one he wished to be near was Sheng Rufei.
His thoughts drifted uneasily. If Sheng Rufei chose to ignore him… perhaps they would travel separately to Wuxiang Mountain.
He did not want to be apart.
As he dwelt on this, the door stirred. A familiar figure entered.
He caught sight of Sheng Rufei from the corner of his eye. His fingers twitched faintly. His lips pressed thin, but he did not speak.
Sheng Rufei had not come empty-handed. In his hand was a small brocade pouch, sealed with a talisman.
Without a word, he stepped forward and fastened the pouch to Lin Shijin’s belt, hanging it beside his jade pendant.
His voice remained cool.
“I asked the elders. Spirits rarely remain attached for long. Perhaps it is lingering obsession, or some unresolved karma. Whatever it is, with this talisman, it will not harm you.”
Lin Shijin watched him tie it on with slightly awkward care. His nose stung. He dared not speak, afraid that if he did, tears would follow.
After finishing, Sheng Rufei straightened.
“The rest will be handled by the elders and the Scourge-Slayer Envoys. We depart for the next city today. We descend the mountain.”
It was an instruction to pack.
Lin Shijin had little to gather. Sheng Rufei did not leave; he remained standing, as though waiting.
Lin Shijin rose and began to sort his things. His gait was subtly off. By the bedside he counted his belongings, aware of Sheng Rufei’s gaze resting upon him. He pressed his lips together and pretended not to notice.
Sheng Rufei watched in silence.
He had barely touched him the previous day. They’d merely touched, yet today the youth walked as though fragile porcelain. His eyes were swollen from crying, his head perpetually lowered. His pale skin made the faint redness at the corners of his eyes more pronounced. He looked wronged. Easily bullied.
It was unsettling.
Once finished, Lin Shijin stored everything away and followed Sheng Rufei out.
Though their quarters were remote, Scourge-Slayer Envoys still guarded the entrance. Neither spoke. Sheng Rufei simply led the way.
Lin Shijin noticed that he deliberately avoided the main gate, choosing another path down the mountain. It was as though he was unwilling for the Envoys to know they had left.
The mountain road was uneven. It was not exhaustion that troubled him but the brush of fabric against tender skin. Ordinarily, it would be unremarkable. Today, it felt distinctly uncomfortable.
They reached the boundary between spring and summer landscapes. Just beyond it, Sheng Rufei halted. Lin Shijin stopped as well.
Sheng Rufei bent slightly and lowered himself onto one knee, turning his face slightly.
“Get on.”
He intended to carry him.
Lin Shijin’s lips tightened. “I can walk.”
In his fragile state, he assumed Sheng Rufei found him slow. This was troublesome. If he allowed himself to be carried, would that not only add to the burden?
Neither moved. After a moment, Sheng Rufei said coolly, “Are you not uncomfortable?”
Lin Shijin froze.
He had not expected Sheng Rufei to notice. A complicated warmth rose within him… sour, aching.
“Carrying me will tire Shixiong,” he murmured. “I can endure a little longer.”
Lin Fuheng silently clenched his fists, watching this fool who had been taken advantage of yet still found himself moved by the culprit.
Sheng Rufei did not insist. Instead, he rose and took Lin Shijin’s hand. Their fingers interlocked.
Lin Shijin felt awkward. He was still angry, yet also unable to resist the closeness. Affection and resentment twisted together inside him, tight and suffocating.
After a while, he spoke in a voice barely audible.
“Are you no longer angry?”
Sheng Rufei glanced at him, expression calm and unreadable. He did not answer. Something inside Lin Shijin gave way.
“I’m angry,” he said softly.
The wind stirred through the leaves. Sheng Rufei stopped and released his hand, standing before him in silence.
“I’m angry about what you said yesterday,” Lin Shijin said, staring at the toes of his boots. They wore matching black boots, only Sheng Rufei’s were one size larger.
“If you don’t like me anymore, you can just tell me,” he continued, breath tightening. “Maybe you never liked me. Maybe I only imagined it. You never said.”
“If you don’t like me, then stop being kind to me. If you do like me, then don’t say things like that again.”
His lashes were wet. “You know I care about you…”
Sheng Rufei remained silent.
Lin Shijin’s fragile courage deflated at once. He regretted speaking.
Somewhere along the way, it had become instinct: when wronged, he wished to seek Sheng Rufei; to confide in him; to entrust him with everything.
He looked up.
Sheng Rufei was watching him, gaze deep and unreadable. His reflection rested within those cold eyes.
After a long pause, Sheng Rufei finally spoke.
“I did not know,” he said quietly, fingertips brushing Lin Shijin’s cheek. “Nor did I ever say I disliked you.”
“You said you would not care for me anymore.
“It was my fault. My cultivation is too low. I could not even tell whether it was you.
“I will cultivate properly. I won’t disappoint you. I don’t want you to dislike me…”
Sheng Rufei’s lips tightened.
“You are very poor at grasping the important point,” he said coolly.
Lin Shijin’s vision blurred again.
“Fool,” came a low murmur near his ear.
Suddenly he was pulled forward, pressed against a warm chest.
Sheng Rufei’s body was stiff. The embrace was awkward, almost mechanical. Yet his hand came up and stroked the crown of the youth’s head, smoothing his hair.
Lin Shijin sobbed softly against him. If not comforted, he cried. If comforted, he cried.
Sheng Rufei, who ought to have been the angry one, now stood silently, waiting for the storm to pass.
At first it was only quiet weeping. Then he could not stop. He clutched at Sheng Rufei’s robe, hiccupping through tears.
“You’re… not allowed… to dislike me.”
Sheng Rufei glanced at the tear-soaked fabric of his robe, frowned faintly, and gave a low “Mm.”
His hand returned, stiffly patting Lin Shijin’s head.
“I don’t believe you,” Lin Shijin muttered, still refusing to let go. He could sense Sheng Rufei’s discomfort and deliberately clung tighter.
Between hiccups, he added in a small, aggrieved voice:
“Unless you kiss me.”
Lin Fuheng: “?”
Sheng Rufei: “…”
