Chapter 48#
As Though From Another Life#
Gushan’s main peak, Mingguang Peak — as towering as ever.
This was the first time Xiao Man had set foot on this peak since his rebirth. The spring sun hung bright and high; wildflowers covered the hillsides; a faint fragrance rose and turned in the wind. The sect’s guardian divine sword stood in its silent vigil before the Hall of the Dao, bearing its own stern authority.
He walked in at an unhurried pace, gaze straight ahead.
Each peak’s seat was arrayed in the main hall. The southward-facing high seat was the sect leader’s; Shen Yiru had not yet arrived. The seat facing the sect leader to the north belonged to Tingyun Peak. Xiao Man walked to it and chose to stand at the left side rather than sit — he had no right to the chair — and the right side belonged to Snow-Intent Peak.
The left side, then, was Cloud-Travel Peak. It had to be said the arrangement here was rather pointed.
Cloud-Travel Peak Master Tan Wenzou had arrived early and sat in his seat, Daoist robes flowing, feathered fan turning at an easy pace. On seeing Xiao Man, he greeted him first: “Your Highness — it has been some time.”
“Peak Master Tan.” Xiao Man gave a slight bow.
White Blossom Peak Master Ji Wuji also looked over, offering Xiao Man a small smile.
Xiao Man said “Peak Master Ji.”
“If we were to go by seniority,” Ji Wuji said, stroking his beard with an amused expression, “you and I should be addressing each other as martial brothers.”
“I had quite forgotten — the lapse in courtesy is mine. I ought to address Your Highness as Martial Uncle.” Tan Wenzou raised his feathered fan and bowed toward Xiao Man. “Martial Uncle Xiao.”
“There’s no need for that, Peak Master Tan,” Xiao Man said quietly, and turned to Ji Wuji. “Martial Brother Ji.”
The remaining peak masters filed gradually into the Hall of the Dao. Xiao Man was only familiar with Tan Wenzou and Ji Wuji, and made no move to greet the others. Before long, someone came to stand at the right of the Tingyun Peak seat — Snow-Intent Peak Master Yan Wushu.
Dark robes, silver hair bound up, a faint, careless smile at the corner of his lips. When he caught sight of Xiao Man, his brow and eyes curved, the smile deepening — and the fine gold of the spring sunlight fell across him, making him look altogether striking.
Feeling that gaze, Xiao Man’s expression gave nothing away.
Yan Wushu gave a quiet, amused sound — and then, rather than settling into his own seat, he came to stand at the right of the Tingyun Peak chair.
“What are you doing?” Xiao Man turned his head slightly toward Yan Wushu. He was now at the Guiyuan Realm; he used a transmission.
“Don’t you think the two of us, standing one on each side of the Founding Patriarch’s chair, look perfectly matched?” Yan Wushu transmitted back. “Even the colors work — you all in white, me all in black.”
Xiao Man: “…”
He had known Yan Wushu’s shamelessness for long enough that it had long ceased to move him. Back then it had failed to, and now he was even less inclined to be unsettled. He turned his gaze back to the floor tiles, sealed his expression, and said nothing.
More people entered the hall, acquaintances greeting one another. Yan Wushu acknowledged several of them with nods and bows — and continued to wait, without receiving a single word in return from Xiao Man.
He stretched his tone and called out, sweetly and unhurriedly: “Martial Uncle—”
Xiao Man thought this person was the pinnacle of tiresome. He formed a hand seal and cut off the transmission entirely.
Yan Wushu had no choice but to stop.
A moment later, the Gushan sect leader Shen Yiru arrived. She swept her sleeve, dropped into the highest seat, and looked at Xiao Man directly across from her with a grin. “Little martial brother — I’ve finally got to see you properly.”
“Senior Martial Sister Shen.” Xiao Man stepped forward and bowed.
Shen Yiru accepted his bow with a nod. “How have the two senior martial uncles been keeping?”
“Very well,” said Xiao Man.
“Good.” Shen Yiru looked out across the assembled faces and came straight to the point. “I’ve asked you all here today to discuss candidates for the Guangling Examination. Let’s follow the usual convention and go straight to nominations.”
“Lan Peak recommends Mo Juntian.”
“Chongyun Peak nominates Jun Danran.”
“Qingyun Peak—”
“Chixiang Peak—”
The peak masters named their candidates one by one. When it reached Xiao Man’s turn, he said: “Tingyun Peak’s position is that I will participate.”
Yan Wushu had not gone back to his seat — he remained standing on each side of the Tingyun Peak chair, making the two of them the only people in the entire hall still on their feet. When Xiao Man finished speaking, he added: “And from my peak — my senior disciple, Qu Hanxing, naturally.”
The remaining masters gave their candidates; when the last had spoken, glances began to travel across the hall, but no one said a word. A brief, strange silence settled over the Hall of the Dao.
Xiao Man had never attended the Guangling Examination before and didn’t know why the atmosphere had turned this peculiar.
Yan Wushu guessed that Xiao Man was puzzled and offered: “Now comes the selection of ten from twelve.”
The Guangling Examination had always capped participants — each sect could send at most ten people, but Gushan had twelve peaks.
In previous years, Tingyun Peak took no part in such matters; Snow-Intent Peak had few members, and whoever went from there to the Examination went to broaden their horizons rather than to hold a competitive slot. The arrangement had been comfortable. Now that Xiao Man had joined Tingyun Peak and Yan Wushu had taken on disciples, the equilibrium was broken — and a dispute had arisen over candidates.
No one dared to direct anything at Xiao Man directly; the person standing behind him was someone no one in the room could afford to offend, and everyone understood his connection to Yan Wushu well enough to tacitly treat Tingyun Peak and Snow-Intent Peak as one bloc behind him. And so the other Snow-Intent Peak candidate became the first target of objection.
At Yan Wushu’s words, one peak master turned toward him: “Peak Master Yan — the ‘senior disciple’ you’re speaking of — is that the person from the Sword Trial Assembly ten years ago who defeated the demonic beasts by repeatedly using the same technique, in what could only be described as a grinding, exhausting manner?”
“Correct.” Someone else answered for Yan Wushu, then continued: “How could someone like that represent Gushan? It would be a disgrace to the sect.”
“So your meaning is that I have taught poorly and disgraced the sect,” Yan Wushu said, expression unchanged, one hand resting on the arm of the Tingyun Peak chair, his voice very mild.
“That is not at all my meaning — I am saying that Qu Hanxing’s techniques are unorthodox, his temperament is lazy, and he is habitually opportunistic. He is not fit to represent Gushan.” The peak master countered at once.
Yan Wushu smiled and asked: “Oh? Then perhaps Peak Master Liu would like to explain how the person he has nominated is fit to represent Gushan?”
Peak Master Liu launched into an elaborate account.
Even if Qu Hanxing were eliminated, someone else would still have to be left out; after his detractors had their say, the argument resumed among all factions.
Yan Wushu asked his question and then said no more. Xiao Man had no intention of joining the dispute either. He went back to looking at the floor tiles — when all at once something appeared at the edge of his vision: a slender, milky-white porcelain bottle.
A faint sweet and slightly sour fragrance drifted up from the mouth of the bottle. He looked at the hand holding it — long fingers, defined knuckles, altogether very handsome.
Xiao Man raised his eyes and looked steadily at Yan Wushu over the top of the bottle, asking with his gaze what he thought he was doing.
“Sweet wine. Brewed last winter. The seal was only broken half an hour ago. Everyone on Snow-Intent Peak who has tried it says it’s exceptional.” Yan Wushu gave the bottle a gentle shake, his voice low.
Xiao Man naturally had no interest in his sweet wine and looked away. Yan Wushu was not so easily deterred; he leaned in, holding the bottle up close to Xiao Man’s face. “Just a sip. One sip. Won’t you?”
At that precise moment, someone called out: “Sect Leader — what is your view?”
The question was directed at Shen Yiru, and the next instant she deflected it entirely, tossing the dilemma across to the person directly opposite her: “What does little martial brother think?”
Yan Wushu’s slender porcelain bottle was still swaying in front of him, and at this moment every set of eyes in the hall had turned in their direction. The situation was gravely serious, yet the two of them appeared to be playing about — and a note of displeasure immediately made itself heard from somewhere in the room.
Xiao Man’s face remained undisturbed. He said to the Gushan sect leader: “Let them fight it out. Whoever loses stays behind.”
Shen Yiru heard him out and broke into a smile. She raised her hand. “Perfectly good. Everyone — in half an hour, bring the disciples you have nominated and meet at the Liangyi Hall.”
With that, she rose and left.
The peak masters departed one by one. Xiao Man spared neither Yan Wushu nor the bottle of sweet wine a glance, turned, and walked out of the hall.
The spring breeze touched his face. Xiao Man’s white sleeves puffed out like a banner and stretched in the open air, like the wings of a bird in flight.
That discussion — or argument, rather — had not consumed much time. The sun overhead and the shadows below had not shifted; he took the same path back toward Tingyun Peak. But halfway there, a figure appeared behind him without warning.
The person wrapped their arms around him from behind, a thread of laughter in their voice, stretching each syllable: “I’ve caught you — little — Martial — Uncle.”
Only one person would dare do something like this, and that was Yan Wushu. But having said it, he lowered his gaze.
Ten years without meeting. Xiao Man’s cultivation had risen — that pleased him. But alongside the rise in cultivation, the person had grown still more distant — that did not please him.
Yan Wushu supposed that with Shen Juan’s nature, there was no way the patriarch would have shaped a Little Phoenix into something this cold; the one who had taught him day to day must have been the other patriarch, the younger Shen Jiankong. That one had a reputation for being the most restrained and stone-faced figure imaginable, and watching the Little Phoenix grow to take after him — the more Yan Wushu thought about it, the more it weighed on him.
But on reflection: even at their first meeting, Little Phoenix had been thoroughly unwilling to acknowledge him. He had rescued Xiao Man, yes — but this child had been mired in the mud for too long. He had been hurt and cheated too many times, and had grown terrified that every sweetness was laced with poison or edged with a blade. He had been wary and guarded with everyone.
This time, Yan Wushu was the one who had done wrong first. If Xiao Man wanted to be cold, then let him be cold. He wasn’t afraid of cold.
Xiao Man slapped his arms away with a sharp sound, stepped back to put space between them, and turned: “What is it?”
“I was wrong. Come back with me.” Yan Wushu stepped toward Xiao Man and began, quietly, to account for himself. “What happened before was my fault. Lin Wu sent people to kill you — I did not calculate it in advance, and afterwards I made you no promise. I can promise you now that nothing like that will ever happen again.”
Xiao Man looked directly at the person across from him. In his dark eyes, the spring light of the mountain was reflected — and the reflection of Yan Wushu’s face, wearing an expression of earnest sincerity. The depth of those eyes was cold and still.
He thought of the fire in another lifetime — the secret art he had invoked, the burning of the mountain, the mutual destruction he had bought with it.
The restriction on Snow-Intent Peak could only be lifted by Yan Wushu. A forced entry might have been possible, but would have left terrible wounds. Yet those who had come before him with drawn swords had worn no trace of urgency at all.
If this were ten years ago, and Yan Wushu had said these words to him, he might have replied: A promise is worthless.
But now, he had nothing he wanted to say.
Xiao Man turned and walked away.
Yan Wushu followed. His cultivation was far too deep — no matter how many times Xiao Man tried to put distance between them, he could not shake him.
“Let’s go back to Snow-Intent Peak — I’ll practice sword and formation techniques with you, how does that sound?” Yan Wushu said.
Xiao Man did not respond.
“Tingyun Peak has only you and the two founding patriarchs. They are cultivation partners of several centuries — being a third wheel among them must be uncomfortable. So come back with me.” He tried again.
Still no response.
Yan Wushu stopped speaking.
Just when Xiao Man thought the man was finally going to close his mouth and leave, he said, quietly: “Rong Yuan still goes to Qiyinchu to tidy up now and then. Qu Hanxing is always leaving things there every few days. They both want very much to see you.”
Xiao Man’s steps faltered.
These ten years on Tingyun Peak — Xiao Man had cultivated with nothing in mind but the sword and the red dust of the world. He had felt nothing when he saw Yan Wushu, probably because Yan Wushu was the very root of why he had taken the Heartless Path in the first place. But now, hearing those two names—
Something stirred.
Yan Wushu saw the opening and pressed forward, taking another step toward Xiao Man and catching the edge of his sleeve in one hand. He spoke in a small voice: “I have something for you as well.”