Chapter 49#

One Touch, One Part#

Yan Wushu held that single length of white fabric, winding it inch by inch around his knuckles as he drew inch by inch closer to Xiao Man.

The third month of spring was all glory — the snow that had packed through winter finally melting into the soil, the willows that had been bare and dead for so long putting out new shoots, every hillside a riot of colour, petals carried aloft on the wind, settling in Xiao Man’s clothes and hair.

Xiao Man’s gaze came down from the sky and settled on the slightly crumpled edge of cloth that Yan Wushu had released. He said: “All right.”

He agreed because of the two names Yan Wushu had mentioned.

Yan Wushu knew this. It had been his plan all along. He gave a small smile, reached out and took Xiao Man’s wrist, and drew them both up into the air on wind-riding.

The two of them dissolved into a current of light; Snow-Intent Peak came in a blink. It sat somewhat to the north and east of Mingguang Peak, and the air there carried a trace of chill. Ice still lingered at the edges of Luoyue Lake; the trees had only just put out tender buds, not yet unfurled into leaves — but the flowers had come, spreading across the gentle slopes in something like an embroidered tapestry.

Xiao Man’s gaze swept across it and came to rest on the Hall of the Dao halfway up the mountain.

The hall looked exactly as it had ten years ago. The flowers at its entrance had not been replanted; the branches swayed in the wind, full of a graceful, quiet beauty.

Yan Wushu guided him over the threshold and into the courtyard.

The clear pool in the courtyard had gained a number of fish — all of which were belly-up, blowing bubbles and staring fixedly ahead, with expressions of creatures at the very edge of existence. Qu Hanxing was crouched at the pool’s side, having ladled out a bowl of water that he was now tipping onto a whetstone, sharpening a knife with a steady, deliberate scrape.

He caught a glimpse of people returning out of the corner of his eye and assumed it was only his master. He was about to ask whether the fish tonight would be braised or roasted — then he saw who was beside Yan Wushu, and shot to his feet.

“Mǎn-gē!” Qu Hanxing shouted, and launched himself at Xiao Man, entirely unaware that his water-soaked hand was about to become deeply unwelcome.

He not only launched himself — he slung an arm over Xiao Man’s shoulder and clung on like a monkey wrapped around a tree, pressing his nose to Xiao Man’s shoulder. “Ten years — I’ve missed you so much!”

Xiao Man took a step back under the force of it.

In his entire life, no one had ever treated him with this particular brand of enthusiasm. And this was, moreover, one of his closest friends. He hesitated — push or don’t push?

Push — and he’d hurt Qu Hanxing’s feelings. Don’t push — and the water that had been sitting with those fish was, genuinely, somewhat revolting.

Indecision.

Yan Wushu, standing beside him, resolved the matter on his behalf. He reached out with the speed of lightning and peeled Qu Hanxing cleanly off Xiao Man, depositing him at a distance.

Xiao Man exhaled quietly with private relief. “It’s been a long time,” he said to Qu Hanxing.

“Cultivation transcends time, they say — but Mǎn-gē, you went into seclusion for ten years. Three thousand days and nights. That’s transcending time a little too thoroughly, isn’t it? If I were a mortal, what you’d be looking at right now is a trembling old man.” Qu Hanxing pressed in undaunted, gesticulating extravagantly.

“You’ve gotten thinner. But your realm has risen.”

“Not like Wei Shixiong, though — he’s shot straight up to the Upper Guiyuan Realm and I feel my legs go weak every time I see him now. We entered at the same time — how has the gap just kept getting wider?”

He circled Xiao Man once, looking him over from every angle, by turns marveling and counting his blessings, his words tumbling out in a constant stream — exactly as he always had been. And in that moment, Xiao Man felt that perhaps these ten years, which had seemed like another lifetime, were not so much another lifetime after all.

Old friends still their old selves. The light is just right.

Qu Hanxing moved on quickly. He cast a cleansing technique on himself and Xiao Man alike, pulled a sword from his Qiankun ring, and said:

“Mǎn-gē — after all this time, let’s have a match? Like we used to at the White Blossom Peak training ground.”

The sword in his hand was a middle-grade blade. Xiao Man took out the iron sword Mo Juntian had prepared before they left Gushan for their training journey years ago, and nodded. “All right.”

“I’ll be your referee.” Yan Wushu gave a quiet, amused sound and stepped back from the courtyard.

Xiao Man and Qu Hanxing bowed to each other. The moment the match began, Qu Hanxing moved first.

He was no longer the young man who had devoted himself entirely to the single technique of Spring Wind Through the Balustrade. Yan Wushu had spent ten years teaching him, pulling him from the Baoyu Realm of those early days up to the initial stage of Guiyuan — just one minor realm below Xiao Man. He had more techniques now, and his play was fluid and adaptable.

By comparison, Xiao Man’s sword style was steadier — it appeared unhurried and even-tempered at first glance, almost mild, but turned fierce exactly at the moment of landing, making it nearly impossible to receive.

Watching from the side, Yan Wushu could see plainly what Xiao Man had been taught. It was unmistakably the younger patriarch Shen Jiankong’s sword. Naturally — Shen Juan’s discipline was the sabre; for sword work, Xiao Man was indeed better served under Shen Jiankong.

Yet in atmosphere they were clearly distinct. Shen Jiankong was cold — like the permafrost of the furthest frozen reaches, hardened through uncountable years. Xiao Man was gentler than that, gentle yet tenacious, like wind and rain, or more precisely: like a stalk of bamboo in the wind and rain — unbowed, unbroken.

After dozens of exchanges, Qu Hanxing lost.

“I still can’t beat you.” He lay on the ground and let out a breath. “Looks like I’ve still got work to do.”

“It’s a question of fighting style,” Xiao Man said, putting his sword away and speaking quietly.

“Fighting style?” Qu Hanxing tilted his head back, puzzled.

“One-on-one isn’t your strength. In multi-person group combat, you’d be able to do a great deal more.”

“That actually makes sense,” Qu Hanxing said, thinking it over. “Back when we went out on that practical training — the swordwork I put out then felt a lot more comfortable than when I came back to the mountain and started fighting monster beasts.” He turned his head toward Yan Wushu. “Master, do you think the same?”

“You are quick and alert, and your reactions are fast — but you lack a certain settledness, a tendency to waver,” Yan Wushu said pleasantly. “In a team, if someone can give you a clear direction, you perform better.”

Qu Hanxing chewed on this, then picked himself up off the ground and dusted down his hem. “Speaking of which, Mǎn-gē — what sword technique is that? It has a kind of… I can’t quite put it into words. Otherworldly quality.”

Xiao Man lowered his gaze and said quietly: “My teachers never told me its name.”

Qu Hanxing didn’t notice the fractional pause in those words; he put his fist to his palm and gave a reverent little bow. “The nameless sword technique that guarantees victory in the storybooks — truly I stand in its presence.”

At that moment, Rong Yuan came into the Hall of the Dao. On seeing Xiao Man, his face lit up. “Your Highness!”

When Xiao Man had gone into seclusion, Rong Yuan had been only about ten years old — barely a young boy yet. Ten years had changed him considerably; the unformed features had settled into something clear and steady, not without a certain composed handsomeness. But the way he came quickly across the floor toward Xiao Man was exactly as it had always been.

“Mm.” Xiao Man nodded to him.

In Rong Yuan’s mind, what Xiao Man had been most devoted to before he left Snow-Intent Peak was food. After bowing to Yan Wushu, he asked Xiao Man: “Your Highness — last year we tried our hand at brewing some sweet wine. We only just opened it this morning. Would you like to try a taste?”

Xiao Man recalled the image from earlier in the Hall of the Dao at Mingguang Peak — Yan Wushu swaying that slender porcelain bottle in front of his face. He had assumed it was something Yan Wushu had brewed himself, but apparently it had been a joint effort?

“The three of you?” Xiao Man asked.

Rong Yuan nodded. “Me, Martial Brother Qu, and Master.”

Xiao Man glanced at Yan Wushu without quite meaning to. “What have you been teaching them all this time?”

Rong Yuan caught the mild reproach tucked into the question and explained: “Master started fiddling around in the kitchen again these past years — we were curious and started learning alongside him.”

Qu Hanxing had entirely forgotten about the wine until this moment; now that it was mentioned, he came alive: “Ah, right! Mǎn-gē! We brewed wine! It’s different from anything you’d buy outside — sweet and a little sour, doesn’t burn your throat at all. It’s what goes into the rice wine dumplings. You used to eat those rice wine dumplings without knowing that, didn’t you? Come, come — give it a try.”

He was the least ceremonious of the three when it came to Xiao Man. Still talking, he moved behind Xiao Man, and began steering him toward the back courtyard with both hands.

Xiao Man was installed on the covered walkway at Qu Hanxing’s direction. A low table was set in front of him, and the boy disappeared into the underground cellar, returning with three crocks of wine.

He lifted the lid of each and ladled out a half-bowl from every one, placing them before Xiao Man.

The three bowls were all different patterns. “Why three?” Xiao Man asked.

Qu Hanxing grinned. “Because you have to guess — which crock came from whose hand!”

“We’ve all tasted it — none of them are bitter, none are harsh.” Yan Wushu settled beside Xiao Man, speaking quietly. “It should suit your palate.”

“Yes, yes, exactly.” Qu Hanxing nodded rapidly.

Xiao Man looked down at the three bowls on the table. Unlike any fruit wine or white wine or yellow wine he had seen before, the color was a milky white, with a few grains of rice floating in it — like glutinous rice steeped in water — and the scent drifting up was purely sweet.

Under the expectant gazes of Qu Hanxing and Rong Yuan, Xiao Man picked up one of the bowls and took a small sip.

It was indeed sweet-sour, and carried no trace of alcoholic bite. It could be called wine by name, but it was not remotely wine-like in practice.

“Well? How is it?” Qu Hanxing asked.

“Good,” Xiao Man said, offering one affirmative word.

Qu Hanxing smiled and pushed the other two bowls a little closer to Xiao Man. “Try the others.”

Xiao Man tasted each in turn and set them down.

Yan Wushu rested his cheek on one hand, smiling, and asked: “Which is which — can you tell?”

How was one supposed to determine that? They all tasted sweet and sour. Xiao Man thought for a long moment. “Are there differences?”

“Master’s leans sweeter. Martial Brother’s is slightly more sour. Mine falls in between.” Rong Yuan supplied the answer.

Xiao Man genuinely had not been able to tell them apart. His expression showed faint confusion.

“Grilled fish as well?” Yan Wushu, without dwelling on it, gave a light laugh and changed the subject. “With the rice wine — the flavors complement each other. And—” he added, “—Qu Hanxing caught the fish himself.”

Qu Hanxing, who was sitting across from him, stared at this.

Yan Wushu had developed a fondness for cooking over these years, but he had never once asked whether they wanted to eat anything. When things were made, he never called them to come either.

In the early days, Qu Hanxing had not been able to read his intention at all; it was Rong Yuan who had taken him in hand — they would go to the kitchen themselves, take out the bowls and chopsticks, steam a pot of rice, and eat the dishes alongside it.

Master’s cooking was every bit as good as the cooks at the Wugou Tower. But what Master had just said — that sounded as though he intended to grill the fish himself. Qu Hanxing felt he had caught something in the air; his eyes narrowed slightly, and he turned and ran toward the kitchen. “I cleaned a batch just now — let me get them!”

Qu Hanxing came and went like the wind. The fish were already gutted and marinated; he threaded them onto skewers and handed them to Yan Wushu. Rong Yuan, meanwhile, had assembled a grilling stand on the walkway with practiced ease.

The two of them went about these tasks with the effortless coordination of long habit, leaving Xiao Man no opening to decline. Yan Wushu took the loaded skewers, snapped his fingers, and the pile of kindling caught.

Grilling fish doesn’t take long; someone among the three had quietly applied a technique that intensified the heat, and by the time Yan Wushu had brushed on the seasoning and turned the skewers a few times, the fragrance was already in the air.

He was grilling fish for Xiao Man; Qu Hanxing and Rong Yuan grilled their own. Three or four minutes later, the skin on the skewers had gone crisp and golden.

It had to be acknowledged — Yan Wushu’s sense of seasoning and balance had grown even better than before.

But not one appetite was stirred in Xiao Man. He lowered his eyes and watched the jumping of the flames.

He wanted to leave. He had no wish to sit beside Yan Wushu like this. But Qu Hanxing and Rong Yuan were so plainly glad, and he couldn’t bring himself to dampen it.

A little more time passed; the fish was ready. Yan Wushu held it out toward Xiao Man. And at that moment, a small black shape appeared in the distance, growing rapidly, darting into the courtyard at speed, wings beating furiously — aimed squarely at Xiao Man.

All three of the master-and-disciple trio on Snow-Intent Peak knew this black shape well enough to let it through. But the small creature, coming to rest before Xiao Man, executed a quick roll — and deliberately knocked its own head against his forehead.

Thud —

A small, muffled sound.

It was not finished. Having headbutted him, it turned smartly, seized the grilled fish skewer from in front of Xiao Man in its beak, flew to a stone lantern in the courtyard, and began pecking with great determination.

The whole sequence flowed like something rehearsed a hundred times over.

Yan Wushu watched in genuine surprise. “That’s the mountain tit that used to bring you fruit! Why did it fly at you like it was furious, and steal your fish?”

Xiao Man watched it, lips pressed together, and said nothing.

“Probably upset that you didn’t leave the mountain for ten years.” Yan Wushu smiled, answering for Xiao Man, and picked up another skewer, brushed on the seasoning, and put it over the fire.

The mountain tit finished the grilled fish and came back to Xiao Man.

It stood on the walkway and lifted its wings softly, touching the back of Xiao Man’s hand where it lay on his knee. When Xiao Man didn’t respond, it kept scratching at his hand — persistent, refusing to leave.

The second fish was done and fragrant. Xiao Man watched the bird for a long time. Then, at last, he raised his hand and set it on its head, and gave a slow, gentle ruffle.

The mountain tit let out a bright, fluid call, nuzzled into Xiao Man’s palm, and flew away.

A little while later it came back, and tipped several pieces of fruit into Xiao Man’s lap.

“Its way of making up is truly one of a kind,” Qu Hanxing said, eyes wide.

Yan Wushu finished the second fish and handed it to Xiao Man, then addressed Qu Hanxing in practical terms: “At the first quarter of the hour of Shen, go with Xiao Man to the Liangyi Hall. There’s a competition.”

“A competition?” Qu Hanxing said around a mouthful of fish.

“Have you heard of the Guangling Examination?” Yan Wushu said.

Qu Hanxing’s expression went blank. “I’ve only heard of the Guangling San.”

“It’s a major competition for young cultivators,” Xiao Man explained.

“Ah, I see.” Qu Hanxing nodded his understanding. “We’re going to compete for spots?”

“That’s right,” Yan Wushu said. “Earlier at the assembly on Mingguang Peak, each peak nominated one person — but the Guangling Examination limits the number of participants. Only ten can attend from each sect. So from the twelve names put forward, two have to be removed.”

“The Guangling Examination is one of the grandest competitions on the Xuantian Continent. Every sect and school sends their people. It’s an extraordinary opportunity for you to broaden your horizons and build connections. Xiao Man will certainly earn a spot. As for you — I want you to push your way in by any means necessary.”

“So that’s why you’ve been saying I’d need to go somewhere before long,” Qu Hanxing murmured to himself, and then startled. “I spent ten years barely climbing to the initial stage of Guiyuan. Against the people the other peaks have nominated — what chance do I even have?”

“If you lose,” Yan Wushu replied with quiet amusement, “think how badly you’ll have embarrassed me.”

Qu Hanxing set down his fish. He looked away, expression thoroughly pained.

“Mo Juntian and Wei Shixiong are among the twelve as well,” Xiao Man said quietly.

“…Is that so.” A small flicker of motivation came into Qu Hanxing’s eyes. He scratched his head and looked at Yan Wushu. “Master — will you be there later?”

“If I don’t go,” Yan Wushu said, “who’s going to keep order for you?”

Qu Hanxing leapt to his feet. “Then I’m going to prepare!”

“Make good preparations,” Yan Wushu said, very much in favor.

“Mǎn-gē — wait for me. First quarter of the hour of You — we go together!” Qu Hanxing called back over his shoulder as he ran off.

Rong Yuan had something to attend to as well and excused himself. On the walkway, only Xiao Man and Yan Wushu remained.

Xiao Man moved to return the untouched grilled fish to Yan Wushu’s hand and stood to go elsewhere. Yan Wushu was faster — he tilted his head and let it drop onto Xiao Man’s shoulder.

“Little Phoenix,” Yan Wushu said quietly.

Xiao Man stepped back, expressionless, retreating into the far side of the walkway and putting space between them.

He moved quickly. Yan Wushu’s hand reached out — and missed. His arm fell. He lifted his eyes. Xiao Man looked at him, and he looked at Xiao Man, and after a long silence, he said: “Ten years on Tingyun Peak. That must have been hard.”

“It wasn’t,” Xiao Man said, the denial coming instantly.

“It was. You’ve gotten thinner.” Yan Wushu said this with perfect conviction.

“Appearances,” Xiao Man said, unconcerned, pulling his sleeve smooth and making to leave. “If the Lord of Radiant Light has nothing further—”

Yan Wushu corrected him: “You call me Yan Wushu.”

“It’s only a form of address. What does it matter?” Xiao Man said.

“If it doesn’t matter, why won’t you call me by name?” Yan Wushu looked at him steadily, entirely set on this.

Wind moved through the walkway — first low, then lifting higher — and brought with it the cool fragrance of flowers.

Some of them were ones Xiao Man had planted with his own hands. In those early days, newly arrived, he had always been at Yan Wushu’s side — growing flowers, reading sutras, brewing tea.

Ten years had passed. Time had moved quietly but persistently. The people were still here, the scene still here — and yet something was irrecoverably different from what it once was.

Yan Wushu lowered his gaze. From his Qiankun ring, he took something out and held it toward Xiao Man.

It was a sword, white throughout as fresh snow — the scabbard flowed with silver, the hilt was wrapped in frost, elegant with an underlying cold.

“I had it made a few days ago, and it just happened to arrive today. I thought it would suit you very well.” Yan Wushu said.

“Thank you, but I already have a sword.” Xiao Man declined without a moment’s hesitation.

“What does one more hurt?” Yan Wushu said.

“I have no need of two,” Xiao Man said firmly.

Then: “Qu Hanxing is still using a middle-grade iron sword. Give it to him.”

This sword was three chi and three cun in length and weighed three jin and twelve liang — even in an ordinary person’s hand, it would not feel especially heavy. But right now, Yan Wushu felt it as a thousand jin.

What weighed a thousand was not the sword. It was his heart.

How close Xiao Man had once been to him — that was exactly how distant he was now. Looking back, those years of quiet, unspoken tenderness had become something he could not think about, something he would not bear to think about.

Ten years ago, he had been able to tell himself: Little Phoenix is angry, that’s all. But now it was plain to see that anger was far too simple an explanation, and he — for all his ability to calculate and predict — could not work out why.

Could not calculate it. Could not arrive at it. The future and the past both obscured, both out of reach.

An unease he could not shake began to rise in Yan Wushu’s chest. He pressed his lips together, once and again, and asked: “Then you truly do still find me trying?”

“No,” Xiao Man said.

He swept his sleeve and made to rise from the walkway.

But in that instant, Yan Wushu made a decision. He leaned forward, caught Xiao Man’s hand, and pressed him down.

Two pairs of eyes met. Yan Wushu looked down at Xiao Man, his voice low: “If you don’t find me trying — then come back to Snow-Intent Peak.”

If he could not calculate the past or the future, if he could not understand what cause had brought about this consequence — then he would stop trying to calculate, stop trying to understand. Only the present mattered. Only what was in front of him now.

Xiao Man struggled. But he was only at the middle stage of Guiyuan; Yan Wushu was at the Great Perfection of the Taixuan Upper Realm. The higher cultivation goes, the greater the gulf between realms — how could Xiao Man break free of his hold?

He could not. Brow furrowed, Xiao Man said: “Let go.”

“No.” Yan Wushu was still. “If you won’t come back to Snow-Intent Peak, then I’ll come up to Tingyun Peak with you.”

“Do as you like,” Xiao Man said. “Let go.”

“No.” Yan Wushu did not look away. His eyes held only one person. His voice was absolutely certain. “You left and it was ten years. I’ve only just managed to catch you — I won’t let go.”

“Yan Wushu!” Xiao Man’s anger broke through. He glared at Yan Wushu and called him by name — both names.

And then Yan Wushu bowed his head and buried his face in the crook of Xiao Man’s neck.

His silver hair, pale as frost, fell like water and spread across Xiao Man’s white sleeve — until, for a moment, it was impossible to tell which was which. Yan Wushu’s forehead pressed gently against the side of Xiao Man’s neck, and he murmured, quietly and with all the sincerity he possessed:

“Little Phoenix — will you come back?”