Chapter 50#

Why Do You Hate Me#

Su Ruohe misbehaved, snatching Sang Baobao’s bowl and holding it high, out of reach.

“Baobao, give Daddy some affection. Flip your belly, and Daddy will feed you.”

Sang Baobao didn’t move, crouching on the ground, his eyes gazing upward at Su Ruohe. Those eyes, deep blue as the ocean depths, held no ripple—a coldness and seriousness unlike other wildcats.

It called out briefly: “Meow.”

What did it mean? Su Ruohe asked the system.

【This system has no cat language translation function.】

Su Ruohe sweet-talked the system: You are so clever, holding mastery over this world’s secrets. This is merely a cat whose head is barely larger than my fist. Surely you need only observe its every gesture to deduce its meaning.

【Fine. My translation does not guarantee one-hundred-percent accuracy, though the general meaning should be correct. Combining its tone, speech speed, and eye movements, my deduction is—】the system explained:【Stupid abusive cat man, give me the food.】

Su Ruohe: “…”

Sang Baobao’s ears suddenly twitched as if hearing something. The cat’s back suddenly arched, showing alertness. Abandoning the meal, Sang Baobao bolted like lightning. Su Ruohe, confused, ran after it, crossed the snow, and entered the main hall. He stepped inside and saw a blood-covered man sitting in a round-backed chair.

Sang Baobao blocked Su Ruohe, fixing the man with an icy gaze. Like a beast whose territory had been invaded, its fur stood on end.

The hall had no candles lit—shadowy darkness hung over Han Ye. His head hung low, and there was a long wound on his arm, blood dripping from his fingertips patter, patter onto the cracked plum-blossom patterned ice tiles, where it bloomed into scarlet flowers. Su Ruohe was somewhat startled, but after a moment, he understood. The refugee encampment in the Snowfield had encountered trouble. He had sent an anonymous message warning Han Ye that demons surely lurked in the Snowfield, but apparently his message had come too late.

“Hall Master, are you alright?” Su Ruohe gestured to the wound.

“Your cat seems unwelcoming,” Han Ye’s voice was very hoarse, as if filled with sand.

Su Ruohe picked up the hissing Sang Baobao and smiled apologetically: “Young one doesn’t understand courtesy. Please don’t mind it.”

Han Ye seemed not to hear him, his gaze fixed on a distant place, or perhaps on empty space. He suddenly said without preamble: “A Qi, I have done wrong.”

Su Ruohe found a stool and sat down at a distance from Han Ye, placing Sang Baobao on his lap and gently combing its fur, one stroke after another.

“I have done wrong,” Han Ye repeated softly. “I have failed Su Ruohe.”

Su Ruohe’s hand stilled in Sang Baobao’s fur.

“When he turned twenty-three, I followed him in his dealings. Black Street’s business often involved drinking. Those bastards would ply him with alcohol, and he’d always sneak to the back alley and induce vomiting, then continue drinking. When he was twenty-five, he first vomited blood. We brought a Divine Sight secret practitioner to examine him. His heart and stomach had deteriorated, and there was a strange heart core in his chest. That was his first illness, his first poisoning. After that, his health declined progressively. I watched him grow thinner day by day. The Paradise Pavilion invited many physicians for him, and each one shook their head. I got angry and said if anyone shook their head again, I’d cut off their head.

He laughed at me and said some things cannot be forced. He told me that when he died, we had to hold a grand funeral. He wanted his funeral draped in red, not white. He wanted Black Street homes to hang great red lanterns and set out the finest wine to send him off. He wanted the Paradise Pavilion brothers to dance before his coffin. Later he changed his mind, saying we didn’t dance well enough and wanted us to hire dancers from the Moonlight Pleasure House to perform spring songs, the kind where they show their bellies.”

Han Ye looked down at the blood flowers blooming on the ground, as if seeing years past when Su Ruohe coughed, covering his mouth, blood dripping from his fingers, staining a patch of stone tiles. That heartless fellow wiped his hand unconcernedly, curved his eyes in a smile, and said: “I like excitement. I must live vibrantly, and die vibrantly too. You all must sing merrily at my funeral and bid me farewell on my long journey.”

For the first time, Han Ye saw someone like Su Ruohe, who meticulously planned his own funeral, even drafting a guest list with Sang Chiyu first on it. Han Ye could not understand Su Ruohe at the time—this carefree man lived chaotically and wanted to die just as trivially.

Su Ruohe’s poison deepened day by day. Han Ye brought him medicine daily, later discovering this fellow feared bitterness and secretly poured the medicine beneath the window, killing a patch of hydrangeas. Despite declining health, he drew his Wind Empress Star Array every day. His inner chamber was covered with intersecting points and lines—star maps everywhere, books scattered haphazardly, even his bed heaped with broken and half-broken small arrays. Those arrays were set with spirit stones, and if one malfunctioned even slightly, bursting into explosive sparks, Su Ruohe and his bed would become ash.

Yet this fool never cared. He forgot sleep and food, often neglecting meals. Han Ye would come to clear the dishes and find chopsticks used for carving star patterns. Because he ate irregularly, sometimes his stomach ached. At once, his internal organs were being ravaged by poison, and simultaneously his belly was wracked with gastric pain. Yet still, pale-faced, he pointed out the star array to Han Ye: “See this array I just made? The new lightning and fire array. I’ll place it underground beneath the refugee camp. It consumes spirit stones to generate heat, warming the snow. That way, refugees won’t have to huddle in caves through the long frozen winter. Only this array isn’t quite safe yet—it sends up fire that could burn people. I need to revise it.”

Han Ye held out the meal: “Brother He, if you don’t eat well and treat your illness, who will set up this array in the future?”

“Didn’t I open a star array academy? You all study well, and I’ll leave these arrays in your hands eventually.”

Han Ye hung his head dejectedly: “Honestly, no one listens to your lectures. Too difficult. Cultivation is exhausting enough without that.”

Su Ruohe sighed helplessly: “Someone has to take over. Even if I lived a hundred years, it would eventually end. And with this body of mine, I clearly won’t last many more years.” He patted Han Ye’s shoulder: “You must grow up quickly. The Paradise Pavilion’s future depends on you.”

Han Ye was seventeen then. He certainly wanted to grow up quickly, but not for the Paradise Pavilion—for Su Ruohe.

Su Ruohe’s condition worsened, and his mind grew increasingly unhinged. For three whole months he didn’t leave his room, carving things Han Ye couldn’t understand every day. Han Ye had his marble star-disk removed. When he couldn’t carve arrays anymore, he carved wooden sculptures and made puppets. One wooden sculpture after another accumulated, filling the entire room with no floor space, his hands covered with cuts from the file.

Someone came to Han Ye saying the boss seemed to be going mad, because these wooden sculptures were truly bizarre—they all had no faces.

Han Ye peered through the camphor wood door, his heart filled with sorrow. Su Ruohe coughed while carving, the cough growing increasingly violent, as if his lungs would be expelled. Finally, he could carve no more, coughing blood into his hand, plum-blossom-like droplets splattering onto the wooden sculptures’ blank faces. The file dropped from his hand, he closed his eyes, collapsing like jade toppling from a mountain—thud—he fell to the ground. The wooden sculptures tumbled, crashing in a cascade across the floor.

“Boss Su! Boss Su!” The ruffians were alarmed, rushing in to help him up.

Han Ye stood motionless, gripping his fists tightly.

Su Ruohe’s body was ill, and so was his spirit.

The Black Street could not save Su Ruohe.

The poison spread faster than expected. Han Ye called the Divine Sight practitioner again. The practitioner said Su Ruohe’s lungs had turned black as ink—his time was short. They could not delay any longer. Han Ye finally resolved and plotted a rebellion. Someone betrayed Black Street’s location to him. He went along with it, allowing the Secret Sect’s army to surround the city. When the Secret Sect nailed their negotiation terms to an arrow and shot them onto the tower, he allied with rebellious Paradise Pavilion members and locked Su Ruohe in the dungeon.

He remembered the day of parting was at dusk, the remaining sun like blood, dead grass beneath Black Street, snow stretching far and wide.

He rode on horseback, holding hemp rope in his hand. The other end of the rope was bound to Su Ruohe’s wrists. Su Ruohe stumbled after his horse. Han Ye endured, not looking back, spurring his horse out the city gate, yet deliberately slowed to a turtle’s pace.

A Secret Sect army arrayed below the city. The person who came to receive them was a tall, cold man. That man wore a black robe with stepped opening, sat tall upon his horse, his pale lips pressed thin, his eyes holding no warmth, as if accumulated frost over many years. His gaze remained fixed on the rear of Han Ye’s horse until Han Ye stopped before him.

Su Ruohe had long been without sunlight, shielding his eyes from the light. He saw the person before him and lifted a pale smile: “Is it you? Sang Chiyu. Long time no see.”

The man dismounted. Han Ye threw him the rope: “Su Ruohe is yours. Fulfill your promise and withdraw.”

The man took the rope and studied Su Ruohe.

“Su Ruohe, you are ill.”

Su Ruohe held his hand before the man, pitifully: “Brother Sang, you wouldn’t be so cruel as to drag me behind your horse, would you? My feet hurt so much. Help me untie the rope. I promise to follow obediently, causing no trouble or escape.”

Sang Chiyu frowned at his feet but did not untie the bonds. Instead, he tied the rope’s other end to his own wrist.

“There’s no need to be so wary of me,” Su Ruohe sighed. “If we’re tied together and I fall into the outhouse, wouldn’t you fall in with me?”

Sang Chiyu lifted him horizontally onto his horse, then mounted himself. This arrogant man never glanced at Han Ye once, as if Han Ye were merely landscape in the background. If this were the normal Han Ye, he would have hurled a fireball at the man’s face. But that Han Ye’s heart was elsewhere, fixed entirely on Su Ruohe.

Su Ruohe chattered on, his voice drifting on the wind.

“Don’t you think our posture is a bit ambiguous?”

Sang Chiyu seemed accustomed to his boring prattle, saying nothing, silently taking the reins and spurring his horse back to the army formation.

“Brother Sang, your big treasure is poking me.”

Han Ye: “…”

Han Ye felt anxious. Su Ruohe, this fellow with a loose mouth, was acting up in front of Sang Chiyu. The fierce Sang Chiyu might kill him in anger any moment. Yet that man holding the reins said nothing at all, only bent down and pulled a water skin from the horse’s side, stuffing it into Su Ruohe’s embrace.

“If thirsty, drink water,” he said.

The two gradually disappeared, merging into the dark army formation.

Han Ye stood rooted there for a long, long time—so long that Sang Chiyu’s figure holding Su Ruohe vanished and the entire Secret Sect army had fully withdrawn.

He wondered: could he ever see Su Ruohe again?

Now he knew that meeting was their last.

“He said he would depart with great fanfare. He wanted all Paradise Pavilion brothers to break their cups in farewell, blessing him to be reborn in fortunate circumstances in his next life,” Han Ye said hoarsely. “But I let him down. He died alone in the Secret Sect, unaccompanied, lonely. He said the Paradise Pavilion’s future depends on me, but I failed to protect my brothers, letting them die under demon claws, powerless.”

The encampment had indeed met disaster, Su Ruohe sighed. Beyond the Great Wall of the Snowfield lay endless snowy plains. The encampment had no shelter above, so demons could snatch prey at will. Years ago Su Ruohe had wanted to deploy the lightning-fire array beneath the camp—both to solve the harsh winter’s bitter cold and to protect the refugees. Unfortunately, he had not finished revising the array before returning to the Secret Sect.

“A Qi,” Han Ye looked at his own palms. “Would he blame me?”

“Don’t worry, he won’t,” Su Ruohe stroked the cat’s belly. “In fact… Hall Master, to my knowledge, you never found the traitor who revealed Black Street’s secret passages. Have you considered that perhaps the person who betrayed those passages was Su Ruohe himself?”

Han Ye and Sang Baobao both froze.

Han Ye narrowed his eyes. “What nonsense are you spouting? Betraying Black Street’s passages equals betraying Su Ruohe himself. The Secret Sect has long posted a bounty for Su Ruohe’s capture. Once the Secret Sect learned Black Street’s location, their primary task would be apprehending Su Ruohe. A Qi, though you may envy him, you needn’t slander his memory.”

Sang Baobao looked up at Su Ruohe. Su Ruohe was unwilling to elaborate, only offering a vague excuse: “I was just babbling.”

Han Ye stared at Su Ruohe for a long moment, seemingly considering something, then suddenly stood. “I have other matters. I must leave.”

He turned and walked into the snow. The waiting Paradise Pavilion sorcerer appeared, opening a formless law gate for him. Han Ye seemed in great haste, offering no farewell, simply vanishing beyond the gate.

Sang Baobao was still pondering. Su Ruohe would not casually speak of “Su Ruohe betraying Su Ruohe” unless it was the truth. But why would Su Ruohe betray himself? To deliver the ultra-grade flesh puppet blueprints to Jiang Xueya? Yet if Su Ruohe remained in Black Street, a secret meeting with Jiang Xueya would be far easier than when imprisoned by the Secret Sect. Moreover, at twenty-five, he likely hadn’t yet drawn the ultra-grade flesh puppet.

What was the reason then?

Sang Baobao was about to activate a “mind-reading” secret art when he suddenly discovered Su Ruohe’s hand had stopped on an unspeakable location. The fingers separated, pressing and rubbing his belly, then lowering his head to ruffle his fur, muttering: “Huh, Baobao, you’ve grown lots of little bumps on your belly.”

Sang Baobao’s entire body went rigid. He bit Su Ruohe’s finger hard. Su Ruohe hissed in pain, his grip loosening, and Sang Baobao bolted like the wind. Su Ruohe examined his pricked finger bleeding droplets, the pain needle-sharp.

Perhaps cats truly cannot be tamed. He fed Sang Baobao, gave him water, even let him sleep on the bed. Yet Sang Baobao constantly hissed, stepped on him, bit him, and sometimes bared his claws. Sang Baobao hated him. Sang Chiyu also hated him. These two father and son who had never met were strangely similar in this regard.

Su Ruohe began to sadden again. His heart slowly sank from his chest, dropping like a stone into water, dull and aching. The world was vast, snow fell gently, the wind and snow were desolate, and he too was desolate.

He rose, took an oil-paper umbrella, and went outside.

Jiang Xueya rode back to her estate, just dismounting when she saw Su Ruohe sitting on the steps before her gate. Not a day had passed since they last met, yet this boy seemed much more dispirited, drooping eyelids like wilted wild grass.

Jiang Xueya struck him with her riding crop: “You look like a stray dog. Come begging at my doorstep?”

Su Ruohe pushed away her crop: “Sang Chiyu has run off. Help me find him.”

Jiang Xueya handed her crop to a servant: “Fine, I’ll send people to search. I’ll tell you once he’s found.”

“Don’t bother telling me. He doesn’t want to see me anyway, and I don’t want to see him,” Su Ruohe turned away.

Jiang Xueya looked at him, her expression very disdainful. “You two are really sick. You truly don’t want to see him? I’m quite busy. If you don’t want me to look, then forget it.”

“I do want to,” Su Ruohe slumped dejectedly.

Jiang Xueya studied him. Su Ruohe was big-hearted beyond measure—rarely did she see him in such a dispirited state. Jiang Xueya asked: “Why did he run?”

Su Ruohe’s mouth twisted dryly: “Probably because he hates me. Teacher, how can he hate me consistently for decades? Since my rebirth, I’ve been waking up before dawn to cook for him, abiding by his rules, not touching a drop of alcohol. I haven’t even set foot in pleasure quarters or tea houses. I’ve behaved properly, doing nothing improper. I’ve done all this, yet he still hates me.” Su Ruohe said bitterly, “In that case, I might as well go back to being a wastrel. Drink day and night, sing and dance day and night!”

“And then drink yourself into gastric problems and die again?” Jiang Xueya mocked. “That’s perfect. He’ll definitely come crying to see you.”

Su Ruohe sighed and lamented.

Jiang Xueya found it amusing. “There are many who hate you. Even Yan Jinyu hates you. Why obsess over Sang Chiyu alone?”

Su Ruohe hung his head, pulling at grass stems from the ground, saying nothing.

Jiang Xueya shook her head. The boy before her seemed glib and shameless on the surface, yet was fundamentally proud and could not bear slights. Suffering cold treatment made him lose face. If Jiang Xueya were like him, she doubted she would ever touch that exalted old man of hers.

“What a grown man, acting like a boy. I’ll help you find him. Everything else is your problem,” Jiang Xueya patted his head like a dog. “A He, don’t think your life is long with time to spare. Your time might be right before your eyes.”

Author’s Note:

The bumps Su Su found on Sang Baobao’s belly were the cat’s nipples, so Sang Baobao reacted so strongly.