Chapter 175: The Celestial Master's Disciple Has Come…

Lu Yuan’s words plunged Hu Yangyang into a heavy silence.

Lu Yuan watched her quietly, waiting for her reply.

It was obvious.

Hu Yangyang was deeply tempted by what Lu Yuan had said.

But...

Perhaps because she knew the matter too well, knew it was fundamentally impossible.

So after a moment of silence, she shook her head, preparing to refuse.

However, before Hu Yangyang could speak, Lu Yuan interrupted directly:

“Don’t rush to refuse. How will you know unless you try?”

“You need to think this through. What you’re doing now is not a real solution!”

“Even if I let you off this time, even if this passes now, what about next time?”

Lu Yuan looked at the struggling Hu Yangyang and said:

“The Taoist orders beyond the Great Wall are not just Zhenlong Temple!”

“The people who handle matters like this beyond the Wall are definitely not only me, Lu Yuan!”

“If I saw it and turned away, what if someone from another Taoist sect saw it?”

“If you keep continuing the lamp for a Malevolent Deity, it will eventually be discovered. If it’s discovered, then the consequences...”

Lu Yuan stopped there and did not finish the sentence.

Hu Yangyang looked at Lu Yuan and said nothing.

The campfire flickered in her eyes, dimming and brightening.

She stood for a long time, long enough for the fire to shrink a little.

Long enough that the paper Hu Tutu leaning against Lu Yuan’s arm curled closer into his chest and made a muffled sound without waking.

“What if?” Lu Yuan repeated.

Hu Yangyang did not answer.

She crouched down, slung her pack over one shoulder, turned away with her back to Lu Yuan.

“Give me a hand.”

Seeing Hu Yangyang like that, Lu Yuan knew she had agreed.

Seeing this, Lu Yuan couldn’t help but grin:

“I’ll carry her, you lead the way.”

She took a couple of steps forward, paused, then looked back at Lu Yuan.

“Keep up.”

The valley was very quiet.

Moonlight lay on the path, ghostly white, stretching the three shadows long.

Hu Yangyang walked in front, carrying the paper Hu Tutu on her back, her steps steady, each footfall landing on the border between moonlight and shadow.

Lu Yuan followed behind without speaking.

Hu Yangyang remained silent. The three of them walked on, crossing the valley, passing through that patch of burned paper ash.

The ash was swept up by the wind into a thin layer, clinging to the ground as it moved, then dissipating when it reached their feet.

The moon shifted westward.

Tree shadows slanted across the road like cracked fissures.

Hu Yangyang stepped across them; Lu Yuan followed.

They walked for a long time.

Long enough for the moon to shift west again, long enough for the paper Hu Tutu on Lu Yuan’s back to change position twice.

She slept steadily, breathing softly, her chest rising and falling against Lu Yuan’s back.

Suddenly Hu Yangyang spoke.

“My father might not want to see you.”

Lu Yuan said nothing.

“Taoist people, he might not want to meet.”

“Our Ten Families beyond the Wall are not on the same side as you.”

She paused, but did not stop walking.

“But you’re right. What if?”

Lu Yuan didn’t press that point, instead he asked out of curiosity:

“There’s one thing I’m curious about.”

Hu Tutu walked quickly in front without looking back and said:

“If your father’s skill was that great, and his paper figures were so lifelike, I wouldn’t have noticed at other times either.”

“Then why was it that night that Hu Tutu’s neck, her palm, showed a flaw?”

Hu Yangyang kept walking without slowing.

“My father’s hand trembled then.”

Lu Yuan waited for her to continue.

She took a few steps, her voice calm as if recounting something from long ago:

“When making a paper figure, the final step is sealing the soul.”

“You seal the soul inside, and the paper figure comes alive.”

“When sealing the soul, the hand must not tremble. You finish in one breath, from head to toe, from inside out, tight and thorough.”

“My father’s hand trembled on the last motion.”

She paused.

“That crease cannot be seen in daylight.”

“Only on the deepest, brightest moonlit nights will it show for a moment.”

“It shows, and then it hides again.”

“My father said the soul wasn’t sealed tightly, it leaked a bit.”

“If it leaks, it leaks. It can’t be fixed.”

Hearing this, Lu Yuan couldn’t help but ask:

“There were no other issues?”

Hu Yangyang answered immediately:

“No.”

“My father worked seven days and seven nights without rest, every movement precise, every stroke exact.”

“It was only that one time his hand trembled.”

Lu Yuan said nothing. He recalled that night, moonlight slanting through the window, falling on the back of Hu Tutu’s neck.

That fold was fine and thin, like a crease where paper had been folded.

Then it disappeared.

The paper Hu Tutu on Lu Yuan’s back shifted and made a soft noise, rubbing her face against his shoulder.

She breathed lightly, chest pressed to his back, rising and falling.

The lamp was tucked under her arm, its dim yellow light flickering.

Regarding Hu Yangyang’s explanation, Lu Yuan now had a different thought.

Her words kept turning over in his mind.

Her father’s hand trembled while sealing the soul, the final motion wasn’t tight, a seam leaked.

Lu Yuan felt it didn’t add up...

Given the current state of Hu Tutu, their father was very skilled.

Someone at that level—how could they just happen to tremble on the very last motion?

A flaw by accident?

Lu Yuan suddenly remembered something the old man had once said.

Back when Lu Yuan was just learning to make paper figures, his figures were crooked and awkward no matter how he tried.

The old man told him he had been making them too perfect, too stiff, and thus lifeless.

The old man said there’s nothing perfect in the world.

Look at the trees; they grow crooked to live.

Look at the river; it must bend to flow far.

Look at people; who lacks flaws?

Too perfect, and it’s not of this world.

This world cannot hold something that is too perfect.

At the time Lu Yuan did not understand, but later he slowly did.

In the Taoist arts of making paper figures, drawing talismans, consecration, it’s the same.

If you make it too perfect, it lacks spiritual energy.

What is spiritual energy?

It’s that little seam of imperfection, that bit of leakage, that spark of being alive.

Sealed too tight, it dies.

You must leave a breath, leave a seam, let it gasp.

Hu Yangyang said her father’s hand trembled.

His hand trembled, the soul-sealing was imperfect, a seam was left.

Lu Yuan did not believe it.

A person who could fold such lifelike paper figures, who could work seven days and nights without closing his eyes, every stroke precise—would his hand just happen to tremble on the final motion?

Too coincidental.

Coincidental to the point of untruth.

Their father—what sort of skill is this?

He molds paper figures like his own daughter.

He seals souls into paper and makes the dead come alive.

Would such a man unintentionally tremble on the final motion?

He did not tremble by accident.

He trembled on purpose.

So their father also knew that things too perfect don’t live long.

Seal too tightly and the soul is suffocated, unable to breathe, unable to live.

You must leave a seam, a path to breathe.

That seam is not a flaw; it is a lifeline.

Lu Yuan suddenly felt their father was far more capable than he had imagined.

Not just capable of folding paper figures that looked like living humans, but wise enough to know when to stop,

to know when to leave a seam, to understand that perfection shortens life.

That is a skill.

To deliberately show just that little bit of imperfection—this skill surpasses working seven days straight or even the soul-sealing itself.

Lu Yuan fell silent and followed behind Hu Yangyang, stepping along the moonlit path.

The paper Hu Tutu breathed lightly on his back.

The moon leaned further west.

The sky at the horizon took on a bluish-gray tint.

The road was still long.

......

Dawn was just breaking, and the mountain cold sank into the bones.

Frost whitened the ground in patches, crunching underfoot.

The corn stalks by the road had already been cut, leaving rows of stubble poking out of the frozen soil, dusted with frost.

The ground was hard with cold; each step felt firm.

Lu Yuan followed Hu Yangyang as they zigzagged along mountain trails for two full days.

Finally, on the third morning, a village appeared ahead.

Not large, only a few dozen households dotted along the mountain foot.

The houses were built of stone, roofs covered with thatch and oilcloth, weighted down with stones to resist the wind.

No smoke rose from chimneys yet. It was too early.

Chickens were tucked in their coops, not crowing.

Dogs were quiet in their dens.

The sky near the horizon was just whitening; the village still slept.

At the village entrance stood a big willow tree, growing crooked, its branches bare and bark cracked.

Beneath it a donkey was tied, its neck hunched, ice beads on its nose.

A neat stack of firewood lay nearby, covered with plastic; dew had frozen into white frost on it.

Hu Yangyang walked into the village without slowing.

An old man came out from a yard, his neck hunched, hands tucked in his sleeves.

Seeing her, he grinned and exhaled a puff of white breath.

“Yangyang, you’re back? Took you long. Cold?”

Hu Yangyang nodded and crisply called out “Second Master,” then continued walking.

Lu Yuan glanced at the old man out of curiosity. He didn’t look like a practitioner, nor like someone who did techniques—just an ordinary elderly man.

The old man looked at Lu Yuan and then at the paper Hu Tutu on his back, but didn’t ask and returned inside.

They passed a few households. A woman came out carrying a basin of water; she wiped her hands when she saw Hu Yangyang.

“Oh, Yangyang’s back!”

“What’s with Tutu? Fell asleep?”

Hu Yangyang said yes, she had fallen asleep.

The woman did not ask further and went inside.

A warm breath rolled out from behind the doorway, a cloud of steam.

A little further, a man crouched by a gate repairing a sled. He looked up and, seeing Hu Yangyang, stood.

“Back? Your father was just talking about you two the other day.”

Hu Yangyang said she knew.

The man glanced at Lu Yuan, then at the ritual sword hanging from his waist, and said nothing, returning to fix the sled, his hands red from the cold. He blew on them and rubbed them raw to warm them.

Lu Yuan followed behind, watching the scene, thinking everything seemed normal.

The mud road was frozen hard, icicles hung from the stone walls, and bundles of cornhusks lay under the storage racks.

Paper covered the windows, through the seams warm air leaked out.

Now the smoked meat began to send up smoke, pale gray curling into the morning sky, turning faintly golden in the sun.

The chickens began to call, their voices carrying from the village entrance to its end.

A dog barked twice, then was scolded by its owner into silence.

Just like any ordinary village beyond the Wall—nothing to suggest this was the home of Ten Families members.

Hu Yangyang stopped in the village square in front of an old wooden door.

The paint was peeled, exposing the wood beneath. The wood had cracked in several places with hemp rope stuffed into the gaps.

The threshold was worn smooth and hollowed in the middle from years of stepping.

In the courtyard stood an apricot tree, bare with branches reaching over the wall.

By the wall lay several neat bundles of firewood, covered with plastic and weighed down by stones.

Hu Yangyang pushed the door open; the hinge creaked sharply in the cold.

She glanced back at Lu Yuan.

“Come in.”

Lu Yuan stepped across the threshold with Hu Tutu on his back. The courtyard was quiet. Under the apricot tree a small table held a lamp.

It was brass, identical to the one in Hu Tutu’s arms but larger. The wick was black, untouched for who knew how long.

Dust lay over the lamp, dull in the morning light.

The main room’s door was closed, windows pasted with paper, warm air leaking through the seams—someone was inside.

Hu Yangyang stopped at the door, neither knocking nor pushing it open, just standing there.

She exhaled; the breath condensed in the cold air and slowly drifted away.

“Father, I’m back.”

No movement came from within.

Hu Yangyang stood there wordless. Dawn brightened bit by bit, shadows in the yard shifting from black to gray to pale.

The apricot branches cast thin finger-like shadows on the ground, like cracks.

Lu Yuan stood beneath the tree with Hu Tutu on his back.

He felt warmth against his back; Hu Tutu’s breath misted his neck as she rose and fell.

Her hand dangled down, pale and slender, fingernails pink—exactly like a living child.

The paper-fold creases that had shown after the great battle had now completely disappeared.

Hu Tutu moved on his back, made a soft sound, and nuzzled his shoulder.

Her cotton jacket rustled.

She fell back asleep.

Lu Yuan had carried Hu Tutu for two days of mountain travel; she slept through both.

He did not pry. He assumed the duel against the Faceless Malevolent Deity had drained her of energy and left her unconscious.

Hu Yangyang did not react much either; this seemed normal and not worth excessive worry.

At that moment, the main room’s door was pushed open from the inside.

Someone stepped out.

Not tall, not short, neither fat nor thin, about forty years old. A round face, thick lips, dense black eyebrows, a broad, flattened nose.

His hair was messy, as if he had just woken and not brushed it, a few gray hairs sticking up.

He wore a gray cotton jacket, the cuffs worn white, an elbow patched with mismatched blue cloth stitched crookedly, threads loose.

One button was missing, tied with hemp rope instead.

His black cloth pants had a patch on the knee in a different shade.

On his feet were cotton shoes, collapsed at the sides and heels, worn like slippers.

He stood on the threshold squinting at the people in the courtyard.

Morning light from behind stretched his shadow long, dragging it to the apricot tree.

His face was backlit, expression unclear, only his eyes narrowed with a look that suggested he had not fully woken, and that he was appraising them.

“It’s the Celestial Master’s disciple who’s come...”