Chapter 7: Murong Qiushui

The big man finished speaking, waved his hand, and vanished right before Li Guanyi’s eyes.

He looked around but detected no trace, so he nodded and called out loudly: “I’ll come at midnight.”

Only hollow echoes remained, confirming that even if the big man was still here, he wouldn’t show himself.

After circling the area twice, Li Guanyi returned home.

Their home in Guanyi City was a small, aged courtyard; Li Guanyi slowed his steps, lit the fire with pre-chopped firewood, and washed rice to cook.

Smoke rose, and the aroma of rice slowly spread; after cooking the rice, he stir-fried two vegetable dishes. Today was the decadal day for meat, so he stewed an old hen for himself and steamed an egg custard.

Without Li Guanyi calling, the wooden door creaked open, and a pale-faced yet lively and spirited woman leaned against the frame and stepped out.

Li Guanyi’s aunt.

For the first eight of these ten years, she had been his closest caregiver.

Two years ago, her injuries and illness flared up, bringing her down; at ten years old, Li Guanyi relied on faint remnants of his past life’s math skills to do bookkeeping for others, earning small coins, then came home to cook—because of her eight years of care.

Hearts are made of flesh; those eight years of hardship earned two years of devoted care in return.

Li Guanyi still remembered the first time his poison erupted—he was in agony so intense he lost consciousness.

At that level of pain, like an epileptic patient, one must guard against biting through the tongue; children’s senses are keener—he was only three or four then, his palms feeling the fine down on flower petals, smelling spring blossoms carried on the wind, until the pain drove him into unconsciousness.

It felt like falling into an endless abyss, like stumbling in a dream and continuing to plummet forever.

Faintly, he sensed someone holding his hand, warm liquid flowing into his mouth—a river of searing flame slowly suppressing the icy agony, after which Li Guanyi slipped into a drowsy sleep.

When he awoke, wind rustled through the treetops, the North Star hung high in the deep blue sky, cold and stern; he lay with his head on his aunt’s knees, looked up to meet her warm gaze, saw the tooth marks bleeding on her wrist, and tasted iron-like blood in his mouth.

Back then, she had ridden a galloping horse with him, found him ill, and rolled off onto the grass; she pitied him, refused to use cloth, and instead jammed her own wrist into his mouth—he bit down with all his strength, leaving a deep wound, luckily missing the artery; the warmth amid agony was her blood.

He looked up then and saw the stars hanging behind the beautiful woman; she smiled gently, asking if he felt better. Starlight and moonlight filtered through the treetops onto her face, shimmering shadows dancing; her wrist still bled, yet she smiled, brushed her fingers over the child’s brow, and sang the lullaby mothers of the Eastern Lands sing to soothe their children to sleep.

That night, Li Guanyi slept soundly.

Those were memories of the past; now, twelve-year-old Li Guanyi ladled soup for the pale-faced woman, placed it carefully before her, and handed her a pair of chopsticks.

The gentle-browed woman sipped the soup and smiled: “Línú’s cooking still tastes best—far better than my own.”

Li Guanyi’s eyes twitched.

Línú was Li Guanyi’s childhood nickname; many children from official families had “nu” appended to their nicknames—not an insult. Wang Xianzhi’s childhood name was Guannu; Liu Yu, Emperor Wu of Southern Song, was called Jinu; but Línú was even more intimate.

Línú means cat—the leopard cat; calling him that was like an elder calling him “kitty” when he was little. Li Guanyi once solemnly declared he was no longer a child and shouldn’t be called that—only to be teased by his aunt, who called him Línú’r for three straight days.

He long knew his aunt’s true nature was far from her gentle appearance.

After years of living together, Li Guanyi had long learned how to handle his aunt; he lowered his head, chopsticks flying, silently devouring his meal—making the woman feel bored, though his cooking was truly excellent.

Though not as refined as the dishes of master chefs.

But the fire from the wood stove burned hot, the wok’s flavor rich; the hen had been pecking vegetables that morning, the greens from the village outside town still dew-damp—stir-fried, the food was always good, solid and satisfying; after eating his fill, Li Guanyi cleared the dishes.

His aunt’s health had worsened; lately, Li Guanyi had forbidden her from doing such chores.

After finishing these small tasks, Li Guanyi, as usual, took down a qin from the narrow wooden wall and began playing under his aunt’s guidance; the music was clear and resonant, sometimes bright and stirring—he had reached considerable skill.

When his aunt noticed his youthful maturity, she began teaching him to play the qin.

Music, chess, calligraphy, painting.

Even during these years of constant wandering, she never let it lapse.

She claimed she knew no martial arts, only these things she could still play well; if Li Guanyi learned even three or five-tenths of her skill, he could always earn a living through his music; if worse came to worst, my little Línú is handsome and skilled in music, chess, calligraphy, and painting—he can eat soft food with dignity.

Li Guanyi insisted it was for both of them; his aunt only laughed, then reached out and ruffled his hair into a mess.

This qin had always been with his aunt; its body was straight, its tone clear and bright, but its tail was charred black—as if salvaged from a fire.

While he played, his aunt held a scroll, sitting quietly in her chair, eyes half-closed, wide sleeves hanging down to reveal a pale, slender wrist; she seemed entirely wrapped in her robes, appearing especially thin; suddenly, she heard a wrong note, lazily opened her eyes, tapped the scroll lightly against the boy’s head, and said: “Wrong note, Línú’r.”

“Something on your mind?”

Li Guanyi’s thoughts had indeed stirred—because the cloud patterns had reappeared, because the bronze ding was nearly full, because his poison might now be cured—but one moment of distraction was enough for his aunt to sense it; he couldn’t speak of the poison or his risky deeds, and as he hesitated, his aunt laughed.

She smiled, amber eyes fixed on the boy, her scroll tapping his robe hem, then sliding down to tap his knee, saying: “You hate washing clothes—you always walk far around muddy ground, afraid of splashes. Has someone caused trouble at the pharmacy?”

His aunt leaned back in her chair, propping her chin on one hand: “Huichun Hall has connections in the yamen and employs three martial artists who’ve reached the peak of Body Tempering.”

“Few can cause trouble at Huichun Hall. The only thing that could make you lose focus—I guess you’ve seen those people who are our enemies?”

Li Guanyi opened his mouth, sighed helplessly; this woman had kept him safe and hidden for ten years—her mind was sharp; his own cautious nature had been shaped entirely by her influence over these years:

“I knew I couldn’t hide it from you.”

Then he recounted everything, omitting the bronze ding; she thought a moment, murmured: “Red Dragon Manifestation… studying martial arts at night—if it’s him, then yes.”

“As for those Cloud Pattern Riders…”

“We’ve been here two years; in a few more months, we’ll leave again. Better to avoid trouble. From now on, Li Guanyi, avoid them.”

“If you’re unlucky enough to cross paths, don’t hold a grudge—endure it.”

“Old saying: When you can forgive, forgive; step back, and you’ll find peace. Especially you—you’re young, don’t provoke others outside.”

Her soft voice reminded Li Guanyi of his mother from his past life—each time he left home, she’d say the same: don’t quarrel with others, avoid trouble if you can. The boy’s expression softened, dimmed.

Suddenly, something was pressed into his left hand—a piece of silver.

Then a faint chill—his head snapped up to see his aunt holding a short sword in its scabbard; the scabbard was ancient, and Li Guanyi blinked in surprise; his aunt had already drawn the blade—it was about the length of a forearm, radiating a faint, misty glow.

His aunt smiled faintly, brought the blade down in one light motion—the wooden table silently severed at a corner; then she sliced diagonally, and the old iron pot cleanly severed in a ring, falling to the ground without a sound.

The short blade was etched with hammer-forged cloud patterns; on both sides were cryptic inscriptions.

His aunt had taught him these markings.

One side read Murong; the other two characters were Qiushui.

The sword’s name.

His aunt’s name.

That name always made Li Guanyi think of the famed Murong Clan—based in the Eighteenth Province of Jiangnan, land lost by Chen Guo twelve years ago, and the very direction they had been slowly moving toward.

Murong Qiushui placed the short sword in the boy’s right hand and whispered:

“A man must have depth—he who can solve problems with silver, should use silver; asking for mercy isn’t shameful.”

“But a man must also have ferocity—if they still won’t relent, use the sword.”

Li Guanyi instinctively replied: “Auntie, didn’t you just say: endure a little, find peace; step back, and the world opens wide? Better to avoid trouble?”

He saw his beautiful aunt smile faintly, her finger tapping his forehead:

“My foolish little Línú’r… but the old saying also says…”

She paused, eyebrows lifting, her face suddenly alight:

“To hell with it!”

………………

Midnight.

Yue Qianfeng sat inside the Mountain God Temple, gnawing on a chicken bone, cross-legged and waiting.

He kept his promise—he waited here for the boy, having prepared a superior martial art from the Military Line; when the boy came, he would teach it to him.

But would the boy come? Suddenly, his ears twitched.

Yue Qianfeng’s eyes snapped open.

Someone was coming.

An enemy! A muffled shout came from outside: “Shoot!”

(End of Chapter)