When Shen Zechuan returned to his room, the rain was still falling. Draped in a loose robe and barefoot, he walked along the narrow corridor leading to the bedchamber. A few muffled peals of thunder rolled overhead, and the damp wind slipped through the newly hung window gauze, brushing against his face. The layered rhythm of the बारिश gradually dispelled the stifling heaviness from his long hours of sitting.
A candle stand was set along the side of the corridor, brighter than the bedchamber within. Shen Zechuan seemed to be lingering for air, standing there without moving. His shadow passed through the bamboo curtain and fell onto the carpet inside. The warm orange glow of candlelight softened his outline, and at the side of his slightly tilted neck, there was a vivid hint of red.
April was the season when seedlings grew. If this spring rain continued without pause, the farmlands near the Tea Stone River in Duanzhou might be swallowed by flooding. Last month, Shen Zechuan had entrusted the matter of the Duanzhou dikes to Kong Ling, yet today he had forgotten to ask about it. By now, Fei Sheng should have returned. Shen Zechuan lifted the bamboo curtain and searched inside for the wooden clogs he had kicked aside, preparing to call Fei Sheng in for questioning.
Xiao Chiye had long since removed his armor and lay sprawled on the bed with his arms folded behind his head, half-dozing. Hearing movement, he turned over. As Shen Zechuan bent to pick up his clogs, Xiao Chiye pushed aside the hanging drapery and revealed his head.
Caught off guard, Shen Zechuan jumped, dropping the clogs again.
Still holding the curtain, Xiao Chiye asked, “Is it true? About the master?”
Shen Zechuan’s expression tightened slightly. He nodded.
Seeing that nod, the weight Xiao Chiye had been carrying all along seemed to plunge straight into an abyss. He collapsed back into the bedding, arms spread, looking as though he were about to die.
Bracing himself against the edge of the bed, Shen Zechuan looked down at him and tested, “You rushed back just for this?”
Xiao Chiye had searched all over Libei for Yi Deng, even watching Xiao Jiming write more than a dozen letters to the master—yet he never managed to meet him before the man died. After a long silence, he said, “What about Yan Heru?”
Shen Zechuan drew a hand across his neck in a ruthless gesture.
Xiao Chiye’s expression turned cold. He fell quiet again, then suddenly rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, refusing to let Shen Zechuan see him. If he had a tail, it would be drooping to the ground right now.
“We’ll go to Juexi to find a doctor,” Xiao Chiye paused before continuing, “and there’s still the Imperial Medical Bureau in Qudu.”
Shen Zechuan said nothing. His cool hand came to rest at the side of Xiao Chiye’s neck, then slid upward to touch his cheek. Xiao Chiye caught that hand and held it tightly in his palm. The rain had extinguished his anger, leaving behind only disappointment and fear. He tried to steady himself, but the emotions were too tangled.
“Ce’an,” Shen Zechuan called softly.
“There are countless reclusive masters of medicine in the world,” Xiao Chiye said. “We’ll find them, one by one. As long as they’re doctors—”
Before he could finish, Shen Zechuan suddenly pulled his hand away. Xiao Chiye’s palm went empty, and he moved to sit up, but Shen Zechuan pressed down against his back, forcing him back onto the bed.
“A’Ye,” Shen Zechuan said, bracing himself with one arm, rare firmness in his tone as he leaned down. “You’ve heard what Master Qianqiu said. Even with the master, it might not be completely cured. But this body isn’t that bad yet,” he softened his voice, “I’ve been taking my medicine on time. I haven’t fallen ill this year.”
Xiao Chiye’s back, pressed against the bed, was rigid.
Shen Zechuan rested his forehead against Xiao Chiye’s shoulder and said quietly, “I won’t leave you.”
Outside, the rain fell in a fine, dense curtain. Inside Xiao Chiye’s chest, everything felt damp and heavy. Shen Zechuan’s cheek, separated by a layer of cloth, rested against the tattoo on Xiao Chiye’s back, where a scar lay hidden.
“You’re lying to me,” Xiao Chiye replied just as softly.
Once, Xiao Chiye had believed that Xiao Fangxu would never leave him. But parting had come too suddenly; he hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye. Between people, there existed a boundary—cross it, and it became death, a separation no one could chase after.
“You gave this life of yours to the Grand Tutor,” Xiao Chiye said, his voice low in the dimness. “You swore to avenge your mortal enemy for him, stood alone against the noble clans without fear. In Qudu, you told me to leave, and in Chazhou and Dunzhou, you hurt yourself.”
Those two incidents had left lingering shadows, buried deep in Xiao Chiye’s heart. After Xiao Fangxu’s death, they became unbearable. Whenever he thought of them, fear would surge up uncontrollably. His panic was not only about Shen Zechuan’s body—it was about Shen Zechuan himself.
“Lanzhou,” Xiao Chiye said, “if you hardened your heart, you could leave me behind.”