“Hurting you was my mistake. But if today’s events were to happen again, I would still choose to do the same.”
The iron-hearted Feilong Guard finally tore off his impassive mask, revealing his ambition and desire for the first time, looking even more upright than a righteous gentleman.
Though I’m deeply sunk, I want to carve out a path of survival in this mud.”
Applause came from ahead. Fu Shen finally turned, his high eyebrows raised, a smile at the corner of his lips, contempt and mockery clear in his eyes.
“How touching. But I never thought that way,” he said softly. “Lord Yan, can’t you see? No one forced you. You chose to wallow in the mud.”
He finished speaking and walked towards the alley’s exit.
Fu Shen wanted to leave decisively, but with each step, the knife in his heart seemed to be pulled out further. Blood and pain, no longer contained, gushed from the wound.
In a daze, a figure appeared before him – a back not particularly broad, but exceptionally upright, half-crouching, gesturing for him to climb on.
Fu Shen suddenly went mad, turning back and smashing the clematis jade pendant hard on the ground.
“From now on, you and I are like this jade.”
He refused to look back, as if leaving everything behind. Yan Xiaohan stared at the fragments, seeming to see the reddened rim of Fu Shen’s eyes as he turned away.
Their friendship seemed no different from ordinary friends. This rupture was neither a complete severance of ties nor a ritual cutting of robes. He vaguely knew he had lost something deeper and more fragile than friendship.
What lay shattered was probably the unconditional trust and a young, innocent heart.
Fu Shen rode wildly out of the city, his figure like an arrow, raising a dust storm. Fortunately, the city was sparsely populated, and the outskirts were vast wasteland. The wild wind of the wilderness billowed his robes and blurred his eyes, allowing him to vent his anger through self-destructive charging.
When he finally stopped, exhausted, Fu Shen touched his eyes and found them dry.
He didn’t know if he hadn’t cried or if the wind had dried his tears.
Momentarily passionate, he thought he should return to the city and kill Yan Xiaohan; then feeling low, he wanted to find a quiet place and drink to mourn his betrayed heart. But these thoughts flashed briefly in his mind, and when he finally stopped, Fu Shen wanted to do nothing.
How could different paths lead to the same destination? He didn’t believe it, and now had become just another lesson.
When you know you’re wrong, you should let go when it’s time to let go.
The Wind Blows Vast, the Wilderness Boundless, Fu Shen said to himself: “Isn’t he just a white-eyed wolf? So what if I was bitten once? Am I not still alive?”
Though he said this, when he returned home and saw the bow case he had collected in his bedroom, Fu Shen couldn’t help but feel a sourness in his nose.
He suppressed this heartache and called a servant: “Take this case to the storehouse.”
The servant asked: “To the public storehouse or to the young master’s courtyard?”
Fu Shen originally wanted to say the farther away the better, but when the words reached his mouth, he feared the bow and arrow might be mishandled by others. The words stuck in his throat, and he finally said reluctantly: “Store it in my courtyard.”
After a moment, he added: “Keep it well, keep it away from water, and prevent moth damage.”
After the bow case was moved out, Fu Shen finally felt less stifled and lay flat on the bed.
Great ups and downs, great sorrow and joy are most exhausting. Fu Shen didn’t know how, but he fell asleep in a daze. In his dream, he returned to the cliff of Bao Yan Mountain. This time there was no wild boar, only Yan Xiaohan hanging from the cliff with one hand, beneath him an abyss.
The Yan Xiaohan in the dream was cold as ice, refusing to call for help. Fu Shen was anxious and angry but hesitated, not reaching out to pull him.
“Why did you lie to me?”
The words he couldn’t ask in reality were finally voiced in his dream. Fu Shen paced back and forth on the cliff’s edge, breathing heavily, suddenly breaking down and shouting: “You’re lying to me! After lying last time, you’re lying again! Jump!
Go ahead and jump!”
After shouting, he suddenly jolted awake.
The sky outside was already dark; he had unknowingly slept through the afternoon. Fu Ting Xin stood beside his bed, looking slightly haggard. Seeing him awake, he asked caringly: “Why did you sleep without changing clothes? Were you having a nightmare?”
Fu Shen looked down and discovered his hand was firmly pressed against his chest, no wonder he felt breathless in the dream.
He got up, stretched his sore and stiff shoulders and neck, and suddenly noticed Fu Ting Xin was wearing plain clothes, looking solemn. An inexplicable heaviness sank in his heart, and he asked: “Second Uncle, are you going out?”
“I just received a message from the palace,” Fu Ting Xin said slowly, “Master Jin couldn’t withstand the torture and slit his wrist with a broken ceramic piece in prison, leaving four words before dying…”
Fu Shen was instantly solemn.
“What did he… write?”
Fu Ting Xin closed his eyes, exhausted, and his suppressed sob finally broke free, hot tears rolling down—
“He wrote, ‘No regrets in life’.”
While bandaging his swollen right hand, he asked, “The barbarians are constantly targeting us, seizing every opportunity to strike. Weren’t you putting yourself in danger by rescuing that little eunuch?”
Fu Shen had no good expression for him and coldly retorted, “What else could I do? Watch someone beat him to death?”
“He’s just a eunuch,” Yan Xiaohan said, finding it inconvenient to manage with one hand and giving up. He rested his right hand on his knee and calmly asked, “Was it worth saving him?”
Fu Shen became even more irritated. He casually grabbed a nearby bandage, quickly applied medicine and wrapped it up, turning his right hand into a neat bundle. He threw down a cold remark and walked away.
“So what if he’s a eunuch? Those who are ungrateful and use despicable means are the ones who should never be saved. They deserve to die.”
The two once again became strangers.
The following year, a major upheaval occurred in the North, and Fu Shen experienced the pain of losing his family. Before he could even finish mourning, he was pushed to the battlefield by the court officials.
In the early winter of the 20th year of the Yuan Dynasty, before Fu Shen left the capital, Yan Xiaohan took the initiative to send him an invitation to sit in a certain garden pavilion. That day, snow was falling heavily in the capital, and few people were out.
Fu Shen walked over a small bridge by the lake, stepping on the snow-covered withered grass, and arrived at the lakeside pavilion.
Three sides were glass windows, with one side covered by a wind-blocking curtain. The room was warm and fragrant. A white plum branch was placed in a vase, with a few small dishes on the table, and tea bubbling on the clay stove. Yan Xiaohan stood by the window watching the snow and turned back with a slight smile when he heard Fu Shen enter.
Fu Shen was dressed in white mourning clothes, his face cold, having grown taller but much thinner, seeming to have shed his youthful immaturity and revealing the outline of future handsomeness.
“Why did you call me here?”
He still didn’t look pleased, but his eyes no longer held complete distrust. Of course, this might be because the national and family grudges weighing on him were too heavy for him to care about past trivial matters.
Yan Xiaohan said, “The army sets out tomorrow. We’ve known each other after all, so I’d like to see you off. Are you willing to grace me with your presence?”
Fu Shen unceremoniously lifted his robe and sat at the table. “Since I’m already here. Don’t just stand there, sit down.”
