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When Zhou Zishu went out to look for Wen Kexing, he had assumed that the idiot had simply gotten jealous at the mysterious reappearance of Juixiao and was out sulking somewhere, waiting for Zhou Zishu to come after him and so prove, in Wen Kexing’s twisty little mind, that Zhou Zishu still cared about him.
As if, after everything they had been through with and for each other, that could still be in doubt. As if Wen Kexing were not the reason why Zhou Zishu had chosen to live. As if he were not his zhiji.
Instead of a sulky soulmate ready to whine at him about being ignored, what he found was the scene of a fight. The ground was churned up and the trees marked by the cuts of swords and arrows that had missed their targets. The smell of blood still lingered faintly in the air and the rust-brown splatters of it painted the rocks and tree trunks. And, in the middle of all of it, half buried in the mud, was a broken and bloodstained white fan.
Zhou Zishu’s heart dropped as he bent to pick up the fan. Lao Wen.
He tucked the broken fan into the folds of his hanfu and set about combing the area for clues to the identity of Wen Kexing’s attackers. He would not let himself think “killers”. It was too soon to assume the worst. Wen Kexing would not die easily.
But if he was alive, then where was he? The question sank into Zhou Zishu’s chest and lodged there like a blade.
The scene had been carefully stripped of identifying traces, bodies removed, arrows wrenched out of three trunks, even boot tracks scuffed away. That, in itself, told him something. Bandits didn’t take such care to hide their tracks.
Finally, he found a scrap of dark fabric caught in the broken branches of a bush where someone must have landed after being flung away from an enraged Ghost Valley Master. Zhou Zishu worked the scrap free and brought it into the light to examine it. The fabric was a heavy, tight weave dyed and blue so dark it was nearly black. A piece of a Tian Chuang uniform.
Tian Chuang had been here. And they had his Lao Wen.
Zhou Zishu’s fists clenched at his sides so hard the bones creaked. His stomach turned over unpleasantly.
He knew all the things that Tian Chuang could do to a man unwilling to answer their questions. He had developed some of them himself. He cursed his past self and his ingenuity now, as he imagined all of those horrors being inflicted upon Wen Kexing’s beautiful body.
It was little comfort to know that Duan Pengju didn’t have the skill to break a man like Wen Kexing. Inflicting pain was easy. The difficult part of torture was keeping your subject alive through it.
* * *
The next few days passed in a flurry of preparations.
Increasingly frantic, Zhou Zishu finally went ahead alone, leaving his disciples to follow in case he needed back up.
He rode his horse nearly to exhaustion before it occurred to him to stop in a village and trade the poor creature to a bemused farmer for a much less finely bred, but fresher mount.
As he raced toward the capital, Zhou Zishu couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been an unwitting party to some sort of horrific bargain. That he’d somehow traded Wen Kexing’s life for Jiuxiao’s. Could he not have more than one of the people he loved safe beside him at a time?
* * *
The palace of the Prince of Jin was formidable in its defences, but they could not stand against the man who had designed them. Zhou Zishu knew every trick and trap, every secret door and tunnel. He knew where guards would be posted and they fell beneath White Cloth’s blade before they could draw breath to raise the alarm. He moved like a vengeful spirit through the familiar halls, leaving dead men and broken locks behind him. Zhou-shouling, assassin master of Tian Chuang, had come home.
Helian Yi was lucky that he had not come for the prince’s life or for his secrets. Zhou Zishu had only one goal here and no one would stop him from taking back what was his.
The guards at the door to the dungeon put up a good fight but in the end they only sold their lives to slow down the grim shadow that cut through the palace.
He broke through the torture chamber door in a burst of qi and flying splinters.
Duan Pengju whirled and gaped at him in shock. “Zhou Zishu!” He gasped and drew his sword.
But Zhou Zishu's attention was fixed on the limp, bloody figure impaled to the chair at the back of the room.
Lao Wen!
“How dare you come back here like…” A flick of White Cloth’s blade across Duan Pengju’s throat silenced his challenge as Zhou Zishu crossed the room.
“Lao Wen…?” He was so still and so pale. He looked as if there was more blood on his clothes than in his veins. Zhou Zishu reached out, almost fearfully, and lifted his chin from his chest to look into his bruised face. His voice broke as he breathed, “Ahh, Lao Wen.”
Blood welled and dripped from a fresh cut on Wen Kexing’s cheek. Bleeding like that meant a beating heart.
Alive.
* * *
Someone was calling him.
“Lao Wen. Lao WEN.”
Only Ah Xu called him Lao Wen. Maybe it was only a cruel trick of his dying mind, taunting him with the only thing he wanted as his body failed him.
“Lao Wen,” The voice was gentle but firm. “I need you to wake up now.”
Wen Kexing didn’t want to wake up. Consciousness only meant pain. But Ah Xu was calling him. What could he do but answer?
He came back to his body to find it awash with pain and too weak to move. He forced his eyes to open and saw Zhou Zishu's anxious face above him. Wen Kexing smiled. Or tried to. “Ah... Xu…”
Zhou Zishu let out a tight breath. “Lao Wen.”
His body was cradled against Zhou Zishu’s shoulder. That was good. He wanted to stay there forever. Just the two of them.
“You… came,” He whispered.
“Of course I came,” Zhou Zishu brushed this off, as if he didn’t hold Wen Kexing’s beating heart in his hands. “Drink this.”
Wen Kexing opened his mouth obediently for the vial that Zhou Zishu held to his lips and let him pour bitter, burning liquid down his throat without asking what it was.
Of course, he said. As if he hadn’t walked away before and left Wen Kexing to bleed. As if Zhou Zishu hadn’t forgotten him the moment he saw... “Jiuxiao…”
“Jiuxiao will be alright. Thanks to you.” Zhou Zishu assured him, then added tartly, “Maybe the scar will teach him not to neglect his training.”
“You… told me… he was… dead.” It came out sounding aggrieved and accusatory.
“He was . I thought he was. I buried him.” Zhou Zishu shook his head. “But he’s back. He's alive, Lao Wen!” A wondering smile lit Zhou Zishu’s face and Wen Kexing’s heart twisted.
That smile was for Jiuxiao. But he was holding Wen Kexing. Surely that meant something? Didn’t it?
Or was this rescue just his parting gift, his thanks for saving the miraculously reappeared Jiuxiao from a prompt return to the dead?
“But, Lao Wen, what happened to you?” Zhou Zishu demanded. “I thought you were right behind me, but when we got back to the manor, you were gone. When you didn’t come back, I got worried. I went to look for you.” He stopped, eyes distant and haunted.
Finally he said, “I found your fan. I’m afraid it’s badly broken.” He pulled a tangle of snapped sticks and stained silk out of his hanfu.
“Doesn’t matter,” Wen Kexing mumbled. “Easily replaced.”
Zhou Zishu tucked the broken fan back into his hanfu and pulled out a cloth and dabbed carefully at the blood on Wen Kexing’s face.
Wen Kexing was feeling steadier now. Whatever was in that awful brew Zhou Zishu had fed him must be clearing his head.
“Took a knife in the back,” He explained. “When I pulled it out, it nicked my lung. Slowed me down. Couldn’t fight off your Tian Chueng goons.”
“They aren’t my Tian Chueng anymore. They’re...” Zhou Zishu paused and his expression grew cold. “I suppose they aren’t Duan Pengju’s Tian Chueng anymore, either.”
“No?
“Duan Pengju is dead.”
“Good,” Said Wen Kexing, feeling a grim satisfaction in knowing that the man who had tortured him had paid for it with his life.
He was sorry he’d missed it. Zhou Zishu had been a skilled and deadly fighter even when he’d been crippled by the nails in his chest. Now that he was healed and the cold precision of his swordwork was backed by the full strength of his qi , he was glorious.
“He was in my way,” Zhou Zishu said flatly.
Wen Kexing let out a pained laugh. “Foolish.”
Zhou Zishu’s expression softened and darkened at the same time. “But, if you were hurt, why didn’t you say something?”
Wen Kexing tried to shrug. It was a terrible mistake. He hissed in pain as the movement set his shoulders throbbing, then used the reaction to cover the time it took him to come up with an answer.
“You were busy. With Jiuxiao.” That had hurt more than the knife, to see Ah Zhou walking away with his arm around someone else while Wen Kexing stood, bleeding, watching him go.
Zhou Zishu frowned. “I wasn’t the only person there.”
Just the only one who mattered.
In truth, it hadn’t occurred to Wen Kexing to call out for help to anyone else. Either Au Xu would come back for him or he was alone.
Always alone. A solitary swan at the ends of the earth, a drifting wanderer with no roots. A ghost who had dared to walk for a little while in the light.
Zhou Zishu had his lost, loved shidi back now. It was time for Wen Kexing to fade back into the darkness.
But maybe, if he didn’t move, Ah Xu would hold him for a while longer. Maybe he could lay here just a little longer, bathed in Ah Xu’s light.
“Can you stand?” Zhou Zishu asked, shifting Wen Kexing’s weight off his shoulder and offering him his hand.. “We need to get further away before I can safely signal my disciples to bring the cart.”
Wen Kexing took the hand to drag himself upright, then pulled away from Zhou Zishu, swaying as he tried to find his balance and told him, “Thank you for getting me out. You can leave me in the next town. I’ll be alright from here.”
His knees put lie to his words by buckling under him.
Zhou Zishu gave him an exasperated look and bent down to drape Wen Kexing’s arm across his strong, narrow shoulders and pull him to his feet. “Don’t be stupid, Lao Wen. We’re going home.”
Home?
Home was wherever Ah Xu was. For as long as he would allow Wen Kexing to follow him.