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Li Lianhua comes back like he left: Silent and without apology. Fang Duobing is too relieved to care.
No explanation is given on how he survived, how the poison was ultimately purged from his body. He doesn’t offer any information on who healed him, or how his recovery went. Any questions are met with either silence or deflection, making Fang Duobing want to shake him until the answers tumble out. But he knows Li Lianhua too well. Fang Duobing’s stubbornness might be legendary, but there has yet to be a match for Li Lianhua’s ability to spit bullshit on any occasion.
It doesn’t matter anyway. The poison is well and truly gone, and Li Lianhua will live. That’s more than Fang Duobing could have hoped for.
They travel around, him, Di Feisheng and Li Lianhua. Li Lianhua has no interest in regaining either of his rather impressive reputations, so the news of his return stays on the downlow. They travel without destination just getting used to the fact that Li Lianhua is back for good, that they now have time.
And it’s during these travels that Fang Duobing starts to notice there’s something off.
It’s not Li Lianhua’s health. That’s always the first thing on Fang Duobing’s mind, the familiar anxiety weighing him down, pressing against his ribcage. But he’s gotten good at telling when Li Lianhua has a bad day, when pain and fatigue slow his movements and sharpen his tongue. That’s not what’s happening, though. There’s something else, something hidden, deeper, something Fang Duobing doesn’t quite understand.
He watches on, hoping to understand, to help, but Li Lianhua’s feelings are buried deep inside, held under lock and key, impossible to reach. Over the years Li Lianhua has spent in self-induced isolation, he’s gotten good a putting up a front, pretending everything is fine when it clearly isn’t. He hasn’t given himself the opportunity to grieve, to rage, to heal.
Fang Duobing sees this, but he doesn’t know what to do. He’s helpless, powerless, useless.
As always, all Fang Duobing can do is watch.
“Xiaobao, focus,” Li Lianhua calls from where he’s sitting on the steps of the Lotus Tower, Fox Spirit glued close to his side. “Or A-Fei is going to cut your head off.”
Before Li Lianhua even finishes his sentence, Di Feisheng is already pouncing; quick and heavy strikes aimed right at Fang Duobing’s vital points, lunges that nearly cut into his throat. Fang Duobing deflects, jumps back, and retakes his stance, ready for the next strike. A strike that follows immediately, barely giving Fang Duobing time to adjust once more.
Despite it not being the first time he’s sparred with Di Feisheng, today is certainly one of the more difficult times. Before, they had clashed due to their harsh tempers, using martial arts as a way to let out their frustrations during Li Lianhua’s absence. Now, however, this sparring is meant to actually bring him forward. After all, Fang Duobing is attempting to learn Xiangyi-Swordplay.
Fang Duobing has unofficially been Li Xiangyi’s disciple for years. Now, however, it’s official. He is, well and truly, Li Xiangyi’s disciple. There is no more veiled guidance, no more vague, evasive teachings, no more denial from Li Lianhua. Only the strict instructions of a determined shifu.
“Fix your footwork, goodness, how do you want to defend yourself when a harsh wind can blow you over?”
Fang Duobing barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes. He fixes his footwork without comment — he’s made this mistake before and Li Lianhua is losing patience. Di Feisheng lunges again, almost throwing Fang Duobing backwards. Fang Duobing grits his teeth, braces himself, holds out. Breathes, pushes back, retreats. Di Feisheng grins at him. Li Lianhua makes a sound that could be approval.
Li Lianhua is the type of shifu who would throw him into a lake to teach him how to swim. He doesn’t have a problem showing Fang Duobing the moves and explaining the steps — but he does that exactly once. Then, he relies on commentary and scoldings to get his point across. A flick on the forehead, a raised eyebrow, a reprimand. Li Lianhua is used to excellence: Li Xiangyi was a prodigy, most things came easy to him. Fang Duobing holds no illusion about his own abilities. He’s good, but he’s never had a true master teach him, guide him. He’s no genius, and it takes him time to learn, to memorize.
Clashing of swords. For the first time during this spar, Di Feisheng is slightly pushed back. Fang Duobing can’t help but grin, excitement in his veins.
“Well done,” Li Lianhua praises.
Warmth spreads in his chest. Li Lianhua might be a harsh and strict shifu, but when Fang Duobing gets things right, he’s the first to beam with pride, a ray of sunshine after a storm. The praise is hard-earned and sincere, serving to motivate Fang Duobing to try harder, to excel. He knows he can get there. It’s reassuring to know Li Lianhua thinks so too.
Motivated, Fang Duobing once more focuses completely on his opponent. He can see Di Feisheng is done playing nice — or his definition of nice, which isn’t very good in Fang Duobing’s opinion — and is getting ready to beat him into the ground. As if Fang Duobing would make this easy for him.
They circle each other for a few moves, and then Di Feisheng is on him again. The strikes are quicker than before, but Fang Duobing deflects, charges. He’s pushed back. Di Feisheng tilts his sword, places his feet. Fang Duobing mirrors this, gets into position, holds steady. His gaze jumps away for a heartbeat as sunlight hits his eyes, and —
Li Lianhua is frowning.
His concentration breaks. His stance almost falls apart, causing him to stumble a step, but Di Feisheng doesn’t stop, continues his advance, and all Fang Duobing can do is raise his sword, anticipate this hit, this strike that’s going to ring true, that’s going to be impossible to fully defend against —
In the blink of an eye, Li Lianhua stands between them. He deflects Di Feisheng’s strike with a ladle and pushes him back with a surge of qi. He holds the ladle like a sword, a barrier between Fang Duobing and Di Feisheng, his back to Fang Duobing. There’s something threatening about his presence, something powerful, something wholly unfamiliar.
“Director Di, enough,” Li Lianhua says, voice deceptively soft. Fang Duobing feels like he should be embarrassed to have to be rescued during a training session, but the awe he feels drowns everything out.
Di Feisheng huffs. “Teach him better then if you don’t want me to kill him.”
Fang Duobing bristles. No matter how empty this threat is — and he knows full well Di Feisheng would never intentionally harm him — the insult still cuts deep. Di Feisheng cares, but his care is hidden underneath insults and annoyance, not to be understood by just anyone. Fang Duobing knows these words are a show of compassion from someone who doesn’t know how to offer it.
Apparently, Li Lianhua does not.
“You’ll have to go through me first.”
The words are spoken like a threat, and Li Lianhua makes no move to soften this delivery. Di Feisheng straightens his back, stares him down, and the air becomes stifling, heavy, the beginnings of a lightning storm brewing between them. Li Lianhua knows Di Feisheng better than Fang Duobing does. He should not mistake an empty threat for a real one, no matter the circumstances. But as Fang Duobing looks between them, at the balled fists and dark eyes, he realises this is not about the threat. This is about the words that still lie unspoken between them, the pent-up emotions, the pain and the scars. This is about the confrontation that still needs to happen for the wounds to start healing.
But if they start now, this will not be healing. This will be digging the knives deeper, causing pain without knowing how to soothe. If Fang Duobing lets them, this will get very ugly, very soon.
He has to stop them. There has to be a way to avoid bloodshed, there has to be something Fang Duobing can do…
With a deep breath, he takes a step forward, standing next to Li Lianhua, raises a hand and waves it dismissively.
“Ah, Shifu, A-Fei is just joking.”
Di Feisheng almost opens his mouth to deny it, but before he can get a word out, Li Lianhua’s eyes soften and his lips twitch into an almost smile. Fang Duobing suddenly realises he’s only called Li Lianhua ‘shifu’ once or twice, and even then, often not as a direct address. It makes him feel a little bashful, so he clears his throat and offers a little smile in return.
A snort. Fang Duobing’s gaze jumps to Di Feisheng, who just rolls his eyes at them. There’s a moment where he just stares, then he huffs and turns away to fly into the forest. He’ll be back by dinner at latest, like he always is. Li Lianhua is aware of that too, and just sighs, as if suddenly tired.
Fang Duobing barely has a moment to slump in relief when Li Lianhua seemingly remembers something. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Fang Duobing a look.
“What was that nonsense earlier, Fang Duobing?”
It’s not quite anger that accompanies Li Lianhua’s words, and also not quite disappointment. It’s somewhere in between, a dangerous pendulum that could swing either way. Fang Duobing might have managed to avoid a full out brawl between Li Lianhua and Di Feisheng, but now it seems he’ll have to take the brunt of the damage. Di Feisheng had better be grateful.
“I was… ah … distracted?”
His words come out as a question, and he winces. He knows it’s not a valid excuse. From the way Li Lianhua stares at him disbelievingly, Fang Duobing is done for.
“Distracted?” Li Lianhua repeats slowly. Fang Duobing feels embarrassment colour his cheeks. Such a mishap hasn’t happened to him since he was new to martial arts as a whole! “Then I suppose this move hasn’t sunk in yet. Let’s remedy that.”
There’s a cruel smile playing on Li Lianhua’s lips, a smile that Fang Duobing has long since learned to associate with training sessions that leave him unable to move for at least a couple of shichen. Any protests he would dare to utter now would fall on deaf ears.
“One thousand repetitions until dinner should to the job.”
Silence.
“One thousand!?”
Li Lianhua’s smile doesn’t fade, and his eyes are merciless. “This should be a breeze for you, Xiaobao.”
“Li Lianhua!”
With a careless wave of his hand, Li Lianhua walks back to the Lotus Tower. Fang Duobing stomps his foot, uncaring of how childish it looks, and pouts. Stupid Li Lianhua. Such a strict and cruel shifu. But this is a mess of his own doing, so Fang Duobing reluctantly grits his teeth and gets into his stance.
One thousand until dinner. Fine.
It’s not until late into the night, when Fang Duobing’s sore muscles just start to lessen their protests, that Fang Duobing thinks about the strange frown he’d seen on Li Lianhua’s face.
It hadn’t been a normal frown of his. It hadn’t been his ‘why are we out of food again?’- frown, nor had it been his ‘what is that awful footwork?’-frown. It had been different, somehow. Colder. Tired. Pained.
Fang Duobing knows there are many things Li Lianhua doesn’t talk about. Many scars that have yet to heal, betrayals he’s yet to accept. Li Lianhua doesn’t show his emotions on his face, and never dares to share them, no matter how much Fang Duobing pushes and prods. No matter how much Fang Duobing longs to help him, Li Lianhua never lets him.
But they’ve known each other for a while now. By now Fang Duobing usually at least has a faint idea of what’s going on in Li Lianhua’s mind, what dark thoughts are circling around in his head, dragging him down. He’s not privy to all the demons, all the pain, but he doesn’t have to be. Fang Duobing is young and reckless and a little naïve, but he isn’t stupid. Usually, that’s enough.
This time, though, Fang Duobing can’t make sense of it.
It can’t have been the sparring. Li Lianhua has observed them sparring so many times by now — if he truly had an issue with it, Fang Duobing would have seen signs of it earlier. It also can't have been an inability to keep up. Li Lianhua is still recovering, but his current martial arts are more than enough to not fear an undignified loss against his biggest rival. He does hand-to-hand combat with them sometimes, holding himself back as he explains how he’s getting used to now having a flooding river instead of a trickle of qi at his disposal.
If it wasn’t the fighting, could it have simply been them? Seeing them together, fighting, exchanging blows and grins so familiarly? Li Lianhua had wanted to die, but was a reminder on how the world could move on without him painful anyway? Did he still, somewhere inside, fear being forgotten?
It doesn’t sound right either. Fang Duobing turns around, gripping his blanket tight. Di Feisheng lies across from him in a small bed they’d put into the Lotus Tower in Li Lianhua’s absence. During the awful months before they knew of Li Lianhua’s survival, they had been unable and unwilling to sleep in his bed. It had only left the upstairs guestroom, which had led to many altercations. To avoid a death-match every other night, they had compromised and redecorated the guestroom to suit their needs.
Di Feisheng’s breaths are slow and even. He must be deeply asleep. From the lack of sounds from downstairs, Li Lianhua is doing the same. But Fang Duobing still can’t get his mind to rest.
It wasn’t the sparring, it wasn’t the fear of being forgotten, but what else could it have been? There has to have been something, no matter how small, but what…?
Fang Duobing sits up at once. He blinks several times against the dim moonlight, a surge of energy in his veins with a realization.
That’s it, Fang Duobing thinks, giddy with excitement.
Now, Fang Duobing knows what to do.
Putting his plan into action takes longer than Fang Duobing would like.
Between finding the right people and the right places and hiding his plans from Li Lianhua and Di Feisheng, Fang Duobing finds himself stretched incredibly thin. He pushes on, determined, never one for the easy way out. He knows what to do. Now he just has to do it.
Only once all the preparations are done does Fang Duobing start to doubt himself. Will Li Lianhua understand his gesture as what it is? Will he take the time to comprehend Fang Duobing’s intentions? Or will there be anger, yelling, pain? The uncertainty has Fang Duobing’s heart racing. He has no choice but to see this through.
Fang Duobing reaches the Lotus Tower just as Li Lianhua and Di Feisheng are finishing dinner. He’s pushed his horse over his journey. His original arrival should have been no earlier than tomorrow morning, but his impatience and excitement – bordering on anxiety – had gotten the best of him. The sun is setting over the horizon, a gentle cool breeze caressing the fields. Fox Spirit barks joyfully, rushing towards Fang Duobing and wagging his tail.
Fang Duobing laughs. “Easy there, Fox Spirit, you’ll run me over!”
Fox Spirit jumps around his legs, bumping into him and demanding pets. It’s only once a sharp whistle cuts through the air that he finally sits down.
“Let Xiaobao arrive first,” Li Lianhua scolds with a smile. He walks over with Di Feisheng at his heels, eyes soft and warm. “There you are.”
Fang Duobing can only smile, still unused to Li Lianhua’s honesty. There was a time where any admission of affection was a rare treasure, but since beating the poison in his body and coming back, Li Lianhua has put more effort in sincerity — at least in this area. It never ceases to make Fang Duobing feel warm.
Di Feisheng simply gives him a nod, the greatest sign of respect and affection Fang Duobing can expect from him. He nods back, almost bouncing in anticipation. It’s now or never, after all.
“Li Lianhua, I have a gift for you!”
Li Lianhua blinks as Di Feisheng furrows his brow.
“A gift?” Li Lianhua asks.
Fang Duobing nods, heart thumping wildly in his chest. His smile feels frozen in place. He runs back to his horse, almost fleeing, and takes the carefully wrapped item from his saddle. The weight of the package is heavier than he remembers as he now carries his own fears with it. When he’d made the decision, it had seemed so right, so perfect. But now? Now, Fang Duobing can’t help but doubt.
“Xiaobao?”
With a deep breath, Fang Duobing turns around and walks back over. It’s just a few steps, but it feels like an eternity. Fang Duobing slows to a stop. Li Lianhua’s forehead creases, and Di Feisheng’s eyes widen. Di Feisheng takes a step back, as if taking shelter from a storm, Fox Spirit following right behind. Fang Duobing doesn’t let this bother him. He can’t.
Fang Duobing slowly unwraps the item in his hands. The thick protective blanket slides off easily under the watchful eye of Li Lianhua. Sooner than Fang Duobing feels ready for, the last shield drops away, and he holds out his gift wordlessly.
A sword glimmers faintly in the last rays of sunlight. Its sheath is decorated with golden and silver carvings that look like leaves dancing in the wind, moving along the sheath as if following the current of a river. Little flowers bloom towards the mouthpiece of the scabbard, soft and unassuming. The material is hard, made of wood and metal, perfectly suitable as a weapon in and of itself.
Li Lianhua doesn’t take it.
Hesitantly, Fang Duobing raises his eyes. Li Lianhua stares at the sword, body unmoving, face cold, his eyes going through a myriad of emotions — surprise, sadness, grief and finally, anger.
“What is this?” Li Lianhua asks, eerily mild. Other than the night breeze announcing its arrival by rustling the leaves, there is silence.
Fang Duobing opens his mouth to answer, but the words can’t pass his dry throat. His hands shake just a little, but he can’t move. He stands there, holding the sword out like an offering, unable to give any explanation.
His speechlessness pushes Li Lianhua over the edge.
“What is this?” he repeats, louder, fury burning in his eyes. For the first time, Fang Duobing thinks he might be afraid of his mentor.
“Li Lianhua—”
“Stop.” Fang Duobing snaps his mouth shut. Li Lianhua’s glare burns like a brand on his flesh. “What is the meaning of this? What kind of game are you playing?”
Fang Duobing moves to answer, but Li Lianhua raises his hand warningly. “Have I not been clear? Have I not proven, multiple times, that I have no intention of going back to the Jianghu? That I have no intention to take back Li Xiangyi’s identity? Are you as blind as you are deaf, Fang Duobing?”
Li Lianhua’s voice gets louder and louder, until it’s practically a yell. He’s staring the sword down with pure hatred, strong enough to cut right into Fang Duobing’s heart. It’s a hatred so strong that Fang Duobing can barely think of another time he’s seen such loathing on Li Lianhua’s face. But the most painful part is not the hatred itself.
It’s who it’s directed at.
Li Lianhua forgives easily, is kind enough to hold only few grudges in this life. He does not hold much resentment in his heart, preferring to let go, to live. But this hatred right now is different. Because this hatred isn’t directed at Fang Duobing, or at the sword. It’s not directed at the Jianghu who has used and manipulated him and then thrown him away. This hatred, this loathing, is meant for one person only. And that’s Li Xiangyi.
Because in Li Lianhua’s mind, Li Xiangyi, the boy he once was, is to blame for everything. For the blood, for the deaths, for the deceit. He is to blame for his arrogance, for his stubbornness, for everything that led to the downfall of Sigu Sect and the rise of Shan Gudao. In Li Lianhua’s mind there’s no room for Li Xiangyi’s age, for his inexperience, naivety, optimism. There is no place for his kindness, for his light, for his hope. There is no room for understanding, for forgiveness, for the boy he once was.
The boy who has made Fang Duobing the man he is today.
“I’m not playing!” Fang Duobing blurts out.
Li Lianhua’s face contorts into a furious scowl. “Fang Duobing!”
Fang Duobing takes a step forward. “I’m not playing,” he repeats. “I don’t want you to come back to the Jianghu!”
The fury falls from Li Lianhua’s face, replaced by wide-eyed confusion that somehow makes him look vulnerable. Fang Duobing’s heart has moved up to his throat, making it hard to breathe, hard to function, but he has to make Li Lianhua understand, he has to let him know what Fang Duobing truly wants, what this gift is truly for.
“I… I know you don’t want to go back. I understand that! But I still think you need a sword.”
The confusion on Li Lianhua’s face is quickly obscured by something darker, something much more threatening. Fang Duobing swallows, then helplessly looks over to Di Feisheng, who just shrugs.
“I wouldn’t mind getting to fight with Li Xiangyi again,” he says, nonchalant as if he can’t feel the tension clogging up the air, as if Li Lianhua isn’t still radiating danger, a trap waiting to be sprung.
“Only if you want to, of course!” Fang Duobing assures quickly, throwing a glare at Di Feisheng. “That’s not what it’s for.”
“Then enlighten me, what else can a sword be for?” Li Lianhua asks, tilting his head and staring almost through Fang Duobing.
“For dancing!”
The silence that drops over them is loaded with surprise. Even Di Feisheng looks caught off guard, straightening up from where he’s been leaning against the Lotus Tower. Li Lianhua blinks several times, mouth open in his bewilderment, seemingly casting around for something to say.
Using this uncharacteristic silence, Fang Duobing continues. “When I travelled with you before, you danced a lot. Well, as often as you could anyway. It didn’t matter for what occasion — you danced when you were happy, when you were sad, when you were hurt; whenever we had a quiet open space, you would take your sword and dance.” Fang Duobing takes a deep breath. “Li Xiangyi used to do that too. There are so many stories of Li Xiangyi dancing around rooftops, with ribbons tied to his sword, entertaining the crowd and illuminating the night sky. Even Xiangyi-Swordplay shows that! It’s fluid and soft and elegant, and… and…”
Fang Duobing looks down at the sword in his hands, and it feels heavier than ever before. He’s running out of words, even if there’s still so much to say, so much that Li Lianhua needs to know.
“You haven’t danced since you came back,” Fang Duobing murmurs, unable to look Li Lianhua in the face. “I wanted you to be able to do it again. You… You’ve always seemed the most at ease when you were dancing.”
Carefully, Fang Duobing looks up. Li Lianhua seems speechless. He shakes his head, furrows his brows, then finally moves his gaze back to the sword, this time not with hatred, but with confusion. He stares at it for a long time, as if committing every detail to memory, and his confusion starts to morph into something different, something wistful, sorrowful.
“Fang Duobing… Xiaobao,” Li Lianhua starts, then stops. He takes a breath, shaky and unsure, then finally raises his eyes. “Xiaobao… I can’t.”
“Just one dance!” Fang Duobing pleads. “Just one, then you can throw it away, or destroy it like Shaoshi, but please… Just try it once.”
Once more, Fang Duobing pushes the sword towards Li Lianhua. He doesn’t dare to breathe, his whole determination only in his eyes, the world frozen around them. He hopes Li Lianhua understands this is not a joke, nor something that’s supposed to make him sad, but it’s a gift, a hope, something that’s supposed to help. Somehow, in some way, Fang Duobing just wants to help.
“Alright,” Li Lianhua whispers. His voice is barely audible against the rising wind. “Alright.”
Finally, Li Lianhua reaches for the sword. Slowly, hesitantly, he wraps his hands around the sheath and the hilt, once more letting his gaze wander over it. Then, he pulls the sword out.
Fang Duobing has seen it before, but under the light of the sunset, it somehow seems even more beautiful. The hilt is silver, swirling patterns of leaves and flowers reflecting the sheath. Some golden highlights dance across it like stardust, shimmering faintly with every move. On its end sits a red tassel, long and elegant like ribbon. The blade itself is of highest quality, reflecting light and shapes as accurately as a mirror. Both sides have a deadly sharpness, and close to the hilt lies a carving of a lotus, spreading its petals in every direction. It is, without a doubt, a stunning sword. From the way Li Lianhua’s breath hitches, he must think so too.
Li Lianhua takes a deep breath, and then walks forward. Fang Duobing hurries out of the way, feeling how Fox Spirit comes to press against his leg. Di Feisheng moves a little closer as well, watching on curiously. Fang Duobing suddenly wonders whether Di Feisheng has ever seen Li Lianhua dance. Something tells him he might not have.
For a moment that feels like eternity, Li Lianhua stands unmoving. The sun starts to disappear on the horizon, slowly getting swallowed up by the ocean of night. Heartbeat after heartbeat passes. Only when faint touches of orange are all that remains in the sky does Li Lianhua finally move.
He starts slow, feet moving before his arms, one step after the other, sword following behind like carried by a current. Old leaves are ruffled by hints of qi, rising one by one as Li Lianhua increases his tempo, lets the rhythm flow from his legs to his arms, twirling and lunging and dragging his feet over the ground, lighter and lighter and lighter, until there’s barely a trace of footsteps. Beginnings of moonlight reflect on the blade as Li Lianhua moves at times fluidly, at times harshly, pulling the tassel behind him, telling a story of pain, of grief, of trust, of forgiveness, of tentative happiness. Again and again, he swirls and strikes and slows, floating over the ground, blurs of silver and red amongst his usual grey. Everything blends into one as Li Lianhua moves quicker and quicker, strikes in quick succession, makes the wind rise alongside him, accompany him on this dance, and then…
And then, it’s over.
Li Lianhua stands still again, sword held upright behind his back, breathing heavily in what looks less like exhaustion and more like exhilaration. The dance must have taken less than a ke, and yet Fang Duobing feels like he’s been entranced by it for endless shichen.
“A good sword,” Di Feisheng compliments, breaking the peaceful spell between them.
Abruptly, Li Lianhua’s joyful air vanishes. He lowers the sword with a sudden cold in his expression, as if forcing himself to keep his distance, to push his emotions back down.
Fang Duobing can’t let that happen.
“He’s right, Li Lianhua,” he says, walking forward pretending to have no care in the world. “Though any sword is a good sword in your hands.”
Li Lianhua scoffs, and a little pain bleeds from him. “Any sword? Don’t try to flatter me, Xiaobao, that won’t get you out of training.”
“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” Di Feisheng chimes in. “I’ve seen you fight with things that can’t be considered better than trash and still come out on top.”
There’s a story behind this one, but even as Fang Duobing looks between them for answers, there are none forthcoming. Only meaningful glances shared between them, a memory Fang Duobing isn’t a part of. Melancholy starts to creep in, heavy and overly familiar. Fang Duobing takes a breath.
“But that doesn’t matter anyway,” he picks up again, “since this one is a good sword and fits with you quite well.”
As it should. Fang Duobing has, after all, not searched for months for the best blacksmith and then another few weeks for high quality materials just for the end result to be anything but perfect.
“It is a good sword,” Li Lianhua agrees, walking towards them. Fang Duobing beams, warmth rising in his chest. “But it’s not mine.”
Fang Duobing’s face falls. Li Lianhua presents the sword to him just like Fang Duobing had done only moments prior, giving him a little smile.
“Don’t look so disappointed. I’ve promised you one dance, haven’t I?”
“But…”
Fang Duobing rings for words. It’s true. He’d pleaded for just one dance. And now Li Lianhua has fulfilled his wish and is therefore effectively ridding himself of all responsibility. Tears of frustration start gathering in Fang Duobing’s eyes, and he lowers his gaze to the sword, unable and unwilling to meet Li Lianhua’s eyes. It’s unfair. He just wanted to help.
“You’re going to throw away a good sword just like that?”
Fang Duobing looks up. Di Feisheng has walked over to them, a tall imposing shadow at their side. He glares Li Lianhua down with an intensity Fang Duobing has almost forgotten him to be capable of.
“A-Fei,” Li Lianhua warns, eyes narrowing.
“You’ve destroyed Li Xiangyi’s sword, the one that has been almost a friend to you for so long. You accused me of not caring when I didn’t name my sword; how are you any better when you keep destroying or rejecting your blades?”
“Director Di…”
Di Feisheng takes another step forward, completely moving into Li Lianhua’s space, cutting Fang Duobing off. Fang Duobing doesn’t even have a moment to react, when Di Feisheng speaks again.
“You can pretend you’ve forgotten all about the life you’ve had before. You can try to trick and lie your way out of this. But no matter how hard you try, you cannot deny that a part of Li Xiangyi, his swordplay, his genius, lives on in Li Lianhua. And it’s not a bad part. Your disciple is giving you the opportunity to reclaim what is yours, without any of the manipulations and betrayals from before. Tell me, Li Xiangyi, who are you to reject such a chance?”
The tension is thick enough to cut, heavy enough to impair Fang Duobing’s breath, but nothing hurts more than seeing Li Lianhua looking like he’s been split open, like someone has stabbed him through the heart and is in the process of ripping out its pieces. Suddenly, Fang Duobing wants to cry. He wants to cry for Li Lianhua, who knows how to forgive everyone but himself, and he wants to cry for Li Xiangyi, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders before he’d even grown into a man.
“You never have to fight with it if you don’t want to,” Fang Duobing says, wiping stray tears from his eyes. Di Feisheng steps to the side, leaving Fang Duobing directly in front of Li Lianhua. “If you never fight again, that’s fine. A-Fei and I can protect you. But Xiangyi-Swordplay was never truly meant to fight, was it? It was meant to dance, just like you’ve done right now. So, even if you never fight again, please, Li Lianhua, don’t lose this.”
And finally, it seems their words have broken through Li Lianhua’s barriers. Tears start gathering in Li Lianhua’s eyes, and he blinks furiously, as if wishing them away. Fox Spirit trots over, sensing his owner’s distress, whining at his legs. Di Feisheng stands still, silent and stoic, but Fang Duobing isn’t quite done.
“You’ve shown me the parts of Xiangyi-Swordplay that are meant for fighting, for battle. I’d like you to use this sword to teach me the dancing part too.”
A shaky breath. Then, Li Lianhua shifts his hold on the sword to the hilt, keeping it securely in his hand as he lets it hang by his side. With his other hand, he reaches out, and then gently ruffles Fang Duobing’s hair. A smile hushes over his lips, still tainted with tears, but getting brighter, more hopeful.
“Alright, Xiaobao.”
It’s not perfect. The wounds are not yet closed, the pain not completely soothed, but Fang Duobing feels hopeful in the fact that, for the first time, he’s managed to truly, undoubtedly, help Li Lianhua heal.