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Renjun doesn’t pretend to be knowledgeable about mortals.
He is a god destined to reign supreme over the transient. Mortal designs and schemes, their needs and their desires, their vices and virtues—are beneath him. So, when he spontaneously decides to descend upon the mortal realm, completely bored out of his wits, he is all but wary and perhaps, a tad bit enthused.
He floats down onto the mountain where his shrine is located. It’s an unseemly little thing now, surrounded by thick bushes and crowned with recalcitrant vines. His statue is besmirched, in form and in essence, its color near abysmal and its marble chipped and eroded. It stands almost contritely in the middle of the glaringly empty and likewise dilapidated meditation table.
It has seen better days, Renjun thinks. And as he looks off into the horizon, where the new capital is located, bright and colorful, he can’t help but grow solemn.
The mountainside has definitely seen better seasons; the mountaintops have seen brighter and bountiful days.
Flashes of well-kept memories suddenly flood his mindㅡ glittering rays of sunlight peeking through plush clouds, humble abodes perched on verdant cliffs, graceful kites dancing in the wind to the chimes of children’s laughter, and adults pacing about and decorating shrines, preparing for festivities, harboring in their hearts the hope that a god might join them. It was a time when shrines were more than just shelters for travelers seeking respite, a time when gods and humankind embraced each other in an immortal dance.
Renjun draws his gaze away from the lively stretch of land underneath the mountain, detaches his brief connection with the days of old and the golden and kneels before his own statue. He cups his hands, hums a tune into them, and breathes life into his statue. He watches as pale golden tendrils of light dance once in front of the statue, twice on either side of it, and finally, three times on top of his marble head. In a singular beat, the statue thrums with a quick dose of Renjun’s own immortality, coating it in a dim glow. A divine protection that will withstand several more storms to come.
It’s self-serving, Renjun supposes, but it is what he must do.
With a sigh, Renjun stands up, dusts his unseemly brown robes, and leaves his shrine. He navigates himself around uncleared paths blocked by lush greenery. He pauses mid step a few times, looks around at the new flora and fauna. He crouches down in front of a strange mushroom, blinks at an unfamiliar butterfly, and gazes into a small pond teeming with unfamiliar marine life.
Appearances, shapes, colors— life might be molded into new forms, breathed into new existences, but fundamental natures will always remain. For however spirited the sunset might seem, however the yellows and oranges and reds swirl into each other and kiss across the sky, the deep black night will always come.
And for that, Renjun is grateful because not all is lost to him. Not all is new in the world, which is a comfort Renjun keeps close to his heart. As gods begin to fade across the stretches of time, like a steady flame amidst fierce winds, there might be hope for them to remain just yet.
He begins to take note of new lifeforms along the way to the capital, skips over puddles making home into the earth, dodges startled boars, and covers his eyes from stray gusts of wind carrying incessant dust, cursing the wind god who is surely laughing down at him.
Renjun scoffs inwardly, thinking that if the god of wind can visit the mortal realm whenever he wishes to, then Renjun can as well. Granted, it is his first time descending in a long long while, he decides this will be the start of many more visits to come. With that in mind, he strengthens his resolve and moves forward until he is met with a looming arch. Renjun stops underneath the vermillion and gold splendor, breathing in unknown scents and listening to interweaving symphonies of life. This is the new capital, a city all too familiar with its own history and potential for growth, shying away from the “legends” of gods to create its own.
Fellow gods, except for the wind god, who is as free and spontaneous as the sea breeze, would flinch at the mention of the capital, a city so estranged from the past. They frown at the new foundations the mortals had built only because they had no part in it, feeling that the human’s want for the divine is steadily dwindling away with the innovations brought by mortal hands. And it is true, Renjun concedes, that humans are growing ever farther from their innate desire for divine connection. Renjun is quite melancholic, in a way that his very nature is deeply intertwined with mortal endeavors, but he is not afraid to say that he is not wholly resentful. Why would he, when the fates have clearly commanded for mortals a way to perceive the world purely on their own terms?
And yet, he may say that, but as Renjun enters the city and subtly gawks at the hustle and bustle of mortal life, he finds a seed of sorrow burrowing in his chest. When he sees a child giggle at a strange contraption unlike any other Renjun has seen, his chest constricts. He remembers when humans used to wear the same expression of delight when they used to experience the worlds he had created. Maybe it’s not only his fellow gods who long to rekindle the connection they used to have with humankind. Maybe Renjun longs for the same endless song.
“Hey, mister!”
Renjun stops in his tracks and looks down at a child who had grasped the edges of his robes.
The child is a boy, plump-faced and flushing to the tips of his ears. He’s grinning from ear to ear, holding some sort of colored stick. He raises it and offers it to Renjun. “Wouldja like some?”
Renjun startles, touched by the generosity. He smiles down at the boy and was about to open his mouth to reply when a lady, probably the mother of the child, approaches them and scoops up the child into her arms. Equally red-faced, the mother bows apologetically at Renjun and walks away, quietly scolding the child. A mother's love.
Renjun moves on. Renjun had descended with no specific goal in mind. He just had the sudden urge to sneak a peek at whatever was currently happening in the mortal realm, though whatever happens down here isn't really much of his concern. The mortals haven't made it any of his concern in a long time. It wasn't like he was completely bored or anything of that sort. He just wanted to experience what the god of wind had supposedly experienced.
Surveying his surroundings, his eyes catch onto a brightly-lit stall surrounded by wooden chairs and tables. People are milling about it, some wielding swords of varying colors and lengths and some civilians, by the make of their clothes.
But he trudges on, somewhat entranced by the joyous ambience of the food stall. His eyes fixate on the colored sticks on display. It was what the little mortal child had offered to him a while ago.
As he gets a closer look, he realizes that the stick was not the origin of the color. The stick was wrapped in a cocoon of color. It looks like strings continuously whipped around the stick, like…threads.
Renjun leans in closer to get a better look when a low voice says—
“It’s string candy.”
Renjun looks toward the sound of the voice, breaking contact with the intricate design of the colored stick and finds himself face to face with a handsome mortal.
Renjun doesn’t normally care about appearances. He’s lived for plenty of centuries, has seen varying degrees of beauty, has seen plenty of what regular mortals and even regular gods would call “beautiful.” But Renjun hardly cares for the flashy and flamboyant. And the mortal in front of him is anything but. Curious.
From the longsword tied around his waist and the pristine white robes and white ribbon that ties his hair to curl in front of his collarbone, Renjun deduces that he is a swordmaster. Renjun likewise deduces—admits— that the mortal’s looks are indeed befitting of a refined swordmaster. With high cheekbones, pearly whites, an elegant comportment, and a boyish smile, the mortal before him seems like the epitome of heroes of legends told by mortals and acknowledged by the gods.
Renjun just hums in response and looks away from his blinding smile, back at the complexities of the string candy—something new, a concept entirely created and crafted by mortal hands.
“Not much of a talker, huh,” the mortal mutters under his breath, though such kind of remark would oftentimes be phrased as a question, the mortal states it matter-of-factly, under his breath. But Renjun happens to catch it and hesitates for a split second before responding.
“I,” Renjun starts, licking his lips, careful to choose the correct words to say, “haven’t conversed in a long while…”
The handsome mortal seems surprised at the frankness of Renjun’s answer. He blinks his warm brown eyes slowly, his smile widening until it blossoms into a deep chuckle.
“I did not mean to offend you,” the mortal responds, his right hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. Renjun takes note of the movement, assumes it must be some sort of unconscious habit the mortal has formed over time. “I apologize if my comment sounded too impertinent.”
“Oh, not at all,” Renjun is quick to reply, though the mortal did seem less apologetic and more amused, “You just caught me off-guard.”
“Well, if so, I would still like to offer my apologies,” the mortal tips his head before turning to the vendor, points at a particular string candy stick colored in bright vermillion, and hands the vendor a few coins.
“Here,” the mortal gets the stick handed to him by the vendor and offers it to Renjun. Renjun just blinks at it. The mortal cocks his head, a handsome smile still plastered on his face. “An apology for startling you. You seemed so interested in the string candy so I assumed this must be your first time seeing them.”
Renjun takes the stick gingerly. “You really don’t have to, but I thank you,” he grips the proffered scarlet stick tighter in his hand, his interest in it winning over his pride of having to accept a mere sweet from a mortal. “It is my first time seeing it, yes. I,” he pauses and clears his throat, “have not been around these parts lately.”
“Haven’t been around these parts, huh,” the mortal hums, his right hand still on his sword, fiddling with the hilt. “I’m Jaemin.”
Renjun opens his mouth to offer his name, but pauses just in time. When he flew down onto the mountain, he never thought he’d be getting into conversations with mortals. Sure, he used to love talking with them, discussing the arts and all forms of it, but he hardly ever got the chance to give himself a new name. A new life. Like all mortal lifeforms do— a chance to become someone different.
“I’m Injun,” Renjun says, the name from so long ago flows easily as the rivers on the mountain used to. A name lost in time, but easily brought back by a single utterance.
Jaemin smiles. “That’s a beautiful name.”
Renjun’s breath hitches, much to his chagrin. He clears his throat to keep his embarrassment at bay. “Thank you. Your name… sounds valiant. Are you perhaps a swordmaster?”
Renjun initiates the conversation, bravery finally filling him, pushing him towards the fulfillment of his curiosity over the rapidly changing mortal world. Back in the days of the golden, sword wielders were rampant, but swordmasters were few and far in between. It takes too many sacrifices to become one. Renjun would know.
“Yes, I am,” Jaemin says, surprise coating his tone and manifesting in his features, “however did you know?”
“Your sword,” Renjun replies, his eyes suddenly glued to the intricate markings adorning the sword’s hilt. “Swordmasters have the sigil of their master and previous masters on their hilt.”
The hand fiddling with the hilt of the sword finally stops as Jaemin looks Renjun in the eye. “You’re quite knowledgeable. That’s interesting.”
Renjun, realizing his mistake, purses his lips and turns away from Jaemin’s searching eyes.
“But yes, I am,” Jaemin continues, then looks down at his sword. “This sword was owned by my previous master. But he passed away not long ago. I visited this place since this was his hometown. I’ve heard plenty of stories about this place and was curious about it.”
Renjun hums in understanding. It’s common to be curious about one’s previous master. There are different aspects to mastering the art of swordsmanship that goes just beyond physical prowess. And swordsmanship is an art that Renjun is all too familiar with.
Renjun is about to reply when a bunch of loud kids run in between them. Both Renjun and Jaemin step back just in time to refrain from getting trampled on by a gaggle of children.
Jaemin invites him first and takes the first step away from the stall, a hand outstretched to gesture towards the center of the capital. “You’re not from around here, too, right? Do you want to take a walk around the capital? It’s quite lively; it’s the Swords Festival, after all.”
Renjun stops midstep. “The Swords Festival? Is that what they’re currently celebrating?”
“I believe so, yes. My master used to tell me about this festival, about how it inspired him to pursue the art of swordsmanship.”
Renjun used to participate in the Swords Festival. Mortals used to offer and pray that he descend from the heavens to bless their activities and guide their dancers. Renjun used to reciprocate, sending almost half of his spiritual energy to the festival dancers and goers. As the god of the arts with swordsmanship as his mainstay, he had always made sure that the art never dies. Renjun won’t let that happen. He will never let it die.
It seems like it’s the festival’s time of the year again. And Renjun did not know. Renjun feels the impending decline of the connection between mortals and the gods even more.
“Did your master ever tell you which part of the festival he liked the most?” Renjun asked, perhaps out of mere curiosity, perhaps out of desperation for a renewed sense of purpose. As a god, who is he without belief?
“He mentioned the sword dancers,” Jaemin explains as they start to leave the stall to move towards the center of the capital where a lavishly decorated stage sits. “And how they handled a deadly weapon with such expertise and reverence that it turned it into a show of elegance and beauty.”
Renjun closes his eyes briefly, his heart swelling with relief. Renjun used to pay more attention to the famous Swords Dancers. To know its impact on the people and future generations fills his heart with joy.
“In the hands of the mighty, a sword is a blade, a harbinger of bloodshed and a symbol of power. But in the hands of believers, a sword is like a dainty flower, a thing of beauty and a representation of inner strength,” Renjun says, his eyes trained on the group of sword dancers practicing on the side of the stage. The moon is nearing its peak in the sky. They will start to dance soon.
Renjun continues walking, wondering what he could do to help empower the dancers, but stops when he realizes he has been walking alone. He looks back at Jaemin, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Jaemin? What’s wrong?”
Jaemin blinks his puzzlement away and shakes his head, handsome smile back on his face. Like a swordmaster, he doesn’t run to catch up to Renjun. His strides are long and powerful. His master must have been a great one.
“That must be a famous saying,” Jaemin says as soon as he is beside Renjun once again.
“Why do you say so?”
“It’s what my master used to say,” Jaemin explains, his warm brown eyes gleaming against the bright festive lights. “I’ve tried looking for that particular saying, in books and in the libraries of temples of martial gods, but to no avail.”
Renjun realizes his mistake belatedly. He has said that particular saying before, but it was during a particular memory eroded by time. Renjun was not a martial god, so Jaemin would certainly not find it in one of those temples. Unlike gods of the arts, martial gods are part of the envied few. They are the undying, their help a forever blessing in light of the mortals’ never ending love for war.
Renjun must have said it during a particular drunken night, in the past times where he used to wine and dine with hopeful swordmasters. Perhaps, one of them had been Jaemin’s master.
Renjun clears his throat. “You probably missed a few shrines. There are too many martial gods.”
Jaemin nods in agreement. “You might be right. I’ve heard that this place used to be full of shrines, both of martial gods and art gods. But I don’t seem to have seen one along the way here.”
“You must have missed them,” Renjun says again, heart thumping against his chest. A believer. It has been so long since he’s had to personally recruit one. But he must set aside his humiliation. Jaemin’s previous master must have been one, after all.
Renjun swallows the lump in throat, swallows his pride and opens his mouth to continue. “All the martial gods have fled to the west where war seems to never end. All that is left around this area is a small shrine up in the mountains.”
“Do you live around here, Injun?” Jaemin asks after mulling over what Renjun just said. “You said you haven’t been around these parts lately.”
“You can say that, yes,” Renjun says, stopping in front of a stall just to the side of the slowly gathering crowd in front of the stage. Both he and Jaemin step closer to the hut, away from the steady flow of people rushing to grab a seat near the stage. “I just returned from a very long travel.”
“I see,” Jaemin replies. “And did you stop by this shrine up in the mountains?”
Renjun hesitates for a beat, before licking his lips, and says, “Yes. I remembered it while I was on the way to the capital. Perhaps you’d like to visit it when you leave.”
“Perhaps I will,” Jaemin smiles. Then looks down at Renjun’s hands, eyes turning sharp. “You still have not eaten your Red String Candy. And for some reason, it hasn’t melted…”
Renjun’s eyes blow wide and he looks down at his still glistening red candy. He must have been unconsciously imbuing it with his spiritual power resulting in the stick candy’s preservation. He curses inwardly.
“The weather is a bit cold, so that must be why it’s still intact. But let me give it a try,” Renjun chuckles nervously before quickly bringing the stick candy to his mouth. He takes a small bite. The sugar cracks inside his mouth and melts almost instantly, flooding his mouth with a burst of sweetness.
Jaemin watches Renjun scarf the sweet down with a grin. “It’s quite delicious, isn’t it? I cannot count how many times I’ve eaten one just today.”
Renjun finishes the candy in seconds and he turns his head towards Jaemin, smiling. “It is! Is this candy a recent invention? I haven’t encountered this one before—”
Renjun stops himself just in time. And composes himself. “I mean, has this…is this…”
Jaemin and Renjun lapse into silence.
Jaemin breaks it.
“Injun, do you believe in the gods?” Jaemin asks, taking the stick from Renjun’s hands gently. Renjun lets go easily, the question a sudden cold rush of water, but is quickly warmed by the feel of Jaemin’s calloused hands.
“Why do you ask?” Renjun asks, his voice a near whisper.
Jaemin looks down at the empty stick and then holds it up. “This is called the Red String Candy. It’s supposed to symbolize fate , of gods’ work and a little thing that we call ‘destiny’. It’s not so new, especially around these parts, apparently. It was made by a close friend of my master, a few years ago after my master’s last Swords Festival.”
Renjun stews in silence, thinks about what Jaemin just said: fate and gods’ work .
“My master’s friend was a believer, you see. He apparently visits the shrine up in the mountains near this capital,” Jaemin says. Renjun’s breath hitches. “But he too passed away right after my master did. He made this candy for the Swords Festival, and said it was supposed to bring the gods and people back together in an immortal dance. An artistic—and edible— rendition of the legend of the dancing red blade of the art god, Huang Renjun, and the red string of fate that will connect the land back to their god once again.”
Renjun blanches. He hasn’t heard his name uttered by a mortal in centuries, hasn’t heard his red blade and the legend of his renowned blade dancing in ages.
“Injun?” Jaemin asks, frown marring his handsome features. “Are you all right? We can go and take a seat, if you want. I think the dancers will begin soon.”
Renjun forces a smile, a swirl of emotions threatening to claw out of his chest and eat him whole, feels a knot of unidentifiable feelings pool distastefully in the pit of his stomach. He does not know what to feel, does not know what to do. He has never been this close to himself before.
But he has to pretend. He is not the infamous dancing red blade Huang Renjun right now. Right now, he is Injun, a mere wanderer who met a lone wandering swordmaster desperate to reconnect with the life once led by his previous master.
“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” Renjun breathes out and then gestures toward two empty seats at the edge of the cluster of chairs, forcing down the lump in his throat. “Let’s go and enjoy the performance.”
The performance is as beautiful as the first time Renjun had witnessed it. And Renjun had been a witness to it for many centuries. There’s something comforting about seeing an unchanged tradition. But the performance bore a message that Renjun was loathe to understand and admit: they do not need Renjun’s spiritual help anymore. Mortal inventions have made their way into the gaps that were once filled by Renjun’s spiritual power.
After the performance, the audience began dancing in the middle of the square, eating, laughing, swaying to tunes that are not at all familiar to Renjun anymore. He sees more children and adults carrying the red candy and wishes he could have more. But he is a god, a god with no need for money. And admittedly, no need for mortal delights.
“Here.”
Another red string candy in the shape of a sword is pushed in front of his face.
“Jaemin,” Renjun jerks back in surprise. But his eyes are trained on the elaborate string candy that had fixed itself into a sword. “Why—”
“You seemed to want some more so I got you another one,” Jaemin tilts his head and smiles.
Renjun feels the tips of his ears burn. “You…you didn’t have to. One would have been enough.”
“It’s okay. Please take it. I insist,” Jaemin says, offering the string candy again. When it seems like Renjun would not take it, Jaemin closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and grabs Renjun’s hands.
Renjun lets Jaemin take them and watches as Jaemin forces his hands to wrap around the candy.
“I do not know what has come over me. But. I’m grateful I got to meet you today, Injun. So, please. This is payment in kind,” Jaemin says softly. “I attended this Festival in the hopes of filling the gap in my heart that the passing of my master has left. But hearing you say the words of my master, hearing you mention the shrine in the mountainside, and seeing your clear appreciation for the sword arts had filled my heart again.”
“Jaemin…” Renjun whispers, understanding dawning upon him. His voice tapers into gentleness as he slowly leans in towards the forlorn-looking swordmaster to ask, “What was it that you lost that caused you so much pain?”
Instead of replying, Jaemin just smiles a watery smile and raises his face to the night sky. Renjun accompanies him in his silence, standing still under the moonlight, letting the sounds of laughter and chimes ring around them, in the heart of the capital.
It takes a few more beats before Jaemin looks back at Renjun, now composed and face bright, an aura of enlightenment surrounding him too palpable for even Renjun to ignore. “I’ll make sure to visit the shrine on the mountain one of these days.”
Renjun smiles back, clutching the red blade candy closer to his chest. “Please do. If you ever feel lost, it will always be there to shelter you.”
Jaemin smiles and then approaches Renjun carefully, unsure of his steps. Uncommon for a swordmaster. Jaemin proffers an open palm.
Renjun looks down at it and then up at the swordmaster with a quizzical brow.
“Your hand,” Jaemin says. “May I…?”
Renjun hesitates for a beat, before transferring the red candy blade into his other hand and resting his empty hand on top of Jaemin’s open palm.
It was brief and fleeting yet full of depth. As a god, Renjun reigns above mortals, above their designs and schemes, their needs and their desires, their vices and virtues. But emotions betray nothing, and as a god of the arts, he understands that more than any other god.
As Jaemin leaves a feathery kiss on top of Renjun’s hand, Renjun feels his heart stutter and his breath hitch.
Jaemin raises his head, gives him a warm smile, and then bows deeply, his hand tight around the hilt of his previous master’s sword.
“Thank you, but I need to go. I may not have found what exactly I was looking for. But I found you, and that, for me, is enough,” Jaemin explains, his low tone sincere and full of emotions. “Let’s meet again. I’m sure we will. If we do not, I shall find you. Be it here, at the shrine in the mountaintop, or the west where the mortal gods reign supreme.”
“Jaemin—” Renjun begins saying his name, but Jaemin continues.
“We are bound by the red string of fate, after all. If one is not enough, at least two might be,” he smiles a warm smile. Then, he bows one last time. “Goodbye, Injun. I sincerely hope we meet again.”
And just like that, Jaemin is gone, lost in the crowd and in the night.
The festivities have died down, the crowd is dwindling and the sounds are quieting. Renjun leaves the capital with an uneasy feeling, not knowing what feelings need to be felt, what emotions to carry back with him to the heavens, when all he has left is a still intact red string candy in the shape of a blade and a strange ache in his heart.
Renjun walks back up to his shrine in the mountains, sees the same sights as he had seen earlier in the day when he descended, but feeling even more lost and confused.
When he arrives at his shabby shrine, he sets the red blade candy down beside his statue and breathes spiritual energy into the candy, inspiring its longevity.
He takes one last look at the candy, then his statue, and then around his shrine. He feels a belated sense of embarrassment. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought Jaemin’s attention to his rundown shrine.
With his eyes closed, he sits in the middle of his shrine and channels enough spiritual energy to ascend back to the heavens.
Renjun has lost all sense of time. When he ascended back not so long ago, he was suddenly bombarded by the wind god and his incessant queries. And not so long after, the war in the west seems to have had a need for more than just martial and civil gods. Gods of the arts are suddenly much needed as well.
War is not something Renjun is too fond of but if it is a directive by the Heavenly Emperor, Renjun can do nothing but comply, though he did so half-heartedly.
Renjun does not know how long he’s last gone down to the capital, but on a relatively relaxing day, when the war has slowly died down in the west, Renjun descends upon the mountaintop.
And is surprised.
His shrine is not wholly dilapidated anymore. His meditation table is clean and new, inlaid with red and gold markings that is hard for Renjun to discern. And his statue is not gray and lifeless anymore. It is now shiny, the marble obviously newly carved in his better likeness. Beside it, the blade string candy is still intact and bright red.
And right next to it is a red string candy in the shape of a flower.
It must have been affected by the surrounding spiritual power of Renjun, since it’s still vividly red and whole.
A red blade and a red flower.
The two things that Renjun has mentioned to a particular lone, wandering swordmaster, on one fateful evening.
As Renjun moves closer to it, he notices a small piece of parchment right beside the new flower candy. He picks up the dusty paper and reads it. It says:
By the red threads of fate, may we meet again. Jaemin.