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The raindrops dripped down the windowpane, carving a path of almost no resistance, going down, down, down. He laid his head across the window, the draft of rain increasing in its intensity no matter how he wished for it to stop. It was too much. Too much. The drops continued falling downwards, wetting the reforged blade, wetting the earth, shaking it loose.
It couldn't be loose.
It just couldn't.
It needed to be planted there. It just...
His hands were deep in the mud, replanting the sword firmly in the ground that had turned muddy in the rain. It could not be dirtied by such a filthy thing like mud—like he was with blood—it needed to be clean. It needed to be clean and pure and delightful and so very, very...
Happy.
(“Shizun, did you listen to my recital? Was it good? I practiced for three whole months, Shizun. Three months! I know I messed up the third movement last time, but I fixed it. I fixed all of it. I wanted it to be perfect for you. I wanted you to be proud of me.”
The boy's eyes had been so bright that day. So hopeful. He'd stood in the courtyard with his guqin, his fingers still trembling from nerves, and he'd played his heart out. Every note had been a prayer. Every chord had been a plea.
Look at me, Shizun. See me, Shizun. Am I good enough yet?
Shen Yuan had listened. He'd listened to every note, every trembling string, every desperate hope woven into the music. And when it was over, he'd set down his teacup and looked at the boy—really looked at him—and then he'd reached out and patted his head.
“Good,” he'd said. Just that. Just one word. But his hand had lingered in that messy dark hair, and his lips had curved behind his fan, and his eyes—his eyes had been so soft, so impossibly soft.
The boy had seen it anyway. He'd always seen it. His face had split into a grin so wide it looked like it might crack his cheeks, and he'd bounced on his heels and said, “Thank you, Shizun, thank you, thank you!”
And Shen Yuan had watched him, and his heart had ached with something he couldn't name.
“Shizun, I made you some osmanthus cakes. The kitchen ladies said I did it perfectly this time! They're not too sweet, I remembered you don't like them too sweet. I made them especially for you.
The cakes had been perfect. Golden and fragrant and shaped like little flowers. Shen Yuan had eaten one—just one—and then he'd reached out and ruffled the boy's hair.
“Not bad,” he'd said. But he'd eaten a second one. And a third. And Luo Binghe had watched him with those enormous eyes, tracking every bite, every expression, every flicker of reaction, and his smile had been so bright it could have lit up the entire mountain.
“Shizun, I got a 148 on my test!”
That had been a good day. Shen Yuan remembered it clearly—the way Luo Binghe had burst into the bamboo hut without knocking, waving the paper like a war banner, his face flushed with excitement.
“148! Out of 150, Shizun! I only missed two points! That's the best score in the entire class!”
Shen Yuan had raised an eyebrow. He'd held out his hand for the paper, and Luo Binghe had given it to him, bouncing on his heels while he read through it.
“And what happened to those two points?”
“The boy's excitement had dimmed—just for a second.”
“I... I misread the question. I thought it said—"
“You thought.” Shen Yuan had looked at him over the top of the paper. “That's the problem. You didn't read carefully. You assumed.”
“Yes, Shizun. I'm sorry, Shizun.”
But then Shen Yuan had handed the paper back, and he'd reached out, and he'd patted the boy's head—a quick touch, barely a moment, but enough.
“Still,” he'd said quietly. “The best in the class.”
Luo Binghe's face had gone through about six different emotions in the span of a heartbeat. Confusion, disbelief, and then—slowly, dawning like the sun—pure, radiant joy.
“Thank you, Shizun! I'll do better next time! I'll get a perfect score, I promise!”
Shen Yuan had hidden his smile behind his fan.
“See that you do.”
“Shizun... Shizun, I got you flowers today. The ones you like—the ones that bloom on the western peak? I climbed all the way up to get them for you. The wind was really strong, and I almost fell, but I caught myself! I didn't even get hurt!”
Shen Yuan had looked at the flowers. Then he'd looked at Luo Binghe—at the scrapes on his hands, the dirt on his robes, the leaves tangled in his hair—and something in his chest had cracked open.
“Foolish boy, you need to take better care of yourself,” he'd said. But he'd taken the flowers. He'd put them in water, in a vase on his desk, and he'd kept them there until the petals fell.
And every time he'd looked at them, something had ached.
“Shizun, Shizun! Look! Look what I learned!”
The sword forms. The boy had been practicing them for weeks, hiding in the bamboo grove’ at night, trying to master a technique that was far beyond his level. He'd come to Shen Yuan with his robes dirty and his hair tangled and his eyes blazing with triumph.
“I did it, Shizun! I did the entire sequence! Without stopping! Did you see? Did you see me?”
I saw.
“Was it good? Was I good?”
Shen Yuan had looked at him—at his flushed cheeks, his heaving chest, the way he was practically vibrating with the need for approval—and then he'd stepped forward and placed his hand on the boy's head.
“You were exceptional,” he'd said.
Luo Binghe had frozen. Completely, utterly frozen, like he couldn't quite believe what he'd heard.
“Really?”
“Really.” Shen Yuan had ruffled his hair, just a little. “Now go clean up. You look like you've been rolling in the dirt.”
The boy had laughed—a bright, brilliant sound—and scampered off, and Shen Yuan had watched him go with a smile he couldn't quite hide.
Shizun. Shizun. Shizun. Shizun.
His name, over and over, like a prayer. Like a song. Like the only word in the world that mattered.
And then in a world of red, the same voice begged,
“Shizun. No. Please believe me, Shizun, please. I am good. I can be good, I promise.”
“Shizun, please.”)
A gentle touch and a worried, high-pitched voice shook him. "Shizun? Are you... Are you okay?"
Ning Ying Ying's concerned voice pulled him from his thoughts. Oh. She really had been shaking him earlier. Her gentle touch burned him—her concern, that tone, it...
"I am fine."
His voice came out hoarse.
She took his palms between her soft hands and tried to wash them with her damp handkerchief. The soil in front of him was dry. The sword was planted deeper than ever before, and it was gleaming in the sun. Zheng Yang—his righteous sun—gleaming bright in the light of the day.
"...izun? Shizun?"
"Yes..."
"The dirt has seeped under your fingernails. Please come with me to wash up."
"Yes."
(“Shizun, such a task is beneath you. Let this disciple do it for you.”
The boy had been so young then. So eager. He'd followed Shen Yuan everywhere, a shadow that couldn't be shaken, a heartbeat that wouldn't quiet.
“I am a peak lord.”
“Which is all the more reason you shouldn't do it. You're too important to be doing such menial work.”
“You are my disciple. What sort of a teacher would I be if I didn't help my disciples in their tasks? If I didn't teach them? If I didn't get my hands dirty?”
“The best one ever!”
Shen Yuan had snorted, but he'd reached out and tapped the boy's forehead with his fan.
“A bad one,” he'd said. “For spoiling you so terribly.”
“You don't spoil me, Shizun.”
“No?”
“No! If you spoiled me, you'd let me do nice things for you. But you never let me do anything.”
Shen Yuan had paused. He'd looked at Luo Binghe—at the earnestness in those dark eyes, the desperate need to give, to help, to prove himself—and something in his chest had twisted.
“You do enough,” he'd said quietly. “Just by being here.”
The boy had blinked at him, confused.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Shen Yuan had turned away, hiding his expression behind his fan. “Go practice your forms.”
But the boy hadn't moved. He'd stood there, watching Shen Yuan, and then—softly—he'd said,
“I like being here, Shizun. With you. Here is my favourite place in the whole world.”
And Shen Yuan had closed his eyes, and breathed, and said nothing at all for his world was once again filled with,
Blood and red and red.
The cold, cruel voice, his own, mockingly repeated, “What kind of a teacher were you?” And I knew that I was the kind that would push their beloved child into hell.)
Shen Yuan was a sickly and frail child.
He was born healthy, with no congenital diseases showing up in the pre-birth scans. His mother had cried when she held him for the first time—not from sorrow, but from joy. He was perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, a healthy weight, a strong heartbeat. The doctors had said he was fine. The doctors had said he would be fine.
However, two years after birth, he fell ill.
It started with a fever. Nothing serious, his parents thought. Children got fevers all the time. They gave him medicine, kept him hydrated, waited for it to pass.
It didn't pass.
The fever lingered for a week. Then two. Then three. His tiny body burned with heat that wouldn't break, and his parents took him to doctor after doctor after doctor, each one more baffled than the last.
When the fever finally broke, it left something behind. Something that would never leave.
He continued falling ill, no matter how much it felt like he really did get better the last time. A cold would become pneumonia. A scrape would become an infection. A minor bug would become a hospital stay. His body attacked itself, over and over, for reasons no one could understand.
Apparently, his body was against him from the start. Anything and everything could make him sick—even something that didn't even exist. That just existed within the confines of his own body.
An autoimmune disease, they called it.
The doctors explained it in careful, clinical terms. The immune system, designed to protect, had turned against itself. It attacked healthy cells, healthy tissue, healthy everything. There was no cure. There was no treatment that could make it go away. There was only management—medication, monitoring, endless hospital visits that bled his parents dry.
Forever sick. Destined not to live well, or to an old age. Prone to getting violently sick to the point of near death and still surviving past twenty years of age.
Surviving. The word felt like a mockery. What kind of life was this? What kind of existence, where every day was a battle against his own body, where every breath was a gift he didn't deserve?
Living alone and away, because that was the only way he thought his mother wouldn't cry anymore.
He'd moved out at eighteen. Against his parents' protests, against his sister's tears, against every instinct that screamed at him to stay. He'd found a small apartment near the university—nothing fancy, just a single room with a kitchenette and a window that looked out on a gray courtyard—and he'd told himself it was for them.
What use was a son anyway who couldn't support his parents? Who could never be reliable? Who would always cause them misery?
His father had wanted him to take over the family business. His mother had wanted him to find a nice girl, settle down, give her grandchildren. His sister had wanted him to be happy—just happy, that was all, nothing more.
He couldn't give them any of it.
He couldn't work. Couldn't hold down a job, couldn't commit to anything, couldn't be depended on for anything more than a hospital bill and a worry. He couldn't date. What kind of monster would he be, to ask someone to love him knowing he would leave them? Knowing he would break their heart, one way or another, sooner or later?
He couldn't even be happy. Not really. Not in the way that mattered. The best he could manage was a kind of resigned contentment—an acceptance of his lot, a refusal to hope for more.
What use was a child like him who didn't go out and didn't do anything?
He spent his days in bed, reading. Thousands of novels, millions of words, stories that took him far away from the confined room and the shackled life and the insignificant death that waited for him. He read about heroes and villains, about love and loss, about worlds where people could fly and fight and fix things.
He read about Luo Binghe, in another life. In a story that wasn't real.
He'd never imagined that one day he would live it.
All he ever wanted was to fix things and yet,
What was he but a waster of their money? A waster of their emotions?
His mother had cried when he moved out. Not in front of him—she'd learned, over the years, to hide her tears—but he'd heard her. Through the thin walls of the apartment, through the crack in the door as he was leaving, he'd heard the soft, broken sound of her weeping.
His father had stood in the doorway and said nothing. Just looked at him with eyes that were too bright, too wet, too full of everything they couldn't say.
His sister had hugged him tight enough to bruise.
You call me, she'd said. Every day. You call me and you tell me you're okay.
I will.
I mean it, ge. Every day.
I promise.
He'd broken that promise. Of course he had. He was a liar, after all. He was a liar and a burden and a waste of space, and the only good thing he could do in this world was make sure that no one missed him when he was gone.
His meimei would have beaten him for these thoughts had she known. But it was a good thing she didn't. And as much as she wanted—as much as she loved—she was a growing young girl.
She'd met someone. A nice boy, with soft eyes and kind hands and a future that stretched out before him like a road. She'd started talking about moving in together, about careers, about the life she wanted to build.
And Shen Yuan had watched her from the sidelines, the way he'd always watched her, feeling elated for once seeing his sister smile so bright, and he'd thought, ‘Yes. Good. This is what she deserves.’
She needed to have her own life, rather than being stuck carting for a useless older brother who could guide her in no way. Always reliant on her generosity and love. Always taking advantage of it like a leech, when she was like a bright, blossoming lily—destined to be radiant.
He should have made them forget about him.
He should have found a way to fade out of their lives completely—to make them forget the sickly boy who'd been nothing but a burden, a drain, a weight they'd had to carry for far too long. He should have made it easy for them.
Leave me behind, he wanted to say. Forget I was ever here. Let me die as I deserve.
And yet...
And yet he was so very desperate for their love that he couldn't really push them away.
Even at his worst—even at his lowest, when the pain was too much and the future was too dark and the whole world felt like it was pressing down on his chest—he always craved their attention. He wanted them near. He wanted his mother's hands on his forehead, checking for fever. He wanted his father's lively presence sitting near his bed, clutching his hand as if he could keep me with him through sheer force of will. He wanted his sister's voice, chattering about nothing, filling the silence with warmth.
He wanted to be loved. He wanted to be held. He wanted to believe, just for a moment, that he was worth something.
He couldn't understand how they could just keep loving something that was not destined to last.
How do you love someone who would always leave you?
He'd asked himself a thousand times. A million times. Lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the beeping of the machines that kept him alive. His parents had known, from the moment of his diagnosis, that he would die young. They'd known that every day with him was borrowed time, that every moment they spent with him could be their last.
And they'd loved him anyway.
How do you love when there is no future?
His sister had known too. She'd grown up in the shadow of his illness, had learned to be quiet when he was sleeping, had learned to be strong when everyone else was breaking. She'd given up so much for him—parties and friends and the carefree childhood she deserved.
And she'd loved him anyway.
How do you love when it was always supposed to end in tragedy?
He didn't understand. He couldn't understand. It seemed like such a waste—such a terrible, pointless waste—to give your heart to something that was destined to break it.
And yet they'd done it. They'd done it without hesitation, without reservation, without a single moment of doubt.
They'd loved him.
And he'd let them.
(“Cucumber-bro, you already knew that you had to push him in the abyss. He would always have to go in there. It's his destiny. You don't need to be so... torn up about it. He is... going to come for revenge.”
The voice was distant. Tinny. Like it was coming through a speaker, or from another room, or from another life entirely.
“He's going to come back, man. He's going to come back and he's going to be angry and he's going to want to kill you. That's just how the story goes. That's how it's always gone.”
How do you love when it was doomed to end with betrayal?
“It's already been a year. Please let Mu Qingfang just have a look at you.”
That voice was different. Warmer. More human. It took Shen Yuan a moment to place it—Shang Qinghua, probably, or maybe Yue Qingyuan. Someone who cared. Someone who was worried.
Someone who didn't understand.
It seamlessly blended with a sweet voice, “We miss him too, but Shizun is ill. Please, Shizun.”
Ning Ying Ying. Of course. She was always there, always hovering, always looking at him with those big, worried eyes. She'd loved Luo Binghe too—maybe loved him still—and she didn't understand why Shen Yuan couldn't just... move on.
How do you love someone when you know you killed the version who was happy and bright?
It kept him up at night, haunted his dreams, it echoed in his skull like a bell that wouldn't stop ringing.
Luo Binghe had been happy. Before the abyss, before the betrayal, before Shen Yuan's hands had been drenched with his blood—he'd been happy. He'd smiled and laughed and made osmanthus cakes and played his guqin and looked at Shen Yuan like he hung the moon.
That boy was gone now. Dead. Buried in the darkness, replaced by something Shen Yuan couldn't imagine.
How did you not love them?
He'd tried not to. He'd tried so hard not to. He'd kept his distance and spoken in riddles and pushed the boy away at every opportunity. He'd told himself it was for the best—that Luo Binghe didn't need a teacher who was already dying, a mentor who would only leave him, a shizun who would inevitably break his heart.
But he'd loved him anyway.
How could you possibly not, when it was your child?)