Futile Devices Scans

In that split second between life and death, there was no room for hesitation. The two paths before him were simple and clear—Xie Ying only needed to make one choice: step on the rock wall and leap aside, perhaps avoiding the falling boulder and returning to solid ground; or let go and jump down to save Jiang Guan, only for both of them to be smashed into pulp at the bottom of the cliff.

To live or to die—this was hardly a question that required thought.

And indeed, Xie Ying did not think. He decisively followed his instincts—or rather, the strongest emotion surging within him at that moment—and let go, jumping down.

If this had been outside the Medicine Master Hall, he might have paused to weigh his options. But after everything that had just happened, his reason had already stepped aside, leaving behind only a stubborn, unyielding impulse: he had killed Helan Zhenjia when he wanted to, burned the Ten Aspects Sect headquarters when he wanted to—so why was it so difficult just to save one Jiang Guan? Why should it be?

Xie Ying refused to believe in fate. If such a thing truly existed, Helan Zhenjia would have died long ago without needing his intervention. And if that so-called fate could tolerate monstrous evil but not spare a single mute boy, then it was nothing worthy of reverence.

He had swallowed smoke, suffered serious injuries, and struggled this long—was it all just to watch Jiang Guan die?

Xie Ying had dared, at such a young age, to infiltrate the Ten Aspects Sect headquarters and assassinate its leader. What he relied on was not only talent and intellect, but also an unshakable determination—once he made up his mind, he would achieve his goal by any means necessary. In other words, when he got stubborn, no one could stop him. If he were a beast, that stubbornness would probably grow fur three feet long—long enough to braid and swing on.

The warmth lingering on his fingertips from another person had not yet faded when it was suddenly covered again by a familiar heat.

Mid-fall, Jiang Guan’s eyes widened in shock as Xie Ying swiftly grabbed him with lightning reflexes, yanked him upward with one arm, pulling him into his embrace. With his other hand, he drew the long sword at his waist and drove it with full force into the rock wall. Metal clashed against stone with a ringing sound, sparks bursting in the darkness.

Jiang Guan: !

You can do that?!

The sword Xie Ying had gone out of his way to steal proved to be a rare divine weapon. Its blade cut into the rock like a knife through wood, embedding deeply and halting their free fall in one stroke.

A massive boulder roared past their shoulders and plunged into the depths below, sending up a loud splash.

In the darkness, Xie Ying listened closely and quickly calculated the distance in his mind. He said decisively, “There’s an underground river below the cliff. It’s not far—if we jump, we still have a chance to live.”

“Hold onto me. Take a deep breath. When I say jump, hold it. This time, you absolutely must not let go.”

At such a critical moment, he was even calmer than usual. He did not scold or hesitate—every word was sharp and decisive, carrying a strange sense of reassurance that compelled obedience.

Jiang Guan gripped the damp fabric on his back and took in a deep breath of air mixed with moisture and the faint smell of blood.

“Jump.”

When he said jump, it was just that—no countdown. Jiang Guan closed his eyes as the familiar sensation of falling returned, except this time he was wrapped in another person’s arms—

Splash!

A massive spray of water erupted. From that height, the underground river was only slightly more forgiving than stone—not exactly gentle in receiving them.

Fortunately, the water was deep enough that they didn’t smash directly into the riverbed. But the deadly part was the rapid current—icy and biting, like relentless slaps, leaving them disoriented and unable to tell up from down. By the time Xie Ying remembered what lurked in water, the back of his head had already slammed hard against a rock—perhaps, he bitterly thought, the reincarnation of Helan Zhenjia’s soul.

Glug… glug…

Xie Ying swallowed a mouthful of freezing water, spat out a few unwilling bubbles, and the darkness before his eyes deepened again. His consciousness snapped abruptly.

The sound of water lapping against the shore echoed repeatedly in his dreams, like the tides of his hometown, carrying drifting fragments of memory.

Most of his youth had been spent between study halls and training grounds. There were no messy troubles—only endless practice. That woman in black usually stood at the edge of the field with her hands behind her back, only occasionally stepping in to spar with him.

Her martial skill was excellent, and she struck hard without mercy, feeling no guilt about overpowering a child. He rolled like dough across the sand, scrambling and dodging, covered in dirt—until that final sweeping kick came through the air, cutting with a sharp wind—

Xie Ying jerked awake as if struck, sitting up abruptly, clutching his shoulder and groaning in pain. His returning consciousness was nearly dragged back into oblivion by the intense ache spreading through his body.

There wasn’t a single part of him uninjured: the bruised back of his head, the cuts across his back, lungs scorched from smoke and water… yet he was still alive. And he felt a pair of arms wrap around him, carefully avoiding his wounds, gently patting his back. Through their cold, wet clothes, a faint warmth seeped through—like a silent comfort.

Who?

The unfamiliar touch made his hair stand on end. Instinctively, he nearly lashed out to throw the person aside—but then his memory caught up.

“Cough… cough… Jiang Guan?”

The other person patted his back twice in response, indicating it was indeed him, then moved aside, rustling softly. The scraping of stone made Xie Ying tilt his head slightly.

“What are you doing?”

Jiang Guan, who had been writing, suddenly turned his head, staring at him in shock. The stone slipped from his hand and fell with a soft clack.

In the dim firelight, Xie Ying’s eyes were clear like amber. He “looked” directly at Jiang Guan’s position—but his gaze was unfocused and vacant.

Jiang Guan’s face turned pale. His expression looked as though he had been struck across the face. His lips trembled, his hands trembled. He waved a hand in front of Xie Ying’s eyes.

Xie Ying caught his hand precisely. “What’s wrong? Why are you shaking?”

Another cold hand covered his eyes, and the faint, blurry points of light vanished completely.

Xie Ying was perceptive—he immediately realized something was wrong. His heart dropped abruptly, as though he had missed a step, sinking heavily into his stomach.

It wasn’t that the underground was dark. It wasn’t that the smoke he inhaled in the fire still clouded his senses.

There was a fire burning nearby—

and he could not see it.

He was blind.

Was it caused by the blow to his head? Was it temporary, or permanent? Could it be cured? If not, what would he do—become a cripple at such a young age?

Was it worth it—to fall to this state for a stranger he barely knew?

Countless chaotic thoughts surged through his mind. Panic twisted like wild vines, dragging his reason into darkness—only to be cut down by his will, sharp and merciless.

What was done was done. To regret after playing the hero was more shameful than fleeing in the first place. If this was fate, then so be it—no one else was to blame.

“You can see me.”

He gently removed that hand—which didn’t even dare touch him, trembling like a leaf in the wind—and, in a tone that could almost be called gentle, confirmed with Jiang Guan, “I’ve gone blind, haven’t I?”

That calmness was more terrifying than any display of emotion. In his entire life, Jiang Guan had never so desperately wished he could respond to someone. He tried to force a sound out of his throat, but only managed faint breaths. Meanwhile, his tears surged uncontrollably, spilling from his eyes.

How unsightly.

Why did he even have the right to cry? The one who should be crying was clearly Xie Ying.

Jiang Guan wiped away those useless, weak tears with force, rubbing until his cheeks stung, yet his face remained wet. He almost hated his own existence on Xie Ying’s behalf, and yet he could not help the grievance and bitterness rising in his heart.

What sin had he committed to deserve such torment from fate?

At what step had everything gone wrong?

Though Xie Ying could no longer see, his other senses had grown sharper than usual. No matter how Jiang Guan tried to suppress himself, small sounds still escaped. Xie Ying listened carefully for a moment, then asked tentatively, “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

He actually asked why!

It was Jiang Guan’s first time encountering this kind of “heart of stone.” A sob choked in his throat, nearly suffocating him. Still remembering not to trouble an injured person, he forced back his tears and shook Xie Ying’s hand, pretending he was fine.

Xie Ying clasped his wrist in return. Out of long habit, his fingers rested on the pulse point. Feeling the rapid heartbeat thudding against his fingertips, he exposed him without hesitation: “Your heart’s racing. You’re obviously lying.”

Jiang Guan: ………

“Oh, wait,” Xie Ying added after realizing something himself. As if amused, he let out a soft chuckle. “You can’t ‘say’ a lie… and I can’t ‘see’ one either.”

Jiang Guan: ………

Was this person born missing a piece of his brain?!

“If you want to say something, write it on my hand.”

Xie Ying opened his palm toward him. Aside from his unfocused eyes, his demeanor and movements were no different from usual—even the angle at which he turned his hand was perfectly natural. “It’s slower, but it’ll have to do. Anyway, time is the one thing we don’t lack right now.”

Cold, trembling fingertips traced faint tickling strokes across his palm. Even for a martial artist with calloused hands, the palm was one of the most sensitive places on the body. While concentrating on deciphering the strokes, Xie Ying also had to suppress the instinct to curl his fingers. A tingling numbness ran from the back of his head down his spine, making it hard to sit still. Inevitably, he became aware of every tiny movement from Jiang Guan. His gentleness was restrained and hidden, yet so close and palpable—it finally broke through Jiang Guan’s endurance completely.

He threw himself forward, hugging Xie Ying tightly, burying his face in his shoulder as he cried soundlessly.

Xie Ying: Sigh…

From the violent heaving of his back alone, it was clear how hard he was crying. Not even able to wail loudly—pitiful, in its own way.

Xie Ying guessed he must have been frightened. Wrapping an arm around him, unsure how to comfort him, he gently patted his back. “It’s okay. Cry for a bit.”

Jiang Guan tightened his arms, almost embedding him into his embrace. Xie Ying was nearly suffocated, yet still laughed lightly. “Hiss… good kid, at least you know to avoid the wounds—but my lungs are about to be squeezed out.”

Warm tears soaked through the thin fabric on his shoulder, and Jiang Guan cried even harder.

Xie Ying: “…Alright, alright, cry then.”

A short while later.

Xie Ying: “Still not done crying?”

After another moment.

Xie Ying: “Jiang Guan, are you a crybaby? That’s enough.”

“I’m not dead yet—stop mourning me… alright, no more crying. Three, two, one—stop!”

“Jiang Guan, did you fall asleep?”

“The river just rose a foot—if you don’t believe me, look up… Xiao Guan, please spare me your divine powers.”

Occasionally, warm drops of tears continued to fall.

He cries too much.

Xie Ying thought helplessly.

The characters written in his palm formed the words: “I caused this to you, I—” but before Jiang Guan could finish, Xie Ying closed his hand, cutting off the apology entirely. “What do you mean you caused this?”

After saying that, he felt the words sounded a bit too harsh, as if he might be blaming him. He added, “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just bad luck. No need to blame yourself.”

Jiang Guan urgently tried to pry open his fingers, a flood of guilt waiting to be poured out. But Xie Ying simply kept his eyes closed and hid his fist behind his back, saying lazily, “No. Your tears are all over my hand. I’ll give it back when you stop being stubborn.”

The firelight flickered, water rippled. He stood within shifting light and shadow, his jawline sharp and smooth, his features deep and striking. He looked like a blade drawn from its sheath—harder and more refined than jade, clearly not someone easy to deal with—yet his heart was so soft it could be undone by something as trivial as a discarded melon seed shell.

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