Futile Devices Scans

Jiang Guan’s crying went on without end, like an unceasing torrent, and the more he was coaxed, the harder it became to stop. Xie Ying had no choice but to change the subject to distract him: “Jiang Guan? Xiao Guan? Where did you find firewood? I thought this damned place only had rocks.”

Sniffling, Jiang Guan wrote on his back in flowing cursive: “riverbank.”

Xie Ying: “……”

“Very capable,” he forced himself to praise, grasping at anything to say. “Where did the fire come from? I don’t think I have a fire starter on me anymore.”

This time Jiang Guan didn’t even bother writing. He pulled out a leather pouch and stuffed it into Xie Ying’s hand. Xie Ying felt the flint and a few small items inside and realized, “Oh, from that guard.”

“With fire, things get much easier.” He seized the chance to steer the conversation toward something practical. “If you can find branches in the river, it means this place connects to the forest outside. We can follow the river out. Look carefully—there might even be fish. That solves food as well…”

Jiang Guan’s “unable to speak” and “silent” were two different states—the difference lay in whether his gaze had warmth, whether it stung. And Xie Ying was particularly sensitive to being watched. Under that cold stare, his voice grew more and more faint, until he finally gave in: “Alright, you continue. I won’t disturb you.”

Jiang Guan slowly leaned forward again, treating him like a large pillow, pressing him into his arms. Somehow, he even picked up where he had left off emotionally. This time, however, it wasn’t loud sobbing—just silent tears, which made him seem even more pitiful, to the point that Xie Ying couldn’t quite bear it.

Xie Ying’s experience with soothing had been limited to quickly petting stray cats on the roadside before withdrawing to avoid being scratched. Awkwardly, he raised his hand and rubbed the back of Jiang Guan’s head. Once he confirmed he wouldn’t scratch, he carefully stroked down his back the way one would smooth a cat’s fur.

Jiang Guan looked thin—and indeed had little flesh. There was a slight hollow along the middle of his back. To be honest, holding him was somewhat uncomfortable. And the texture of a human body was completely different from a fluffy animal. His long hair, half-dried and loose, felt cool and slightly coarse, uneven in places…

Wait.

Xie Ying caught the strange-feeling ends of his hair, rolled them between his fingers, and asked in shock, “What happened to your hair? Did a dog chew it off?”

Jiang Guan: ……

So annoying. Couldn’t this blockhead just let him cry in peace for a while?!

He buried himself into Xie Ying’s neck as if pretending not to hear, but Xie Ying was not so easily fooled. Grabbing him by the collar, he pulled him upright and felt over his head like a blind man examining bones, from crown to nape, rubbing until Jiang Guan felt dizzy and irritated. Finally, he confirmed that Jiang Guan’s hair was missing a large portion for no reason, unevenly cut but with clean edges—clearly severed several times with a sharp blade.

“Come on, stop crying for a moment. Did you cut your own hair? Planning to become a monk just now?”

Jiang Guan thought: he had just set over a dozen halls and temples on the mountain ablaze, flowers of fire blooming everywhere, and now he was supposed to go underground to become a monk—what a novel and logical train of thought. Helan Zhenjia really had nothing to complain about dying at his hands.

With Xie Ying interrupting him again and again, the bitterness in his chest finally faded. After crying so hard, though, his breathing was still uneven, with faint hiccups lingering. Xie Ying opened his mouth, then closed it, swallowing the words “if you’re done crying, let go,” and instead, in that awkward, sticky posture, silently held out his hand.

Jiang Guan wrote carefully in his palm: “Burn the hair into ash; it becomes charcoal residue from blood, which can be used to stop bleeding.”

Xie Ying paused. He moved his shoulder slightly—the long wound from the falling rock had already been treated. Of course, torn flesh soaked in water still hurt, but earlier all his attention had been on his blindness, so he had endured the injury without a word.

So it wasn’t that he was thick-skinned or unusually tolerant of pain—it was because Jiang Guan had treated his wounds that he could now sit and move with relative ease.

It was just… a rather unconventional method. Xie Ying didn’t know whether to praise him for being clever or call him foolish. “Where did you learn that remedy?”

Jiang Guan wrote neatly in his palm: “Qianjin medical commentary.”

Xie Ying didn’t respond. His handsome brows furrowed slightly, likely trying to recall who had written that text. Jiang Guan continued: “No medicine available; only this method could be tried; it works.”

Xie Ying still said nothing, his face dark as a storm cloud.

Receiving no response, Jiang Guan tapped his palm in confusion. Meanwhile, Xie Ying’s hand behind him held the uneven ends of his hair, his mind recalling a fleeting image from the side hall—the jet-black hair adorned with jeweled ornaments, cascading like a waterfall across blue silk.

“Even without herbs, stove ash, incense ash, or even a handful of dirt from the ground could stop bleeding. There’s no need to use something as valuable as hair.”

“Half a foot of hair won’t even burn into much ash. With those cuts, it’ll take at least a year to grow back.” He sighed deeply, then, still dissatisfied, added with exasperation, “The medical text says to collect other people’s hair—not to shave your own head. You’re such an idiot.”

It didn’t quite sound like a complaint, nor entirely like disdain. It was more like helpless reproach.

Jiang Guan: ……

This person had jumped off a cliff without even frowning, yet acted like the sky was falling over a few strands of hair—how could he call someone else stupid? Besides, even ginseng grows back after losing its roots, let alone a normal person.

Annoyed, he drew a cross in Xie Ying’s palm, turned as if to face away, and pretended to cry again, his shoulders trembling.

Xie Ying still had a hold on the back of his neck and pulled him back with ease, rubbing his head. Awkwardly, he explained, “That’s not what I meant. I mean, next time something like this happens, you should consider cutting someone else’s hair first…”

At last, the disadvantage of being unable to see became apparent. His hand missed the crown and instead accidentally touched Jiang Guan’s forehead. Jiang Guan sucked in a breath from the pain and instinctively leaned back. Xie Ying paused, then immediately became alert. “You’re injured on the forehead? From earlier?”

Jiang Guan covered the spot and shook his head.

Xie Ying slowed his movements. This time, his touch was extremely gentle, yet firm as he moved Jiang Guan’s hand aside. His palm brushed lightly across his forehead, feeling a thin scab and a raised swelling. “Did the Ten Aspects Sect do this? Did they slam your head against a wall?”

Jiang Guan hesitated, as if debating whether to tell the truth. After a moment, he still shook his head.

Xie Ying recalled the earlier cliff jump he hadn’t yet questioned and immediately understood. “You did it yourself.”

Jiang Guan had originally worn a jeweled headpiece, which Xie Ying had removed and discarded while changing his clothes. At the time, he hadn’t looked closely and had assumed the strange appearance was part of some bizarre ritual of the Ten Aspects Sect. Now it was clear—the odd face paint, the headpiece—everything had been meant to conceal the injuries on his head.

In his palm came a slight tremor, and a small nod.

The circumstances leading up to it were too complicated to fully recount. He had had his reasons for trying to end his life at that time—after all, who would choose death if they could live well? Jiang Guan didn’t know why he felt guilty, but for some reason, he did.

Perhaps it was because Xie Ying had saved him four times in just half a day. Compared to that mountain-deep merit and relentless spirit, his own desire to give up after some suffering seemed small and insignificant.

————

Perhaps it was also because, even though he had never said it aloud, every action of Xie Ying showed that he valued this life of his—and his feelings—very much, even though he was only a stranger met by chance, and a disabled mute at that.

He quietly raised his hand, then slowly withdrew it, resting it obediently on his knee, feeling there was no need to explain anything further. This life had been saved by the other party—if Xie Ying wanted to scold or lecture him, it would only be natural.

But Xie Ying only asked, “Do you still want to die now?”

Jiang Guan suddenly turned to look at him.

The corner of Xie Ying’s lips curved slightly; a faint, clear smile flickered like ripples on water, as if he had already gotten his answer from that reaction. “Live well.”

Jiang Guan had never thought of himself as weak or prone to tears. On the contrary, he had always considered himself broad-minded and resilient—he was already mute, already pushed to the brink, already at a dead end… if he wasn’t strong, what else could he do?

It seemed all the tears he had saved up over the past decade had been waiting for this day to burst forth. His nose stung, the urge to cry returned, and he clung to Xie Ying again, burying his face into his neck.

Xie Ying: “Again?”

“Why did I even provoke you?” he sighed helplessly, patting Jiang Guan’s back. “Take it easy. If you cry too much, you might end up like me… hey, don’t hit people.”

This troublesome blockhead had quite a knack for making people cry—and for ruining the atmosphere just as easily. Jiang Guan shed a couple more tears, but couldn’t continue. He pulled Xie Ying’s hand over and wrote: Aren’t you sad?

Xie Ying: “I’m not dead.”

Jiang Guan: ……

“As long as you’re alive, there’s always a chance. Once you’re dead, there’s nothing left.” Xie Ying said leisurely. “Besides, even if I can’t see, don’t I still have you? Clearly, heaven doesn’t cut off all paths—we still have hope of getting out.”

In truth, he and Jiang Guan were about the same age—both still considered too young to shoulder heavy burdens in the eyes of others. Yet Xie Ying carried an inexplicable calm that inspired trust. He was clearly better at handling sudden crises.

That attitude of “if the sky falls, then let it fall” soothed Jiang Guan greatly. He gathered himself and wrote solemnly: I’ll take care of you. We’ll get out together.

Xie Ying nodded seriously. “Mm, I’ll be relying on you then, Young Master.”

That sudden remark caught him completely off guard. Jiang Guan’s hand trembled, his fingernail digging hard into the lines of Xie Ying’s palm.

That reaction was no different from a confession—he couldn’t hide anything at all. Xie Ying could almost picture his stiffened expression and found a strange sort of amusement in teasing him, letting out a soft laugh through his nose. “What is it now, Young Master?”

Jiang Guan: ……

Guiltily, he rubbed Xie Ying’s hand and wrote with forced composure: It was an accident.

Xie Ying gave an “oh.” “So it was an accident. I thought I’d guessed right and you were trying to silence me.”

Why was this person always careless when it mattered, yet suddenly nitpicking when he should let things go?!

After spending half a day together, Jiang Guan had more or less grasped Xie Ying’s temperament. Although he could take extreme risks at critical moments, most of the time he was keenly observant and only acted when he was almost certain.

It was just that his timing was terrible—he always struck suddenly at the most sensitive spot, making it hard to breathe.

Jiang Guan was actually a bit curious how Xie Ying had seen through him. Even the Ten Aspects Sect hadn’t noticed anything wrong with his background.

The last stroke of “How did you” trailed off. Unable to endure the ticklish sensation any longer, Xie Ying flipped his hand and pressed down on his. “How did I know?”

“Because you don’t just know how to write—you write very well. You don’t know medicine, yet you can recite medical texts. Your hands have hardly any calluses, your skin is soft, your hair smooth.” He tapped the back of Jiang Guan’s hand and teased, “And though you look quiet, you’re actually very stubborn—proud and unwilling to be humiliated. An ordinary family couldn’t raise someone with a temperament like yours.”

As expected of a seasoned wanderer at such a young age—he could see through a person almost entirely at a glance. Jiang Guan lowered his head, looked at his own hands, then pulled Xie Ying’s hand over and wrote: What about you?

Xie Ying: “What about me?”

Jiang Guan: Your identity.

Xie Ying: “Weren’t you there when Helan Zhenjia died just now?”

Jiang Guan took a breath, suppressing the urge to punch him, and continued writing: Longsha.

Back then, he had heard Xie Ying say “see you in Bihan City,” so his deduction wasn’t wrong. But his identity was sensitive and couldn’t be explained in detail, so Xie Ying brushed it off casually: “We’ll settle this job in Bihan City. We assassins wander the world.”

Then how will I find you in the future?

Jiang Guan naturally understood the implication and lowered his gaze in disappointment. Xie Ying’s identity was special, and now that he had completely offended the Ten Aspects Sect, he would likely face countless dangers ahead—yet Jiang Guan could do nothing to help.

Xie Ying, however, had no concept of repaying favors in his mind and didn’t notice his subtle thoughts. Instead, he asked, “Since your background isn’t poor, how did you end up in the Ten Aspects Sect?”

Jiang Guan wrote gloomily: Fell off a cliff. Saved by villagers. Sect entered village to demand tribute. Offered true spirit.

“And then?”

To convey as much information as possible with as few words as he could, Jiang Guan wrote in very concise phrases. Xie Ying had to decipher and analyze them bit by bit—harder than reading an epitaph. But deep underground, with no sense of time, they had nothing else to do. One gestured, the other guessed, piecing together the story of what had happened. It didn’t feel long or tedious at all.

However, Xie Ying was still injured, and his strength was waning. Before long, fatigue showed on his face. By the firelight, Jiang Guan saw the crease between his brows and reached out, gently smoothing it with his fingertips. Xie Ying, half-closing his eyes, tilted his head slightly without avoiding him and asked softly, “What is it?”

Jiang Guan wrote in his palm: Sleep.

Xie Ying: “If I sleep, what about you?”

Jiang Guan wrote: I’ll keep watch.

Xie Ying gave a faint laugh, his voice carrying a hint of drowsy softness. “Won’t you be afraid alone, Young Master?”

The Young Master thought: not as frightening as someone who’s already become a sick cat yet still insists on acting tough.

Perhaps because of that earlier bout of crying, Xie Ying had developed some misunderstanding about him. Jiang Guan felt that instead of treating him like a Young Master, Xie Ying was treating him more like a delicate young lady.

Too lazy to argue with an injured man, Jiang Guan simply reached out and covered Xie Ying’s eyes.

His long lashes fluttered restlessly a few times, like a butterfly exhausted from flight, before finally settling in the palm.

With his eyes covered, the exposed half of Xie Ying’s face showed an obvious pallor and exhaustion.

No matter how mature he seemed, he was still just a young man—gravely injured and suddenly thrown into such circumstances. How could he not feel shaken? It was only because Jiang Guan beside him was even more unsettled that Xie Ying had forced himself to remain the steady pillar for both of them.

Jiang Guan’s gaze lingered over the wounded young assassin. His lips moved slightly as he silently said:

“Sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

“My hero.”

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