Futile Devices Scans

In the days that followed, Jiang Guan went into the mountains every day to search for prey. His skills improved steadily, becoming more and more proficient; under expert guidance, he even learned how to scoop out bird eggs, catch loaches, and raid squirrel nests.

With such a vast wilderness full of opportunity, it looked as though Jiang Guan was on the verge of becoming a small tyrant of the mountains. Xie Ying’s worries about him also shifted—from “Can he survive in the wild, find food, and return safely?” to “Will he end up provoking retaliation from wild animals after bullying everything in the mountains?”

As it turned out, one should not dwell too much on such thoughts. Just as the idea passed through his mind, a strong wind suddenly rose outside, whipping up countless leaves and branches with a rustling roar. The earthy scent in the air flooded his nose, and distant thunder rumbled faintly within the clouds.

The bit of clarity that had begun to return to Xie Ying’s vision over the past two days sank back into murky dimness, but this time he knew it was not his body acting up.

In summer, the weather shifts unpredictably—this was a sign that heavy rain was about to fall. He pushed himself up and, relying on the memory he had built over the past few days, managed to walk to the cave entrance without his makeshift cane. The cool wind, mixed with needle-fine raindrops, struck his face, which felt as cold as still water.

Jiang Guan was still somewhere in the mountains—would he make it back before the rain grew heavier? What if he were trapped out there by the downpour? Would he find shelter? Would he foolishly stand under a tree and get struck by lightning?

It wasn’t that Xie Ying was idly cursing him—rather, their earlier life-and-death escape, full of desperate flights and cliff dives, had left him with an almost superstitious level of anxiety about Jiang Guan’s luck, especially when it came to events governed purely by fate.

If it were anyone else, he would think such worries overly sentimental—but when it came to Jiang Guan, it became a case of “once bitten by a snake, one fears ropes for ten years.” The circumstances had been so bizarre that he could not help but believe in ill omens.

Rain roared across the vast wilderness, almost drowning out every other sound in the world.

Xie Ying stood silently at the cave entrance, anxiety smoldering within him like a slow fire. His reason sizzled and melted away under the pressure. Neither wind nor rain could fully cool him—his face revealed nothing, but his hand had already tightened around the sword sheath—

Smack! Smack!

Xie Ying’s ears twitched. He had just caught the sound of footsteps splashing through puddles when a gust of wind—different from the surrounding currents—swept toward him.

Jiang Guan appeared, holding a large leaf in one hand and a bundle wrapped in leaves in the other. He was completely drenched, water clinging to his eyelashes. He could barely make out Xie Ying’s vague silhouette through the curtain of rain. With no hands free, he simply rushed forward and used his body to briefly shield Xie Ying from the wind and rain.

“You’re back?”

Before Xie Ying’s hand could touch him, it was seized midair.

Jiang Guan tossed aside the leaf, grabbed his hand, and pulled him into the dry cave—nearly sending the unsuspecting blind man flying—and quickly wrote in his palm: Why are you standing in the rain?

The strokes carried some force, almost like a reprimand. Yet even when he was angry, he was like a small animal batting at someone with soft paws, claws carefully hidden—there was no real intimidation.

“You’re soaked yourself, and you’re questioning me?” Xie Ying ignored the question, instead tracing up Jiang Guan’s wet wrist and countering, “Was there nowhere in the mountains to take shelter? Running around in the rain like this—what if you slipped and fell?”

Though his tone sounded stern, Jiang Guan blinked water from his lashes and looked at him—at his furrowed brows, tightly pressed lips, stiff expression, and the droplets hanging from his hair—and silently smiled.

Even without seeing it, Xie Ying seemed to sense the smile and said coldly, “You’re still laughing? Is this a joke? If you’d fallen somewhere remote where no one could hear you call for help, I—”

Afraid you’d worry.

The words, traced into his palm along with lingering dampness, cut off his scolding mid-sentence.

Jiang Guan wrote with the solemnity of engraving a plaque—something meant to hang over a doorway for a hundred years.

“……”

Xie Ying took a deep breath and said with restraint, “If you’re afraid I’ll worry, then stop risking your life. Go inside and start a fire—don’t catch a chill. Are you trying to become a river god instead of a mountain spirit?”

Jiang Guan retaliated by shaking his head like a drenched dog, spraying water everywhere. Xie Ying was caught off guard and nearly shoved him into the cave wall, but stopped halfway and sighed, “Fine. As long as you don’t get struck by lightning, we can chalk everything else up to your brain being waterlogged… Young Master, can you focus on something serious for once—stop playing around!”

Before he finished speaking, Jiang Guan stumbled and fell against him. Xie Ying braced him with his shoulder and let out a knowing snort. “Serves you right—feeling dizzy now, aren’t you?”

Jiang Guan: …

After one storm, it felt as though one and a half people had been soaked. They sat by the fire to warm up. Jiang Guan wore Xie Ying’s outer robe and slowly sipped hot water from a bamboo tube, with some perilla added to dispel cold. Xie Ying listened to the rain outside, a faint trace of worry lingering between his brows—so subtle it was almost invisible.

Jiang Guan nudged his hand and wrote: What’s wrong?

“The rain is heavy,” Xie Ying said. “Let’s hope it doesn’t last too long.”

Jiang Guan looked around, estimated their supplies, and reported: Food for two days, firewood for one.

Xie Ying frowned. “That’s not the biggest concern. I’m more worried about these cursed mountains of Yan Yuan—what if the rain triggers a landslide…”

Jiang Guan hurriedly covered his mouth, pleading for him to stop saying such ominous things.

His hand, warmed by the bamboo tube, carried a faint fresh scent of bamboo. Perhaps because they had grown accustomed to touching each other often, Xie Ying did not pull away. He simply grasped Jiang Guan’s wrist lightly and lowered it, saying with mild helplessness, “You’re the one who asked, yet you won’t let me speak… Either way, stay alert tonight. If anything seems off, run immediately.”

Jiang Guan squeezed his hand firmly, conveying: Don’t worry. Even if I have to carry you, I’ll take you with me.

Xie Ying was baffled. “What are you doing? Trying to arm-wrestle me?”

Jiang Guan: …

Now it was his turn to worry in earnest. After all, during heavy rain, floods would carry away wooden logs first—perhaps he should just tie Xie Ying to his belt.

The past two nights, Xie Ying had slept deeply, likely due to his injuries. Though there had been occasional noises outside, he had not awakened often. But tonight, with the rain coming and going, and with heightened vigilance, his keen hearing kept him from sleeping at all.

He calmed his mind, resting with his eyes closed, listening to Jiang Guan’s steady breathing nearby. After an unknown amount of time, the wind shifted from a low growl to a fierce howl. A blinding flash of lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the mountains, followed by a thunderclap that exploded overhead like a whip cracking beside his ear.

The entire cave trembled under the blast, dust falling from cracks in the rock. Even lying down, Xie Ying could feel the ground shaking. Unable to sleep, he turned over and sat up, staring anxiously—through his blurred vision—toward the cave entrance.

Lightning flashed repeatedly, thunder rolling in waves—near and far—crashing through the vast mountain sky. The echoes reverberated endlessly, making one wonder whether the cave might collapse under the force of it all.

More strangely, even with thunder crashing and lightning tearing across the sky outside, Jiang Guan still hadn’t woken up.

His breathing became rapid, as if his throat were being constricted, gasping violently for air. His limbs twitched uncontrollably, as though he were trapped in some nightmare.

Afraid he might suffocate himself in his sleep, Xie Ying had just moved closer to wake him when Jiang Guan suddenly let out a short, sharp scream. His whole body froze for a split second, then—like a fish thrown alive into boiling water—he sprang up from the crude bed of straw, dizzy and disoriented, and stumbled away in the opposite direction from Xie Ying, falling heavily.

A scream.

Some people born deaf and mute can still produce sounds, though they cannot speak properly; but Jiang Guan was the kind of mute who could not make any sound at all. Even when hanging on the edge of a cliff between life and death, he had never made such a clear noise.

Xie Ying froze, his outstretched hand hanging in midair. Before he could process how Jiang Guan had suddenly made a sound, he heard the dull thud of him hitting the ground—clearly a hard fall. He quickly called out, “Jiang Guan? What’s wrong?”

Usually, Jiang Guan would come over immediately at the slightest call, but this time he did not respond.

He stayed several steps away, breathing in uneven, trembling gasps, his panting even carrying a sharp, uncontrollable wheeze like a broken bellows about to fall apart. The near-death terror from his dream still fought for control over his limbs. He stared fixedly at that slender hand—but what flashed before his eyes was the fragmented image of it coming down toward him, clamping around his throat and tightening.

Outside, thunder roared and rain poured. It felt as though the world itself were being torn apart and drowned in the storm. The deafening rain swallowed his faint struggles and cries for help. Lightning etched that figure against the pale wall, searing it deep into his terrified eyes.

His bloodless, freezing fingers clutched at his own throat, yet he could still feel a phantom warmth—why could he not draw breath no matter how desperately he gasped? Why, even as he screamed in despair, could he not produce a single sound?

Why could no one hear him, notice him… save him.

“…Jiang Guan?”

“Xiao Guan!”

A sharp call suddenly pierced through the chaotic rain, like a needle stabbing into his ears. Jiang Guan jerked his head up in confusion, unable to distinguish dream from reality. All he saw was that hand—which had just hovered above his throat—turning over, palm facing upward, open and relaxed, harmless. It was an invitation.

That voice was young and clear, each word steady and unhurried, carrying a calming force: “Come here.”

That hand seemed different from the one in his memory. Its bones were distinct, its fingers long and strong—but it was not cold, nor constantly tense. It carried a faint scent of weathered steel, always patiently supporting his fingertips, waiting for him to slowly write what he wanted to say.

He recognized the thin calluses and lines in that palm. He also remembered how blood had once run along it, tracing the veins on the back of the hand.

The hand that had choked him in the rain had been cold; the hand that now held his fingers, covered in blood, had come to save him.

The terror gripping Jiang Guan’s eyes finally loosened slightly. A trace of life returned to his gaze. No longer fixated on that hand like a man possessed, his eyes trembled upward, cautiously lifting to look at the youth kneeling a few steps away.

Xie Ying’s expression was calm. He was not startled by Jiang Guan’s midnight outburst, nor did he show any probing, disgust, or suspicion. His gaze was directed steadily toward him, and in the flickering firelight, it even seemed faintly gentle.

—Of course, that was only because he couldn’t see, and because he assumed that if the Young Master was afraid of thunder or startled by a nightmare, it was perfectly normal. After all, this was someone so delicate he didn’t even dare kill a fish.

“Xiao Guan,” he said, “come here.”

As if waking from a dream, Jiang Guan scrambled up from the corner and staggered toward the one person in this world he did not need to fear.

Xie Ying opened his arms at just the right moment and caught him fully. The unlucky boy was trembling all over, his body heat seeping through their clothes against Xie Ying’s chest—too warm.

Xie Ying wanted to check his temperature, but Jiang Guan held him too tightly, so he simply grabbed the back of his neck and lifted him slightly, pressing their foreheads together. “Your hands are ice cold, but your forehead’s burning hot—you’ve got a fever, idiot.”

Jiang Guan weakly buried his face back into his shoulder, his nose tucked into the cool softness of his hair. Like clutching a warm quilt on a winter night, he gradually calmed within that indescribable warmth and steadiness.

“Did you cry?” Xie Ying let him cling on, one hand still soothing his back. “High fevers can cause convulsions and nightmares. They’re all fake—no need to be afraid.”

As if out of instinctive self-protection, Jiang Guan didn’t want to answer, nor recall any part of the dream. He simply rubbed his dry eyes against Xie Ying’s cheek, signaling that he hadn’t cried.

Xie Ying let out a short, soft laugh—whether from the ticklish feeling or mild amusement, it was unclear. “You’re burning like a furnace. Lie down and go back to sleep.”

As his words settled, the weakness in Jiang Guan’s limbs from the fever and tension returned to normal sensation. But he had no desire to let go. He shook his head slightly, clinging tighter—like a lump of warm, half-melted sugar, or some harmless swamp that held Xie Ying firmly in place.

Xie Ying sighed in exasperation. “In the middle of summer, you want me to hold a furnace? You’re warm enough—aren’t you worried I’ll get heatstroke…?”

Outside, rain poured and thunder roared. Yet after Jiang Guan calmed down, the frightening storm instead became almost lulling. Sleepiness overtook him. He tried to drag Xie Ying down onto the straw bedding, but couldn’t budge him.

Xie Ying: …

Has he really burned his brain out?

Am I really going to indulge him like this?

Xie Ying asked himself—he was blind and already limited in movement, but that didn’t mean he needed someone to sleep with him. Jiang Guan only had a mild fever—why should they have to sleep holding each other? Couldn’t he sleep on his own?

At that moment, Jiang Guan shifted slightly, apparently uncomfortable from staying in one position too long. The movement pulled at the spot where he had fallen earlier, and he let out a small, aggrieved sound against Xie Ying’s shoulder.

Xie Ying: …

He had seemed calm earlier, but in truth he had been tense, unsure how much Jiang Guan trusted him. Jiang Guan’s reaction had answered that question clearly.

Xie Ying could resist any deliberate coaxing—but unconscious closeness and dependence were harder to refuse. Instinctive reactions, unfiltered by thought, were the most disarming.

“Fine, I give up.”

He helped Jiang Guan lie down, but was pulled along by the arm wrapped around his waist and ended up falling beside him.

A pitiful blind man who couldn’t even fight back—he could only let Jiang Guan grab his wrist, their fingers slowly threading together until they fit perfectly, ten fingers interlocked. Only then did Jiang Guan hug him contentedly and fall asleep.

Xie Ying: “……”

The next morning, the rain had passed and the sky was clear. The bright blue heavens and blazing sunlight proved that Xie Ying was not, in fact, a jinx. Jiang Guan, having tossed and turned half the night, slept straight through until noon. When he woke, his arms were empty, and Xie Ying’s outer robe lay draped over him.

He sprang up, still slightly dizzy, and looked around for him—only to find, to his surprise, that Xie Ying was not meditating. Instead, he had somehow obtained a piece of bamboo and was carving it slowly with a small knife.

Back at the Ten Aspects Sect headquarters, Xie Ying had already carried a sword and hadn’t bothered searching the second guard thoroughly. He had only taken the man’s clothes. The guard’s sleeve pouch had no proper weapon—only a decorative small blade, useless for chopping wood or hunting, but perfect for passing the time.

Hearing Jiang Guan move, Xie Ying lifted his head in the correct direction. Somehow, it felt as though he could already “see” him.

“You’re awake?” Xie Ying said lightly. “Go drink the water in the bamboo tube.”

Inside was hot water infused with perilla—mild enough to drink. Jiang Guan crouched beside him with the bamboo cup, watching him work. Despite literally “working blind,” Xie Ying’s craftsmanship was surprisingly skillful—a bamboo whistle had already taken shape.

Xie Ying smoothed the rough edges, brushed off the wood shavings, and handed it to him. “Try it.”

Jiang Guan took it and blew. A sharp, piercing whistle rang out, echoing across the mountains and even producing a lingering resonance through the valley. Birds burst into flight all around, and Xie Ying tilted his head slightly. “Just woke up and already that energetic, Young Master.”

Jiang Guan was startled too and shrank back beside him, confused, lightly pressing his palm. Xie Ying explained, “Take it with you next time you go out. If you run into danger, blow the whistle. I’ll hear it and come find you.”

Their clasped hands trembled slightly—the little whistle clearly pleased him. Jiang Guan smiled and wrote: You can’t see—how will you find me?

Xie Ying could already tell from his phrasing that he was acting a little spoiled. He answered patiently, “I can locate you by sound—but you’ll have to keep blowing.”

Jiang Guan wrote again: What if you find me, but can’t beat them?

Without hesitation, Xie Ying replied calmly, “Then we die together.”

Jiang Guan: …

How could someone say something so ominous as if it were a vow of love? Why did he sound so calm, as though “living and dying together” were no different from “if there are no peaches, pears will do”?

His eyes were smiling, but the corners of his mouth drooped as if holding back tears. Still unwilling to accept it, he wrote: Do you say that to everyone?

Of course not.

Xie Ying was an assassin, not a bodhisattva. Saving someone at the risk of his own life did not obligate him to provide endless care afterward.

In a situation like this, mutual support for survival was the only option—but whether that became polite distance or true reliance depended on whether their temperaments matched.

Someone who would struggle desperately to shake off his hand rather than drag him into death would also offer clumsy sincerity, and laugh and cry vividly. The extra patience and tolerance Xie Ying showed him had already taken root long before he consciously decided it.

After all, Xie Ying’s heart was made of flesh—not stone.

He withdrew his hand, which had been tickled by the writing, and said casually, “You wrote too fast. I didn’t understand.”

Jiang Guan: ?

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