The two entered the bedroom. Bright windows kept it clean and clear, while a large enclosed canopy bed, almost like a little room of its own, occupied much of the space. Mist-blue embroidered curtains draped around it.
If Ren Yijue had not been able to sense the complete absence of human presence, he might almost have believed the master of the room was merely still asleep behind those blue gauze curtains.
Apart from the bed, the room contained a wardrobe, dressing table, writing desk, round stools, and every other ordinary piece of furniture. The most striking object, however, was an exquisite sword rack.
The rack was broad and square, shaped like rolling waves and carved with such fine detail that its patterns seemed to flow. A treasured sword rested upon it.
The sword remained inside its sheath and could not be seen, yet its sword aura seemed to pierce straight into the heavens, enough to command awe at a glance. For some reason, however, Ren Yijue kept feeling as though the sword itself carried a note of grief.
The enormous rack stood against the wall. Above it hung a small portrait of a man holding a horsetail whisk. He looked only thirty or so, with a handsome but somewhat understated face. Yet a touch of pride at the corners of his brows and eyes made him seem disdainful of everything beneath him.
The artist had clearly been a master. The man’s features looked almost alive, as though he were gazing down from the paper at whoever stood before the portrait. A visitor with less courage might easily have felt intimidated.
Ren Yijue assumed this must be Qian Xuelang’s master and could not resist thinking wryly, If master and disciple stood together, one proud and aloof, the other cold as frost, I wonder who would dare go up and speak to either of them.
“That is my master,” Qian Xuelang said. “He disliked conventional courtesies. You meant well in coming, but seeing him is enough.”
Ren Yijue burst out laughing. Not merely incense and formal offerings, even a greeting could be omitted. Looking carefully from the possessions in the room to the man in the portrait, Ren Yijue would have expected this Senior to be someone meticulous and particular. He had not imagined the man’s temperament would be so unconstrained.
“May I ask Senior’s name?”
“My master was called He Tianjun.”
Earlier, Qian Xuelang had left Honglu on a table outside and brought the horsetail whisk in with him. Now he raised his hand. The white strands, soft and fine as snow, swept lightly across the portrait.
There was no dust on it, yet Qian Xuelang still gently brushed both the painting and the sword rack, considering that sufficient greeting for his master.
Ren Yijue thought for a moment, but the name stirred no memory. He could not help finding that strange. “How odd. I don’t believe I have ever heard of him.”
“What is strange about that?” Qian Xuelang said. “No one keeps thinking about a dead man. No matter how famous he was while alive, few will remember him once he is gone. Several decades have passed already. People have always concerned themselves only with the living, and sometimes they do not even concern themselves with those.”
The words were cold and absolute. Ren Yijue was naturally rich in feeling, and a trace of desolation welled up in his heart. Sorrow appeared openly on his face. “True. Across all of history, how many people have ever been remembered by all living beings?”
Qian Xuelang studied the sadness on Ren Yijue’s face carefully, unable to understand where it had come from. He had once thought Feng Yinming unusually fond of theatrics. Looking at Ren Yijue now, Feng Yinming did not compare at all.
A sudden curiosity arose in him.
“Then what about you?”
For all Ren Yijue’s extraordinary intelligence, the question still left him completely baffled. “What?”
“In Yunmeng Marsh, you may not yet have made much of a name for yourself. But near Liuyanzhu, your reputation is greater than that of the distant Zhaoying Sword Sect, is it not? Mister Cangyuan.”
Ren Yijue’s expression tightened slightly.
Qian Xuelang might have lived secluded on a snowy mountain for years, but he was not entirely ignorant of worldly affairs. Before receiving the Heavenly Mandate, he had known only that a mysterious figure called Mister Cangyuan had appeared near Liuyanzhu in recent years.
Liuyanzhu was saturated with demonic qi. Its environment was extremely harsh, and the demonic qi also stirred the seven emotions and six desires, driving people into greater agitation and violence than usual. For that reason, almost no immortal sect wished to take responsibility for the region. It had become a place beyond anyone’s jurisdiction.
Purity and defilement were two sides of the same whole. Since the immortal sects detested and avoided this place, it became a refuge for those who had nowhere else to go, or who were fleeing obligations and crimes. Most such people were already at the end of their road, accustomed to living with blood on the blade. Once gathered in Liuyanzhu and corroded further by demonic qi, they became even more violent. None would submit to another, and over time mutual slaughter became common. Without genuine ability, survival in Liuyanzhu was exceedingly difficult.
Mister Cangyuan had appeared seven years ago in Jingyuan, near Liuyanzhu. He lived year-round at the bottom of the abyss, rescuing those who fell into it or arrived gravely injured. His cultivation was exceptionally high, his abilities formidable, and his mind both wise and keen. Ordinary plots and traps could not deceive him.
Among the people of Liuyanzhu, some had received his kindness while others had suffered at his hands. Gradually, a custom formed. Unless the dispute was a battle to the death, ordinary grudges and feuds were brought before Mister Cangyuan for judgment.
As a result, the chaos of Liuyanzhu changed considerably. It could not compare with the orderly governance of the immortal sects outside, but beside the misery of Liuyanzhu’s past, it had become remarkably peaceful.
And the Ren Yijue whom Qian Xuelang had seen in the Heavenly Mandate was Mister Cangyuan himself.
“You…”
Ren Yijue had never told another person this identity. To have someone expose it in a single sentence, especially Qian Xuelang, who lived hidden deep in the mountains, naturally horrified him.
Qian Xuelang had no intention of threatening or frightening him. “Ren Yijue may be an unknown junior, but Mister Cangyuan carries enormous weight. If the Zhaoying Sword Sect knew you possessed this other identity, they certainly would not dare slight you.”
“They never slighted me,” Ren Yijue said. His heart was still shaken with doubt, though his face remained composed.
Qian Xuelang said calmly, “If you will not speak honestly, then forget it.”
He toyed with the horsetail whisk for a moment, smoothing its tail back into place, then turned toward the outer room.
Ren Yijue asked, “May I know how Your Excellency arrived at such a guess?”
The question was cautious and precise. He neither admitted nor denied anything, leaving himself ample room to maneuver.
“You will not tell me the truth. Why should I tell you?” Qian Xuelang had already reached the doorway. He turned his head and glanced back. His own curiosity had gone unanswered, but seeing Ren Yijue thoroughly unsettled was unexpectedly interesting. “Even if I told you, would you truly believe me?”
Qian Xuelang had never possessed much love or dislike. Whether he told Ren Yijue made little difference, and whether he received an answer was equally unimportant.
But if Ren Yijue did not intend to satisfy him, why should he insist on satisfying Ren Yijue?
Besides, watching Ren Yijue become angry was always rather interesting.
Qian Xuelang had discovered that while they watched the moon that night.
This man always presented himself as a proper and upright gentleman, yet what lived in his heart and eyes was entirely different.
Joy and anger, sorrow and delight, worry and fear, arrogance and abandon, inconsistency and change were all natural parts of being human. Why hide them? No one was going to laugh at him or rebuke him. He was clearly still so young, yet he resembled the ancient trees outside, old almost to death, unable to show even a trace of living vitality.
He was obviously so full of feeling. Why, then, was he so unhappy and so constrained?
Could emotion really be such an impossible thing to grasp?
Yes. He had seen it before.
Qian Xuelang could not help sighing.
Ren Yijue followed him into the outer room. He wanted to ask about his own secret, yet had no idea how to begin, so he simply changed the subject. “Why did Your Excellency sigh? Mm, I am asking sincerely this time. Will you tell me?”
With anyone else, after their conversation had just failed so badly, the atmosphere would have been awkward and Ren Yijue would never have asked so boldly.
But Qian Xuelang was Qian Xuelang, unlike anyone else. After spending these days with him, Ren Yijue felt that his own skin had thickened considerably. He had already learned how to deal with Qian Xuelang by “addressing the matter itself.”
He blinked. He possessed a natural air of easy elegance, his words honeyed and gentle, offering the other man a perfectly soft stair down from the awkwardness, almost impossible to refuse.
If Qian Xuelang refused to take the stair Ren Yijue had offered, it would almost make him seem petty and unwilling to let the matter go.
Qian Xuelang stepped down it quite readily. “Looking at you reminded me of someone.”