When Jiang Shining fell silent, Xue Xian looked at him askance. “Lost your tongue?”
Jiang Shining quietly retreated into the pouch, muttering in a muffled voice, “Just recalling some old affairs.”
“What old affairs?”
“There was bad blood between my family’s clinic and Scribe Liu.”
“What kind of bad blood?”
Jiang Shining was quiet for a long time before he whispered, “The sort involving deaths.”
Calling a matter of deaths mere “bad blood” seemed to Xue Xian to be underselling it. Before he could inquire further, Xuanmin turned and focused on a side door.
“Who’s behind the wall?” he asked.
He was referring to a narrow door in the side corridor of the courtyard. Behind the door was a narrow path wedged between the fire-prevention walls. It was oddly placed and hidden away—easily overlooked if one wasn’t careful.
As if in answer, a thud came from behind the door. It sounded like someone had stepped on a loose tile, jarring it.
Scribe Liu’s expression wavered, and he forced a laugh. “Just one of the side wings, part of my residence. It’s nothing, nothing at all. Why don’t you come inside, Mas—” His attempt to redirect Xuanmin’s attention back to the main residence was ruined when someone poked his head out from behind the narrow door. “Tch. What are you doing out here?” Scribe Liu snapped.
He was speaking to a young man dressed in a padded robe, its color blue-gray. He looked about twenty years old, roughly the same age as Xuanmin. However, there was something peculiar about his expression. He clutched at the doorframe with both hands, his gaze timid yet curious, almost like a child peeking at guests. Befuddled at Scribe Liu’s scolding, he shrank back behind the door, but not completely. Half his face remained visible.
Without lanterns illuminating that area, Xue Xian couldn’t get a clear look at the young man’s face. Still, his instincts told him that this man was connected to Scribe Liu somehow.
“Who is he? Do you recognize him?” Xue Xian whispered to Jiang Shining.
Jiang Shining didn’t even glance at the man in question. “I’ve never been to the Scribe’s residence,” he said feebly. “How am I supposed to recognize anyone?”
Xuanmin frowned at Scribe Liu, whose expression was notably strained, then started walking over to the narrow door.
“Hey, hey, Master—” Scribe Liu exclaimed. He’d never seen a monk behave so brazenly toward his host. “He’s harmless, really,” he called as he followed Xuanmin. “That’s my disappointment of an eldest son, Liu Chong. Just family, nothing suspicious.”
Fearful that his problematic son might embarrass him in front of outsiders, Scribe Liu waved his hand at Liu Chong behind the door, as if coaxing or shooing him away. “Chong-er, be good and return to your house. Dad has important business to discuss with the Master.”
At this, Xuanmin shot Scribe Liu another cool glance. “You had someone design ‘Winding Waters Grace the Hall’ for your front hall. That requires preventing the flow of wind from east to west and amassing qi between north and south, thus balancing yin and yang. However, your west side is open.”
On top of that, the southwest corner was cramped and dark, thus brimming with yin energy. The yin and yang here were clearly out of balance!
As Xuanmin spoke, Xue Xian glanced at the dark and gloomy path behind the small door.
Either Scribe Liu hired a hack to design the layout, or he added this path himself later, he thought.
Sure enough, Scribe Liu’s expression grew strained hearing Xuanmin’s assessment. “To be honest, well, this path was added afterward.”
While he spoke, Xuanmin had already crossed the threshold to stand behind the narrow door. When Liu Chong, Scribe Liu’s eldest son, saw their guest approach him, he shrank back a few steps while holding the wall before smiling shyly at Xuanmin.
Xue Xian noticed Liu Chong’s stumbling steps. He didn’t seem ill, simply slow and clumsy. He wasn’t bad-looking either. With one glance, Xue Xian saw that he took after his mother with his fair skin and large eyes. His face should have seemed spirited and quite charming when he smiled, but due to the naivete in his expression, it had a foolish tinge instead. Liu Chong evidently suffered from a mental disability.
Till this point, Xuanmin had remained indifferent to Scribe Liu’s alternating brusqueness and bonhomie. Faced with this smiling fool, Xuanmin seemed to grasp the concept of courtesy, and he nodded at Liu Chong. Though his demeanor still lacked warmth, it at least counted as a response.
Scribe Liu flushed a little purple. To Xuanmin, he, a county scribe, was below a fool!
Xue Xian peeked further out from the pouch to better observe. Lying at the end of the narrow path wasn’t a dead end, but a rather unremarkable building. It was a shabby-looking thing, resembling a firewood shed. However, Xue Xian saw Liu Chong timidly retreating toward it.
When a child with little knowledge of the world encountered a stranger, they’d flee to the place they felt safest: either their parents’ side or their room. This was something Xue Xian had observed while mingling with humans for six months. Liu Chong was clearly doing the latter.
Immediately, Xue Xian thought Scribe Liu rather strange—what kind of father would allow his son to live in such a dark and forsaken place? Was he raising his son like a rat? That little house was soaked in oppressive yin energy. If he hadn’t seen that Liu Chong lived here with his own eyes, he would have thought it a burial mound.
Scribe Liu’s shifty behavior earlier was likely from fear that Xuanmin would discover this shed, but Xuanmin had found it anyway. Now, Scribe Liu could only roll with it and try to explain himself.
“My son is a bit odd. He dislikes noise and insists on living somewhere quiet.”
What a load of tripe! Xue Xian thought. Why not send him to live in the cemetery outside the city? That’s as peaceful and quiet as you can get, and the yin energy isn’t as bad as it is here.
Even Scribe Liu seemed embarrassed at the nonsense he’d just spouted. He coughed and tried to change the subject. “You mentioned the west side being open. Was that referring to this path?”
“The building as well,” said Xuanmin.
“If I had someone seal up the window on the south wall, would that close the west side?” asked Scribe Liu.
“Seal up?” Xuanmin echoed, his tone icy. He frowned, pointing at Liu Chong. “Does he not need to breathe?”
“Ah, that’s… I didn’t think of that. My mistake.”
Xue Xian’s opinion of Scribe Liu had plummeted over these few exchanges. His eldest son was simply a bit slow, yet the father seemed to care nothing for his well-being. Scribe Liu’s flustered expression at Xuanmin’s question was ridiculous. It seemed he hadn’t considered the idea of relocating Liu Chong before sealing the opening.
As the sky brightened further, the rest of the courtyard seemed to sharpen, the contours growing clear as if washed with water. Only this little shack remained a murky mass in the dark.
Like Xue Xian, Xuanmin had also noticed the unusual level of yin energy in the area. Without another glance at Scribe Liu, he strode toward the little shack.
Liu Chong scratched his head, apparently confused as to why the guest was heading to his house. For a long moment, he stood there, bewildered. Then, his eyes brightened like he’d spotted a new playmate, and he stumbled forward, using the wall for support as he chased after Xuanmin.
Despite being in his twenties, Liu Chong remained childish, and his gait was unsteady. While trying to stay shoulder to shoulder with Xuanmin, he sometimes stumbled too far ahead or fell behind, but the whole time, his eyes remained fixed on Xuanmin’s waist as if he’d spotted something fun and exciting. Not once did he look away.
Liu Chong was focused on the opening of the hidden pouch where Xue Xian lay.
Xue Xian felt himself bristle at Liu Chong’s stare. Unfortunately, Xue Xian hadn’t retreated in time, and now he couldn’t even if he wanted to. Like he could move while this fool was staring at him! It’d be one thing if he made Liu Chong cry, but what if he got worked up and did something rash?
If that happened, Xue Xian would really be in trouble.