EVER SINCE SHEN SAN’S NONSENSE had complicated everything with the specter of romance, the easy comfort they’d shared had faded. While playing Go, they tried to avoid looking at each other and just focus on the match instead. When they chatted, it felt—at least to Shen San—as if they had to search for things to talk about.
It was all very awkward.
But at the same time, his leg healed quickly. Shen San was a rough man, accustomed to cuts and stab wounds. The broken bone healed in well under the time it would take for ordinary folk, and then there were a few days of hobbling around after the splint came off. In no time, he was back to running and jumping easily. With his limbs all back in working order, there was no more reason for him to spend his days under someone else’s roof. Besides, he still had things that had to be taken care of.
A day came when, as Yao-xiong watered the medicinal herbs in the garden behind the hut, Shen San packed up his things. He stood beneath the eaves, zoning out as he watched Yao-xiong busying himself among the plants. When Yao-xiong turned, their eyes happened to meet, and they both froze.
Yao-xiong stood up. Surrounded by the herbs, he was first to speak. “Are you leaving?”
“Mnh,” Shen San answered and then found himself wanting to explain further, even if it was unnecessary. “I was tasked with sending Lord Wang’s widow and son across the river. I don’t know how they’re doing, so I need to check in on them. And after the Mid-Autumn Festival, Assistant Minister Zhang will be leaving for the northern border. We shared drinks once, so I must ensure he arrives safely.”
Yao-xiong stood stone-still before finally opening his mouth. “I…”
You and I shared drinks once too.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing.” Yao-xiong lowered his head. “Then we’ll meet again.”
The lives of the people of the jianghu were like grass. They never spoke of parting or leaving. Shen San looked down, adjusted the sword on his back, and walked across the courtyard. When he reached the gate, he suddenly stopped. He turned back to look at Yao-xiong, who was watching him go. “A great kindness should be repaid with action, not words. I’ll remember everything you’ve done for me. Once I’ve dealt with those things, I’ll come back and bring a couple jars of good wine with me, and then…then…”
His tongue, usually so nimble, failed him. Cold sweat broke out all over his back. As it evaporated, heat suffused his neck and then his ears, steaming him until he stammered. “Th-then, I-I’ll be yours to command.”
Yao-xiong seemed to laugh, but the sound was tinged with melancholy. Shen San gave him a searching glance, then took his leave.
He walked along the river for hundreds of meters before turning back to give the little thatched hut and its garden one last look from afar. As he walked, his legs felt heavy and there was an emptiness in his heart. He couldn’t summon any real energy; even his heartbeat felt like it was just going through the motions. It was as if a rope lay around his neck, trying to drag him back to the place he was leaving behind.
Master Shen San, who could come and go without leaving any trace, was no longer decisive, unrestrained, and free. He now knew he had well and truly fallen for the yao’s tricks. His very soul was held hostage.
He had to return.
5
AT THE END of the ninth lunar month, as autumn settled deep into the earth, the grass and trees withered.
Shen San’s sword broke.
He’d had the blade forged by a random roadside blacksmith, and it wasn’t worth much, so he wasn’t especially upset to lose it. He just dug a hole and filled it with the corpses of the people who’d been hired to assassinate Assistant Minister Zhang. Then he stuck a wooden plank in the ground and wrote: “A hole full of shitty dogs. Signed, your grandpa Shen.”
Finally, he stuck his broken sword in the ground by the plank, burying it right to the hilt. He couldn’t have possibly shown more arrogance.
A few of his friends guided the terrified Assistant Minister Zhang away. When they saw Shen San’s “masterpiece,” they tried to talk him out of it. “Killing them is one thing, but why this? Are you trying to make trouble for yourself? How can you continue in the jianghu after this?”
“I’m not continuing.” Shen San leisurely wrapped his hand, which he’d injured on the broken sword. He glanced southward, facing the fierce wind head-on. “I’m washing my hands of all this and retiring.”
“Retiring? Retiring to where?”
“A paradise of peach blossoms,” he said. “A cave filled with webs of desires.”
That didn’t sound anything like a proper retirement spot. But when his friends tried to ask what had gotten into him, Shen San had already demonstrated his ability to walk without leaving footprints. With a few leaps, he was gone.
He started his journey south in late autumn. By the time he reached his destination, the Mortal Realm was buried in snow.
Winter had arrived particularly early this year, and it was particularly cold as well. Frost crusted both banks of the Yangtze River. He was wanted by the palace and buffeted by the snow. He couldn’t have been any more haggard. But despite all that, a warmth was nestled right by his heart, urging him to ride back with the speed of an arrow in flight.
In the depths of winter, coated in a layer of snow so fine it looked like salt and bearing the fine wine he had so carefully chosen, Shen San finally found the little valley where he’d convalesced. When his eyes fell on that little thatched hut, waves of flowers bloomed in his heart. He strode forward at once, but then remembered something. Retreating a bit, he faced the bitingly cold wind and dusted himself off, then scrubbed the mud from his pants with frigid water from the pond. The chill turned his fingers the red of cooked shrimp, but he still made sure to wash his face.
Unfortunately, with his hands so cold, he had little fine control over them. When he tried to shave with his small dagger, he accidentally cut his chin.
He hid this tiny blemish under his shirt collar and then made a show of strolling leisurely over to the hut. He had it all planned out: he would open the door, and when his eyes finally fell on the person within, he would smile and say, “I’m back. You can order me around as you please.”
Just a short few hundred meters more. His heart was as soft as cooked tofu. Those words rolled around on his tongue at least a thousand times. How he would stand, what tone he would use, how he would smile… He had mentally rehearsed it all, until he could’ve done it in his sleep.