Chapter 21:
The Candle’s Flickering Shadows
THE CANDLE’S FLAME crackled softly, and the charcoal fire on the ground hissed and smoldered. Shen Jue’s fingertips had turned pale, his mind a storm of tangled thoughts.
Meanwhile, Xiahou Lian remained calm and composed. “As you command,” he said in a low voice.
Four pairs of eyes were fixed on him. Beneath those intense gazes, Xiahou Lian pulled the blanket down, revealing a smooth right shoulder. No scar marred it. The skin was a little bumpy, but the guards stood at a distance. With only dim candlelight to judge by, none noticed anything unusual.
His suspicions dispelled, the guard told Shen Jue, “We insisted on the inspection only to ensure that the assassin wasn’t hiding here. Please don’t take offense. Rest well, both of you. We’ll take our leave.”
Shen Jue escorted them out of the courtyard, then finally let out a long sigh of relief. He had no idea how Xiahou Lian could’ve hidden such a severe injury. Rushing back into the room, he found Xiahou Lian shivering, his shoulder already drenched in fresh blood. To Shen Jue’s shock, Xiahou Lian appeared to be slowly peeling a layer of skin from his shoulder. His actions tore the wound wider, and blood gushed out as if from a spring.
“What are you doing?!” Shen Jue cried in alarm, running over. On closer inspection, he realized that the “skin” was some sort of prosthetic. Xiahou Lian had used it to deceive the guards.
“Help me peel it off,” Xiahou Lian said through gritted teeth, his face drenched in sweat. He felt as if half his body was about to give out.
Shen Jue took over. “I’ll tear it off in one go. Brace yourself.”
Xiahou Lian stuffed a piece of cloth into his mouth, closed his eyes, and nodded.
Shen Jue pressed down on Xiahou Lian’s flesh, then—with a forceful tug—ripped the prosthetic off. Xiahou Lian spasmed violently in agony, nearly passing out.
Struggling to remain conscious, he said weakly, “Get a needle. I need you to stitch up the wound.”
“I’m not a doctor!” Shen Jue said through clenched teeth. “I’ve never stitched a wound before. And I don’t have any catgut. If I do it wrong, it could kill you!”
“There’s no other way, Shaoye. If you don’t stitch it, I’ll die anyway. Think of it like mending clothes. You’ve mended clothes before, haven’t you?”
“Xiahou Lian!”
“I trust you,” Xiahou Lian said, his gaze firm. “Just do it.”
Xiahou Lian had always been like this—he trusted spontaneously and always acted without considering the consequences. Life and death were never part of his calculations—not back when they barged into Wangqing Pavilion, nor the night of the Xie family massacre, and not now either.
How could he be so indifferent to life and death? Had he never felt afraid?
Shen Jue looked at him, his gaze dark. “All right,” he finally said.
He fetched a needle and thread, holding the needle in a candle’s flame to sterilize it. Then he cleaned Xiahou Lian’s wound. With the needle pressed to the gaping gash, he said, “I’m starting.”
Xiahou Lian stuffed the cloth back into his mouth and nodded.
Xiahou Lian’s back was to Shen Jue’s face. Crisscrossed whip scars stretched across his skin like grotesque centipedes. The sight was horrifying.
When had Xiahou Lian become an assassin? And how many times had he come face-to-face with death?
Shen Jue steadied himself and pierced Xiahou Lian’s flesh with the needle, making him shudder. “Don’t move,” said Shen Jue sternly.
The charcoal fire crackled. The room was stiflingly hot—both Shen Jue and Xiahou Lian were drenched in sweat. Xiahou Lian’s fingers dug into the bedframe, clawing deep marks into the wood. Gripped with agony, he lost all feeling in his shoulder, and his vision went hazy; his surroundings distorted as if shimmering in a heat wave. His senses became sluggish, and sounds seemed to drift in from afar, muffled and indistinct. Insects’ faint chirping, the guards’ armor clinking—every noise seemed to come from someplace thousands of palaces away.
His mind drifted far away. He recalled lying on a narrow bed in a mountain hut two years prior, his back covered with wounds, listening to the pine trees rustle in the wind. The temple bells had tolled day after day, their echoes seeming to summon spirits from afar. He remembered his mother guiding him into the temple. There, the Shixin Buddha had stood on the steps. He’d placed the long, pitch-black saber known as Jingtie into Xiahou Lian’s hands. Suddenly, he was overcome by fatigue.
Shen Jue made the final stitch and tied it off. He wiped the blood from Xiahou Lian’s skin, applied some medicinal herbs, then bandaged his shoulder. Only after finishing that did Shen Jue have a chance to wipe the sweat from his own face. “It’s done.”
Xiahou Lian was completely drained. Sprawled on the bed, he breathed weakly but managed a strained smile. “See, Shaoye? I knew you could do it.”
“Don’t celebrate too soon. If the wound gets infected, it’ll still kill you,” Shen Jue said, tossing the cloth into the basin. The water inside was now deep red, as if the basin were full of blood instead.
Xiahou Lian caught his breath and struggled to put on his clothes. “I need to go. But someday I’ll repay you for saving my life.”
Shen Jue pushed him back onto the bed, frowning. “Where do you think you’re heading in this state? Stay here and rest.”
“If the eunuch who lives in this room comes back, we’ll both be caught. I can’t drag you into this.”
Shen Jue raised an eyebrow. “How do you know this isn’t my room?”
“Your room wouldn’t smell this bad,” Xiahou Lian said with a weak laugh.
“Well, don’t worry. He’s not coming back,” Shen Jue said coldly, tucking the blanket around Xiahou Lian. “Get some rest. I’ll fetch you medicine.”
Xiahou Lian could tell that something bad had happened but didn’t press further. Instead he asked, “Is there a portrait of him? Can you give me a copy?”
“What for?”
Xiahou Lian smiled mysteriously. “Have you heard of the Kinnara of Qiye Garden?”
Shen Jue shook his head.
“He’s my shifu and a master of disguise,” Xiahou Lian explained. “I’ve learned about eighty percent of his techniques. If you give me this eunuch’s portrait, I can make a mask. No one will be able to tell the difference unless they get up close.”
The Garden housed many secret techniques—Shen Jue had heard that himself. After agreeing to draw Sixi’s portrait, he went to the kitchen to prepare Xiahou Lian’s medicine.
A bit later, Shen Jue brought him the medicine. Xiahou Lian drank it in one gulp, seemingly unfazed by the bitterness. Unbeknownst to Shen Jue, Xiahou Lian had spent two years steeped in bloodshed, forging an extraordinary tolerance for pain and suffering. He’d undergone the stitches earlier without any anesthetic—such a procedure would’ve caused most people to faint.
After cleaning up the mess in the room, Shen Jue was drenched in sweat. His earlier bath had been rendered pointless by now. Xiahou Lian lay quietly on the bed, observing him. His calm face exuded a peace and poise that hadn’t been there before.
The two boys sat in silence. The iron wind chimes beneath the eaves swayed in the breeze, tinkling.
Staring at the flickering candle flame, Shen Jue suddenly asked, “Xiahou Lian, aren’t you afraid of death?”