“Why could they use Qianji Thread before, then?” Shen Jue scoffed. “Each generation must be less capable than the last.”
“The three generations of the Garuda who could craft it were all from the Ban family, said to be descendants of the Gongshu school of mechanics. After that third generation, the family died out, so it makes sense that we lost the technique.”
“But don’t you want to recreate it? Then maybe you could kill the abbot and take control of Qiye Garden yourself.” Shen Jue glanced at his bandaged arm and sighed. “It’s just a small wound, Xiahou Lian. Why bother bandaging it?”
“Your skin’s so delicate. There’s no way I could be careless.” Xiahou Lian cut the bandage and tied it with a neat knot. “Being abbot isn’t all that great. You have to shave your head, and you can never marry. That’d just be miserable. I don’t share your lofty ambitions. Besides, I’m following you now. Once you’re head of the Eastern Depot, just find me a beautiful wife, and I’ll be satisfied.”
Shen Jue had to admit defeat. It was a good thing that Xiahou Lian hadn’t been born into a wealthy family. Otherwise, he’d have been a complete good-for-nothing who indulged in all the vices: drinking, gambling, whoring, laziness, gluttony, and scheming. But Xiahou Lian now safely resided in the palace, so once Shen Jue gained power, he could give Xiahou Lian any woman he wanted—as long as it wasn’t a palace concubine or princess.
Shen Jue had already resigned himself to a life as a eunuch. Children were like flowers in a mirror or the moon’s reflection in water—something he could never touch, nor even think of reaching for. If Xiahou Lian started a family and sired many sons, Shen Jue could pick the smartest to take care of him in his old age.
As he considered that, Shen Jue felt a sudden pang of sadness. If Xiahou Lian had a new family, what would become of Shen Jue? What was he to Xiahou Lian? On moonlit Mid-Autumn Festival nights, Xiahou Lian would worship the moon and eat mooncakes with his wife and children, leaving the lonely bachelor Shen Jue feeling out of place. Shen Jue reproached himself bitterly. He felt as if he were scraping a file against his heart, the pain dull but persistent. How could he let that happen?!
Shen Jue looked up suddenly and glared daggers at Xiahou Lian. “You wish!”
His hostile look baffled Xiahou Lian. Shen Jue’s temper was as unpredictable as a summer storm, striking without warning. Xiahou Lian had suffered it for ages, but he still couldn’t see the pattern to Shen Jue’s anger. “What’d I do now?” he asked bluntly.
Shen Jue didn’t answer, just looked at Xiahou Lian resentfully.
“What’d I do? Tell me!” Xiahou Lian demanded.
What could Shen Jue say? Should he ask Xiahou Lian to stay with him forever and never marry or have children? Xiahou Lian agreeing to stay in the palace had been a huge favor to Shen Jue already. Turning his face away, Shen Jue pushed the lattice window open to look outside. The sky had darkened, and a few stars dangled in the heavens as if they might fall at any moment.
Xiahou Lian gave up. If Shen Jue didn’t want to talk, fine. Did he think that Xiahou Lian enjoyed serving him? Xiahou Lian silently packed the scissors and bandages away, only to see Shen Jue pick up his wooden saber and head outside.
Xiahou Lian grabbed the saber. “Are you crazy? Do you want to lose your arm?”
Shen Jue frowned. “It’s not even a serious injury. Just a scratch. Why are you making a mountain out of a molehill?”
Damn it. Now I’m the one being overly cautious. Xiahou Lian steamed with rage—but then decided to let Shen Jue torture himself if he wanted to. Why am I always babying him, anyway? I’ll end up spoiling him rotten!
No—I already have!
Noticing Jingtie on the bed, Xiahou Lian figured he might as well go for broke. “Fine. You want to practice? Today, I’ll let you use a real saber. Let’s see what you can do.”
They went outside. The night was as cool as water, and fireflies flitted among the trees, resembling stars. The wind rustled the leaves, the sound like gentle whispers. Xiahou Lian wasn’t wearing his mask, and though shadows hid half his keen, youthful face, his eyes sparkled with starlight. Shen Jue looked at him for a moment, then averted his gaze.
Xiahou Lian drew Jingtie and handed the saber to Shen Jue. “Use the blade’s dull side against me.”
Lit by the moon, Jingtie lay quietly in Xiahou Lian’s hand, its dark surface absorbing all luminosity.
Legendary swords often came with stories: A blacksmith sacrificing themselves to forge a blade destined to drink blood, each wielder meeting a tragic end. A demon blade that had already claimed 8,676 lives and needed 9,999 to become invincible, capable of slaying gods and Buddhas.
But those were usually just tall tales spun by craftsmen to sell their wares. How could such things be real? Even the stories of Gan Jiang and Mo Ye19 might not be true.
There were no such legends about Jingtie. It had been forged in the Garden; Xiahou Lian was its first master. The blade had no past, and its future was unknown.
Shen Jue gripped Jingtie’s hilt, and in that moment, he felt the blade’s frantic, hidden heartbeat.
“A blade is an assassin’s lifeline, and the Garden only issues one per lifetime. So you’d better hold on to my lifeline tightly; if you drop it, I’ll be furious.”
Shen Jue didn’t reply.
“Before you swing the blade,” Xiahou Lian continued, “you must familiarize yourself with it until it feels like part of your body. Look closely. Jingtie’s edge isn’t sharp enough to cut hair, but it can pierce armor. It’s a battlefield weapon.”
“Why use a battlefield weapon for assassination?”
Xiahou Lian sighed softly. “If it can pierce armor, it can shatter bones. The abbot said I wasn’t ruthless enough, so a rougher blade suited me. Now, shattering an opponent’s spine isn’t too bad. They suffocate and die. But the skull is different. A person won’t die immediately of a shattered skull. They might even become an idiot and suffer migraines before finally dying. Compassionate butchers feed pigs a bowl of anesthetic before slaughter to spare them the pain, but we assassins have no such compassion. As long as killing someone is possible, we’ll do whatever it takes.”
Shen Jue sneered. “How do you know that anesthetizing pigs is an act of compassion? Maybe the butchers just don’t want to hear the pigs scream.”
Xiahou Lian was taken aback, then chuckled wryly. “You’re right. A dying pig’s shrieks are pretty awful.”
Shen Jue gripped Jingtie with both hands and swung the saber in a fierce arc. “Enough talk. Let’s go!”
He raised his usually downcast eyes, his gaze sharp. A storm seemed to be brewing between his brows.
In an instant, Shen Jue’s bloodlust surged, growing mountainous. He let out a low cry as the blade clashed with Xiahou Lian’s wooden saber, its dull edge leaving a small crevice in the fragile wood.
Shen Jue’s ferocity ignited something in Xiahou Lian. His long-dormant blood roiled like a tidal wave, as if he’d gone back to the days when he’d participated in bloody battles. The urge to kill roared within him like a caged beast. Instead of clashing with Shen Jue head-on, he dodged and evaded. Even Jingtie’s dull edge could break a wooden sword in two.
The wooden saber flipped in Xiahou Lian’s hand as the two blades clashed in the air. The wood was soon scarred, its edge as jagged as a child’s crooked teeth. Shen Jue’s blows were fierce; in his hands, Jingtie was like a bloodthirsty demon in the night, its fangs bared. But Shen Jue was still new to the blade, and his reckless attacks left him open. Xiahou Lian quickly found a gap. He deflected a heavy strike from Jingtie, then thrust forward, moving the wooden sword diagonally to tap Shen Jue’s shoulder.
Shen Jue didn’t stop. He continued to swing Jingtie downward, aiming for Xiahou Lian’s neck.
“Hey. I hit your shoulder. You shouldn’t be able to move now.”
“I can,” Shen Jue said firmly.
Of course he could. As long as he had breath in his body, he could drive his blade into the enemy’s chest.
Xiahou Lian sighed. “Fine.”