Ye Wenmao, while carefully contemplating the intricacies of the situation spread before him like pieces on a game board, methodically explained the various arrangements he had made to his son. His voice carried the particular weight of a man who understood that every detail mattered now, that a single oversight could prove fatal.
The old scholar cursed a few times with the casual fluency of someone who had elevated profanity to an art form, then proceeded to offer his advice. He taught them, with the patient precision of an experienced strategist, exactly how to avoid Song Huiya's detection and leave Duanyan City safely—which routes to take, which hours to travel, which faces to show to which observers.
"Song Huiya, that shameless scoundrel, is not only recklessly brave but also remarkably cunning—a dangerous combination." The old scholar's tone carried grudging respect beneath the insult. "Being well-prepared will prevent any major mistakes. Never underestimate her simply because she operates without apparent caution."
Ye Wenmao listened with the dawning comprehension of someone finally grasping the true scope of what they faced. He nodded repeatedly, absorbing each point with desperate attention. After the old scholar finished bandaging his wound with practiced, efficient movements, Ye Wenmao reached out and tightly grasped the physician's hand again. Tears streamed down his weathered face as he spoke with raw emotion. "I'll have to trouble Doctor Zhou to take good care of my son on the road."
The old scholar withdrew his hand with the slightly uncomfortable air of someone unaccustomed to gratitude, replying with stiff politeness. "It's a doctor's duty."
Once they stepped outside into the cool evening air, the young man—Ye Wenmao's son—kept staring at the old scholar with an expression of profound confusion, as though he were looking at a complete stranger rather than someone he'd known for years. He even reached out and tugged experimentally at the physician's beard.
"What are you doing, you insolent brat?" The old scholar immediately lost his composure, slapping the offending hand away with considerably more force than strictly necessary. His voice shifted to something approximating seriousness, though his eyes still danced with the particular satisfaction of someone about to deliver a lecture. "My dear disciple, let me teach you another valuable principle about navigating this world: a person should have two faces. If a person doesn't have at least two faces—if they cannot shift their presentation according to circumstance and audience—how can they possibly have the nerve to roam the world with any success? I'd be ashamed on their behalf. You see, Song Huiya is a perfect example of someone who suffers precisely because she's consistently annoying inside and out, presenting the same abrasive face to everyone regardless of consequence. That's exactly why she's ended up in such a desperate situation, surrounded on all sides by enemies who would celebrate her death."
"She...she's not really desperate though, is she?" the boy said, scratching his head with the bewilderment of someone whose observations didn't match his teacher's assessment. "She's been quite swaggering around the city, hasn't she? She's practically caused a massive uproar in Duanyan City, disrupting everything."
The old scholar glanced at him sideways, his expression flooding with such profound disdain that words seemed almost unnecessary—a look that clearly communicated, "What could you possibly understand?" But he was long accustomed to his disciple's particular brand of foolishness and chose not to take serious offense. Instead, he continued speaking, patting his own chest in an elaborate gesture of lament. "Back then, I found this martial world unbearably boring—a stagnant pool filled with nothing but soft-shelled shrimp soldiers playing at being warriors. The whole thing was so dull that even if you threw a massive stone directly into the center, it wouldn't produce more than the faintest ripple. So I prayed earnestly, day and night, for Heaven to send down a mighty warrior who could shake things up properly. What an absolute tragedy! In the end, the heavens sent Song Huiya! How many years of accumulated merits have I wasted to deserve this particular answer to my prayers?"
The young man chuckled foolishly from his position beside the old scholar, the laughter carrying none of the context or understanding that would have made it appropriate. After laughing for an extended period, he suddenly registered that the old scholar was glaring at him with the focused intensity of someone contemplating violence. The boy belatedly composed himself, his features rearranging into an exaggeratedly pleading expression.
The old scholar nodded with apparent satisfaction, then asked with deliberate enigmatic weight, "Young man, do you know why I took you as my disciple in the first place?"
"Why?" the boy asked with genuine innocence. "Because of my diligence and dedication to learning?"
The old scholar stroked his long beard with theatrical contentment and delivered his answer. "Because you look appropriately dull and simple-minded. I chose you carefully from among the vast sea of available people! That way, when I'm old and infirm and need you to serve me tea and medicine during my declining years, I won't be driven to an early death by being constantly provoked by clever remarks. A stupid disciple is a peaceful disciple." He paused, then added with particular emphasis, "Remember this instruction: stop Song Huiya from seeing me. If she comes looking, tell her I've left the city, died, transformed into a mountain—whatever story keeps her away from my door."
The boy laughed with the particular delight of someone who thought they'd discovered something clever. "Hehe, Master, but you just taught me that everyone should have two faces. Perhaps my apparent foolishness isn't real at all? Perhaps I'm secretly brilliant and simply hiding it?"
"With you?" The old scholar reached out and patted his disciple's head with the condescending affection one might show a loyal but particularly dim-witted dog. He placed his hands behind his back and began walking away, tossing his final wisdom over his shoulder with dismissive casualness. "Don't expect too much from life. Disappointment is inevitable, but false hope makes it worse."
The city blazed with lights as evening deepened into night, countless lanterns and braziers transforming the streets into ribbons of fire. Above it all, the Milky Way shone with breathtaking clarity in the winter sky, the stars so numerous and bright they seemed almost within reach.
A layer of frost had already formed on the water-splashed streets, turning the cobblestones treacherous and glittering. A small beggar child—ragged and quick—ran past a particular doorway and lost his footing on the ice. He fell heavily to the frozen ground with a sharp cry of pain and surprise.
Song Huiya, who had been seated inside but alert to every sound filtering in from the street, looked toward the source of the commotion. She watched as the child stood up clutching his bruised bottom, his small face contorted with discomfort. Then, with the remarkable resilience of the very young, he jumped over the low fence bordering the property and frantically threw something into the yard before scrambling away into the darkness.
Song Zhiqie, who possessed an almost supernatural talent for subservience and immediate response to any potential threat, ran to retrieve whatever had been thrown. She picked it up with exaggerated caution and presented it to her master with the solemnity of someone handling a live serpent, speculating wildly as she did so. "Master, please be careful! There might be a hidden weapon concealed inside this thing. Perhaps those scoundrels who couldn't defeat you in honest combat are now trying to use this kind of underhanded, cowardly method to harm you!"
Song Huiya examined the palm-sized bamboo tube that had been placed in her hands, turning it over several times but unable to discern anything meaningful from its exterior. She noticed only a very ugly character "Ye" that had been carved into the surface with what appeared to be a small knife—the craftsmanship crude, the strokes uneven, clearly done in haste or by someone with minimal artistic skill. She hesitated over whether to open it, weighing the risks.
Seeing her suspicious expression—the particular wariness that had kept Song Huiya alive through countless dangerous situations—Bei Tu finally couldn't stand watching any longer. He spoke with the exasperation of someone explaining something obvious. "It's a bee-trapping device used for finding people. Old Zhou's invention. You seriously don't even recognize this?"
Song Huiya's expression cleared with sudden understanding. "Oh."
The book mentioned this particular physician quite a few times throughout its pages, describing him variously as "a wandering doctor who loves to meddle in absolutely everything except the actual practice of treating patients," and also as "a remarkably good teacher when his mind is functioning properly and sharply focused. Unfortunately, most of the time his mind isn't functioning properly at all."
Bei Tu continued speaking, and his expression carried layers of complicated emotion—amusement mixed with something darker. "He often likes to follow you around from a distance, observing your movements and activities. But he absolutely doesn't dare let other people know that he actually knows you personally, so he joins enthusiastically with those martial arts figures in cursing you. He curses with genuine creativity and considerable volume. Everyone now thinks that he harbors some deep personal misunderstanding with you—that he hates you to the very bone—which explains why he chases after you relentlessly all over the world."
Upon hearing this character assessment, Song Huiya found herself at a temporary loss for suitable words. She could only mentally agree with her previous evaluation of the man: his mind truly wasn't functioning properly most of the time.
She carefully tucked the bamboo device into her robes, securing it against her body. Then there came another knock on the door—lighter than before, more tentative.
Song Zhiqie shouted at the top of her considerable lungs, "The door isn't closed! Just come in!"
Er Niang—Second Aunt—gently pushed the door open just a crack, as though afraid that opening it fully might constitute some kind of transgression. She walked in timidly, her entire bearing that of someone expecting to be struck or turned away at any moment.
Song Zhiqie, who was in the process of licking residual rice grains from her chopsticks with dedicated thoroughness, greeted the newcomer with characteristic enthusiasm. "Second Aunt, please join us! Let's eat together!"
"Heroine."
The woman stood framed in the doorway, a white cloth tied around her head in the traditional gesture of mourning. She looked even more haggard than she had just two days ago—the suffering and grief had burned through what remained of her reserves. She resembled a candle that had consumed all its wax, her face carrying the particular ashen quality of someone whose life force was guttering toward darkness. Yet her eyes, paradoxically, were much clearer and more resolute than they had been before. Something fundamental had shifted in her during the hours since their last meeting.
She moved forward and knelt directly before Song Huiya, supporting herself with trembling hands pressed against her own knees.
"Heroine, I regret my previous decision! I don't want their apologies anymore! I want them dead!" The woman's voice rose slightly as she spoke, each word gaining volume and force. But having cried for so long over the past days, her throat was damaged—raw and painful, like a rusty sword being forced from its sheath after years of neglect. Each syllable emerged rough and hoarse, scraping against the air.
She continued, and the sadness in her voice mixed with something harder, colder. "They kill at the slightest provocation, without hesitation or remorse. Their hearts are already hardened beyond any possibility of softening. How could people like that truly know their mistakes? How could they genuinely feel regret while they still draw breath? Only in death will they finally understand what they've done."
Song Huiya looked down at her with an expression of slight surprise—as though the woman's transformation had caught her off guard despite being exactly what she'd been working toward. After a moment's contemplation, she refused the request with quiet firmness. "I also want to kill them, Second Sister. But wanting isn't enough. It's not sufficient."
Second Sister asked with desperate urgency, "What do you mean it's not enough? What more could possibly be needed?"
Song Huiya took her time choosing her words carefully, selecting terms and concepts that the woman before her would be able to grasp without extensive education or context. She bent down, bringing herself to eye level, and looked directly into Second Aunt's reddened, exhausted eyes. "I've killed many people like Ye Wenmao over the years. Many, many men just like him. And there are countless more like him still alive throughout the world—in every city, every province, every corner of this land."
She paused, letting that reality settle before continuing. "I once genuinely believed that this approach would save people—lonely, desperate people like you and countless others. I thought that by removing these men from the world, I would make space for justice and safety. But it didn't work that way. The results didn't match my intentions. I've become infamous, my name spoken with fear and hatred. I'm utterly alone, isolated by my own actions. And when I look back at all I've accomplished, when I survey the landscape I've tried to change, I find that people only bow their heads lower. They're too afraid to even look up anymore."
Song Huiya's voice grew stronger, more insistent, as she pressed toward her point. "But the northern barbarians won't retreat simply because people bow their heads in submission. Corrupt officials won't show mercy or suddenly develop consciences because their victims bow their heads. And the bandits in the mountains won't willingly abandon their fortified positions and come down peacefully just because the people below are willing to bow their heads in surrender and acceptance. The only people who lose everything because they bow their heads are the virtuous and righteous ones—the people who deserve protection, who deserve to stand tall."
Second Aunt stared at her with an expression caught somewhere between understanding and profound confusion—as though the words were reaching her but their full meaning remained just beyond her grasp, like trying to see something clearly through water.
Song Huiya smiled then, and the expression carried both warmth and a certain hardness. "The heroes of this world—the warriors, the righteous fighters—are willing to travel thousands of miles for people like you. People who grovel on the ground, who have been beaten down by circumstance and cruelty. These heroes will risk their own lives without hesitation for strangers. Yet you—all of you—still bow your heads. You don't even offer a simple word of gratitude or acknowledgment. That's not how this should work, Second Aunt. That's not a sustainable arrangement. I'm willing to speak for others, to fight for others. But I also want justice for myself. I want recognition that what I do matters, that the risks I take mean something."
Song Huiya straightened her spine, sitting fully upright, and her expression reflected in the room's flickering firelight took on an almost otherworldly quality—simultaneously present and distant, human and something beyond human. She spoke slowly, enunciating each word with crystalline clarity. "I want you to beg me."
Second Aunt listened to her own breathing—shallow, quick, the sound of a body under stress. She listened to the wind rushing in through gaps in the wooden door, carrying the winter cold with it. And she listened to Song Huiya's calm yet devastatingly powerful words as they continued to fall like stones into still water. "If you beg me—if you ask me directly, with your own voice, acknowledging what you need and what I can provide—I will help you."
Those few words echoed in Second Aunt's mind with the particular persistence of truth once heard, like the lingering resonance of a bell struck deeply. The sound wouldn't fade, wouldn't diminish, but instead seemed to grow stronger with each mental repetition.
At this moment, observing Song Huiya in the firelight's dance, Second Aunt found herself unable to categorize what she was seeing. The young woman before her seemed simultaneously like a transcendent being—proud, unyielding, existing on some plane above ordinary human concerns—and also like a profoundly weary traveler who had been walking for so long that she'd forgotten what rest felt like, someone with nowhere to settle and no prospect of ever finding home.
Second Aunt raised her head slowly, the white mourning cloth gleaming with ethereal brightness in the moonlight streaming through the window. She whispered, barely audible, "I understand."
Then she stood with trembling legs and walked away, her footsteps unsteady but purposeful, carrying her back out into the night.
The Milky Way flowed silently in the vast sky above, indifferent to the small human dramas unfolding beneath its ancient light.
"Song Huiya…" Bei Tu's voice broke the silence that had settled after Second Aunt's departure. He sighed, but his following words betrayed that the sigh was performative rather than genuine. "You've finally grown up. You're not like you were before—constantly being led around by others like a fool, manipulated by anyone clever enough to find your weaknesses."
Song Huiya scoffed, and her voice carried the particular confidence of someone who had never been as naive as others assumed. "I, Song Huiya, only ever do what I genuinely want to do. Old man, you haven't been fooled by my performance, have you?"
A bright, clear beam of moonlight illuminated the table's surface. Then a small pebble rolled across it—tossed through the window with casual accuracy.
Wei Lingsheng stopped writing mid-character, his brush hovering over the page as he registered the interruption. He looked up and saw the young man crouched on the windowsill, a pair of deep, dark eyes watching him silently from behind the distinctive mask.
"I heard it," the man in black said, and his voice vibrated with barely contained emotion. "Senior Sister is in Broken Goose City! That must be her—it has to be. She's still alive!"
Wei Lingsheng remained silent, his face revealing nothing.
The young man's chest heaved visibly, his breathing growing rapid and uneven. His heart was clearly filled with resentment—anger and hurt competing for dominance—but he suppressed all of it with visible effort. What emerged instead was something closer to despair, tinged with pleading. "Who else do you want Senior Sister to kill for you? Just tell me. Give me time, and I can do it instead. I can learn. I can become what you need. Please, just bring her back."
"A-Mian." Wei Lingsheng turned around fully in his chair, staring at the masked figure with particular intensity. His voice emerged calm, measured, offering a perspective the younger man clearly hadn't considered. "How do you know that wasn't what Senior Sister herself genuinely wanted? If she really harbored only the single-minded desire to avenge Uncle's death, then logically the first person she should have killed would have been General Zhou. But she didn't. She's had opportunities, and she's chosen not to take them. That should tell you something."
A-Mian laughed, but the sound carried no humor—only bitter, caustic anger. "Are you seriously going to claim that Senior Sister left back then not because of you? Are you going to stand there and tell me that Senior Sister went to Duanyan City to kill that old bastard Ye Wenmao, and even risked her life at Nameless Cliff, for reasons that had nothing to do with you and your machinations?!"
Wei Lingsheng carefully set down his brush, the movement deliberate and controlled. His five fingers showed red from the winter sun's cold light streaming through the window, the joints stiff and aching. He cracked his knuckles one by one—a habit when stress mounted—and then confessed with the flat, emotionless tone of someone stating objective facts. "I invited her. I asked her to go. Ye Wenmao has been entrenched in this region for years, claiming publicly to be protecting the country and maintaining order. But in reality, he's been selling out his country for personal gain with remarkable consistency. He works simultaneously for both the Hu people and the Attendant-in-Ordinary, playing multiple sides against each other for maximum profit. He's been secretly ambushing passing heroes who might interfere with his operations, and systematically plundering nearby trade routes. Now that the Hu people's power has weakened significantly, and with Xiang Ze's help providing the political cover I needed, I can finally free up sufficient resources to deal with this particular parasite. I want to bring Duanyan City completely under my control."
A-Mian, his body filled with such deep resentment it seemed to physically radiate from him, looked at the man seated before him and smiled with profound bitterness. "Wei Lingsheng, I really want to kill you. Every day I wake up and the desire is there, constant and strong."
Wei Lingsheng turned his head away, deliberately breaking eye contact. He picked up his brush again, resuming his interrupted work. He heard A-Mian's voice shift—the anger draining away, replaced by something more vulnerable, more genuinely pained. "Tell me the truth. Why did Senior Sister really leave us? What exactly did you say to her that night? How could she possibly bear to abandon me? Didn't she care about me at all?"
Wei Lingsheng opened his eyes wider, and a flickering light reflected in his pupils—candlelight dancing across the surface, making his expression impossible to read clearly. His gaze gradually lost its focus, blurring as his thoughts drifted backward through time toward memories he usually kept carefully contained.
Why?
...Why indeed?
Wei Lingsheng remembered that particular year—the details remained vivid despite the passage of time—when he and Song Huiya were still wandering aimlessly together, moving from place to place without clear direction or purpose, before they had finally decided to return to the now-impoverished and nearly abandoned Buluoshan. One of his father's former subordinates, someone who had survived the purges and maintained loyalty across years of separation, had secretly traveled to fetch him.
Wei Lingsheng had felt simultaneous joy and apprehension when the summons arrived. He understood instinctively that the journey to the capital would be fraught with turmoil and profound uncertainty—political danger at every turn, enemies who would strike the moment they perceived weakness. So he had attempted, with what he recognized even then as manipulative subtlety, to bring up the past with Song Huiya. He told her, as though in casual conversation, exactly who the murderer of their beloved master had been. The revelation was calculated—he hoped desperately that she would volunteer to help escort him on the dangerous journey, that her desire for revenge would align perfectly with his need for protection.
But Song Huiya had remained utterly unmoved each time he raised the subject, continuing her martial arts practice and sword training with the same dedicated focus she'd always shown. She gave no indication whatsoever that his hints had landed, that she understood what he was asking, or that she had any intention of abandoning her own pursuits to serve his needs.
Wei Lingsheng had genuinely believed, in those frustrating weeks, that she was simply cowardly—too afraid to confront the powerful enemies who had killed their master. He thought her ungrateful for the opportunities he'd provided, for the information he'd shared. Gradually, with mounting disappointment, he gave up on the idea of securing her protection.
Until one day, without warning, Song Huiya took her sword and announced, as she usually did before departing on routine errands, that she was going out for a while. But this time carried subtle differences that Wei Lingsheng only recognized in retrospect. She hadn't brought her usual basket for gathering herbs or food. She told them explicitly not to wait for her return for dinner. The implications should have been clear, but he'd been too absorbed in his own concerns to notice.
It had been a night very much like this one—cold, clear, with moonlight streaming through windows.
Late into the evening, long after A-Mian had fallen asleep and while Wei Lingsheng sat by the window reading by lamplight, Song Huiya returned. She didn't use the door. Instead, she jumped directly through the window with her characteristic disregard for conventional entrances, bringing with her a wave of bitter cold that made Wei Lingsheng shiver involuntarily.
Wei Lingsheng jumped up in shock, his mouth opening to call out in surprise or greeting. But Song Huiya moved faster—pressing her finger against her lips in a universal gesture demanding silence.
Only then did he register her condition properly. She was badly injured—far worse than anything he'd seen before. Her face was pale as paper, drained of blood and vitality. She sat weakly in the shadows of a corner, clearly in pain but attempting to conceal its extent, and asked with studied casualness, "What were you reading just now?"
Wei Lingsheng, still processing her sudden appearance and obvious injuries, mechanically turned the book in his hands and told her its title with none of his usual fluency.
Song Huiya nodded as though this were a perfectly normal conversation occurring in perfectly normal circumstances. "Continue reading. Don't stop on my account."
Wei Lingsheng dragged his chair closer, wanting to examine her injuries, to understand what had happened. But Song Huiya stopped him with a slight gesture—not harsh, just definitive—so he remained seated at the original distance. He began reciting the text softly, his voice carrying through the quiet room.
He couldn't remember later what passage he'd been reading, couldn't recall a single specific sentence or idea. The words had flowed past him without registration. What remained vivid in his memory was Song Huiya's face—serene despite her obvious pain, peaceful in a way that seemed entirely disconnected from her physical state.
His speech gradually slowed as exhaustion and shock caught up with him, and the breathing of the person sitting in the corner became increasingly even and regular. Just when Wei Lingsheng thought she had finally fallen asleep—when her eyes had been closed long enough that unconsciousness seemed certain—Song Huiya suddenly opened them again. She smiled, and the expression carried complicated layers of emotion he couldn't fully decode. She said, "Master used to always try to reason with me, to explain her principles and philosophy. She would go into such elaborate detail, breaking down every concept so thoroughly. But no matter how carefully she explained things, I couldn't truly understand them. And honestly, I didn't particularly want to listen—the words just flowed past without sticking. Now, however, lying here injured after doing what needed doing, it seems I suddenly understand everything she was trying to teach me."
Wei Lingsheng didn't know what to say to that confession. He had no response prepared, no comfort to offer. He simply turned another page in the book with mechanical precision, continuing the pretense that this was normal reading time rather than something far more significant.
Song Huiya continued speaking, and her voice carried the particular quality of someone delivering instructions they'd carefully thought through. "Take good care of your junior brother from now on, after I'm gone. He doesn't listen to most people—he's stubborn and willful and difficult in all the ways young people can be. But he can still trust you at least a little. That's something. Build on it."
Wei Lingsheng's head snapped up immediately, and he turned to stare at her with dawning comprehension and horror.
Song Huiya smiled again, and this time the expression held something that might have been affection mixed with exasperation. "I know you're destined for great things—important political things that require you to move in circles I'll never be welcome in. You won't follow me around forever; you were never going to. I promised my senior uncle, before he died, that I would take good care of you and protect you as long as I could. And I've already eliminated those dangerous elements who were tracking you, the assassins who were waiting for opportunities. I killed them all. You can leave for the capital in peace now, without that particular threat hanging over you."
Wei Lingsheng felt shock cascade through him like ice water. He suddenly stood up, the abrupt movement knocking over the chair positioned behind him. The clatter seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room.
"Shh..." Song Huiya leaned slightly forward despite her injuries, and the smell of blood wafted more strongly through the air—metallic and disturbing, mingling with the cold moonlight in ways that made Wei Lingsheng's stomach turn. She beckoned downward with one finger, the gesture casual despite its context, and said with gentle firmness, "Don't wake your junior brother, or he'll make a scene and give me a terrible headache. I'm really not in condition for that right now."
Wei Lingsheng found himself completely at a loss—paralyzed by conflicting impulses, by guilt and gratitude and horror all competing for dominance in his chest.
Song Huiya seemed to sense his internal struggle. She said simply, "Close the window. The cold is getting in."
Wei Lingsheng moved stiffly, his body responding to the instruction while his mind churned uselessly. He steadied the fallen chair with trembling hands, then crossed to close the window against the night.
The room fell into deeper silence once the external sounds were muted.
Song Huiya didn't speak further, and Wei Lingsheng found himself utterly unable to formulate words that felt adequate to the moment. He stared blankly at a crack in the windowsill, only then noticing that green moss had begun growing up the corner of the wall—evidence of neglect, of time passing while they'd been too preoccupied to maintain even basic household care.
He reached out and wiped the moss away with his fingers, the texture slightly damp and living against his skin.
"Junior brother," Song Huiya called softly into the weighted silence, her voice carrying a different quality now—something formal, almost ceremonial. "Senior sister has paved this particular path for you, cleared the obstacles that would have killed you before you reached your destination. But the world is vast and complicated, and you will have to walk your own path from here forward. I can't protect you forever, and you wouldn't want me to even if I could."
Wei Lingsheng didn't dare look into her eyes, couldn't bring himself to meet that steady gaze. He felt a burning sensation whenever their eyes met—shame manifesting as physical pain. A sentence formed in his mind, reached his lips: he wanted desperately to beg her not to leave, to stay despite everything, to remain even though he knew he'd manipulated her into this exact situation. But then he thought about how utterly hypocritical that plea would be—how grotesque, given everything he'd done to engineer this precise outcome. The words died unspoken.
Song Huiya's strength was clearly fading as blood loss and exhaustion caught up with her. She began to ramble somewhat, her words taking on the disconnected quality of someone slipping toward sleep or delirium. "This year marks my tenth year in the sect. A full decade. I still remember exactly how Master died—every detail remains vivid, nothing has faded with time. I just want to offer one final stick of incense to Master and Senior Uncle before setting off again on this path I've chosen."
Wei Lingsheng was instantly overwhelmed by a crushing wave of guilt, feeling utterly despicable and small. He clenched his fists so tightly his nails cut into his palms, the physical pain a welcome distraction. He finally managed to formulate the beginning of a sentence—something that might approach apology or confession—but Song Huiya interrupted him before he could voice it.
"Neither keep the mountain nor the people. There's no need for further words or explanations." Song Huiya seemed to gather some reserve of energy, straightening slightly. She extended her hand toward him, palm up in expectation. "Didn't you already have someone investigate who killed Master? You've been carrying that information for weeks, waiting for the right moment to deploy it. Give it to me now."
A voice inside Wei Lingsheng's head cursed his own shamelessness with creative viciousness, yet his hands moved seemingly of their own accord. He couldn't stop himself from pulling a carefully folded piece of paper from his sleeve—the document he'd been carrying for exactly this purpose.
Song Huiya took the paper from his hand. The undried bloodstains on her fingertips marked the surface, leaving dark prints against the pale material. She glanced at the names written there—a list of men who would soon die—and nodded with calm acceptance. "Okay. This is manageable."
Then she asked the question that would haunt Wei Lingsheng for years afterward, that would replay in his mind during countless sleepless nights. "Junior brother, who should I kill first? Do you have a preference for the order, or should I simply work my way down the list as opportunities present themselves?"
In that single instant—that crystallized moment—Wei Lingsheng felt with absolute certainty that she understood everything. Every manipulation, every calculated hint, every strategic revelation. She knew, and she was doing this anyway.
Later, in the years that followed, he would think: if she truly understood the full extent of his manipulation, how could she not see through his fundamental hypocrisy? How could she witness all of that clearly and yet still willingly risk her life for him time and time again, killing his enemies and paving his path with blood?
Just like that letter she'd sent from the nameless cliff months later—those few short sentences that he'd read hundreds upon hundreds of times, analyzing every word choice and pause, yet he still couldn't understand the ending. Couldn't parse the meaning behind those final words: "You don't need to save me."
Did she mean he was incapable of saving her? Or that she didn't want to be saved—that this outcome was something she'd chosen freely? The ambiguity was maddening, and the lack of clarity felt deliberately cruel in ways Song Huiya had never been before.
Wei Lingsheng was suddenly jolted back to the present moment by the sound of ink spreading across paper. His distracted hand had pressed the brush down too long, and now a black stain bloomed across the page, ruining the characters he'd been forming.
He carefully concealed the tumultuous emotions that had surfaced during his remembering, smoothing his expression back to studied neutrality. Then he reminded his visitor with forced patience, "A-Mian, you should go back to where you're supposed to be. This isn't your concern."
"I will go back eventually," A-Mian said, and his voice carried the stubborn determination of someone who had already made their decision and wouldn't be argued out of it. "But I must see my senior sister one last time first. Whatever you say, whatever arguments you make, I'm going to Duanyan City too. You can't stop me."
Thoughts on Chap 24:
It opens with the old scholar—Doctor Zhou—revealing his complex relationship with Song Huiya: publicly cursing her to maintain cover while secretly supporting her movements. His two-faced philosophy reflects the survival strategies necessary in their dangerous world, where authenticity can be fatal. The interaction with Second Aunt represents Song Huiya's fundamental shift in approach—no longer simply killing oppressors on behalf of victims, she now demands that victims actively claim agency by asking for help. This requirement transforms her from a lone avenger into someone building a movement, creating a framework where the oppressed must participate in their own liberation.
The flashback sequence between Wei Lingsheng and A-Mian unveils the painful backstory that explains Song Huiya's current isolation. Wei Lingsheng's manipulation—using information about their master's murderer to secure Song Huiya's protection while pretending ignorance—reveals the moral complexity at the story's heart. Song Huiya understood his deception completely yet chose to help anyway, driven by loyalty and her own sense of duty rather than naive trust. The chapter explores how even heroes are used by those they protect, and how Song Huiya's infamous reputation was built on actions she took to pave others' paths to power. Her cryptic final message to Wei Lingsheng—"You don't need to save me"—encapsulates her refusal to be rescued from choices she made with full awareness of their consequences.
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