Work Text:
How cavalier
people are–
with language
and with silence.
Any ghost will
tell you–
the last thing
we mean
to do
is leave you.
– Ghosting, Andrea Cohen
When Fang Duobing walks away from the palace after Shan Gudao’s death, his steps aren’t only guided by grief.
He can hear Di Feisheng’s and Li Lianhua’s whispered words, the way that they all leave him alone and give him a wide berth, expecting him to be shadowed in mourning–for what? For a biological father he never truly knew? Or a martial uncle who had been corrupted from the start?
There was no real affection in Fang Duobing’s heart for Shan Gudao–-there had been only pity, and perhaps a fleeting sense of loss for something that he had never really known, a filial honor given to the love between his biological mother (beloved still) and this misled man.
It is for this reason that his heart rallies, and steels himself for what is to come. For like Li Lianhua has observed, Fang Duobing has truly grown–and all his studies in politics, learned from the knee of his true father, sharpened by jianghu manipulations, and enhanced further by Li Lianhua’s keen observations, have brought him to one conclusion.
He must set the board, before the game careens wildly beyond his control.
His first stop is just outside the imperial palace, where Xuanyuan Xiao, as Commander of the Imperial City Division, is holed up in his study.
“Fang Duobing?” The venerated military fighter narrows his eyes at his arrival. “What are you doing here?”
Fang Duobing places his hands together and bows. “Commander. I’ve come to ask you a favor.”
“Oh?” Xuanyuan Xiao’s head is still spinning from the Nanyin’s mind control bug, and Fang Duobing can tell. “What favor can I do for you, young master Fang?”
Fang Duobing is respectful yet firm as he makes his request, undaunted by the commander’s suspicion.
“And why should I do what you ask, young master Fang?”
Fang Duobing’s voice does not waver. “Because, Commander, I believe the emperor would not want a compromised man serving in his defense.”
Xuanyuan Xiao quickly becomes enraged, but Fang Duobing sees it for what it is: a righteous man’s shame. “Young master Fang, you would dare to threaten me?”
Fang Duobing bows again. “I dare not, Commander. I only know that we both want the emperor safe and well.”
He leaves the imperial city that same day, Xuanyuan Xiao’s reluctant but certain agreement still ringing in his ears.
His second stop is Baichuan Court, still caught in the whirlwind of the Wansheng Clan’s treachery. It is Yun Biqiu that he seeks out, isolated in the wake of his seeming participation in Jiao Liqiao’s schemes.
“What can I do for you, Fang-xiaoxia?” the guilt-ridden master asks, shoulders still bowed under the heaviness of atonement. Fang Duobing does pity him, in the end. “I need to talk to Feng Qing of the Wansheng Clan.”
Biqiu raises an eyebrow. “He has only recently been placed in the 188 Prisons. The Baichuan Court has not yet interrogated him or taken his testimony.”
“I know,” Fang Duobing replies. “And that is why I need to see him–before Shi Shui, or anyone else.”
“But why?”
Fang Duobing takes a deep breath. “To save Li Lianhua. Feng Qing listened to Shan Gudao’s poisonous nonsense–he might twist his testimony, and destroy Li Xiangyi’s name. We do not need another repetition of lies about the Sigu Sect’s founding leader in the Baichuan Court’s records.”
Biqiu mulls over his request. “I only wish to know that he will tell the truth,” Fang Duobing asserts boldly. “And nothing else.”
Biqiu looks at him for a beat more, and Fang Duobing holds steady. “Very well,” the Baichuan Court master sighs. “Heaven knows I owe Li Xiangyi more than I can repay in a thousand lifetimes.”
Fang Duobing merely lowers his head in thanks. “Come,” Biqiu says, leading the way. “I will take you to him.”
When Fang Duobing emerges from the 188 Prisons, he bows deeply in gratitude. “Thank you, Master.”
Biqiu merely shakes his head. “You owe me no title, Fang-xiaoxia.”
Fang Duobing brings his hands together in supplication. “This young master would have one more request.”
Biqiu raises his brow, and listens.
Predictably, his third visit is the most reticent. Di Feisheng crosses his arms in disagreement as soon as he makes his proposal. “He will not like it. Li Xiangyi– Li Lianhua makes his own choices.”
Fang Duobing groans in frustration. “And what if his choice is to give up his chance to be healed? What if he doesn’t take the Wangchuan flower, and finds some boneheaded way to give it away?”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know him! ” Fang Duobing throws up his arms. “I’ve seen him and the way he talks about his condition. He told me his time was almost up, that all he wanted was to defeat Shan Gudao. Well, now he has. What do you think he’s going to do?"
Di Feisheng stays silent, but Fang Duobing knows his words have struck a chord. “If you still don’t believe me, I’ll make you a bet.” Di Feisheng looks at him intently, and gestures for him to go on.
“Come to the Lotus Tower when I return, but don’t show yourself yet. Listen to our conversation and the nonsense that he will probably spout about fishing or some other inane activity. Then show yourself, with the flower. I bet that he will accept it, but will not take it on the spot. He will delay. He does not mean to take it at all.”
Di Feisheng blinks, and Fang Duobing knows he has won.
“Very well. If it happens as you say, I will do what you ask.”
Fang Duobing exhales. “Thank you.” He claps a hand on Di Feisheng’s shoulder; and to his credit, the demon of the Jinyuan Alliance does not flinch or move away.
“A-Fei,” Fang Duobing says softly, for one last time. “Take care of him.”
The last place he visits with a heavy heart is Tianji Hall; and by the time Fang Duobing walks into the imperial palace and sees his father kneeling before the emperor, he has made all his preparations.
He is oddly calm as he walks forward and kneels beside his father, raising his voice with clasped hands.
“This humble servant, Fang Duobing, greets Your Majesty.”
The tile of the throne room floor is cold against his knees, but his resolution does not falter. He barely registers his father being led out of the throne room, and the princess being dismissed. At the emperor’s prompting, he swallows his fear, and begins to tell his tale.
“How can you prove that you are telling the truth?”
Fang Duobing takes a deep breath, and straightens his spine. He lets the silence fill the throne room, feels his heart pound in his chest, aware of the emperor’s searching and suspicious gaze.
“ Ask his Majesty, in the palace’s recent murder case that everyone knows about–what was the cause for the deaths in Lu Fang’s group and Liu Kehe?”
Fang Duobing smiles despite the situation, ducking his head so that the emperor does not see. Right on time.
Di Feisheng, he thinks, do me this favor, and I will grant you a secret in the afterlife.
“ Fang Xiaobao,” the whisper comes again, buoyed by martial abilities, straight into Fang Duobing’s ears. He cherishes the voice, memorizes its lilt and tone, the thousand ways it said his name in fondness and exasperation and love. “ Xiaobao.” More urgent this time, a hint of worry. Ai, Fang Duobing would miss this voice. “ Xiaobao, ask him.”
Fang Duobing exhales, and promptly disobeys.
“Your Majesty may ask all who were present at Shan Gudao’s death. The head of the Wansheng Clan, servant of the Nanyin royal lineage, has already been interrogated and imprisoned by the Baichuan Court. Your Majesty’s Commander of the Imperial City Division was also present, and will support my testimony.”
“ Xiaobao? What are you—”
Fang Duobing goes to his knees, and bows low. The floor is cool underneath his palms, his forehead pressed to the ground. He raises his voice, to drown out the whispers of the eavesdropper outside, and begs Di Feisheng to hurry. “Above all, Your Majesty, these witnesses will be able to tell of the proof of my lineage. As the only biological son of Shan Gudao, descendant of the Nanyin royal family, my blood was able to exterminate the insect born of Nanyin witchcraft–”
“ Fang Xiaobao!”
“ –thus proving my connection to the Nanyin line. Your Majesty, my birth father has committed a grave crime, and has openly coveted and rebelled against you and your rule. As his son, I will not escape punishment.”
“ Xiao–”
And then he hears no more, save for a slight tap on wood. He sighs in relief, and continues.
“I understand the price of his crime,” Fang Duobing says, voice clearer and more determined now that there was no one to eavesdrop and pull him back from the edge of the cliff that he was willingly walking. “I can only offer my life, your Majesty, as recompense. With my death, the Nanyin line in the Central Plains will truly be extinguished; and your Majesty may rule securely in peace and prosperity.”
“You would make me your executioner, young master Fang?”
Fang Duobing presses himself into the ground. “Only because you are truly just, your Majesty. I only–” his voice wavers, “ –I only ask that the execution be private and swift, to save the Fang family from shame. My fath–Minister Fang has served in your court for many years, and Chief He Xiaohui of Tianji Hall is an upright figure of both the martial and imperial worlds. They will remain your loyal servants, your Majesty. I only ask that your justice be meted out on this unworthy one, and that Tianji Hall, Baichuan Court, and Sigu Sect be spared from your righteous wrath.”
The emperor is silent, and Fang Duobing can only wait.
“Rise, young Master Fang.”
Fang Duobing does, sitting back on his heels, hands folded in penitence, head bowed.
“You are a promising fighter and a learned gentleman. You are young, with years yet ahead of you. Why do you offer me your life so flagrantly?”
Fang Duobing looks up; the emperor’s gaze is steady, waiting. “I am but one man, your Majesty,” he answers slowly. “There are a thousand others in the jianghu, of the Baichuan Court and elsewhere, who are more proficient than I. There are hundreds more, who possess the same knowledge I do.” He lowers his head once more. “Your Majesty already knows I was a sickly child, with no mother and father to call my own. If not for the grace that fate has given me to be raised by the Fang family, I would not have reached what meager heights I have.”
He bows once more, forehead pressed to the floor. “Fate has thus made it my duty to pay back what debts I owe. For the sake of the kingdom, Your Majesty, for the sake of peace and your rule, please take my offering. I have nothing else to give.”
Fang Duobing does not know how long he lies there, only that the emperor gives an order, and the doors to the throne room slide shut. Fang Duobing feels a prick in his neck, and lays still–like a lamb to slaughter.
“Fang Duobing,” the emperor says, as the room tilts around him and fades to black. Fang Duobing wills his energy to still, fights against his own trained instincts, wrestles down Yangzhouman as he feels his body be overcome by the unknown substance.
“May your next life be blessed.”
Li Lianhua wakes slowly, the light filtering back into his vision like sunrise. The first thing he realizes is that his body feels lighter, and free from decay–he had lived for far too long with the biting rot of the Bicha poison in his veins, had forgotten what it had felt like to have a body that lived, and not merely functioned.
The last time he had felt this way, his name was still Li Xiangyi.
The knowledge makes his eyes snap open as he jolts upright, finally taking in his surroundings. Lotus Tower greets him in all her familiarity, dust motes floating in the sunlight.
“You’re awake.”
The rough voice draws Li Lianhua’s attention. Di Feisheng sits in front of his bed, arms crossed and sword strapped to his back, something unreadable in his gaze.
“What–” Li Lianhua groans as a headache suddenly comes over him, Di Feisheng moving and reappearing with a cup of water. He drinks, slowly, relishing the coolness on his dry throat. Di Feisheng merely watches him, and wordlessly takes the empty cup.
Li Lianhua keeps his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose, feeling awfully like he is forgetting something essential.
“You’re going to ask about Fang Duobing.”
Li Lianhua’s eyes fly open. Fang Xiaobao, the imperial palace, the emperor–!
“What did you do?” he asks angrily, rubbing a sore area in his neck, no doubt where the unconsciousness potion of the Jinyuan Alliance had entered his body. “The emperor–”
“The emperor has rewarded Tianji Hall for their bravery, and Minister Fang has returned unharmed to Chief He’s side,” Di Feisheng answers, but there is an uncertainty in his tone. Li Lianhua looks up at him with narrowed eyes. “And Fang Duobing?”
Di Feisheng looks away.
“Di Feisheng,” Li Lianhua asks again, fear crawling up his spine. “ Where is Fang Duobing? ”
Fang Duobing opens his eyes blearily, and immediately closes them again. The room seems to swing back and forth, doing nothing for the pounding headache in his skull.
He takes a breath, one, two, and takes stock of his senses and internal energy. He had thought, kneeling in that throne room, that it had been the end.
He sits up, slowly, and it is only when he does that he realizes his robes have been swapped for the rough linens of a prisoner, his feet bare and hair tied back simply. He takes stock of the room he is in–simple, with only a few small barred windows high in the walls, bare of any furnishing apart from the simple wooden board he had been laying on, topped with a thin mattress. Despite his attire, there are no chains on his wrists or ankles, and he seems to be free to walk around and explore his cell.
That is when he realizes that his initial observation hadn’t been wrong–his room seems to be moving.
It is then that the heavy iron door swings outward, and a masked man dressed all in black steps into the cell. Fang Duobing holds himself still.
“You are awake,” the man says, bringing in a tray and closing the door behind him. He sets it down on the floor and gestures for Fang Duobing to sit down in front of him.
Fang Duobing obliges, moving slowly. In front of him are three stoppered bottles, all of different colors.
“I am the emperor’s executioner,” the man intones. “Young master, by royal decree, you have been sentenced to die.”
Fang Duobing wills himself to relax, to give up the jianghu-honed instinct that screamed at him to fight, to overpower his adversary and escape. He resolutely ignores the gentle scolding voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Li Lianhua.
Fang Xiaobao, what are you doing?
“I understand,” he says instead.
“Before you are three poisons,” his executioner says, pointing them out one by one. “This will work immediately by stopping your heart–you will be dead by sunrise. This one works slowly, by taking your senses and stagnating your flow of qi until one day you go to sleep and not wake up.” For the last one, cold eyes look directly at Fang Duobing. “Drink this, should you prefer to die by the sword. It will drive you berserk, and the soldiers on this boat will give you the death you wish for.”
Silence fills the room, until Fang Duobing exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “His imperial Majesty is truly benevolent and wise,” he murmurs, “to give me the choice of my death.” He places two hands together, closed fist against open palm, and bows at the waist. “This young master thanks you.”
“Make your choice, and we will come again,” his executioner says brusquely, standing and leaving the tray in front of Fang Duobing, the three stoppered bottles gleaming in the dimly lighted cell. “Do not think of escaping–the sedative given to you at the king’s palace keeps you weak, and the soldiers of this boat will slaughter you the minute you step out of your cell.”
“Daren,” Fang Duobing says, and the executioner stops on his way out. “Will you tell me where we are?”
“Somewhere in the East Sea,” the masked man answers swiftly, before stepping out and locking the heavy door behind him.
Fang Duobing gazes quietly at the bottles for a long time, until the shadows in the room lengthen and darkness falls.
Finally, his hands hover over one of them. He takes it up, and drinks.
“I don’t know.”
A blast of energy flows from his palm, as if on instinct, as Li Lianhua stands in anger and pushes Di Feisheng away. The demon actually stumbles back a few steps, surprise and satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. Li Lianhua stops, stares at his own hands, feels for himself the renewed Yangzhouman flowing in his meridians.
There are murder cases that he has figured out with less clues than this.
“ What have you two done? ” Li Lianhua whispers coldly, stepping up to meet his old rival face to face. Di Feisheng clasps his hands behind his back, unwavering.
“Welcome back, Li Xiangyi.”
Li Xiangyi does indeed choose that moment to reappear, as something in Li Lianhua snaps, and he next finds himself pinning Di Feisheng to the rickety Lotus Tower wall.
“Careful,” the demon has the temerity to say, infuriatingly calm. “You wouldn’t want to destroy your own house.”
Li Lianhua huffs, but does not loosen his hold around the demon’s neck. “It’s my house.”
“So it is,” Di Feisheng acknowledges, holding still. Li Lianhua can feel his pulse throb underneath his fingertips. “How does it feel to be reborn?”
Li Lianhua narrows his eyes, clenches dangerously tighter. “You took me away from the palace and gave me the Wangchuan flower. Why? ”
Di Feisheng, with all the insolence in his scarred body, actually rolls his eyes even as Li Lianhua feels his neck muscles strain. “You have your disciple to thank for that.”
Li Lianhua blinks, and loosens his hold. Di Feisheng steps away from the wall, breathing steadily as though unbothered, even as Li Lianhua can see the reddened marks of his own fingertips on the demon’s neck. Truly infuriating.
“And where is that devil of a disciple, that I may beat him into the ground myself?”
This is where uncertainty re-enters Di Feisheng’s eyes, and again, he looks away. Li Lianhua feels the fear return, an uncomfortable sharpness in between his ribs.
“You don’t know,” Li Lianhua answers himself numbly, and is gratified by the demon opposite him closing his own eyes in frustration. “My people have not been able to locate him,” Di Feisheng admits. “We agreed that I would take you away from the palace and give you the Wangchuan flower. Beyond that, I do not know what his plans were—“
“His plans?” Li Lianhua repeats, trepidation building up in the back of his head and feeling very much like another Fang Duobing-induced headache. If his own shifu could see him now, agonizing over the misdeeds of a one-and-only disciple, the old man would probably laugh himself sick. “His plans? ”
Di Feisheng nods. “He went before the emperor, and we had agreed to meet again after.”
“So where is he?”
“I don’t know,” the demon exhales. “It’s been a few days. My people say that even Tianji Hall does not know where that brat is.”
Li Lianhua has heard enough, and makes his way out of the Lotus Tower to mount one of the horses, Di Feisheng’s admissions echoing uncomfortably in his ears as he rides towards Tianji Mountain.
It is Zhan Yunfei who meets his horse and rides with him through the layers of Tianji Hall security, a silent but knowing sentinel. “Come,” is the only thing his friend says, as they ride up the mountain and into the mansion’s inner courts. They dismount, Li Lianhua following as He Xiaofeng runs to meet them, her eyes red from crying. The fear sharpens, burrowing deep into Li Lianhua’s chest.
“She is in her room,” He Xiaofeng says without preamble, pinning Li Lianhua in place with those red eyes. “She has not emerged since.”
Li Lianhua looks from her to the closed doors.
“Go in,” He Xiaofeng encourages. “Li Lianhua– Li Xiangyi . You are our last resort.”
Li Lianhua does not ask why, or how, or when he had become the last resort for a family that commanded battalions of their own loyal soldiers, whose patriarch had access to the emperor’s inner circle and whose matriarch had a network of wealth and intelligence spanning the jianghu. The blade-sharp fear in his chest has almost taken away his ability to breathe.
He opens the door, and enters.
Fang Duobing feels nothing at first. If this is what dying feels like, he thinks, it is almost disappointingly anti-climactic.
He was a coward in the end, he reflects. Out of all the endings the emperor had given him to willingly choose from, he had chosen the one that was a slow farewell—and what for? He had already done all of that on land. He had written his letters, made his arrangements.
Perhaps he wanted just a bit more time, to contemplate why he had done all of this, why he had chosen this. He thinks back to Guan Hemeng’s stern revelation—that in using his inner power to keep Fang Duobing and Di Feisheng safe, Li Lianhua had essentially signed his own death warrant; and Fang Duobing hadn’t known.
He had followed a walking sacrifice and shield for months, and he hadn’t known.
“Li Lianhua,” he whispers, as the gentle smile of his shifu coalesces in his failing vision, “live long and well.”
The moonlight streams into his cell from the high window, the movement from the sea lending an undulating wave to his floor. Fang Duobing closes his eyes as the lightheadedness gives way to dizziness, a growing heaviness in his bones. He pushes himself into a lotus position, physically arranging limbs that seem not to respond to the call of his nerves. He swallows down the panic that rises in his throat and reminds himself that he has chosen this, this end that was wholly necessary for those that he loved to live.
Mother, he thinks, He Xiaohui’s smiling face beaming at him in his mind’s eye.
Mother, I hope you forgive me.
The sight that greets Li Lianhua makes him want to fall to his knees.
“I said I was not to be disturbed!”
With her back to him, Chief He Xiaohui of Tianji Hall is no less imposing than she had been at the head of her troops. It is all Li Lianhua can do, to force his dry mouth to move.
“This one begs your forgiveness, He-tangzhu.”
At the sound of his voice, He Xiaohui whips around, and cold recognition blooms across her face. “Li Lianhua.”
Li Lianhua looks at her and knows that He Xiaohui is a mother who would burn down the world for her child–there could have only ever been one hand that could stop her sword.
And that hand, so precious and dearly-beloved, is now nowhere to be found.
“He-tangzhu.” His voice shakes, and he feels as though he should prostrate himself before her, fall on her sword and let it pierce through him effortlessly.
“The emperor has rewarded Tianji Hall for its assistance in the palace conflict, and told my husband that he had sent Fang Duobing on a mission as a personal reward for his service,” the chief of Tianji Hall tells him absently, voice weak and gaze far away. She does not raise her head to look at him again, nor acknowledge his presence. A few pieces of hair have fallen out of her formerly-impeccable hair arrangement, and her robes are wrinkled and haphazardly worn. Her cheeks are sunken in, lips pale. Li Lianhua shudders to see her like this.
In her hands, she clutches a piece of parchment, Fang Duobing’s neat handwriting spilling across the page. “That was a few days ago. We have not heard from him since. Tell me, Li Lianhua–what kind of mission necessitates leaving behind his sword, and leaving a farewell letter to his parents?”
Li Lianhua takes one, two faltering steps forward. For there, in the center of the mattress, laid out beside his grieving mother, is Fang Duobing’s Erya sword.
“My foolish, foolish child,” He Xiaohui murmurs, one finger stroking the outline of the jade charm that Fang Duobing had always kept on his person, now tied to the pommel of his sword. “My precious boy…where did you go? What did you do? Come back to me, Xiaobao–”
Her desperate whispers peter out into indistinguishable quiet sobs as she gently unties the jade charm and holds it to her chest, clutching it so hard that the charm indents into her palm.
Li Lianhua falls to his knees, reaches out a shaking hand, feels the crafted grooves of Erya’s gleaming scabbard, sliding down until trembling fingers ghost over the pommel, cold from disuse.
“Take it,” He Xiaohui says suddenly, and Li Lianhua turns his head to see Fang Duobing’s mother staring at him in the eye, red-rimmed eyes clear with something that looks like anger and determination. “Li Lianhua– Li Xiangyi. Bring our Xiaobao back.”
“So you have made your choice,” the masked man says with finality, barging in and taking up the bottles of poison. Fang Duobing does not open his eyes, folded in lotus position and focusing on his breathing.
“So be it,” his executioner says, putting down a tray in front of Fang Duobing. “Have your rations while you wait. It would be a shame to have these go to waste.”
Fang Duobing opens his eyes once the masked man leaves, and sees a bowl of water and a steamed bun. Skeptical, he slowly takes up the bun, bites, and chews.
It is after he swallows that he realizes—he does not know what the bun tastes like.
Li Lianhua leaves Tianji Hall with Erya strapped to his back and a wooden box in his hand, its contents clattering ominously as he rides back towards Lotus Tower.
Working together, He Xiaohui’s servants and the loyal Zhan Yunfei had loaded his steed with supplies for a yet-unknown journey, and He Xiaofeng had taken him aside with a worried look in her eyes.
“We found this in his room, searching for any clues,” she had said forlornly, holding out the wooden box that Li Lianhua had taken, his name hastily scrawled on a piece of parchment tucked into the carvings of the cover. “If anything, he might have left it for you.”
Fang Duobing’s aunt had not continued her statement. No matter–Li Lianhua’s overactive imagination had done the work for her, filling in the unspoken with the most unimaginable scenarios.
Left it for you…as a gift.
As a token.
As a farewell.
Heart in his throat, Li Lianhua comes to a stop outside the Lotus Tower and his feet take him inside. Erya is an unknown weight on his back; he takes it off and lays down the sword on the roughened kitchen table, tries not to think of how its owner is not here to sit across from him and steal mouthfuls of his questionable cooking.
He opens the box carefully, and immediately spies a letter addressed to him; underneath it, a wooden sword, carved with the initials of another life.
Li Lianhua,
I am sorry for leaving in this way. You must be angry–please do not be. Drink wine with A-Fei, and play with Hulijing. My mother should furnish you with craftspeople from Tianji Hall–they will patch up that old house of yours, so that you may wander the lands to your heart’s content.
When Li Xiangyi gave me this wooden sword, I promised myself that I would someday present to him my own, and stand before him as his equal. Li Lianhua, take Erya in my absence–I am only sorry I cannot be there to carry it beside you. Know that these few months with you, as your only disciple and zhiji, have been the crowning glory of my life. Thank you, for giving a sword to a crippled boy and allowing him to experience life at your side.
Forgive me–it is for the sake of those I love, that I know what must be done. Forgive me for being selfish, and forcing your healing. Do not be overly angry with Di Feisheng–it was my plan from the start. Although–I will not blame you if you take up his challenge in return. Only when you are fully healed, mind you.
Please forgive this young fox for deceiving you so, and spite me by living long and well. If the heavens are kind, we will meet again at the top of the world.
With all that I am,
Xiaobao
Erya’s scabbard seems to gleam on the kitchen table, as Li Lianhua reaches into the box and picks up the wooden sword that he had given away all those years ago, in another life and under another name.
Tears well up and fall, unbidden and silent, as Li Lianhua traces the carvings in the wooden handle, tries to desperately remember the hands that held it, tries to remember those same hands, now grown and skilled and calloused from diligent and unwavering effort, as adept in comfort as they were in combat.
“Xiaobao,” he whispers, broken and breathy, the name a prayer, a plea, a sorrowful call into a murky unknown. An image of a gap-toothed boy swims in his mind’s eye, a tentative smile with teary eyes, spine straight against the hard wooden chair.
“Xiaobao,” he says again, tracing the neat handwriting, clutching the parchment close to his chest as though it was a replacement for the writer himself. The boy morphs into a young man, eyes aglow with bravery and promise and an unrelenting courageous loyalty that evidently knew no limit.
Li Lianhua, in this life, you are my one and only zhiji—
“Xiaobao,” he whimpers, hurt, angry, deceived, unwilling to accept the truth spelled out in black and white. The lies overheard in the throne room echo over and over again in his head, coalescing in that one line, uttered with a conviction that challenged fate itself.
— I will not let you die.
He doesn’t know how, but Li Lianhua ends up on his knees, and his tears are rivers that do not dry or run out.
The next day, a message arrives via Di Feisheng’s hawk, catching him on the road and warning him to steer clear of the imperial capital and let the dust settle. My spies are in place, Di Feisheng had written, his acerbic tone inked into the parchment. Do me a favor and do not muddle into their work. I will send word when they have found something.
When, not if. Li Lianhua smiles wryly at Di Feisheng’s matter-of-fact brusqueness as he folds the paper into the burning embers of his cooking fire and watches it go up in smoke. “Fang Duobing,” he whispers, “look at what you have done. Even the unscrupulous Jinyuan Alliance is searching for your trail. Heaven help you when they find you.”
He mounts his horse again, and adjusts his course toward the Baichuan Court. He finds Shi Shui already waiting for him at the gates. “Tianji Hall informed us of the situation,” his former lieutenant says immediately. “Fang Duobing was last seen here with Biqiu.”
“Biqiu?” Li Lianhua asks. “What did he want with him?”
“With Biqiu? Nothing.” Shi Shui furrows her brow. “He merely wanted to be brought to the prisons, to interrogate Feng Qing.”
Li Lianhua feels a terrible sense of deja vu. The head of the Wansheng Clan, servant of the Nanyin royal lineage, has already been interrogated and imprisoned by the Baichuan Court.
“He was the first to question him,” Shi Shui supplies, clearly seeing the worry on his face. “I thought nothing of it at the time, but now—“
“Bring me to him,” Li Lianhua commands, a long-forgotten tone sneaking into his voice. By the way Shi Shui snaps to attention, she has noticed it too.
“This way, Li-mengzhu.”
“I told you already,” Feng Qing says, lazily waving a hand towards Shi Shui. “Didn’t I? That young Baichuan detective, Fang something-or-the-other, the son of Shan Gudao. He cut open his palm. Only his blood was able to exterminate the mind control insect, proving the truth of his Nanyin descent.”
“ You lie! ” Li Lianhua slams the bars, sending an explosive blast of energy into the cell. Feng Qing is thrown back against the rock wall, and cries out in pain.
“Li-mengzhu!” The guards panic, and Shi Shui narrows her eyes, but none of them stop him.
When Feng Qing lifts his head once more to face Li Lianhua, a trickle of blood runs down his neck.
“That young man was very persuasive,” Feng Qing says mockingly. Li Lianhua can hardly bear it.
“What. Did. He. Tell. You?” he grits out. Feng Qing regards him a moment longer, and then throws back his head and laughs. “The poor naive boy. He said that if I confessed what he told me, the true heir of Nanyin would live.” He grins, teeth coated in blood, as he gazes at Li Lianhua with knowing and triumphant eyes. “He was right.” Laughs spill out from his mouth, choked and exuberant as he looks at Li Lianhua with unconcealed sinister joy. “He was right !”
Li Lianhua curls his hand into a fist, and turns to grab the sword of an unsuspecting guard. Faster than the eye can follow, he opens the cell door and strikes, slamming another round of energy into the cell, quicker than the guards or Shi Shui can stop him. This time, it slices through Feng Qing, and silences his laughter forever.
The body of the head of the Wansheng Clan drops lifeless on the Baichuan Court’s prison floor, the guard’s sword dropping beside it, Erya still unsullied on Li Lianhua’s waist. Eyes grim and unrepentant, Li Lianhua turns to leave, and the guards cross their spears in front of him, but only perfunctorily. He turns his head to Shi Shui, who meets his eyes. Li Lianhua knows that she understands, to a certain extent–even if she does not agree.
“Let him go,” she commands the uncertain guards, who readily obey. “And speak of what happened to no one.”
Li Lianhua makes it outside the prison under Shi Shui’s watchful gaze, and when they reach the peach blossom tree garden, she turns to stop him in his tracks.
“What do you need, Li-mengzhu?”
Li Lianhua looks at her, and thanks Heaven for her loyalty. “Fang Duobing is missing. It is imperative that he be found.”
She nods. “I will mobilize the forces of the Baichuan Court, and send word to Qiao Wanmian for the help of Sigu Sect. We will find him.”
“Tread lightly,” Li Lianhua cautions. “He was last seen at the imperial palace. We suspect the emperor has had a role in his disappearance.”
Shi Shui furrows her forehead. “We?”
Li Lianhua nods. “Di Feisheng and his followers will be searching as well. Do not engage or hinder them; let them help.”
She doesn’t like it, he can tell, but her loyalty outweighs her preferences. “And you, Li-mengzhu?”
Unconsciously, his hand finds Erya’s pommel, hanging on his waist. “I will be searching on my own. Alert me by hawk if you have anything.”
“Yes, Li-mengzhu.”
Li Lianhua nods and turns to leave, but Shi Shui stops him again. “Li-mengzhu, Fang Duobing…” she stops, and Li Lianhua raises an eyebrow for her to go on. She does. “He was one of our best.”
The past tense freezes him in place, chills him to the bone. These are words that paint a world that he does not even dare to imagine.
“He is,” he replies pointedly, and Shi Shui looks away as she realizes her mistake. “Of course,” she allows. “We will find him, Li-mengzhu.”
In that, at least, they are in agreement. Li Lianhua nods. “We will.”
“Li-mengzhu,” a soft voice calls, and Li Lianhua turns, Shi Shui’s whip at the ready. “Traitor,” she says icily. “Biqiu, we allowed solitary confinement on your own terms. Do not make me place you in the prisons.”
Yun Biqiu keeps his head lowered, as Shi Shui’s whip cracks dangerously close. “I will return, and you may see no more of me. But Young Master Fang had entrusted me with this, and I will not betray his trust.”
Li Lianhua raises a hand and Shi Shui subsides reluctantly, coiling her whip. Biqiu takes a few tentative steps closer, and holds out his hand. At the sight of what he holds, Li Lianhua nearly falls to his knees.
Long ago, years and another lifetime away, Li Xiangyi had established the Baichuan Court alongside the Sigu Sect. On rare occasions, and particularly difficult cases, detectives would not make it back home. Li Xiangyi had personally delivered their nameplates to surviving family members or close comrades, according them the respect and glory that they deserved.
“Li-mengzhu,” Biqiu says shakily, voice barely above a whisper. “This unworthy one presents to Li Xiangyi the nameplate of Baichuan Court detective, Fang Duobing. He has served the court and the jianghu well and ably, upholding justice with his sword—”
“Stop,” Li Lianhua says suddenly, and Biqiu closes his mouth shut. Even Shi Shui looks away.
Li Lianhua cannot hear the next words, phrases he himself had uttered a lifetime ago to grieving families: the blessing of the Sigu Sect for their fallen. He reaches out a trembling hand and takes the token, runs a finger over the engraved characters.
He is not Li Xiangyi anymore–so why does Li Xiangyi’s sorrow follow in his wake?
“He gave it up while protecting you, Li-mengzhu,” Biqiu says softly, as Shi Shui looks on. “He believed the Baichuan Court had become blind to our own failings. To an extent, he was right.”
Li Lianhua grips the nameplate tighter at this revelation. He hadn’t known that. He had been barely conscious, aware of strong arms hoisting him up, voices that he couldn’t decipher–he had closed his eyes, and let go, because he had trusted Fang Duobing; only to find out that the cost of that trust had been Xiaobao’s lifelong dream.
“He asked me to give it to you, as–” Biqiu closes his eyes in pain. “–as the only disciple of Li Xiangyi. He said–he said he only wanted to serve his lineage well.”
Fang Xiaobao, are you so determined to make me mourn you?
“Fang Duobing still lives,” he declares firmly–Erya at his side, nameplate tucked into his robes, Li Xiangyi’s command in Li Lianhua’s tone. “When he returns, he is to be fully reinstated as a detective of the Baichuan Court, with merit and honor to his name.”
This time, Biqiu and Shi Shui look at each other, and bow as one. “As you command, Li-mengzhu.”
The next hours and days are a whirlwind of fevered searching. Li Lianhua drops by the Sigu Sect and enlists the help of Qiao Wanmian, who had already been mounted at the head of the first search party. He moves on with no real direction, hanging onto the hope for real news from any of his allies.
With the capital being off-limits, he starts at the nearest villages and works outwards, asking anyone who would listen about a young man with doe eyes and a caring heart. He keeps his eyes peeled for any piece of ostentatious clothing, out-of-place in the small villages, or of small hairpieces that might have been pawned to feed a starving child. The children themselves look at him with pity and admiration for the sword he carries.
He returns to the Lotus Tower when he absolutely needs to sleep before he collapses, running on Yangzhouman to keep his body upright. When he sleeps, he dreams in fits and starts, reluctant to slip into deeper dreaming, for fear of only seeing Fang Duobing in the world beyond worlds.
He jolts awake one ungodly hour with tear tracks still damp on his cheeks, the moon glowing unflinchingly in the night.
“Xiaobao,” he whispers brokenly, “where are you?”
The next time the masked man comes to deliver his rations, Fang Duobing opens his eyes to see nothing but utter darkness. He can only hear, barely, the plunk of the tray as it is set by his meager bed, the heavy footsteps of his executioner, the clang of the heavy metal door.
He weakly pushes himself upright and feels about for the tray, knocking over the jug of stale water as he blindly grabs for the tasteless bun.
The water seeps into his ratty mattress. Fang Duobing scoots closer to the wall, and closes his eyes in surrender.
Hope comes in the form of a terse message from Shi Shui to meet them at one of the trading ports. Li Lianhua arrives under the cover of night to see Di Feisheng there too, masked and standing off to the corner of the inn’s room as Shi Shui regards him coolly, one hand on her whip. Qiao Wanmian sits opposite her, amusement in her quirked brow as she observes their stand-off.
“What did you find?”
Shi Shui gestures to the parchments unrolled on the table between her and Qiao Wanmian. “The Baichuan Court’s spies verified the Jinyuan Alliance’s information. In the last week, an unnamed prisoner was seen being moved from the palace dungeons to an emperor’s ship.” In the corner, Di Feisheng exhales impatiently. Li Lianhua ignores him, and Shi Shui barely stops herself from rolling her eyes. “These are the records for the ships that depart from the ports. There are several that fly the emperor’s flag.”
Li Lianhua takes a seat and surveys the documents. “How does that help us? All of these are marked for routes across the Four Seas.” In retrospect, it was a devious idea to make a man disappear through water rather than on land. No wonder the combined forces of Tianji Hall, Baichuan Court, Sigu Sect, and Jinyuan Alliance could not find Fang Duobing in any village or town.
Qiao Wanmian leans forward and taps a finger against one entry. “They were careless. This one’s destination is marked as the next port over. Any cargo or passengers would make it faster by horse carriage than by sea. It makes no sense.”
Li Lianhua reviews the entries, a small hope blooming in his chest. It was a thin lead, but it would have to do. “And you?” he says, projecting his voice enough to be heard by his once-rival in the corner. “What do you have?”
Di Feisheng stalks over to them and lays down his own piece of parchment. “Other than the prisoner movement, my spies in the palace have also reported requests for specific medicines to be concocted by the emperor’s personal apothecary.”
Li Lianhua reads through the list quickly, trepidation growing as he scans the ingredients, his rudimentary medical skills putting two and two together. “These aren’t medicines,” he concludes, looking up at Di Feisheng, who merely nods. “Poisons,” the demon of the Jinyuan Alliance says. “The kinds used for execution.”
Li Lianhua gets up, and immediately sways, lightheaded. A strong arm catches him, as Qiao Wanmian and Shi Shui simultaneously rise in alarm. “Xiangyi,” Qiao Wanmian says softly. “You must rest. You are no good to him if you are dead on your feet.”
“A few hours,” Shi Shui adds. “Only a few hours, Li-mengzhu. We will try to locate the ship. Once we have it, we will wake you.”
“Send a message to Su Xiaoyong and Guan Hemeng, and have them ready,” Li Lianhua says, a lump in his throat as he lowers back down into his seat. “Let them know the poisons that we may be dealing with.”
Di Feisheng pulls him to the bed in the corner, his stoic expression the only reply to Li Lianhua’s protests. “At least one hour,” the demon repeats. “And not a minute less.”
As his eyes close, Li Lianhua exhales. Xiaobao, he begs. Hold on. I’m coming.
An hour later finds Li Lianhua alighting on a wooden deck, having flown with Di Feisheng’s qinggong from their small fisher’s boat to the solitary ship floating listless on the waves. “Thank you,” he says in passing as he draws Erya and takes his place, back to back with the demon of the Jinyuan Alliance. A grunt is the only reply he gets, before the two of them throw themselves into the melee.
The emperor’s men are trained fighters, but none of them stand a chance against Di Feisheng’s might and Li Lianhua’s sword. Erya finds a new home in his hand, whipping lightning-fast as men fall before him. Li Lianhua’s rage has cooled into a deadly and single-minded resolve, Li Xiangyi resurrected on that wooden deck, the same as so many years ago.
And yet–some things changed, while others stayed the same.
“Go,” Di Feisheng growls, his sword cutting a path for Li Lianhua to enter the ship’s lower levels. “Find him.”
With a nod of thanks, Li Lianhua rushes down, praying that he is not too late.
Only one metal door in the ship’s dungeon is locked, and Li Lianhua makes quick work of the padlock with a strike from Erya. He rushes in, and freezes.
There, sprawled on the floor, on top of a thin and filthy mattress, lies the young master of Tianji Hall, detective of Baichuan Court, and one and only disciple of Li Xiangyi: Fang Duobing.
Li Lianhua rushes forward, calling out that beloved name in panicked cries, unbecoming of the legend he was and is, reduced to begging and desperate pleas.
“Fang Xiaobao,” he murmurs, gently gathering up the broken body, fingers desperately searching for a pulse and being unrewarded. “Xiaobao,” he repeats, running his hands over the rough prisoner’s linens, searching for hidden wounds or broken bone. Fang Duobing’s eyes remain closed, skin pale and clammy to the touch, and Li Lianhua’s hands shake with fear.
“Your mother is fading from grief,” he begs, whispering into the cell, “do not–Fang Xiaobao, do not make me bring back a corpse to her door. She will not– I will not be able to bear it.”
“Please,” he whispers, pushing another wave of Yangzhouman into those stagnant meridians, one hand wrapped desperately around a limp wrist. Finally, the pulse underneath his fingertips flutters–barely, but still there. Li Lianhua lets out a wordless sob. “Please, Xiaobao.”
Li Lianhua lays one desperate trembling hand against the slack jaw, running his thumb over the dark circles under closed eyes. “I won’t let you die,” he whispers, steel in his cracking plea. “I won’t,” he repeats, sliding one arm under Fang Duobing’s torso and gently lifting up until the younger man’s head is cradled against his shoulder. “I won’t let you die,” he promises, holding tighter and tighter, one arm around Fang Duobing’s shoulders, the other pressing his head into Li Lianhua’s shoulder. Tears run down his face as he begs in broken whispers, one cheek pressed desperately to a clammy forehead. “Xiaobao, Xiaobao, please, please–”
Dimly, he registers Di Feisheng running into the cell, pausing in shock in the doorway. Li Lianhua doesn’t stop rocking the still body in his arms. He moves mechanically as Di Feisheng pushes him to stand, crying out like a wounded animal when Fang Duobing is gently taken from his hold. Di Feisheng remains stoic through it all, hoisting Fang Duobing up into his own arms. “Come,” he barks, running out. Li Lianhua follows.
They run onto the deck of the ship, and take to the air. Li Lianhua barely notices the Sigu Sect ship that has suddenly appeared beside the emperor’s ship, Qiao Wanmian and a handful of loyal Sigu Sect fighters at the ready, swords drawn in case any imperial fighters dared to follow.
“Medical bay is down below,” she says tersely as they run past. “We have sent word to Guan Hemeng. They will meet us at a hidden dock.”
Nodding his thanks, Li Lianhua rushes after Di Feisheng, eyes fixated on the filthy matted ponytail that is all that is visible of his one and only disciple.
Di Feisheng sets him down on the medical bay’s clean bed, and swiftly proceeds to push in his own Windy Poplar into the younger man’s meridians.
“Careful,” Li Lianhua murmurs, claiming his place beside the cot, smoothing back hairs from the sweaty forehead. Quietly, he lays a hand upon the other limp wrist, and Yangzhouman entwines with Windy Poplar in a desperate plea.
I won’t let you die.
“He lives yet,” Li Lianhua snarls. Guan Hemeng looks at him, a flash of helplessness breaking through his stoic facade. “He is dying, Li Lianhua,” the jianghu physician corrects. “He does not have long before his qi stagnates totally, and his heart will stop along with it. It is a mercy that he has made it thus far. The only consolation is that the poison the emperor decreed is a painless one.”
“Do not speak to me of mercy or consolation,” Li Lianhua snaps, the pride of Li Xiangyi pouring out, reddened eyes desperate, his hand still attached to Fang Duobing’s wrist, keeping up a steady flow of qi. “Tell me how to save him!”
“Your Yangzhouman,” Su Xiaoyong says finally, tears in her innocent eyes. Li Lianhua looks at her with hope. “It is the only way, but you are just healed–your internal energy is not at the level it was before. At best, purging the poison will weaken you to the lowest level of martial arts; at worst, it will kill you.”
“What if I help?” Di Feisheng asks. Li Lianhua looks at him questioningly. “It would be a waste if we saved you only for you to pass away in the end,” the demon tells him matter-of-factly. “I would not appreciate Fang Duobing at my throat when he wakes, and discovers you at your worst.”
“I will not allow–”
“Allow me then,” a new voice says, and they all turn to see Qin Po in the doorway, resolute steel in her gaze.
“Li Xiangyi,” she says calmly. “Step aside.”
“Shiniang, what—“
“Tianji Hall’s messengers run far and wide,” his shiniang says with knowing eyes. “I came as soon as I could.” She steps closer, surveys the unconscious form of Fang Duobing on the bed. “For the inheritor of Yunyin-shan, for the only disciple of Li Xiangyi, I will do what I can.”
Li Lianhua looks down, ashamed. “Shiniang, you cannot—“
“ Li Xiangyi! ” His shiniang draws herself to her full height, spine full of steel. “You prevented me from healing you. Fine. But you will not do the same to stop me from healing him.”
Granny Qin moves closer to the bed as Li Lianhua steps to the side, his heart in his throat. Her fingers wrap around Fang Duobing’s, as gentle as they had been for Li Xiangyi in his youth. “Especially him,” she whispers, gazing at Fang Duobing’s face, brushing back his bangs damp with sweat, a motherly hand grazing his cheek. “I failed his father,” she confesses, turning back to face Li Lianhua, who can muster no reply. “In my pride, in our temper, your shifu and I separated the two of you and failed to see the resentment that we had fostered.”
“Shiniang—“
She holds up a hand to stop him, and shakes her head. “I should have done better, for Shan Gudao. For you .”
“Fang Duobing is not—he isn’t shixiong,” Li Lianhua murmurs.
“No,” his shiniang agrees. “He is a better fighter, and a better man. This disciple of yours deserves to live a full life, Li Xiangyi. Would you keep that from him?”
Li Lianhua bites his tongue, looks from Fang Duobing’s still body to his shiniang, older than he had ever seen her.
“This is not your choice,” his shiniang gently reminds him.
“I know,” Li Lianhua admits reluctantly. “I have—I have learned, shiniang, that not many things in the world are.”
His shiniang smiles softly. “Then you have learned a lesson that your shifu and I did not teach. Now, out with you! Leave that doctor in here, and let us heal Fang Duobing.”
“Xiaobao,” Li Lianhua says suddenly, just as he’s being pushed out the door. His shiniang raises an amused eyebrow. “Hm?”
“Xiaobao,” Li Lianhua reiterates. “Is what we call him.”
Fang Duobing wakes slowly, expecting to see nothing but utter darkness, waiting for the telltale rising and falling of his cell on the waves.
But all is still, and he can glimpse light, and shadow, and shapes. Underneath him, the hard cell floor has given way to soft linens. A strong cleansing smell wafts near his nose, reminiscent of—of…
“Guan-xiong?” he tries, croaking. A cup of water hovers in his vision, a strong arm underneath his chest gently lifting him up just enough for him to sip. He closes his eyes, drinks the water greedily. The coolness slides down his parched throat.
“Slowly,” an amused voice says. “Or you might drown.”
Fang Duobing jerks, almost choking, and the empty cup disappears. The voice tsks, presumably setting down the cup before it breaks. “Come now, Xiaobao. Is that any way to greet your shifu?”
“Who’s my shifu?” Fang Duobing murmurs in reply, on instinct, and immediately catches himself, opening his eyes. “Li Lianhua?”
The owner of the name coalesces in front of his blurry vision, face hovering so close that Fang Duobing can only surmise that he is currently being held up like an invalid by the one and only Li Xiangyi.
“Hello,” Li Lianhua says softly. Fang Duobing must be dreaming. How—how did Li Lianhua…
He is let down slowly, into a bed of pillows that feels like heaven on his aching bones. “How?” he asks.
Li Lianhua just looks at him, an unreadable look on his face. Fang Duobing blinks as hard as he can, as though he can will the vision away. Why is he here? He is supposed to be safe, away from the emperor, away from the capital, the poison—
“Someone had to find my wayward disciple.”
“No, but—“
“Aiya,” the vision that is Li Lianhua tsks again, leaning out of his line of sight. “So many questions. Sleep.”
A familiar scent reaches his nose, and before he can protest, Fang Duobing knows no more.
Li Lianhua stays there by that bedside for hours, a night, a day. Various persons come in and out—he vaguely registers his shiniang, Guan Hemeng, Su Xiaoyong, and Di Feisheng. There are whispers that Chief He is on her way, that Qiao Wanmian and Shi Shui have set up a rotating guard to watch for the emperor’s soldiers, come to finish the job—but so far, all is quiet.
He acknowledges them all with barely a nod, two fingers never leaving the limp wrist on the soft mattress. As much as he can, as far as he can push, he feeds a steady stream of Yangzhouman into those recovering meridians. His shiniang and Guan Hemeng had worked a miracle—he, who had no such magic within him, could only do this.
So when Fang Duobing moves, his eyelids fluttering and voice shaky, Li Lianhua’s heart seems to stutter. He fakes an amused tone, speaking as lightly as he can, willing his trembling hands to hold the cup steady. He lights his knockout incense stealthily, and watches as those earnest eyes close.
He lays his only disciple down on the bed, smooths out imaginary wrinkles in his robes.
“How could you?” he asks the sleeping disciple, hurt seeping into his tone. “I had planned this, Xiaobao. You were supposed to be free, and safe.” He weaves one of his hands into those still fingers. “It was never supposed to be the other way around.”
A snort comes from behind him. “He said you would do that.”
Li Lianhua does not turn around, as the demon of the Jinyuan Alliance lays a rough but gentle hand on his shoulder. “Come–you have not eaten or slept since we arrived.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Di Feisheng sighs. “Chief He of Tianji Hall has arrived. Your disciple is in good hands.”
Li Lianhua remains unmoving. If Chief He had arrived, then he merely had more duties to be done—namely, to prostrate himself before her in apology.
An annoyed grunt comes from behind him as Di Feisheng pulls him to his feet and plays his trump card. “Your shiniang is calling.”
A nap and a meal later, Li Lianhua sits across from Qin Po, a tea set between them, and feels oddly like he is transported back to his youth. His shiniang looks at him with that all-knowing gaze, waiting for him to admit to some wrong by his own accord. If he ignores the wrinkles on her face, he can imagine that his shifu is outside with his shixiong, doing some reprimanding of his own.
Now, as before, he easily crumbles.
“I failed,” Li Lianhua admits. His shiniang looks at him with an inscrutable gaze, pouring tea into his cup. “I should have gone before the emperor first, given him the Wangchuan flower, told him the truth–”
“You cannot do that now,” his shiniang says sharply. “Will you throw away all that this young man has done for you to live?”
Li Lianhua looks to the slumbering figure across the room, so still, so wrong for the ball of energy that was his Fang Xiaobao. “I cannot,” he chokes out.
His shiniang nods in approval. “I do not read minds, but everything about this young man has told me that all he wants to do is stay by your side. You will not take that away from him, not when he has given everything for it to come true.”
Li Lianhua ducks his head–in shame, in helpless acceptance. “Yes, shiniang.”
It takes three days for Fang Duobing to rise from his bed, and another two for him to walk. All the while, he protests loudly at the coddling treatment, arguing goodnaturedly with Su Xiaoyong and Di Feisheng as they feed all manner of healing herbs down his throat, turning into a child when his mother is in the room, enduring her ministrations.
All the while, Li Lianhua hovers just outside his door.
They meet eyes once, twice, but Li Lianhua always looks away.
A lone horse rides into the compound with a minimal guard, and Li Lianhua raises a brow at how its rider has managed to get through the forces of Shi Shui’s and Qiao Wanmian’s perimeter guards.
The front rider throws off her hood, and Li Lianhua smiles.
In the end, it seems that it is the Princess Zhao Ling that has figured out a way for Fang Duobing to live.
“My father has sentenced you to die,” she says primly, after Fang Duobing has managed to make his way out of his room to meet her. Li Lianhua watches behind a bamboo screen, heart dropping as he sees the paleness in the younger man’s face, the weakness still in his legs. Chief He hovers a step behind him, as though he should fall. She sets her jaw at the princess’ remark, but says nothing. Fang Duobing just bows to her in silence.
“My father has sentenced you to die,” the princess repeats. “But he never specified when, how, or why.”
She extends a hand for Fang Duobing to take, a twinkle in her eye. “Fang Duobing, just like I said when we delayed our wedding, what difference does it make if you die now or decades later?”
Fang Duobing takes her hand and bows again. “Her Majesty is truly wise.” She sniffs and pulls her hand back, a knowing grin on her face.
“When I become empress,” she says confidently, “I will overturn his decree, and sentence you to live as long as you can.”
A smirk pulls at Fang Duobing’s mouth. “What torture,” he says simply. “Her Majesty is truly cruel and merciless.”
“I will release you to the world you love, Fang Duobing,” the Princess (soon Empress) Zhao Ling states proudly. “Take with you your sword, but return when we need you. Let there be peace between the imperial palace and the jianghu.”
Fang Duobing bows deeply for the third time. When he rises, a smile adorns his face. “As you command, Princess.”
Li Lianhua lands gently, grass bowing underneath his boots, as he finishes the thirty-sixth step of his sword dance. He breathes in slowly, eyes closed, attuned to the world around him, the sword that is not his own still a comfortable weight in his hand, the small token hanging from his waist, the bamboo swaying in the wind, the–
“Should you be doing that already?”
–the intruder and the reckoning, both weighing heavy on his heart.
Li Lianhua opens his eyes and straightens, sheathing Erya and walking to the log where his flask of wine sits, sitting without a word and uncorking Qin Mushan’s bottle, paying no attention to the new arrival.
It takes only a few seconds for him to share the log with someone else. Li Lianhua looks away, even as he realizes that he has become used to not being alone.
Silence reigns for a moment, just the two of them in the glade, hidden from the jianghu’s prying eyes.
Li Lianhua unhooks the token from his waist and holds it out. “Here.”
Fang Duobing’s eyes widen momentarily and then soften, as he looks from his nameplate to Li Lianhua. “You kept it.”
Li Lianhua swallows the lump in his throat as he strives for nonchalance, placing the token in Fang Duobing’s lap. “When detectives fell in the Baichuan Court of old, Li Xiangyi would give their nameplates to their closest kin or comrade.” He had long mastered speaking of himself in the third person, a way to further distance himself from the mistakes and sorrow of that time–but Fang Xiaobao had pulled both Li Xiangyi and Li Lianhua from the ether, a resurrection of the dead and a healing of the living. Li Lianhua now finds himself at an uncomfortable crossroads–how does one live after being saved?
Fang Duobing smiles softly as he takes up the nameplate and reattaches it to his own waist. “I know. I told you, I studied all I could about the Baichuan Court and Sigu Sect. I wanted–”
“You wanted to serve your lineage well,” Li Lianhua finishes, taking another swig from his shifu’s flask. “Biqiu told me.”
“Li Lianhua—”
“If you have ever taken Li Xiangyi as your shifu, if you ever valued our companionship at all, Fang Duobing–” Li Lianhua’s hands shake, “–then you will never, ever, do that again.”
He closes his eyes, not daring to look beside him and behold the recipient of his ultimatum. After a long moment, Fang Duobing exhales, and a hand covers Li Lianhua’s own trembling fingers, holding the flask still. “Alright.”
Li Lianhua closes his eyes, and feels the wind blow gently through the bamboo.
But of course, his young fox is not to be outdone.
“You cannot honestly tell me that you were planning to do the same.”
Li Lianhua makes a frustrated noise. “That is different.”
“How?” Oh, he is angry now. Guan Hemeng would skewer Li Lianhua for aggravating his patient. “Tell me, Li Lianhua. How is that different?” A strong arm pulls at his shoulder, and Li Lianhua finds himself forced to look his Xiaobao in the eyes–eyes that are currently filling with tears.
“Tell me you weren’t planning on giving the Wangchuan flower away. Tell me you weren’t planning to give away the only cure that could heal you. Tell me you weren’t planning on leaving to die!”
And Li Lianhua, master of trickery, pinned into place by those sorrowful eyes, finds that he cannot find it in himself to lie. Not here, not now, and not to him .
“I did not know if it would save me,” he says gently. “I was only sure that it would have saved you.”
Fang Duobing makes a pained noise and releases him, shaking his head as he turns so that they are once more sitting shoulder to shoulder. “Stupid old fox.”
Li Lianhua smirks, and immediately rearranges his features–because it is apparently now his turn, in this sword fight they call banter.
“And is what you have done any better, you young fox?” Li Lianhua remarks lightly, hiding the turmoil he really feels underneath the calm surface of his words. “Was your plan any better than mine?”
Fang Duobing stays silent, as Li Lianhua sighs, takes up Erya in his hands and holds it out to him. “Here. Take it back.”
Fang Duobing does so quietly. “I wanted you to have it.”
Li Lianhua wills back the tears in his eyes. “I have no use for it now that its master is still alive. Besides,” he says, a new twinkle in his eye as he stands and brushes his robes, “how will the one and only disciple of Li Xiangyi learn the higher moves of Xiangyi swordplay if he does not have a sword?”
And so, in the quiet of the bamboo grove, Fang Duobing once again learns from Li Xiangyi. There is no shixiong now, and no wooden chair–but there is instead a reborn shifu and his one-and-only disciple, two zhiji, another sunrise, and the promise of candy.