Chapter 8: 8 May You Die a Wretched Death

Guihe’s body locked in place. Meeting Mingzhu’s gaze, his lips moved slightly, as if to explain—

The next instant, a white shadow shot from the great hall. Daoist Master Guining flickered to land directly before Mingzhu, robes billowing, and before his streaming sleeves had even settled, he pressed one forceful finger to the center of Mingzhu’s brow, sealing his soul shut in an instant. The light drained from his eyes.

Only then did the Little Shishu Guihe, stiff-limbed, take a few halting steps, extract the wriggling shadow from Mingzhu’s unmoving hand, and grind it beneath his foot, trembling—only then did the shadow finally grow quiet.

Guihe’s voice shook faintly. “B-Brother?”

Daoist Master Guining’s face was blank with cold as he looked down at Mingzhu, kneeling like a sculpture of ice. He said quietly, “‘The shadow’ no longer works. I must find the Spirit-Suppressing Lamp to extend your life.”

Guihe: “But didn’t the Spirit-Suppressing Lamp vanish from the world long ago?”

“No. Some days ago I heard that the Evernight Manor stumbled into a Secret Realm, and within it saw the Spirit-Suppressing Lamp. I intend, in a while, to hand Rizhao Mountain over to you and go alone.”

Guihe started. “Brother, you mustn’t. Any Secret Realm is certain to be a place of deadly peril. Even with power that touches the heavens, you may not escape one alive……”

Impatience crossed Daoist Master Guining’s face. “Why must you still be so irresolute? I hear you recite your tiresome scriptures in the Longevity Hall every morning—’without destruction, no creation; in poverty, seek change.’ Why is it that when the matter stands before your own eyes, you can’t think of it? Have you recited all those scriptures straight into a dog’s belly? Useless thing—no wonder you accomplish nothing.”

Guihe’s pale face grew even grimmer, and he bowed his head hastily, not daring another word.

Daoist Master Guining rarely angered—but when he did, his fury struck without discrimination. He’d scolded Guihe to the verge of tears, and the man dared not waste a single extra syllable.

Daoist Master Guining looked at Mingzhu kneeling on the ground and said coldly, “I am not like that worthless father of his, who couldn’t even protect the one person he wanted to protect.”

Guihe slowly raised his head, eyes brimming with shimmering light. “Brother……?”

Daoist Master Guining gave a faint sigh, and for once reached out to pat Guihe’s head. “I will not watch you die a second time. Rest assured—your Brother is here.”

Guihe’s breath caught. Daoist Master Guining, having perhaps for the first time spoken so nakedly, felt a flush of red rise on his pale face, and leaving behind only “hurry home, don’t linger in the sun,” his body dissolved from the spot like a wisp of light—while beside them, Mingzhu, frozen like stone, slowly began to regain his senses.

Guihe’s long-furrowed brow knotted tighter still. He loosed a sigh and left slowly under his umbrella.

When Mingzhu’s senses returned, his hand was still half-raised, curled around the shape of something held—but the palm was empty, and no one remained around him.

He blinked in bewilderment, pushed the strands of hair off his forehead, and muttered, “Kneeling too long—am I hallucinating?”

He looked at his palm. It still seemed to hold the phantom feel of that shadow’s violent writhing. Was that an illusion too?

Mingzhu was easygoing by nature; things he couldn’t puzzle out, he couldn’t be bothered to pursue. He straightened his back and knelt on properly in the blazing sun.

At lunch, Shen Di’an came carrying a food box to Wenxian Residence, taking the opportunity to glance across at Buzhiya. Seeing its doors shut tight, he knew the Eldest Senior Brother was still kneeling outside the hall.

He whistled with undisguised glee, planning to deliver Zhou Fuxue’s meal and then swing by to rub salt in the wound.

Though Zhou Fuxue had knelt only briefly, that flesh-freezing ice-water had still gnawed his knee raw and mangled. With Mingzhu’s botched bandaging, he could do nothing but sit stiffly on the edge of the bed, going nowhere.

Fortunately, he had always preferred quiet, unlike those restless others—even a random scripture book could hold him for an entire day.

Shen Di’an pushed the door open, gave Zhou Fuxue a casual greeting, and set the two-tiered food box on the table. “The Eldest Senior Brother sent me with your food. Eat something—your knee’s really all right?”

Zhou Fuxue bent politely in thanks and said flatly, “It’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Shen Di’an laughed. “If only our Eldest Senior Brother could learn a fraction of your composure—you have no idea. Whenever he’s hurt, even a scraped patch of skin, he howls until the whole of Rizhao Mountain knows. Getting salve applied, he thrashes like he’s dying, can’t be held down at all—as if someone were flaying him alive.”

Hearing him bring up Mingzhu, Zhou Fuxue remembered: “The Eldest Senior Brother isn’t back yet?”

Shen Di’an: “Hahaha, no, no. I’d say he won’t be back until the dead of night, the way the punishment’s going. Serves him right!”

Zhou Fuxue: “……”

Zhou Fuxue dearly wanted to know what vendetta lay between these two, that Shen Di’an should so thoroughly despise Mingzhu.

Shen Di’an, hurrying off to watch Mingzhu’s misery, didn’t stay long. He rose after a few more words, with a parting instruction: “Eat while it’s hot. Don’t wander about—if you need anything, just call the attendants outside. I’m off.”

Zhou Fuxue couldn’t well rise, so he bowed slightly to see Shen Di’an out.

Just as Shen Di’an had said, it was not until sunset that lamps slowly kindled across at Buzhiya, and Mingzhu’s muttering drifted faintly over the courtyard wall.

Zhou Fuxue had rested the whole day, and his legs could barely manage walking. Feeling uneasy, he wanted to go check on him—but just as he reached the courtyard gate, a thought struck him: Tenth Senior Brother said kneeling punishments are routine for him. Why am I fretting over nothing? With the Eldest Senior Brother’s infuriating character, he probably wouldn’t even appreciate it.

So thinking, he turned back from the gate—but before he’d taken two steps, the sound of a body slamming into the ground came clearly from the courtyard opposite, followed by a long clatter of small things scattering.

Zhou Fuxue turned and went back out, saying as he walked, “He…… he stood up for me before. I’m only going to look. I’ll come straight back.”

It seemed the incident of Mingzhu standing up for him was destined to be drawn from his ledger again and again to offset every manner of thing—with no telling what year or month the account would finally clear.

Dragging his injured leg, he shuffled step by step to Buzhiya. The courtyard was in chaos, and the footprints on the ground suggested someone had slipped and fallen—more than once, by the look of it. The closer Zhou Fuxue looked, the more alarmed he grew. When he reached the door of Mingzhu’s room, he found the wooden frame that had stood in the gallery knocked over, wooden pegs scattered across the ground.

Surveying the wreckage, Zhou Fuxue thought, Is this a punishment detail, or has the Senior Brother gone mad? He stepped up and knocked softly, testing: “Senior Brother? Are you asleep?”

A candle-flame no bigger than a bean burned within, and the door stood half-ajar. At Zhou Fuxue’s two knocks, half of it swung open with a creak, revealing an interior even more chaotic.

Zhou Fuxue had been trampled from childhood, and beneath his noble birth lay a bone-deep habit of meekness. Even with the door open, he didn’t dare trespass into another’s territory uninvited. He stood outside and called softly again, “Eldest Senior Brother?”

Dead silence within—only the cicadas and insects outside the window. Then, soon enough, came the rustle and drag of clothing, and Mingzhu’s voice with it: “Little Thirteen? Come in, come in—you’re just in time.”

Zhou Fuxue froze a moment, then pushed open the other half of the door and walked in slowly.

The moment he entered, he discovered there was nowhere in the entire room to set his foot.

Who knew how this eccentric of an Eldest Senior Brother had managed it—the floor was strewn with a heap of chaotic debris: scripture books, brushes and ink, scent pouches, clothing, everything under the sun. And sharp-eyed Zhou Fuxue spotted, in a corner, a pillow.

Zhou Fuxue, a fastidious soul to the bone, went briefly black before the eyes and said bluntly, “Senior Brother, is this a dog’s den?”

Mingzhu had a ready defense. “This is merely efficient use of resources! The floor’s so empty—filling it with things isn’t a waste of space.”

Zhou Fuxue nearly rolled his eyes. One sweep of his gaze found Mingzhu lying flat amid the wreckage, a calligraphy brush skewed rakishly through his hair-bun, in a state of utter disarray.

Mingzhu greeted him brightly. “Junior Brother, come give your Senior Brother a hand, would you? It’s crushing my leg.”

Zhou Fuxue: “……”

Half a wooden shelf lay squarely across Mingzhu’s shin. He’d strained with every ounce of strength he had and couldn’t shift it, so he’d simply lain there playing dead, waiting for rescue.

Zhou Fuxue was an invalid himself, but seeing Mingzhu so thoroughly useless, he sighed, resigned himself, and stepped forward to shove the shelf aside.

The moment Mingzhu won his freedom, he curled up and hugged his own shin, cold sweat sheeting his face, his whole body shaking. “Th-thanks, Junior Brother. You saved this dog’s wretched life. Tomorrow morning I’ll cook for you personally.”

Zhou Fuxue genuinely could not fathom whom he’d learned this style of self-mockery from—but then thought, Well, he doesn’t like himself anyway. Why should I wear myself out over it?

He said coldly, “Senior Brother, focus on recovering. Don’t overexert yourself. I’m going back.”

Mingzhu gave an “mm” and curled himself up onto his side on the floor, apparently intending to sleep right there for the night.

Zhou Fuxue was surprised. “You’re not sleeping in the bed?”

Mingzhu hissed twice. “My leg—it’s—it’s cramped. Can’t move.”

Zhou Fuxue: “……”

He half-wanted to haul the man up onto the bed, but his own legs were barely working; it truly wasn’t a feat he could manage. He said nothing more, turned, and left.

The moment Zhou Fuxue’s footsteps vanished from the courtyard, the figure lying on his side on the floor—whose endurance had seemed stretched to his very limit—slammed a fist down against the hard ground, jaw clenched so tight the tendons stood out, a thread of blood seeping slowly from the corner of his mouth.

His long hair lay tangled across the floor, hiding his violently trembling body. Look closely, and one would find he was as if fished straight from water, every inch of him soaked in cold sweat.

“Ming……” His fist struck the bluestone floor, cracking the hard stone into a spiderweb of fissures. From his throat came a low, seething roar of fury—so difficult to force out that it carried a trace of a sob. “Mingzhao, one day, I will make you……”

The words were barely half spoken when the red lotus mark on the back of his hand blazed with a faint light, then shot across Mingzhu’s whole body like a thousand fine threads.

He let out a scream of absolute agony—only to crush it down his own throat the very next instant.

“……make you die a wretched death!”