Chapter 43: I’ve Come to Find You, Let’s Go Home… Part 2

Before departing, Zhao Lixuan had an agreement with Xia Yunjie: maximum two days; if nothing, return.

Once Yu Changxin’s group left, he continued searching the stele forest alone.

But the deeper he went, the stranger the surroundings grew.

Unlike Mirror Moon Lake’s clarity or Fairy Lake’s purity, here as he ventured further, the stone stelae seemed to breathe like living things in the shadows, the air thick with faint blood scent.

The bluestone slabs underfoot pulsed oddly now and then, as if something writhed beneath.

He shouldn’t go deeper.

Reason warned him: ahead lay certain extreme peril.

With Jiang Chen’s current cultivation, he’d surely return safely. If he got trapped here instead, that would be laughably unhelpful.

Go back. He shouldn’t have come.

Just wait properly at home. Rushing like this—even if he found him, he’d likely be of no help, only raising false hopes.

Twenty years had passed; the world was vast—people should look forward.

No reason to cling to the past.

The more Jiang Chen drowned in old memories, the more he should help him break free from that fog, not enable his downfall.

“…”

But even as he thought this, something burned hot against his palm.

The Fate-Linking Stone.

Zhao Lixuan found it absurd himself—still pinning hopes on this fickle trinket?

Last time, by sheer fluke, it had led him right to Jiang Chen.

But the world shouldn’t have such unreasonable things.

“Jiang Chen.”

As expected, the Fate-Linking Stone showed no reaction this time.

It wasn’t supposed to.

“Jiang Chen.”

But that nightmare of Jiang Chen wounded was too vivid.

He had to see for himself to be at ease.

“Jiang Linyuan.”

And… Senior Yu’s mention of the bloodline exchange. What was wrong with his Jiang Chen’s body now? Why hide it from him?

In the next instant, the scenery before him spun wildly.

Zhao Lixuan couldn’t believe it.

Because the surroundings now were a scene all too familiar. Familiar enough that he instantly saw through it as an illusion—

After all, twenty years had flown by; how could the mortal courtyard remain unchanged?

The walls should be peeling, the newly pasted lanterns faded.

The pear tree beyond the fence shouldn’t still match his memory’s height, much less bloom alongside loofah flowers.

He pushed open the creaking wooden door.

Spring filled the garden, silent and still.

Every furnishing was both strange and familiar.

Countless past memories surged like vines from every corner of the house, wrapping around him, dragging him into the past.

Every item was preserved exactly as it had been twenty years ago when he left.

Step by step—the bamboo daybed under the loofah trellis still swayed gently, the ink bamboo he painted himself dripped vividly on the screen, the crooked wen bamboo on top of the curio shelf gleamed fresh and green, even the novel by the couch lay open to the unfinished chapter from back then.

Time seemed frozen here.

If not for his twenty years away from the Mortal Realm, he might almost believe he’d just stepped out briefly.

But not entirely unchanged.

The curio shelf’s empty spots held some new additions.

They were all small trinkets. Gold ones, jade ones—a gilded paperweight inlaid with moon soul stone, a pair of mutton-fat jade plaques carved with cloud patterns, and many more.

They looked expensive and exquisite, the sorts of things he would have liked in his youth.

He had clearly forbidden Jiang Chen from drinking back then.

Yet the kitchen in the little courtyard now held a pile of wine jars, some still containing immortal brew, but most drained dry. When the wind blew, it carried the faint lingering scent of wine.

Stepping into the bedroom, he froze in place.

Jiang Chen had always loved cleanliness and couldn’t stand clutter on the bed.

But now, what he saw was the brocade quilt piled high with stuffed geese. Prominently among them was that very one from before—soft and floppy, ugly in its own unique way…

“…”

There was one thing Zhao Lixuan had never gotten around to explaining.

Because any explanation would only seem like he was trying to cover it up, only making it more obvious—the stuffed goose on his bed in the Pear Flower Water Pavilion looked just like the first one he’d taken from Jiang Chen’s place, from its appearance to the stitching.

But it really wasn’t.

After all, what stuffed goose could survive twenty years unscathed, even enduring the torment of the Three Realms Gate?

The one in Fu Xi Palace was something he’d bought on a whim two years ago at Sunken Wood Manor.

He didn’t know why it looked so much like the original, but he had a fondness for geese anyway. Seeing it felt like fate, so he’d brought it home.

He hadn’t expected the original to still be here.

He’d thought Jiang Chen had thrown it away long ago.

Upon closer inspection, the fabric of the big goose was truly worn. The stitches on its belly had clearly been meticulously repaired and resewn many times. It had obviously been carefully cherished to barely hold its shape.

He fell into a daze.

This goose… had it been waiting here all these twenty years?

The illusion gradually faded, along with the stuffed goose in his palm.

The surroundings reverted to the ruined stele forest of broken walls and shattered monuments. The setting sun bled red, dyeing the fractured stone steles in desolately gorgeous ochre. A gentle breeze rustled through the wild grass, whispering like endless solitude.

He heard a faint, suppressed grunt.

Following the sound, the scent of blood grew thicker.

In the shadow cast by a massive broken stele, a glaring splash of red robe lay half-buried among the rubble. Someone curled up in agony.

He was badly hurt, like a butterfly with broken wings, silently plummeting into the cold mud.

If not for the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest, he would have looked no different from a broken corpse at first glance.

His dark red robe was soaked through with dark red, clinging to his body and outlining his gaunt bones. His fingertips had dug deep into the dirt from the excruciating pain of flaying. His ink-black hair was drenched in cold sweat, plastered to his paper-white face. Every breath came with a shattered tremor.

Most heart-wrenching were those eyes—

The once-serene black pupils were now scattered and unfocused, yet still stubbornly refusing to close. Blood kept spilling from the corner of his lips, his groans too weak to escape, stifled deep in his throat.

Zhao Lixuan’s heart felt gripped by an invisible hand, sharp and piercing pain spreading through his limbs.

He stumbled forward, his voice hoarse and broken, fingertips hovering in midair, afraid to touch: “Jiang Chen…”

“…”

The only response was fractured groans. The man before him seemed like a porcelain vase on the verge of shattering, fragile at the slightest touch.

“Jiang Chen!”

He raised his voice, laced with panic he hadn’t even noticed in himself.

Those scattered eyes slowly shifted, struggling with the last flickers of life to focus on his face.

Deep in endless agony was crimson and bewilderment. He stared blankly for a moment, then his eyes rapidly reddened, misting over. As if dodging something, he shrank back, lowering his gaze.

“…You don’t want me anymore.”

He said softly, his voice a aggrieved murmur, laced with utter disorientation.

Zhao Lixuan’s throat bobbed violently. He couldn’t make a sound.

“You don’t want me anymore…” Jiang Chen repeated deliriously, his gaze shattered and dim. “Twenty years… You wouldn’t even glance at me.”

Zhao Lixuan’s voice trembled: “No.”

A sour ache surged to his nose, his eyes burning hot. Nothing else mattered in that moment.

The man before him was in pain, cold, wronged—he just wanted to hold him.

He reached out carefully, brushing ever so lightly against that wound-riddled hand.

The slender fingers were unnaturally twisted at the joints—clearly broken in several places. Just looking hurt like hell. Yet at this faint touch, Jiang Chen regained a shred of awareness. He clenched his teeth, veins bulging at his temple, body shaking as he tried to prop himself up.

“Li Xuan, I got it.”

“Look…”

The legendary divine artifact, the Primordial Blade, was unexpectedly plain—dark gray all over, its blade unadorned, only faintly flowing with a profound, mysterious glow honed by eons.

Zhao Lixuan’s chest tightened painfully.

He couldn’t bear to see that stubborn gaze, pained yet proud like offering a treasure. He channeled gentle, rich immortal power steadily into Jiang Chen’s wounded hand while carefully supporting his tottering body.

“Where does it hurt? Tell me.”

Every inch seemed dislocated, his body beneath the robes likely without a single unbroken spot.

Jiang Chen just blinked dazedly, murmuring hoarsely: “Doesn’t hurt.”

“How could it not…”

Zhao Lixuan’s words caught in his throat.

Because he finally saw clearly—the gruesome puncture wound through Jiang Chen’s chest.

What he’d thought was sweat was actually blood, gushing out and soaking the dark robe.

He forced down the bitterness in his throat and chest: “Jiang Chen, tell me where it hurts.”

Jiang Chen lowered his head, ink hair falling to veil his expression. After a long pause, his voice was faint.

“But you don’t care anymore.”

“I do care.”

“No. You said you don’t care anymore. You said you… don’t like me anymore. You don’t want me.”

“Jiang Chen…”

“You don’t want me, so it doesn’t hurt. Anyway, even if it hurts more, you won’t care. You won’t look at me again.”

He spoke slowly, his expression heartbreakingly calm, as if stating a fact unrelated to himself.

As if unaware that hot tears were falling one after another, unbidden, down his battered cheeks, splashing onto Zhao Lixuan’s hand.

His heart clenched tight, Zhao Lixuan gasping for air to ease the unbearable pain in his chest.

He reached out.

It was an embrace fully open, without reservation. He gently wrapped his arms around the gaunt body, letting warm tears and blood soak his robes: “Little Jiang, I do care.”

Jiang Chen buried his face in his shoulder. Soon, scalding wetness seeped through the fabric.

Moments later, Zhao Lixuan felt a heartbreaking cling. Jiang Chen vented his long-held grievances in silence, yet desperately, stubbornly tried to lift his broken arm to hug back, to entwine.

He let him cling. After a while, the voice from his arms came broken and hoarse.

“You just called me Little Jiang…”

“Yeah.”

“You said you still care.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you lying again? Will it all vanish when the dream ends?”

“I’m not lying,” Zhao Lixuan said, mustering great effort for his voice. “When have I ever lied to you?”

The man in his arms fell quiet. After a long moment, he nodded faintly: “Yeah, you’ve never lied to me.”

“…”

In the brief silence, Jiang Chen surrendered his full weight, leaning on his shoulder: “It hurts.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere hurts.”

“Li Xuan, my whole body hurts so much…”

A tear slid silently down, but Zhao Lixuan’s voice remained steady as immortal energy flowed over Jiang Chen like spring rain.

“Little Jiang, it’ll be fine soon. I’ve come to find you.”

He tightened his embrace: “Let’s go home.”