Chapter 54: Keeping Watch Part 3

Xie Yun smiled faintly. “Mr. Xiao, you too. Share and share alike—this one’s good at hoarding.”

“He’s already eaten his,” Xiang Xian explained. “He never lets good things linger overnight—enjoys them first.”

“No manners!” Xie Yun laughingly scolded him.

After shelling them all, Xiang Xian handed the Pine Nuts to his mother. “I’ll go keep vigil. Rest early. We can talk more tomorrow.”

Xie Yun replied, “Go.”

At the third watch, Xiang Xian led Xiao Kun to the east wing. “Sleep in my room. The other wings aren’t prepared.”

Xiao Kun had been silent along the way, watching Xiang Xian’s back. Knowing he wouldn’t sleep these nights, he didn’t insist. “Alright. You rest too. We’re cultivators—we know a few sleepless nights won’t matter.”

Xiang Xian laughed and patted his arm before heading to the mourning hall. Indeed, Exorcists knew that after death, those without attachments saw their Three Souls and Seven Poises swiftly return to the Heaven-Earth Veins, rejoining the world’s great cycle. All things flowed ceaselessly; death and rebirth formed the foundation of renewal.

Even lingering obsessions rarely haunted mourning halls openly—death was death; why make it undignified for all? Though Xiao Kun had known little parental love, he understood that filial piety in life far outweighed tearful funerals after death.

He couldn’t help examining the places Xiang Xian had lived as a child, regretting they hadn’t grown up together—what joy that would have been.

Xiang Xian had only spent his early childhood here, returning every year or so for ten days or half a month. After Shen Kuo’s death, he stayed nearly half a year before heading to the capital for the exams.

Though the east wing was a bedroom, it brimmed with books—from the Three Dynasties onward, through the Spring and Autumn states to the end of Tang—all rare ancient copies. Thick stacks of calligraphy practice sheets lined shelves in the corner.

Xiao Kun browsed casually. In a brush holder were Xiang Xian’s youthful policy essays from his studies, titled “War Preparations Without Battle.” The tone was still boyish, yet hints of his early ambitions shone through.

When Xiang Xian wrote them, he lacked his current perspective, starting mostly from “national borders and popular will.” The handwriting suggested they predated age seven. Xiao Kun read for a while, marveling that Great Song rose through culture, ruling by civil strategy. Such topics outstripped anything in Liao by a vast margin—especially from a six- or seven-year-old.

In a desk drawer lay a faded red-lacquered wooden box containing a recent Daguan Tongbao copper coin. Common everywhere, yet treasured so carefully. Xiao Kun puzzled over it, picking it up for inspection. No Magical Power flowed; it wasn’t a Magic Treasure. Barely a few years old, yet pitted with rust as if aged decades.

Xiao Kun lay on the couch but couldn’t sleep. The Xiang estate was silent. Finally, he rose and went to the front hall. The mourning hall glowed brightly; an old servant dozed against the outer door. Xiang Xian sat cross-legged to one side inside.

“Can’t sleep?” Xiang Xian asked.

Xiao Kun didn’t reply, sitting beside him. “Let me take over. You rest.”

“Not tired yet,” Xiang Xian said.

He fetched a kneeling cushion, propping it beside his seat. Xiao Kun leaned against the seat’s side, beckoning. Xiang Xian leaned into his arms, half-reclining, gazing at the hall’s arrangements.

“What are you thinking?” Xiao Kun knew late nights like this, with guests gone and silence falling, easily summoned sorrows. As a child ignorant of worldly pains, he often saw her master, Le Wan Shuang, lost in melancholy through long nights.

“My father,” Xiang Xian said dreamily, as expected. “You?”

“Best not say,” Xiao Kun dismissed the thought. “Though you left home young for training, you still had time with your father—a rare blessing.”

Xiang Xian pondered. “I don’t remember much. As a child, he was very affectionate—after all, a late son. I remember summers: after paying respects at Xianglu Temple, he’d carry me high to steal Green Peaches from inside the wall.”

Xiao Kun chuckled. “Were you a Monkey?”

Xiang Xian laughed too. His father, Xiang Yu, was a Kuaiji gentleman, never an official but deeply respected locally.

Xiang Xian sighed. “Father sometimes said, ‘Life is short.’ He told me not to fret over needless worries, wasting time to no benefit for self or others.”

“Back then, I didn’t know the world,” he continued. “I thought ‘life is short’ meant pains were brief, most days joyful.”

Xiao Kun added, “Now, versed in affairs, we see the truth: ‘Life is both bitter and short—suddenly over for no reason.'”

“Right.” Xiang Xian laughed, a mix of sigh and helplessness.

Xiao Kun gently patted Xiang Xian’s face. He nestled comfortably in his arms, pressed close.

“Why do your hands smell of copper?” Xiang Xian sniffed his fingers, puzzled.

Xiao Kun said, “I touched that copper coin in your room.”

Xiao Kun guessed that it was most likely a Life-Saving Coin given by parents to their child. Upon hearing this, Xiang Xian remembered and said, “Ah, it was left by Master.”

Xiao Kun asked, “Does it have any special significance? Can it buy a life?”

Xiang Xian thought for a moment and replied, “I don’t know. It was the only thing Master left before his passing. He only said that one day in the future, I might understand.”

Before Shen Kuo passed away, he had no precious Magic Treasures to pass on—after all, he had given all the good things to his disciple while he was still alive. Only this commonplace Daguan Tongbao coin was solemnly handed to Xiang Xian in his final moments.

Xiao Kun held Xiang Xian close and looked down at him, while Xiang Xian lifted his eyes to meet his gaze.