84: Chapter 84 Reunion with an Old Friend

The three followed the servant through the moon gate and stepped onto the winding path leading to the "Heaven" grade courtyard.

Along the way, the shadows of flowers were sparse, and as the night breeze blew, the plain petals of magnolias fell with a rustle, spreading a thin layer over the bluestone slabs, as if someone had crumbled the moonlight and scattered it like frost across the ground.

The Spiritual Qi in the air was so thick it could almost be scooped up by the handful, yet just as Xuanyuan Zhanxian had said, every wisp of Spiritual Qi seemed to be pulled by invisible spider silk, tangled and bound; when inhaled into the lungs, instead of feeling comfortable, there was a heavy, stagnant sensation pressing on the chest, making even breathing feel sluggish and obstructed.

The servant tidied up the room and retreated on tiptoe, the sound of the door closing so soft it was barely audible, as if afraid to disturb the overly heavy silence within the courtyard.

Only after those footsteps completely vanished outside the corridor did Xuanyuan Zhanxian slowly push open his own door.

Moonlight poured in silently through the crack in the door, paving a winding, silver river of light beneath his feet.

This light was cold and clear, reflecting off the dark patterns of his black robes, causing them to faintly ripple and emit a lonely, almost unworldly glimmer.

He did not light a lamp, but stood quietly inside the door for a moment, listening intently—in the next room, Jian Tanghuang's breathing was long and steady, and in another room, the other companion had also sunk into meditation.

Confirming no one had noticed, he stepped out, his figure merging into the night like ink-colored flowing water.

His footsteps on the bluestone were as light as a falling leaf, as if he wished to erase his very existence into this sleeping night.

In the next room, behind the propped-open window lattice, Jian Tanghuang leaned against the window, watching that black-clad figure merge into the heavy darkness at the end of the alley, shaking her head silently and ever so slightly.

The moonlight shone upon her beautiful profile, and in those phoenix eyes that always held a hint of a smile, a clear and undisguisable trace of worry flickered.

Xuanyuan Mansion... The current Xuanyuan Mansion was already a deep pool where undercurrents gathered; how was his solitary night exploration any different from a moth flying into a flame?

But she ultimately could not persuade him, given his character.

She could only crumble a barely audible sigh into the evening breeze.

The night had deepened.

Xuanyuan Zhanxian stood in the shadow of the high wall of Xuanyuan Mansion, looking up.

This mansion was less of a residence and more of a silent, living fortress, as deep as a vast sea that swallowed light.

The vermilion gate was over a zhang high, dark as congealed blood in the night, and the ferocious taotie holding the rings on the gate looked down with hollow, bronze-cast eyes, as if silently questioning every visitor in the dead of night.

The blue brick wall, over a zhang high, was stained dark green by time and vines, but the lushness of the vines did not soften the sternness of the wall; instead, it added a gloomy, bone-deep cold pressure.

Lying quietly here, it was like a dormant giant beast, its very breath carrying an inviolable weight.

The two stone statues of mythical beasts before the gate, ancient relics of unknown origin, appeared eerily vivid under the moonlight.

The black Spiritual Jade embedded in the beasts' pupils was now faintly glowing with blue light, as if a Soul that had slept for a hundred years had been awakened by the moonlight, coldly and unblinkingly staring at the empty street in front of the mansion, silently recounting the antiquity, majesty, and unexplorable secrets of this place.

Xuanyuan Zhanxian's fingertips curled tightly inside his sleeves without a sound.

It was right here that he had spent his earliest, ignorant yet warm years, and it was also here that he had lost his mother.

Just as he lifted his foot, preparing to walk toward that heavy main gate that had rarely opened for him in his memories—

A faint sound of carriage ruts, almost blending into the night, came from the corner of the street.

A pitch-black carriage slid silently to a stop at the side gate of Xuanyuan Mansion.

The hooves of the mythical beast pulling the carriage were wrapped in thick velvet, landing without a sound.

The carriage itself did not have much ornate decoration, but the texture of the ebony wood and the extremely faint Formation patterns on the window lattice all displayed a low-key, restrained luxury.

The carriage curtain was slowly lifted at one corner from the inside by a hand as thin as withered wood.

Then, an old man dressed in a plain gray robe leaned out tremblingly, attempting to get off the carriage.

His figure was severely hunched, like an old locust tree whose spine had been repeatedly broken and bent by the storms of long years, every inch of his body filled with an unbearable exhaustion.

He held onto the carriage door, tried twice, and only then managed to barely place one foot onto the bluestone slabs on the ground, immediately using those withered hands to grip the carriage shaft tightly, as if it were not a shaft, but the only pillar keeping him standing and preventing him from collapsing immediately.

The mere act of getting off the carriage seemed to have exhausted his remaining strength.

He leaned on the carriage shaft, his chest heaving violently, every breath carrying the hollow, hoarse noise of an old bellows being pulled, traveling far in the silent night, making one's own throat tighten in sympathy.

After a long while, that heart-wrenching panting finally calmed down a little.

He raised his head, extremely, extremely slowly.

The moonlight shone on his face.

This was a face that had been thoroughly plowed by time and something even heavier.

The wrinkles were as deep as if carved by knives and axes, crisscrossing, as if one could even embed their fingertips into them.

The skin at the corners of his eyes sagged and drooped, almost covering half of his eye sockets, and every deep line was filled with an unresolvable exhaustion—this exhaustion went deep into the marrow, almost becoming a part of his body.

In his turbid eyes, there was no spirit, only a void of resigned numbness.

He coughed twice in a low voice, the sound dry and hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing back and forth on rough tree bark, making one's eardrums ache.

Then, he let go of the carriage shaft, using those withered hands to support his equally withered knees, attempting to stand a little straighter.

He slowly lifted the leg that felt like it had been filled with lead and shuffled toward the side gate of Xuanyuan Mansion, only a few steps away.

Every step was taken extremely slowly and with extreme difficulty; the foot lifted, hung in the air, and then fell, and throughout the process, the bony lower leg could not even control its slight trembling.

It was as if he was not walking on smooth bluestone slabs, but trekking through a muddy, bottomless swamp.

That slow and laborious movement exuded an aura of impending death, making one's heart tighten, almost unable to bear watching further.

Xuanyuan Zhanxian's gaze had been fixed on the old man since the carriage appeared.

He watched that hunched back, watched those difficult steps, watched that profile under the moonlight, etched with wind and frost, yet already carved deep into his marrow...

His breathing stalled in that instant.

His heart felt like it was being fiercely gripped by an invisible hand, suddenly tightening.

Violent pain accompanied by a surging hot current instantly rushed to his eye sockets and throat.

Everything before his eyes—the stern mansion, the deep blue beast pupils, the cold moonlight—blurred and twisted in an instant, leaving only that old, hunched figure, incomparably clear, incomparably painful, branded in the center of his vision.

His throat felt like it was being tightly blocked by a scalding, red-hot branding iron, the burning pain surging up along with a sense of suffocation.

His teeth uncontrollably clattered together, emitting a faint, chattering sound.

The emotions churning in his chest were like molten lava, searching for any gap through which to erupt.

Ultimately, those emotions broke through his clenched teeth, turning into a trembling, blood-scented sob, almost squeezed out from the depths of his Soul, broken and unbearable:

"Old... Fu..."

The voice was very soft, almost inaudible in the night wind.

But that hunched back, that leg just lifted and not yet fallen, suddenly froze in mid-air.

It was as if an invisible, cold needle had fiercely pierced his most sensitive nerve endings.

The old man stopped completely, maintaining an extremely awkward, one-legged stance, like a statue suddenly frozen in time.

But this rigidity only lasted for a moment.

Then, he shook his head extremely slowly.

The movement carried the slowness and stubbornness peculiar to the elderly.

A trace of bewilderment and trance flashed quickly through his turbid eyes, as if he were doubting whether he had hallucinated in the dead of night due to being too tired or too longing, mishearing that Soul-haunting call.

He did not turn back, but instead moved that frozen leg forward even more slowly and heavily, as if wanting to use accelerated—though in reality, it was slower—departing steps to escape this annoying "auditory hallucination."

However, those already stumbling steps now added a few more staggers and a bit of panic.

Just at the moment when his trembling foot was about to touch the cold bluestone slab again—

That voice sounded once more.

It was no longer a hallucination.

It was no longer blurry.

It was sounding truly and clearly just a few steps behind him, carrying an uncontrollable tremble, a tremble so violent it almost shattered the words themselves:

"Old Fu..."

This time, the old man's body froze completely.

Not just his legs, not just his hands, but every inch of muscle, every bone, every nerve, froze in an instant.

Even those faint, uncontrollable physiological tremors caused by aging and weakness seemed to have stopped.

He was like a stone statue forgotten by time and eroded by wind and sand for a thousand years, frozen in this posture of looking back.

Time, on the silent street, seemed to be infinitely stretched, viscous, and stagnant.

Finally, after a silence so long it was suffocating, he began to turn around, extremely slowly.

This movement was as slow as a glacier moving, every joint emitting an unbearable, silent groan.

His turbid eyes, in the night that was too thick to melt, blinked and blinked with effort, his eyelids as heavy as if hung with soaked lead blocks.

He seemed to be using all his strength, wanting to push aside the overlapping thick fog of time and tears before his eyes, to see clearly the source of that voice behind him, that... figure that almost only existed in distant dreams and blurry memories.

The cold moonlight spilled onto his face without reservation.

It illuminated every one of his deep, gully-like wrinkles, illuminated his sagging, drooping eyelids, and illuminated his dry, chapped lips.

And at this moment, those wrinkles were trembling uncontrollably, and that sagging skin was tightened due to some extreme tension, losing its last bit of elasticity.

Xuanyuan Zhanxian stood just a few steps away in the moonlight.

Black robes, black hair, his figure standing tall like a pine.

But those eyes, which were always calm or even cold, were now frighteningly red, surging with emotions so intense they were almost violent: ecstasy, pain, disbelief, and bottomless heartache.

His shoulders were uncontrollably trembling, and along with his hands hanging by his sides, his fingertips were also slightly convulsing.

He opened his mouth, attempting to speak a complete sentence, but when the sound rushed out of his throat, it carried a heavy, undisguisable nasal tone, the sob almost overflowing, soaking his entire being:

"Old Fu... long time... no see..."

Every word seemed soaked with heavy dampness, striking the cold air.

The old man's turbid eyes widened suddenly the moment he heard this sentence.

This was a widening that used every ounce of his strength, so much so that his sagging eyelids were forcibly pulled open, revealing the bloodshot, turbid pupils beneath.

And those pupils, upon seeing the outline of that face in the moonlight, suddenly shrank to the size of pinpricks!

It was as if he had been fiercely struck on the crown of his head by a silent yet violent thunderbolt.

"Ugh...!"

A short, almost tuneless gasp of air was squeezed out from his shriveled chest.

The next second, his body, which had long been drained of vitality by time and suffering, began to tremble violently and uncontrollably.

This was not the slight tremor caused by weakness before, but a shudder that resonated through his entire skeleton and muscles, like a winnowing sieve.

The wooden staff in his hand could no longer be held. With a "clatter," it slipped from his spasming fingers and fell onto the hard bluestone pavement, producing a sound so crisp it was ear-piercing, echoing repeatedly through the silent, deserted long street.

He stared intently, unblinkingly, at the person under the moonlight.

This face had shed the roundness and childishness of youth; the lines had become clear and firm, stained with a sharpness and weathering that no teenager should possess.

But the angle of the brow bone, the curve of the bridge of the nose, and especially the shape of those eyes and the light churning within them at this moment...

Even separated by ten long, painful years, he could still piece together from that blurred outline the small figure deep in his memory who always loved to tug at his hem, looking up with a smiling face and calling out "Old Fu."

His lips began to tremble uncontrollably, like the last withered leaf on a branch in late autumn, shivering in the biting cold wind.

His chapped lips collided, and even his teeth were lightly knocking together, emitting a faint, chattering sound.

"Little... Little... Master...?"

The voice was as hoarse as broken pottery shards scraping against each other, or like an old door hinge struggling to turn.

This was almost not emitted from his throat, but rather a breathy sound forced out from the depths of his withered life, from the cracks in his long-dried Soul, carrying the scent of blood.

In this breathy sound, there was an unbelievable ecstasy capable of drowning a person, but beneath this ecstasy, a deeper, darker fear that threatened to swallow him whole was surging.

"...Is it really you... You... You have returned...?"

The final "returned" was as light as a sigh, as if he himself dared not believe this fact.

Instinct of the body overcame everything.

Subconsciously, he wanted to step forward, just like in countless days and nights in the past, when that small figure would run towards him, he would always subconsciously bend down, extend his rough but warm large hand to pat the child's head, pinch his little face, see how much he had grown, whether he was fatter or thinner, and if he had suffered any grievances outside...

This was an action carved into the bone and blood, belonging to "Old Fu."

His foot really did lift slightly, uncontrollably, wanting to take that step forward.

But at the very moment his toes were about to leave the ground—

A chill, a chill that seeped into the marrow and froze the Soul, accompanied by some invisible yet mountain-heavy sense of restraint, like ice water surging from the deepest part of Hell, instantly extinguished the faint light that had just ignited in his eyes due to ecstasy.

No... No!

Cannot get close! It will harm him!

The light in the old man's eyes extinguished instantly, filled once again with boundless fear and despair.

Far from stepping forward, it was as if he had seen the most terrifying sight in the world; he stumbled backward violently, nearly unable to stand steady!

His withered hands began to wave wildly in the air, as if trying to dispel some invisible, terrifying entity.

He turned his stiff neck in panic, looking around, his murky eyes filled with terror, like an old, dying beast trapped in a snare.

"Go!"

He finally made a sound, a voice kept extremely low, yet distorted by extreme fear and urgency, carrying a sobbing tone, more like a desperate, mournful cry forced out from his chest:

"Little Master! Go! Leave this place immediately! Never come back! Go!! Hurry and go!!!"

While shouting incoherently and brokenly, he frantically bent down, wanting to pick up the wooden staff on the ground that represented his weakness and dependence.

As if holding that piece of wood could grant him a sliver of illusory security, or the strength to support him in fleeing this place.

But his emotions were too intense; terror, ecstasy, and despair intertwined into a torrent, breaching the already fragile dikes of his mind.

Coupled with a body already at the end of its rope, this sudden bending down caused a violent dizziness, like a black wave, to instantly drown all his senses.

His vision suddenly went black.

His ears were ringing.

The whole world was spinning.

His withered body lost its last bit of supporting strength, and like a piece of rotten wood snapped by a gale, it fell straight down towards the cold, hard bluestone ground!

"Old Fu—!"

Xuanyuan Zhanxian's heart, in that instant, felt as if it were gripped tightly by an invisible hand, then violently torn and crushed!

This was a pain more intense and sharper than being cut by knives or pierced by swords, instantly sweeping through his entire body, so painful that his vision darkened and he could barely breathe!

All calmness, all schemes, all hesitation, were burned away at this moment by this heart-wrenching pain!

He did not even think.

The body's instinct surpassed consciousness.

A step was taken!

The bluestone under his feet, in the moment his profound energy erupted, silently spread fine, spiderweb-like cracks.

He transformed into a blurred black afterimage, as if merging with the night itself, the sound of his robes breaking the wind sharp and short, instantly crossing several zhang of distance, and in the instant before that withered body was about to contact the ground, he steadily yet incredibly gently caught it and pulled it into his arms.

Where he touched, there was a coldness that soaked into the marrow.

That thin, grey, plain robe was as flimsy as a layer of fragile rice paper, completely unable to block the coldness transmitted to his palm, which belonged to a life about to fade away.

And through this thin layer of fabric, he could clearly feel the body beneath—the gaunt, sharp skeletal outline, with almost no flesh to cover it, pressing against his palm and his heart, causing both to ache sharply.

This... how could this still be the Old Fu from his memories who could easily carry him on his shoulders, use his broad back to shield him from the wind and rain, and use his rough, large hands to clumsily but gently wipe away his tears?

This was clearly... clearly a shell on the verge of death, having had all its vitality and life sucked dry by ruthless time and unknown suffering!

This weight was shockingly light, as if what he was holding was not a person, but a handful of withered branches and leaves that had long been air-dried and lost all moisture.

The coldness seeping from beneath the plain robe did not feel like the body temperature of a living person, but more like a stubborn stone buried in the deepest snow during the dead of winter, frozen for millions of years—that chill carried a stagnant, dead-silent texture, rapidly spreading along his fingertips, almost freezing his blood.

"Little Master! Don't touch me! I beg you! Let me go! Go!!"

The old man in his arms, after a brief faint, seemed to regain a sliver of consciousness and immediately began a violent, useless struggle.

This struggle was so weak, yet carried a despair akin to death.

His fingers, withered like chicken claws, pressed tightly against Xuanyuan Zhanxian's solid chest, using all his strength to try and push him away, his nails almost embedding into the skin through the dark-colored clothing.

Murky old tears, like a breached flood, could no longer be restrained, surging out from those long-dried eye sockets.

Scalding tears traced paths across cheeks covered in deep wrinkles and as rough as tree bark, gathering at the chin, condensing into cold water droplets that fell continuously onto the lapel of Xuanyuan Zhanxian's chest, rapidly spreading wet patches of dark color that carried the temperature of heartbreak.

"They will find you... They... If they see you... You will never be able to leave! Go! Little Master! This old servant begs you! Go!! If it's later... if it's later, it will really... be too late!!!"

The hoarse pleading, filled with sobbing tones and extreme despair, was like a rusty, blunt knife, cutting into Xuanyuan Zhanxian's heart with every stroke.

Yet his arms were like cast iron, as steady as a rock, without the slightest bit of wavering.

Regardless of how the withered body in his arms pushed or twisted, he held the person firmly and steadily in the crook of his arm, refusing to let go, as if letting go would mean losing this regained yet incredibly fragile treasure.

His other hand, which was free, quietly gathered a wisp of soft, pearly white light at its fingertips.

That light was not blinding, but warm and gentle, like the first warm current seeping from under the ice in the deepest mountain stream during early spring, pure and containing immense vitality—it was the most refined Yin and Yang Life Qi.

He carefully, like silk threads, extremely gently transmitted this wisp of Life Qi into the old man's body.

The Life Qi seemed to have a life of its own, flowing slowly along the old man's dried, cracked, and nearly withered Meridians, attempting to nourish his mind that was on the verge of collapse, and also wanting to bring a negligible hint of warmth to this cold, dying body.

He lowered his head, close to the old man's ear.

His voice was kept extremely low, yet exceptionally steady, every word carrying an unquestionable power, attempting to pierce through that barrier of fear and reach the depths of the old man's bewildered and uneasy heart:

"Old Fu."

"Don't be afraid."

"I have returned. This time, I will not let anyone hurt you, or anyone I care about."

He paused, his tone even firmer, carrying a certainty unique to a young man, sharp and unstoppable:

"My uncle is the Marquis of the North, holding the mighty armies of the Northern Territory, his prestige shaking all directions. With him here, in this Wuji City, no one dares to touch a hair on my head."

The pearly white warm current, carrying the power of comfort and nourishment, flowed slowly through the old man's nearly exhausted Meridians.

The violent struggle, under the soothing of this gentle yet resilient power, gradually subsided.

The withered body in his arms was no longer so stiff, but the slight trembling did not cease.

However, the despair and fear deep in the old man's eyes, so thick it could not be dissolved, did not dissipate in the slightest because of these comforting words and the transmitted Life Qi.

They were like thick ink sunk to the bottom of the darkest water, having long since merged with his Soul, and no light could penetrate them.

He looked up, gazing greedily and with tear-blurred eyes at this face so close at hand.

Under the moonlight, the young man's face had shed the last trace of childishness, the lines clear and sharp, like a drawn sword.

That brow, the obstinacy in his eyes that allowed no turning back, the lip line that tightened slightly when he spoke, the calmness and decisiveness radiating from his whole body that did not match his age...

Too alike.

So like the master from back then, who was full of pride and would rather break than bend—Xuanyuan Qing'er.

So like that it made his heart tremble, pained to the core, and terrified him to the point of Soul Flying Away and Spirit Scattering.

His chapped lips trembled violently, opening, then closing, then opening again. A hoarse, futile sound came from his throat, as if thousands of words, countless blood-stained pasts, and endless worries and warnings were all blocked there, scrambling to rush out, but were tightly choked by an invisible, greater fear, unable to utter a single complete syllable.

In the end, all surging emotions, all unspeakable secrets and sorrows, could only turn into even more surging tears.

Flowing continuously from his murky, weathered eye sockets, winding down along the deep wrinkles, silently dripping into his collar, and disappearing into the cold night.

Only the withered, stick-like fingers tightly gripping Xuanyuan Zhanxian's lapel tightened with the last ounce of strength, their tips ice-cold and trembling slightly, revealing the boundless panic and pleading in their owner's heart.