Zhao Rucheng came from a well-off family. He had bought a house near the Dao Academy and lived there, with more than a dozen servants to attend to him, so he rarely stayed in the dormitory. As for Du Yehu, once he got his hands on alcohol, you couldn't get rid of him in a hurry.
That was why Jiang Wang didn't realize until he returned to the dormitory that the place, usually full of noise and chatter, was now empty except for him.
After closing the door, his eyes instinctively went to the bed in the far-left corner.
The clean bedding was folded with extraordinary neatness, and its material was no different from the others' in the dormitory. There was no one in the bed now, and there never would be again.
It was Fang Pengju's bed. His family was wealthy, but he had never been fussy or precious. He ate and drank with everyone else, never once complaining.
The bed opposite Fang Pengju's was empty, piled high with luggage.
The beds on either side were arranged in rows of three, with the empty bed marking the end of each row.
The second bed on the left, right beside Fang Pengju's, was the messiest in the dormitory. The bedding was tossed into a heap, with clothes scattered around as mere decoration. If you sniffed closely, you could still smell the wine. And if you bent to look beneath the bed, you'd find rows upon rows of wine jars, neatly arranged. They had clearly been treated far better than the room their owner lived in.
The first bed on the left stood beside the door, so it belonged to Ling He—he was always the one who opened and closed the door for everyone. His bedding had a few inconspicuous patches, but it was scrubbed very clean.
The first bed on the right belonged to Jiang Wang. His bedding was about as well kept as Ling He's. Though he hadn't been back in a long time, the bed was still tidy, clearly cleaned regularly. Perhaps Ling He had done it, or Zhao Rucheng... It might even have been Fang Pengju.
The second bed on the right, beside Jiang Wang's, belonged to Zhao Rucheng. His bed stood out from the rest of the dormitory: the sheets and blankets were all top-of-the-line goods from Cloud Thought Studio, and even the tiny dormitory bed had a canopy embroidered with gold thread. It was a world apart from Du Yehu's bed opposite.
People who didn't know Zhao Rucheng might have thought him difficult to get along with, but in truth, his standards for living were simply too high. Even if he only stayed in the dormitory now and then, he still wanted it to be as splendid and comfortable as possible. He had once even thrown a fortune at renovating the entire dormitory into a top-grade Heaven-Class suite—if Jiang Wang hadn't beaten him up.
From the time he had entered the Dao Academy's outer court at fourteen until now, Jiang Wang had spent three years in this dormitory. He knew every detail of the room by heart.
Things remained, but people were gone; nothing was as it had been.
Jiang Wang was silent for a while, then took off his shoes and socks, removed his outer robe, and lay down on his bed.
He was exhausted, worn out, but only now could he finally sleep in peace.
Awake, he drifted with the world; asleep, he waited for the sky to rise.
Maple Forest City was square and orderly, with the City Lord's Mansion at its center, its influence reaching in every direction. The Dao Academy occupied the eastern district, while the great families and noble houses were in the west. Most common folk lived in the south, while merchants and wealthy traders gathered in the north.
Only after Ling He saw Jiang Wang emerge safely from the headmaster's quiet room did he leave the Dao Academy alone, carrying Fang Pengju's body.
When Fang Pengju had been alive, one call had brought a hundred, and he had been rich in friends. In death, everyone rejected him.
He had acted with vile, treacherous cruelty. He deserved to be rejected.
Ling He did not feel sorry for him. Still, his heart ached.
He had wrapped Fang Pengju's body in his own outer robe. It was old, but freshly washed.
For someone with Ling He's stride, walking from the east of the city to the west was not far, and he knew the way to the Fang family's mansion well. But he walked slowly, each step heavy.
He couldn't bear to let go.
He was the eldest. He should have looked after his four sworn brothers, but he had failed.
He still remembered the scene by Green Willow River, where the five of them had sworn brotherhood. He remembered every one of his brothers' radiant smiles.
Green Willow River was a tributary of Clear River, winding past Ox Head Mountain. Its water was clear enough to reflect young faces and young hearts. That year, they had ridden out with swords at their sides. That year, they had raised their cups and talked. Countless times they had sparred, and on countless nights they had sat together by candlelight, talking.
They had promised to enter the inner court together, to ride their swords through the azure heavens together, and to transcend the mortal world and attain sainthood together. Those memories, those... promises.
Ling He had never imagined that five people so perfectly matched in spirit, so deeply bound by brotherhood, would one day turn against one another and fight to the death.
How could that be possible?
He wondered.
He couldn't make sense of it. But holding Fang Pengju's cold corpse, he finally reached the gates of Fang Mansion.
"Who are you?" the gatekeeper asked, stopping him.
The Fang residence was imposing, towering high above the world.
"Oh." Holding Fang Pengju's body, Ling He dipped his head politely. "Fang Pengju has passed away. I've brought his remains back so your family can bury him."
If no one claimed a body, the authorities would haul it to a mass grave and dispose of it. That was a favorite haunt of heterodox demons, and even after death, the dead could hardly rest in peace.
But Ling He thought there was no need to mention that. He was not one to boast about his achievements, nor did he consider this an achievement.
The gatekeeper's expression changed. He slammed the gates shut. His voice came from behind them. "Take him away! The master said he isn't allowed in!"
"Please," Ling He said sincerely. "Could you tell your master again? Whatever else may be said, Pengju is still of Fang blood. They may have only spoken in anger. Surely they won't abandon him."
The gatekeeper hesitated. "I'll ask again... Don't try to force your way in!"
"Don't worry."
Ling He stood motionless before the gates, holding Fang Pengju's corpse. He listened as the gatekeeper's hurried footsteps faded into the distance.
He looked down at Fang Pengju's long-cold face. "Pengju, look at the mess you made. Even after you're dead, no one will remember a single good thing about you. Heaven and hell alike despise you."
A long while passed before the gatekeeper's voice sounded from behind the gates again.
"The master says..." He paused, then mimicked the tone of the head of the Fang household. "He's already dead. Why bring him back?"
Ling He froze for a moment, then stammered, "The Fang family is a respectable household. Pengju deserves a respectable burial."
"The master says he already knows how Fang Pengju died. A man so disloyal and unrighteous isn't one of the Fang family!"
"But he is one of the Fang family," Ling He said.
"Get out of here!" The gatekeeper tossed a handful of Knife Coins through the crack in the gate. "Keep bothering us and we'll report you to the authorities!"
The Knife Coins clattered to the ground, drawing plenty of attention. They were more than enough to pay for a simple burial. The extra was a tip.
That was the Fang family's attitude.
Ling He fell silent.
He no longer tried to say anything.
He was poor, and had been since childhood. He needed money badly. His only intact outer robe was wrapped around Fang Pengju's corpse, and his inner robe was covered in patches. Standing before the magnificent Fang Mansion, he looked like a poor relative who had been turned away at the gate.
Holding Fang Pengju's body, he turned and left.
From beginning to end, he never once looked at the Knife Coins.
That was Ling He's attitude.
What was the best way to greet ridicule? We didn't greet it. We cast it aside.—Qing He Yi Shen
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