Old Matters Recalled

Zhao Rucheng came from a well-off family and had bought a house near the Dao Academy to live in, with a dozen or so servants attending to his needs, so he rarely stayed in the dormitory. Du Yehu, on the other hand, once he got his hands on alcohol, it was never a matter that could be settled in a short while.

Thus, when Jiang Wang returned to the dormitory, he suddenly realized that in the usually noisy and bustling room, only he was left.

After closing the door, he subconsciously glanced at the bed on the far left, the innermost one.

On the bed was an exceptionally neatly folded set of clean bedding, no different in material from the others in the dormitory. At this moment, no one was on the bed, and no one would ever be there again.

This was Fang Pengju's bed. He came from a wealthy family but was never fussy or petty, eating and drinking with everyone else without any complaints.

The bed opposite Fang Pengju was empty, piled high with luggage.

The beds on both sides ended here, arranged in two rows of three.

The second bed on the left, right next to Fang Pengju's, was the messiest in the dormitory. The bedding was carelessly bundled into a heap, scattered clothes serving as mere decoration, and if you sniffed closely, you could catch the scent of wine. If you bent down to look under the bed, you'd see neatly stacked rows of wine jars. Compared to the living environment of the bed's owner, these wine jars were clearly tended to with great care.

The first bed on the left was by the door, so this was Ling He's bed—he was always the one responsible for opening and closing the door for everyone. The bedding had a few inconspicuous patches but was washed very clean.

The first bed on the right was Jiang Wang's. His bedding was on par with Ling He's. Though he hadn't been back for a long time, the bed was still very tidy, clearly cleaned often. Perhaps by Ling He, perhaps by Zhao Rucheng... or maybe even Fang Pengju.

The second bed on the right, next to Jiang Wang's, belonged to Zhao Rucheng. His bed stood out uniquely in the entire dormitory—the bedding and sheets were all high-end goods from Cloud Thought Studio, and on the small dormitory bed, there was even a canopy embroidered with gold thread. It was a world of difference from Du Yehu across the way.

Someone unfamiliar might think Zhao Rucheng was hard to get along with, but in truth, it was just that his living standards were too high. Even if he only occasionally stayed in the dormitory, he wanted it to be as luxurious and comfortable as possible. He had even once thrown down a fortune to convert the entire dormitory into a top-tier deluxe guest room—if Jiang Wang hadn't beaten him up for it.

From the age of fourteen, when he passed the exam to enter the Dao Academy as an outer disciple, until now, Jiang Wang had spent three years in this dormitory. Every detail of the room was deeply familiar to him.

Things had changed, and all was lost.

Jiang Wang was silent for a moment, then took off his shoes and socks, removed his outer robe, and lay down directly on his own bed.

He was very tired, utterly exhausted, but only now, at this very moment, could he finally sleep in peace.

One awakening, adrift in worldly affairs; one dream, awaiting the lofty sky.

The entire Maple Forest City was square and neatly planned. The City Lord's Mansion was at the center, radiating outward in all directions. The eastern city was the domain of the Dao Academy, while the wealthy and noble families were in the western city. The southern city was mostly home to commoners, and merchants and rich traders were largely gathered in the northern city.

Seeing Jiang Wang walk safely out of the Dean's meditation room, Ling He finally carried Fang Pengju's body alone and left the Dao Academy.

When Fang Pengju was alive, he could rally a hundred followers and had many friends; when he died, everyone despised him.

His actions were despicable and vicious; he deserved to be despised.

Ling He did not feel wronged for him, but still, there was some pain in his heart.

He wrapped Fang Pengju's body in his outer robe. The robe was old but washed very clean.

For someone with his pace, walking from the eastern city to the western city wasn't far, and the road to the Fang Family's mansion was also familiar. But Ling He walked very slowly, his steps heavy.

He couldn't bear to let go.

He was the oldest; he should have taken care of his four sworn brothers, but he had failed.

He still remembered that scene by the Green Willow River when the five of them swore brotherhood, remembered the radiant smiles of each of the five brothers.

The Green Willow River was a tributary of the Clear River, winding around Ox Head Mountain. The water in the river was very clear. It could reflect young faces and young hearts. That year, they carried swords and rode horses; that year, they raised their cups and talked together; countless times, they sparred in martial arts; countless nights, they talked by candlelight.

They had agreed to advance to the inner courtyard together, to ride swords into the blue sky together, to transcend to sainthood together. Those memories, those... promises.

Ling He had never imagined that five people so congenial, with such deep bonds of brotherhood, would one day turn against each other, facing life and death.

How could this be possible?

He thought.

He couldn't understand, but holding Fang Pengju's cold corpse, he finally arrived at the gates of the Fang Mansion.

"What are you doing?" the gatekeeper stopped him and asked.

The Fang Mansion's residence was very tall, towering high above.

"Oh." Ling He, holding Fang Pengju's body, slightly bowed his head in greeting, "Fang Pengju has passed away. I've brought his body back for your esteemed house to bury."

If no one claimed the body, the authorities would take it to a mass grave for disposal. That was a place that heretical cultivators loved to frequent; even in death, it was hard to find peace.

But Ling He thought this didn't need to be said. He wasn't one to boast of his deeds, nor did he consider this any kind of merit.

The gatekeeper's face changed, and he slammed the door shut with a bang. A voice came from behind the door: "Take it away! The master says he's not allowed in!"

"Young sir," Ling He said earnestly, "please trouble yourself to inform your master again. Pengju is, after all, of the Fang bloodline. Perhaps they were just speaking in anger; they won't abandon him."

The gatekeeper seemed to hesitate for a moment, "I'll go ask again... Don't you try to barge in!"

"Young sir, please rest assured."

Ling He stood firmly in front of the Fang Mansion's gate, holding Fang Pengju's body, listening as the hurried footsteps faded into the distance.

He lowered his head to Fang Pengju's already cold face and said, "Pengju, look at the mess you've made. Even in death, no one will remember your good deeds. You're hated by gods and loathed by ghosts."

After a long time, the gatekeeper's voice sounded again from behind the door.

"The master says," he paused, then repeated the tone of the Fang Mansion's owner, "He's dead already, so why bring him back?"

Ling He was stunned for a moment before muttering, "The Fang family is a respectable household; they should give Pengju a proper burial."

"The master says he already knows how Fang Pengju died. Such an unkind and unjust man is no son of the Fang family!"

"But he is, after all, a son of the Fang family," Ling He said.

"Leave!" The gatekeeper tossed a handful of knife coins through the crack in the door. "If you keep pestering us, we'll report you to the authorities!"

Those knife coins clattered to the ground, a sight that drew every eye. Enough to cover a simple burial for a single corpse, with plenty left over. The excess was a tip.

This was the Fang Family's stance.

Ling He fell silent.

He no longer tried to say anything.

He was poor, poor since childhood. He desperately needed money. The only intact outer robe he owned was wrapped around Fang Pengju's corpse; his inner garment was patched many times over. He stood before the opulent gates of the Fang Mansion, like a poor relative who had been turned away.

He held Fang Pengju's body and turned to leave.

From beginning to end, he did not spare a single glance at those knife coins.

This was Ling He's stance.

What is the best way to face mockery? We do not face it. We abandon it. —Qing He Yi Shen