Octagonal Mysterious Ice Grass

Dusk drifted up from the surface of Sea God Lake, dyeing the windowsill of Zhuo Shi's quarters a dark golden hue. The window was half-open, and the lake breeze poured in, blowing the flame of the old-style soul guidance lamp on the table sideways before it steadied again. The lamp's shade was framed in brass, its edges nicked in a few places, with years of dust accumulated in the dents. Light filtered out from within, falling upon the tabletop and casting a warm glow along the edges of a few dishes.

Zhuo Shi sat at the head of the table, one hand resting on the table's edge as he pushed a freshly cooked dish toward the center. The plate clinked softly against the table as it landed, and without raising his head, he called out to the opposite side, "Get your bowls, time to eat."

Wu Changkong and Long Bing sat opposite him. Wu Changkong had taken off his outer coat and draped it over the back of his chair, rolling his sleeves up two folds as he reached out to take the dish. Long Bing helped him adjust the positions of the bowl and chopsticks beside him with very gentle movements.

Shen Yi carried a bowl of soup out from the kitchen, placed it in the center of the table, and helpfully straightened Long Bing's chopsticks. "Big Sister Long Bing, try this. Master stewed it all afternoon."

Long Bing lowered her head to scoop a spoonful, blew on it, slipped it into her mouth, and nodded.

The soup was very hot; she did not frown, she merely set her spoon back into the bowl and tilted her head to glance at Wu Changkong, her eyes filled with, Wah, wah, wah, is it this hot?

It was not that Zhuo Shi was unused to seeing her; on the contrary, it was precisely because Zhuo Shi was so satisfied that he had brought out the very best he had.

Zhuo Shi poured himself a cup of water, took a sip, and set the cup down with a faint click. He glanced at Wu Changkong and his mouth twitched. "Why are you eating so fast? Nobody's going to grab it from you."

Wu Changkong's chopsticks paused, rice still in his mouth, and he mumbled vaguely, "I'm not." He had understood the awkwardness in Long Bing's eyes, and it was only to spare her that awkwardness that he had acted this way.

"Not?" Zhuo Shi set his cup down on the table with a thud. "You ate like this when you were a kid, just rushing through a couple of bites and stopping."

Wu Changkong did not answer. He lowered his head to shovel down a couple of mouthfuls of rice, reached out with his chopsticks toward the nearest dish, plucked a mouthful into his bowl, chewed twice, and swallowed.

Long Bing smiled softly beside him, making no sound. Shen Yi leaned over and lowered her voice. "Senior Brother has been like this since he was little, Master scolds him every time we eat." Long Bing lowered her voice to reply, "I know."

The two of them secretly made "hee-hee-hee" sounds at the corner of the table.

Zhuo Shi picked up a mouthful of food, chewing slowly, his gaze falling upon the tabletop as if studying the edges of those plates. After he finished chewing and swallowed, he suddenly spoke, his voice lower than before. "Shen Yi, that box in the cupboard, bring it here."

Shen Yi acknowledged the order and went inside the inner room.

Mm! Long Bing sat up straight, looking like a prospective son-in-law facing an evaluation by his future father-in-law.

In truth, however, Zhuo Shi merely smiled at her. "If Changkong ever bullies you in the future, just tell me."

"Mm," she answered solemnly.

When Shen Yi returned, she carried a long, narrow wooden box in her hands. It was dark in color, its corners bound with darkened copper plating. A layer of extremely faint chill drifted across the box's surface, as if seeping out from within, moving slowly along the wood grain pressed against the box's side and casting an ephemeral white frost beneath the light.

In the exact center of the box's lid was embedded a circular mental formation, its lines fine and dense, its edges glowing with a faint, deep-blue light as it rotated at an exceptionally slow, steady rate, resembling some kind of apparatus that continued to function long after being sealed away.

Shen Yi placed the wooden box upon the tabletop, withdrawing her fingertips with a slight flinch as if brushed by that layer of chill. She retreated and sat back down.

Zhuo Shi tapped the edge of the box's lid lightly with the tip of his chopsticks. The mental formation sensed his soul power fluctuation, its rotation slowing by a beat before resuming its original speed. "Open it and take a look."

Wu Changkong put down his chopsticks and reached out to lift the lid. The moment the cover rose, a wave of cold air surged out from within the box, carrying a pure, bracing chill reminiscent of the deep winter lake bottom. He lowered his head to look inside—the bottom of the box was lined with dark velvet, and resting upon the velvet lay a stalk of grass. The grass was entirely ice-blue, its leaves covered by an extremely thin layer of frost, beneath which faint silvery-white veins extended upward from the root, converging at the very tip of the blade into a tiny, slowly rotating ice crystal. With every single rotation of the ice crystal, an ephemeral tier of cold air diffused outward, condensing into a ring of white mist at the mouth of the box before dissipating into the air.

Wu Changkong's fingers paused at the rim of the box, not reaching inside. He sensed it. The energy contained within that grass was being released at an exceptionally stable frequency, every stratum of chill wrapping around highly concentrated ice-attribute energy. The purity of that energy even surpassed any ice-type spiritual treasure he had ever seen in Shrek. He could feel the soul power within his own body stir slightly as it approached the grass, as if gently tugged by something of the same origin.

He closed the box's lid. He did not look another time, nor did he ask what it was, much less say, "It's too valuable." He simply closed the box properly, picked it up with both hands, and held it to his chest.

Zhuo Shi was lowering his head to pick up food, his chopsticks descending upon another dish without looking this way. Wu Changkong's gaze lingered on Zhuo Shi's profile for a fraction of a second before withdrawing. He said nothing, but his fingers pressed against the edge of the lid, his thumbpads brushing the smoothly polished metal and lingering for a moment before pulling back.

Zhuo Shi reached his chopsticks toward the dish closest to him, picked up a mouthful into his bowl, chewed twice, and swallowed. "Take that box," he began, his gaze still fixed on the dish as if speaking to the food itself, "when you leave. It's just gathering dust keeping it here." Watching Wu Changkong hold it against his chest, Zhuo Shi felt very happy inside.

As an elder, one always wanted to leave all the good things to the children.

Wu Changkong hugged the box to his chest and stood up. The chair legs scraped softly against the floor. He shifted the box to hold it in his left hand, picked up the outer coat draped over the chair back with his right hand, and handed it directly to Long Bing, who had already stood up. Long Bing took it and draped it over the crook of her arm, not putting it on immediately, just carrying it like that.

Shen Yi poked her head out from the kitchen doorway. "Leaving just like that?"

"Mm," Wu Changkong replied.

Zhuo Shi did not stand up. He remained leaning against the back of his chair, his gaze falling upon the darkening expanse of the lake outside the window. His voice drifted over from the chair, neither loud nor soft, carrying a deliberate, casual air. "When you come tomorrow, bring some fresh fish."

Wu Changkong paused at the doorway, tilted his head, and glanced at him. Alright, goodbye, Teacher! A smile broke across his face.

Zhuo Shi did not turn his head, his spine remaining just as straight, one hand resting on the table edge with his fingertips pressing against the rim. Wu Changkong nodded, then gently pulled the door shut behind them.

A soul guidance lamp in the corridor clicked on in response, casting a dim yellow light down from above and drawing two long, slender lines of shadows from their figures upon the floor. Long Bing walked beside him, her coat draped over the crook of her arm, the hem of her garment swaying softly with her strides.

Wu Changkong cradled the wooden box, walking side by side with Long Bing. The chill from the box's surface seeped through the timber, condensing an extremely thin layer of white frost around the edge of his palms; when his fingers pressed against it, he could feel a trace of coolness infiltrating his skin. He walked for a short distance, coming to a halt at the corridor's corner. He did not look back, nor did he put the box down. He cracked the lid open by a narrow slit, peering through the gap at the contents within. The ice-blue grass leaves lay quietly upon the dark velvet, that layer of frost gently reflecting the light, the ice crystal at the tip of the blade still rotating slowly—one circle, then another.

He closed the lid.

"Bing'er." His voice was lower than before, bouncing off the corners of the corridor before dispersing. He tilted his head to look at her, his profile carved into distinct outlines by the corridor lamp's light. His eyes were a bit brighter than usual, as if he had just confirmed something he had always wanted to verify.

Long Bing stopped in her tracks, turning her head to look at him.

"This is a good thing," he said.

The corners of Long Bing's mouth turned upward. Mm! Even without finding a way to resolve her martial soul, she was still happy for Wu Changkong.

His fingers tapped lightly against the box's lid, and the faint glow of the mental formation flickered before fading away. He looked at the box in his hands, then raised his eyes to look at her.

If you had this, he thought to himself, you would definitely break through.

His voice subsided, and he did not immediately follow it with anything else.

After Wu Changkong finished those words, he continued walking forward, his pace slightly slower than before, hugging the box to his chest without looking back again.