Wang Xiaoliang stood up.
His knees felt a little weak, and he swayed, but he steadied himself.
He turned toward Hermit Yimu and bowed.
One bow.
Two bows.
Three bows.
He had wanted to kneel. Three full kneelings and nine kowtows, the real thing. But the tea room was too small, with tables and stools crammed together. If he actually knelt, he might hit his head on a table corner, which would only look bad.
"Master, I can never repay you for saving my life."
His voice trembled a little. Thirty-one days. He had brushed past death's door and come back. If the man hadn't pulled him back, grass would already have been growing over his grave.
"If you ever need anything, anything I can help with, I won't hesitate."
With that, he waited.
Hermit Yimu held his teacup without moving.
Several seconds passed.
"I wasn't the one who saved you."
Wang Xiaoliang raised his head.
"The credit goes to my disciple. I only lent a hand. You can count that little bit of credit as his too."
He waved a hand afterward, looking as though it had nothing to do with him.
Wang Xiaoliang froze for a moment.
He turned around.
Fan Qishan sat there, holding his teacup, his face expressionless.
Wang Xiaoliang bowed to him.
One bow.
Two bows.
Three bows.
He bent lower than before, his waist almost forming a right angle.
"Qishan."
His throat tightened.
"We're friends."
He put great weight into those words. After saying them, he felt they weren't enough and continued.
"There isn't much I can do for you, but if you ever-"
"There is."
Just two words, cutting off the rest of his sentence.
Clean and decisive.
Wang Xiaoliang's words caught in his throat.
There is? He needs something from me?
What