Chapter 7: Old Memories

Young Master Zhao Rucheng hailed from a family of ample means. He had acquired a grand residence near the esteemed Daoist temple, wherein a dozen servants attended to his every need. Consequently, his presence within the confines of the dormitory was a rare occurrence. As for Du Yehuhu, once in the throes of intoxication, he was a force to be reckoned with, utterly unmanageable.

Thus, upon Jiang Wang's return to the dormitory, a sudden quiet descended upon the previously boisterous chamber, leaving him as the sole occupant.

Securing the door, his gaze instinctively fell upon the bed situated at the innermost corner of the left wall.

Upon it lay a stack of pristine bedding, meticulously arranged. The material was no different from that of the other occupants. At this very moment, no one rested there, and indeed, no one ever would again.

This was the bed of Fang Pengju. Despite his wealth, he harbored no airs nor graces, partaking of meals and drink alongside his peers without complaint or fastidiousness.

Opposite Fang Pengju's bed, another lay empty, burdened by a mountain of luggage.

The remaining beds were arranged in separate rows, three upon each side.

Adjacent to Fang Pengju's, the second bed on the left was a scene of utter disarray, the bedding haphazardly piled, scattered garments serving as mere embellishments. A careful sniff might still discern the lingering aroma of spirits, while beneath the bed, rows of meticulously arranged wine jars attested to the owner's peculiar dedication to their libations, a stark contrast to the general neglect of his living space. This was the domain of Du Yehuhu.

Nearest the door, the first bed on the left belonged to Ling He – ever the dutiful guardian of the threshold, responsible for its opening and closing for all. A few subtle patches adorned his bedding, yet it was immaculately clean.

The first bed on the right was Jiang Wang's. His bedding, like Ling He's, was understated. Though his absence had been prolonged, the bed remained remarkably tidy, a testament to frequent care. Perhaps Ling He had seen to it, or perhaps Zhao Rucheng... or even Fang Pengju.

Adjacent to Jiang Wang's, the second bed on the right was Zhao Rucheng's. His bedding was a singular statement within the dormitory. Both the covers and sheets were of the finest quality from Yunxiangzhai, and even a gold-embroidered canopy graced the humble dormitory cot. It was a world away from Du Yehuhu's chaotic nest.

To those unfamiliar with him, Zhao Rucheng might appear aloof, yet his elevated standards were merely a consequence of his opulent upbringing. Even for occasional sojourns in the dormitory, he sought the utmost in luxury and comfort. He had even once contemplated a lavish transformation of the entire dormitory into a suite befitting a celestial guest – a scheme only thwarted by a timely intervention from Jiang Wang.

Since the age of fourteen, when he first entered the Outer Gate of the Daoist temple, Jiang Wang had resided in this dormitory for three years. Every corner, every detail, was etched into his memory.

Yet, how things change, and how people change.

Jiang Wang stood in silence for a time, then shed his shoes and socks, unfastened his outer robe, and lay upon his bed.

He was weary, utterly spent, but at this moment, and this moment alone, he could finally surrender to peaceful slumber.

*A thousand affairs borne upon the waking world, a single dream awaits the heavens.*

Maple Forest City was a meticulously planned square, with the City Lord's mansion at its heart, from which all roads radiated. The East City belonged to the Daoist temple, while the affluent families resided in the West City. The South City was largely populated by commoners, and merchants and the wealthy congregated in the North City.

Witnessing Jiang Wang emerge safely from the Principal's tranquil chamber, Ling He departed the Daoist temple alone, bearing the lifeless form of Fang Pengju.

In life, Fang Pengju had been surrounded by a multitude of friends, his calls answered by many. But in death, he was universally scorned.

His actions had been cruel and malicious, deserving of such disdain.

Ling He felt no injustice on his behalf, yet a pang of sorrow touched his heart.

He wrapped Fang Pengju's body in his own outer robe, worn yet meticulously clean.

For his pace, the distance from the East City to the West City was not great, and the path to the Fang family mansion was familiar. Yet, Ling He walked slowly, his steps heavy.

He could not bear it.

He was the eldest, he should have watched over his four sworn brothers, yet he had failed.

He still vividly recalled the scene of the five youths taking their oath by the Green Willow River, the bright smiles upon each of their faces.

The Green Willow River, a tributary of the Qing River, flowed around Mount Niutou, its waters clear and pure. It reflected young faces and young hearts. That year they brandished swords and rode steeds, that year they raised their cups and shared confidences, countless were the hours spent in martial practice, and countless the nights lost in whispered conversations by candlelight.

They had vowed to enter the Inner Court together, to soar through the skies on their swords, to transcend and attain sainthood together. Those memories, those... vows.

Ling He had never envisioned a day when the five souls, so united in spirit and bound by deep affection, would face such a bitter division, brother against brother, locked in a struggle unto death.

How could this be?

He pondered.

He could not comprehend, but holding Fang Pengju's cold corpse, he finally arrived before the Fang Mansion.

"What do you want?" the gatekeeper barred his path, questioning him.

The Fang Mansion stood tall, its walls reaching high.

"Ah." Ling He, holding Fang Pengju's body, lowered his head slightly in greeting. "Fang Pengju has passed away. I am bringing his body back for your esteemed family to lay to rest."

Should no one claim the body, the authorities would convey it to a mass burial ground for unified disposal. Such places were the favored haunts of heretical cultivators, where the departed found little peace in death.

But Ling He deemed it unnecessary to voice this, for he was not one who sought to parade his actions, nor did he consider this a deed of merit.

The gatekeeper's expression shifted, and he abruptly slammed the gate shut. From behind the barrier, a voice called out, "Take him away! The Master has forbidden his entry!"

"Little brother," Ling He spoke sincerely, "Please implore your master again. Pengju is, after all, of the Fang bloodline. Their harsh words may be born of momentary anger, but surely they will not forsake him entirely."

The gatekeeper seemed to hesitate for a moment. "I will go and ask again... Do not attempt to force your way in!"

"Please rest assured, little brother."

Ling He stood motionless before the Fang Mansion, cradling Fang Pengju's body, listening as the hurried footsteps faded away.

He lowered his head and murmured to Fang Pengju's cold face, "Pengju, look at the mess you've made? Forsaken even in death, abhorred by gods and ghosts alike."

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

"The Master said." He paused for a moment, then repeated the tone of the Fang family's master. "Dead, what is the point of bringing him back?"

Ling He was stunned for a moment, then hesitated, "The Fang family is a respectable household, they should grant Pengju a proper burial."

"The Master said, he is aware of the circumstances of Fang Pengju's death. Such an unrighteous individual is no true seed of the Fang family!"

"But he is," Ling He insisted, "the seed of the Fang family."

"Begone!" The gatekeeper thrust a handful of knife coins through the gap in the gate. "If you continue to pester us, we shall report you to the authorities!"

The knife coins clattered upon the ground, stark and prominent. For a simple burial of a corpse, they were more than sufficient. The surplus money was clearly a tip.

This was the stance of the Fang family.

Ling He was silent.

He no longer attempted to speak.

He was very poor, having known poverty since childhood. He was desperately in need of money, and his only intact outer robe now wrapped Fang Pengju's corpse, his inner shirt a patchwork of mended tears. He stood before the magnificent Fang Mansion, like a destitute relative turned away from a wealthy doorstep.

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

From beginning to end, he did not even glance at those knife coins.

This was Ling He's stance.