Chapter 17

Cen Qianshan walked down streets blanketed in white, ancient stone buildings on either side long since toppled and ruined, a wasteland for years.
Every now and then, a ragged figure would peek out from some shattered doorway at the stranger passing by, then dart back into the darkness, vanishing in their caves of stone.
If it weren’t for poverty or running from a vendetta, who would ever choose to live in this desolate ruin instead of the solid, splendid new city just beyond?
Once upon a time, this street bustled with life. So many of Cen Qianshan’s memories were laid to rest here.
He walked slowly through the snow, and for a moment, it was as though the old sounds of the past echoed around him again.
The old vendor hawked frozen pears and candy snowballs from his cart. Demonic cultivators zipped overhead on flying artifacts. Children shrieked, pelting each other with snow. Ordinary folks huddled their hands in sleeves, heads down, rushing through the wind and snow.
In a far corner, a frail boy was blocked by a pack of roughneck kids, pushed and shoved into a back alley. But a few moments later, that little boy poked his head out of the grimy alley alone. After glancing around to be sure no one was watching, he tidied up his hair and clothes, brushed his face clean, and ran home wearing his most innocent, cherubic smile. All while whimpers and pained cries echoed behind him in the alleyways.
All of Cen Qianshan’s happiest days had been spent here.
“Master, wait up! Master!” A tiny figure dashed down the street, breathless with joy. Someone up ahead turned, smiling the brightest smile in the world, and reached out to take his hand.
“Master, what’s this? Is it for me?”
“Did you buy that for me? I, I really don’t need new clothes, you know.”
“Master, what’s that place over there?”
“Master, Master…”
That year, someone had pulled him, filthy and broken, from the jaws of hell. She didn’t flinch at his filth or mind his malice. Instead, she wrapped his frail body in a warm blanket, cradled him in her arms as though he was something precious, and carried him, step by step, along the snowy street.
That was the first time he’d ever felt what warmth was, the first time he learned that maybe, just maybe, he was worth being cherished.
He reached the end of the road, standing before the only house on the street still left untouched. He pushed open the door and stepped into the silent courtyard inside.
“Master, picked up another soul artifact, want to try it out?” chirped the little puppet on his shoulder.
The master said nothing, simply pausing where he stood.
Silence, in this case, meant yes.
The little puppet, Qianji, hopped down from his master's shoulder, zipped in a circle on the courtyard flagstones, and activated a secret mithril spell array hidden beneath the slate.
The array rippled with cryptic seals and eerie runes, all drawn in rare, extravagant mithril. Thin silver filaments rose from the surface like fine embossing, crisscrossing and layering into an intricate formation. The heavy silver sigils gave off a quiet weight, as if the power woven within might shake the laws of the world itself.
This was the Nether Soul Gathering Array, a lost relic of the past. Cen Qianshan had studied and searched for it ceaselessly, pouring years of life and obsession into rebuilding it.
The Yan family might not have realized: even with only half the soul vessel in hand, with this array enhancing it, he could still test its true potential ahead of time.
Cen Qianshan produced the Gold Dragon-Engraved Bowl, settled at the array’s edge, and, with a soft cloth, meticulously polished the priceless soul vessel, an artifact left behind by ancient gods. Satisfied, he set it carefully in the heart of the array.
Next, he unwrapped the bandage binding his arm. Using a razor-sharp dagger tip, he scored a cross-shaped wound into his skin. Crimson blood welled up and trickled down his arm, flowing along the silver-white grooves of the mithril.
That burning red followed the runes, slowly diffusing throughout the design.
The cold sting of mithril, stoked by fresh blood, bathed the courtyard in a ghostly blue light. The array awoke: the world outside dimmed, silver lines at its core began to show signs of restless, living will, twisting, swelling, until from them emerged the shape of a demon god, drawn all in shimmering silver threads.
The demon god gripped a silver wand. With excruciating slowness, it raised the wand high and tapped it lightly against the violet-gold bowl.
Cling,
The soft ring echoed as though calling souls from the shadowy deep, a sound both mournful and intimate, like a mother’s gentle call in childhood, like a song of home that tugged at the heart and tempted every soul to follow it back.
Summoning back his master Mu Xue’s soul, shattered by heavenly lightning, so she might reclaim her flesh and return to life.
For a hundred years, Cen Qianshan had performed this rite countless times. His arm was a ledger of old debts: crosshatched wounds scarred thickly, each mark a record of his stubborn, foolish hopes.
Every time, he started with fierce anticipation, every time, he ended with crushing disappointment.
The chime of the bowl drifted farther and farther through silence.
His blood was drawn away, greedily swallowed by the formation.
Only when his face had grown ghost-pale, too weak to continue, did the array stilled, showing not even a flicker of change, all its power lost to a past that would not return.
Cen Qianshan dispelled the array. He sat alone in the garden, methodically winding clean bandages around his wounded arm, over and over.
The little puppet approached, cocking its head to study his face.
It was hard to say what the artificial thing understood as it gazed, expressionless, at its master, but after a moment, its tinny voice creaked out,
“Master, are you extra sad today?”
Qianji could never quite comprehend its master. Day after day, he repeated these useless rituals, then sank into empty spells of gloom for reasons beyond the puppet’s understanding.
“Do you… remember your first master?” The question came unexpectedly.
“Master Mu Xue? Nope, no memories at all. I was told when she faced her tribulation, the divine lightning took us both out. There, ” Qianji spun once, displaying its patched-up, visibly antique body. “It was you, Master, who gathered up my broken pieces and rebuilt me. My old memories are gone, erased.”
It mulled this over, then added, “But there’s still a shadow of Master Mu Xue inside my Illumination Mirror. So I do know what she looked like. Want to see?”
No answer from its master.
No answer meant yes.
Qianji’s iron-plated belly opened, and it handed over a tiny mirage lantern. The battered prism shone, casting a lifelike, true-scale projection that overlapped seamlessly with the current courtyard.
In an instant, the fading garden was restored, lush, vivid, brimming with life like a century ago.
By Cen Qianshan’s side, the shimmer of light coalesced into a human form.
A woman in crimson robes, raven hair swept up, sat quietly on a small stool, head bent intently over a stone grinder, her focus entirely on the minerals she powdered within.
She appeared so near that if Cen Qianshan so much as looked up, he’d see the faintly smiling curve of her lips, just inches away.
But Cen Qianshan did not look up. Not once.
His bleeding arm lay across his knee, torn bandages scattered at his feet. He stared at those bloodied wraps as if bright, impossible flowers might bloom from them.
If he didn’t look too closely, the illusion nearly felt real.
An artificial fragment of reality, fleeting, heartbreakingly short.
The dreamlike gate creaked open: a gangly teenager dashed inside, shutting the door with a quick backward shove.
Cen Qianshan looked up to see…a face identical to his own.
The boy’s radiant smile stung his eyes with its careless brightness.
The boy grinned, mischief lurking at the corners of his mouth, and called out in a voice still tinged with youth: “Master! I’m back!”
“You’re back,” the woman in red murmured, still grinding herbs, never looking up. “Let me guess, got in another fight today?”
“Who, me? No way. Everyone treats me way better now.” The teen crouched in front of her and took the grinder from her hands. “Let me handle that, Master. You always leave this for me, remember?”
“Are they really nice to you, or did you just beat them into submission?” she teased, reaching out to press lightly on his shoulder.
The boy sucked in a sharp breath, his usually-bright lashes drooping, all wide-eyed and pitiful.
“Hurt again? Let me see, is it bad?” She gently loosened his collar, inspecting his neck with practiced care.
Cen Qianshan stared at his own younger, secretly delighted face in the fading light.
So this was how foolish and transparent he’d been, thought he’d hidden that crush on his master so well, yet it had been written all over his face for anyone to see.
Did Master Mu Xue ever truly notice? He would never know, not now, not ever.
A flare of light flickered before his eyes.
The red-robed Master, his own youthful self, and that pristine courtyard, all vanished within that glow.
Only the tiny puppet remained, quietly packing away its lantern-lit Mirage Terrace all by itself.
The courtyard was once again that same old, silent yard; its emptiness undisturbed but for the solitary shadow of Cen Qianshan.
Cen Qianshan slowly got to his feet and entered the unlit house, making his way to the small mat where he curled up as always.
The mat was far too small, no longer fitting his adult height and long legs, but every day through the years he folded himself into that same little corner.
From this spot, he faced Mu Xue’s old workbench directly.
A trace of snowlight streamed through the window, glinting off an unfinished artifact on the table.
Sometimes, Cen Qianshan would think, maybe if he just fell asleep and woke up again, he’d open his eyes to see that familiar figure seated at the desk, his Master utterly absorbed, hands busy, the quiet clink and clatter promising safety and home.
For years after his Master died, there weren’t words strong enough for the pain. Alone in that terrifyingly empty room, he’d lie awake all night, and the loneliness felt like a knife, slicing him open again and again.
As a child, he’d cry at the drop of a hat, always hoping Master would take pity and spoil him just a little more.
But in those days, he felt dried up. He wanted to cry, couldn’t squeeze out a single tear.
Cen Qianshan mused: humans are strange creatures. No matter how deep the hurt, as long as you’re alive, you’ll heal, slowly, by inches. Even when the scars twist and gnarl, each day keeps moving, one after the other.
Now, when he pictured his Master’s smile, there was no more pain or bitterness, just a haze of gray, a pale emptiness where joy used to live.