Chapter 44

With the windows and doors tightly closed, sunlight filtered in through the paper windows.
Shadows of fallen leaves drifted across the paper, brushing the quiet with a tangled, whispering sound.
Mu Xue sat by the window, turning the pages slowly. With every yellowed sheet, memories traced back through the years, returning her to stories long past.
In her mind, she caught a glimpse of that not-so-familiar neighbor boy, sitting after her death, scratching his head and gripping a pen, painstakingly writing out his memories of her, bit by awkward bit.
The book read: “When I was a child, that neighbor, Master Mu, was a strange and mysterious woman to all the kids on Ten Marvels Street.
She was pretty, sure. But there was something vaguely frightening, almost magical about her, a mystery you dared not get too close to.
I’d see her all the time hauling odd bags of materials past our family’s bun shop. She was always deep in thought, muttering to herself as she walked. She never paid attention to anyone around her, never seemed to care what was happening outside her own world. She simply didn’t fit in, everyone and everything around her felt irrelevant.
Back then, I never realized that the artifacts we all relied on, the one that turned our plain buns golden in an instant, or the ‘ride-carts’ us boys loved to zoom around on, were all invented by her.
What I did know was that this strange woman always had a few misshapen mechanical puppets trailing after her. Even the half-finished ones, crooked and weird as they looked, were dangerous things.
Every kid on this street had been drilled by their parents, never, ever touch one of her strange little contraptions without permission, no matter how harmless it looked.
I once saw the little tin puppet called ‘Qianji’ sitting on Master Mu’s shoulder: one moment it looked dumb and silly, head tilted, chugging along; a second later it broke apart and reformed into a terrifying steel beast.
One day, I was in the bun shop, watching through the swirling white steam of the steamer, and saw her carrying home a half-dead little boy.
That boy looked so frail and pitiful, unconscious in her arms, leaving a trail of blood from his small feet all the way home.
At the time, I even thought our neighbor had finally gotten bored of her mechanical puppets and was about to start experimenting on real children.
Thank God, the very next morning, I saw the gate next door swing open.
The pale little boy hobbled out on crutches to sweep the snow. He still looked terrible, but at least he was alive, a real person, not some weird puppet creation. That little fact eased my young heart, just a bit.
After that, this scrawny kid, who would later become the famous Cen Qianshan, Master Cen, put down roots in our neighbor’s yard.
The first few days, he was in rough shape. I’d see him sneak into the alley behind the yard to throw up, then slump against the wall, eyes closed, chest heaving. He looked so weak, I half expected him to keel over and die at any moment.
Finally, Master Mu realized the boy she’d taken in was about to die and rushed him off to Uncle Nian’s clinic.
When they came back, I was outside helping Mom with the stove. I saw little Cen Qianshan with an ice pack pressed to his forehead, bundled up in thick blankets in Master Mu’s arms, the two of them braving the wind and snow back home.
Back then, I’d sneak a peek and spot Cen Qianshan curled up in his blankets, eyes lingering on Mu Xue’s face with unwavering focus.
He was so pitiful, soft and needy, like a stray kitten dying in winter.
But it didn’t take long for me to realize how wrong I was, he wasn’t a sick kitten at all. He was a wild wolf. A vicious mountain tiger.
At first, we could still corner him in the alley for a beating. Not long after, there wasn’t a single kid on the street who could take him on.
After yet another round of getting thrashed by Cen Qianshan, my mother dragged me to Master Mu’s yard in protest.
It was my first time seeing the true power of an artifact refiner, this slender woman in scarlet, sheltering her little disciple behind her. With just a casual wave, dozens of puppets shot up from the walls like a silent, deadly flood. The killing intent chilled me to the bone; I nearly bolted right then. Even my mother, fearless as she was, shrank back. And I remember clearly, Cen Qianshan, tucked close behind that scarlet robe, had the brightest eyes. He stared at his Master with pride and utter devotion, not sparing a single glance for anyone else.
Back then, I couldn't help but think, don't tell me this kid actually has a crush on his own Master.
As time passed, Cen Qianshan transformed from a scruffy little slave into the luckiest child on the entire street.
He always had the latest, most coveted toys in his hands, the kind every boy on the street envied, and his pockets bulged with allowance money and candy.
Whenever his Master took his hand and led him through the bustling streets, all he had to do was flash some puppy eyes, and he'd get whatever his heart desired, things no other parent would give their kid so easily, while the other children could only watch in awe and jealousy.
That tiny figure, wrapped in a sweep of red, darted and played, and before long, he’d shot up in height, first reaching her shoulder, then growing to stand at her side, until one day, he looked down on Master Mu herself.
As he grew, the way that boy looked at his Master, his gaze burned hotter and brighter by the day. That young, feverish affection couldn’t have been more obvious. Honestly, probably the only one oblivious to Cen Qianshan’s adoration was Mu Xue herself, too focused on her spell-craft to notice how her beloved little disciple had caught feelings.”
Mu Xue paused at this part, dazed, lifting her head in a trance.
At that time, Cen Qianshan was still young, all green bamboo and tender pine, the promise of spring written on his face. That blazing heat in his eyes lingered by her side, had she truly not felt a thing?
She dropped her gaze back to the book, where the author had scribbled a wistful note upon aged paper: “Everyone says Cen Qianshan was lucky to meet Master Mu, to be saved from the depths and given a new life.
But no one knew, without that one thoughtful, fiercely loyal little disciple, Mu Xue herself would never have learned to smile more each day, breaking out of her machine-world shell and gently, slowly, learning to live a little.
There came a day when a beast horde attacked, I nearly lost my own life to the bloody fangs of a savage beast. Just when disaster loomed, a towering mechanical construct fell from the sky, seized the creature in its steel grasp, and tore it to shreds in a blink.
Mu Xue, clad in her signature red, appeared before me. She cocked her head, thinking for a moment before saying, “Aren’t you… Niu Da Zhuang? The kid who’s always brawling with my Xiao Shan?”
My name’s Niu Dashuai, Master Mu. You got it wrong.
Master Mu summoned her legendary flying artifact, the Shadow Glide, unfolded it, and, holding no grudges, brought my battered body on board.
The swallowtail-shaped vessel shot through the air at lightning speed, piercing the wave of monsters before any of them could react, whisking me to safety. Along the way, she scooped up countless desperate souls who’d been left behind.
That neighbor who always seemed a bit scary now sat calmly at the very front of her artifact, suddenly, she made everything feel safe.
Pity that, for all the affection in the world, the heavens themselves remain heartless.
How could there be no place in the world for a woman like her?
On the day Master Mu reached the peak of the Golden Core stage, at her tribulation crossing, thunder roared like war drums, lightning lashed like dragons. Divine might roiled in the clouds, heaven’s wrath impossible to defy.
I hid far away atop a mountain and watched in terror. There she stood beneath the storm, head held high, crimson robes blazing, unflinching before the fury of the heavens.
Sheets of violet divine lightning churned in the clouds, two strands, three, ten, a hundred, on and on without end, hell-bent on wiping that flash of red from the face of the earth.
The oppressive force was so terrifying my hair stood on end even from a distance; it felt as if my very soul might shatter. I barely dared to breathe.
All I could do was watch, tears streaming down, as she fought alone against the heavens, burning through all her power and treasures, only in the end, to be reduced to ashes by thunder’s wrath.
When the storm clouds finally faded, a few stray sunbeams slipped through, falling on the very dust where her body had vanished to smoke and ash.
At last, a figure all in black came stumbling from afar, running with wild desperation.
Through a haze of tears, I watched as Cen Qianshan tripped and tumbled again and again, scrambling and crawling to reach those ashes, his hands shaking as he tried to gather the last of her bones.
Even someone like me, a mere neighbor, struggled to hold back sobs at Master Mu's passing. How much more devastating must it be for him?
Yet that day, I never saw a single tear fall from his eyes.
That usually fierce, wild man frantically, obsessively swept every scrap of ash into a little pouch, then dashed around gathering up the scattered puppet fragments left on the ground.
I couldn't bear to watch him like that, hollow and lost. With much coaxing and fibbing, I managed to drag the soulless Cen Qianshan home.
I almost couldn’t get the door open, he was so out of it he nearly forgot how to undo his own family’s security array.
On the table inside, a storage pouch sat exactly in its place, weighed down by half a letter, on which Master Mu had left a few simple words:
If I do not return, all this I leave to my disciple. Take care of yourself in my stead.
Cen Qianshan immediately upended the pouch on the floor, manuals, artifacts, spirit stones, all poured out in a heap.
I was just an outsider, but even I felt my nose sting at the sight. How could such an affectionate soul bear it?
Days later, their house next door was still sunk in darkness and silence.
My mother sighed, packed a few fresh buns and a steaming pot of broth in a basket and shoved it into my hands, telling me to go check in.
I crept into the pitch-black house, the scene was exactly as I’d left it: treasures scattered across the floor, Cen Qianshan sitting blank-eyed on the threshold, clutching the pouch of ashes. His eyes were bruised dark, lips pale as porcelain, he didn’t cry, didn’t make a sound. I started to think he’d given up on living.
I racked my brain for ways to talk to him, but no matter what I said, he stared right past me. Finally, I remembered: there are soul-summoning arts in this world. If he could find one, perhaps he could recall her wandering soul to form a ghostly body, cultivate on the ghost path, and find his way back to her again.
The first flicker of hope lit up in Cen Qianshan’s eyes.
He finally agreed to eat a bun, gnawing it down so quickly, after starving for so long, that he ran outside to throw up. Then he staggered back in and kept forcing food down, bite by stubborn bite.
Sigh. Seeing him like this just broke my heart. I’d rather he went back to being his old self, savage and hot-tempered, beating me up for no reason and then playing the innocent lotus in front of Master Mu, better that than this empty shell.
But people can survive anything, so long as hope remains. If he still held onto hope, still had the drive to keep going, I believed that one day, the heavens might show mercy, and those two, Master and disciple, would meet again to finish their story.”
Mu Xue turned to that page, and suddenly, a wet droplet splashed onto the yellowed sheet, a big, round, splotchy stain. Then another one. And another.
Bemused, she reached up to touch her cheek, only to discover it was soaked through with tears.
Outside the paper window, leaves drifted down in lazy spirals, how many had fallen, who could say? The shadowed figure by the window finally heaved a sigh, shut the book, and slipped out the door.
Out in the courtyard, Su Xingtin set aside his scroll, looked up, and asked, “You’re really sure about this?”
His little disciple nodded firmly, dropping to her knees. “I’m not strong enough to let go, and I don’t want to. This memory is part of me now. Please, Master, teach me.”
…
On Biyou Peak, Ding Huirou whirled around, staring at Su Xingtin in disbelief. “You’re walking the path of sentiment? Senior Brother, you can’t be serious!”
Su Xingtin waved casually. “Keep your voice down, Junior Sister. No need to make a fuss. She’s always been keen on artifact creation and often lingers near you for pointers, so I figured you should know.”
Ding Huirou frowned. “That road isn’t easy. Can’t she choose another way?”
Su Xingtin let out a quiet sigh. “She’s a clear, honest soul. Whether it’s family, friendship, or something… deeper, her heart is full of feeling, and she refuses to erase it. If I forced her, she’d only end up battling inner demons.”
“So, what’s your plan?”
“I told her to hold off on the Dragon-Tiger Art, and not to practice the absorbing-and-hiding techniques or the Embryonic Breathing methods just yet. She might be a little slower, but she’s bright. Spending extra time to build a solid foundation is no bad thing. Once she’s older and opportunity comes, her cultivation will only be smoother.”
Ding Huirou blinked. “Well, I didn’t see that coming. She’s always seemed so focused on cultivation, with zero interest in the outside world, I’d have guessed she’d end up walking the emotionless path. Who knew she’d go the complete opposite route?”
“She may seem cold and aloof, but she’s fiercely loyal underneath it all,” Su Xingtin said with a smile. He rolled the Heaven Egg in his palm, watching specks of gold settle inside. “I get the sense she carries her own destiny. Heaven’s will and all that, no need to worry.”