HCAW 28

Chapter 28: Destiny Returns

After Fang Jingyu was found, Zheng Deli wearily returned home.

He still had no idea what kind of knot his childhood friend had tied in his own mind to make him wander around near Chunsheng Pass in the middle of the night. Just yesterday evening, Xiao Jiao had come knocking at his door, her face full of worry, saying that Fang Jingyu had gone back to the Fang residence with the old servant early in the morning and hadn’t been seen since—and that he hadn’t looked quite right when he left. Fearing something had happened to him, she begged Zheng Deli to join her in searching the streets.

Zheng Deli had thought to himself: Ha! A proper official of Xian Mountain, and one so skilled with the sword—how could anything possibly happen to him? If anything, it was he who was more likely to be harmed, with his weak limbs and soft hands! Still, his concern for his friend was not something to dismiss. So he immediately grabbed a lantern and went out with Xiao Jiao to search the streets, calling Fang Jingyu’s name.

By the time they found any trace of him, the night watches had already passed. When Zheng Deli returned to the estate from Chunsheng Pass, he was thoroughly exhausted.

By then, the moon hung high in the sky like a silver plate, its cold light as clear as water. He hunched his shoulders and slipped through the main gate, intending to sneak back into the eastern wing. But just then, a voice drifted faintly toward him:

“Deli, come here.”

Zheng Deli shivered. It felt as if his father were some ghost, able to grow a hundred eyes wherever he was—in this case, in the main hall—always capable of catching him with uncanny accuracy. No matter where Zheng Deli went, that dry, rasping voice, like brittle old wood, would float to his ears like some divine echo.

He hunched his shoulders further and crept toward the main hall. Pushing open the sliding door, he found the room unlike any other—it resembled a small inner courtyard. There was an opening in the ceiling beam through which the moonlight poured like silver. The walls were lined with red cedar shelves, filled with astronomical books like The Book of Heavenly Offices and The Star Manual, as densely packed as stars themselves. His father sat cross-legged on blue bricks, his eyes closed, dressed in purple gauze and a brown cloak like a Daoist priest, one hand idly toying with a caged black-headed gull, his figure as gnarled as an ancient pine.

“Father, why did you call me?” Zheng Deli asked nervously. His father’s moods were notoriously erratic, and he always seemed a bit possessed. Seeing him still sitting like this so late in the night had nearly scared Deli out of his skin.

“Hmph. You little brat—off whoring again?”

“What nonsense! I keep myself proper and haven’t even married yet. I only went out tonight because a friend went missing and I carried a lantern to search for him.”

“What need is there for such a fuss? You could’ve just sent a gull with a message,” his father said as he toyed with the bird. “These birds can travel thousands of miles and always return to their master. Just have it deliver a message to that Fang boy and let him walk back himself.”

Zheng Deli assumed his father was spouting nonsense again. He could never quite guess what went on in his father’s head. The old man had once been a chief official at Penglai’s Astronomy Bureau, but after an error in compiling the calendar, he was demoted, and the family’s status had plummeted since. Yet the old man remained unbothered—either staring up in thought within the house or pacing around the bronze armillary sphere in the courtyard, muttering to himself. His body had grown thin to the point of emaciation, but his eyes only burned brighter. Zheng Deli knew well his father’s skill: his calculations were unmatched, and in his youth, he’d only been at the bureau three years before devising an incredibly precise calendar—one still in use in Penglai to this day.

His father rarely spoke to him. His moods came like violent storms—sudden and intense, but quick to pass. He could fly into a rage over Deli visiting Zui Chun Garden, then fall into silent meditation for three days like a monk, sitting so still he might have been mistaken for a grave mound. So when his father now summoned him with no preamble and suddenly said:

“The celestial signs have changed.”

“What do you mean, the celestial signs have changed?” Zheng Deli asked, intrigued.

His father replied coolly, “Didn’t you say you were too lustful to learn astronomy from me? Why show interest now?”

Zheng Deli flushed as red as a cooked lobster. “Father! I didn’t go to Zui Chun Garden to visit a courtesan—I went for a boy!”

But the words barely left his mouth before he realized something was wrong. His father’s gaze had turned even more unreadable.

With a grunt, his father stood, took a porcelain box from the cedar shelf, and handed him a bone fragment from inside.

Zheng Deli took it and found the bone mottled and old, etched with tiny, fly-sized script—none of which he could recognize. His father said, “This is an heirloom from our ancestors. It contains records of Penglai’s history. If you have so much idle time to be dangling about in the streets, you’d do better to settle down and study this.”

Zheng Deli hated anything to do with history or astronomy. His father had once taught him how to calculate with astronomical texts full of mind-numbing numbers. As for history, their family had served the Astronomy Bureau for generations, so they kept many such records at home—which technically didn’t break any laws. But the texts were written in archaic characters, and trying to read them gave him a feverish headache. He’d rather learn medicine—at least then he could treat minor ailments on his own.

So he accepted the bone half-heartedly and murmured a vague agreement, hoping to slip away. But just then, his father added:

“Deli, you are now caught in a raging current. If you pull away, you’ll live on as just another face in the crowd, dragging out a meager existence. But if you plunge in—you’ll die a glorious death.”

His father always liked to speak in those cryptic, mystical ways—perhaps from gazing at the stars too long, he had begun to believe he could commune with the heavens. Zheng Deli had long grown used to such talk, so he replied casually, “If I’m going to die anyway, isn’t there at least a better way to go?”

His father said again, “Everyone dies in the end—it’s just that the scenery along the path differs. Your fate is written on that bone piece as well. Go and decipher it.”

As he spoke, the moonlight spilled across the deep lines of his father’s face, and Zheng Deli suddenly felt a chill. His father’s figure seemed to blur like ink bleeding into water, turning hazy before his eyes. When he blinked again, it was as if a silent idol had appeared in his place, standing tall and solemn—but now with a touch of sorrow for the world. Zheng Deli quickly gathered his scattered thoughts, took the bone piece, and gave a heavy nod.

He rose with the bone fragment in hand and was about to leave when he suddenly heard his father call from behind:

“Do you want to leave Penglai, Deli?”

Startled, Zheng Deli turned sharply and quickly shook his head. “Crossing the Heavenly Pass is a capital offense—how could an unfilial son dare even dream of such a thing!”

His father replied, “Yes. The time hasn’t come yet. Your life star hasn’t begun to shine.”

Zheng Deli glanced back one last time. His father was still seated on the blue bricks, bathed in silvery moonlight, surrounded by the brilliance of countless stars. And yet his figure seemed so small, frail, and withered—as if the world had forgotten him. A pang of unease welled in Zheng Deli’s chest, and he hurried away without looking back.

_____

Fang Jingyu had returned to the small courtyard.

He had gone back to the Fang residence the day before, learned the shocking truths of his origins, and met with Mule outside Chunsheng Pass—but ultimately, he had chosen not to cross Penglai’s Heavenly Pass. This land bore too many of his memories. He could not leave so easily.

But the two people at home knew nothing of this. Xiao Jiao hadn’t even slept—she dragged him into the main hall, lit a brazier, ordered him to sit on a stool, and began pacing in front of him like she was interrogating a criminal. Her brows were furrowed as she shouted:

“You tight-lipped gourd! Why the hell didn’t you say anything before trying to run off!”

Fang Jingyu said nothing, his eyes lowered. The firelight flickered across his face, making him look all the more burdened with thoughts.

Xiao Jiao, now running in anxious circles like a dog chasing its tail, cried, “I know your family treats you like trash, but just because you went home doesn’t mean you have to start courting death! Do you think the Heavenly Pass is someplace you can just barge through? Trying to cross it could get you executed, or if you’re lucky, just dragged off to stoke the fires with laborers like Chu!”

Chu Kuang was poking at the coals with a stick and cackled wildly at that. “What’s wrong with stoking fires? It’s warm! And you can sneak in a couple sweet potatoes too!”

Xiao Jiao snatched the fire stick from his hands, jabbed at the coals, and sure enough found two roasted sweet potatoes buried inside.

Fuming, she tossed the stick aside, grabbed one of the sweet potatoes, peeled it without caring about Chu Kuang’s curses, and began eating in angry, hissing bites. Her eyes were still red as she scolded Fang Jingyu:

“Dead gourd! Are you even listening? If you leave, who’ll cook? Who’ll mend my clothes? Who’ll brush the horse?”

Chu Kuang said, “I can do all that.”

Xiao Jiao paused. She realized none of those things really required Fang Jingyu specifically. Still, her heart remained unsettled. Her eyes filled with tears again as she paced in circles, huffing and choking in frustration. Then it was Chu Kuang’s turn to jump up and yell at Fang Jingyu, gnawing on his sweet potato and slurring angrily:

“If you were going to leave, why the hell didn’t you say goodbye? You still haven’t given up on running from Penglai, have you?”

Fang Jingyu glanced out the window. The moon was hazy, the night deep. He didn’t want to get into it with them. Too much had happened today. His mind was a tangled mess, and he hadn’t sorted through it yet. So he shook his head and said, “I’m tired. Stop asking. I just want to be alone. Go get some rest.”

He stood and walked out of the main hall, his figure cold and quiet. The two left behind stared after him in a daze, not even thinking to stop him.

Fang Jingyu returned to his room and lit the lamp. There was no fire in the room—it was as cold as ice. Outside was pitch-black, and all the turmoil in his heart surged to the surface. He sat on the bed and buried his face in his hands.

In a single instant, his world had flipped upside down. The identity of Emperor Bai’s son was like a heavy shackle dropped upon his shoulders. It felt as if the hopes of all Penglai had suddenly landed on him.

He thought again of his brother. What Langgan Guard said today had ripped open the raw wound in his heart. He could no longer deny the truth: it was he who had brought disaster upon his brother. He had dragged Fang Minsheng into a ruin from which there was no return.

Unable to sit still, Fang Jingyu got up, walked to the ironwood cabinet, and opened the bottom compartment.

Inside was a cloth bundle—a childhood gift from his brother: a bow of bamboo and ox sinew. Though crude, it was one of the few things his brother had left him. Whenever he felt unsettled, he would look at it for comfort.

But today, when he lifted the cloth, he froze in shock. The ox tendon was snapped, and the bamboo arms warped—as if someone had pulled it back with great force.

What had happened?

Fang Jingyu trembled as he held the broken bow. He had always taken meticulous care of it—not just dusting it regularly, but even drying it with charcoal fire during the rainy season to prevent mildew. He had only spent half a month training with the Yu Yin Guard at the martial ground—how had the bow ended up like this?

This was Brother Minsheng’s keepsake—there was only one like it in the whole world!

He looked up and spotted Chu Kuang sneakily peeking into the room from outside, like a thieving cat. When his gaze fell on the broken bow, he immediately looked away, guilt plain on his face.

In that instant, Fang Jingyu’s fury exploded, and the answer flashed in his mind.

“You touched the bow, didn’t you?”

Chu Kuang said nothing—just shrank his head and ran like hell.

The veins on Fang Jingyu’s forehead bulged. He grabbed a broom and took off after him.

“Stop right there, you slippery bastard—I’m going to beat your ass till it blossoms!”