HCAW 130

Chapter 130: Dream of a Lost Homeland

The northern wind swept across the ground, and heavy snow fell endlessly. A sliver of clear, icy light shone through the crack in the tent flap.

Inside the tent, Bai Huan Guard was perched by a birdcage, playing with a group of gray-feathered terns. Compared to people, she had spent more of her life with birds—and trusted them more. The terns could fly ten thousand li to return to her side, but the people in Guixi rarely survived more than a hundred or ten days, leaving her alone in this world.

Suddenly, she heard a flurry of chaotic footsteps. The tent curtain swayed, and a figure stumbled inside—it was Fang Jingyu, covered in blood, clutching a broken blade, his face as pale as paper.

Bai Huan Guard looked at him with some surprise. “What happened, Your Highness?”

Fang Jingyu gritted his teeth. “Please, my lady… get me some wound medicine.”

Bai Huan Guard rose, retrieved a medicine pouch, and handed it to him. Fang Jingyu opened his front robe—there was a slash across his chest and abdomen, flesh torn and curling, the sight terrifying.

He was gasping, speaking in fragments: “I went to… Emperor Bai’s City. Never expected an old man in the great hall—he saw me and… drew his blade on the spot. I nearly lost my life right there.” He hastily wrapped his wounds and, after resting for a while, finally recovered some strength. Still breathing hard, he asked, “My lady, was that the ‘city guardian’ you mentioned?”

Bai Huan Guard nodded.

“If so, that old man was downright vicious. Didn’t give me even a moment to explain before striking to kill.”

“He’s been stationed in Guixi the longest. When I left this place years ago, he was already guarding the palace. One cannot reach the thinnest section of the ice wall without passing through Emperor Bai’s City and facing him,” Bai Huan Guard sighed. “Perhaps it’s not that he hates those who trespass, but that too many have reached this place, only to die meaninglessly before his eyes—his mind may have broken because of it.”

Fang Jingyu said coldly, “So what you’re saying is—he swung at me not to harm me, but to save me?”

“Perhaps so. He wanted to drive you out of Emperor Bai’s City so you wouldn’t die at the ice wall. After all, the four-sided ice wall is the most bitterly cold place in Guixi—and the very source of the wind and snow over the Xian Mountain.”

“Even so, he should have said something instead of drawing his blade right away. And you, my lady—you knew he likes to chop people. Why didn’t you warn me beforehand? I’m weak—he almost sliced me into ribbons,” Fang Jingyu said, frowning.

Bai Huan Guard remained composed. “That old man drifts between lucidity and madness. I thought, seeing Your Highness, his mind might briefly clear.”

Fang Jingyu sighed. Bai Huan Guard had saved both him and Chu Kuang—she likely harbored no ill intent. But that old man’s swordsmanship surpassed all others. Even Yu Yin Guard couldn’t match him. With just a single clash, Fang Jingyu had realized he was utterly defenseless. His heart was in chaos.

After Bai Huan Guard left, he forced down some wheat porridge, cleaned himself up, and went to check on Chu Kuang. Chu Kuang was still fast asleep. Though his wounds hadn’t healed, he no longer seemed to be in critical condition. His breathing had grown steadier.

Fang Jingyu crawled into bed, gently held Chu Kuang in his arms, just as they used to sleep together as children. Anxious thoughts filled his heart. During his battle with the city guardian, he’d suddenly and deeply felt his own insignificance: facing such a powerful enemy—could he truly protect Brother Minsheng?

He had already let his brother risk his life for him many times. Because of him, Chu Kuang had suffered greatly—violated, abused, his organs crushed, consumed by Immortal Elixir—until now he lay unconscious, fragile and unaware. Fang Jingyu trembled as he gripped his brother’s cold fingers. He owed too much—debts he could never repay in this life or the next.

“Brother, wake up… If you don’t wake, what am I supposed to do? Look at me—I’ve gotten hurt again. If you don’t wake up soon, I won’t be able to take it anymore.” Fang Jingyu spoke softly, lifting Chu Kuang’s hand and letting his fingers touch the fresh wound on his own chest. When he was younger, any time he had a scratch or cut, Fang Minsheng would furrow his brow and carefully wrap him up with fine linen. In front of his brother, he became that spoiled child again. He cupped Chu Kuang’s face and whispered, “When will you wake… and look at me once more?”

Of course, Chu Kuang didn’t respond. Fang Jingyu looked at him, unconscious, hesitating to speak. In the nights back in Daiyu, they would play and quarrel, often ending up tangled on the same bed, their passion clouded and inseparable. But now, knowing this man was truly his brother, he felt entirely awkward, not daring to cross the line again.

Fang Jingyu thought, “Strange, isn’t it? When I suspected he might be Brother Minsheng, I could still touch him without hesitation. Now that I’m certain… I can’t even lay a hand on him.”

Tossing and turning, he fell into a light sleep. Who knew how long had passed before he suddenly heard a fierce wind roaring by his ear and woke with a shiver—only to see the tent door wide open.

He quickly tucked the blanket around Chu Kuang and got out of bed. Outside, the snowstorm howled, and a figure stood in the blizzard.

A jolt ran through him. He reached out and grabbed the Hanguang Sword lying by the bed, shouting:

“Who’s there?”

The figure gave no reply. Doubt stirred in Fang Jingyu’s heart—Guixi was desolate. Who could possibly be outside his tent in the middle of the night?

He tentatively called out: “Bai Huan Guard?”

But that figure was extraordinarily tall—much taller than the Bai Huan Guard he remembered. The terns in the tent began chirping uneasily. Fang Jingyu lunged forward and burst out of the tent, only to be met by a raging wind that struck like thunder, sweeping into his face. Snow and wind blinded him, and he stumbled a few steps, struggling forward. When the wind finally calmed, he opened his eyes—but the figure in the snowstorm was already gone.

Fang Jingyu looked all around. Overhead, the full moon hung in the sky like a pearl sewn onto black silk, casting a silver radiance that lit the snowy ground in brilliance. The swirling snow had settled. There was no sign of anyone. He exhaled in relief, thinking he had merely imagined it—but the next moment, his heart leapt to his throat.

“Brother!”

His expression changed drastically, and he rushed to the bed. That fierce wind earlier had torn the tent flaps apart, tossing the furnishings inside into disarray. But now he understood—that wasn’t wind that had burst through the tent. It was someone, moving incredibly fast, who had entered while his guard was down and then vanished just as quickly.

The bed curtains still swayed gently. The soft animal pelts on the bed were in disarray, and the mattress still held lingering warmth. Where Chu Kuang had been lying—was now empty.

______

For decades past, no one had stepped foot in Emperor Bai’s City. Though the towers were lofty and the nine gates still stood in majesty—once favored by emperors—they had now become ruins and overgrown wells. Amid the heavy snowfall, like falling white feathers, an old man in a pale cloak slowly climbed the white jade imperial path, carrying someone in his arms as he ascended into the great hall.

This old man was the city guardian who had earlier crossed blades with Fang Jingyu. And the person he carried—was Chu Kuang. Chu Kuang was unconscious, curled up in deep sleep. The guardian walked to the main hall’s throne. The gilded chair had flaking lacquer, revealing the black Taoyuan stone beneath. He gently placed Chu Kuang onto the stone seat and looked down at him, a sigh seemingly hidden in his gaze.

No one knew why he had gone out in the middle of the night just to bring this severely wounded man here. And in a corner of the world where no one could see, Chu Kuang’s consciousness was slowly rising out of the void.

Who knew how long it took before Chu Kuang finally opened his eyes.

He felt like he’d been unconscious for an eternity—as if he’d fallen into the eighteenth level of hell. Every part of his body ached unbearably; his limbs felt as heavy as lead. His heart beat faintly, like someone was clutching it in their hand, keeping his soul from departing. He forced his eyes open just a sliver. Everything was blindingly white, glowing brightly—he felt like he was submerged in milk, the surroundings twisted and distorted, everything unclear.

After a long time, his vision began to make out blurry outlines. He realized he was seated, facing the entrance. Snowlight filtered through the lattice windows. An old man with white hair and beard sat nearby on a round-backed stone chair, dressed in pale garments, his body coated in frost like an ice sculpture.

Chu Kuang’s tongue was heavy—he couldn’t speak, only letting out a faint, trembling breath. He didn’t know if he was awake or still in a dream. The old man’s expression was solemn as he said, “Don’t move. Sit still for now.”

Chu Kuang vaguely thought—if this were a dream, why did his body feel so heavy? Then the old man said, “Your injuries are too severe. Drinking thin soup in that tent would only leave you to die. Only this Taoyuan stone chair can save your life. I imagine you’ve heard of it before you came to Guixi—Taoyuan stone connects to the ‘past’. Sit here a while longer, and your wounds may reverse.”

Chu Kuang wondered—if he sat here long enough, could he become Fang Minsheng again? He vaguely recalled what had happened earlier—being captured and tortured by Gu Bi Guard, rescued by Fang Jingyu, using the last of his strength to unlock Guixi’s gate… and now, he didn’t know how he had ended up here. The old man couldn’t hear the sarcasm in his heart—he was simply staring at the back of his hand. Chu Kuang looked down. There had been a ghastly wound there—now, it was slowly healing.

“Until your injuries improve, sit and listen to this old man speak,” the old man said, his sharp gaze softening slightly. Chu Kuang began to cough violently. Cold wind surged into his lungs—it was as if he had come back to life. In a whisper, like silk on the verge of breaking, he asked:

“Who… are you?”

“I am the guardian of this city—and your final gatekeeper.”

“His Highness… Fang Jingyu… where is he?”

“This is Emperor Bai’s City within Guixi. He is not here, but I did not harm him. He is safe and sound.”

Chu Kuang asked again, “Why… did you bring me here?”

“As I said before—to save your life. And for another reason: because you are the one I have long awaited.”

Chu Kuang gave a weak smile. “You’re not talking about His Highness… but me?” The old man nodded. “Yes. You.”

“You want me… to hear a story? But why… tell it to me?”

“Because what I’m about to say is a story tied to the past—a legend of Guixi, Xian Mountain, and Emperor Bai.”

“If so… shouldn’t it be told to His Highness instead?” Chu Kuang coughed again. His voice was still frail, but thanks to the Taoyuan stone chair, his speech had become more fluent. “I’m just a soldier under his command. I should’ve been devoured long ago, unworthy of even being a pawn… what use is it to tell me?”

“No,” the old man in pale robes sighed. “What I’m about to tell concerns you… very deeply.”

Snow fluttered down like scattered pearls and crushed jade. Through the tall gate, one could see frost covering countless valleys and ridges. Chu Kuang met the old man’s eyes and felt as if his entire being—inside and out—was being seen through. He suddenly felt that perhaps this was not their first meeting, but a reunion of old acquaintances.

The old man stared at him intently and said:

“The Tianfu Guard—Fang Minsheng—his story… is also yours.”