Rain lashes the trees in Jiangnan, countless flowers bloom overnight, the small town rests in peace, and the years flow by unhurriedly. The front of the house gleams with wetness, a flour-dusted palm steadies another slender hand, a plain white robe brushes over the bluestone steps, and a handful of green scallions drips water into a bamboo basket. Clad in white, his slender shoulders exposed, with a green hairpin holding his hair up, Shen Guan’s delicate eyebrows and eyes shone with a smile as he gripped Xiao Ning’s hand tightly.
Xiao Yuan took the bamboo basket from his father, his eyes curving into a smile as dimples appeared on his small, round face. While Little Niannian tugs on his older brother’s sleeve, hopping and wanting the handful of sweet green dates in the bamboo basket. Xiao Ning supports Shen Guan’s waist firmly, semi-enclosing the person in his embrace, reproaching him for still being restless and wanting to carry the basket out when he’s clearly about to give birth.
Shen Guan showed no fear of his anger, gently coaxed him with a few words, rolled up his sleeves, and said he wanted to cook. Xiao Ning raises an eyebrow, though displeased, he doesn’t stop him, only when he sees Shen Guan leisurely stroll into the kitchen does he reach out and pat Xiao Yuan’s shoulder, instructing his son to follow and help, so as not to tire him out.
Dusk rain soaks the clothes, making them cling to the skin. The figure in the black robe stands atop the tower, watching as the lamplight slowly illuminates the cake shop in the distance. A green bamboo-ribbed umbrella shields his head, warding off the wind and rain.
“What? Are you envious?” Old Zhou asks casually while holding up the umbrella.
Jiang Lingxin’s expression is cold and placid, he speaks slowly: “That pair of hands—I held them myself and taught him every stroke, taught him every move, filled his heart with poetry and books, trained him to wield a sword like no other. And now he uses those hands only to wash vegetables and make soup for someone else.”
Old Zhou let out a low chuckle, the curve of his mouth firm: “So what? At least there’s someone who’s willing to treasure him. It’s better than staying on those hundred-zhang towers in Jinling, cold and alone, living out his life that way.”
Jiang Lingxin does not speak, his eyes are cold and indifferent. Old Zhou’s words are like stones dropped into the ancient well of his heart, failing to stir a single ripple.
“Let him go, no matter how many times you bring him back, the ending will be the same.” Old Zhou mocks.
“I know.” Jiang Lingxin’s eyes dim slightly as he turned and brushed past Old Zhou.
The stirred-up hem of his clothes lets out a cold scent similar to frost and snow. Old Zhou closes his eyes, murmuring softly, “If only you had been willing back then… we could have been like this too…”
The distant footsteps pause slightly. After a long while, they start up again and fade away.
At night, fine rain taps outside the window, the bedding is warmly fragrant, and a light knock suddenly sounds downstairs. Shen Guan slept lightly. His lashes trembled and he slowly tried to open his eyes, but a warm hand came down to cover them again.
“You sleep.” Xiao Ning coaxes softly, “Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”
Shen Guan softly agrees and closes his eyes again. The person by the bed gets up, puts on clothes, pushes the door open, and carefully closes it. A moment later, low conversation sounds from downstairs, sometimes rising, sometimes ceasing. Shen Guan knows this is the “Ghost Hand of the Xiao Clan’s” business arriving…
More than an hour later, Xiao Ning comes upstairs, carrying a faint scent of blood on him. He pushes the door open, only to see Shen Guan standing behind the door holding a dim candle.
Xiao Ning’s throat chokes up, but he cannot utter a word of blame as he instinctively embraces the person and gently stroking his back.
Shen Guan obediently leans his forehead against Xiao Ning’s shoulder: “I was worried about you, I really couldn’t sleep…”
Xiao Ning took the candle from his hand and set it on the table, then bent down and lifted him up, carrying him back to the bed and pulling the quilt over him. Shen Guan’s hands are slightly cold from standing for a long time. Xiao Ning cups his hands in his palms and rubs them, saying, “When the child is born, I will write to the Wulin Alliance to choose a date to ‘wash my hands in a golden basin[mfn]retire from the martial world[/mfn]’, and no longer inquire about the martial arts world matters. We will move house, go to another quiet place, and live a peaceful life.”
Shen Guan holds Xiao Ning’s hand back, seriously and firmly saying, “Wherever Young Master goes, I will follow.”
Just as the plum rain season was about to pass, the child in Shen Guan’s belly also couldn’t wait to be born. It was a starless, moonless night, he was uncommonly fast asleep, not knowing what he was dreaming of. It kept tangling with him again and again, leaving him unable to wake, sweat soaking through his thin undergarments. Xiao Ning sensed something was wrong and reached out to feel his forehead, only to touch a palmful of cold sweat.
“Ah Yun?” Xiao Ning quickly got up, calling him softly twice. Shen Guan’s brows furrowed tighter as a low moan escaping his lips. Xiao Ning rolled out of bed and lit the candle, illuminating Shen Guan’s tightly closed eyes, his breathing heavy and urgent, his hands clutching his belly tighter and tighter.
“Ah Yun, wake up.” Xiao Ning gathered him into his arms, and only then did Shen Guan struggle to lift his heavy eyelids and wake. His voice came out faint and hoarse: “Young Master…”
“What’s wrong?” Xiao Ning asked, somewhat nervously.
Shen Guan roused himself, turned over in Xiao Ning’s arms with difficulty, frowned, and endured the continuous pain while pondering for a moment, then calculated, “It should be that the child is about to be born.”
