Chapter 3: Encountering Oneself

Title: Shadow of the Silent Blade

Like mist suspended at both ends of a waterfall, or sparks drifting through a winter night’s veil…

He glanced sideways, observing the rabid walking corpse and the unconscious girl. His brow furrowed.

Then, extending a finger, he tentatively pointed toward the ferocious walking corpse.

The candle flame flickered—then died. Silence followed.

Moments later, the youth stood, surveying the mangled mess of flesh on the floor. He declared flatly:

“So weak.”

His gaze shifted to the dying girl. Once again, his brow furrowed. Fragments of the earlier scene flashed through his mind like a kaleidoscope. His head ached, as if he were staring at an unsolvable puzzle. Slowly, he raised his index finger and placed it gently between her eyebrows.

The finger was stained with blood, slightly dirty, yet it did not tremble.

An autumn breeze stirred as the moon rose in the east, its silver glow sweeping over hills and ridges. The towering palace halls loomed as if dusted with frost.

By the time he reached the palace gates, the crowd outside had already scattered.

He examined his hand, where the lividity was fading. His brow furrowed once more. His lips trembled as he murmured:

“Ning… Changjiu?”

Could there truly be another with the same name in this world?

Or… was this his name?

He picked up the copper coin lying on the threshold, gently pinching it between his fingers. His gaze pierced through the coin’s hollow center.

Autumn leaves cast flickering shadows. The bright moon shimmered through the night mist—a scene of swaying, fragile beauty.

Between the moon’s rays, he seemed to glimpse a phantom Taoist temple. Fragments of memory slowly mingled in his mind, yet they refused to assemble into a whole.

“Who… am I?”

He stood motionless, the night wind rustling his Taoist robe like wings unfurling—lingering in the breeze, reluctant to return.

Three days later, Ning Xiaoling awoke.

After the exorcism ritual, Ning Qinshui had died suddenly. At dawn the next day, Song Ce dared to bring men to collect the body. To his shock, the old Taoist had become nothing more than a pile of rotting flesh and bones, while his two disciples still clung to life.

Having narrowly escaped death, he arranged for them to be returned to the abandoned courtyard.

Now, a medicinal broth simmered on the small stove, its potent aroma rising with thick wisps of white steam.

When Ning Xiaoling opened her eyes, she saw Ning Changjiu lifting the pot lid, frowning as he stared at the bubbling concoction inside.

She glanced around. A vermilion-lacquered wooden bed stood amidst half-drawn curtains. Crimson lanterns glowed faintly between antique tables and shelves.

“Where am I…”

She tried to sit up, but her limbs were limp and powerless. Her head throbbed, as though swarming with countless ants—each thought stabbing with excruciating pain.

Curling tighter beneath the quilt, she trembled. A memory surfaced, contracting her pupils, chilling her limbs until they refused to warm.

The pungent medicinal scent only deepened her sense of unreality.

“Where is Master?” she whispered.

Ning Changjiu answered concisely:

“He’s dead.”

Ning Xiaoling closed her eyes. The malevolent spirits that had invaded her body, the heart-wrenching wails—they still echoed in her ears. Jolting awake, she forced her voice steady:

“Then… how did we survive?”

“Perhaps it was luck.”

She didn’t believe him, but pressed no further. Something about her senior brother felt… off.

He set aside the palm-leaf fan in his hand, poured the medicine into a bowl, and handed it to her.

“Here. Drink up.”

After drinking, Ning Xiaoling felt warmth spread faintly through her body. Strength trickled back into her limbs. Yet she couldn’t shake the way he had poured the medicine—too precise, too deliberate.

“What kind of medicine is this?”

“Sent by Consort Song. I examined it—there’s nothing wrong. It wards off cold, warms the body, nourishes the organs.”

She hummed softly in acknowledgment, set the empty bowl aside, and curled back into a ball beneath the quilt like a little fox.

“Senior Brother… thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

She lifted her face, earnest.

“You stood in front of me back then. I remember. After all I did to you… you truly don’t hold it against me.”

“Actually… it seems I’ve forgotten many things, yet remembered many others.”

Her breath caught.

“What did you remember?”

He sighed, his voice sinking like wind into a valley.

“I remembered… Master killing me.”

The memory of that night lingered in Ning Xiaoling’s mind like a nightmare. Ning Qinshui had used the so-called “protective talisman” to make them scapegoats. Somehow, against all odds, they had survived.

But how could Senior Brother forget such a searing memory? Could he still cling to some faint hope of master-disciple affection?

How could anyone be so foolish?

Ning Changjiu didn’t continue. He shook his head.

“Rest well. I’ll go for a walk.”

Ning Xiaoling lowered her head and murmured:

“Mm.”

The door swung open. Cool breezes brushed his brow. Soon, an autumn rain began to fall, pattering across the courtyard.

Ning Changjiu pulled a chair beneath the eaves and sat watching the rain. To his eyes, the falling droplets were countless silver threads hanging from the sky.

He raised his hand, holding it at a certain height, motionless.

Time passed, its length unknown.

Ning Xiaoling, clad in a white single-layer robe, stepped out from the curtain just in time to see this. Alarm flickered in her heart. She crouched low, retreating silently back inside.

The following two days were unusually quiet. Song Ce ordered servants to deliver food and medicine daily. Once they had recovered, he provided silver and escorted them out of the imperial city.

Ning Changjiu seemed mostly uninjured, but Ning Xiaoling’s condition was far worse. Her meridians had nearly ruptured; if not for her secret cultivation beforehand, she would not have been able to walk at all. Worse still, her Purple Palace—the very foundation of her cultivation—had nearly shattered. Its recovery would take a long time.

That night, Ning Xiaoling lay propped against her bed while Ning Changjiu carefully applied ointment to her shoulders and back.

He tidied away the plasters when she suddenly spoke:

“Once your injuries heal, let’s divide the money Master secretly saved. Senior Brother has taken such good care of me—you should get more.”

“You can take it all. I don’t need it.”

She pursed her lips, then rubbed her temples.

“My head hurts… I can’t remember where I put it.”

“One portion under the compass, one behind the stove, one on the fifth beam from left to right, and one in the hidden compartment beneath the bed.”

The oil lamp flickered. The girl bowed her head, bangs veiling her eyes. Expressionless, she massaged her arm.

Silence.

Finally, she broke it:

“It’s all my fault. I knew that old man had ulterior motives, yet I was careless. I should have checked that talisman.”

“The hardest thing to guard against,” Ning Changjiu said, “is always the knife in your back.”

Ning Xiaoling tilted her head, her eyes wide and watery.

“Senior Brother would never harm me, right?”

He paused, then replied naturally:

“Of course not.”

She nodded softly, as if to reassure herself.

“Mm. Senior Brother would never blame me… never harm me… but—but…”

Ning Changjiu watched her calmly, waiting.

Ning Xiaoling suddenly tilted her head back. Her once delicate face now looked gaunt and pale. Her eyes flickered with fear and alertness. At last, she forced out the words frozen at her throat:

“But… who exactly are you?”

With a sharp crack, an oil flower burst open at the edge of her sleeve.