Chapter Nineteen: Resolution (1)

When Che Wuyou was still living with the Che family, his mediocre talent meant he was never taken seriously by others. He always practiced meditation and cultivation alone, and even his master would only offer him the occasional, half-hearted guidance when in a rare good mood, treating the task as little more than a formality. Che Wuyou had long become accustomed to solitude, to meditating and cultivating in isolation, never once having been the center of anyone’s attention.

Now, for the first time, he found himself the focus of so many eyes. Startled by the myriad expressions directed his way, his heart pounded, his hands clenched tightly, and his mind went blank. Instinctively, he wanted to evade their stares, uncertain of what to do next—until, suddenly, he remembered the figure who stood calmly with his back to the crowd. Something stirred within him, and his gaze drifted toward that person.

At that moment, the man who stood with his back to everyone, hearing the low murmurs in the hall, withdrew from his wandering thoughts. He turned around, his face lined with age. Observing the crowd whispering amongst themselves, he frowned, displeasure flashing across his features as he let out a cold, dismissive snort. The room fell silent, the disciples startled by their master’s glare, quickly closing their mouths and fixing their eyes forward.

When Che Wuyou recognized the old, weathered face of the man who had turned, he was taken aback. It was none other than Miao Shilin, who had recently attacked the Che family and left in disgrace. Che Wuyou recalled having cursed him harshly just the day before, and now, with the deep-seated enmity between their families and himself in Miao Shilin’s hands, his heart filled with dread. Who knew what cruel retribution awaited him? At the thought of the horrors to come, Che Wuyou shuddered.

He watched as Miao Shilin’s gaze swept briefly over the assembly before coming to rest on him, sharp as a hawk’s. Che Wuyou felt as though he had fallen into an icy pit, as if a ferocious beast had fixed its gaze upon him. Clenching his fists even tighter, he imagined Miao Shilin would either beat him savagely or subject him to all manner of torment.

He seemed to see, in his mind’s eye, Miao Shilin mercilessly flogging him, and, at the sight of his own face twisted in agony, the old man’s visage twisting into a satisfied, monstrous grin. The prospect filled the boy’s face with terror—a nameless, overwhelming fear of the unknown.

But as his thoughts ran wild, Miao Shilin spoke, his voice low and complex. “You have less than two months left to live.” He paused, his eyes settling on Che Wuyou. Noticing the terror etched on the boy’s face, he was momentarily surprised, then seemed to understand, nodding slightly to himself. “Even ants cling to life—how much more so this child,” he thought, “though I didn’t expect him to fear death so much.”

A shadow of mockery curled at the corner of Miao Shilin’s mouth. “For most families, your illness would be utterly hopeless, but in the Miao clan, even if you cannot be cured entirely, I could at least let you live out your natural span. If only my cultivation were higher—if I had the help of a Nascent Soul master, perhaps even a complete cure would be possible. The descendant of the Medicine King is no ordinary foe, after all.”

“But you are of the Che family. Even if I could heal you, why would I? And as for a Nascent Soul master—such figures are beyond reach for the likes of us.”

Seeing how afraid Che Wuyou was of dying, Miao Shilin continued, slowly and somewhat smugly, “Though you are doomed within two months, only I, Miao Shilin, in all of Jizhou, can give you a little more time. Only I can let you live a while longer.” With that, he scrutinized Che Wuyou for his reaction.

But Che Wuyou’s expression remained unchanged, betraying nothing. Miao Shilin frowned. “I can also lessen your pain when your illness flares up, and delay its onset.”

But after all this, Che Wuyou’s face showed not a flicker of response—no sign he even intended to speak. Miao Shilin grew irritated and shouted, “Che Wuyou! Do you think I should help you prolong your life?”

Startled by the sudden outburst, Che Wuyou stared blankly at Miao Shilin’s grim face. “What? What did you say?” he stammered.

Only now did Miao Shilin realize the boy had been lost in thought the whole time. Seeing the genuine confusion on Che Wuyou’s face, he realized all his words had fallen on deaf ears. The feeling was akin to striking out with all one’s might, only to hit empty air.

Suppressing his irritation and unwilling to lose his dignity before the gathered disciples, Miao Shilin took a long, calming breath and repeated his earlier words, albeit more briefly. When Che Wuyou finally nodded, Miao Shilin sneered, “And why should I heal you? Perhaps, if you beg, if you plead for my help, I might, on a whim, heal you—let you live a little longer.”

Che Wuyou had expected Miao Shilin to torment him in every way possible; after all, he had “viciously” insulted the old man, and rumor had it his own brother had killed Miao Shilin’s only son. The feud between the Che and Miao families ran so deep that it seemed truly irreconcilable.

Yet contrary to all expectation, the old man before him remained so magnanimous, so kindhearted, that he was still looking for ways to cure Che Wuyou’s illness. Truly, a healer’s heart is as compassionate as a parent’s.

Ashamed and moved, Che Wuyou hastened to adopt an adult’s manner, bowing respectfully, his voice earnest. “Elder, you need not treat me. My illness cannot be cured anyway, and it matters little whether I live a few days more or less. Besides, my brother killed your son. Though your generosity and healer’s heart are admirable, I cannot accept such a great kindness from you.”

Miao Shilin’s face shifted through a range of expressions at the boy’s sincere words. Was this some backhanded mockery, he wondered, or genuine gratitude? But the boy’s demeanor seemed utterly serious, not the least bit sarcastic.

Yet, could he refuse to treat Che Wuyou? The Huashan Sword Sect had given strict orders: he must keep the boy alive for three years. If Che Wuyou were to come to harm in that time, no remedy in the Miao family would save them from the consequences. For the Huashan Sword Sect, a power of such magnitude, face was everything. To openly defy their will would be to court destruction for the entire Miao clan. And then there was the mysterious Ye family—how they had become entangled in this affair, he could not fathom.

Of course, Che Wuyou was in no position to grasp these complexities. To him, the Ye family was an abstraction, and even the Huashan Sword Sect no more formidable than the Che or Miao families—a few “big cats and little cats,” nothing more.

Miao Shilin’s frustration only grew. He had wanted to toy with Che Wuyou for a bit, then find a plausible excuse to justify treating his illness. While the justification might be somewhat self-serving, it would at least provide an acceptable pretext. After all, how else could he explain treating the brother of his son’s killer? Without such a reason, what would people say, and how could he face himself? Yet, even finding such an excuse proved unexpectedly difficult.

Stiff-faced, Miao Shilin regarded Che Wuyou askance. The more he looked, the more he saw a troublesome burden, a hot potato he could neither keep nor discard. Pacing restlessly back and forth in the hall, he caught, from the corner of his eye, the resentful expressions of some disciples privy to the truth.

His mood soured further: his beloved son dead, his attempt at revenge failed, and now the Che family’s troubles clinging to the Miao clan like a leech for three years. The resentment lodged in his chest had nowhere to go.

The hall was utterly silent, the only sound the rhythm of Miao Shilin’s footsteps echoing through the crowd. At length, face grim, he returned to stand before Che Wuyou, his eyes cold and sharp as they swept over him. After a long pause, Miao Shilin spoke: “Do you know how to use a saber?”

Che Wuyou was taken aback, unsure why the old man had changed the subject so abruptly. Seeing the predatory look in Miao Shilin’s eyes, he grew nervous, shaking his head—then, after a moment’s thought, nodding hesitantly. “Yes,” he replied.

A disciple stepped forward and presented a long saber. Taking it, Miao Shilin handed it to Che Wuyou. “Show me a set of saber techniques,” he commanded.

With all eyes on him, Che Wuyou took the weapon, his nerves jangling. For a moment, he didn’t know which form to begin with. After pondering for a moment under the expectant, impatient gazes of the crowd, he performed a set of the Che family’s traditional saber techniques.

At first, the crowd watched as he opened with a few broad, forceful sweeps—clumsy, perhaps, but passable. Yet as he continued, their expressions grew increasingly peculiar. Was this truly the bearing of the Che family’s second son? How could the child of such renowned warriors appear so incompetent?

As the demonstration went on, some among the Miao disciples struggled to suppress their laughter—the performance could scarcely be called saber technique at all. Miao Shilin’s brow furrowed deeply. He had known the boy’s talent was mediocre, but he had not imagined him to be quite so hopeless—a far cry from the famed Che Yeming.

It was no wonder the crowd was so astonished. Children are rare among cultivators, and the offspring of the powerful are expected to inherit their parents’ gifts. The greater the parent, the greater the child—or so it was believed. While exceptions existed, nothing so extreme as Che Wuyou’s case—a true “tiger father, dog son.”