The burly stranger, having uttered his cryptic words, waved a hand and vanished before Li Yongyi's eyes, as if swallowed by the twilight's ethereal veil, leaving no trace upon the wind-swept earth.
Li Yongyi scanned the shadowed surroundings, finding naught but silence, and called out, "I shall return at midnight!" His voice echoed hollowly, unanswered, confirming the stranger's absence, whether he lingered unseen or had departed entirely.
After circling the vicinity twice, he returned to his humble abode in Guanwing City, a weathered courtyard steeped in years, its wooden gate moss-clad and low. With measured steps, he kindled a fire with pre-split logs, rinsed rice, and set it to cook. As tendrils of smoke curled skyward, the aroma of steaming rice filled the air. He prepared two simple vegetable dishes, but as it was the fortnightly day for meat, he stewed an old hen and crafted a delicate egg custard, their scents mingling in a symphony of homely warmth.
Ere he could summon her, the wooden door creaked, and a woman emerged, her countenance pale as moonlight yet animated with a lively spirit, her eyes like pools of autumn water reflecting quiet strength. This was Nangong Qiushui, his aunt, his closest kin through a decade of shared trials. For eight years, she had nurtured him through toil and care; for the last two, illness had confined her, and Li Yongyi, now twelve, tended to her in return. Bonds forged in hardship held fast, her devotion repaid with his steadfast care.
Memories stirred of his childhood, when poison coursed through his veins, wracking him with agony as if plummeting into an abyss. His senses, sharpened in youth, caught the velvet of petals and the fragrance of spring blooms, yet amplified his suffering, threatening to shatter his very being. In a haze, a warm hand clasped his, and a scalding liquid—blood—flowed into his mouth, a river of fire quelling the icy torment. He awoke beneath a starlit sky, the North Star gleaming coldly, his head resting on his aunt's lap. Her wrist bore the marks of his desperate bites, her blood the warmth that saved him. That night, under swaying boughs and starlight, she sang an Eastern lullaby, her gentle smile a beacon in his pain.
Now, Li Yongyi ladled a bowl of chicken broth for Nangong Qiushui, setting it carefully before her with chopsticks. She sipped and smiled, her voice soft as a zephyr: "Your cooking, Little Lynx, surpasses my own by far."
At the nickname "Little Lynx," Li Yongyi's brow twitched. The pet name, redolent of a kitten's charm, chafed his adolescent pride. He had once protested its use, only for her to tease him relentlessly for days. Knowing her gentle exterior belied a sharp wit, he buried his face in his rice, chopsticks dancing, eliciting a merry chuckle from her, though she soon grew bored of his silence.
After the meal, he cleared the dishes and took down an ancient zither from the wall, its body scorched as if salvaged from flame, yet its notes clear as a mountain spring. Under her guidance, he played, the music soaring, now lilting, now fervent. Nangong Qiushui reclined, a book in hand, her wide sleeves revealing a frail wrist, her form frail within her robes. A missed note broke her reverie; she opened her eyes lazily, tapping his head with her book. "Wrong note, Little Lynx," she chided, then smiled. "Something troubles you, doesn't it?"
His heart stirred—cloud patterns had reappeared, the bronze cauldron neared completion, and his poison might soon be cured—but he dared not speak of it. Her amber eyes pierced him, her book brushing his dusty hem. "You, who detest laundry and skirt muddy paths, have dirt on your clothes. Trouble at the apothecary?"
Sighing, he admitted her perceptiveness. Ten years of evading pursuit had honed her intuition, and he recounted the encounter with the Cloud Pattern Riders, omitting the cauldron. She mused, "The Crimson Dragon Aspect, teaching martial arts by night—if it's him, he's trustworthy. As for the Riders, avoid them. We leave in months; better to steer clear." She handed him a silver coin, then drew a short sword, its scabbard ancient, its blade inscribed with "Murong" and "Qiushui." With a flick, it sliced a table corner and a ring from an iron pot, silent as moonlight.
Placing the sword in his hand, she said, "A man must have guile—use silver where it suffices. But if they press you, use this blade." Li Yongyi blinked. "Didn't you say to yield for peace, to step back for freedom?" Her smile turned fierce, her eyes alight: "My foolish Little Lynx, the old saying also goes, 'To hell with them!'"
At midnight, in the Mountain God Temple, Yue Qingfeng sat cross-legged, gnawing a chicken bone, awaiting Li Guanyi to impart a supreme martial art of the Soldier's School. His ears twitched, eyes snapping open—an enemy approached. A hushed cry rang out: "Loose arrows!"
**(End of Chapter)**