THE CANDLE FLAME FLICKERED, and the shadow on the wall shifted, suddenly splitting in two. The second black shadow that had emerged stood face-to-face with Shixin's shadow. Xiahou Lian was startled, but looking more carefully, he realized that someone had been standing behind Shixin all along, their shadows overlapping. Now that that second person had stepped to one side, there were two distinct shadows. Xiahou Lian tiptoed to the right, peering through the bookshelves to see a man in a black cloak, his face hidden in darkness.
"Ah—why do you torment yourself like this?" the man asked, taking the book from Shixin's hands. "You spent three days and nights painting that thing only for Xiahou to laugh her head off at you. Later, she came to me saying that she must look exactly like the portrait, then asking why the mirror didn't agree! That fool—she only knew how to kill and slaughter, so of course she failed to understand that there was another fool in the Garden—one who still saw her as a woman."
The man's voice was rough and hoarse with a heavy, nasal tone, almost as if he were ill. Xiahou Lian recognized it immediately. The voice belonged to Uncle Duan—the same Uncle Duan who once brought him daggers to play with and fiction books to read. Xiahou Lian's fingertips grew cold, and his heart sank. Suddenly, he didn't want to listen anymore, but he knew he must; whatever they said, he had to hear it.
The silent man with Uncle Duan finally spoke. "Those are old stories. There's no need to tell them again." Xiahou Lian watched him straighten up slowly, the hem of his black kasaya brushing the bookshelf like the wing of a dark butterfly.
"Do you have regrets, Shixin?" Uncle Duan asked softly. "It's all right if you do. Xiao-Lian still doesn't know the truth, and Chiyan never cared about Xiahou Pei. They're your sons, so if Xiao-Lian finds out someday, just blame it all on me. After all, I was Xiahou's sheath… I was the one who stood by and watched her die at Liu Guicang's hands."
"You're wrong," Shixin replied, his voice cold and distant. "People like us don't have the luxury of regret. We walk the asura's path, every step on the edge of a blade, every footprint soaked in blood. When we move forward, we at least have the faint hope that the end might be near, but looking back is tantamount to reliving all our past suffering."
Uncle Duan sighed softly. "So you really won't recognize him as your son?"
"I'm a sinner, Duan Jiu," Shixin said, gazing at the flame of the candle in his hand. "Had I not hesitated in my duty back then, ensnared by sentimental attachments, the Eight Legions wouldn't have perished beneath the snow and ice. Our shifu, our brothers—they wouldn't have become wandering spirits forever trapped in the Northern wastes, unable to return to the Garden or their homeland. A father's debts must be repaid by his son. I'll have no chance to atone, so my child must enter the killing field to slay our fated enemy and bring the Garden's ancestors home. But how could I ask him to call me his father when I'd be sending him to his death…? Moreover, the Garden's leader must be unburdened by attachments and move forward without hesitation. That's my lesson…and that's his future."
"When do you plan to tell him this secret?"
"Only the Garden's leader may know all its secrets. Besides, he isn't strong enough yet. When he has strength enough to take over and lead the Garden, its secrets will be revealed to him."
Uncle Duan was silent for a moment. "Remember how good we had it back then, Shixin? All of us sitting by the mountain gate, listening to you play your xun. Xiahou would doze off, and the other assassins would crawl out of bed, furious, to yell at us… Tell me, how did we end up like this?"
"Because of me. It's all because of me."
"No, Shixin," Uncle Duan said with a bitter smile. "It was all fate. If you hadn't lost that fight to Xiahou, she wouldn't have kept on challenging you—and you'd never have fallen for her. If we hadn't been street beggars, they'd never have dragged us to the Garden and into this kind of life. It was all fate."
"So you believe in fate now, Duan Jiu?" Shixin asked, placing a hand on Uncle Duan's shoulder.
"I've always believed in it. You just never knew," Uncle Duan replied, grasping Shixin's hand. "They say those who kill too often are reborn as beasts. We're old now, Shixin. Soon we'll be beasts. My wounds won't heal—they used to flare up every fortnight, and now it's every other day. Qiu Ye is at his limit. Not even Western salves will heal the sores he got at Miaojiang last year. Old friend, you must hurry… Let Xiao-Lian inherit the title of Garuda now. He's ready."
Startled, Xiahou Lian turned to look at Qiu Ye. The light was so dim that, until now, he'd failed to notice how haggard Qiu Ye looked. Had the candlelight shone on him fully, Xiahou Lian would've seen that Qiu Ye's face was pale as paper, with only his lips a dark, withered red.
Qiu Ye gave him a reassuring look and squeezed his hand, urging him to keep listening.
Tears pricked at Xiahou Lian's eyes. "Shifu," he mouthed silently.
Shixin and Uncle Duan chatted a while longer, then walked away. The cave sank back into total darkness. The men's footsteps grew fainter, echoing dully off the stone walls and floor and finally leaving behind deathly silence.
To Xiahou Lian, the leader of Qiye Garden was a shadowy figure in the depths of his memory, ancient and blurred like faded ink on old paper. Shixin was always seated in the main hall, either tapping on a wooden fish with a missing corner or mumbling over tattered scriptures. He remained sitting in the temple like a somber, ancient Buddha while Xiahou Lian ran wild outside.
When Xiahou Lian was a child, and his mother wasn't around, he would climb barefoot up and down the mountain, heedless of whether he scraped his feet on the rocks. He would pick rushes and morning glories, place them on the altar, and use chopsticks to beat a small drum he'd found in a pile of junk, mimicking the abbot's chanting. Sometimes, when there was no rice to eat at home, he snuck past the main hall where the leader meditated, stepping gingerly through the rustling fallen leaves to steal rice from the backyard storeroom. He remembered the thin wire lockpick he hid under the crab-apple tree—turn the lock twice to the right, give it a tap, and it clicked open. He would chase the sunset, picking up stones to throw at crows, sometimes even hitting the abbot's bald head. He would chase chickens and ducks, growing up as a nuisance to everyone; any assassin who heard running footsteps outside knew that the little Xiahou rascal was up to no good again.
In all that time, the abbot had never scolded him. Xiahou Lian stole rice, oil, even the incense and fruit from the altar, but the Garden's leader looked the other way, simply flipping a page in his scripture and continuing his chants. Later, when Xiahou Lian learned that the abbot was his biological father, he'd run to the temple, but he still saw only the abbot's dark, unapproachable back. Xiahou Lian had kicked over all the water buckets in the courtyard, spilling water everywhere. It flowed over the mossy stone steps, reflecting the abbot's unmoving back and Xiahou Lian's tear-streaked face.
For years, the Garden's leader had remained that same figure—once taller, now growing thinner and more hunched, but always dark and cold. Xiahou Lian had never known what kind of person the abbot truly was; he rarely spoke, acted, or questioned Xiahou Lian. Now he knew. The abbot was neither the Buddha Qiu Ye had spoken of, nor a "old bald donkey," as Xiahou Pei had called him. He was the Garden's fiercest demon, its most malevolent ghost.
At Heimianfo's summit, Chiyan played the xun. The melody drifted like wind through the valley, coming from nowhere and vanishing into nowhere as well.
"Chiyan," Xiahou Lian called.
Chiyan turned his head and regarded his twin quietly.
"Down below, I had a brush with the abbot and Uncle Duan," Xiahou Lian said.
"Mm-hmm."
"You knew all along, didn't you?" Xiahou Lian's voice was eerily calm. "Back when you captured the Liu Clan disciples for me to practice on… The abbot ordered that, didn't he?"
Chiyan nodded. He never lied; he answered whatever he was asked without a single false word. For no reason, Xiahou Lian suddenly hated him for it. He wished Chiyan would lie, wished he would say anything else at all, rather than admit he'd had a hand in Xiahou Pei's death.
"Did you know the truth about our mother's death all along?"
"Yes," replied Chiyan.
Xiahou Lian turned and walked away. After a few steps, he stopped. "If the abbot asked you to, would you try to kill me?"
The mountain breeze lifted Chiyan's hair; his white sleeves fluttered. He sat on the cliff edge, the boundless night sky behind him, and looked at Xiahou Lian's back. His eyes filled with desolate loneliness.
"Yes," he said.
"Good," Xiahou Lian said. "That's good, because I'd kill you, too. Now neither of us needs to hold back."
Xiahou Lian and Qiu Ye descended the mountain together. Wind was still gusting; it filled their sleeves with cold air.
Holding his xun, Chiyan looked up at the brilliant, starry sky.
"But I would lose to you, Xiao-Lian," he murmured softly, but no one was there to hear.
Xiahou Lian returned to his bamboo hut. He hadn't been back for a while, and the small courtyard was overgrown with weeds. Some kind of insect was chirping, and grasshoppers jumped over his feet. Fallen leaves covered the stove beneath the shed; some had even fallen into the pot. A gray rabbit darted out from under the stove as Xiahou Lian walked past.
Xiahou Lian pulled out a bench, found an old cloth to wipe it clean, and had Qiu Ye sit down. Then he went inside to fetch two bottles of pear-blossom wine. Before placing them in front of Qiu Ye, however, he hesitated.
"Shifu, can you still drink?"
"Why not?" Qiu Ye smiled, biting off one bottle's cork and taking a swig.
Xiahou Lian sipped the wine as well. The spicy liquid's heat sliced into his throat like a blade, warming his body. He exhaled slowly. The night was deep blue, the mountain shrouded in mist. Red and purple clusters of verbena and hydrangeas blended together, resembling a watercolor painted on damp paper.
"You knew too, didn't you, Shifu?" Xiahou Lian asked abruptly.
"Yes, I knew."
"And so did my mother. Starting in the twenty-sixth year of Qianyuan, all her missions were during the rainy season. She couldn't have missed that."
"Yes. She knew."
Xiahou Lian laughed joylessly. "The only one in the dark was me."
"Don't blame your mother," Qiu Ye sighed. "Even without Shixin's interference, she wouldn't have lasted much longer. An assassin's end doesn't always come by the blade—sometimes the body gives out on its own. Hers was already riddled with wounds. She knew her time was coming, but… Well, you know how she was—uneducated, clumsy with words. She just didn't know how to say goodbye."
"What about your sores? Can't they be treated?" asked Xiahou Lian.
Qiu Ye shook his head with a smile. "Xiao-Lian, aren't there other questions you'd prefer to ask?"
Xiahou Lian was silent for a moment. "What happened back then?"
Qiu Ye lowered his head, his gaze growing distant, as if he was lost in far-off memories. "I don't know much about it," he began. "I'd just arrived at the Garden around that time. Half a year before I joined, there'd been a terrible internal conflict. The Garden suffered heavy casualties and lost most of its assassins. The former abbot selected children from the village to fill the ranks while also recruiting skilled outcasts from outside. I was one of them, but we outsiders weren't welcome at first. And your mother… She was unruly, never liked following orders. People disliked her too. We bonded over our shared plight and became close confidants. Back then, the Garden's Eight Legions were very different from what they are now. Each was an expert personally trained by the previous leader. At that time, Shixin was the Garuda."
Xiahou Lian was stunned. "He was the twenty-seventh Garuda?"
"He was," Qiu Ye said. "Your mother was eventually hailed as the world's greatest swordswoman, but back then, the truly unrivaled one was Shixin. One step, one life. Ten steps—rivers of blood, bloody lotuses blooming beneath every step. Thus, his blade was called Bushenglian—'A lotus for every step.' Twenty-one years ago, when your mother was pregnant with you and your brother, the former abbot suddenly issued a decree. The Eight Legions marched north and did not return—three months passed, and no one knew what had happened in those frozen wastes. The night you were born, just after the village midwife finished wrapping you and Chiyan in swaddling clothes, Shixin returned, drenched in blood. He scared the poor midwife half to death. Without a word, he took one child and turned to leave. Your mother dragged herself from bed to ask what he was doing. He told her he was taking a child with him—and severing all his ties with her."
"Some man he was, bullying a woman who'd just given birth!" Xiahou Lian sneered. "He should have just died on the northern border instead of coming back!"
"Actually, he and your mother weren't all that different back then. Shixin used to be very good-natured—otherwise, he would've never won over your mother. But that day, he was determined to take the child. Your mother said, 'The child stays. Now come here and prostrate yourself a hundred times.' Shixin asked whether he could prostrate himself a hundred times in exchange for the child. Your mother said, 'Do it first, and then we'll talk.'"
"Did he do it?"
"He did. He prostrated himself a full one hundred times. Your mother never thought he'd actually go through with it, and she still refused to let him take the child…so they fought. Both were already at their limit, yet neither would yield. In the end, they were just beating each other senseless with no technique whatsoever. But your mother collapsed first. As she lay there, Shixin said, 'I'm taking him. You'll never see this child again.'"
"The child he took was Chiyan," Xiahou Lian murmured.
"Exactly. Your mother lost. For the seventeen years that followed, she kept her promise and never went to see Chiyan. And no one but Shixin and his close friend Duan Jiu knows what truly happened during that brutal assassination twenty-one years ago. But after that, Shixin became the Garden's abbot, and a new Eight Legions was selected. The Garden returned to normal."
"It sounds like he must've retreated when it mattered most. The former abbot and the other seven legions were slaughtered, so he blamed himself—and this was how he chose to atone. Ridiculous—it's ridiculous!" Xiahou Lian buried his face in his hands. "Tell me, Shifu… If I'd become stronger sooner, would he have spared my mother?"
"It's not your fault, Xiao-Lian. In truth, he should've chosen Chiyan—but for some reason, he changed his mind. Perhaps it's because Chiyan has no heart, and a heartless person could never lead Qiye Garden, no matter how strong they are." Qiu Ye turned to look at Xiahou Lian, his eyes in the moonlight as calm as water. "Xiao-Lian, do you want revenge?"
"Of course I do. I'll kill him. As for leadership of the Garden, whoever wants it can have it." Xiahou Lian stood, his eyes full of cold, ruthless determination. "Shixin, the Heart-Slayer. Ridiculous! He can pay his debts in hell!"
"Xiao-Lian, have you found your mother's will?" Qiu Ye asked suddenly.
Xiahou Lian started. "No. I searched everywhere, but I couldn't find it. She always left things lying around—the rats have probably gotten to it by now."
Qiu Ye ran his fingers over the raised pattern on the wine flask and spoke slowly. "Your mother left something for you out there…" He suddenly paused for a moment, then continued, "Xiao-Lian…do you want to leave the Garden?"
"What do you mean? My mother—"
"While she still was still alive, your mother once told me she wanted you to break the cycle, Xiao-Lian." Qiu Ye walked to Xiahou Pei's cenotaph and poured out the wine in his jug before it. "She was different from the rest of us—not just because of her peerless blade skills, but because she was born to be an assassin. Most of the Garden's assassins were homeless beggars before they came here, but your mother sought the Garden out herself. She claimed she'd seized control of her own destiny, and she wanted the same for you—because you never belonged in the Garden."
"She wanted me to run? Not avenge her, just run?" Xiahou Lian stared at the characters he'd carved into her tombstone himself: Xiahou Pei's Grave. She'd never married, so no husband's surname would ever precede her own given name. Why should death chain her to a man's name, after all? She'd been decisive and independent her entire life. The stone belonged to Xiahou Pei alone, and that was enough.
"No." When Qiu Ye raised his eyes, there was a glint of steel in them. "Xiao-Lian, you can destroy the Garden!"
"How could I do that?" Xiahou Lian was shocked. "If the Garden is destroyed, what would happen with the Seven Fifteen? You'd all die!"
"Not 'you'—'we.'" Qiu Ye's voice was a whisper. "Do you truly understand what kind of place the Garden is, Xiao-Lian? Every year, the village takes in fifty children—mostly boys, sturdy-limbed and parentless, who treat the Garden like their home. Every year, twenty enter the mountain temple. The abbot gives them daggers and hangs plaques with their names…and within three days, half those plaques come down again. Those are the children who died on their first kill. On top of that, at least seven seasoned assassins perish each year, and three bodies—if we're lucky—make it back to the Blade Cemetery. Year after year, bones pile mountain-high in that consecrated place. Just yesterday, I watched them dig another grave. Tell me, Xiao-Lian—should such a place continue to exist?"
"But—"
"Surely you saw the medicine cavern inside Heimianfo. Others believe I capture runaway assassins and deliver them to the abbot for execution. But they're wrong. The abbot moves them into Heimianfo, and they become test subjects for his drugs. I don't know what he's developing now—perhaps Eight Fifteen or Nine Fifteen—but I do know he's a sinner. Everyone in the Garden is a sinner! Blood stains every pair of hands, and our crimes hang heavy around our necks. We all deserve death—including Chiyan, myself, and you."
"You and Chiyan are different, Shifu. And Shu Qing, he—"
"There's no difference! We're all sinners. Can you deny it?" Qiu Ye chuckled softly. "Xiao-Lian, your mother wanted you to break free and seize control of your fate. The abbot wants you to succeed him as abbot and slay his enemy in the northern wastes. But what I want…is for you to destroy the Garden!"
Silence fell between them, heavy as death.
The mist thickened and enveloped Xiahou Lian. The air around him became stifling; he felt suffocated. His mind was in turmoil. He thought of Chiyan's desolate eyes, then of Shixin holding the candle. Finally, he saw Xiahou Pei's corpse lying on the ground, gazing at the distant sky. He looked down at his palm, marked with a scar from Liu Guicang's arrow.
"What should I do?" he asked.
Qiu Ye smiled, as gentle and warm as a spring breeze brushing past flowers. Then the smile vanished abruptly and his expression shifted, becoming as solemn as the statues of deities in the temple halls. "Kill Shixin. Burn the medicine cavern to ashes. Let Seven Fifteen carry us all into the embrace of death!"