Chapter 22: 22 The Righteous Path’s Cast-Off

◎But Yan Rushi was always the exception.◎

When You Fusang carried her sideways back to the sleeping palace, the bruised blood on Yan Rushi’s body had already darkened nearly to black.

The way was rough; You Fusang kept herself as steady as she could, but Yan Rushi still moaned continuously with the pain.

Her brows were knit tight; she hadn’t the strength even to link her arms around You Fusang’s neck, tiny sounds spilling from bloodied lips, unable to form a single complete syllable. She was soaked through—cold sweat from the pain—dripping as if just fished from water, her spiritual breath faint unto death.

You Fusang took her to the sleeping hall and laid her gently on the couch, then drew out a cloth to wipe away the blood—and looking at those marks, a nameless Karma Fire rose in her chest. With hatred she flung the cloth onto Yan Rushi’s face. “This is the Righteous Path you revere! This is the Righteous Path you champion! They beat you black and blue from head to toe—and here you are, healing under Pagoda’s roof!”

Yan Rushi was too deep in her swoon to hear any of it, naturally.

You Fusang knew arguing with an invalid was pointless. She stilled herself, sat down, smoothed back Yan Rushi’s tangled fringe, wet the cloth, and cleaned her face.

Yan Rushi was, of course, exquisitely beautiful—but her beauty usually came from her vivid, blazing vitality: when she held her head high and chest proud like a proud white peacock, galloping on horseback, the spring breeze favored her and the spring light doted on her, brushing and shining upon that peony-bright face.

But now, injured and ailing, she had wilted; no vitality left, a sickly pallor floating beneath her eyes, cold sweat pooling at her brow—and You Fusang felt only an ache of tenderness.

“Junior Sister,” You Fusang murmured softly, “they say you’ve been cast off by the Righteous Path now…”

Those words wrenched You Fusang’s heart hard too, carrying her back a hundred years to her fall into devilhood, to the coldest, most friendless night of her life. Yan Rushi had pushed her away, saying: Run, Senior Sister, run!

I ran. And you, Junior Sister?

Are you still trapped in that prison named “the Righteous Path,” panicked, at a loss?

You Fusang’s heart was heavy.

She undid the blood-stiffened sash of the one on the couch. Some of the clothes had stuck to her body where the blood had dried; yanking at them would tear flesh. She had to be meticulous, gentle—first dissolve the crusted blood with clean water, then wipe it slowly away.

You Fusang’s fingers brushed the loose strands from Yan Rushi’s ear; she scooped up the hot water the attendants had brought earlier. She removed Yan Rushi’s bloodied outer robe, washing the crusted blood from her body with clean water—but when her fingertip caught the ribbon of the inner garment, she long dared not take the next step.

Only without feelings could one be fully unburdened. And having recognized her own heart—especially now, when You Fusang was not clouded by the Pagoda devil qi, when she knew exactly what she was doing—she could no longer act without scruple.

A touch, a caress, one drifting meeting of eyes, words begun and checked—each felt, absurdly, like taking advantage of the vulnerable.

“Cough, cough…”

Yan Rushi’s outer robe had been off too long; the hot water had gone cold, and the one wiping her had long stalled at the next step. When she began to cough, You Fusang realized she had been lost in thought for ages.

You Fusang said, “Sorry. Forgive me.”

A light twist of her fingertips, and the ribbon came loose.

Ambergris and sandalwood diffused through the air, faintly masking the rust-smell of bruised blood. The early-winter palace grew dense with scent—and then, abruptly, hot. Fine sweat beaded on You Fusang; her gaze lingered on the body slowly bared of its clothes.

A beautiful body—but wounded everywhere, red-brown blood in every place.

The wounds were flesh-deep, the poison internal—neither immediately fatal—but injured sinew and bone heal slowly. Even with the finest medicines and the most devoted care, it would take the better part of a year to restore her to what she had been.

A year, perhaps more, on a sickbed: cultivation stalled, and even the bow and the sword work would need winning back.

The Little Peacock must be heartbroken.

You Fusang knew little of Solitary Mountain’s arts, and didn’t know whether the one who hurt Yan Rushi had aimed to kill. But she could see plainly: in truth, it was the blood pact on Yan Rushi’s back that had guarded her last meridians.

“Young Sect Master Yan…” You Fusang cleansed her, steadying blood vessels and spiritual channels, then repeated softly what she had said before. “Look at you. The Righteous Path you love most wounded you to the bone; the Heretic Path you scorn guarded you most truly. You really are hopeless at keeping things straight.”

Yan Rushi’s eyes stayed closed, sunk in nightmare, saying nothing.

Dimly, You Fusang understood: that this Young Sect Master Yan served as the Righteous Path’s eyes was true—but so was the Yan Sect’s calamity. Solitary Mountain’s intent to loot the burning house was too obvious: under the banner of cooperation, borrowing the Profound Mirror’s name, openly cutting the Yan Sect down to size.

Solitary Mountain was treacherous—but it had truly won by cunning, killing with a borrowed knife: murder without a drop of blood showing; others neither knew nor could say, leaving her free to fish up a fine reputation.

A fine scheme. You Fusang ought to applaud them for it.

But who let them go and hurt Yan Rushi of all people?

Her junior sister. The person she loved.

Fallen to devilhood though she was, You Fusang was not iron-hearted. Selfish, sick of this mortal dust—but Yan Rushi was always the exception.

By the time everything was settled, night was deep. You Fusang stepped out of the sleeping palace; outside, several attendants stood in silence—Geng Ying among them, and Qingluan too. None of them had imagined You Fusang would personally tend this Young Sect Master Yan, driven out by the Heretic Path and discarded by the Righteous Path. Geng Ying’s brows knotted; Qingluan felt it unwise and said hastily, “Venerable Lord, do not trust her so readily! What if it is a ploy of self-injury?”

“Even a self-injury ploy costs real blood,” You Fusang said, toneless. “She is one sick woman. No need to marshal troops against her.”

“Venerable Lord, hear me,” Qingluan said. “This Fang Miaocheng is no good sort—venomous at heart, and with her thousand tangled threads of connection to Qianji Tower, I fear…”

You Fusang cut in: “Enough. I know my own measure.”

Qingluan fell silent, but misgivings lingered; she stepped back half a pace and traded a look with Geng Ying. Geng Ying seemed to read her meaning, a look blooming on her face that said, No matter—just quietly kill her while she’s badly wounded.

You Fusang, of course, saw it.

So she swept her sleeve and drew a line of divide before the hall: “You two. Not one more step past this.”

Geng Ying’s face fell.

You Fusang paid them no more mind and withdrew into the hall.

The instant the doors closed, You Fusang sighed. She knew this was unreasonable, but she could not manage reason. Whether for old affection’s sake, or because of that blood-covered body, she could not be reasonable. Toward Yan Rushi… her feelings always slipped her grasp.

Every plan had been thrown into disarray, and she knew this was just what Solitary Mountain wanted. I should keep my measure, You Fusang thought. Behind me stands an entire Pagoda City. I cannot lead them down a doomed road with me. — But so what? said another voice in her heart. Pagoda City is a gathering of devil cultivators, the coldest place in the world for human feeling. Look after them, and they will feel no gratitude; they follow only the strong. The factional struggle—though its shape is not yet clear—must end somewhere. New strong ones will rise; new victors will emerge. And then, who says you will still be Pagoda’s master? In the world of the Righteous Path, driving out evil is righteous in itself—it doesn’t even need a pretext! If you don’t care to become the Righteous Path’s factions’ thorn in the eye, splinter in the flesh, wartime comfort and postwar war-spoil—if you would still preserve yourself, you should withdraw! Your reputation is bad enough already. Do you mean to gamble your life on top of it?

Yes—she should withdraw. Abandon Yan Rushi and sink back into the devil cultivators’ swamp. Or, better, abandon even these devil cultivators, and preserve herself alone.

Merely contending with the Pagoda devil qi’s curse was already enough to drain her heart dry. What business was a war of righteous and heretic of hers?

If—if she truly could not let Yan Rushi go, there was still one way: seize on this grave wounding, carry her off, flee with her from all of it—somewhere hidden beyond anyone’s finding, living out quiet days of bamboo paths winding deep, birds and trees and mountain shadows, empty of all else—

Hidden in the hills, like so many Rogue Cultivators.

One mountain, one cloud; where the water ends, wind arrives; where wind dies, rain falls.

A mustard seed of space, and only the two of them in it.

But no.

She knew Yan Rushi would never want that.

Young Sect Master Yan was so like Yan Qingjue: born for the Righteous Path, dying for the Righteous Path—hearing the Dao in the morning, content to die by evening; against ten thousand men, she would press on without a backward glance.

That single-minded obstinacy—refusing to quit until she broke against the southern wall—she would have to pay in every last drop of blood before she was done. With such a fool propping up the word “righteous” for the Righteous Path, how would the people of Solitary Mountain fear they couldn’t sit back and reap the harvest?

They would likely devour her flesh and blood to the bone—and then spit a mouthful to rinse their tongues.

You Fusang seemed mired in the Righteous Path’s factional mire. For someone of her standing to think such things was laughable.

Little by little she understood: this was not hers to do, nor hers to think. So she closed her eyes, breathed, and scattered the stray thoughts.

Yan Rushi and the Righteous Path—one step at a time. The Pagoda Token was what demanded her gaze.

Clearing her mind, You Fusang walked to the bed-curtains.

She set her resolve: it was now full You-hour, the sun slanting west. She would tend Yan Rushi’s wounds until the Hai hour, when all settled to sleep; then she would withdraw and return to those journals, determined to find the Pagoda Token’s hidden secrets. She would spend only two hours on Yan Rushi; after that, everything back on track.

On the palace bed, amid silks and satins, lay a patient white-faced.

This patient had once been her junior sister, close as kin. Now the junior sister was in trouble, and she was saving her. That was all.

That was all. That was all. That was all.

Having recited “that was all” three times in silence, You Fusang circulated her art and walked to the bedside.

But the one on the couch seemed disturbed; her brow knotted sharply, and she murmured, “No…”

“Awake?”

Yan Rushi’s eyes stayed closed, yet she said, “I’m… sorry…”

Not waking after all—only sleep-talk.

“You’ve wronged no one. It’s they who wronged you,” You Fusang said softly. “They hurt you, ruined you, betrayed and abandoned you—breaking word like petty scoundrels. It’s they who wronged you.”

She raised Yan Rushi up, palm at the back of her neck, thread after thread of devil qi winding along the blood pact’s lines, driving back the bruised blood. “The blood pact on your back is what protected you, and I am using devil qi to heal you. But don’t worry—it won’t make you fall into devilhood. When you wake, whether you go or stay, I won’t interfere. You’ll decide for yourself.” Yan Rushi presumably couldn’t hear; You Fusang said it only to declare her position—and to set her own heart at ease.

…However self-deceiving that was.

She diluted the devil qi to the faintest thread and pushed it closer, inch by inch. Yan Rushi leaned against her, brow furrowed. “It will hurt a little at first, because your body rejects the qi,” You Fusang said. “But the blood pact will make it easier to bear… Ah, Junior Sister Yan, I hardly know how to say this. Tying you too closely to our devil cultivators’ Heretic Path—you would likely be unhappy about it.” It was precisely because Yan Rushi couldn’t hear that You Fusang talked the most. “Perhaps Zhou Ling was right—it was the blood pact I laid on you that made them discard you… By that accounting, am I the one who wronged you?”

Only because she was certain the unconscious Yan Rushi could not answer did You Fusang show her truest posture. She liked her. Even with righteous and heretic forever at odds, she still liked her.

So as she looked at those wounds, her gaze shifted from pity and ache to quiet fury.

“Who did this to you? Fang Miaocheng?” She bent and held her, brows lowered, voice gentle. “Junior Sister Yan—let me look at your memories. All right?”

The words fell, and her forehead pressed to Yan Rushi’s.

The blood pact’s hold, once more. You Fusang pinpointed, with perfect precision, the memory from just before Yan Rushi lost consciousness.

Very dark, as if all five senses had been sealed; around her, clattering and banging—someone fighting, probably.

Wounds in a memory are felt as one’s own. She felt Yan Rushi’s despair—striking back with no strength to strike.

And devil qi blanketing the sky, strong to the point of terror.

Before her stood a very blurred figure, seeming near, seeming impossibly far. In that chaotic memory You Fusang could barely make out her features: a beauty, gentle and cold—

Yet the sight broke a cold sweat over You Fusang.

Though the robe was Qianji Tower’s, that face—she knew it, unmistakably!

The instant she drew out of the memory, You Fusang half-reclined against the bedside, arms still holding the pose that cradled the sick one—but her expression was stunned, the aftertaste of fright not yet faded.

How could that person be—how could she be…

Zhuang Xuan!?