Shen Qinghe — the man Lang Jiuchuan and Jiangche had been discussing — was at this very moment seated across from Zhao Kun in the study of the Zhao residence, the two facing each other in quiet conversation.

Zhao Kun sipped at his tea and looked at Shen Qinghe. “These past few days have been nothing but chaos. Now that we have seen Father off and the funeral rites are properly concluded, I finally have a quiet moment to sit and speak with you properly.”

Shen Qinghe cradled his teacup. “Teacher’s passing came unexpectedly — I was wholly unprepared. But it is a mercy that he went peacefully, with nothing left undone.”

Zhao Kun set down the lid of his teacup and said as he lightly skimmed its surface, “I will be honest with you — though Father did go peacefully, it was not entirely without warning.”

Shen Qinghe was taken aback. What did that mean?

Zhao Kun set down his teacup. “The reason I asked you here is actually about what the Ninth Miss of the Lang Family said to you today — those two rather unpleasant things.”

Shen Qinghe was more surprised still. His gaze sharpened slightly. “Does Elder Brother Qining also think that young lady’s mouth was outrageously vicious and reckless?”

Zhao Kun smiled and shook his head. “That child’s mouth does indeed have rather little regard for whether people live or die.”

Shen Qinghe: “?”

Was that praise or criticism?

“Worthy Brother, that child’s words are vicious — but she has a rather uncanny… well, a rather remarkable quality to her.”

Shen Qinghe was thoroughly baffled. Have the accumulated shocks of recent weeks finally warped the mind that has always been so sharp and nimble, such that I can no longer follow what you are saying?

Zhao Kun saw the incomprehension on his face and assumed a more serious expression. “What I mean, Worthy Brother, is this: do not dismiss what that child said.”

Wasn’t already planning to take it seriously — but now perhaps I should after all?

Shen Qinghe frowned. “Elder Brother Qining, please speak plainly.”

“In truth, she also discerned Father’s time of departure — and said so aloud.” Zhao Kun did not elaborate on the specifics. Every family held secrets not meant for outside ears, and no matter how close the friendship, full disclosure was never possible.

Especially given that his father had once, at the risk of bringing ruin upon their entire household, preserved the last surviving root of a bloodline that should by all rights have been wiped out. Shen Qinghe was trustworthy; he was upright and principled. But there was an old saying: only the dead keep secrets. Why burden one more person with knowledge like this?

So Zhao Kun said only that Lang Jiuchuan had discerned that the elder Master Zhao’s time had come — and that it had indeed come to pass — and that she possessed the ability to perceive certain extraordinary things.

“Better to believe than to doubt. I was somewhat surprised she came at all today, but it seems she had come specifically with you in mind — which suggests she truly knows something.” Zhao Kun said. “Peng’er is someone I have watched grow up since he was a small child. Father also doted on him greatly whenever he came to visit. None of us wish to see anything happen to him. As things stand, he has reached this point and still shown no improvement — this path has led nowhere. When one path is blocked, we must try another, even if it means battering ourselves against it until our heads are bloody. It is a risk — but what if it turns out to be the very road to survival?”

Shen Qinghe’s hand on his knee tightened into a fist, and his lips pressed together hard. “So it was like that. I had wondered — I have never met that young woman before in my life, yet she walked directly up to me and spoke so boldly, even stating outright what was happening to Peng’er. If she means to help him, what does she want in return?”

Zhao Kun tapped lightly at the table. “Only she herself can answer that. But if it falls within the bounds of what we can accept — for the sake of Peng’er, what harm is there in agreeing to it?”

Shen Qinghe had two children: a daughter who had already married, and an only son. He and his wife had always been devoted to each other, with no concubines or secondary companions. If the worst should happen, the blow would be one that might never be recovered from.

“Worthy Brother,” Zhao Kun said with measured deliberateness, “the remarkable and extraordinary do not exist solely within the Xuan Clans. They simply dare not show their faces.”

Shen Qinghe felt something click into place. He sat with the thought for a long moment.

Leaving the Zhao residence, Shen Qinghe looked up at the sky, gauged the hour, and went directly to Ci’en Temple. Under the watchful eyes of his retinue, he entered the meditation courtyard where his son resided.

Madam Shen was in the meditation room. Seeing him arrive, she rose to meet him and, noticing the exhaustion written across his face, pressed a hand warmer into his hands. “You were already worn out from escorting Old Master Zhao today — you did not need to make the trip. Why push yourself?”

“I came to see Peng’er. Has he improved at all?”

The words had barely left his mouth when Madam Shen’s eyes filled with tears. She gave a small shake of her head and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. “He only just fell asleep. Go take a look.”

Shen Qinghe’s expression dimmed. He gave her shoulder a gentle pat and walked toward the inner room.

The room was fragrant with a calming incense, its thin wisps casting pale shadows in the amber lamplight. On the wall hung a scroll bearing the Six-Character Mantra, alongside a painted image of the Medicine King Bodhisattva. At the head and foot of the bed hung small amulets of peace.

On the narrow bed lay a young man of no more than sixteen or seventeen, gaunt and hollow-faced. His cheeks had sunk in, his complexion was a sickly pallor, and the skin beneath his eyes was darkened to a deep bruise — an aura of listless, ghostly frailty clung to him. Despite being buried beneath a thick quilt, his chest barely seemed to rise and fall.

He looked even weaker than he had two days ago.

Shen Qinghe felt a sharp tightening in his chest. Lang Jiuchuan’s words rose unbidden in his mind, and on instinct he took several steps back, putting distance between himself and his son.

Madam Shen looked on in bewilderment. “My Lord?”

What is the matter with him — does he not recognize his own son? What is the meaning of that terrified expression, as if he has just seen something monstrous?

Shen Qinghe flexed his hands and swallowed, his voice coming out rough and low. “I will go have a word with the abbot. Stay with him.”

Madam Shen watched him leave with hurried steps, and could not help but feel a flash of resentment — though she said nothing. She turned back to look at her son’s emaciated figure, and grief struck her like a physical blow. Tears spilled freely down her face.

She moved quickly to stand before the image of the Medicine King Bodhisattva. She took up three sticks of incense, pressed them to her forehead with both hands, bowed three times in deep reverence, set them in the incense burner, and then knelt to the ground. She began to murmur softly: “Bodhisattva above, if you will protect my child and keep him safe, this woman of faith offers ten years of her own life in exchange. Amitabha.”

The incense smoke rose in thin curls, drifting across the face of the Bodhisattva and rendering it hazy and indistinct.

Shen Qinghe pushed through the wind and snow to reach the main hall of Ci’en Temple, the Hall of the Great Hero. The abbot, Jingci, was already within, as if expecting him. Shen Qinghe pressed his palms together in the Buddhist salute, dispensed with pleasantries entirely, and went directly to the heart of the matter.

“Venerable Abbot, my son has been assailed by malevolent forces and his life’s thread has been damaged. Is it because of me that this has come to pass?”

“Amitabha.” Abbot Jingci inclined his head slightly and intoned the Buddha’s name, then said: “Patron Shen need not trouble his heart over this. All things arise from cause and effect; cause and effect turn in their cycle. The Patron’s heart holds the righteous way and the welfare of the people — the people will repay that in kind.”

Shen Qinghe’s heart sank. So it was confirmed.

“Venerable Abbot, can my son be saved?”

Jingci took up three sticks of incense, lit them, and handed them to him. His voice was gentle as he said: “The life force has arrived for young Patron Shen.”

Shen Qinghe went very still. He stared at the abbot with unmoving eyes.

Jingci offered a quiet smile, pressed his palms together, inclined his head in a small bow — and then turned and departed.

Dong.

From deep within the temple, a single strike of the bell rang out — low, resonant, and unhurried.

Shen Qinghe came back to himself. He lifted his head. The towering statue of the Buddha gazed out through the veils of sandalwood incense smoke, its countenance rendered ever more compassionate by the haze. Those half-open, half-closed eyes surveyed all beneath heaven with a gaze full of sorrow and benevolence — extraordinarily lifelike.

Something shifted in the depths of his chest. He pressed his palms together, bent at the waist in a deep bow, and in that moment, made his decision.