Chapter 34: The Chill Wind Pierces the Heart

The gentle light of early morning pierced through the treetops, warm and soft as it touched the body. Walking along the pebble-paved path, the grass on either side still held dewdrops at their tips. When the trouser cuffs brushed past these dew-kissed blades, they too became damp, carrying with them a string of sparkling droplets. Occasionally, one might spot a delicate wildflower by the roadside bench, pure and elegant, radiating a quiet serenity.

Yet on such a beautiful morning, Long Yin found no pleasure in any of it. His heart was a stark contrast to the tender dawn, numb and unfeeling.

His perpetually furrowed brows betrayed nothing beneath the mask, and his calm eyes appeared tranquil as always; only his disordered steps hinted at an inner turmoil. Long Yin had refused Xiao Chui’s company, choosing to come alone. The absurd past belonged to Dongfang Ning, and bringing another would only add to the confusion.

He followed the path until the sun climbed high, its golden brilliance turning from gentle to piercing. A sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. Long Yin licked his lips, suddenly feeling the weather oppressively hot. Tugging at his collar, he pressed forward.

When he stopped before an unremarkable white building, he found himself at Dorin’s residence.

In front of the building grew a bed of rare medicinal herbs—many almost never seen in the market. Under normal circumstances, Long Yin would have paused to appreciate them, but today he walked straight on, crossing several fences before pressing the doorbell. True to Dorin’s twisted sense of humor, the bell screeched, grating and unpleasant.

Long Yin kept his finger on the bell until the door swung open with a bang. “You little rascal, what do you want?” Dorin glared at Long Yin, thoroughly displeased. Had it been anyone else, he might have skinned them alive for waking him.

“I want you to take Yuan Shaolin away!” Long Yin spoke his mind without preamble. He had no patience for pleasantries, nor did he care about Dorin’s affairs. All he wanted was for the other to leave—preferably for good.

Dorin’s anger faded into astonishment. Regaining his composure, he yanked Long Yin inside, slammed the door, and tossed him onto the sofa. Arms folded, chin lifted, Dorin stared at him with an inscrutable look. “I want to know why!”

Long Yin merely straightened his collar and sat upright, his voice stiff and formal. “He’s not suited to stay there.” Even he knew how weak that sounded, so he added, “He’s injured. Xiao Chui and I can’t take care of him.”

“Shaolin can take care of himself!” The implication was clear—your excuse doesn’t hold water.

Long Yin’s brows knotted tighter. He seemed unable to produce a convincing reason. After a moment’s silence, he stubbornly repeated, “Take Yuan Shaolin away!”

Dorin shifted from crossing his arms to clasping them behind his back, fixing Long Yin with a piercing gaze. After a long pause, the intensity faded. He moved to the tea table and began to prepare kung fu tea, slow and deliberate. Long Yin waited the entire morning, the house filled with the fragrance of tea, until at last Dorin answered, shamelessly, “Shaolin may be my nephew, but he’s his own person, not an object. Whether he stays or goes isn’t up to me.”

When Dorin began making tea, Long Yin moved from the sofa to a round cushion, kneeling with natural grace. Dorin shot him a glance, then returned to his tea, his movements exuding calmness, elegance, detachment, and an absence of strife—qualities Long Yin easily discerned. True kung fu tea cannot be brewed by just anyone; its spirit and essence require the cultivation of a great family. Without that, one is merely aping refinement, possessing the form but none of the soul.

Dorin learned the art from his elder brother, while Long Yin’s appreciation was instilled by his father in a previous life. Long Yin saw certain truths in this, while Dorin was thoroughly misled in his assumptions—though his guess was not far off. Long Yin did indeed come from a great family, though that perverse gathering place cultivated none of these refinements.

From start to finish, Long Yin clung to a single thought: to send Yuan Shaolin away. Yet after observing Long Yin, Dorin came to the opposite conclusion—Yuan Shaolin belonged at Long Yin’s side.

In the end, Long Yin could only leave with a blank expression, sunlight bathing all creation. But he was not among them. His mind was restless, the hard-won peace of recent years shattered on this unremarkable night, never to return.

Curling up on a bench, arms wrapped around his knees, Long Yin felt the sweat on his forehead trickle down his cheek. He quietly counted the seconds, unwilling to return. As the sun grew ever fiercer, he grew parched and dizzy. Even the shade cast by the trees and the occasional breeze could not dispel the heat seething in his heart. Lost in thought, he pondered: there is no affection in this world without cause. He must have met the other somewhere, surely—yet rack his brains as he might, he could not recall where. The harder he tried, the less he wished to return to the dormitory.

He gave up. The other’s feelings only left Long Yin vexed—too baseless, too inexplicable. He could not remember any intersection in their lives that could make a youth’s emotions transform into such fierce longing.

It was all too absurd. Long Yin rubbed his numb thighs. Just then, a pair of white shoes entered his vision. Startled, he looked up to see a battered figure—and that same battered mask, cracked and incomplete, clinging to his face, echoing the fractured and wounded look in his eyes, unsettling and helpless.

A flash of familiarity vanished as quickly as it came. Long Yin took in the other’s bare scalp and the barren brows beneath the broken mask. In this encounter, all of the other’s pride and defiance were shattered, mingling with a chestful of rage and frustration. Powerless to change his fate, he was left only with desolation. Long Yin found the sight absurd, but not laughable.

The other removed his mask. Long Yin was not surprised—Helan Shan.

Once, he had a head of flamboyant red hair, wild and arrogant, living freely and self-assured—such a proud youth. Yet now, he had fallen so low, and not merely through his own fault. Those around him, too, were butchers, turning a bright youth into a bitter, cynical outcast, skittish as a stray dog.

Helan Shan fixed his gaze on Long Yin, hatred pouring from his eyes, but it had no effect on Long Yin at all. His own gaze remained serene, without a trace of mockery. As an enemy, he was merciful.

“You’re truly formidable. Our standoff lasted less than a day. Now I have nothing. First the Crown Prince discarded me like worn-out shoes, then my family betrayed me. From a high and mighty heir, I’ve become a homeless stray. All I have left is this ridiculous mask, these fake seventh-grade powers, and my fighting skills. My pride, my everything—you took it all from me… ha, ha…” Helan Shan suddenly laughed, shrill and broken, the bitterness and heartbreak in every note.

Long Yin could not pity him—they were enemies, and mercy towards an enemy is cruelty to oneself. If he had hesitated that day, he would now be the one regretting at Xiao Chui’s bedside.

With a flick of his wrist, a card appeared in Long Yin’s hand. Helan Shan glanced at it and laughed harder, doubling over. After a long moment, he straightened, staring at the card. “Was this how you threatened me that day?”

Long Yin remained silent, just watching him quietly.

A hint of self-mockery and resentment appeared on Helan Shan’s face. “You really are impressive. I still can’t remember what happened that day, no matter what I try!” A magic card floated before him as he glared at Long Yin. “Maybe if we fight again, I’ll remember!”

Watching Helan Shan, Long Yin suddenly put the card away, jumped down from the bench, and paused. He glanced at Helan Shan and suddenly asked, “Why do this to yourself?”

Though he didn’t know what means the other used to recover his memories, Long Yin had just realized that, apart from brute strength and willpower, Helan Shan no longer had enough primordial energy to even activate a card.

There was no pity to be seen in Long Yin’s eyes, but Helan Shan could hear the regret in his tone. Suddenly, his whole body felt cold, as if all his pain erupted in that instant. Tears he had never shed burst forth like a flood.

To cry before one’s enemy—and to watch one’s enemy cry—left Helan Shan at a loss. Long Yin, seeing those broken eyes brimming with tears, unexpectedly softened, producing a wet wipe to help him dry his tears.

The déjà vu of the moment made Long Yin freeze, his hand and posture rigid, mouth slightly open in disbelief. Years ago, he had—

“Dad is dead…”

“So you still have a father…” Seeing the gray desolation in the youth’s eyes, Dongfang Ning silently drew a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped the other’s tears. Fathers were usually the mother’s role; instinctively, Dongfang Ning felt the other had a father.

“I have no father!”

“….” In the end, the youth took the handkerchief and turned to leave.

“Get away, I don’t need you!” Long Yin was shoved onto the bench by Helan Shan, snapping him out of his reverie. Looking at the other, he said, “You…” In that moment, the youth’s eyes were so like those from years past. Long Yin tossed away the wet wipe, dusted off his hands, stood up, and couldn’t help but say as he left, “Betrayal happens only because you were too weak!”

For a long time, Helan Shan sat stunned as Long Yin walked away, the child moving forward into the light. Helan Shan sat on the bench for a long while, then crushed the broken mask in his hand, only to don a new, inscrutable mask. As he left, he picked up the discarded wet wipe, tucked it into his pocket, the corners of his mouth curling upward and his eyes shining with resolve—he would return, with his pride and stubbornness intact.

For Long Yin, this enemy beaten to the ground was merely an unexpected interlude—one that brought back memories of the past, though he still could not understand why a simple gesture—comforting the other, wiping his tears, giving him a worthless handkerchief—could inspire such intense feelings in the other.

Long Yin rubbed his temples, headache growing, then opened the door. The sight of Yuan Shaolin’s room made his head throb even more. Xiao Chui was hugging a large pot, shoveling food into his mouth with a spoon. Seeing him, Long Yin flopped onto Xiao Chui’s arm, rubbing against him.

“Have you eaten?” Xiao Chui asked, mouth full of rice.

Long Yin nodded absently, clinging tightly to Xiao Chui’s arm. Xiao Chui hoisted him onto his shoulder and kept eating. He could tell Long Yin had something on his mind, but when someone won’t share their troubles, all you can do is quietly offer support.

That night,

Long Yin changed Yuan Shaolin’s bandages once more. As he finished and prepared to leave, he said, “Thank you for your help this time. But once you’re healed, you should go.”

Yuan Shaolin watched Long Yin’s departing figure, feeling as lost and forlorn as a vast, snowy plain.