Chapter 87: The Ruined Temple

“You haven’t told anyone else about this, have you?” The thought crossed his mind and Shen Wansan abruptly made up his mind about something else. A strange gleam flickered in his eyes. The old physician, seeing Shen Wansan ask, nodded eagerly, his posture betraying his urgency as he assured, “No, absolutely not. The first person I thought to tell was you, Master Shen. In the whole city of Yingyang, who doesn’t know that your word is law? This old man still has that much sense.”

“Is that so?” The satisfied smile on Shen Wansan’s face grew even more apparent. Though the words were only flattery, they struck a chord within him. Having just suffered disappointment at the Martial Assembly, he was far from at ease. Now, hearing such words was like someone sprinkling a little balm on his wound. The relief might only be fleeting and unreliable, but it was better than none at all. “You’ve done well. Li’er, take him to collect his reward—give him twice the amount offered on the notice!”

As he reached this point, Shen Wansan suddenly paused, his smile vanishing in an instant. His body flickered with such speed that the eye could barely follow; in a blink, he was behind the old physician, his hand resting heavily on the man’s shoulder. Leaning in close, his voice dropped to a severe whisper, tinged with menace, “You’ve done well, but remember this: what you just said must never be repeated to anyone. Otherwise—”

“What did I say just now? I suddenly can’t recall. My memory’s terrible these days—old age, you know, nothing stays in my head!” The old man’s response was quick as lightning. Despite his calm words, his heart hammered wildly in his chest. If not for his frail body holding it in, his heart might have leapt right out. It wasn’t Shen Wansan’s martial prowess that frightened him—the old physician was no more than an ordinary man, unable to sense any trace of Shen Wansan’s spiritual energy. But in Yingyang, Shen Wansan’s reputation alone was enough to terrify him at such close quarters. Still, this reaction pleased Shen Wansan. He patted the old man’s shoulder lightly, his smile reappearing. “A wise man—good. Go on, go!”

Relieved by this exchange, the physician quickly followed Li’er out. Watching their departing figures, Shen Wansan’s gaze slowly shifted toward the east of the city. Inwardly, he mused, “Whatever Shui Linglong may be—even if she were Shui Lianhua herself—I will have to meet her. Dao Old Ghost snatched the alliance leader’s seat from me; I won’t let him get away with it so easily. If you can’t bring yourself to kill your disciple, don’t blame me when he comes for you. Those who achieve great things cannot afford to be softhearted—this is the gravest of taboos!”

If it were possible, Han Tanyi might have preferred that sword strike to have found its mark—a clean end, a release. Now, with pain wracking both body and soul, he endured a torment doubly severe. He struggled for a long time but couldn’t even manage to sit up. For a young man just past twenty, there was nothing to call this but cruelly ironic. Perhaps because his body was paralyzed and nothing around him could distract his mind, his thoughts became all the more restless. Yet, the more he brooded on his troubles and pain, the deeper he sank into anguish and despair.

He didn’t know how much time had passed—only that it felt unbearably long—before the temple door finally creaked open, then swiftly closed again. Though the moment was brief, the night wind found its way through the gap, brushing his face and clearing his thoughts a little. Instinctively, Han Tanyi turned his head, fixing his gaze on the newcomer. It was indeed Shao Changchun, carrying two small bundles. There was no need to guess: one must be medicine, the other likely some hot food. Watching Shao approach, Han Tanyi said nothing. He harbored too many questions for his visitor, but at this moment, none of them seemed to matter much.

“You’ve been unconscious for nearly three days. You must be hungry. Strictly speaking, you should have something nourishing to recover, but the doctor said your body is still too weak. Best not to have anything greasy or overly rich. So after some thought, I brought you this. It’s not much, but eat a little to regain some strength—then we’ll see about the rest.” As he spoke, Shao Changchun set the bundles down and met Han Tanyi’s eyes. The young man’s face was ashen, clearly from his severe injuries and the blow to his spirit. For a moment, Shao didn’t know how to offer comfort. He simply opened one bundle, revealing several steaming buns, and handed them over.

Though Han Tanyi’s body wouldn’t move, he could still shift his hands slightly. But he made no move to take the food. After several days without eating, hunger gnawed at his insides, but when his gaze landed on the buns, he felt no appetite at all. His face was blank and dazed, showing no reaction, no words—utterly indifferent to the food. The sight left Shao Changchun a little embarrassed. He pressed the buns closer and tried to persuade him, “You should eat something. These buns may be plain, but they’re better than starving.”

Still, Han Tanyi’s expression did not change. Shao could only sigh inwardly. He understood what plagued the young man: bodily wounds could be healed, but if the heart was wounded—or dead—then nothing could be done. To be doubted by one’s revered master was agony enough, let alone to suffer such a blow. In his place, Shao thought, he would be just as devastated. After a moment of stalemate, Shao relented, placing the buns within reach and turning to fetch the medicine, setting it aside. “I know you’re hurting, that you’re upset. Maybe your master has his own reasons. The buns are here; eat if you wish. If not, I won’t force you.”

Perhaps the medicine stove had already been prepared—for three days had passed, and this was surely not the first time. Shao moved with practiced ease, building the fire and tending water. For a young man, he was unexpectedly deft at these tasks. Soon, steam began to rise from the medicine pot, the fragrance of herbs filling the temple.

“Who are you, really? Why did you save me?” The question had been bottled up too long. Han Tanyi was not one for patient endurance; he could no longer hold it in. His voice, though quiet, was direct. Shao Changchun’s hands slowed noticeably at the question, almost coming to a halt. He looked at Han Tanyi, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint, gentle smile. He didn’t answer at once; perhaps he was considering his reply, knowing well that sometimes convincing oneself is harder than deceiving others.