Chapter Sixty-One: The Return to Its Rightful Owner

The sky was clear and the sun shone brightly.

Within the Yan family household, however, a lingering gloom persisted—a sense of dampness and cold that clung to the air.

Old Yan’s wine was long gone, and the last of his grain had been consumed. Though he still had some savings left, he could not be bothered to leave his house. He shut himself inside day after day, drifting through his hours in despondency.

In recent days, it was the villagers and neighbors who, remembering his past kindness and now seeing him solitary and helpless, pitied him greatly and frequently brought him aid.

When Qingyuan arrived, he happened to see someone stepping out of the house.

This was a neighbor who had just brought Old Yan a meal.

Only after the man had left did Qingyuan, accompanied by Gu Cang, approach the threshold and call out quietly, “Master Yan.”

There was no answer at first. After a moment, a voice replied, “Come in.”

Receiving a response, Qingyuan entered, pushing open the wooden door himself.

“So it’s you again…”

Yan Wang half-reclined on a long bench, one hand propped on the table, his body leaning against the wall.

On the table sat a plate of wild greens and a bowl of rice.

But in the countryside, there was no meat.

Yan Wang’s eyes were vacant. He did not bother with chopsticks, but slowly took a pinch of greens with his fingers, placing them in his mouth to chew. He asked, “Did you kill the monster?”

“One escaped, but the others were slain,” Qingyuan replied calmly. “But the master of these vicious wolves is dead.”

Yan Wang had asked only out of habit, not expecting this answer. His body stiffened at once.

In that instant, countless emotions flickered through his cloudy eyes—complicated, inexpressible, uncertain whether surprise or joy, anger or grief.

“Dead…” Yan Wang murmured, his voice barely audible.

He cared nothing for whether only one wolf had escaped, nor whether someone had been directing the wolves from behind.

He only knew that vengeance had been exacted.

“Vengeance is taken, but the person is dead…”

He looked up at Qingyuan and asked, “Where is the body?”

Qingyuan understood what he meant and answered at once, “That fiend was reduced to ashes. As for the young girl…”

Qingyuan fell silent for a moment, then shook his head.

“So she died in the end…” Yan Wang let out a long breath, then looked at Qingyuan and said coolly, “You killed him—what’s that to me? The girl was not saved; I will not help you, even if you torture me or beat me to death…”

Qingyuan shook his head. “I will not force you.”

Yan Wang gave a couple of dry laughs, then his expression turned cold. “Then why are you still here?”

Gu Cang’s face darkened with anger, but Qingyuan held him back, his tone even. “I happened upon something that seems to belong to you, Master Yan. I have come to return it.”

Yan Wang showed little interest. “What is it?”

Qingyuan drew a bronze compass from his robe, walked to the table, and set it down.

Yan Wang’s gaze fell upon the compass. His body trembled, and his eyes grew fixed.

“This sort of tool is used to survey feng shui,” Qingyuan explained. “It is engraved with the Yan family name, so it must have belonged to the young girl. Today, I return it to its rightful owner.”

With those words, he patted Gu Cang and said, “Let’s go.”

Gu Cang acknowledged and followed behind.

Just as Qingyuan reached the doorway, an old and weary sigh came from behind.

“Wait…”

Yan Wang closed his eyes, his voice low and heavy. “I am curious, the map you carry—where does it point? Does even Master Yun Jing not know? Nor does Abbot Shuiyuan of the Mingyuan Monastery?”

Qingyuan paused, answering evenly, “Master Yun Jing does not know the location. As for Abbot Shuiyuan, he is away and has not returned to the monastery.”

Yan Wang opened his eyes, a hint of surprise in his hoarse voice. “You are candid.”

This young man had come bearing the seal and letter of Mingyuan Monastery, relying on the long-standing ties between the monastery and the Yan family, seeking assistance. Yet now, by speaking thus, he was revealing that Abbot Shuiyuan was not at the monastery and that this matter had not been sanctioned by him.

Qingyuan said mildly, “It is no secret. If you wish to help me, that would be best; if not, I will seek another way.”

Yan Wang replied slowly, “I am only curious—where is this place, after all…”

He spoke only of curiosity, not of assistance.

Qingyuan turned around, drew four maps from his robe, and laid them flat upon the table.

Yan Wang rested a hand on the bronze compass. The air of defeat, of waiting for death, seemed to lift slightly from him; at least, his dim and muddled eyes now shone with a faint light.

He picked up the compass and examined it closely, glancing sidelong at Qingyuan. “Young man, with your fiery spirit, I thought you would feign disdain and leave without a backward glance.”

“I am neither an immortal nor a Buddha,” Qingyuan said with a smile. “Naturally, I still have my pride. But even if I did, would it profit me? No… It would only mean more wandering, more detours…”

“Young man…” Yan Wang set the compass down, exhaled, and said with self-mockery, “I have lived all these years, but I am not your equal.”

“Each person is different,” Qingyuan replied with a slight shake of his head.

Yan Wang said no more. Forcing himself upright, he wiped his hands, then picked up the four maps, glanced over them, and said without looking up, “These are rubbings, not the originals.”

Qingyuan nodded. “Indeed, I made the rubbings myself.”

“I thought perhaps you had been deceived.” Yan Wang stacked the maps together, looking up. “These four maps do not mark four locations—they all indicate the same place. But something is missing…”

“Master Yan, you are truly skilled; you saw through so much at a glance.”

Qingyuan felt a surge of respect for the old man and, no longer wary, reached into his robe, about to take out the original map.

“No need.” Yan Wang waved his hand. “Though the map is incomplete, making the deduction more difficult, it is still worth a try. Come back tomorrow evening—if I still have not worked it out, then you may show me the original.”

“The original is with me, but—” Qingyuan began, but Yan Wang interrupted him.

“You made a rubbing, and deliberately left it incomplete, so the original must be a secret you are unwilling to share. I will not press you. Besides, I do not wish to learn some hidden truth, lest you—or your friends, or enemies—come to silence me.”

He placed the maps back on the table. “In any case, even with only fragments, this is not beyond me.”

Qingyuan was silent for a moment, then bowed. “Thank you, Master Yan.”

Yan Wang sighed. “Enough, go on your way.”

Without hesitation, Qingyuan nodded and left with Gu Cang.

Before stepping out, Qingyuan looked back.

The old man, though not quite despondent, was not brimming with vitality either. Yet compared to his earlier lifelessness, there was an added spark, a trace of vigor.

He leaned over the table, both hands holding the bronze compass.

The maps were piled in the corner of the table; he paid them no mind.

Yan Wang stroked the compass with trembling hands.

He closed his eyes.

But tightly shut as they were, they could not conceal the cloudy tears that welled up within.

Old tears streamed down his cheeks.