Yuzhen didn't head back to his courtyard after leaving the west hall. He walked right past the bamboo grove, over the little bridge, and ended up standing in front of a door he hadn't opened in ages. His old cultivation room. He just stood there for a bit. The letter from his father was still tucked in his sleeve, he could feel it shifting every time his robe moved. "Son, if this reaches you, don't let your grandmother cry too much." Yuzhen closed his eyes for a second, then pushed the door open.
The room was surprisingly clean. Someone had clearly been looking after it. The floor was swept, the incense burner in the corner was spotless, and the sword rack by the wall had been dusted. Even the cushions looked like they'd been arranged that very morning. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. It was so quiet. This used to be the place he spent most of his time. He practiced here, read here, even slept here when he was younger and too lazy to walk back to his room. Before his foundation was ruined, this room felt like the heart of everything. Now, it felt like walking into a version of himself he couldn't quite reach anymore.
His eyes scanned the room. The training sword on the rack. The low table by the window. The shelf of jade slips. The meditation mat in the center of the floor. Nothing had changed. And that was the problem. Yuzhen walked over to the sword rack first. He reached out and took the sword down. It felt so familiar in his hand. Light, easy. He used to practice with it until his robes were soaked and his arms ached. His father had once laughed at him for refusing to stop, even after dark. "You'll still have tomorrow," Mingchen had said from the doorway. And Yuzhen, thirteen and full of himself, had shot back, "Then tomorrow can wait." Now, he drew the sword out just a sliver, saw the cold gleam of the blade, and pushed it back into its sheath. There was no point. He put it away.
Next, he went to the shelf and picked up a jade slip. A basic family technique he'd learned years ago. His thumb brushed over the smooth edge for a moment, then he set it back down too. Still no point. Finally, he looked at the mat. He almost let out a laugh. So this was what it had come to. Swords, no. Techniques, no. Just the one thing that would bring him pain for sure. Yuzhen walked to the center of the room and sat down. He crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knees. For a moment, he just sat there. The letter in his sleeve felt heavier than any piece of paper had a right to be. "There is a spring in the inner valley said to restore damaged foundations." His father had gone into that dangerous realm because of that one line. Because of him.
Yuzhen took a slow breath and started circulating what little spiritual energy he had left. At first, it moved. Thin, weak, unsteady, but it moved. He guided it through the first path, then the second. Then it hit the broken part. Pain flared instantly. His breath hitched, but he didn't stop. He pushed a little harder. The spiritual energy shuddered, slipped, then scattered so fast it felt like something had just exploded inside him. Pain tore through his chest and lower abdomen. Yuzhen hunched forward, bracing one hand against the floor before he lost his balance completely. For a few seconds, he stayed like that, gritting his teeth. The room was silent except for his ragged breathing.
When the pain eased a bit, he sat up again. His face was pale, and sweat beaded at the back of his neck. He knew he should stop. He really did. He tried again. This time, it was even worse. The moment he forced the spiritual energy forward, his meridians flared with agony. Not a deep ache this time, but sharp, fast stabs, like dozens of tiny cuts opening up under his skin all at once. Yuzhen's eyes snapped open. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and stared at the red smear on his skin. Then he let out a short, ugly laugh. He pressed both hands flat on the floor and lowered his head.
So this was what he could do now. Sit in a room that used to belong to a genius and spit blood on the floor like an idiot. His father was trapped in a secret realm. His grandfather was still desperately searching for cures. His grandmother still looked at him as if he could somehow be saved. And he couldn't even guide one proper cycle of spiritual energy through his body. Yuzhen remained there for a long time.
When he finally looked up, his gaze fell on the desk by the wall. There was something on it he didn't remember putting there. A paper crane. He stared at it. Then he got up and walked over. The crane was old. One wing drooped a little lower than the other, and the folds were a bit clumsy in places. His father had made it. Yuzhen had been eleven that year, old enough to pretend he didn't care about silly things, but young enough to care deeply anyway. There were lanterns everywhere in the city that night. He'd wanted one but had refused to say so. His father had come back later with this paper crane instead. "It doesn't burn out," Mingchen had said. "Better than a lantern."
Yuzhen picked it up. The paper was still sturdy. His chest tightened so suddenly he had to sit down on the edge of the bed. His father was alive. That should have made things easier. It didn't. It just made the guilt worse. "Tell Yuzhen this was my decision. He is not to carry it as a debt." His father had written that as if words could somehow lift the burden. As if Yuzhen could read that and not feel it sink deeper into his bones.
A knock sounded at the door. He didn't answer. Another knock. Then his grandmother's voice came through the wood, "Open the door." Yuzhen stood and carefully placed the paper crane back down. He opened the door. Lin Suyue took one look at him and frowned. "You tried to cultivate." He stepped aside, letting her in. "Only for a bit." "That was enough." She carried a small tray with one hand. Tea. A bowl of soup. A plate of spirit fruit cut into neat pieces. He had no appetite for any of it. She set the tray on the desk and turned to him. Her eyes flickered to the faint blood he'd missed at the corner of his mouth. "Sit," she said.
He sat. She poured tea and handed him a cup. He took it without a word. For a while, she let him drink in silence. That was one thing he'd always appreciated about her. She knew when not to pry too soon. When he'd finished half the cup, she said, "Your grandfather told me the letter came." Yuzhen looked down at the tea. "Mm." "And?" "He's alive." "Yes." "There was one survivor with him. The other man died." Lin Suyue's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on her sleeve. "I know." Yuzhen set the cup down carefully. "He found a clue about a spring that might restore damaged foundations."
His grandmother said nothing. That silence was more painful than any reply could have been. Yuzhen let out a quiet laugh. "I know what you're going to say." "Do you?" "Yes." He looked up at her. "That he went because he chose to go. That no one forced him. That I shouldn't blame myself." Lin Suyue held his gaze. "And will you listen?" "No." The answer was too quick. For the first time that night, her expression shifted. Not anger. Sadness, maybe. Or something close to it. She sat down across from him.
"When you were small," she said, "you hated falling." Yuzhen let out a breath. "Everyone hates falling." "No. You hated being seen after you fell. Even more than the pain." He said nothing. She was right. Lin Suyue folded her hands in her lap. "Your father knows that too. That is why he wrote what he wrote." Yuzhen looked away. "If he comes home and sees you like this," she said quietly, "hurting yourself in this room because you cannot bear waiting, do you think he will be happy?" He swallowed. No. "Then don't turn his choice into punishment for yourself."
The room fell silent. Yuzhen stared at the tea, then at the paper crane on the desk, then at his own hands. "I don't know what to do," he finally admitted. It was the first honest thing he'd said all evening. His grandmother's face softened. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small jade box. "For tonight, you do this." She placed it in front of him. Yuzhen opened it. Inside was a pale gold pill. "It won't fix your foundation," she said before he could ask. "If it could, you would have taken it already. But it will calm your meridians." He looked up. "Where did this come from?" "Your grandfather bought it months ago." Months ago. Of course he had. The family had never stopped trying.
Lin Suyue stood up. "Take it. Eat something. Sleep." She walked towards the door, then paused. Without turning around, she said, "Your father is alive, Yuzhen." His grip tightened around the jade box. "So you are allowed to hope," she said. "Just don't destroy yourself while doing it." Then she left.
Yuzhen sat alone in the quiet room. The tea had gone lukewarm. The soup remained untouched. The letter was still in his sleeve. He looked down at the pill in the box. Then, without really thinking about it, he reached for the pendant at his chest. The jade had felt cold all day. Now, under his fingers, it felt warm.