Zhao Rucheng came from a wealthy family and had purchased a residence near the Dao Academy, where he lived with a dozen servants tending to his daily needs. He rarely stayed in the dormitory. Du Yehu, once he got his hands on wine, could not be pried loose in any short order.
So when Jiang Wang returned to the dormitory, it struck him that the quarters which had always been noisy and full of life now held only himself.
After closing the door, he glanced instinctively at the bed in the far left corner.
The bedding there was folded with unusual neatness, clean, its material no different from anyone else's. No one lay on it now, and no one ever would again.
That had been Fang Pengju's bed. Born to wealth, he had never been finicky or petty. He ate and drank alongside everyone else, never once complaining.
The bed opposite Fang Pengju's was empty, piled high with luggage.
The remaining beds spread outward from these two as a dividing line, three on each side.
The second bed on the left, next to Fang Pengju's, was the messiest in the room. Blankets heaped in a tangle, scattered clothes as mere accents, and if one breathed in carefully, the fragrance of wine. Peer beneath the bed and one would find rows upon rows of wine jars, arranged with meticulous care, treated far better than the space their owner inhabited.
The first bed on the left sat nearest the door, which made it Ling He's. He had always been the one to open and close the door for everyone. The bedding bore a few inconspicuous patches but was scrubbed spotless.
The first bed on the right was Jiang Wang's, his bedding in much the same condition as Ling He's. Though he had been gone a long time, it remained tidy, clearly someone had been cleaning it regularly. Perhaps Ling He, perhaps Zhao Rucheng. Perhaps even Fang Pengju.
The second bed on the right belonged to Zhao Rucheng, and his stood apart from all the rest. Sheets and quilts from Yunxiang Studio, the finest quality, and over the modest dormitory bed hung a curtain embroidered with gold thread. A stark contrast to Du Yehu's side across the way.
Strangers might have found Zhao Rucheng difficult to get along with, but in truth he simply held himself to an impossibly high standard of living. Even when he stayed in the dormitory only occasionally, he insisted on maximum comfort. He had once offered to spend a fortune renovating the entire room into a Tianzi-grade premium suite, if Jiang Wang had not beaten him up for it.
From the age of fourteen, when he tested into the Outer Court of the Dao Academy, until now, Jiang Wang had spent three years in this dormitory. Every detail of the room was intimately familiar.
The things remain, but the people are gone, and all is at an end.
Jiang Wang was silent for a while. Then he removed his shoes and socks, took off his outer robe, and lay down on his own bed.
He was exhausted, bone-tired. But only at this moment could he finally sleep in peace.
One waking, adrift among worldly matters. One dream, awaiting the sky's heights.
Fenglin City was laid out in a neat square. The City Lord's Mansion sat at its center, radiating outward in all directions. The East City was the Dao Academy's territory; the great and noble houses occupied the West. The South City held mostly common folk, while merchants and wealthy traders gathered in the North.
Only after seeing Jiang Wang emerge safely from the dean's meditation room did Ling He set off alone, carrying Fang Pengju's body away from the academy.
In life, Fang Pengju had commanded a following at a single call, friends beyond counting. In death, he was spurned by all.
He had acted with malice and treachery. He deserved to be spurned.
Ling He did not feel any injustice on his behalf. Only a lingering ache in his heart.
He had wrapped Fang Pengju's body in his own outer robe. The robe was old but freshly washed.
For his pace, the walk from East City to West City was not far, and the road to the Fang family mansion was familiar. But Ling He walked slowly, each step heavy.
He could not bear to let go.
He was the eldest. He should have looked after his four sworn brothers. He had not.
He still remembered the day the five of them swore their oath by the Green Willow River, remembered every one of their radiant smiles.
The Green Willow River was a tributary of the Qinghe, winding past Niutou Mountain. Its water was clear enough to mirror young faces and young hearts. That year they had ridden out with swords, raised their cups together, sparred countless times, and talked through countless nights by candlelight.
They had promised one another they would ascend to the Inner Court together, ride swords through the blue heavens together, transcend the mortal realm and attain sainthood together. Those memories, those promises.
Ling He had never imagined that five people so united in spirit, so bound by deep affection, would one day see brothers turn against each other, life and death set against one another.
How could this be?
He thought.
He could not understand. But holding Fang Pengju's cold body, he at last arrived before the gates of the Fang residence.
"Who goes there?" A gatekeeper blocked his path.
The Fang mansion stood tall and imposing, lofty in the most literal sense.
"Oh." Ling He cradled the body and inclined his head in greeting. "Fang Pengju has passed away. I have brought his remains back for the family to arrange his burial."
If no one claimed a body, the authorities would cart it off to a mass grave for collective disposal. That was a place heretic cultivators frequented most, and the dead found little peace even after.
But Ling He saw no need to say this. He was not one to boast of his deeds, nor did he consider this any kind of deed worth boasting of.
The gatekeeper's expression changed. The door slammed shut. A voice came from behind it: "Take him away! The master says he is not to enter!"
"My friend," Ling He said earnestly, "please report to your master once more. Pengju is, after all, of Fang blood. They may be speaking in anger. They will not truly abandon him."
The gatekeeper seemed to hesitate. "I will ask again. But do not try to force your way in!"
"You have my word."
Ling He stood motionless before the Fang gates, holding Fang Pengju's body, listening to the footsteps hurry away within.
He looked down at the face already cold with death. "Pengju, look at what you have done. Even in death, no one remembers your good. Gods and ghosts alike despise you."
A long time passed before the gatekeeper's voice rose again behind the door.
"The master says." He paused, then adopted the tone of the Fang family patriarch: "Dead is dead. What is the point of bringing him back?"
Ling He was taken aback, then said haltingly, "The Fang family is a house of standing. They should grant Pengju a decent farewell."
"The master says the cause of Fang Pengju's death is already known to him. A man of such disloyalty and treachery is no seed of the Fang family!"
"But he is," Ling He said. "He is the Fang family's seed."
"Leave!" The gatekeeper shoved a handful of knife-money through the crack in the door. "Press the matter further and we call the authorities!"
The coins clattered across the ground, catching every eye on the street. For a simple burial, it would have been more than enough. The surplus was a tip.
That was the Fang family's answer.
Ling He fell silent.
He did not try to say anything more.
He was poor. He had been poor since childhood. He needed money. His one intact outer robe was wrapped around Fang Pengju's corpse, and the garments beneath bore patch upon patch. He stood before the grand and gilded gates of the Fang mansion like a poor relation who had been shown the door.
He lifted Fang Pengju's body and turned away.
From start to finish, he did not so much as glance at the knife-money scattered on the ground.
That was Ling He's answer.