Chapter Twelve: Blank Memories

Xuanse took out a fire striker and tossed it toward the wine jug that had rolled aside; instantly, flames filled his vision.

A letter...

A sudden thought flashed through Chi Yuan’s mind: there was a letter!

His gaze searched amid the firelight until he saw, in Song Chi’s robe, an envelope that was gradually being consumed by the flames. The opening in the envelope faintly revealed remnants of handwriting.

Stealing the sword... Xuanse...

Suddenly, a black-winged butterfly fluttered past Chi Yuan’s eyes. A wave of dizziness overtook him, and the scene around him quickly blurred. Song Chi, Xuanse, and the boy all vanished, leaving behind only a vast expanse of white.

A splitting pain seared through Chi Yuan’s head, but as it faded, his eyelids grew unbearably heavy—as if he were sinking into a deep sleep.

Why, when you could have saved him, did you choose to stand by and do nothing?

And that letter... what exactly do you intend to do?

“Godfather.”

Through the haze, he heard a voice. Chi Yuan slowly opened his eyes.

Two rows of bookshelves stood as mere decoration, the books upon them long since gathering dust. The little bamboo in the miniature landscape beside them had grown yellowed. On the windowsill, a simple, long-necked jade vase refracted sunlight through a shallow layer of water. A desk stood against the wall, incense curling upward from its surface. A man in red clothing reclined against the desk with his eyes closed, while a boy standing before him held several freshly broken willow branches.

How strange...

Chi Yuan still felt dizzy and his head throbbed faintly. The scene before him was so familiar—clearly Xuanse’s study on the mountain—yet when had this taken place? He tried to approach the two by the window, but his body would not obey; he remained motionless.

The boy stepped forward, placed the willow branches carefully into the jade vase, and withdrew his hand with great care.

“I cut some willow branches from the back mountain. Now we won’t have to look at this bare vase anymore; just change the water from time to time.”

“Have you finished chopping wood?”

“Yes.” The boy replied where he stood.

“Then go rest.” Xuanse waved his hand dismissively, eyes still closed as though half-asleep.

“Godfather.” The boy did not leave, but looked up at Xuanse. “There’s something I wish to ask...”

“Ask,” Xuanse replied lazily, half-opening his eyes to meet the boy’s gaze.

The boy hesitated, lowering his voice even further. “That year, why did the people from Mount Shu kill my father? You told me he was the chief disciple and highly regarded by the elders—why then were they so cruel?” The boy clenched his fists. “Could it be... did my father truly commit the crime of betraying his master and ancestors?”

Xuanse remained silent, idly playing with the red tassel hidden in his sleeve. After a long time, he spoke slowly: “And if you knew, what would that change...?”

“The hatred of a father’s killer cannot be reconciled!” The boy grew agitated, grabbing Xuanse’s sleeve. “Tell me!”

The words struck Chi Yuan, making him tremble. Why did he have no recollection of this? When had it happened? The matter of his father was engraved in his bones—how could he forget? Why was his memory so fragmented?

Chi Yuan desperately tried to remember, struggling to string the memories together, but his mind remained hazy, as if bound by invisible chains—only vague impressions lingered like smoke.

Suddenly, the boy collapsed onto Xuanse’s knees, his cheeks flushed, tears streaming down as he cried out over and over, “Why... why... why...”

Xuanse’s red robe was soon soaked through.

No one spoke. Eventually, the boy’s wailing dwindled to sobs. Xuanse softly placed a hand on the boy’s head, gently stroking his hair. Gradually, the boy’s sobs quieted as if comforted.

With tear-reddened eyes, the boy looked up at Xuanse, choking out, “Tell me... tell me why...”

Xuanse wiped the tears from Chi Yuan’s face and said calmly, “Some things are too complicated for you to know now. All you need to remember is that your surname is Song, and your name is Song Chi Yuan.”

At some point, a black butterfly had landed on Xuanse’s shoulder. Before Chi Yuan could react, it leapt up and flew out the window, and Xuanse’s figure began to dissolve like drifting sand.

Another sudden wave of vertigo washed over him, the surroundings began to collapse. Chi Yuan had no idea what was happening—he only felt his consciousness fade, powerless to resist.

His lashes trembled slightly, and as he closed his eyes, all sensation slipped away, leaving him alone in a void.

Father... Mount Shu... Godfather...

Where am I...

Chi Yuan’s awareness grew ever more indistinct. The burning pain from the sigil on his forehead allowed him to cling to a shred of consciousness, but it was not enough to break free from the stupor.

He did not know how much time had passed when blurred figures appeared before his eyes, their fragmented words drifting into his ears.

So hot...

Suddenly, the sigil on his forehead flared with dazzling golden light, which gradually suffused with crimson and finally turned a deep blood-red. As the light faded, the sigil at his brow darkened to a somber red.

A searing pain erupted from his brow, radiating through his bones and limbs—an endless agony of burning that brought terror and suffering.

Chi Yuan’s eyes snapped open. He fought to quell the turmoil in his heart; cold sweat had already drenched his clothes. A powerful sense of dread rose within him. The scene before him was vaguely familiar, but he had no time to dwell on it. Focusing intently on the mark at his brow, he suddenly received a surge of information—an image of a girl appeared in his mind, and a despair as sharp as an iron awl pierced his heart. The world before him collapsed.

Xiaoyuan!