Chapter 48

Oh, right! There was still that cave she’d never seen or even touched! Her plans had gone wildly off track but, fortunately, seemed to be steering back onto a good path.

“We definitely won’t need it anymore,” Ruan Qing said. “Now that we have the temple, who would need a cave?”

Well, thought Nian Qi, all the work he did yesterday was for nothing. He’d plastered the cave walls with lime, scorched every nook with torches to ward off dampness, bugs, and miasma. He’d even dug a drainage channel along the rock wall, crafted two pairs of straw sandals, whittled a wooden pillow, burned a pot of ash, and prepared a bundle of poplar twigs tied with straw for brushing teeth.

“We should clean this place up properly,” he said. “Let’s make it livable before your uncle arrives.”

Ruan Qing glanced around. Weeds were waist-high throughout the courtyard, and she winced, feeling a bit daunted. “How are we supposed to clean all this up?”

“Simple. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” Nian Qi assured her. Having a proper building was certainly better than a makeshift cave, especially when the others arrived; it would make for a more convincing setup.

She tugged on his sleeve. “We also need to find where Master Zaojiao’s grave is. In his will, he mentioned he’d prepared a gravestone, coffin, and burial plot, ready whenever he was.”

“It’s probably that spot in the front courtyard,” Nian Qi replied. “Let me show you.” With that, he effortlessly lifted Ruan Qing into his arms again. In relationships, as long as there’s progress, there’s no need to step back. Nian Qi wasn’t naive; he’d already carried her and held her, and since he had intentions of marriage and she hadn’t objected, why step back? Naturally, he’d continue carrying her.

The rain had stopped, so instead of taking the dry corridors or passing through the courtyard gates, he leaped up onto the rooftop of the main hall. Ruan Qing loved being carried as he leapt, something Nian Qi had duly noted in his mental notebook. True to form, she enjoyed it immensely. Her bright eyes and the playful smile on her face revealed her delight. She held onto his neck naturally; she was never one for keeping her feelings hidden. Besides, he hadn’t told her not to hold on, so why wouldn’t she?

So, quite naturally, the two of them found themselves on the roof.

He pointed. “It should be over there. Look—there’s a person-sized indentation, and a stone slab in front. Let’s go down and take a closer look.”

Ruan Qing squinted toward the front courtyard, which was even larger than the middle courtyard, with weeds just as high. A stone-paved path ran down the middle, with dirt on either side. In one section of the weeds, there was an elongated pit filled with water, and at one end, something that looked like a gravestone. Earlier, when she’d entered from the back, the grass had obscured her view, so she hadn’t seen the pit and stone. But Nian Qi, having been up on the roof from the start, had noticed them immediately.

“That other spot over there looks like a grave too,” Nian Qi added, pointing to the other side of the stone path. This one was clearly a grave: a raised mound with stones piled on top and a stone slab in front.

“Let’s go down for a closer look,” Ruan Qing said.

He carried her down and set her on the stone path. “It’s all mud here, so stay on the path,” he advised, moving ahead to brush aside the weeds. After a quick look, he called back to her, “No mistake—it’s definitely here.”

Unable to see the inscription herself, Ruan Qing asked, “What does the gravestone say?”

Nian Qi read it aloud: “Nineteenth generation disciple of the Liuguang Sect, fourth head of the Wild Hermits’ Temple, Dao name never bestowed, given name Zaojiao.” He paused. Dao name never bestowed. He carried that regret with him into the grave.

“There’s also a row of smaller text,” Nian Qi added.

Reflecting on Zaojiao’s unfulfilled wish, Ruan Qing asked, “What does it say?”

Nian Qi leaned in to read the faint line of text. “It says he lived to around…” He trailed off. “He first carved seventy-five years, then crossed it out and changed it to eighty. Then he scratched that out, finally inscribing eighty-five.”

Zaojiao had marked his years by the changing seasons, losing track of time in the mountains. He’d first estimated he was around seventy-five when he carved the gravestone. Five years later, still alive, he’d changed it to eighty, only to outlive that and finally carve eighty-five. It hadn’t been altered again, likely because he never made it to ninety.

Ruan Qing stood on the weed-covered path, picturing the solitary old man chiseling away at his own gravestone, revising it year after year in the empty, decaying temple. She felt a pang of sadness and glanced up, noticing Nian Qi standing silently amid the overgrown grass, his gaze fixed on the gravestone. His face was completely expressionless—not calm, not cold, but stripped bare of any facade, revealing his most authentic self.

Ruan Qing called out, “Nian Qi?”

He looked over, stepping through the muddy grass toward her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. By habit, he tended to keep his thoughts to himself, yet here he was, facing her steady, understanding gaze. Ruan Qing was the first person to truly know who he was, yet she didn’t fear or resent him. She’d simply accepted him, telling him that the past was in the past and that he was someone new now.

“It’s just… the letters at the end,” he said, “they’re a bit messy. Toward the end, he’d squeezed them in so tightly they overlapped.”

“And?” she prompted.

After a brief pause, he spoke about the detail he’d noticed. “The letters got fainter toward the end.”

With age, his strength had faded, leaving him unable to carve as deeply into the stone. The last few characters were so faint they almost disappeared. Nian Qi’s gaze drifted, his face devoid of expression.

Ruan Qing stared at him, suddenly understanding. Zaojiao had no family, no friends, no one left in the world. And wasn’t that Nian Qi’s story, too? He couldn’t fully relate to the battles and struggles of the past, but he felt a deep empathy for this old man’s loneliness.

Ruan Qing reached out, playfully patting both of his cheeks. “Hey! Hey! What are you thinking about? Comparing yourself to him?”

“Hmm,” he murmured.

“Oh, stop it with those gloomy thoughts,” Ruan Qing said, holding his face to make him look at her. “You’re only twenty-seven! You’re still a young man! I once got into a minor car accident with a twenty-seven-year-old guy, and he whipped out his phone to call his parents to handle it for him. See? Some people still think of themselves as kids. So why are you already imagining yourself dying alone?”

She grinned. “If you don’t want to be alone, the solution’s easy—get married, have kids.”

A spark of light appeared in Nian Qi’s eyes.

But then he quickly remembered his little notebook: she didn’t want children. Hurriedly, he added, “We could adopt. Not having kids is okay too.”

Ruan Qing was taken aback. In her experience, men had an overwhelmingly strong desire to have children. Her ex, an only child, had long planned to start a family. Her father, despite having her, regretted not having a son. Years ago, when her parents were building their business, her mother suffered a miscarriage and was no longer able to have children. Thankfully, her father deeply loved her mother, unlike some of his business friends, who, after getting rich, seemed to have children everywhere. One uncle she knew already had six children outside his marriage.

But Nian Qi, being a man, seemed oddly eager to suggest adoption and even looked a bit anxious. Ruan Qing’s mind raced, instantly recalling scenes from old martial arts novels and dramas: the Three-Corpse Brain Pill from the Sun Moon Sect, the Life-and-Death Talisman of the Carefree Sect, the Muscle-Rejuvenating Pill from the Divine Dragon Sect. Could a rival faction have wanted to control Nian Qi? Perhaps he’d once worked for an assassin organization, and the price for leaving was high. Maybe they forced him to take a poison that left him infertile?

It was clear to her that Nian Qi knew he couldn’t have children; perhaps he had deeply empathized with his mentor, who had spent his last days alone. When he assured her they could adopt, she thought he was afraid she’d look down on him. Men often seemed very concerned with that ability.

At this thought, Ruan Qing’s heart overflowed with sympathy for him. He was truly pitiful. A childhood lost, a life spent as a killer, leaving him with an outlook completely different from the average person—and on top of it all, infertility. He didn’t realize that times had changed; no one would judge him for not having children anymore. People like them were called “DINKs” now. ^[1]DINKs (Dual Income, No Kids) refers to a couple who both earn incomes and have no children, often leading to higher disposable income.

Taking a deep breath, Ruan Qing smiled and said, “Yes, it’s all the same.” She looked around and pointed to another grave across the stone path to change the subject. “Can you go check that one?”

Nian Qi pushed through some grass and inspected it. “It’s a cenotaph.” ^[2]A cenotaph is a memorial monument built to honor people, whose bodies are buried elsewhere.

Ruan Qing nodded. “For everyone?”

“Yes,” Nian Qi replied. “His master’s master, his master, his senior brothers, his uncles, and even old Wu.” He returned and sighed, “This headstone is much more refined than the other.”

Its edges were well-shaped, and the characters carved with strength. Clearly, this was made when he finally accepted reality, while still young and strong, with the patience to chisel every detail carefully. Everyone’s clothing was buried in the soil, layered with stones to form a mound.

After a moment, Ruan Qing asked, “And that pit—can you confirm?”

The pit was filled with muddy water, murky and concealing everything beneath it. Nian Qi found a stick, crouched at the pit’s edge, and poked around to check. “There should be a coffin.”

He’d made refined clothing mounds for everyone, yet when it came time for his own burial, frail and nearing death, he must have dragged himself to the prepared grave, climbed into the coffin, and with great effort, closed the lid over himself—then waited for death in peace.

“This isn’t right,” Nian Qi said. “I’ll drain some of the water and build him a proper grave.”

Ruan Qing nodded. “Alright.”

Just then, her phone rang. It was Ruan Xiangyun trying to reach her, and, surprisingly, the call connected.

“Uncle Xiangyun, I’m safe. Don’t worry,” Ruan Qing said. “I’m at a Taoist temple.”

Ruan Xiangyun sounded surprised. “What temple?”

Ruan Qing replied, “The one from the stories, the one Grandpa Qi could never find again when he was a child.”

Ruan Xiangyun blurted out, “The Wild Hermits’ Temple?”

Standing inside the Wild Hermits’ Temple, Ruan Qing’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. Someone still knew the temple’s name. Someone still remembered it.