Encountering a Snake - Chapter 11

V2C11

The night was cool as water, with the sound of wind passing through the window lattice. The stirred-up dust clung to the bed curtains, drifting in the air.

On the couch, Ji Jiu lifted the bed canopy, sensing something, but after waiting and waiting, there was only silence in the room. After the wind passed, there were no human voices. The night air was cold, the lamps extinguished, and this simple study was suddenly so quiet that it felt desolate. The month of leisure he had stolen from the world should have been spent with his wife and children. Yet on his first day home, as he lay on the bed, he mistook the woman in his arms for his own reflection, as if he were watching himself being pinned beneath someone else… He could not even escape, hurriedly finishing while gritting his teeth, then feigning indifference as he left.

From then on, the joys of a simple family life were no longer his. Even if he refused to admit it, the influence of that monster on him had become indelible, like an old wound that, even when healed, left scars behind—ugly and grotesque.

Ji Jiu rose, draped himself in a long robe, and sat on the couch. Moonlight spilled through the door, illuminating the space before him with a serene clarity, like accumulated water. After gazing at it for a while, he stepped outside.

The courtyard was empty. Wearing only his inner garments and with his hair disheveled, he wandered through the yard. The night wind lifted his hair, tossing it up and letting it fall, as if an invisible hand in the air was lingeringly caressing him.

In this life, there were no more flowers or plants in his courtyard. The blooming peonies, the roses climbing the courtyard walls with their brilliant red and yellow hues, the dazzling and vibrant scenes—all had vanished. Shen Qingxuan’s life, like a flower, had bloomed desperately and wildly for thirteen years before withering in an instant. He had lived so simply and unassumingly that it felt ancient. It was as if the intensity of his past life had exhausted his heart and energy, leaving him only wanting to live a calm and quiet existence this time around—simple, and simpler still. He had spent his lifetime, and could not afford to waste another.

Standing by the Stone of Three Lives, Shen Qingxuan, a solitary soul, quietly observed his fleeting life. Then he held the bowl of Meng Po’s soup, drank it calmly without hesitation.

He had loved, loved but not obtained, yet bore no resentment or regret. In his next life, he no longer wanted to love, no longer wanted to endure those days of repression and forbearance.

So repressed that he didn’t dare to speak a word of affection. So suppressed that in his final month, the white-haired Shen Qingxuan, looking at the youthful Yi Mo, didn’t dare to ask, “Do you regret the years you spent holding a grudge against me, wasting my time?”

Did you ever regret it?

Shen Qingxuan didn’t dare to ask. Nor did he dwell on the answer anymore.

He was dead. Yi Mo would forget, and then ascend to immortality.

Crossing the Bridge of Forgetfulness, Shen Qingxuan passed away, and Ji Jiu was born.

Unknowingly, he walked out of the courtyard gate, reaching yet another high wall. The path between the walls was square and plain, devoid of decoration. The residence’s towers and pavilions were all constructed with such precision, as if craftsmen had drawn their designs with rulers. Everything was orderly and upright, without bridges over flowing streams or lotus ponds under moonlight. Yet, due to its vastness, it exuded a sense of openness, as well as dignity.

Ji Jiu strolled slowly in the shadow of the high walls, occasionally stepping into the moonlight, only to retreat quickly into the darkness—silent and unnoticed.

Unintentionally, he arrived at the side courtyard, the guest quarters. Ji Jiu remembered this was where Shen Jue resided. He paused briefly, then pushed open the courtyard gate and entered. The courtyard was silent, but there was light. Candlelight, filtered through thin window screens, cast an orange glow onto the steps beneath the window. It was late at night, yet Shen Jue had not gone to bed.

Through the window, Ji Jiu saw two figures inside, seemingly drinking at the table. Occasionally, their conversation reached his ears. The voices were familiar—those of that monster and Shen Jue—but he couldn’t make out what they were discussing. Ji Jiu didn’t want to eavesdrop and turned to leave, but when he heard the word “emperor,” he halted and turned back.

At that moment, Shen Jue was speaking with Yi Mo about the emperor in the imperial city, describing him as extraordinary and intriguing. Then he abruptly stopped talking. The father and son exchanged a glance, then silently turned to look out the window. How interesting, they thought, that someone was eavesdropping.

Yi Mo set down his wine cup, acting as if he hadn’t noticed anything, and continued their conversation. “You find it intriguing? Have you been tempted?”

“Perhaps,” Shen Jue responded decisively. After a moment of contemplation, he suddenly chuckled and said, “He’s seen my true form and wasn’t fazed. Still harbored lustful thoughts—such a person is indeed one of a kind.”

Yi Mo raised his eyebrows but didn’t respond. In that lifetime, Shen Qingxuan knew he was a monster but didn’t show fear. Later, when Yi Mo revealed his true form, Shen Qingxuan had been startled but never pushed him away.

Perhaps that is the sorrow of being a monster. Their human forms were pleasing, bringing joy to others. But once their true forms were revealed, those who had once delighted in them would recoil, fear them, and flee. In the vast sea of people, encountering the one unafraid, who dared to embrace his true form, evoked not only admiration but also tenderness and a profound sense of cherishment.

Yi Mo poured himself another drink, brought it to his lips, and said casually, “I’ve lived for over a thousand years, and I’ve only met one human who dared to hold my true form.” He drank, set the cup down, and fell silent.

The icy liquid slid down his throat, warming his throat and stomach but not his heart. The person who had once held him dearly was no longer there.

Shen Jue refilled Yi Mo’s cup and, after a moment of silence, said, “Father is planning to seek the Xiongnu royal court. Could you assist him?”

Yi Mo shook his head. “No.”

“This journey is fraught with danger. My skills are shallow and may not be enough to protect him. Are you truly not going?”

“In his heart, this is his life’s work, and no one is allowed to interfere. Even if I escort him to the Xiongnu and draw maps for him, he won’t appreciate it. His business is his to handle,” Yi Mo said indifferently. “Otherwise, his life will be meaningless. When he dies and stands before the Stone of Three Lives, he’ll resent my meddling.”

Yi Mo spoke lightly, sipping his wine. Yet he recalled the year he faced the heavenly tribulation. As he shed his old skin upon returning to the mountain, Shen Qingxuan had gone to his parents to confess and received a body full of wounds.

He had always been like that. What he was meant to do, he would never shirk. What he deserved to bear, no matter how painful, he would endure. He never relied on having a powerful monster by his side to indulge in shortcuts or harbor false hopes.

Deemed cunning and sly, yet upright to the point of exasperation. Upright, yet often resorting to crafty means. It was this contradictory nature that shaped the fiercely resolute Shen Qingxuan, making Yi Mo reluctant to let go.

Shen Jue nodded in agreement. “I’ll give it my all.” As he spoke, he couldn’t help but glance at the figure outside the window, the one he always called “father.” In this life, aside from him, there were two others who could call him that. Shen Jue bore no resentment, knowing this familial bond was something only he couldn’t let go of, something only he clung to. But the person outside the window had drunk Meng Po’s soup, forgotten his past, and married and had children—a common human fate. Shen Jue did not blame him. If one were to scrutinize, his father’s days of love and affection in this life did not add up to even one year of what Shen Jue had once received.

The children of this life—how many had truly enjoyed fatherly love? Ji Jiu, a general, was rarely home. How could it compare to the happiness and innocence Shen Jue experienced as a child, nestled daily in Shen Qingxuan’s arms?

Yi Mo finished his last cup of wine, rose, and said, “It’s late. I’m leaving.”

Shen Jue also stood and asked, “Where to?”

Yi Mo replied, “Anywhere.” Anywhere—it didn’t matter. He was a monster, needing neither human bedding nor comfort. Even sleeping by the roadside was sufficient; even guarding withered branches, he could cultivate. The vast world offered countless places to rest. Yet a century ago, before meeting Shen Qingxuan, he had roamed freely. A century after Shen Qingxuan was laid to rest, he had wandered in desolation.

Wandering to this day.

Ji Jiu stood beneath the window, his face blank, devoid of emotion—neither sorrow nor resentment. He merely stood there quietly, listening. Then he looked up at the moon. The moonlight cast a halo over his face, blurring his features and softening his edges into a serene brilliance. Yet beneath that serenity lay cold solitude.

The door creaked open.

Yi Mo stepped out, standing on the threshold. He turned his head, his eyes as dark as ink, glinting in the dim light as he stared across at Ji Jiu.

Their gazes collided, as if ancient rock strata entwined with vegetation were undergoing tectonic shifts. Beneath the surface, hidden streams surged, and dust and soil trembled as they erupted. The undercurrents broke through the earth, surging toward the heavens in an overwhelming wave. Ji Jiu’s entire body trembled.

Yi Mo approached.

His footsteps were silent yet carried a crushing weight, as though each step left an imprint on the ground. These footprints—one after another, from afar to near, from shallow to deep—moved slowly but powerfully, as if treading on Ji Jiu’s heart, crushing his existing world. Ji Jiu trembled even more.

Finally, Yi Mo stopped in front of him, gazing into his eyes, and quieted.

As if the sweeping storm had abated, its destructive force receded in his presence. Yi Mo stood there, silently, gazing at him, shielding him from everything.

Ji Jiu closed his eyes briefly, then reopened them and asked softly, “Who are you?”

“A monster,” Yi Mo replied.

“Your name?” Ji Jiu asked again.

“Yi Mo.”

“Who am I?”

Yi Mo lowered his eyes slightly and countered, “Who do you want to be?”

“Ji Jiu.” His eyes widened, calm yet firm. “I am Ji Jiu.”

Yi Mo looked at him intently, then nodded. “You are Ji Jiu.”

You are Ji Jiu, Yi Mo affirmed.

Ji Jiu stood still as the wind rose from behind him, whipping his long black hair into a chaotic dance, rushing against him and obscuring his face.

A wide sleeve stretched out—a dark robe—drawing the thinly clad Ji Jiu into an embrace.

The wind ceased, the chill dissipated. The wide robe sleeves, like a tent, like an iron wall, sealed off the outside world’s wind and rain, leaving only the faint scent of grass and wood in a serene world.