Encountering a Snake - Chapter 16

V3C16

At the onset of winter, Liu Yan fell ill.

Having a sick person staying at an inn was inconvenient, and their travels had to be temporarily paused. Their carriage stopped in Nange City. Shen Jue purchased a small courtyard house in the city, and the three of them moved in.

Liu Yan’s illness was not severe—just a persistent low fever. Shen Jue had consulted several physicians, but none could diagnose the issue; they only said that two doses of medicine would cure it. However, after seven or eight days, despite the numerous decoctions and broths Shen Jue had prepared, Liu Yan’s fever refused to subside.

Since ordinary medicine wasn’t working, Shen Jue packed his belongings and prepared to travel afar to seek some extraordinary remedies.

Winter had arrived, and as soon as he opened the door, a swirling cold wind blew into the house. Squinting against the chill, Shen Jue stepped out and closed the door behind him. Footsteps approached—It was Yi Mo.

Seeing Shen Jue with his packed bundle, Yi Mo immediately understood his intention. “Don’t go,” he said.

“How can I not go?” Shen Jue replied. “The fever has persisted for days. If we don’t find a solution, it will only harm him further.”

Yi Mo shook his head and sighed softly. “He’s always been burdened by heavy thoughts. A sickness of the heart cannot be cured with medicine.”

“Because of Ji Leping?” Shen Jue froze for a moment before his expression turned slightly annoyed. With resentment, he said, “I shouldn’t have given him that pill back then. If I had let him die, we wouldn’t be dealing with this unfilial mess now!”

Shen Jue was deeply frustrated, and his words became sharp, devoid of his usual grace. Few people in this world could make him lose his composure—only family.

In truth, if one insisted on drawing connections, Ji Leping could barely be considered his family member.

But this familial bond was complicated. One could say that Ji Leping ought to call Shen Jue “brother.”

Ji Leping was the eldest son of Ji Jiu. Perhaps because he studied too much as a child, he seemed somewhat dull-witted. Ji Jiu, who was rarely home, would occasionally return and find his son to be nothing more than a bookworm—a man full of pedantic ideals but utterly devoid of independent thought. Though Ji Jiu never voiced his disappointment, he was undoubtedly disheartened. After all, he himself was a battle-hardened general who spent his life commanding troops and hearing nothing but the clash of weapons. While he had forbidden his son from practicing martial arts, he had never intended for him to become the lowest kind of scholar—a mouth spewing stale, pretentious rhetoric with no opinions of his own.

Ji Jiu was a man who lived his life with clarity and precision; the one thing he despised most was indecisiveness. Yet, ironically, this person was his son.

Every time Ji Jiu looked at his son, he felt a mixture of helplessness and frustration.

Ji Leping, on the other hand, found his father’s gaze icy and terrifying, making him feel deeply fearful. In truth, Ji Jiu had never mistreated him. It was simply the years of separation, coupled with Ji Jiu’s long life in military camps and his naturally imposing demeanor, that created an aura too overwhelming for the timid Ji Leping to withstand.

Unable to endure it, Ji Leping shrank into himself. Thin and frail as a child, his cowering demeanor made him resemble a frightened little mouse.

Ji Jiu didn’t know whether to be angry, amused, or pitying whenever he saw his son looking so pitiful.

When Ji Leping grew older, he no longer resembled a small mouse. Tall and lanky, his vacant expression made him look more like a stiff bamboo pole.

In Ji Jiu’s final letter home, he specifically mentioned his eldest son, instructing his wife to send Ji Leping to Shen Jue. He ordered that the boy spend three years in the army to rid himself of his pedantic tendencies.

Ji Jiu died on the battlefield, wrapped in a horse’s hide. Upon returning to the capital, Shen Jue did as instructed—he took Ji Leping and threw him into the military camp, starting him off as a lowly soldier. Shen Jue had no intention of deliberately tormenting him; he simply couldn’t stand it. Whether it was the frail Shen Qingxuan of his first life or the illustrious Ji Jiu of his second, Shen Jue regarded both as men of great character. Even Yi Mo, in Shen Jue’s eyes, could hardly compare to his father’s towering figure. For such a man to have fathered a son like Ji Leping—perhaps it was indeed true that extremes beget their opposites.

Thus, Shen Jue redoubled his efforts with Ji Leping.

In less than a year, Ji Leping’s bookish air had already been significantly washed away.

Perhaps Shen Jue had pushed too hard. In the second year, during the autumn, bandits caused trouble in Zhangzhou City. The local governor submitted a request to the court for troops to suppress them. As the one holding military power, Shen Jue assigned a general to lead 3,000 troops to eliminate the bandits—and he sent Ji Leping along as well. Shen Jue himself did not go.

Up until then, Ji Leping had only sparred on training grounds and drilled with troops; he had never seen a real battlefield or killed anyone. Serving as a front-line soldier for the first time, he witnessed the horrors of war—dead bodies, severed limbs, and blood-soaked earth. A former bookworm who had only just begun to shed his naivete, Ji Leping was overwhelmed by the trauma. He fell gravely ill, muttering in delirium for days, and when he finally awoke half a month later, he had gone mad.

When Shen Jue heard the news, he rushed to see Ji Leping. The sight was pitiful—Ji Leping had a persistent fever that refused to subside. Even when lucid, he displayed symptoms of insanity. Shen Jue had no choice but to seek out miraculous medicines. The remedy he found was extraordinary, not only saving Ji Leping’s life but also prolonging it.

Thus, when Liu Yan encountered Ji Leping, the latter was already a venerable old man of ninety.

Since that brush with death, Ji Leping had become a completely different person. He stopped reading, left the military, and even abandoned his mother and children to wander the world.

This time, in Nange City, they met because of a rumor. According to the townsfolk, a miraculous physician—a living bodhisattva—had appeared at Jishantang.

Liu Yan’s family had been strolling the streets and, hearing about this living bodhisattva, decided to see for themselves. To their surprise, it turned out to be Ji Leping—white-haired, dressed in simple cloth garments.

If he couldn’t immediately recognize Liu Yan as his father after decades apart, then standing beside Liu Yan, Shen Jue was unmistakable.

Upon recognizing Shen Jue and then seeing the youthful Liu Yan, Ji Leping realized that the two people who had “died” or “disappeared” had appeared together. It was simply too improbable to be a coincidence. They must be merely look-alikes.

Thankfully, Ji Leping’s age and experience prevented him from crying out in shock. Nonetheless, he was deeply startled.

Since they had been recognized, Liu Yan—staring at his son from a past life—decided not to evade the encounter. They went to a teahouse.

At the teahouse, the former father and son quarreled. Though Ji Leping had been a bookworm, he was not a fool. He had heard court gossip regarding Shen Jue and the emperor, and he even vaguely recalled, through his mother’s offhand remarks, that his father Ji Jiu might have had an ambiguous relationship with a man.

Now, seeing Shen Jue calling Liu Yan “father” while addressing another man as his father, Ji Leping quickly concluded that his own father must have had a proclivity for men.

Unaware of the full story, Ji Leping grew furious at this perceived “perversion,” as if it had personally harmed him.

Pointing at Liu Yan, Ji Leping cursed, “Shameless! Filthy!”

Liu Yan slapped him across the face without a word and walked away. Yi Mo followed, leaving Shen Jue behind with the words: “I’ve always regarded you as human.”

Then he, too, left to catch up with Liu Yan.

The father and son reunion ended in disaster. Upon returning, Liu Yan fell ill.

It wasn’t a serious illness—just a persistent fever that didn’t hinder his movement. Physically, it seemed to have no real effect; his body temperature was simply higher than normal.

Yi Mo was right—Liu Yan’s heart was too heavy. He had suppressed so much that his body found a way to release it through illness.

Even miraculous medicines could not heal a troubled heart. Shen Jue had no choice but to abandon his plan to seek remedies.

That evening, Liu Yan was reading in his room when Shen Jue brought in dinner and a bowl of medicine. Smelling the bitter concoction, Liu Yan frowned and smiled wryly. “I’ve been drinking this for days without improvement. Perhaps we should just let it be.”

“No,” Shen Jue said, handing over a bowl of dark, bitter medicine, his tone stern. “You must drink it.”

Liu Yan took the bowl, and after a moment of silent contemplation, muttered softly, “I only want you, my one son.” He drank the medicine in one go, frowning as he ate the fruit that Yi Mo passed to him.

Although his voice was quiet, the two present still heard him. Shen Jue had never been a father, but even he knew how much Liu Yan doted on Ji Leping. Yet now, saying such words—one could only imagine how much weariness and disheartenment hid beneath those light, fleeting words. Yi Mo let out a chuckle and looked at Shen Jue, saying, “I only want you, my one son as well.” Then he turned to Liu Yan and added, “If you won’t give me a son, then we’ll just raise this one together.”

Liu Yan’s ears flushed red immediately. He glanced at Yi Mo but didn’t lash out, especially not in front of Shen Jue.

The atmosphere relaxed in an instant, the hidden pains in the air quietly dissipating. Shen Jue chuckled, pretending not to have heard the last sentence as he contentedly sat at the table, serving rice. He knew, and Liu Yan also knew, that Yi Mo was not good with words. Even comforting others was not his strong suit. He deliberately said such things only to lighten the mood and stop Liu Yan from sinking further into sadness.

This was Yi Mo’s gentle way of solving problems.

After the meal, Shen Jue touched Liu Yan’s forehead. It was still hot—not terribly so, but the fever hadn’t subsided. Clearly, today’s medicine had been of no use again. Sighing, Shen Jue said, “Father, what’s the point of bottling up so many worries? Even if there’s something troubling you, you can talk to us about it. Speaking it out is better than holding it all in. How can you possibly recover like this?”

Liu Yan, cradling his book, seemed not to hear. Shen Jue could only continue clearing the dishes in silence.

When the dishes were nearly taken away, Liu Yan’s voice finally broke through softly, “I am old.”

“Hm?” Both Shen Jue and Yi Mo were taken aback. Neither had expected to hear such words.

Liu Yan sat in his chair, setting down the book. He studied his hands carefully for a long moment before murmuring, “It’s just the body that remains young. I… am old.”

Liu Yan said it—he was old.

And truly, he was old.

He was nothing more than an ordinary man, yet he bore the memories of three lifetimes. He remembered every change, every person, every event. He remembered the flow of time that surrounded him. His body remained youthful, still full of the vigor of youth, a time that should have been the prime of his life. Yet within that shell resided a heart that was ancient and wrinkled, etched with the rings of countless years, like an old tree. It bore witness to too many ups and downs.

Too many memories, too many pasts, too much time slipping away into new spaces—these had ground him down into an old man.

Even his own child, the one who once respectfully called him “father,” could turn against him and hurl insults.

The world no longer felt fresh to him.

Everything had been the work of time.

Liu Yan turned his face to look at the two beside him and said slowly, “I am truly old.”

As his voice fell, an overwhelming sense of weariness and sorrow seemed to flood his eyes, as though in an instant, countless wrinkles etched themselves across his face, aging him beyond measure.

The father and son beside him blinked instinctively, realizing then that there was nothing on his face—no wrinkles, no age. His skin was smooth, fair, and youthful.

It had all been an illusion.

And yet, for the first time, they realized that regaining the memories of three lifetimes had silently, imperceptibly aged him.

For so long, he had never spoken of it.

“So,” Liu Yan’s gaze settled on Yi Mo’s face as he rasped, “what exactly have you been hiding from me? Can you tell me?”

“Yi Mo, I am truly old.”

“I can’t take it anymore.”

“Please, tell me.”

The final words bordered on a plea.

In his youth, Liu Yan had never spoken in such a tone. Even when asking for help, he always carried a hidden pride.

Now, he had grown so old that his pride could no longer sustain him, leaving only one simple truth—

tl – I can’t take it anymore.