Encountering a Snake - Chapter 24

V3C24

 

Liu Yan held him tightly. Though his embrace was firm, he didn’t know when the snake might bite him again. He wasn’t afraid of being hurt; the pain was nothing to someone who had fought on the battlefield. It was only instinctual worry, like a person walking under the blazing sun suddenly caught in a torrential downpour. What he feared was that moment of helpless disarray.

 

Of course, these words he would never say, nor were these worries something he could share. He couldn’t imagine himself saying to the snake in his arms: “If you’re going to bite me, do it now. Bite me to your heart’s content—kill me, if you must. Just don’t suddenly bite me when I think you trust me.”

 

He feared the pain of despair.

 

“Fear”—Liu Yan never spoke of it, but he had never avoided it in his heart. He still carried fear for this world.

 

Lofty mountains, the vast mortal world, the boundless heavens—if one felt no fear, then they could not truly be human.

 

Even the snake demon Yi Mo carried his own fears. Despite a thousand years of cultivation and the power to summon wind and rain, he had never resisted fate. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have obediently let himself be struck down to his original form; instead, he might have taken Liu Yan and fled to the ends of the earth to live out this life.

 

Liu Yan understood this reasoning, and so did Yi Mo. Shen Jue, however, could not comprehend it.

 

Shen Jue said, “I refuse to believe Father had no other way.”

 

Liu Yan replied, “What way could be better than this?” After a pause, he repeated, “Right now is good.”

 

At least they could still be together.

 

Being together was enough. Liu Yan did not ask for more. When he first heard this outcome, he had considered whether there could be other possibilities. With Yi Mo’s abilities, escape wasn’t impossible. But then what? Liu Yan was only a mortal—following Yi Mo would be a burden. If he stayed behind, the pain of separation would be unbearable. Or worse, on their path of escape, they might have to watch as their loved ones were wounded and died before their eyes. Such an ending would be too cruel for them to bear.

 

Compared to all that, they would rather live out their lives as they were now—together. Even if they could not recognize each other, they could remain close, and when they walked side by side on the path to the underworld, they would know they had given each other a life of peace.

 

Liu Yan closed his eyes, holding the black snake close to his heart. Over the past few days, the snake had grown used to this, no longer resisting, lazily letting him hold it, finding comfort in his arms.

 

Shen Jue watched them, unable to refute Liu Yan’s words. He knew that even Yi Mo could not out-argue Liu Yan, let alone himself. Perhaps, he didn’t even want to argue.

 

As a son, he could only watch helplessly as cruel reality fell upon his loved ones. This sense of powerlessness had appeared too many times in his life, and each time, it was always someone dearest to him. Each time, he was forced to confront his own helplessness again.

 

It was as though he had never grown up, as though he were still that child, watching his father grow old overnight, life withering before his eyes. He reached out his hand, again and again, trying to do something, yet each time, he came to an even deeper realization of his own incapability.

 

He could do nothing. He could achieve nothing. All he could do was watch them suffer, watch them endure hardships, while he stood beside them… only able to watch.

 

The hand he reached out fell back, time and again, carrying with it the wind he could not grasp.

 

He knew he was powerless to change anything, and his frustration and remorse only deepened this sense of helpless despair.

 

At times like these, only Liu Yan, who saw through everything, could comfort him, telling him there was no need to do anything. “You are enough,” he would say, “because this is enough.”

 

Even though he knew this wasn’t the best ending, since Liu Yan said so, Shen Jue quietly allowed himself to believe it. He believed it so that Liu Yan would not have to divert his thoughts from sorrow to worry about him rashly doing something. Fully understanding this, Shen Jue let himself accept that such an ending was the best outcome for the separation of human and demon paths. No one was unhappy, no one was unwilling. They couldn’t be, and they didn’t dare to be.

 

A long time ago, General Ji on the battlefield had once said that a person must have reverence. Why he said this and under what circumstances, Shen Jue could no longer clearly recall. But he always remembered that day, Ji Jiu’s hands were covered in blood, his entire body reeking of blood, yet his expression was solemn as he said those words.

 

What should one revere? Shen Jue did not ask. Perhaps it was reverence for a person, perhaps for a certain thing, or perhaps for something void and intangible.

 

Because there was reverence in one’s heart, people did not dare to recklessly commit evil. Because there was reverence, generals would not lightly kill those who did not deserve death.

 

Because there was reverence, the very first lesson in life, from the moment of birth, taught that “human nature is inherently good.”

 

It was out of reverence that, knowing the outcome was not ideal, there was still no hesitation—like a hero at the end of his path, like a beauty fading with time. The former lost to an unbeatable opponent and accepted it willingly; the latter succumbed to the unstoppable passage of time without complaint.

 

Ji Jiu had said this before. Liu Yan had also said it.

 

Shen Jue could say nothing more, only murmuring softly, “As long as Father feels this is good, then it is good.”

 

Liu Yan truly believed that this was good. He could be with him, appreciating the same blooming flower, so vibrantly beautiful; watching the same golden wheat fields, full of harvest. Perhaps, he could even take him to roam the world, savoring the countless flavors of mortal life. Then, on the road to the afterlife, they could talk about the paths they had traveled, the flowers they had seen, the wine they had drunk, and the people they had met.

 

There, Liu Yan could calmly tell Yi Mo that these years had not been in vain, that time had not been wasted. They had walked through the four seasons together, through the years together. You and I had walked together, never apart.

 

Liu Yan felt that this was good. With no more greed, his heart was content.

 

Sitting in the courtyard, he held a snake with a full belly in his arms. The rocking chair swayed gently as he watched the flowers bloom and fall outside the courtyard, the green fruits on the branches ripening into a reddish hue. He saw fledglings spread their tender wings for their first flight. He watched quietly and serenely, a smile on his face, as the years passed peacefully.

 

Shen Jue had gone down the mountain to make purchases. Autumn was nearly over, and winter was approaching. The quilts at home needed refurbishing, winter clothes needed to be bought, and the charcoal from last year was nearly used up. He needed to prepare plenty of charcoal so the house would burn warm through the winter nights, as if the warmth of the house could also warm the heart, never letting it grow cold again.

 

There was much to purchase, so Shen Jue would not be back for some time. Sitting in the courtyard, Liu Yan suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to tell him not to buy too much. Come spring, when Yi Mo’s hibernation ended, they would be leaving.

 

The last time they traveled, they had returned halfway through, disappointed and dispirited. This time, Liu Yan wanted to take the black snake in his arms and see all the mountains and rivers before returning.

 

When they returned, the snake in his arms might already be an old snake. There was still a long time ahead, but Liu Yan no longer wanted to waste it.

 

At that time, wheat sprouts would be fragrant, peach blossoms vivid, apricot flowers pale pink, pomegranate flowers fiery red, and rapeseed flowers brilliantly golden. When one season of flowers finished blooming, another would take its place. Back then, he had been young and arrogant, frivolous and reckless, betting his life on Yi Mo’s soft heart. He always thought time was long and squandered it carelessly. He never thought that the next season’s flowers, though identical, would not be the same ones as before.

 

How ignorant he had been.

 

Gazing tenderly at the black snake in his arms, Liu Yan thought, thankfully, through three lifetimes of twists and turns, he was still here. Thankfully, there was someone who had held on persistently, never giving up, allowing him to take his hand once more, to correct his ignorance and truly be together, living a full life anew.

 

The autumn sunlight, warm yet tinged with bleakness, fell silently upon him.

 

By evening, a wind began to blow in the mountains, bringing a sudden chill. Liu Yan rose to head indoors, but as he turned, the corner of his eye caught a patch of green outside the low courtyard wall amidst the yellowing scenery.

 

The long-absent little pine tree spirit was standing outside the courtyard wall, hesitating, unsure whether to enter.

 

Liu Yan instinctively moved to open the gate for him, but his steps froze just as he started. How could he give hope to something impossible? After a brief hesitation, he still opened the gate and looked at the somewhat bewildered, still innocent face. “It’s been a long time since you came. I thought you’d left the mountain.”

 

The little pine tree spirit shook his head, gazed at him for a moment, and then looked over Liu Yan’s shoulder into the courtyard. Not seeing the person he was looking for, his brows faintly furrowed with disappointment. “I can’t go far. I just went back to cultivate.”

 

“Won’t you come in and sit?” Liu Yan asked. “There’s osmanthus cake you like.”

 

“…No.” The little pine tree spirit lowered his head, and only then did he notice a snake’s body peeking out from Liu Yan’s collar. At a glance, he sensed something was off. The snake was much thinner now, no longer the thick and frightening figure in his memory. He was startled and, without hiding it, pointed and asked, “What happened to him? Is he injured? Why has he become so small?…”

 

Before he could ask more, Liu Yan cut him off, saying calmly, “He’s no longer a demon, just a snake.” As he spoke, Liu Yan tucked the snake more securely into his collar. Yi Mo, nearing hibernation, was sleeping soundly, wrapped tightly in fabric.

 

The little pine tree spirit did not expect this answer. In just a few months, it seemed so many things had changed. Realizing his own rudeness, the little pine tree spirit stammered an apology and hurriedly ran away.

 

Liu Yan watched him leave in a panic, then looked down at the snake in his arms with a sigh. “Your old appearance must have frightened many. Now that you’ve shrunk, how are you still so frightening?”

 

The black snake moved its tail unconsciously, coiling around his back as if unaware and continued to sleep.

 

Eat, sleep, then crawl around—perhaps up a tree or along a wall—and eat some more. This was his life now.

 

Liu Yan reached into his collar, unable to resist rubbing the snake’s head. “If I manage to raise you into a fat snake, that will be my accomplishment.”

 

The snake endured the rubbing without complaint. Once Liu Yan withdrew his hand, it shifted slightly, resting its head at Liu Yan’s neck and, nestled in fabric, drifted back into its peaceful dream.

 

By the time night fell, Shen Jue had returned, carrying bags upon bags that formed a small mountain, as if they weighed nothing. He carried them into the courtyard.

 

After putting everything down, Shen Jue washed his hands and pulled out some hot food he had packed. “It’s yellow wine braised chicken. Father, do you want some?”

 

“Have you eaten?” Liu Yan asked.

 

“I ate before I returned,” Shen Jue replied.

 

Liu Yan was about to say something when the scent of food roused the snake, who poked his head out and flicked his tongue at the chicken. Liu Yan tore off a piece of meat to feed him, starting to worry if he might overfeed the snake.

 

Shen Jue said, “It should be fine. He needs to eat more before hibernation.”

 

“He swallowed two eggs at noon,” Liu Yan pointed to the courtyard. “The eggshells probably haven’t dried yet.”

 

Neither of them had ever raised an animal before. For all their shrewdness, they were at a loss here, exchanging glances.

 

“Maybe…” Shen Jue hesitated. “Feed him less?”

 

“Mm.” That was all they could do. Liu Yan didn’t mind raising a fat snake, but he feared raising a sick one.

 

As Shen Jue stood by watching, he suddenly said someone had arrived. He went to the gate, and Liu Yan saw someone enter—a figure in white robes with silver hair shining faintly in the darkness.

 

“Shen Qingxuan, I’ve come to see you.” The man spoke, his voice loud but coarse and aged. Liu Yan paused for a moment, finding the voice both unfamiliar and oddly familiar.

 

“Why are you here?” Shen Jue stood to the side, his tone lukewarm.

 

“Haha, I have nowhere else to go, so naturally, I came to find you.” The man’s voice remained elderly and frail, yet there was still a playful tone in it. Liu Yan suddenly realized that the visitor was Xu Mingshi.

 

Xu Mingshi walked up to Liu Yan and stopped. Under the flickering candlelight in the room, he looked at him and said, “I came to check on you.”

 

His back was hunched, as if the years had piled into a mountain that bent his spine. When he said this, his eyes narrowed, with the murky quality unique to the elderly, and his face was lined with deep wrinkles. Though it had only been a year since they last met, he seemed to have grown much older.

 

Xu Mingshi looked at Liu Yan, then dropped his gaze to the black snake in Liu Yan’s arms. With the same hoarse and aged voice, he said softly, “Old snake, do you not recognize me? I came to see you, but you don’t seem to know me anymore. You old snake, you’re so troublesome.”

 

In that moment, Liu Yan understood: Xu Mingshi had come to say goodbye.

 

“Shen Qingxuan,” Xu Mingshi said, “I’ve settled all my affairs and have nowhere left to go. Could you, like before, let me stay as a guest in your home?”

 

Liu Yan curved the corners of his lips slightly and said, “Since when did Xu Mingshi become so unnecessarily polite?”

 

Xu Mingshi chuckled, “Then I won’t stand on ceremony.” Turning to Shen Jue, he added, “Boy, I can’t walk any farther. Find me a room and make me a bed.”

 

Although there was past resentment, this time, Shen Jue said nothing. He turned and went to the side room to prepare a place for him. Liu Yan invited Xu Mingshi to sit down, and the two sat at the table, drinking tea and chatting.

 

Before long, the room was ready. Xu Mingshi let out a yawn and said, “I’m going to rest now. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

 

“Xu Mingshi,” Liu Yan called out to him from behind and asked, “Will you be able to spend New Year’s Eve with us this year?”

 

With his back to him, Xu Mingshi laughed and said, “I can make it through this winter. Forget New Year’s Eve — I’ll even see the Lantern Festival.”

 

“That’s good,” Liu Yan replied.

 

“I’m off to sleep,” Xu Mingshi said, his back hunched as he slowly walked away.

 

Shen Jue stood to the side, watching him enter the room and extinguish the candle. The guest room was swallowed by darkness. Only then did he turn back to Liu Yan and say, “He doesn’t have many friends.”

 

Liu Yan nodded, and after a long silence, he said, “Since he’s come to us for this final stretch, we’ll send him off properly.”

 

Shen Jue responded with a quiet “Hmm” and said, “I understand.”

 

“After all,” Liu Yan added softly, “it’s a friendship of centuries.”

 

Even with a bond spanning a hundred years, parting is inevitable.