Wandering Swordsman |

Spring is in full bloom in Jiangnan, with peach blossoms and willows in full bloom, and misty rain like gauze.

The drizzle fell gently, enveloping the entire water town in a hazy veil.

Amidst the green tiles and white walls, apricot blossoms fall and turn to mud; the reflection of the stone bridge is shattered and then reformed by the ripples, as if time itself has slowed down at this moment.

They strolled through the stone-paved alleys of Suzhou, the moss beneath their feet damp. Wooden windows on either side were half-open, and the sounds of Suzhou storytelling drifted from the depths of teahouses, accompanied by the gentle strumming of a pipa and the soft, melodious Wu dialect.

Shen Mo walked in the middle, holding Murong Qing's hand with his left hand and Situ Meng's arm with his right. The three of them walked slowly, as if afraid of disturbing the tranquility of this small space.

The covered boat glided silently across the narrow river, the boatwoman humming a little tune, the oars making a soft, rhythmic sound as they cut through the green waves, only to be quickly swallowed by the water.

Upon arriving in Hangzhou, they rented a beautifully decorated boat on the shore of West Lake.

During the day, the three of them rowed a boat on the lake, picking lotus roots and peeling lotus stems, laughing and chatting. Murong Qing sat barefoot on the edge of the boat, dipping her feet into the cool lake water, letting the koi carp gently nibble at her ankles, making her giggle; Situ Meng picked a newly blooming lotus flower and tucked it into Shen Mo's hair, deliberately teasing, "Sword God, are you still as majestic as you are today?"

Shen Mo was not annoyed. He simply picked up a plain fan and waved it gently. His moon-white robe made his features appear gentle and refined, and the coldness of his blood-stained clothes was no longer visible.

Looking at the two women before him—one with a touch of naivety amidst her heroic spirit, the other with a gentle strength hidden within her gentle demeanor—he felt a fleeting, almost extravagant thought: how wonderful it would be if the journey through the martial world ended here.

As dusk fell, they climbed the Broken Bridge. The remaining snow had long since melted, leaving only a stone arch lying across the lake, its reflection gleaming like gold in the setting sun.

Murong Qing suddenly broke off a fresh willow branch, skillfully tied it into a loop, and pinned it in her hair. Turning around, she smiled and asked, "Husband, does it look good?"

Shen Mo gazed at the light dancing in her eyes and said softly, "You're even more beautiful than on your wedding day."

Her ears turned slightly red, she smiled and looked down, but gripped his sleeve even tighter.

Situ Meng stood not far away, bent down to pick up a few fallen petals, and gently scattered them into the lake.

The petals swayed with the water, attracting a school of koi to leap up, their scales shimmering like broken silver. She turned and called out, "Husband, come and see! Don't they look like they're dancing for us?"

Shen Mo approached, put his arm around her shoulder, and whispered, "Why don't you dance for me?"

She feigned annoyance: "When you return from the far west, I will surely dance a 'Spring River Flower Moon Night' for you."

......

One day, the three of them accidentally stumbled upon an unnamed mountain temple. The ancient temple was hidden among the verdant peaks, with the sound of rustling pines and the distant tolling of bells.

An old monk in the temple was sweeping the steps when he saw the three of them approaching hand in hand, their eyes filled with affection and their behavior intimate. He couldn't help but smile, put his palms together, and asked, "Are you a newlywed couple enjoying a spring outing?"

Murong Qing's cheeks flushed slightly, and she lowered her eyes, remaining silent. Situ Meng, however, was poised and graceful, curtsying and smiling, "Indeed. Our husband brought us to Jiangnan just to see more of the beautiful scenery of this world."

The old monk looked at Shen Mo with kind eyes and said slowly, "Well said. Deep affection is short-lived, and extreme wisdom is bound to bring harm. But if we can spend a day together in this fleeting life, it is better than a hundred years of walking alone."

These words struck Shen Mo's heart like a bell.

He paused slightly, but felt an unprecedented lightness in his heart.

It turns out that the path I'm meant to take in the world isn't one of solitary heights, but one of sharing the same misty rain and keeping watch under the same dim lamp.

That night, the three of them stayed at a riverside inn outside Lin'an City.

The inn is small, but clean and elegant, with the babbling brook outside the window like a soft whisper.

The moonlight, like a ribbon, shone on the windowpane, casting three figures nestled together.

Shen Mo sat by the window, not asleep.

The candlelight has gone out, leaving only the moonlight flowing.

He gazed quietly at his two wives on the couch—Murong Qing lay on her side like an orchid, her breathing light and even, her long hair scattered on the pillow, her hand still unconsciously clutching the corner of the Tai'a sword sheath; Situ Meng curled up on the soft couch, a smile on her lips, as if she were dreaming of something sweet, even in her dream she was softly calling "husband".

A bittersweet warmth suddenly welled up in his heart.

This is the first time since his parents died of COVID-19 when he was a teenager that he felt "home" was not a distant dream, but a warmth that was within reach—the warmth of palms touching, the eye contact when sharing a drink, and the courage to pour out tenderness tonight even knowing that parting is imminent.

He gently got up, tucked the blankets around them, and brushed his fingertips across their eyebrows, his movements as light as if afraid of shattering a beautiful dream.

Outside the window, the stream still flows, and the moonlight silently blankets the way home.

He knew that in the far west, there might be no flowers, no moon, no laughter, and not even a return date.

But at this moment, he possessed enough light to support him through countless dangers to reach the far west.

......

On the seventh day at dusk, on the banks of the Qiantang River.

The tide surged in like a thousand horses galloping, rolling up countless snow-white waves, which, under the golden glow of the setting sun, shone with a mixture of red gold and silver.

The clouds on the horizon were like fire, burning the entire river surface with the color of parting.

The wind came from the East China Sea, carrying salty moisture, and rustled against the three people's clothes, as if heaven and earth were also humming for this parting.

Shen Mo stood on the highest rock on the riverbank, holding Murong Qing's hand with his left hand and Situ Meng's hand with his right.

He remained silent for a long time, only gripping their hands tightly, his knuckles turning slightly white, as if if he loosened his grip even slightly, this warm and gentle world before him would recede like the tide, never to be retrieved again.

The evening breeze blew, lifting a few strands of hair from his forehead and revealing the reluctance and tenderness filling his eyes, like a deep pool reflecting the afterglow of the setting sun and the figures of two women.

Murong Qing was the first to notice.

She turned her head to look at him and saw his Adam's apple move slightly and his eyelashes tremble. She knew what kind of turmoil was churning in his heart.

She leaned gently against his shoulder, her cheek against his warm neck, her voice so low it was almost swallowed by the sound of the tide, yet every word was clear: "We will wait for you to come back... like waiting for spring, year after year without fail."

Upon hearing this, Situ Meng's eyes reddened. She took a step forward, stood on tiptoe, and pressed her face against his chest, listening to his steady yet slightly rapid heartbeat.

She looked up, her eyes filled with tears and a smile, her voice soft as silk, yet with an undeniable stubbornness: "If you don't come back, we'll go find you. Even if we have to go to the ends of the earth in the west, traversing thousands of miles of yellow sand, we'll drag you back."

Shen Mo finally couldn't hold back any longer, her eyes reddening slightly. A tear silently slid down her cheek, falling into the river breeze and disappearing without a trace.

He opened his arms and embraced the two of them tightly, with such force that he almost wanted to meld them into his very bones.

His chin rested gently on Murong Qing's head, then brushed against Situ Meng's temple, as if he wanted to etch every moment of those seven days—the laughter at the Broken Bridge, the lively lotus picking at West Lake, the tranquility of the temple bell, and the warmth of the night conversation by the stream—into the depths of his soul, making it the only spark for him to traverse the far western desert in the future.

After a long while, he finally loosened his embrace, but still refused to let go. He gazed at them, his eyes burning, his voice hoarse yet resolute: "Wait for me."

It wasn't "I'll come back," but "Wait for me"—

These two short words are his fulfillment of his promise and a solemn entrustment of "home".

The sound of the tide remained, dusk settled, fishing boats sang their evening songs in the distance, and birds flew across the sky. The seven days of blissful time came to a hasty end.