Wandering Swordsman |

Shen Mo and his two wives entered and saw He Yun sitting on a blue stone, playing with a long sword in his hand.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps coming from the doorway. He looked up and saw that in that instant, it was as if time had flowed back to the moment they met, and the young man with starry eyes, who had just entered the world of martial arts, was standing in front of him again.

"Brother Shen!" He stood up abruptly, his long sword clattering onto the stone, his voice trembling with disbelief, "Why are you here!"

Shen Mo's lips curved slightly, and a long-lost warmth shone in his eyes. Behind him, Murong Qing stood in white robes as white as snow, and Situ Meng in a red dress as red as the sunset. The two stood side by side, like spring mountains reflecting autumn waters, their gentle presence softening the entire Sword Tomb.

"The martial world is at peace right now," Shen Mo said in a low and soothing voice, as if afraid of disturbing this sanctuary. "So my two wives and I have decided to travel all over the famous mountains and rivers of the martial world and see all the hustle and bustle of life."

"Alright!" He Yun nodded vigorously, his voice firm. "Now that we're at the Sword Tomb, we must stay for a few days so I can show you some hospitality!"

Before she finished speaking, a burst of silvery laughter echoed through the hall. Zhao Xue strode in, carrying a beautifully sculpted little girl, a freshly picked wild chrysanthemum adorning her hair, her smile brighter than any flower.

"Qin'er, quickly call him uncle." She gently pushed the child forward.

The little girl was about a year old, with a round face, big eyes, and fluttering eyelashes like butterfly wings. She curiously observed the three strangers, then suddenly stretched out her small, slender hand and pointed directly at Murong Qing: "Beautiful!"

"So cute!" Murong Qing knelt down and carefully took the child. Qin'er had a faint milky scent, and her little hand clutched a strand of her hair as she giggled. Murong Qing's heart softened, and remembering that she was not yet pregnant, a fleeting trace of melancholy crossed her eyes, which was then covered by overflowing tenderness.

Shen Mo stared at the scene, then suddenly remembered something and turned to He Yun, his tone gentle: "Brother He, I heard from your letter not long ago that Yang Muruan is also pregnant?"

Upon hearing this, He Yun's face flushed with a shy blush, a blush that belonged to a father's pride and bashfulness. "Yes," he rubbed his rough hands, his gaze unconsciously drifting towards the west wing, "it's been four months already. Mu Ruan said that if it's a boy, we'll name him 'Chengzhi'; if it's a girl... we'll name her 'Nian'an'."

Nian An—Shen Mo's heart skipped a beat. This name was like a piece of warm, smooth jade, gently tapping on his heart.

He vaguely remembered when they first met, He Yun and he joined forces to save Zhao Xue. Back then, his eyes burned with fire; now, his eyes shone with light—a gentle glow polished by time and love.

"Brother He, why are your masters nowhere to be seen?" Shen Mo asked softly, trying to hide the emotions surging in his heart.

"They went out a few days ago," He Yun said with a smile. "If Brother Shen stays a little longer, you will naturally be able to see them."

Shen Mo shook his head, his gaze sweeping over the diapers drying in the yard, the rattle drum piled in the corner, and the wind chimes hanging under the eaves—every detail spoke of an ordinary yet fulfilling home. "There's plenty of time in the future," he said with a smile, his tone as firm as a vow.

Then, the two sat down at the stone table in the courtyard, the tea smoke curling upwards. He Yun talked about how Qin'er fell and broke her knee while learning to walk and cried her heart out, how Zhao Xue burned her wrist while brewing medicine but kept it from him, how Yang Muruan craved sour foods during her pregnancy and ate all the pickled vegetable jars in the kitchen... trivial things, yet every word was full of fragrance.

Shen Mo listened quietly, occasionally interjecting with a comment like, "Miss Zhao is still as stubborn as ever," or "Miss Mu Ruan's personality has become increasingly lively." He suddenly felt that, despite his vast travels and countless battles, he had never so truly touched the warmth of "being alive" as he did at this moment.

As the sun dipped westward, twilight, like ink staining rice paper, slowly seeped into the Sword Tomb. The three rose to take their leave, and He Yun saw them off to the valley entrance. The evening breeze brushed against his temples, where a few strands of silver had quietly sprouted.

"Brother Shen, until we meet again." His voice was very soft, as if afraid of disturbing the tranquility of the twilight.

Shen Mo stopped, turned back, and smiled. That smile lacked the sharpness of the Sword God and the oppressive aura of the Heavenly Demon God; it held only the heartfelt respect of an old friend for another: "Brother He, until we meet again."

The three figures gradually disappeared into the distance, eventually merging into the vast twilight.

He Yun stood there for a long time, until even the outline of his fluttering clothes could no longer be seen.

......

In late spring in Jiangzhou County, willow catkins drifted like snow onto the bluestone road. Shen Mo and his two companions rode slowly, intending to head straight for Mount Emei, but were stopped by a burst of shrill laughter from a street corner.

At the alley entrance, a emaciated little beggar was huddled against the wall, his clothes so ragged they barely covered his skin and bones.

He clutched half a hard steamed bun tightly to his chest, while three young men in brocade robes whipped his arm with horsewhips, their laughter sharp as knives: "You filthy beggar! You'd be better off dead!"

The child was only seven or eight years old, his face was covered in bruises, but he clenched his teeth and didn't cry out. His eyes were wide open, filled with fear and stubbornness—that look was just like his own when he was bullied by the young people in the small town.

Shen Mo's heart clenched, as if an invisible hand had gripped his very soul. He dismounted, his movements as light as if afraid to disturb an old dream, yet his steps were as heavy as mountains.

"Stop." The voice wasn't loud, but it was like a drop of boiling oil falling from a cold spring, instantly freezing all the noise.

The three wealthy young men froze, turning to scrutinize the suddenly appearing man in black. Seeing his refined air and the intimidating presence of the two women behind him, they dared not act rashly, yet still stubbornly asked, "Who are you? What's it to you?"

Shen Mo didn't answer, but slowly walked to the little beggar and squatted down. He took out a plain handkerchief from his sleeve and gently placed it on the child's bleeding wrist.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice so low that only the two of them could hear him.

The child shook his head blankly, but large tears rolled down his cheeks, landing on the back of Shen Mo's hand and burning his fingertips.

"Hey! Stop pretending to be a good guy!" A round-faced boy suddenly jumped out, chin held high. "My father is the richest man in Jiangzhou?"

"My father is the prefect of Jiangzhou!" another person chimed in, the jade pendant at his waist jingling.

The third person added with a sneer, "My father is the leader of the 'Iron Fist Sect' outside the city! You think you can afford to offend him?"

The three men chatted amongst themselves, as if reciting their fathers' names had erected an impenetrable wall. By this time, a crowd had begun to gather: "This outsider's going to get what's coming to him..."

Shen Mo suddenly smiled.

That smile was so faint, yet it seemed to freeze the spring breeze for a moment. He slowly rose, his gaze sweeping over the three faces, all bluster and no substance, his voice as soft as if he were asking about the weather:

"Oh? Does your father... recognize me?"

The three of them were taken aback for a moment, then burst into laughter.

"You recognize me?" The round-faced boy laughed so hard he almost fell over. "You poor wretch, you're probably not even as good as my father's stable boy!"

"Exactly!" another chimed in. "With your looks, you dare to meddle in Jiangzhou's affairs?"

"Just a conman!" the third man spat disdainfully. "If you're really that capable, don't leave! Wait for my father to come, and we'll see how you die!"

He turned and shouted to the servants behind him, "Quick! Go find my father and tell him I've been bullied by a charlatan! Tell him to bring his men here immediately!"

The servants responded and left, while the three men continued to surround Shen Mo, their faces full of contemptuous smiles.

They thought to themselves: Even if this person has some strength, he could never compare to the Iron Fist Sect leader, let alone the power of the other two's fathers.

Shen Mo sighed inwardly. He had intended to quell the conflict, but he hadn't expected these three youths to be so arrogant. Just as he was about to speak, he saw the round-faced boy's gaze shift from him to the two women behind him.

"Hey, ladies, you're really being disrespectful." The round-faced boy smiled and walked towards Murong Qing and Situ Meng. "Such beautiful women, how can they be with such an ungrateful person? Why don't you come with us brothers? We guarantee you'll have no worries about food and clothing, and you'll live a good life."

"Exactly," another young man chimed in, his eyes fixed on Murong Qing. "It's such a waste that such a beautiful girl is with someone like that."