Chapter Seventeen: Lingering Melodies

If the boxwood tree in the small courtyard had feelings, it must surely be nursing a deep sense of grievance. It had rooted itself quietly in this soil, growing in peace and never contending with the world, yet lately it had often found itself targeted by its young master as a practice dummy. This could hardly be blamed on Yu Lang; boxwood, with its dense and sturdy grain, was indeed the ideal material for testing one’s skills.

After many sleepless days and nights of study, Yu Lang had finally gleaned some understanding of transforming spiritual energy into internal force. Yet that remarkable arrow, in truth, was a stroke of luck as much as skill. Through repeated trials, he discovered that using his method, he could reliably muster the strength of two stone-weights nine times out of ten, but if he forced it to three, the success rate dropped to two or three in ten, and beyond that, the odds became negligible.

Having heard Yu Lang’s account, Yu Chaoran considered quietly for a moment, then spoke: “Your progress is already quite remarkable. If you truly manage to forge this path, it will be nothing short of a breakthrough in the long history of cultivation—your name will be inscribed on the annals of our race.”

“Strength alone, however, is not enough. Archery demands more than brute force; it requires skill.”

After ensuring Yu Lang was well fed and rested for two days, Yu Chaoran began instructing him in technique. Even Qingqing, the clever maid, could sense her master’s urgency—something clearly weighed on his heart, and Yu Lang was certainly not oblivious, though he could not yet discern the cause.

“First, your stance. Good footwork, paired with the correct posture, allows you to conserve strength and unleash the full power of your shot…”

Yu Chaoran stepped forward, left foot ahead, knees slightly bent, drawing bow and nocking an arrow in a seamless demonstration. The movements were fluid—so natural that the bow seemed an extension of his body. Where Yu Lang merely used his strength to wield a tool, Yu Chaoran appeared to be unleashing some essence from within himself; the difference was profound.

Yu Lang nodded to himself—his own reflections echoed in this instruction.

“Next is accuracy. Hitting the mark is not simply a matter of aligning eye, sight, and target. You must read the wind, account for interference, and anticipate your target’s movements. The moment you draw and aim, a battle of wills begins between you and your prey—though, of course, if you are ambushing or shooting at a stationary object, it is simpler. My words may sound arcane, but in practice, no archer calculates precisely; veterans act on instinct. Begin, then, with stationary targets.”

Yu Lang could not suppress a wry thought: “I knew it—none of these ancients have ever heard of wind coefficients! Still, I suppose a seasoned hand has tricks of his own for shifting winds.”

Two months passed, and Yu Lang’s progress bordered on the miraculous. When sparring with Qingqing, she seldom lasted ten exchanges before yielding. His elusive and unpredictable inner force became an advantage, and his own quick wit left her feeling as if she were flailing at mist—her strength rendered useless.

A lover of naming things, Yu Lang christened his self-devised internal practice the “Double Peril Method”—the term “double peril” being a slang insult for the unreliable back in his own time, but it suited a technique that worked only by fits and starts.

As his strength grew, Yu Lang’s heart grew lighter. In his spare time, he would even coach Obaba, whose natural strength was impressive—nearly four stone-weights. He learned moves quickly and retained them well, but his mind was slow, and he lacked the adaptability to truly grasp the essence of technique.

The will of Heaven and human desire both have their course; what must come, will come.

That evening, Yu Chaoran summoned Yu Lang with solemnity to his own chamber.

Indulgent as he was, Yu Chaoran kept his own quarters humble. A single oil lamp flickered, its flame tremulous in the draft that slipped through the door.

His face, furrowed with age, was weary.

“Lang’er, you have reached the age when some things must be told. If you were a wastrel or a coward, I might have kept these secrets to my grave and let you live out a quiet life. But you are gifted, and with that comes the duty of being a member of the Xu family.”

Yu Lang’s hand tightened on his robe. The Xu family—at last, it had come.

“Your grandfather was Xu Jingye, grandson of Li Ji, Duke of the Tang Founding, who was granted the imperial surname Li and changed his name to avoid the emperor’s taboo. He inherited the title of Duke of England and served as Grand Governor of Yangzhou. He tried to restore order and overthrow the demoness Wu’s usurpation, but fate dealt him a losing hand.”

“Pei Wen, the Sword Saint of the Tang, was once your grandfather’s adopted son. Owing much to Duke Jingye’s kindness, he repaid that debt by aiding the then-Crown Prince Li Longji in exonerating other Xu branches. Our line, however, was implicated in treason and forced to change our name for survival. Before his death, Duke Jingye entrusted your father, Xu Jia’ao, to me. I raised him for sixteen years, but he fell, side by side with Li Taibai, attempting to shake the very Kunlun. The duty of raising you then fell to me. Now, you are grown…”

Yu Lang’s eyes reddened. To sacrifice so many years of youth for a promise to the dead—such devotion moved him deeply. “Grandfather…”

Yu Chaoran waved his hand with a bitter smile, tears glimmering in his eyes. “You are the young master of the Xu family. My real name is Liang; do not call me grandfather any longer.”

“It has been so long, I nearly forgot my true surname, forgot what I ought to do.” Turning away, the wavering light revealed the exhaustion in Liang Chaoran’s brow.

“All I have learned, I have given to you—or rather, returned to the Xu family, for it was Duke Jingye who once gave it to me. In a month, the entrance competition at Washing Moon Academy will begin. You must be ready. Your self-devised Double Peril Method is only a stopgap. Ahead, you will meet enemies more formidable than you can imagine, and you must seize the chance for that single place in the Bone Cleansing and Marrow Refinement. Alas, I will not live to see you become a hero. I imagine your story will be a fine one.”

“Grandfather…”

Liang Chaoran’s tone turned stern, almost harsh. “I told you, do not call me that. I am Liang Chaoran; I am no longer a vassal of your Xu clan!”

Yu Lang’s heart lurched—something must have changed within Liang Chaoran’s heart.

Liang Chaoran, though fond of Yu Lang, regretted his earlier outburst and softened his voice. “In these decades, I have repaid all I owed Duke Jingye. I have private matters to settle and must part ways with you.”

Yu Lang, quick of mind, understood that Liang Chaoran was off to face an adversary against whom he had little hope. He pleaded, “Don’t go! I don’t know what enemy you face, but wait for me five years. In five years, I might be able to help…”

Liang Chaoran smiled sadly. “Good child. Uncle Liang did not dote on you in vain.”

As he spoke, he struck like lightning, knocking Yu Lang unconscious.

He laid Yu Lang upon his own bed and tucked him in carefully. “Silly boy, this is the last time your grandfather tucks you in. When you sleep alone, don’t kick off your covers, or you’ll catch cold.”

Qingqing was out visiting friends, so Liang Chaoran told Obaba to watch over Yu Lang, saying only that he was drunk. Obaba, simple-hearted, suspected nothing and kept a diligent vigil.

Liang Chaoran fetched a spear and a bow, slung his pack, and left the Peaceful Lane. From the horse farm east of the city, he reclaimed the old steed he had entrusted there, swung himself atop its back.

“Old friend, forty years ago we fought side by side, winning countless battles. Now, at the dusk of our lives, we must ride forth once more! Will you give me one last battle?”

The horse, stirred by his spirit, threw back its head and neighed, bearing the old man in a wild gallop.

Like a candle burning itself down to its final, flickering light.