Faraway Wanderers

Chapter 23. Old Tales

Wen Kexing’s smile seemed to be hiding unspeakable sadness. “I’m surprised there’s still someone who can recognize his swordsmanship.”

Zhou Zishu fell silent. Not even Tian Chuang was entirely infallible; had it been the case then he wouldn’t be able to escape in the first place. Though, it was twenty years ago when the Swordsman of the Dazzing Fall secluded himself from the world, so no one really knew what happened with him and his wife since then.

He quietly studied Wen Kexing – the other man was sitting by the fire, back curved. He was supervising Zhang Chengling’s clumsy execution of what he was taught by his father long ago with a still, distant gaze. His aura exuded indifference and detachment, somewhat similar to how Wen Ruyu’s manners would be in Zhou Zishu’s imagination.

Then Wen Kexing began to sing. “There was the millet with drooping heads; then there was the new sacrificial millet sprouting. I moved about idly, heart in turmoil. Those who knew me spoke of my sorrows, and those who did not said I was seeking something. O distant and azure Heaven! By whom was this caused?  There was the millet with drooping heads; then there was the new sacrificial millet sprouting…”1

His voice was pitched incredibly low and was a little hoarse, a little morose. It carried a sense of disarray with the mixed-up words, each phrase and sentence sounding like it was rumbling deep in his chest and stuck in his throat, refusing to come out.

The fire crackled. Zhang Chengling turned to them to ask for instructions as he was confused about this one move, but his steps halted at the nearby singing.

Back when King Ping of Zhou ruled over the country and having to move residence, legends had it that when the physician Chu passed by Zongzhou2, the crumbling shrines and palace brought sadness to his face. Seeing the ground overran with weeds and millet, he thought up this sad melody.

He mourned the buried halcyon days, for the past that was no longer reachable.

Zhang Chengling, moved by the song, had numerous thoughts blooming inside of him. As young as he was, he didn’t think he had the courage to return to the Zhang residence in Jiangnan, the place that held his precious childhood memories. It must have been in a great state of ruin by now, a burden that he had to carry to the end of his life.

Zhou Zishu’s eyes narrowed as he fumbled for the wine pot tied around his hip. He took a big gulp with his head tilted backwards, the spiciness rushing straight up to his head and gagging him, making him shed a few tears.

Those who knew me spoke of my sorrows, and those who did not said I was seeking something…

This line was sung by Wen Kexing over and over with a hint of self-deprecation. His eyes curved, as if he found it entertaining.

What was he seeking, really?

After a good while, no one spoke. Wen Kexing’s humming died down; Zhang Chengling was already asleep, body tilted to one side, the tree branch he took passing now enveloped in his arms like a treasured sword. Something in his dream made his lips curve up and his brows furrow profoundly.

Zhou Zishu stood up, shedding his outer robes and using it to gently cover the child. His head hung low as he sighed, “Your father’s Dazzling Fall’s Eighteen Patterns was said to have taken jianghu by storm. Out of the three moves you have taught the boy, none of them seemed to belong to the Patterns; but when I thought about it, the Eighteen patterns and its ever-changing nature all originated from those three moves. What excellent… successor you are, Brother Wen, to have surpassed your father.”