Chapter Eleven: Nightmare

After falling into a deep sleep, Lu Chenyuan was plunged into a silent nightmare.

In the dream, heaven and earth were in chaos, nothing but boundless emptiness, with only a single man and his sword.

He could not see his own form, yet he could acutely sense the bone-chilling loneliness that surrounded him.

Ahead, a figure in pale blue stood quietly.

She stood there, serene and aloof, like a solitary blue lotus untouched by the world, her bearing unmatched and ethereal.

It was his master.

A hint of warmth welled up in his heart.

But that warmth was instantly frozen by a flash of icy light.

A sword—a long, cold blade as clear as autumn water—had appeared at his chest before he even realized when. There was not a hint of flourish, nor a sound; it simply pierced straight through.

He lowered his head and could see the tip of the sword emerging from his back, a single bead of blood sliding silently down the edge.

The blood fell into the emptiness, yet it seemed to drip onto his heart and into an endless abyss.

He could feel his life slipping away, drop by drop, with the blood that dripped to the ground.

He did not struggle, nor utter a word—only lifted his head, gathering the last of his strength, to look at the one holding the sword.

On the face he would risk his life to protect, there was no trace of joy, only sorrow and unyielding resolve too deep to dispel.

Two silent tears slid down from those peach blossom eyes, always seemingly touched with a hint of drunkenness.

She had killed him, yet the pain in her was greater than his own.

...

Lu Chenyuan jolted awake from the nightmare, sitting up abruptly, his chest heaving violently.

The piercing pain and chilling cold where the sword had passed through his heart felt so real that he was momentarily unsure of where he was.

He panted heavily, instinctively reaching for his chest. Beneath his clothes, his skin was whole, without a single wound.

Steadying himself, he realized he was still in that dilapidated woodshed behind the inn.

A sliver of pale moonlight spilled through the broken lattice of the window.

In that hazy light, he saw a figure lying on her side.

She was curled up on the pile of dry straw beside him, covered only by his half-worn outer robe.

Her ink-black hair fanned out behind her, and under the moonlight, her exquisite face was peaceful in sleep; long lashes cast faint shadows, her breathing was slow and even—she was sound asleep.

It was his master.

Lu Chenyuan’s heart pounded wildly. For a moment, he forgot the terror of the nightmare, left only with astonishment and confusion.

He had made her angry last night, convinced she would, as always, retreat alone to the rooftop, drinking by herself under the moon until dawn.

He never imagined she would return to this narrow, cold woodshed and sleep by his side.

He dared not imagine what she felt as she descended from that cold rooftop, nor what she saw in her eyes as she looked at the one who had hurt her so deeply, now fast asleep on this makeshift bed.

Just then, a chill ran down his spine.

The lingering fear of the nightmare remained, yet the monster within him was unusually quiet.

Lu Chenyuan swiftly examined himself, finding that the transformation which always stirred after such dreams was entirely absent.

He quickly recalled when, during his confrontation with Zhao Chengde, his master had seemed to neutralize his strange condition with a mere drop of wine.

Could it be that she had foreseen this and came here especially to help suppress it?

At this thought, her words—“Don’t ever come to see me again”—floated into his mind.

Looking at his master’s delicate, tranquil sleeping face, an overwhelming wave of regret and guilt surged within him, drowning out all else.

The nightmare came back to him as well.

Could his master, who had always been so good to him, truly kill him?

He tried his best to convince himself it was nothing but a wild, absurd dream—a product of his own restless thoughts.

But in his mind, the image of that sword slashing through the heavens flashed uncontrollably once more.

That dream had been corroborated by the words of the disciples from Mount Wanyan; it was not just an illusion.

And what of this dream?

Cold seeped into his bones.

Was it a memory etched into his soul from long ago, or a future he could never escape?

...

By now, the sun was already slanting westward, but the main hall of the Watching Tides Inn was still bustling with noise.

Lu Chenyuan had recovered from the midnight nightmare and had no intention of mentioning it to anyone—least of all his master.

At this moment, he was slowly wiping down a greasy Eight Immortals table with a damp cloth.

His movements were unhurried, his expression focused, but his eyes were not on the stains—they peered through the crowd, fixed on the most unusual table in the corner.

There sat the four ruffians from the previous day, the same ones caught cheating at dice.

But with them was another man—Manager Zhang, the silk merchant who had nearly lost his entire fortune to them yesterday.

Lu Chenyuan’s mind stirred, and he mused to himself:

“There’s something strange about all of this. Manager Zhang was clearly swindled out of his life’s savings by these men yesterday. By rights, he should greet them with nothing but hatred, yet today he sits with them at the same table. Though he still seems uneasy, there is more fear than resentment in his demeanor.”

He watched as the sharp-faced man poured wine for Zhang with a wide, ingratiating smile, saying something quietly.

Manager Zhang only nodded and drank, his face more miserable than if he were crying.

That faint, miasmic aura about these men seemed even more pronounced now—a rotting, corrupt stench that would make ordinary folk feel cold and uneasy, but to Lu Chenyuan, it stood out like a beacon in the darkness, stirring the monster deep inside him.

Without betraying his thoughts, he picked up a fresh pot of hot liquor and strode toward their table.

“Gentlemen, would you care for more wine?” he asked as he approached, his voice calm, eyes sweeping over the faces of the men and of Manager Zhang.

The sharp-faced man didn’t even look up, but stretched out a hand to block the wine pot, replying coldly, “No need. We have enough wine here.”

Though he refused, his hawk-like eyes swept over Lu Chenyuan, radiating a wariness and chill that no common gambler could possess.

Lu Chenyuan felt a prickle at the back of his neck under that gaze.

He said no more, bowed slightly, and withdrew.

But the suspicion in his heart only deepened.

Though he had no proof, he was certain these men were staying at the inn for reasons other than gambling—and even the seemingly meek Manager Zhang was shrouded in a peculiar unease.

His thoughts turned to the enigmatic young noble in white whom he had encountered in the alley—the farce that had seemed a rescue but was nothing more than misplaced chivalry—and his wariness grew.

This Zhenhaichuan was no longer the jianghu he once knew.

Just as he returned to the counter, he overheard a conversation at the next table, where several burly, weather-beaten men were talking loudly, their voices rising above the din.

One of them, a big man with a bushy beard, thumped a horn cup on the table and declared, “Have you heard? That group of itinerant cultivators from the South Sea—unbelievable, really—daring to swagger into Zhenhaichuan with such a treasure!”

Another chimed in, “Who hasn’t heard? The ‘Bright Moon of the Vast Sea’! What a name—so dazzling! They say the jewel is as big as a fist, deep blue all over, and under the moon it glows with its own light, like a full moon sinking into the deep sea—a true marvel of heaven and earth!”

“A marvel, yes—but also a death sentence!” the bearded man sneered. “This place is crawling with all sorts—the righteous, the wicked—every sect and cutthroat is watching them. I bet those outlanders won’t last three days before they lose their treasure and their lives, bodies never to be found!”

A third man lowered his voice, speaking mysteriously, “You only know of the treasure, but not its power. I’ve heard that the Bright Moon of the Vast Sea is not prized for its beauty, but because it can suppress the foul currents and purify the dao heart!”

“What?!”

“It has such powers?!”

The group gasped in unison, eyes filled with greed and astonishment.

Lu Chenyuan felt a jolt in his heart as well; he couldn’t tell whether the rumor was true, nor whether such a treasure, said to suppress corruption, could help him with his own affliction.

After all, his condition seemed not quite the same as the so-called “foul currents.”

At that moment, the noise at the inn’s entrance abruptly died down.

Everyone unconsciously paused, drinks and words forgotten, turning to look at the door.

A group of people entered.

At their head was a young noble, sixteen or seventeen years old, dressed in pale moon-white silk, his features as fine as carved jade, lips tinted vermilion, bearing himself with stately grace. In his hand, a white jade folding fan swayed gently.

Behind him came two guards in dark robes, their auras controlled and eyes gleaming with inner power—they were clearly cultivators of some skill.

As they entered, the already crowded main hall felt even more cramped.

The innkeeper, Moneykeeper Qian, whose eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s after years in the business, spotted the group’s imposing air and immediately hurried out from behind the counter, wrinkles folding into a blooming chrysanthemum of a smile.

He bowed and said, “Oh, young master, will you be dining or staying the night?”