Chapter Twenty-Three: Survival

Shangguan Chuci’s question was deftly poised, yet in truth, it had pressed Lu Chenyuan into an awkward corner. Lu Chenyuan, aware that he had just lost his composure and recalling the customary modesty expected of women, felt his cheeks flush with heat and shame well up within him.

Yet, having engaged with this “Young Master Chu” several times before, he knew her to be endlessly resourceful. If he simply dodged the matter, he would only fall into an even less favorable position. A thought sparked in his mind; instead of retreating, he advanced. Lifting his head, his gaze clear, he met her half-amused, half-serious eyes and said:

“Young Master Chu.”

“Yes?”

Shangguan Chuci had not expected him to face her teasing so directly, and couldn’t help but show a trace of surprise.

Lu Chenyuan said slowly, “Do you know why, with the moon above the sea, the stones beneath the tide, and a thousand sights to behold, I look at none of them and instead only at your feet?”

This question, truly “returning the gesture in kind,” flung the challenge back at her just as it had come.

Shangguan Chuci, sharp as ever, instantly understood his meaning and was momentarily at a loss for words. In all her years wandering the world, exchanging wits with countless talented men and masters, when had she ever been left speechless by a rough-spun youth?

Lu Chenyuan saw her rare discomfiture—her delicate brows faintly furrowed, the easy smile that usually graced her lips now faded—and a mischievous pleasure rose within him.

Imitating her usual tone, he drawled, “It seems… Young Master Chu doesn’t know the answer either.”

After a pause, he added, “Since neither of us knows, let this question remain a secret. Perhaps, it can only be traded for another secret.”

Shangguan Chuci, hearing him so perfectly mimic her favorite saying, was both exasperated and amused. A faint blush crept over her lovely face in the moonlight, and she chided, “Brother Lu, when did you learn such mischief?”

She raised the folding fan in her hand, meaning to lightly tap his shoulder, but midway through the gesture, she realized it was too intimate for her identity as “Young Master Chu.” Her arm stiffened in the air, then slowly withdrew.

Yet in that brief, aborted movement, a maidenly grace was revealed in spite of herself.

Just then, the sly smile on Lu Chenyuan’s face suddenly faded. His expression turned solemn as he softly said, “In truth, I don’t know what magic your feet possess that makes me stare so intently.”

Shangguan Chuci noticed the abrupt shift in his demeanor and, intrigued, fixed her gaze on him.

Lu Chenyuan continued, “Just now, something in the sea was calling to me. For a moment, I felt as if the whole world would be swallowed by that dark, vast ocean, with nothing but cold and silence everywhere.”

“Only your feet…”

His eyes fell upon her toes, still idly stirring the water. Gone was any trace of embarrassment—only a survivor’s earnestness remained.

“In that moment, to me, only they were alive.”

“The moonlight on them—alive. The spray lapping at your ankles—alive. Even the way your toes curled—alive.”

He spoke slowly, as if carefully painting a portrait of exquisite beauty recovered from the brink of loss.

At last, he lifted his head and met her wide, astonished eyes, speaking with utter sincerity:

“They made me feel that this ailing world might not be so hopeless after all.”

Shangguan Chuci gazed at Lu Chenyuan, stunned.

To be alive—those words seemed to hold extraordinary meaning for her.

For a moment, she forgot to withdraw her slender feet from the water, oblivious even to the briny wind tangling her hair. The roar of the waves and the whisper of the wind faded to the edge of the world, and in her heart, only the face of the youth before her remained, along with the ripples his words had stirred within her.

As she stood there, dazed, Lu Chenyuan suddenly recalled something and, uneasy, cast a glance in the scholar’s direction. Seeing that the scholar still sat on the reef gazing at the waning moon, he breathed a silent sigh of relief.

A silence followed—not an awkward one, but peaceful and full of unspoken understanding.

Letting the sea breeze play around them for a while, Shangguan Chuci finally glanced away, her voice gentle:

“In truth, I came here to clear my mind.”

Lu Chenyuan started at her words.

He remembered his master’s astonishing interpretation of dreams earlier that day, and his own wild, unruly visions. Looking at this “handsome young lord” who so stubbornly maintained her composure, for the first time he truly felt that perhaps they both bore a loneliness that could not be shared with others.

Lu Chenyuan was silent for a moment, recalling something she’d said earlier—especially, “I once tried to record my dreams on paper, lest I forget them.”

He did not know what she dreamed of, but imagined that she must treasure those dreams. So he said softly, “My master’s words might be nonsense.”

He paused, meeting her gaze, and said seriously, “But your dreams—I believe they are all real.”

At these words, Shangguan Chuci felt a sudden heat in her eyes, her vision instantly blurring. A thousand tides seemed to surge within her chest, threatening to spill as tears.

Proud by nature, she would never let herself lose composure before Lu Chenyuan. She sniffed hard, forcing herself to swallow the wave of emotion.

She turned away, not daring to meet his eyes, instead pretending to glare irritably at some distant, empty space, biting her lip and grumbling, “Brother Lu, are you part onion or something? Always saying things that strike right to the heart, making people uncomfortable.”

The words were meant to cover her embarrassment, but Lu Chenyuan, hearing the word “onion,” was instantly distracted. “Onion? What is that?”

No sooner had he spoken than Shangguan Chuci trembled and froze on the spot.

Onion…

She had once written about onions, yet when she tried to recall, could no longer picture their appearance, nor remember their use. But now, prompted by Lu Chenyuan’s question, the bulb’s roundness, its biting sharpness, the tears it brought unbidden—all sprang vividly to life in her mind.

Lu Chenyuan noticed the sudden change in her expression, so different from her usual poise. He wondered—could this onion be some common thing everyone knew? Had his question exposed his ignorance?

“Young Master Chu, did I ask something foolish?”

Shangguan Chuci suddenly burst out laughing, though her eyes were already misted with tears.

“It’s not a foolish question at all. In fact, it’s a wonderful… a truly wonderful question.”

Seeing Lu Chenyuan’s confusion, she drew a deep breath, struggling to master her agitation, and with a voice trembling with joy and tears, said, “Onion is a rare flower from my homeland…”

She strove to describe it, her words at first faltering, then gathering strength, as if she spoke less to Lu Chenyuan than to herself, trying to prove something.

“It is shaped like garlic, its segments as fine as jade. To look at, quite ordinary… but once cut open, its sharpness stings the eyes, and for no reason at all, brings forth tears.”

At those last words, a single clear tear finally escaped, tracing down her cheek and falling into the cool seawater at her feet.

Lu Chenyuan, though not understanding her agitation, listened with growing wonder. “The world is indeed full of marvels—there are such strange plants as this?”

Shangguan Chuci saw that he believed her, and even felt a little embarrassed by his own ignorance. Her heart swelled with laughter and a warmth she had never known before.

Unable to hold back the heat in her eyes, she quickly pretended the sand, swept up by the wind, had stung them, and wiped her face with her hand.

She sniffed again, struggling to calm herself, but a thought flashed through her mind like lightning:

“Earlier, in the tavern, I nearly lost myself to the encroaching murk, and it was his voice that called me back…”

“Before, to slow the fading of my memories, I had to willfully apply ways of thinking foreign to this era, but just now, with a single phrase—‘I believe they are all real’—he restored a piece of my past…”

“And he mentioned something in the deep sea calling to him, yet it was only my feet that kept him anchored…”

In that moment, she seemed to grasp a vital connection, perhaps even a clue to resolving her plight, or a secret touching on the very nature of the world.

But when she tried to probe deeper, to unravel the cause and effect, her thoughts tangled, and she could not find a clear thread.

Amid the confusion, she suddenly recalled something unrelated, yet of great importance.

Drawing a deep breath to steady her racing heart, Shangguan Chuci said solemnly, “Brother Lu, you just said something in the sea was calling you?”

Lu Chenyuan nodded. “So it seemed—near and far at once, impossible to grasp.”

Her eyes shone. “Brother Lu, do you know what lies hidden in the depths of the Eastern Sea?”

When Lu Chenyuan shook his head, a faint, triumphant smile touched her lips.

“This ‘Tide of Watching the Sea’—among true masters of the arts, it has another name: ‘The Dormant Dragon Tide.’”

“Dormant Dragon Tide?”