Chương 82: Closing Interlude II

Han Wenqing ascended into the air above Jadeflame Island, hands clasped behind his back. The sea wind pulled at his robes and streamed through his long hair and beard, though both were tied neatly at his waist to keep them from whipping loose. He hovered there with quiet steadiness, looking down over the island. Jadeflame Island spread beneath him like a polished jewel set in blue waters.

Sunlight gleamed off tiled rooftops and curved eaves, catching on lacquered pavilions, tall watchtowers, and broad merchant halls built of pale stone and dark timber. Banners stirred lazily between buildings. From above, the layout revealed careful planning, showing wide avenues leading to central markets, warehouses near the docks, and private estates rising toward the island's inner heights. The sea around the island rolled in steady swells, waves breaking into fine spray against the outer reefs.

The waters were usually busy with traffic: everything from merchant ships heavy with goods, and cultivator transports bearing protective formations, to smaller vessels ferrying passengers between nearby territories. Jadeflame Island stood at a crossroads of maritime trade, and its harbor was rarely quiet. But today, the surrounding waters were conspicuously clear. No ships dotted the horizon, and the main harbor lay open and orderly, its piers unobstructed and its approach left deliberately empty.

An important visitor was coming to Jadeflame Island. It was the reason Han Wenqing had taken it upon himself to wait in the sky. It had taken nearly an hour of heated argument, one of the rare occasions on which he had refused to yield, to convince his mistress, Song Shaoyue, to remain behind while he went to meet their guest alone. The coming meeting would be dangerous, maybe even potentially fatal, and in such matters, it was a servant's duty to stand before the master.

Song Shaoyue had not accepted that logic readily. She had argued with fierce resolve, eyes bright with a defiant, almost reckless light.

"If we are to die," she had said, her voice steady despite the anger beneath it, "then I would rather meet it fighting than cowering in these halls." Han Wenqing had answered just as firmly.

"If I go by myself, then my head alone may be enough to settle matters. However, if you stand beside me, a fight is almost certain to break out. And if that happens, then in trying to protect you, I will only ensure that we both die." She had not accepted his words easily, and even in relenting she had made her displeasure clear. Still, she had relented. In truth, Han Wenqing still hoped the matter could be resolved without bloodshed, though he understood how unlikely that was.

After the tournament and the choices his mistress had made at its conclusion, there was little reason to expect mercy. Qing remained alive, which in itself was something. However, the reports reaching Han Wenqing painted a grim picture, suggesting that Qing was now bound by so many soul oaths that he had little freedom left. In the eyes of the approaching visitor, Qing's offenses were comparatively light when measured against those of Han Wenqing and Song Shaoyue.

If the other elders of the main family had still been present in the Thousand Shattered Islands, there might have been room for negotiation, or at least for balance… But that was a useless thought. He had to contend with reality, not maybes and what-ifs. Han Wenqing narrowed his eyes. On the far edge of the horizon, a streak of azure qi cut across the sky, bright and unmistakable. It moved with tremendous speed, parting clouds in its wake as it descended toward Jadeflame Island.

Within moments it stood before him, the light resolving into the shape of a man, tall and slightly round, yet possessed of sharp eyes and a restrained, controlled air. His hair had grown longer and thicker since Han Wenqing had last seen him, framing his face more ruggedly. Back then, he had been neat and polished, with not a strand out of place. Now there was an edge to him. His robes were plain blue, and dark enough not to clash with his pale skin.

"Senior," Mo Jian greeted. He did not bow or offer a formal salute. Senior, huh. So he still rated that much consideration. It was a promising start.

"Mo Jian," Han Wenqing replied, returning the greeting with a full bow, hands clasped before him. He had no need for false pretenses or foolish pride. He was a servant, and unafraid to bow if it meant achieving his goals more effectively. Mo Jian nodded, his eyes sweeping over the empty sky behind Han Wenqing, then drifting down to Jadeflame Island and the vacant seas surrounding it. One eyebrow arched slightly.

"Song Shaoyue won't be joining us?" Han Wenqing had anticipated the question long before it was voiced and was prepared with an answer.

"Alas, my mistress wishes she could be here to greet you," he said, feigning carefully measured regret, "but she is buried under work. The management of the island and its trade routes consumes much of her time and attention, especially in such busy days." Below them, the empty ocean and deserted piers gleamed ironically beneath the sun. Mo Jian's faint, wry smile made the contrast all the sharper.

But Han Wenqing had uttered far more shameless falsehoods in his lifetime, and he was not a man prone to embarrassment over a bald-faced lie.

"Rest assured," he continued smoothly, "my mistress has entrusted me with full authority to speak and act on her behalf. Speaking with me is no different than speaking with both of us together." Though amusement still lingered on Mo Jian's face, his gaze sharpened at that. He gave a small, satisfied nod.

"That's good to hear, Senior. My words are meant for the two of you together, and I would hate to have this conversation again." If that wasn't a threat wrapped in layers of courtesy and silk, Han Wenqing would eat his own beard. Still, he nodded affably, keeping his expression open and cordial. That was his old habits resurfacing; the instincts he had honed when he was merely a Core Formation cultivator, struggling to carve out a place for himself amid the ruthless politics of the Song family.

Mo Jian drew in a theatrical breath, then spoke gravely.

"I come bearing grim news, Senior." Han Wenqing inclined his head, as if that made perfect sense.

"Of course," he said at once, prompting the other man to continue.

"There is a sickness spreading throughout the Thousand Shattered Islands," Mo Jian said, his tone heavy, as if witnessing a tragedy unfold on the horizon, "one that is as deadly as it is peculiar. I rushed over to warn you as soon as I could, given all the history between us." He paused, eyes sharp on Han Wenqing, gauging whether his words had landed. Han Wenqing maintained a neutral expression, revealing nothing. Mo Jian pressed on.

"You see, it affects only Nascent Soul cultivators and those close to them, which is why both you and Song Shaoyue are in danger. Old Devil Fu has already succumbed to it, and even Ancestor Qing barely escaped, so deadly is it. I would hate for you or your mistress to fall to it as well." Sickness, his ass. However, Han Wenqing did not voice that thought aloud.

"Grievous news indeed," he said instead, stroking his beard to buy time. The warning was clear enough, but he still needed to unravel its full implications before deciding his next move.

"So, I think it would be for the best if you and your mistress departed the Thousand Shattered Islands for a long time. Perhaps forever," Mo Jian continued casually, though the meaning was unmistakable. Han Wenqing nodded, masking the surge of anger the demand provoked, though that anger was tempered by an undercurrent of relief. He had feared a confrontation would be unavoidable. If they could simply leave… Yet that path carried its own thorns.

The Song family elders had made it plain, in the aftermath of the tournament, that Song Shaoyue could return, but not as heiress or a figure of influence. She would return as a tolerated embarrassment, a problem child allowed back by necessity, neither forgiven nor vindicated.

Han Wenqing still remembered how she had barely restrained herself from spitting on the elder's robes when he delivered that decree, and the vow she had sworn afterward: she would return with power and prestige, not crawl back as a supplicant.

"The warning is appreciated in the spirit in which it is given," Han Wenqing said carefully, deciding to test the waters.

"However, there are other considerations at play. Perhaps, if we were to quarantine ourselves and refrain from any movement, the sickness might pass us by…?" Mo Jian smiled. It was an indulgent expression, faintly amused, as though humoring a child who had proposed something clever without understanding the board upon which the game was truly played. The smile alone told Wenqing how his suggestion had landed. Still, Mo Jian's composure remained impeccable, courtesy draped over him like fine silk.

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"I am but a messenger," he replied mildly, though nothing in his posture suggested the humility of a mere courier.

"All I can do is speculate, Senior. But I doubt that would suffice. This malady is… thorough." His gaze sharpened ever so slightly.

"I would still urge you to depart. Who knows whether we will even be able to speak again in a week?" Han Wenqing said nothing. A week. The words struck harder than any threat. Anxiety flared, sharp and immediate, as his thoughts raced. That was no suggestion, it was a deadline. And from the firmness in Mo Jian's tone, there would be no extension granted. For a fleeting moment, he considered refusal. What would follow?

Would Mo Jian depart peacefully, his warning delivered, only for Han Wenqing and Song Shaoyue to collapse dead a week later, powerless to resist whatever "sickness" descended upon them? Or would Mo Jian strike now, unwilling to leave matters unresolved? Han Wenqing did not know, and, in truth, the distinction mattered little. Either outcome ended poorly for him. If he had possessed confidence in victory, he would never have allowed Mo Jian to steer the exchange so completely.

Yet the imbalance between them was unmistakable. Still… His mind moved despite himself, instinctively mapping possibilities. Even now, Mo Jian stood relaxed, seemingly unguarded. The opening was there. With the Urn of the Dead God, Han Wenqing could strike without warning; seal Mo Jian within its confines and shatter the space that held him. The image rose vivid and intoxicating: a single decisive blow, the threat ended before it truly began. Tempting. But would it be enough?

If Mo Jian survived that first strike, the battle would become catastrophic in an instant. Wenqing did not know how Mo Jian had defeated Fu, only that he had. Then he had gone on to suppress Qing, proving it was neither an accident nor a fortunate fluke. No, a fight here would gain him nothing save a swift and certain death.

"I see," Han Wenqing said at last, defeat threading his voice. He made no attempt to disguise it, nor to pretend he had not lost. It was not the outcome he desired, but neither was it the worst. As long as they lived, the rest could be managed. To depart without bloodshed was already a measure of tolerance he had not expected. Mo Jian heard the concession for what it was. His earlier amiability returned at once.

"Good, good. And do not fear for the island or the people you leave behind, Senior. My friend Liu Hong will step in to oversee all matters concerning Jadeflame Island and the Ming family's affairs. I expect the former patriarch of the Ming family, Ming Taishou, would rest easy knowing that." Han Wenqing was too disciplined to let the flicker of exasperation and dark amusement reach his face, though he felt it keenly. He was not angry.

In truth, had they been permitted to strip Jadeflame Island bare before departing, he would have suspected a trap. This arrangement, orderly, and controlled, was far more in keeping with Mo Jian's methods. As for Liu Hong… he recognized the name. One of those who had stood beside Mo Jian in Azure Wall City during his confrontation with Fu. So, this was the man's reward for his loyalty: stewardship of Jadeflame Island. And as for the final remark- Ming Taishou would indeed be pleased.

The now-dead patriarch would always relish any development that complicated matters for Han Wenqing and his mistress. This turn of events would have drawn a broad, satisfied smile from him in the afterlife. In a way, it was the natural culmination of his own schemes. Had Ming Taishou not invited rogue Core Formation cultivators to attend the auction under his banner, Mo Jian would never have appeared. Without that meeting, the enmity between him and Song Shaoyue might never have taken root.

Cause and effect – a single decision, rippling outward. One could almost call this Ming Taishou's revenge from beyond the grave. Han Wenqing inclined his head, knowing there was nothing more to be said. Sunlight shimmered across the waves below, fractured into a thousand shifting mirrors. The earlier breeze returned, carrying salt and something else; a faint, unexpected sense of relief. So, he and his mistress would leave this land behind.

Though their time here had been only a brief interlude in the greater arc of their journey, he could say with honesty that he would not miss it. In many ways, he longed for home, even with its tensions and its sharp reminders of past failures. These islands had brought him little but trouble and bitter lessons. Mo Jian offered a salute without lowering his head, the gesture formal, one peer acknowledging another.

"Then I'll take my leave, Senior. I expect we won't be crossing paths again. May the winds give your journeys wings." Han Wenqing returned the salute, completing the traditional exchange common to the lands near Song clan territory.

"And may the skies be boundless before you." Mo Jian turned to depart, cerulean qi already flickering across his frame like living flame. Yet now that the true matter had been settled, and survival secured at the cost of pride, Han Wenqing found a different impulse stirring within him. Curiosity.

"Mo Jian," he called. The other man paused and glanced back, mild puzzlement in his eyes.

"Forgive this old man's curiosity," Han Wenqing said evenly, "and of course you need not answer, but are you perhaps also considering departing the Thousand Shattered Islands? After all, you still possess the gui. That alone will draw endless trouble to your doorstep unless you take steps to rid yourself of it." Mo Jian's puzzled look shifted into one of genuine contemplation. Han Wenqing suspected he was weighing whether the answer was worth giving. He owed Wenqing nothing.

In his position, Han Wenqing himself would likely have refused. He was already bracing for dismissal. Instead, Mo Jian shrugged, as if the matter were trivial.

"Yes. I plan to leave for the capital soon. The gui, and certain other considerations, compel me to seek out an immortal. This seems as good an opportunity as any. Why do you ask?" The question carried no edge, only an honest curiosity, and Han Wenqing responded in kind.

"No great reason. As I said, I was merely curious." He stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"Though, if you are heading to the capital, tread carefully. I am hardly in a position to lecture you, but even for me it would be a perilous journey. Whatever you may have heard, it is unlike any other place on the continent. The imperial court is… not lacking in dangers." A fleeting expression crossed Mo Jian's face, half amusement, half something more elusive, something Han Wenqing could not quite name.

"Many thanks for the warning, Senior," Mo Jian replied lightly.

"But do not worry. I know a little about the imperial court and the capital city. I… read about it in a book once." There was something concealed beneath those words, a quiet omission. But that was fair. No cultivator laid bare their whole hand, not even in victory. And since Mo Jian had answered one question, perhaps… Han Wenqing hesitated only briefly. He had already surrendered his pride; there was little left worth guarding.

"Forgive me for asking, and you may decline, of course, but how did you do it?" He could not entirely keep the note of incredulity and envy from his voice.

"What treasure or technique allowed you to prevail? You are not the first to slay an opponent across realms, I know that. But such feats are always achieved through the backing of a higher-realm cultivator, or through some heaven-defying treasure. So, what did you find… and where?" Even as the words left his mouth, he knew he had overstepped. What cultivator would reveal the source of their strength to a former enemy? Only a fool would answer, and Mo Jian had proven many times that he was no fool.

Yet Mo Jian did not dismiss him. Instead, he appeared to consider the request. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as though he were weighing the consequences of revealing his hand and deciding how much it might amuse him. After a moment, he reached a decision, and did not bother to conceal the quiet schadenfreude in his expression.

"Ordinarily, I wouldn't answer," he said.

"But since it's you -" The emphasis on you made Han Wenqing's unease deepen. What sort of truth would please Mo Jian and trouble him?

"-I don't mind sharing a little. After all, you placed it into my hands yourself, Senior. Remember?" For a heartbeat, Han Wenqing did not understand. Then it struck him: the map. That scrap of cloth that supposedly led to an ancient cultivator's ruin. He remembered it clearly now, precisely because it had seemed so insignificant at the time.

Mo Jian had intended to claim it as payment from the Ming family's agents, and when Song Shaoyue and he had claimed the auction's spoils in their entirety, the map had naturally fallen into their possession as well. He had returned it to Mo Jian himself, partly to build goodwill, partly to bind him through obligation, since accepting advance "payment" would have made refusal difficult later.

There had even been calculations involving Mo Jian's disciple, an attempt to keep the girl aligned with their interests, though none of it had actually borne fruit. Han Wenqing became dimly aware that his composure had slipped. His eyes had bugged open, and his mouth was gaping, dealing a harsh blow to his carefully maintained dignity. He could not suppress the stunned disbelief that swept through him. Mo Jian had found such extraordinary power in a treasure that he himself had handed over.

Through the haze of his shock, he heard Mo Jian continue.

"It led to a domain, though I can't take credit for unlocking it; that was my disciple's doing. There, I found a path forward and corrected some of my… erroneous assumptions. So, in a way, it was all thanks to you, Senior." Mo Jian was clearly enjoying himself. Han Wenqing could only stare. All thanks to him. He truly did not know whether to laugh, or weep. For several long breaths, he remained where he was, suspended above the glittering sea, the wind tugging faintly at his robes.

Decades of careful calculation weighed upon him in that silence. He had built his life upon foresight, on seeing three moves ahead, on turning minor advantages into decisive outcomes. And yet- A trivial gesture. A scrap of cloth he had dismissed as inconsequential. A calculated "kindness," offered to secure leverage and bind a promising junior closer to his side. That had been the turning point. Slowly, he closed his mouth and forced his features back into place.

The shock retreated behind a reconstructed mask of composure, though the sting remained, sharp and humbling. Fate, it seemed, possessed a cruel and meticulous sense of humor.

"I see," he said at last, his voice steadier now.

"Then it seems my eyesight was poorer than I believed." Mo Jian did not contradict him. Silence stretched between them, no longer hostile, but layered with irony neither needed to articulate. The breeze shifted again, carrying the scent of salt and distant sea.

"At least," Han Wenqing added after a moment, a wry note threading into his tone, "it did not go to waste." That earned him a brief, genuine smile.

"No," Mo Jian agreed.

"It did not." For a fleeting instant, something almost like mutual understanding flickered between them, not friendship or reconciliation, but recognition. Two cultivators who had crossed paths at a crucial juncture in each other's lives, each bearing the consequences of that encounter. Then the moment passed. Cerulean qi surged once more around Mo Jian's frame, brighter this time.

"Take care on your journey, Senior," he said. Without waiting for further words, he turned and shot into the sky, a streak of blue that cut cleanly across the horizon before vanishing into the distance. Han Wenqing remained where he was long after the light had faded. Only when the sky returned to its empty stillness did he exhale.

"Well," he murmured to himself, stroking his beard once more, "this old man truly does have an eye for talent." The words were dry, but not entirely bitter. After all, the world of cultivation had never been fair.