HEIMIANFO—the Black-Faced Buddha—was a towering cliff that jutted into the clouds, its jagged rocks pitch black and overgrown with weeds. From certain angles, it vaguely resembled the shape of a seated Buddha. Standing at its base, one almost heard the ancient, resonant chanting of Buddhist sutras; it was enough to inspire one to kneel in reverence.
The winter snow blanketed the entire mountain in white, including Heimianfo itself; drifting clouds shrouded the Buddha's neck and head, while its body lay covered in thick snow that resembled a monk's white robe, pure and solemn.
Xiahou Lian climbed, braving the biting wind. He carried only a few cold buns, some flint, and a rope, as well as his blade, Hengbo. Fine snow settled on his eyelashes until they resembled white crow feathers. His feet had long since numbed, but he trudged forward mechanically like a puppet oblivious to the cold.
He'd returned home once. The bamboo house had already been desolate; with one resident fewer, it felt even more like a ruin.
Initially, Xiahou Lian sometimes forgot his mother was gone. Out of habit, he'd knock on her door each morning to wake her. He would prepare meals for two, setting the table with two bowls. He was used to living alone in the bamboo house, but now he was at a loss.
He sat under the eaves for hours at night, lost and staring into space. The mountain nights were eerily silent, as if the world had emptied, leaving only him behind. He felt like a young wolf that had stepped into the treacherous forest alone for the first time, freshly trained to hunt, but then been battered and wounded by foes. That young wolf had believed that he could return to the warmth of his mother wolf's care, only for him to discover that their den was gone. However deep his wounds, no comfort awaited him.
Everyone told Xiahou Lian that death was inevitable, especially for their kind—living on the edge, lives hanging by a thread. Countless assassins had met gruesome ends, their bones piling up beneath sword mounds. None lived to old age. But those who told him that had forgotten that those assassins had no children; they lived and died alone, leaving no one to remember them when they vanished from the world.
Xiahou Pei, however, had a child. He was proof she'd once lived. Apart from Xiahou Lian, no one in this world would mourn her in the quiet of the night nor wander alone in the evening snow bearing her blade. Only he—her son, Xiahou Lian—could avenge her.
Looking at his palm, Xiahou Lian silently thought, Yes. There's only me.
It took him a full day to reach Heimianfo's shoulder. At that point, night had fallen, and he chose not to climb any farther. Instead, he lit a fire in a cave within the Buddha's ear, deciding to rest there for the night.
The vast night was black edged in faint blue. Snow blanketed the entire mountain. From the shoulder of the Black-Faced Buddha, the mountain's depths seemed shrouded in mist or some sourceless smoke. A few lights occasionally shimmered into view, scattered across the mountain like lonely fireflies or fallen stars.
Xiahou Lian quickly spotted his bamboo hut, swallowed now by heavy darkness and deathly silence. He'd erected a cenotaph for Xiahou Pei there; if her spirit returned, it would find her favorite liquor placed before her tomb.
Holding Hengbo in his arms and stroking it, Xiahou Lian slowly closed his eyes.
Suddenly, the mournful sound of a xun drifted to his ears. Xiahou Lian shivered, unnerved to hear the sound in such a desolate, empty place. He stepped out of the cave and glanced upward, but the oppressive darkness revealed nothing. The source of the sound wasn't nearby; rather, it mingled with the wailing wind, like the whisper of an ancient ghost wandering the plains.
Is he the one playing the xun? Xiahou Lian sat by the fire, lost in thought. Is it him? That boy—his brother.
The sound of the xun was inexplicably powerful as it glided quietly over the rocks of Heimianfo and echoed into the distance. In that vast, cold night, Xiahou Lian suddenly sensed that someone else—someone like him—was also gazing at the dark, snowy mountain. And that person too was a lonely child, one who'd spent seventeen years on this snowy peak.
Xiahou Lian had never met Chiyan. Though they were brothers by blood, twins born almost simultaneously from their mother's womb, they were strangers. Xiahou Lian didn't know Chiyan's daily routine, his likes or dislikes. His mother had called Chiyan a fool, while Uncle Duan called him a genius with the saber.
But now Xiahou Lian knew: Chiyan was his older brother. Someone who—like him—was gazing at the snowy mountain in the vast, dark night.
Xiahou Lian fell asleep to the lingering notes of the xun. In his dreams, he saw a youth who shared his face on the snowy peak. The boy's distant gaze pierced the vast snowstorm and settled on him.
The next day, Xiahou Lian wrapped himself tightly in his cloak, pulled the hood securely over his face, and set off to continue climbing the mountain. The snow was lighter today, which made the ascent less strenuous. About half an hour later, he finally reached the peak of Heimianfo.
The summit was small; a few steps in any direction led to the cliff's edge. The little clearing's cluster of thatched huts formed a tiny, desolate courtyard enclosed by a rickety fence. The few flowerpots standing along a wall held plants that had long since withered in the cold.
"Is anyone here?" called Xiahou Lian.
No one answered. Was Chiyan not on the mountain? Impossible—Xiahou Lian had heard his xun last night.
After calling out several times more to no response, Xiahou Lian climbed the fence and peered through a rip in one hut's window paper. The main room was sparsely furnished, containing a square table and a heated bed topped with neatly folded clothes. A few pairs of boots and cloth shoes were lined up by a wall, which was decorated with a large kite made to look like a tiger with bared claws and fangs.
There was no one there.
Xiahou Pei had described Chiyan as a fool who only knew how to use his blade. Might such a fool have run away in fear at the sight of a stranger? Xiahou Lian circled the house a few times, scanning the area, before he suddenly spotted a cave near the cliff, its entrance concealed by dead ivy. No wonder he'd overlooked it.
He stepped into the cave, following a winding path dozens of paces until the passage widened into a chamber as vast as a training ground. On the far side, a figure in white sat as if meditating upon a bed made of stone, his back to Xiahou Lian. He was lightly dressed in only a thin robe. It was as if he and Xiahou Lian occupied two completely different seasons.
"Uh…Chiyan?" Xiahou Lian said awkwardly.
As the figure slowly turned toward him, Xiahou Lian finally saw his face. It was nearly identical to his own; apart from the scar above Xiahou Lian's brow, they were almost indistinguishable. Still, no one would ever confuse the two because their eyes were completely different; Chiyan's were large, dark and clear as polished obsidian, seeming to reflect the ever-changing light of the sky and clouds.
Chiyan rose and looked at Xiahou Lian.
"Who are you?" His voice was soft.
"I'm Xiahou Lian," Xiahou Lian stammered nervously. "I don't know whether the abbot ever told you, but you have a—" Before he could finish, his pupils contracted sharply as the cold blade reflected in his eyes slashed toward him with deadly speed!
What the hell?!
Xiahou Lian frantically dodged, barely avoiding the blade as it grazed his face and embedded itself in the stone wall. In an instant, Chiyan twisted his wrist, already cleaving the air with his next strike!
The only thought in Xiahou Lian's mind was How is he so ridiculously fast? Chiyan moved like a shadow, his saber practically an extension of his body. Xiahou Lian couldn't even see him unleash his blows, relying solely on instinct to evade. Shallow cuts and deep gashes already marred his flesh; if his clothing weren't so thick, blood would have already soaked through.
"Those who ascend without the abbot's permission shall die," Chiyan said expressionlessly.
"I'm your younger brother!" Xiahou Lian shouted.
However, Chiyan didn't seem to care; his attacks continued unchanged. Xiahou Lian quickly steadied himself and drew Hengbo, barely blocking a strike aimed at his head. With his left hand, he tore away his hood and yelled, "Look at me! I'm your younger brother!"
Chiyan froze, staring at Xiahou Lian's face. Xiahou Lian looked down at his own tattered robe, scowling at the cotton stuffing that spilled from the slashes in the cloth. He grimaced in agonized frustration. This was the only robe he'd brought. If all the stuffing fell out, how would he stay warm?
"Younger brother?" Chiyan looked confused.
Xiahou Lian sighed. It seemed the old bald donkey had never mentioned him to Chiyan. As he pondered how to explain things, Chiyan poked Xiahou Lian's face with a finger.
"Is a younger brother someone who looks exactly like me?" Chiyan asked. "Are you another me?"
Xiahou Lian stared at him with wide eyes. Fucking hell… He really is a fool. With a great deal of effort, he managed to explain that he wasn't a second Chiyan.
His brother nodded and said "Oh," meaning that he understood.
Chiyan was peculiar. At seventeen, he stood as tall as Xiahou Lian, yet he acted childish. Raised on the summit of Heimianfo, he rarely went down the mountain except to kill. He knew nothing of people and their conventions, and he didn't even grasp the concept of a brother.
Before Xiahou Lian could communicate with him, he first had to explain what "older brother" and "younger brother" meant until Chiyan understood.
After that, Xiahou Lian settled down atop Heimianfo. He tidied the hut's kitchen, lighting the stove at night and sleeping beside it—that way, he didn't feel cold. Chiyan rarely spoke and spent most of his time silently lost in his own thoughts, his mind a mystery. He often perched on the branch of an old tree near the cliff to gaze into the distance. Sometimes he played the xun that Xiahou Lian had heard before. When Xiahou Lian asked whether He wanted to stand up straight and leave the mountain, Chiyan simply shook his head and said that the mountain was more beautiful than the world below.
Sometimes Xiahou Lian felt that Chiyan was a lone wolf staring up at the sky. His twin's eyes were always lonely and empty when they looked down at the mountain.
But he was a truly exceptional swordsman. His saber was called Shana—"instant"—and his swift strikes suited the name. Any battle with Chiyan was over in an instant; no other weapon could match his blade's speed.
Chiyan was also easy to talk to. He did whatever Xiahou Lian asked. When Xiahou Lian requested that Chiyan teach him swordplay, his brother agreed without hesitation. The two stood in the open space of the cave, surrounded by wild grass, sabers in hand.
Xiahou Lian shouted as he drew Hengbo, its blade shimmering like flowing water. Chiyan stood motionless, silently observing. Then, as Xiahou Lian closed in, Chiyan stepped forward with a twitch of his left hand. Xiahou Lian never saw Chiyan unsheathe his blade; he only felt a sharp chill on his side and glanced down to discover blood streaming from his waist.
Fucking hell… "Chiyan, are you crazy? You actually went for the kill!"
Xiahou Lian clutched his waist in despair, rummaging for his medical chest so he could bandage himself. Fortunately, the cold mountain air slowed his bleeding.
"Are we not practicing anymore?" Chiyan asked, confused.
Xiahou Lian raised his head and saw Chiyan's guileless expression. "Were you seriously trying to kill me just now?"
Chiyan sat beside him. "Why wouldn't I?"
Xiahou Lian was quiet a moment, then suddenly understood. With difficulty, he asked, "How did you practice with others before?"
"The abbot brought people for me to fight. The first was Achacuo from the Western Regions. He had a beautiful saber inlaid with gold that gleamed under the moonlight," Chiyan reminisced. "But he wasn't fast enough—I killed him in one move. Next, the abbot brought the Snowy Mountain Twin Eagles, a husband-and-wife pair. I killed the man in three moves, and then the woman took her own life. The third was a Japanese man. His sword was very long, about six feet. That kill took me six moves. After that, the abbot sent ten men to fight me. They didn't announce their names. They seemed to come from different places, all with different styles of swordplay. That was tough; it took me twenty moves to kill all ten."
Xiahou Lian felt a pang of sadness. Chiyan was nothing more than a blade forged by the abbot—a weapon devoid of thought or emotion, free from fear or hesitation—that would kill anyone the abbot wanted dead without fail.
He couldn't understand why the abbot had been so heartless. Perhaps it was simply the nature of the world that the strong saw all living beings as mere ants. Joy and sorrow, love and hatred, life and death all depended on their whims. What did it matter to the abbot if one of the ants was his own son? To a powerful man like him, Chiyan was no different from any other insect.
Had Liu Guicang felt that way when he trampled Xiahou Pei? Had he experienced a twisted sense of triumph, as if he were standing above the clouds, knowing that the strongest assassin had fallen to his blade, and that his dogs had devoured her flesh and bones?
Ridiculous. One had to ford rivers of blood and ascend piles of bones to reach a summit from which to look down upon the world beneath. Xiahou Lian clenched his fists, fierce anger surging through him. "If they can do it, why can't I?" he asked himself. "Why shouldn't life and death depend on my whims, letting me do as I please and rampage unchecked? So what if this blade commits boundless slaughter and slakes itself on hot blood?"
A basin of cold water splashed over his head, drenching him from head to toe. "What the hell are you doing?!" Xiahou Lian roared.
"You were possessed," Chiyan said slowly, setting down the basin.
Xiahou Lian wiped the water from his face and turned away.
"The mortal world is full of hardship. Not everything can be as you wish," Chiyan said.
Xiahou Lian was taken aback to hear these words from a fool like Chiyan. Turning to face his brother, he saw that Chiyan's expression was as calm as ever, his obsidian eyes as tranquil as still water. It struck Xiahou Lian that perhaps Chiyan wasn't completely ignorant. Perhaps he even knew everything, and it was just that the world's joys and sorrows couldn't touch him.
Chiyan paused, then added, "If your mother is dead, can't you just find a new one?"
That single question pushed back all of Xiahou Lian's previous thoughts. He looked at Chiyan, whose expression seemed to ask, Did I say something wrong?
Sighing, Xiahou Lian muttered weakly, "Forget it. There's no point getting mad at you." He gave the oblivious fellow a light pat and added, "Next time, I'll bring you a copy of Standards for a Good Disciple or The Plum in the Golden Vase—you should study those properly so you don't go around acting like an idiot all the time. What'll you do if you go down the mountain and end up getting tricked?"
Chiyan nodded obediently.