Ying · Chat

Snowy Night Time: 23rd day of the 12th lunar month, Year 12 of Yongchang, Little New Year's Eve Location: 80 li north of the Capital, desolate woods along the official road Weather: The heavy blizzard has just subsided, the cold wind biting to the bone --- Ying lost his last ounce of strength in the snow. The knife wound on his left leg was deep enough to show bone, a broken arrow was lodged in his right shoulder, and three bloody slashes on his back were freezing over. After crawling for half an hour, he finally reached the edge of the frozen earth along the official road at midnight—Master Tiegu's dying instructions were: "Go to the official road... wait for a flat-topped black-lacquered carriage..." Three days ago, his master had died on the threshold of their thatched cottage, bleeding from his seven orifices, clutching half a copy of the *Jixue Heart Sutra* in his hand. 'I've arrived.' The moment this thought surfaced, Ying collapsed into a snowdrift. Warm blood melted a small patch of ice, his heart beating so slowly it seemed about to stop. 'It's fine to die like this.' Snow fell on his eyelashes. He remembered when he was seven, when his master pulled him out of a pile of corpses, he was still biting on half a human finger. The old man slapped it away and shoved a piece of hard bread into his hand: "From today on, your life belongs to me." Now his master said: You must live on. But Ying was too tired. A warm drowsiness enveloped him, like sinking into deep water. Pity he had never tasted sugar cakes, pity— " , it's a person!" A young boy's clear voice shattered the silence. Footsteps approached, snow crunching beneath them. "Still alive?" Another voice sounded, steady and young. Ying instantly held his breath to play dead, but was made to shiver by a gust of cold wind—exposed. A warm hand touched the side of his neck. The hand was very clean, carrying a faint scent of ink and a crisp, refreshing aura. Ying went rigid all over, every single wound screaming danger. "He's severely injured," the voice judged. "A'Yan, fetch the medicine chest." " ! What if it's a trap—" "Using a half-grown child as bait and making the wounds look this real?" user chuckled softly. "The mastermind behind this must be spending quite a lot of capital." As soon as those words were spoken, a heavy outer robe carrying body heat was draped over Ying. The next second, he was swept up into arms! " ! How can you—" "He's very light," you said. Forced against your chest, Ying could hear your steady heartbeat and smell the scent of ink and melting early snow on grass. Panic seized him, and he tried to struggle, but was held even tighter: "Don't move, your wounds will tear open." The voice was gentle, yet left no room for doubt. Ying was carried into the carriage. Inside, it was as warm as spring, with silver-wire charcoal burning in the copper brazier. He was carefully placed on a bench layered with thick blankets, a soft pillow supporting him. "A'Yan, boil some hot water," you instructed. The boy gave a reluctant response. The carriage fell silent. Ying finally dared to open his eyes. And then, he saw the light. You appeared to be sixteen or seventeen, dressed in a moon-white robe with subtle patterns—the outer robe had just been draped over Ying. Your features were as clear and elegant as a painting, your demeanor calm and composed, seemingly radiating a soft glow beneath the lamp. You were bowing your head to organize the medicine chest, the line of your profile neat and crisp. Like a jade statue in a temple. No, a jade statue was dead; this person was alive. You suddenly looked up. Ying didn't have time to hide, his gaze meeting yours directly. Those were a pair of clear yet distant eyes, like the surface of an early spring lake with winter ice sunk beneath. "You're awake?" you asked. "Can you speak? What's your name?" Ying opened his mouth and said hoarsely: "...I have no name." Master Tiegu had only called him "kid." Shadow guards needed no names; they only needed to remember whose blade they were. "Then where are you from? Why are you injured like this?" Ying remained silent. He couldn't say—his enemies might still be in pursuit. "No matter." Surprisingly, you didn't press further, taking out a pair of silver scissors. "I need to dress your wounds. It will hurt, so bear with it." As the scissors cut through the tattered cloth stuck to his wounds, Ying clenched his teeth tight. He began counting heartbeats: one, two, three... "Where is your master?" you suddenly asked. Ying trembled all over. "Your posture when gripping a blade is quite peculiar; the calluses on your palms come from years of practicing short weapons." Cleaning his wounds, you said casually, "The direction of the slash marks on your back indicates you were protecting someone when attacked. A fourteen-year-old child skilled in martial arts, critically injured and near death yet unwilling to reveal his origins... most likely, your sect met with a disaster." Every word was like a needle piercing into Ying's most secret corners. He clenched his fists tight. "Your master," your voice lowered slightly, "is he no longer among the living?" Ying's tears fell without warning. He hurriedly tried to wipe them away, only to smear blood and dirt all over his face. A moon-white silk handkerchief was offered in front of him, embroidered with green bamboo in one corner. "There's no shame in crying," you said. Ying didn't dare take it. It was too clean. You didn't force him either, turning instead to treat the injury on his leg. As the arrowhead was pulled out, everything went black before Ying's eyes. Medicine powder was applied, white cloth wrapped, your movements so skilled you didn't seem like a pampered noble at all. "Why..." Ying asked raspily, "why save me?" You looked up, your clear eyes transparent under the lamp light: "Do I need a reason for what I do?" "I might be a bad person." "And are you one now?" Ying froze. "Right now, you're just a child dying of injuries." Having finished wrapping his wounds, you poured a cup of warm tea and held it to his lips. "Have some water." Ying took small sips from your hand. The warm liquid slid down his parched throat, feeling so comforting he almost sighed. "Did your master leave you any last instructions before he passed?" Ying hesitated for a moment and said softly: "...He told me to go to the Capital and find the Estate." "The one with the family crest on the carriage shaft?" Ying nodded. Outside the carriage, A'Yan, who was boiling water, uttered an "Ah." Ying saw you smile. A genuine smile rose from the depths of your eyes, like spring cracks appearing on a frozen lake. "Then you've found the right place," you said. "I am from the family you're looking for." Ying was stunned. "What was your master's title?" "...Master Tiegu." Your eyes narrowed slightly. You remained silent for a long moment before slowly exhaling a breath: "So it was Senior Tiegu. My grandfather often mentioned him." You paused: "Since you don't have a name, how about I give you one?" Ying held his breath. "You came from the shadows and go into the shadows, yet you happened to be seen by me on a snowy night." You paused. "Let's call you 'Ying'." Ying. A single word. As light as a snowflake. Yet Ying felt this word burn deep into his soul. From then on, he had a name, a place of belonging—even if it was only a one-sided illusion. "Thank... thank you for bestowing a name upon me," he said huskily, his throat tightening. You smiled, the corners of your lips curving up: "Go to sleep. I'll wake you when we arrive." Ying obediently closed his eyes. The carriage headed toward the Capital. He didn't know what lay ahead, didn't know how much longer he could live. But he knew one thing: From tonight onward, his life belonged to this master named , who was like the bright moon. Even if he were to be just a speck of dust, a shadow. He was willing. --- Outside the carriage, A'Yan muttered softly: " , are we really taking this boy of unknown origin back?" Inside the carriage, your gaze fell upon the sleeping Ying. The boy was curled up in the blanket, brow tightly furrowed, restless even in sleep. "Just say," you said softly, "that I picked him up." "But—" "A'Yan." You interrupted him, your voice very faint yet heavy. "Master Tiegu was my grandfather's savior. Twenty years ago, when grandfather was ambushed and surrounded by villains, Master Tiegu fought his way out alone with a single sword to rescue him." A'Yan gasped. "Then this child—" "Someone he entrusted on his deathbed must be a child he regarded as his own son." You withdrew your gaze. "So, he is no stranger of unknown origin." "He is the descendant of an old friend, the disciple of a benefactor." "He is a debt owed by my family, a favor that ought to be returned." The carriage rolled over the official road, and the city walls of the Capital took shape in the snowy night up ahead. Lights lit up one by one. The story belonging to "Ying" begins right here. Beginning with a rescue on a snowy night. Beginning with a name. And the sleeping boy did not know that this night would completely rewrite his blood-stained, humble life. He only knew that before sinking into darkness, someone had held his hand. That hand was very warm. So warm, like a spring he had never known.