Chapter Eighteen: Different People

The melody of the zither wound through the air, and in the golden glow of the afternoon, it seemed to possess a unique poetic quality. Of course, what poetry truly meant, Han Tanyi didn’t understand. Yet, that tune had a certain elegance to it. The thought of entrusting one’s feelings to the bright moon—at its core, the longing was less about yearning and more about sorrow, imbued with a particular heaviness. Despite the doubts in Han Tanyi’s heart, he ultimately did not voice them. After all, the depth of that melody was not something one wished to interrupt. Shui Linglong’s hands, at this moment, seemed almost to channel some divine inspiration; the gentle movement of her fingers across the strings was enough to draw any listener into a state of rapture, wondrous and mysterious.

The murmuring of water blended with the season of blooming trees, everywhere painting a scene vibrant with the vitality of spring. Peach blossoms glowed pink, plum blossoms white—perhaps so abundant as to verge on the commonplace. Yet it was their very ordinariness that made them closest to the hearts of simple people. In the Blue Lotus Sect, though the flowers bloomed with dazzling brilliance, they always left this young man with a sense of not quite belonging. Perhaps it was not the flowers that were out of place, but the person. He had always been free-spirited, and if there was anyone in the world who could make him restrain himself, it had to be Butterfly. The ravine behind the cliffs was considered a forbidden place among the disciples of Qilian, and Butterfly lived there, untouched by the outside world. Though her life was tinged with melancholy, she embodied a tranquil seclusion, possessing the quiet dignity of a recluse. No disciple dared approach lightly—except for Han Tanyi himself, who would frequently slip inside. Looking back, he thought, though the Celestial Master could be stern, he was always indulgent toward this particular disciple.

One played, one listened—a pairing of rare beauty, enhanced by the charm of a handsome man and a lovely woman. The zither’s notes soared and dipped, sometimes bright and high, sometimes low and resonant; to any onlooker, it was a scene of exquisite harmony. And these onlookers were none other than the maids of the sect, passing now and then through corridors and gardens, where people most often came and went. Such a sight would make anyone pause to gaze, their eyes filled more with admiration than with envy.

The melody itself was not long, yet to Han Tanyi it felt as if he had experienced a long passage of time. Of course, he knew this was an illusion—the sunlight had merely shifted from a gentle angle to a more direct glare. The pavilion seemed dim, and from within that dimness, the glow of sunlight on flower petals outside became ever more distinct. At that precise moment, a rainbow-hued butterfly appeared, seemingly out of season, alighting on a large flower bud and drawing the youth’s gaze with almost magnetic force. He stared, lost in thought, not knowing what preoccupied him. Perhaps even Han Tanyi himself was unsure; his mind felt muddled, as if clarity was elusive, and when he was utterly entranced, he didn’t even notice when Shui Linglong stopped playing.

“People speak of longing, yet they don’t realize—those very words are the most wounding of all.” Shui Linglong rose slowly, standing beside Han Tanyi and following his gaze. It was easy for her to see what had captured his attention, and a pang of melancholy welled up in her chest, leaving her with a faint sense of loss. Yet loss was something to be hidden; to reveal it would be to show weakness. Perhaps other women might allow themselves that, but as the Saintess of the Blue Lotus Sect, she could not. So she forced herself to mask her feelings—as long as she could deceive this man before her, that would be enough. With that in mind, a faint smile curved her lips, not entirely sincere but betraying no obvious flaw. “Butterfly—a beautiful name, well suited to spring. Are you thinking of her again?”

At these words, Han Tanyi could not help but be startled. He tried his best to appear calm, but it was clearly a struggle. His eyes lingered on her, filled with confusion. Shui Linglong, perceptive as she was, understood his heart in an instant. She did not wait for his reply; some say men are born to take the initiative, but they do not know that when a man falls in love, his heart is more anxious, more hesitant than a woman’s—and he may not even admit this to himself. With a twist of her fingers, a breeze seemed to rise, stirring ripples on the water, a mirror of the turmoil in both their hearts, never truly still. At last, Shui Linglong spoke again: “Last night, in your sleep, you kept calling her name. I think she must be someone you love very much. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“She’s not as beautiful as you, but every time I see her, I sense an ethereal grace about her, as if a fairy had descended to earth. In that, she is different from you.” The words came straight from his heart. In that instant, Han Tanyi made his judgment: for a woman to linger in a man’s thoughts, she must possess something captivating. Perhaps that otherworldly quality was one of them. Yet, as soon as the words left his lips, Han Tanyi began to regret them. He could have phrased the first part any way he liked, but the second half was a grave mistake. No woman takes kindly to comparison—not even someone like Shui Linglong. He could sense, in the corner of his eye, her figure tremble ever so slightly. Well, since she was bound to ask, he might as well speak plainly. “Butterfly has always remained untouched by the dust of the world. ‘Sublime music finds few companions’—perhaps that describes her best. Even the tune you just played, each of her notes would ring a tone higher than others could reach. As for you, you’re perhaps more warm and gentle. If I had never met either of you and had to choose between you, I think I’d be far more likely to choose you. But—”

“But you knew her first. Once someone has taken root in your heart, there’s simply no room for anyone else, however exceptional they may be. Even if she has a thousand faults, you are willing to accept them; even if she is wrong time and again, you will forgive her, isn’t that so?” Shui Linglong took a half-step toward the water’s edge, as if hoping to catch a clearer glimpse of herself in the reflection. Her words were slow and heavy, as if she spoke from personal experience. To Han Tanyi, such gravity seemed at odds with her youthful age—seventeen or eighteen at most—but he could think of no way to refute her; after all, deep down, he felt exactly the same.

A hush settled over them, strangely unsettling. It was as if, in this moment, neither wished to speak further. The wind carried the fragrance of blossoms, swirling around them, each lost in their own thoughts, needing time to adjust. Shui Linglong quietly sat again before the zither. Her fingers hovered over the strings, uncertain what music to play next.

“This woman called Butterfly is buried deep in your heart. Even in your sleep, you call her name. Clearly, you are a man of deep feeling and loyalty. Perhaps that is why I am drawn to you. Yet my heart is filled with contradictions. I long for you to stay, but to keep you would be to ask you to betray your true love, and that I cannot bear. On the other hand, if you were not so devoted, I would have no reason to like you at all. You shouldn’t have appeared here, and I certainly won’t try to keep you. Once your leg has healed, I will see you safely away.” What a tangle of emotions. Who could say what the speaker herself truly felt? Perhaps there was a trace of heartache. Shui Linglong’s fingers raced across the strings, but this time the melody was nothing like before—urgent, chaotic, without structure or restraint. Even Han Tanyi, who was no expert in music, found the tune piercing to the ear, yet he could not say anything, lest he seem overly sensitive.

To the onlookers, these two might have seemed nothing more than a spectacle—a fleeting moment of interest, unconnected to their own lives. Perhaps only one person was truly moved: an old man still clutching his wine flask. He could do without many things, but not wine. At his age, it was indispensable. Old Su took another long draught, the burning in his throat bringing a sense of carefree pleasure. Yet in that moment, he sighed softly, a voice murmuring in his mind: “If falling in love is so painful, Linglong, why force yourself down this road? Haven’t you suffered enough in the past? Must you seek out heartbreak again today?”