Chapter Forty-Two: Midnight on the Bluestone Path

This question, Han Tanyi could not find an answer to, nor did he wish to seek one. Perhaps it was just as well—at least that meal was a rare delight. His fellow disciples were all around his age, with similar temperaments and dispositions, and they got along splendidly. More importantly, now that the old master’s discipline was absent, their playful spirits ran wilder than ever. If the mood so struck, their laughter and banter made it seem as though they were about to sell off the entire Qilian Mountains.

Naturally, an hour or two in such a lively atmosphere passed swiftly—not only in eating, but in wild conversations that roamed over heaven and earth. And Han Tanyi, having been out and about, was full of colorful tales. Whether truth or embellishment, every word that spilled from his lips held a strange fascination, drawing his listeners in. Perhaps it was the influence of the convivial scene, but the young man had never felt so uninhibited before. Even Qiu Wan’er played along enthusiastically, leaping up and down as she enacted scenes with vivid mimicry. Not only the ordinary disciples, but even the usually stoic Lao Lao’er found himself smiling broadly, thoroughly absorbed in the merriment.

At last, when all was said and done, everyone dispersed to tidy up. Perhaps because of his long afternoon nap, Han Tanyi found sleep eluding him. Even as he lay on his bed, he tossed and turned. People are often like this—the more one forces sleep, the more it flees, until at last even his body began to itch and burn with restlessness. With a sudden motion, he sat up.

The moonlight was particularly lovely that night. Though not especially bright, it was clear and pure, filtering in through doors and windows in a hazy, dreamlike manner. It was impossible to stay in bed, especially when one was alone and bored. After straightening his bedding, the youth rose and went outside. Immediately, the scenery struck him as even more enchanting, like a painting or a poem come to life. He could not help but smile with a hint of pride—after all, in a world with countless souls, how many have the fortune to witness such a scene?

Yet fortune or not, his sleeplessness remained. The night wind on the cliff carried the lingering chill of winter beneath the touch of spring, and the cold breeze made his mind all the clearer. Any drowsiness that lingered vanished entirely, and he grew even less inclined to sleep. But that was fine; after all, he had been away for over half a month. Wandering about and taking things in was hardly excessive.

He did not go far, just strolled around his dwelling. Time seemed too short, and there was no change between the fragments of memory and the reality before him—no cause for nostalgia, but that was also a comfort. The familiar remained, a kind of solace. At last, his steps took him to a slab of stone jutting out from the cliff, spacious enough but surrounded by nothing to hold onto. For ordinary people, a careless slip here would mean plunging into the abyss below—a certain death. Few would attempt such a thing, since the view from the stone could be seen just as well from the wooded edge of the cliff.

For Han Tanyi, however, it was different. His martial skill was not extraordinary, but a leap spanning twenty paces or so was within his ability. Even if he fell, he could climb up again. More importantly, this spot had a unique advantage: from just the right angle on the stone, one could glimpse the wooden hut in the valley behind the mountain. This was his favorite and most frequent haunt in younger days, for the Daoist of Secrets had expressly forbidden venturing into the rear valley. Though Han Tanyi had broken that rule before, he knew not to go too far.

This vantage was perfect—he could not be scolded by his master, yet he could still see into the distance. On a clear night, the silhouette within the hut could sometimes be made out, just as now. Gazing at people by moonlight was never easy, but the lamp inside the hut still burned. The candlelight was faint, but in a night so dim, it stood out. He had seen this sight many times before. In the past, Han Tanyi would have pondered what the Butterfly was doing, why she stayed up so late.

Butterfly had never been one to sleep early—it was her habit. At some point, it had become his as well. He could never fathom what thoughts or actions filled the heart of a young woman in her twenties, alone in the night. He did not know where she came from, nor why she had come here. Mystery clung to her, veiling her true self, keeping others at a distance. Her only companions were the two white wolves. Wolves were social creatures—when had they become so solitary?

But since Butterfly would not speak of these things, Han Tanyi could not ask. He had tried, subtly and not so subtly, but always came away disappointed. She did not reject his company—perhaps he alone in all the Qilian Mountains could sit quietly and talk with her. Yet whenever the subject of her origins arose, Butterfly would withdraw, her expression growing somber, silent in an effort to conceal her sorrow. So Han Tanyi learned to avoid such topics. As he saw it, the past was past; to love someone is to accept all of her, to speak only of the present, not what came before.

Yet now, he felt a strange fear. In Xingyang City, he had acted without hesitation, thinking only to make her happy. But now, he was uncertain. Could he act so freely when next they met? His gaze remained fixed on that small hut, and through the haze he could just make out a moving shadow—so much so that, after a time, the figure blurred, and he began to imagine it was someone else altogether.

“Butterfly is truly beautiful. Even I, seeing her, can’t help but feel a trace of envy in my heart—let alone you, Senior Brother. Since you risked so much for her, you should give her the luminous pearl as soon as possible, so she’ll understand how you feel!”

Suddenly, a soft voice broke the silence, carefully restrained. That was only natural—there were some things that should not be revealed easily. Han Tanyi did not need to look back to recognize the speaker, but even so, he could not suppress a slight tremor. In terms of martial skill, Qiu Wan’er was far his inferior, especially on such a quiet night when even the faintest movement could be detected. And yet, he had not noticed her until she was so close—a little embarrassing, to be sure.

“Do you think she’ll like it?” Han Tanyi asked softly in turn. He understood what Qiu Wan’er meant. A gift, no matter how precious, was useless if not given to the right person. As for his own feelings, he could not say, but this was as good a chance as any to let them out. Qiu Wan’er seated herself on the stone beside him. It was not exactly comfortable—the chill seeped up through the stone, nothing like the warmth of sunlight. She gazed at the crescent moon. It was not full, but curved and delicate, hanging in the sky with a scattering of faint stars for company. It was a pleasing sight.

She did not wish to answer. As a woman, she perhaps understood a woman’s heart better than Han Tanyi, but that was not the whole of it. Jealousy was the greatest obstacle, and she could not say why she felt it so strongly. Still, it was only the two of them here, and to ignore his question would be impolite. After a brief silence, Qiu Wan’er replied softly, “Any woman would love something so beautiful. Besides, if Butterfly knew what you’d done for her, she would be deeply moved.”

The words “deeply moved” were spoken with a note of uncertainty, for Qiu Wan’er herself was unsure. Butterfly was an enigma—she had always thought so. Who could predict her feelings? Indeed, Qiu Wan’er could not even say whether she hoped Butterfly would be moved or not. Perhaps her tone infected Han Tanyi’s thoughts as well, for he fell into a quiet confusion, and after a long pause, only murmured, “Is that so?”