Chapter Fifty: The Master's Return

This series of doubts was something Han Tanyi could not unravel in a short time. Of course, that was always his nature—to fulfill what he promised others, no matter what. Yet he had never heard of the Cold Pool Moonless Melody, and finding it was no easy task. So, during the days when the Celestial Master was absent, he searched possible locations but found no trace of it. Perhaps it was for the best; even if he discovered it, he would never take what belonged to another without permission. This was, after all, the custom of the Qilian sect. Yet for this young man, he had broken that rule once, and now, thinking back, he found himself without a trace of regret—a strange thing indeed.

Qiu Wan’er, meanwhile, behaved as if nothing had happened. She had always been fond of play, and now, freed from the old man’s constraints, she was even more mischievous than usual, making life restless for her fellow disciples. This was her style, and after so many years, everyone was used to it; patience was the universal response. Thus, the entire Qilian Mountains remained tranquil, as if nothing had occurred. Yet Han Tanyi dared not venture to the rear valley anymore; the missing melody weighed on him like a debt. If he sought a reason for these feelings, he could not quite name it.

During the day, there was labor—fetching water, fertilizing, digging, weeding—enough to keep his hands busy and the hours passing swiftly. But at dusk, a restless mood would seize him, inexplicably vexing his spirit. The only relief was to sit atop the blue stone, letting the mountain breeze wash over him, gazing at the moon, and listening to the intermittent strains of music drifting from the distant wooden cottage. The Butterfly Girl was no ordinary person; no farm girl could match her skill, moving nimbly atop the plank bridge. Her abilities were remarkable, yet that was not what drew Han Tanyi’s attention. Living so near the Qilian sect, exposed to its arts for years, even a fool would have learned something; she was anything but, and naturally skilled. What captivated him was the music. Though distance muffled its clarity, its essence was always enjoyable.

The melody was neither soaring nor deep; it seemed to merge with the mountain scenery in an otherworldly way. Its ancient elegance was suffused with poetry—sometimes like clouds, ever-changing; sometimes like flowing water, gentle and persistent. It brought a sense of serenity and solitude, yet hinted at endless transformation. In these moments, Han Tanyi sat atop the blue stone, his eyes gradually closing.

No matter how difficult certain things might be, they passed swiftly from one's side, just like time itself. In the midst of hardship, one often realized, before understanding, that the days had already slipped away, leaving only a lingering sense of nostalgia. Whether it was half a month or ten days, the sun rose and set with little change. If there was any difference, it was that today, the morning mist in the mountains was thicker than usual. When the mist cleared, a familiar figure appeared before the youth.

Familiarity is not something cultivated quickly; it takes time to build. If the person approaching did not deserve the word, then no one in the world did. The Celestial Master’s gait was always thus, at least since Han Tanyi was old enough to remember; his master had never changed, always maintaining a moderate demeanor. The doctrine of moderation suited him, especially in old age. He was a man who had seen much of the world; joy and sorrow rarely marked his face, and even when they did, the expression faded quickly. Because of this, no one truly understood his thoughts. Thus, Han Tanyi’s sense of familiarity carried a hint of reservation.

Yet, whatever the case, to this youth, the old man was his closest kin. He had long awaited his return, but now, confronted by him, Han Tanyi felt confused, even somewhat fearful and evasive. The matter of the Moonless Melody was part of it; more than that, he worried about a lie he had told in front of everyone upon his master’s previous return. Should the truth be pursued, he had no idea how to face the consequences. It is always so: when a person tells one lie, countless others must follow to patch it until, finally, it bursts forth with a bang—the root of all conflict. Han Tanyi wished that, with time, his words would simply be forgotten.

“Master, you’re back?” However much he tried to hide it, his unease crept into his voice. The distance was not far, and even at the old man’s slow pace, it took little time to close. Han Tanyi would have to face him sooner or later, so better to meet him now—perhaps something unexpected might happen. Yet at that moment, the Celestial Master seemed not to notice him. His gaze swept over Han Tanyi, then moved away, and he merely responded with a soft “oh,” his face showing a gravity that was new, unlike his usual calm and unruffled demeanor.

This puzzled Han Tanyi. He remained standing, watching his master’s retreating figure, unable to make sense of it. Thoughts churned in his mind: “What’s wrong with the old man? I’ve never seen him like this. He only went to Bright Moon Manor—could he have found out I stole from the Shen family? No, if he did, given his temperament, even if he didn’t expel me, he’d surely curse and beat me. But why is he silent? If it’s not about that, what could it be? Master never concerns himself with the affairs of the world—grudges and power mean nothing to him. What could trouble him so?”

Such questions could never be answered by mere speculation. So, Han Tanyi followed, hoping to find out. Yet the Celestial Master did not wish to give him the chance; he entered the main hall and closed the door behind him. Perhaps he was suppressing other matters, but this action was unusually clear—the force of the door closing was so strong that it startled the youth.

Han Tanyi stood there, momentarily stunned, feeling helpless. The questions weighed upon his heart, making him uncomfortable, yet he could not barge in and demand answers. Hesitating, he noticed the moonlight glinting off a slender figure running toward him in the distance. At once, his anxiety eased somewhat; perhaps only the young girl would be suitable to ask.

“Brother, I heard the old man has returned. Where is he? Did he bring me anything delicious or fun?” The words slipped out casually. Clearly, in Qiu Wan’er’s eyes, the master held little authority—she addressed him as “old man.” But she quickly sensed something was amiss; her senior’s face looked troubled, and she hurriedly changed her tone, lowering her voice: “What’s wrong? Did Master upset you?”

Her expression was tentative, as if uncertain. Ordinarily, given Han Tanyi’s and the Celestial Master’s statuses, the question should be reversed, but Qiu Wan’er did not see it that way. To her, whatever happened must be the old man’s fault. Han Tanyi, of course, was not so muddled. He glanced at her, then at the closed door, responding quietly, confused: “I don’t know. Master returned and locked himself in his room. I don’t know what’s wrong. Do you think I made him angry?”

Han Tanyi meant the question sincerely, but in Qiu Wan’er’s eyes it was teasing, as if such a thing could never happen. She eyed him, her gaze full of disbelief: “Come on, that’s impossible. Who is Master? If others don’t know, we do. Making him angry would be harder than seeing the sun rise in the west. He’s probably just tired from his journey—he’s not young anymore. Why don’t you ask Second Brother to prepare some food, and I’ll go in and find out?”