Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Past

“Do you see her? The woman at the table whose facial features look a little unusual—that is my junior sister, Dawa Zhuoma. And seated beside her is my junior brother, Dao Zheng. I am already old and unsure how many days I have left in this world. The Kunlun sect may not be large, but even so, in the Western Regions, it is considered first-class. I cannot let it fall into decline during my time. That is why I have journeyed so far to the Central Plains—to seek out my junior brother and sister. The grudges and affections of the past, though they once brought pain, surely should have faded after all these years, don’t you think?”

His purpose was made quite clear, yet as he spoke, a heaviness settled in both his words and expression. The notion of “grudges” had no place between those once so close; there was no need to elaborate. Qiu Wan’er understood that perhaps the talk of “affection” was only half sincere—for time erases most kindnesses, but grievances only deepen, sometimes hardening into hatred. In that instant, it was clear the old man was uncertain and his words lacked conviction.

Qiu Wan’er was naturally curious about the story hidden behind this elder’s words, but now she found herself unable to ask. The past, if joyful, can be spoken of without harm, but if it carries sorrow, it is different. To reopen an old wound is to rub salt into it, making it all the more painful. And truly, people are often like this—fleeting happiness is quickly forgotten, while pain is remembered in the deepest part of the heart. Thinking this, Qiu Wan’er’s gaze drifted from the table to Zola Weiyang’s face, her expression touched by a hint of sympathy. Still, she was young, and though she considered comforting him, the words would not come.

People of the Western Regions differed markedly from those of the Central Plains, especially the women, whose features were strikingly distinct. While their stature was generally less than that of men, it was only so among their own kind; compared to outsiders, the women of the Western Regions stood taller. Even beside men of the Central Plains, they were by no means inferior. Dawa Zhuoma’s face had sharp and pronounced contours; it lacked softness, but from any angle, she was striking. Seated now on a wooden chair, her long legs were not so evident, but sitting there beside Prince Xiao Jinghao—a man of exquisite beauty and grace—they made a handsome pair, like a couple in a painting. The audience below could not help but look on in envy, wishing they could take the place of either one.

“Dao Zheng?” Since she could not ask about the painful past, Qiu Wan’er sought another topic—better than letting the old man continue speaking to himself and letting the atmosphere grow awkward. It was difficult, though, to avoid touching upon sore subjects. Fortunately, she’d caught a detail from Zola Weiyang’s words—a question at least worth asking. She might not know much, but the man seated at the center, from his position, was likely the one in question. “That is clearly Prince Xiao Jinghao. Why call him Dao Zheng? The name sounds odd. I always thought only your master bore that surname. He is a prince of the realm—how could he be surnamed Dao? Are you mistaken, sir?”

“Xiao Jinghao?” Her question mirrored Sha Wan’er’s earlier confusion, and Zola Weiyang momentarily lost his composure. Their thoughts ran along the same lines. The old man’s gaze widened, as if scrutinizing the two at the table, perhaps because so many years apart had blurred his memory of their faces. Even if he remembered, sixteen years was long enough to change a person. At last, as he looked again, his doubts gradually faded. Time could change many things, but the shape and bearing of a person remained. What confirmed it for the old man was not mere intuition—his eyes were fixed on the necklace at Dawa Zhuoma’s throat. Other adornments might be unremarkable, but that pendant was imprinted on his memory.

The Kunlun Mountains, grand and unbroken, stretched for at least a thousand miles. In winter, they were draped in snow, as if covered by a veil. Upon the summit, the wind was harsh and biting. The scene from sixteen years ago had not faded in the slightest. Back then, his hair was already white, though only faintly so. The three of them stood side by side—Zola Weiyang on the left, Dao Zheng and Dawa Zhuoma to his right. All their gazes were fixed ahead, on an elder who, by age, was not much different from Zola Weiyang.

“Our Kunlun sect has always had a distinction between the main and branch lines. Though small, we have passed on our legacy to this day. The master disciple is chosen to inherit the position of sect leader. Weiyang, you were once my eldest disciple; by experience and skill, you were the undisputed choice. But there is one flaw—you are as old as I am. To put it bluntly, it’s uncertain who will go first. You have no suitable disciple to succeed you. If I pass the leadership to you, I fear your tenure would be brief and the sect left without an heir. That is a grave concern, so you cannot blame your master for this!” These words, spoken before Zola Weiyang, were facts, though hard to accept. Anyone would feel some disappointment, but reverence for one's teacher was absolute in the Western Kunlun—there was no room for objection. He could only feign indifference, even managing a forced smile. “Master, your words are wise. As your disciple, I dare not object. Our Western Kunlun has thrived for centuries, always strict in selecting a leader. Your careful consideration is for the best; I will obey your arrangements.”

The Kunlun master nodded, apparently satisfied. He patted Zola Weiyang’s shoulder in comfort, then turned his gaze to Dao Zheng and Dawa Zhuoma. Pausing, as if recalling something, he removed the necklace from his own neck and handed it to Dawa Zhuoma. “Traditionally, the sect leader’s position is passed to a man, but that is merely custom. Dao Zheng, though you are an outstanding disciple, you are from the Central Plains and unlikely to remain long on Kunlun. Leadership would not suit you. Of my three disciples, only my second disciple, Dawa Zhuoma, remains. I entrust this necklace to you. But I must make one thing clear.”

At this, Liaochengzi paused. The necklace, unadorned and dark, was far from precious, neither gold nor jade, but it was a symbol. The entire Kunlun legacy rested on it. The woman hesitated, unsure whether to accept it, her gaze flitting to her two senior brothers, seeking reassurance. Her hesitation was born of fear—perhaps of the burden, or perhaps of something else in her heart. In the end, she could not resist her master’s pleading look; she reached out and accepted it.

“Zhuoma, your master knows you have concerns, but this is a necessary arrangement. If, in the future, you decide to leave Kunlun, I will not force you to stay. The leadership, now in your hands, carries Kunlun’s fate. Before you go, choose a worthy successor. Traditionally, the leader comes from the main line, but if your senior brother trains a suitable disciple while you are in charge, you may pass the necklace to him. That does not break our custom.” At the time, Liaochengzi’s words seemed a way to make amends for his unfairness to his eldest disciple. But sixteen years later, as Zola Weiyang looked at his junior brother and sister, he realized their master had foreseen everything. Both Dao Zheng and Dawa Zhuoma had left abruptly sixteen years before, leaving Weiyang to shoulder the responsibility alone. Fate, however, was capricious; in all that time, he had failed to take on a worthy disciple. His journey to the Central Plains was to seek them out, for Kunlun could not be left without an heir. Yet in the vast world, they might not be found so easily, and even if they were, those who had once left without a word might not be willing to return and accept such a burden. Thus, he had considered taking Qiu Wan’er as his disciple by the Xiang River.

Of course, this was Zola Weiyang’s private calculation. He would never speak of it openly. Now, he was lost in endless memories and the awkwardness of meeting old friends again. As for Qiu Wan’er, her curiosity in the unfolding drama remained her chief preoccupation.