Chapter 7: Three Kowtows

A gentle breeze lifted the brocade-draped, gold-threaded, emerald-patterned window curtains, revealing a young boy dressed in elegant white robes, sitting at his desk and carefully reading a book. The boy’s beauty was unparalleled—vivid but not ostentatious. By his side, a man in deep green robes lounged indolently on a crimson tiger-skin divan. The man’s rare dark green eyes shone with a profound intensity. His features resembled the boy’s, though less radiant and more severe.

Beigong Qiyi was wholly absorbed in studying the heart technique, while Beigong Juechen, reclining on the divan, occasionally offered guidance. As noon approached, Qiyi's stomach suddenly rumbled, though he remained lost in his reading, unaware. Juechen, however, deftly pulled the book from his hands. The boy looked up, displeased, but Juechen rose from the divan, tossed the heart technique aside onto a small table of yellow pearwood, and said flatly, “It’s noon. Let’s eat first.” He clapped his hands lightly.

Qiyi sensed someone swiftly leave the room, but saw no one—likely one of the hidden guards.

Juechen led Qiyi to the outer chamber, where a dozen maids entered, placing dishes deftly on the table before withdrawing to stand quietly aside. With a wave of his hand, Juechen signaled them to leave; the bevy of maids retreated with graceful steps.

Seated beside Juechen, Qiyi picked up a flower-shaped, hollowed silver chopstick and selected a thin slice of lotus root. The connecting strands snapped easily. He placed the lotus root in Juechen’s dish, smiling, “Brother, please.” Juechen cast him a cool glance, picked up the lotus root, and tasted it—crisp and refreshingly tart. He couldn’t resist taking another slice. Seeing his brother enjoy it, Qiyi began eating with enthusiasm.

After their meal, Juechen handed Qiyi a set of pure white mourning clothes and said evenly, “Go change. I’ll wait for you in the rear garden.” Qiyi accepted the garments with a gentle nod.

Back in “Tranquil Abode,” Qiyi removed his moon-white cloud brocade robe and the wood-and-pearl coronet from his head. His long, jet-black hair cascaded down his back. He tied it at the nape with a white ribbon, then donned the mourning clothes—pristine and unadorned. His complexion was equally pale, save for a striking vermillion mark in the center of his brow.

White, the purest of whites; red, dazzling as a gem.

Qiyi gazed at the small figure reflected in the bronze mirror, lips curving in a faint smile. The mirror showed a boy in white, with black hair and a single vermillion mark at his brow, lips flushed with subtle red, and eyes dark as ink, shimmering with a pearly light.

He straightened his attire and stepped outside. A maidservant greeted him with deference, leading him toward the rear garden. From afar, Qiyi saw the upright figure of a man. He paused, narrowing his eyes to study him. The maid, seeing him stop, bowed and withdrew. Qiyi gathered himself and walked over, eyes solemn.

Before he could approach, Juechen turned to look at him. It was Qiyi’s first time seeing Juechen in white. The man’s cold, sharp features radiated a chill that seemed to sweep toward Qiyi, who felt as if he were gazing at a thousand-year-old snow lotus—blooming in eternal frost, never fading.

Qiyi lowered his gaze slightly, then walked over with a faint smile—so delicate it seemed to gather all the world’s light. He took Juechen’s hand and softly called, “Brother.” That single word, gentle and clear, echoed like a yellow oriole singing in an empty valley. Juechen’s lashes lowered as he let the boy lead him quietly into the garden.

The rear garden was a vast cemetery, where all the ancestors of the Beigong clan rested. Towering trees grew throughout, though their foliage was sparse. Juechen led Qiyi along winding paths, passing exquisitely crafted tombs. Qiyi glanced at each as they went, until Juechen suddenly stopped.

Looking ahead, Qiyi saw a relatively new tombstone inscribed: “Tomb of Beigong Xinmo of the Beigong Clan.” Juechen pressed his lips together and said, “This is our grandfather. Since we’re here, let’s pay our respects.” He reached up and felt along the stone door; it slowly opened. The tomb flickered with candlelight. Qiyi followed Juechen inside, immediately noticing a portrait hanging on the stone wall.

The man in the painting wore black, his hair falling like a waterfall to his waist, skin pale as fresh snow. Thick brows swept to his temples, a straight, prominent nose, and thin lips pressed in a stern line. The whole figure was like a peerless sword—bearing little resemblance to Beigong Li, but strikingly similar to Juechen, though even colder.

“I met him a few times as a child,” Juechen said, handing a stick of lit incense to Qiyi. “What kind of man was he?” Qiyi asked, accepting the incense. Juechen bowed to the memorial tablet, set the incense in the ash-filled burner, and Qiyi followed suit. As he placed his incense in the burner, Juechen’s cool voice echoed, “He was a formidable man…”

As a youth, Beigong Xinmo had once challenged the Eight Great Sects of the martial world single-handedly—and emerged unscathed.

“I know,” Qiyi replied, smiling. “You’re a formidable man too, Brother.” But Juechen shook his head. “I am not his equal.” Qiyi stepped forward, seizing his wrist, his dazzling eyes meeting Juechen’s, dark pupils glinting with hidden starlight. The boy stood tall and proud, enunciating clearly, “Brother, one day you will be the greatest in the Beigong Clan.”

Juechen gazed at him in silence, then finally smiled, chin lifted, voice resolute, “I know.”

They left the tomb of Beigong Xinmo, and after another short walk, arrived before two adjacent tombs, each housing a coffin. Remembering Beigong Li’s words, Qiyi said quietly to Juechen, “Father wished to be buried with Mother.”

Juechen gave a cold laugh. “He was indeed devoted.” The Beigong clan was known for either being heartless or deeply passionate; Beigong Li was certainly the latter, the most unique of them all.

Alas, deep love is doomed to be short-lived…

As Qiyi pondered this, he watched Juechen enter one tomb and, within moments, emerge carrying a black nanmu coffin with one hand. He placed it next to the other tomb, and Qiyi followed him inside. The burial chamber was filled with treasures—jade, gold, precious antiques, silks, and fragrant sandalwood. Juechen set the heavy coffin down gently, making no sound. The two coffins now lay side by side, a testament to enduring love.

Juechen handed Qiyi a stick of incense, and they knelt before the ancestral tablets on the rosewood altar. As the blue smoke curled upward, Qiyi suddenly thought that, were it not for the timing, it would seem as if they were performing a wedding ceremony.

The first bow: a pledge of mutual devotion.
The second: a vow to share a lifetime together.
The third: a binding of hearts for eternity.

They rose and placed their incense in the dark-gold censer. Juechen glanced coolly at the portraits of Beigong Li and Helian Jia on the wall, then strode out. The stone doors closed behind them with a muffled thud.

“Brother,” the boy called suddenly. Juechen turned, his expression unreadable.

The boy tilted his head, then, without warning, struck at Juechen’s waist. Juechen hadn’t expected the attack but merely shifted aside. The boy’s sleeve brushed his own, white robes fluttering.

Qiyi withdrew after a single move, returning to Juechen’s side. Juechen looked at him and laughed. “Not bad. To even brush my sleeve is progress.” Hearing his brother’s self-assured tone, Qiyi lifted his head, revealing a dazzling smile. Yet in the next moment, he composed himself, knelt before Juechen, and bowed deeply. “Brother’s martial skills are peerless—unrivaled in the world.”

From that day forth, with the death of Beigong Li, master of “Lizhui Manor,” his eldest son Beigong Juechen took command of the manor that made the entire martial world tremble.