Chapter 77: Playing Along

Since that conversation, Xi Mo had not seen Beigong Qiyi for a long time. He still resided in the side room of “Idle Intent Residence,” but Beigong Qiyi’s attitude toward him had grown increasingly peculiar. Their discussion seemed, in retrospect, to have been nothing more than Beigong Qiyi’s idle chat on a leisurely day—once it ended, it was cast aside and forgotten.

Xi Mo found the whole situation profoundly unnatural. Yet, since Beigong Qiyi had not asked him to leave, he remained at “Li Manor.” Even though Beigong Qiyi seldom returned to “Idle Intent Residence” anymore, at least Xi Mo could still indulge in a self-deceiving illusion. He smiled at himself, bitter and resigned.

But in the next moment, he suddenly stood up, for he saw Beigong Qiyi entering. Beigong Qiyi strode in with unhurried steps, and as Xi Mo looked at him, he felt an unaccustomed awkwardness. Flustered, he poured a cup of tea for Beigong Qiyi and murmured, “Young Master, you’re back.”

Beigong Qiyi nodded indifferently. Instead of sitting, he walked slowly to stand right before Xi Mo; the distance between them was almost intimate. Xi Mo could make out the faint scent on the young man and felt his cheeks flush. Beigong Qiyi lowered his gaze, watching him, and said quietly, “Do you know why, despite having long since discovered your identity, I’ve kept you by my side all this time?”

The flush on Xi Mo’s face faded, replaced by a pallor. He looked steadily at Beigong Qiyi and shook his head. Beigong Qiyi stepped aside, opening the distance between them, a smile playing at his lips. “Because I need you to help me accomplish something.”

Xi Mo’s face grew even paler. He bit his lip and asked, “What is it?” Beigong Qiyi gave a soft laugh. “In truth, I want my elder brother to leave the manor. But if I let him out directly, he would certainly see through my intentions. So I need someone else’s hand to achieve it, and you are the perfect choice.”

“Why?” Xi Mo’s gaze dropped, hiding his expression. “If you care for him so much and know how many covet him, why let him leave the manor?”

Beigong Qiyi smiled faintly. “Though he’s under my control now, one day he’ll break free. Until then, he’ll hate me, loathe me. All I’ve done is to make him love me. Why would I do something to achieve the opposite?”

“Then if you let him go and he’s far away from you, will he love you?” Xi Mo demanded.

Beigong Qiyi shook his head, still smiling. “Of course not. I’m not so foolish as to believe my elder brother could be won over by me. But…” His smile turned strange. “But I do have a way to make him fall for me—completely and irrevocably.”

Xi Mo’s face turned ashen. He stared at Beigong Qiyi, his bright eyes glazed with unshed tears. “So you kept me near only to use me. Your kindness to me—it was all an act, wasn’t it?”

Beigong Qiyi sighed softly. He reached out and gently patted Xi Mo’s head. “You’ve followed me for so many years. Even if my heart were stone, I should have some feeling for you. Yes, I’ve used you, but didn’t you once use me as well?”

Xi Mo’s expression changed. He stared at Beigong Qiyi in a daze. The youth’s smile was gentle, but it hovered only on the surface, never reaching his eyes. Xi Mo felt a coldness settle in his heart. He blinked hard, then smiled at himself with bitter irony. “Beigong Qiyi, your heart is harder than stone.”

He shoved Beigong Qiyi aside, wiped his face with a rough hand, and left without a backward glance.

All the gentle smiles from the youth he had yearned for—nothing but a charade played to perfection.

Beigong Qiyi watched Xi Mo’s departing figure in silence, then suddenly laughed. You are wrong. My heart is not harder than stone; it’s just that every soft place in it has been given to one single person.

And that person, of all people, only scorns and dismisses him.

Ten days—neither too long nor too short—today marked the eighth.

But for Fu Zhi, these had been the happiest eight days of his life. Though outwardly calm, he was truly content.

He turned his head to look at the person lying on the soft couch, eyes closed in feigned sleep. The corners of his mouth twitched. He set aside his medicine bottle, unrolled a sheet of paper, and, after glancing again at Beigong Juechen, took up his brush and began to sketch, stroke by careful stroke.

Beigong Juechen, of course, was not asleep. He was simply enjoying the pleasant afternoon sunlight. Fu Zhi was unlike Qi Yong or Beigong Qiyi; he and Beigong Juechen had known each other since boyhood, growing up together in the innocence of youth. Though both were cold and reserved by nature, there was a bond between them that was different from any other.

So, even though Fu Zhi, like the other two, had taken advantage of his helplessness, Beigong Juechen could never bring himself to hate him. Fu Zhi was perhaps his only true friend. Beigong Juechen understood him—he was profoundly lonely.

That loneliness made Beigong Juechen feel that staying a few days with him was not too great a concession, even if it was forced.

Fu Zhi’s art was like his character—simple and clear. With just a few casual lines, he captured Beigong Juechen’s lazy, relaxed posture to perfection.

And above all, he captured Beigong Juechen’s beauty—icy, cold, and severe. Only Fu Zhi could render it with such truth. In Beigong Qiyi’s paintings, Beigong Juechen always appeared a bit softer, less cold than he really was—he painted, in fact, the version of Beigong Juechen he wished for. But Fu Zhi’s hand rendered the true Beigong Juechen:

Utterly beautiful, utterly cold, utterly proud—without love or sentiment, sovereign and unassailable.

He was the one who understood Beigong Juechen best in all the world, just as Beigong Juechen understood him best. They were friends, confidants; the only difference was—

Fu Zhi had fallen in love with Beigong Juechen, but Beigong Juechen had not fallen for him.

Xi Mo hurried into Qi Yong’s room. Qi Yong turned to look at him, noting his labored breathing with a raised brow. “What happened?”

Xi Mo gulped down a cup of tea, caught his breath, and murmured, “We have made a mistake.”

Qi Yong’s gaze was cool, a slight frown between his brows. “I think so too. We have made a mistake.”

Xi Mo spoke coldly, “Beigong Qiyi let Beigong Juechen out on purpose. He’s using us to accomplish something—something very important.”

Qi Yong looked at him in silence for a long time, then suddenly rose and said in a low voice, “It’s been years since we crossed swords. How about a match today?”

Xi Mo’s expression turned wry. He looked at Qi Yong and frowned. “You know I haven’t practiced martial arts in years.”

Qi Yong smiled faintly. “But your internal strength remains, and you haven’t forgotten your forms.”

Xi Mo’s expression shifted again. He looked at Qi Yong—the smile was faint, but it was the most sincere he had ever seen on that face, so genuine that Xi Mo couldn’t help but smile himself. “Very well, just a friendly bout.”

Qi Yong was right. Though he hadn’t practiced for years, his foundation was still there, and his forms were not forgotten. It was the most important thing his father had left him.

Xi Mo caressed the chained spear in his hand. It was the weapon he once wielded, but since serving Beigong Qiyi he had never touched it. He had thought that he would feel estranged from it, but to his surprise, the moment he gripped it again, an eager excitement surged within him.

Such is the instinct of a true martial artist—once their own weapon is in hand, the urge to fight becomes irresistible.

Qi Yong stood opposite, hands clasped behind his back, unarmed. Like Beigong Juechen, his martial skill had reached such a level that weapons were unnecessary; anything around them could become a weapon in their hands.

Xi Mo’s chained spear dragged along the floor. Qi Yong glanced at him and said coolly, “Begin.”

As the words left his lips, a flash of silver streaked through the air—the chained spear whipped toward him. Though Xi Mo’s internal strength was average now, his arm was powerful and his moves fierce. The force of his blows belied his slender appearance.

The spear had sixteen sections, not the usual thirteen—longer and heavier, yet Xi Mo’s moves, though fierce, seemed weightless, as if wielding a whip rather than a chain.

Qi Yong’s hands remained behind his back, unmoving. The spear swept toward his face, and the wind it raised sent his hair swirling. At that instant, Qi Yong moved—not his hands, but his body. With a blur, two forms seemed to appear before Xi Mo’s eyes. But when he looked again, Qi Yong was gone. Startled, Xi Mo sensed a gust of palm wind at his back and twisted aside to evade.

But it was too late. Qi Yong’s palm brushed his neck. Xi Mo straightened with effort, turned, and smiled lightly. “I lost.” Though defeated, he was genuinely happy.

He understood now—Qi Yong had challenged him because he knew the instinct of the martial artist remained within him. Even Beigong Juechen once said he had excellent bones and, had he kept training, would have become a true master. Though he had wasted his most crucial ten years, hard work could still reclaim what was lost.

He lowered his hand; a bright red scratch marked his pale neck, but Xi Mo paid it no heed. He ran forward and hugged Qi Yong tightly, laughing under his breath. “Thank you, cousin.”

Qi Yong was his sworn brother, his cousin, and also his teacher.

Qi Yong patted his back. Xi Mo let go and smiled sheepishly. Qi Yong, half exasperated and half amused, flicked his forehead and scolded, “Now you call me brother? When you used to mock me, you never remembered I was your elder.” As he spoke, he produced a book and handed it over.

Xi Mo took the book and wrinkled his nose. “You never act like an older brother! What’s this?” Qi Yong chuckled. “It’s the secret manual of the Baisha Palace inner arts, left by our master.”

Xi Mo nodded and tucked the book into his sleeve, then suddenly asked, “By the way, what about that substitute?”

Qi Yong shrugged. “Dead.”

Xi Mo gave a meaningful smile. “With his temperament, running into Beigong Juechen was a death sentence.” Noting a complex look on Qi Yong’s face, he bumped his shoulder teasingly. “What’s this, heartbroken over a lost lover?”

Qi Yong looked at him in amusement and spoke softly, “How could I be? He was of no consequence.”

He too was a man without sentiment or attachment. All the softness and feeling in his heart was reserved for one person only. His anxiety was only for Beigong Juechen.

He didn’t know what Beigong Qiyi planned next, but he had a sense that he was about to lose that man entirely. The premonition weighed on him like an iron stone, making it hard even to breathe.