Chapter [B5] 23 — Elder Business

Chapter [B5] 23 — Elder Business

Elder Yan looked at his granddaughter as he processed the information she’d brought to him. He did not speak right away. His mouth pressed into a flat line, loosened, pressed again.

The tea between them let off a faint thread of steam that curled and faded by the time it rose to eye level. He’d brewed it before she arrived, more from habit than expectation, measuring out the leaves with the same neat care he used when he’d written technique manuals for the sect. Now the cups sat untouched.

Yan Yun’s posture was composed, but she had drawn her hands into her sleeves the way she did when she had to keep them still. She had not cried in front of him in years, not since she was a child and he had been harsher than he should have been and quicker with correction than comfort. Since their quarrels, she had learned to keep her expression smooth around him, the way she had learned to keep her footwork exact. Today, the smoothness showed strain at the edges.

She had rehearsed this conversation on her way over; he could tell by the way she blinked as if counting off lines she had decided to say and discarding them because they no longer fit.

“Is there really no way?” Yan Yun asked him one last time. Her voice was calm, even if the layer beneath it that was not.

He could hear the hope that had already thinned. He could hear, even through her control, the part of her that wanted him to contradict her for once in a way that would make things easier rather than harder.

She was not asking for a loophole in a rule or an exception in a code. She knew there were none, and still she asked. That, more than anything, told him how far along she was in acceptance, and how much she wanted to be wrong.

Elder Yan’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “None,” he confirmed. As much as he wanted to answer differently, to say there was a way… There wasn’t. He couldn’t help his granddaughter, or the boy.

Yan Yun’s expression dimmed. “I see,” she said.

He’d once hated Lu Jie’s guts, but he had gained some appreciation for the boy while rebuilding the relationship with his granddaughter. They’d grown closer over the past few months, and with that came an understanding of how much he did owe the boy. How much of what had happened was his own fault.

Elder Yan shifted his gaze to Yan Yun’s face and then back to the steam. He remembered the first time he’d seen the boy. He disliked him even then. He disliked the way the boy’s decisions drew his granddaughter away, how his actions injured his grandsons. He had definitely disliked seeing his granddaughter’s loyalty attaching itself to him so quickly and so firm.

But all of that was before his seclusion. His seclusion dulled the hatred, gave him time to think.

And then the boy became the Emperor, and the tree rose. The boy had held souls in that tree. He had helped Yan Yun when Elder Yan could not reach her. He had protected the Seventh Peak when others might have let its edges crumble.

He had returned from being gone when people had started to behave as if he were a story. Elder Yan had watched his granddaughter’s tension loosen by a measure when she saw the boy’s face again, and had realized how much that peace had been missing from her for months. He’d resented the relief and been relieved anyway.

He did not use the word tragedy in his thoughts, not often. He disliked words that carried judgments inside them about what the world should have been. He preferred clean facts and the careful work of what came next. But he could not escape the feeling in his chest, the judgement that the upcoming event would indeed be tragic.

The boy had been gone, and then they had him back. People returned with marks on them, and this one had returned with a steadiness that had made the others stand a little straighter.

Now he would go again. He would go by his own choice because he had determined that the thing buried under the roots would not end any other way. The world presented them with that arrangement, and the boy accepted it anyway.

Elder Yan wet his lips and found them dry. He took the smallest sip of tea and set the cup down without noise. “I wish it were not so. But…”

Yan Yun shook her head. “He told us as much himself. I just hoped there’d be another path.”

At that moment, Elder Yan felt a strange urge to do something he’d never thought he would: to apologize to someone else for his mistakes. It came as a small, steady pressure in his chest and a precise list of things that brought him the results he had claimed he did not want.

He had kept his granddaughter at a distance in the name of discipline when what she had needed was the kind of respect that listens first and corrects after and refused to speak plainly about his worries with his granddaughter because he had believed that worry, if voiced, became permission to falter. He made her earn his smallest approval as if approval were a rationed item.

And with his grandsons, he’d done the opposite. Hadn’t disciplined them enough, neglected them, and hadn’t given them the appropriate guidance. In a way, that had led to their deaths. In a way, he was responsible for their eventual fates.

He had been wrong. Wrong in so, so many ways. Ironic that he only saw it once it was too late. He had learned that in the slow way that costs relationships. The past months had been a ledger of small adjustments, attempts to rebuild. Waiting on a response rather than filling the silence with rules, asking a question before issuing a directive, praising the result when it matched the effort rather than the old standard.

Each change had seemed too little when he made it, yet seen together, they had loosened something in others when they approached him.

He could not regret the discipline that had kept Yan Yun alive and skilled. He did regret the way he had bound himself to a single way of showing care and had mistaken that way for the only one available.

He thought of the boy again. He had never even imagined he would consider apologizing to him. But the more he let the thought roll in his mind, the more right it seemed. R̃ᴀɴÒʙĚš

When the boy had first stepped into their affairs, Elder Yan had thought of him as a disruption, yes. But then the boy had built, mended, chosen, and stood. Everything he had done, is doing, and likely will be doing till his final breath had stacked up until Elder Yan found that to deny respect to them would be to deny truth.

Elder Yan did not like being wrong. He liked even less behaving as if he were right when he was not, especially after how it had ruined him. A clean apology would be the proper tool to match the error. It would not change the boy’s choice, but it would set Elder Yan’s own ledger in order.

“Where is that boy right now?” Boy had been a word he had used dismissively once. He did not mean it that way now. In his mouth, it held a rough affection he was not ready to open fully in his voice.

“He’s meeting Lord Zhao Fang,” Yan Yun told him.

Elder Yan nodded.

—

I lay sprawled on the ground, staring up into the sky. Moving my body after so long felt so refreshing, to just let go and bash each other with spears. Sweat a bit, you know. And it was nice. At one point, we even let loose a bit of Chi. Not enough to destroy the place, of course, but enough to let off some steam, take it up into the sky, let it rampage around and give the miasma a bit of a break.

The training square still held a faint haze from our last exchange, a harmless afterimage of light that faded as the wards redirected stray currents away from the roofs. The flagstones were cool through my robe. My chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm as heat eased out through open collar ties, sweat drying to a thin crust at the nape of my neck. The old spear lay a hand’s breadth from my fingers, tip angled toward the practice rings.

It had a new chip on the butt end from where I had overstepped and Zhang had clipped it out of my guard. I’d need to sand it smooth later to keep it from catching on the grip of any soldier who used it later to train.

“This felt good.” Zhang lay next to me, breathing just as deeply as I was, also looking at the sky. His hair stuck up in the back where he had rolled and landed, and there was a streak of dust across his cheekbone that he hadn’t noticed. He was smiling anyway, one of the rare ones that sat easy on his face. For once, he chose not to worry, just live. Just enjoy the sensation of air in lungs, muscles slightly sore from a duel with a friend, and the vague belief that everything might be alright.

Stolen novel; please report.

As much as getting here hurt, I appreciated that at least everyone knew the truth now. Qiao Ying really was wise, wasn’t he?

Right then, I heard footsteps. I turned and saw Elder Yan standing beside Lord Zhou. He greeted Lord Zhou with a bow before looking at me.

Zhou Fang inclined his head in return and stepped aside, glancing over the square with the quick assessment he never stopped doing. His eyes lifted briefly toward the Divine Tree in the distance and then back to me without demand. He had a good sense for when to stand present and when to leave space.

I tilted my head. “Elder Yan?” I wasn’t surprised he was here, he had turned over a new leaf, but why had he come to meet me?

Elder Yan looked different than when I’d last seen him. His back was still straight because he had forced it to stay that way all his life, but there was something less rigid in his shoulders. His eyes, usually sharp with judgment, were simply attentive now.

He waited for me to finish my brief scan before he spoke. “Can I talk with you, Lu Jie? Or perhaps I should call you Sect Leader, or Emperor?”

“Lu Jie is fine.” I stood to greet him properly. My legs complained for a breath and then settled. I dusted grit off my sleeves, then turned toward Zhou Fang.

“The third room to the right is soundproof. You can use that for your conversation,” Zhou Fang said immediately.

I flashed him a smile. “Shall we?”

Elder Yan nodded solemnly and we walked to the room.

Zhang thumped the back of my shoulder with two fingers as I rose but otherwise stayed where he was, staring at the sky and savoring the peace for a moment longer.

Zhou Fang stared at him with a soft smile of his own, clearly relieved that Zhang was less tense, even if for just a few moments.

I opened the door for Elder Yan, a gesture he accepted and walked inside. I followed behind him, leaning against the wall as Elder Yan took a seat on one of the wooden chairs within the room.

The room was small by design. Thick plaster, a layer of arrayed wood with a thin seam of copper, and then more plaster. There was a low table, two chairs, and a shelf with a paper, ink, and a cup if someone needed to write in a hurry. No windows, and a single lantern with a cloth shade.

“What brings you here, Elder Yan?” I asked.

“I had a very strange urge to talk to you,” he said, the dry humor in his tone making me raise an eyebrow appreciatively. “My granddaughter told me… about what’s going to happen.”

My eyes widened. “Ah, so your relationship is better now?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

Elder Yan nodded. “Yes. I’ve done my best, and thankfully my granddaughter is willing to give me another chance.”

His voice thinned a little on ‘willing’, an honest admission of where the power sat in that reconciliation. He sat forward, hands on his knees. He didn’t look away from me when he said it. That was new.

I smiled. I truly was glad that they’d reconciled. I knew how much Yan Yun loved her grandfather, even if he’d broken her heart. It’s nice to know that she’s had him on her side, supporting her to the best of his extent. I felt slightly surprised when I realized I truly did believe the man was doing his best; was it his current earnest attitude that made me believe him?

Now that I thought about it—who would run the sect after I faced the demon god? Elder Yan would be a good candidate, wouldn’t he? The sect was not fully functional right now, at least not in the traditional way due to most sects being half dead and all resources of the remaining half being pooled to face the demon god, but it would be nice if someone could continue it, take it to greater glory once things went back to normal and sects had meaning.

“Elder Yan, would you be willing to take the mantle of the sect again?” I asked.

His eyes widened. “What? Do you truly want this foolish old man to become the sect leader again?”

“Yes. If you know about everything, then you know I won’t be able to fulfill my responsibilities after the demon god is dead. Not that I’ve been doing an exceptional job lately, running the sect, but it would be good to have someone to guide it after I’m gone.”

Elder Yan stared at me silently. Unexpected reaction, that. I thought he would accept or refuse, not just stare. “You’ve done an exceptional job running the sect, boy,” Elder Yan finally broke the silence. “I might not have accepted it before because of the sheer rage I felt at you, but looking at what you’ve done for the sect and the city, you’re a fantastic leader. I am not so cheap as to scavenge over your spot after you’re gone. It’ll probably be left empty in your honor. I’d be willing to become an elder if you want me to, but nothing beyond that.”

I was… genuinely surprised. Anyone who knew the old Elder Yan would know titles and positions mattered to him a lot. For him to refuse it, and say I’d deserve the Sect Leader position being left empty as a symbol of honor… I didn’t quite know what to say to that.

An awkward silence settled for a few seconds, then Elder Yan seemed to finally muster the courage to speak what he’d come here for, “I am sorry. For my arrogance, for my hopeless hubris, for all the mistakes I’ve made.”

I blinked. That too, I hadn’t expected to hear. Elder Yan reforming, sure. Elder Yan making up with his granddaughter, sure. But apologizing to me?

It was… unimaginable.

He still had his pride as a cultivator, didn’t he? And I was someone who had led to the deaths of both of his heirs and corrupted his other heir. Even if he’d moved on, I would have expected him to think we’d inflicted equal damage on each other and let bygones be bygones—not to apologize.

“I should have done many things differently,” Elder Yan admitted. “I should have taken a stricter hand with my two heirs. I should have given Yan Yun more freedom and acknowledgment, shown her I was truly proud. I should have stopped trying to marry her away for the sect’s benefit—or, as I deluded myself, for her benefit. I should have given you more support when I recognized that you were talented. Yes, you injured my heirs, but through being drunk on that fury I lost the opportunity to train a truly valuable disciple for the sect’s greater good. I should have had more patience, more judgment, more discernment. Perhaps you would not have had to face many of the roadblocks you did, if I was a better elder. I apologize for not fulfilling my duty as a sect leader, as an elder, as a fellow cultivator. I have already apologized to Yan Yun, but after how much you have done for us all, you also deserve an apology.”

“I accept your apology.”

Elder Yan chuckled. “I didn’t expect you would. In all fairness, you’re not supposed to accept my apology, perhaps even scorn this old man for trying to satisfy myself by apologizing.” He rubbed his thumb along the chair’s arm once, a nervous habit that looked new on him, then let his hand sit still again. The lantern’s wick popped and settled.

I studied him, then voiced the thought drifting through my mind. “Yan Yun really is lucky to have you.”

“Really? Lucky to have this foolish old man who has inflicted so much pain on her? I think not.”

“You’ve made a lot of mistakes, Elder Yan,” I said bluntly. “You inflicted a lot of pain on a lot of people, including your granddaughter. However, most people who have caused harm do not even try to change. Most people in your positions would not have changed. You at least have decided to look at your mistakes, accept your flaws, and do better from now on. Most would not do that.”

“I would imagine most would if they were forced into my situation,” he said softly. “If they’d experienced all that I did…”

“Would they, really?”

The elder fell silent, which was better than trying to force an answer. We had both seen men and women cling to misjudgments past the point where the cost became obvious. He had been one such person, after all.

We had also seen people refuse to shift even when they knew continued stubbornness would destroy them. Change had a cost. It cost pride and habits woven into bone. It cost comfort. Elder Yan chose to pay those costs now, and not just temporarily. Dismissing the effort he was putting in would be foolish.

It was ironic, I realized, that nearly all my enemies had either reformed in some way or were people I couldn’t firmly call villains. Elder Yan, both his grandsons, maybe even Shen Yuan before the demon god had taken him over.

How much of that was because of my ability to empathize, or because of the fact that my adversaries were not just two dimensional cardboard cutouts, I did not know.

How much had the broken and twisted pursuit of immortality, of trying to reach the pinnacle of a broken cycle, warped these cultivators, really? Because freed of that pursuit and adding just a bit of clarity, each of them seemed, underneath it all, to be just people. Not the psychopaths one might imagine cultivators to be. Living, breathing people.

Suddenly, my upcoming sacrifice to fix the cycle and make it so future cultivators would not be misguided by the heavens felt like it might be worth it, beyond the simple expedient of preventing the destruction of the world. It would always be worth it, of course, but the prospect felt easier now. I sensed the thread of connection I had with the Divine Tree, noticed how much stronger it had become over these past days, how much lighter I felt having spoken with the people I’d be leaving behind.

I didn’t think I was quite capable of accepting transcendence yet, but at some point over the past week it had stopped feeling like so much of a terrible fate to be prevented. It felt natural, inevitable, something to be accepted and moved within rather than fought.

That was the true essence of the cycle of immortality, was it not? Accept the nature of life and death, that neither is whole without the other, and that all we have is to do our best with the moments we have.

I wasn’t without regrets, nor would I say I looked forward to becoming the Final Law, but there were worse fates. I’d take a legacy of rebirth and balance over one of death and failure any day, even if I wouldn’t be around to enjoy it.

“Well, then I must start preparations for facing the Demon God, mustn’t I?” I would need to grab the divine leaves to give to Yin and also test myself. I’d need lots and lots of those leaves, if my plans were to work. I reached for my connection with Labby and called out to her. “Meet me in the tunnels, Labby.”

“Labby will, Master,” she responded, less energetically than usual.

Elder Yan rose when I stopped leaning against the wall. He met my eyes and gave a small, grave nod that acknowledged both the work in front of us and the parts of it we would not be able to speak about again.

We didn’t need more.

I opened the door, walking back to the inner yard.

Zhang now stood at the edge of the square with the spearheads racked in a neat row. He had already picked up my chipped shaft and set it aside to sand. He watched me for a breath, then jerked his chin toward the passage that sloped down.

He knew where I had to go now, and he showed me the direction for it without being asked. And then he wonders why I trust him.

Zhou Fang nodded at me once, and then at Elder Yan, before he walked into the hallway, Zhang following behind him.

“Thank you, brother,” Zhang whispered as he passed me, and I patted him on the back.

I took a deep breath. There was work to do, and it would be done.