Chapter 364: The Life Line’s Curse
Clyde paced restlessly along the ridge of the hill, boots crunching against the loose gravel that lined the stone path. The late autumn wind whipped at his overcoat, but he didn’t seem to feel the chill. His brow was taut, his expression cold, every step carrying the weight of an urgency he could not put into words.
Behind him, Uncle Lin stood like an old pine tree rooted in patience. His eyebrow twitched, and with a sharp exhale through his nose, he snapped. "Stop walking. You are giving me a headache."
Clyde halted in his tracks, shoulders rigid. His gaze drifted toward the outline of the temple standing not far above them, its stone walls weathered with centuries of prayer and silence. The incense smoke curled faintly from the half-open lattice windows, carrying with it the faint fragrance of sandalwood and aged wood. "Would the master meet us?" Clyde asked, his voice low, almost swallowed by the whistling wind.
Uncle Lin stroked his white beard slowly. "That... depends on fate."
Clyde pinched the bridge of his nose, a muscle in his temple twitching. Fate. He thought he had grown weary, even resentful, of that word. He needed certainty. Not a vague statement. He had walked the battlefields of negotiation, conquered storms of corporations, and unravelled men’s lies with a glance. Yet here, on this lonely hill, with this word, he was powerless.
The two of them lingered at the closed temple doors. With a creak, one of the heavy doors shifted open. A temple worker emerged, a thin man in simple robes, head bowed, hands clasped together in greeting. Without a word, he gestured them inside.
Uncle Lin placed his hands behind his back and stepped forward with steady grace. Clyde followed, restraining his urgency.
The faint glow of oil lamps lit the interior. Shadows swayed along the wooden beams, carved dragons and lotus blossoms seeming to shift in the flickering light. Stone statues of guardians flanked the hallway, their faces solemn, their eyes hollow yet piercing.
Clyde’s chest tightened as he walked deeper. The post Micah had sent on WeChat earlier had made him anxious. At first, he had planned to linger here longer, to use the excuse of business trips to keep distance, distance from Micah, distance from temptation. He had no hope of finding a cure for his nightmares so soon, even if he managed to face the master.
But now, out of the blue, Micah’s temper had flared. Clyde didn’t know what had triggered it, nevertheless, he needed to go back quickly. Micah had a knack for drawing disaster as though it were magnetised to him.
Clyde clenched his fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He knew he had chickened out, had run away from Micah. The blame was on him.
He had to go back to pacify that boy.
The temple worker slid open a side door, guiding them into a chamber where silence seemed to thicken into substance. The room was sparse, with tatami mats covering the floor, scrolls with ancient calligraphy hanging from the walls. At the centre, seated cross-legged on a raised platform, was the master. His robe was plain, the colour of faded ash, and his eyes were closed in deep stillness. A string of prayer beads rested in his hand, each bead worn smooth by decades of touch. The air around him carried an inexplicable calm, as though even the restless wind outside could not breach this sanctuary.
Clyde and Uncle Lin halted at the threshold.
The master’s eyes opened slowly. Dark, fathomless, they seemed to pierce straight through flesh and bone, into the marrow of one’s being. His voice was low, yet resonant, each word settling heavily in the air. "Welcome, esteemed guests."
"Master," Clyde and Uncle Lin bowed deeply, their voices respectful, subdued.
The master raised one hand, palm out. A gesture of both blessing and permission. He gestured for them to sit upon the mats before him. As they obeyed, he began to turn the prayer beads again, the faint click of each bead like the toll of a clock. "You have come from afar. The journey weighs on your body. Yet I sense your hearts are heavier."
Clyde hesitated. His throat felt dry, but he forced the words out. "Master, my nightmares have returned."
Master’s movement stopped for a second before resuming its rhythm. "It appears you have found your other half."
The words struck like a bolt of lightning. Clyde’s composure cracked, his breath caught. "Then why..." he began, but the master cut through him gently.
"Even though you are two halves of a whole, your fates are misaligned."
Clyde’s eyes turned cold. His shoulders stiffened, the air around him sharp with restrained fury.
Uncle Lin blinked, disbelief etched across his aged features. "How could that be possible..."
The master’s gaze slid toward Clyde, steady, heavy with meaning. "Using force only hastens the path to destruction."
Clyde clenched his jaw. "Then tell me, Master. What should I do?"
The prayer beads clicked once more. "Correct the fate."
Uncle Lin was more puzzled. Correct the fate? What did that mean?
Yet beside him, Clyde suddenly understood. Micah. Darcy. Their intertwined destinies.
But what did that mean? If Micah returned everything to Darcy, could they be together without problems?
"Master, my nightmares.. How are they bound to the two of them?" Clyde asked.
Master closed his eyes again. "The life line of yours... is the root of all misfortunes."
Clyde’s head throbbed, temples pulsing with pain. The riddle became more and more bizarre. How could his life possibly affect Micah and Darcy’s fates?
"Until that fate is corrected, how can I suppress my nightmares?" Clyde asked about the more pressing matter.
Master stopped his beads. From the folds of his robe, he drew three sachets, each embroidered with ancient patterns. One was pure white, another pitch black, the last shimmering faintly gold.
Clyde’s pupils contracted. The implication was obvious.
The master extended his hand. "Keep them with you. I am certain you already know to whom they belong."
Clyde accepted them under Uncle Lin’s widened eyes.
"Thank you," Clyde whispered.
Then the master turned his back on them, shoulders sinking deeper into meditation. But just as they were preparing to leave, his voice cut through the silence once more. "The fate of the chosen one is above all else. A single distortion, and all beings shall perish. Thread carefully."
Clyde bowed, then turned, leading Uncle Lin out with measured steps. But his mind roared. He had never expected the situation would be this tangled. Even if he rejected fate, rejected destiny, the master’s words left no doubt that something far greater was at play. His gaze landed on a black sachet. His heart twisted. Darcy... why was Darcy’s fate bound with his?
Clyde’s eyes flashed.
Uncle Lin was beyond himself. He was able to understand half of what the master was saying. There was another person involved with Clyde...
His eyes drifted to the sachet. The white one must mean Micah, right? But who did the dark one belong to? And why was his fate attached to theirs?
Uncle Lin stopped short. The chosen one...
The chosen ones were rare, a handful scattered across centuries. And one had appeared beside Clyde.
He shook his head, honestly, to encounter one was a curse and a blessing.
A blessing, for heaven favoured them and those who aided them. And a curse, for anyone who obstructed or meddled in their path would suffer the wrath of fate itself.
His steps faltered. His worry grew. What if Clyde fell into the latter category?
Who was the chosen one? Micah? Or another yet unseen?