Sleepless Shadows

After witnessing all this, I finally understood the root of Zhao Jin’s illness of the heart. To put it bluntly, it was the eternal torment of desiring yet never attaining, attaining yet never cherishing.

Why was it that, when he thought Qin Yan had died, he suffered no insomnia, yet the moment he saw her again, sleep abandoned him? The answer was painfully simple—because he discovered she had faked her death to escape him. She had chosen to vanish, to live in obscurity with a humble farmer, enduring seven long years of poverty rather than return to his side.

He thought she was dead. In truth, she had hidden herself from him for seven years—seven entire years.

Had this been the Zhao Jin of seven years past, he would have drawn his blade without hesitation, cut through all obstacles, and dragged his wife and children back by force. But that reckless youth was gone. Time had worn him down, reshaped him from a spoiled scion into a man of grim maturity. He could no longer bring himself to act with the same wild abandon.

And so, he lost his sleep.

When I had seen enough, I withdrew from the illusion along with Gongsun Bai. Fortunately, before we had entered, we had already made arrangements with Zhao Jin to dismiss his attendants. No one noticed our brief disappearance. The fifteen years we witnessed in the dreamscape had passed in the span of only two hours in the waking world. When we emerged, Zhao Jin was still asleep, his breathing even, his chest rising and falling gently.

They say that misunderstandings are the stepping stones that strengthen lovers’ bonds. Yet here, misunderstanding had done nothing but push Zhao Jin and Qin Yan into a cycle of love twisted into hatred. But even to call it “love” was a mistake.

For Qin Yan, her truest devotion was to herself, to survival, to dignity. As for Zhao Jin—he perhaps did not even deserve to use the word.

A rotten man’s sincerity is still nothing but rot.

When Gongsun Bai and I left the study, Xiao Hui—no, at this stage she should rightly be addressed as Lady Hui—was already waiting outside.

“Has the master fallen asleep?” she asked softly, concern written across her face.

I nodded. “He is sleeping now.”

Still uneasy, she slipped inside, her steps careful as though even the creak of a floorboard might wake him. She drew the quilt up to his shoulders with a tender hand, then quietly retreated. When she emerged again, her eyes glistened with gratitude.

“Honored doctors, please, come with me.”

We followed her to the front hall, where she poured us tea before disappearing into an inner room. After ten minutes, she returned, carrying a wooden chest. She set it down, lifted the lid, and revealed its gleaming contents—gold, silver, and jewels, piled high within.

Lady Hui spoke with a sigh. “The master has suffered from sleeplessness for over half a year. We have searched everywhere for healers and mystics, yet none could help. Only by fortune did we meet you two. To see him rest soundly, even once, is a blessing. I hope you might remain in our household for some time. Money is no obstacle.”

I forced my gaze away from the treasure, replying evenly, “To ease the lord’s burdens is our duty.”

Her eyes lingered on us for a moment, before she asked, “But… do you know why the master suffers so? Do you have an answer?”

I pretended to deliberate, then deliberately spoke: “When the master was asleep, it seemed as though he whispered a woman’s name.”

Her expression did not change.

“It sounded like… something with ‘Yan.’ Qin Yan, perhaps.”

Still, her face was calm, as though she had already anticipated this truth long ago.

“I believe the master suffers from an ailment of the heart,” I said. “And an ailment of the heart requires a medicine of the heart.”

Lady Hui only smiled faintly. Then, with a small gesture, she summoned two servants to guide us to the rear courtyard, where we would be temporarily lodged.

Zhao Jin’s exhaustion was so deep that he slept for two full days and nights. It was not until the third evening that he finally stirred.

At the time, Gongsun Bai and I were in the dining hall, sipping porridge. We had barely taken a few mouthfuls when a servant hurried in to summon us to the study.

Inside, Zhao Jin sat upright, looking refreshed, vigor returned to his eyes.

“You two are extraordinary,” he said. “I have not slept so soundly in years. But tell me—why did I fall into this illness of sleeplessness?”

I produced the explanation I had prepared long beforehand. “My lord, the culprit is none other than that blade—the ‘Slayer of the Sun.’ It is a weapon of yang, a rarity in a hundred years. Prolonged proximity twists the mind, stirs violent temper, disrupts the balance of essence and spirit. Insomnia, agitation, even sudden death from the reversal of the blood flow—all are possible.”

Zhao Jin frowned. “So you are saying all this comes from the Slayer of the Sun?”

I nodded solemnly. “The cure is simple, though not easy. Yang must be tempered by yin. With a blade of yin to counterbalance, harmony will return, and your symptoms will fade on their own. And the finest yin blade beneath the heavens is the ‘Venomous Nether.’”

His face darkened as he mulled over my words. After a few meaningless platitudes, he dismissed us.

Gongsun Bai and I returned to the hall to finish our porridge. Halfway through the meal, he looked up and said, “That three thousand taels Zhao Jin gave you—shouldn’t I get a share?”

“You wish!” I shot back, starting to count on my fingers. “Think about it. Last time I saved your life, you swore you’d pay me, but I never saw a single coin. And this time, curing Zhao Jin’s insomnia was mostly my doing, so…” My voice faltered, growing weaker.

“So?” he prodded.

“Well…”

“I never said I’d take it from you.” He flicked open his fan with a smirk. “But the debt I owe you—consider it settled by this. What say you?”

I lowered my head, conflicted. When I first saved him, I had hoped to wring a tidy sum from him. Yet despite all my efforts, not a copper had reached my hands. And now, finally, I had earned three thousand taels—a fortune hard-won, sweat and toil turned to silver. True, his stratagems had played their part, but to hand over half of it? That was three thousand taels of gold! Enough to buy mountains of steamed buns!

I hesitated.

Seeing my struggle, he added slyly, “If you disagree, then perhaps I’ll just—”

“Fine! Agreed!” I cut him off before he could finish. Better that than risk him wriggling out of it entirely. After all, for all his fancy clothes and wealthy air, who knew how much he actually had in his purse? What if I handed him half now, only for him to repay me with a handful of copper coins later? That would be true ruin.

As I grimaced, he chuckled. “Relax. I only meant to remind you—the letter has already been sent. It’s time we set out. To Yuluo Pavilion. We’ll stir the waters there, and then sit back to reap the reward.”

The very next day, we departed, politely declining Lady Hui’s pleas to remain. Before leaving, I gifted her several sticks of incense, laced with a trace of the rare Fragrant Bloom. It would at least grant Zhao Jin some rest in our absence.

Yuluo Pavilion lay a hundred li from the Swordsmith Manor. We rode hard, day and night, and after three grueling days arrived at last.

The manor had been a fortress upon a mountain, perched between the southern kingdom of Nanchuan and the icy lands of Xihan. But the pavilion was altogether different—built at the heart of a bustling city, with trade flowing in every direction. Its renown was so great that the entire city had taken on the character “Yu” in its name, as if basking in its reflected glory.

We reached Yudong City and made straight for the Jade Gate Residence. Yet at the gate, we were barred from entry. The pavilion’s fame drew countless visitors daily, so much so that appointments for an audience were booked three months in advance.

Three months? Impossible. I turned to Gongsun Bai for a solution.

“There is a way,” he said smoothly, “but it requires a sacrifice.”

“What sacrifice?” I asked.

He hooked a finger, and with a flick, plucked a bundle from my robes—the half sword manual Qin Yan had given me.

“One mountain cannot house two tigers. Yuluo Pavilion has long hungered to supplant the Swordsmith Manor. All it lacked was a certain something. This,” he tapped the manual, “is enough.”

My heart ached, but in the end I handed it over.

The next day, our path was miraculously clear. The steward himself came to escort us inside, and there, in a secluded hall, we found ourselves face to face with Yu Hanjun.

The man before me was thirty-five now. When first I saw him within the illusion, he had been but twenty—full of the blazing fire of youth. Fifteen years had cooled that fire into a steady glow. His bearing was refined, his manner polished, like a scholar rather than a warrior.

He greeted us warmly, ordering tea before settling opposite. I wasted no time and offered up the manual. He examined it, eyes narrowing in delight. “So it truly is the legendary Sword Compendium.” Setting it aside, he asked calmly, “And what is it you desire in return?”

Yuluo Pavilion was, after all, an organization of assassins. What else could we desire but death dealt to another?

I rose, clasped my hands, and bowed. “We ask only that the pavilion aid us in avenging a great wrong.”

Yu Hanjun’s gaze sharpened. “And who is the target?”

“My name is Su Qi, and this is Su Bai. Years ago, our elder sister was betrayed by a man. She left him, raising two children alone. Yet the scoundrel still seeks to steal them from her. She resists, and so we come to you, to beg that you rid the world of him. In return, the manual is yours, and further payment shall follow.”

Yu Hanjun’s eyes gleamed like stars. “This faithless man—who is he?”

I spoke each word with weight:

“Swordsmith Manor. Zhao Jin.”