Chương 41: Lìchūn: Connection 6

The medical halls are quieter than the crafting yards, but not calmer. Noise here is kept beneath the level of shouting. It gathers in low voices, in the scrape of stools, in water poured into basins, in the soft clatter of ceramic jars being set down too quickly by people trying not to look desperate. The smell is stronger up close. Bitter herbs, boiled cloth, sharp alcohol, crushed leaves, old blood scrubbed away badly enough that Liu Yinhua can still find the edge of it beneath everything else.

She pauses outside the nearest open doorway and looks in. There are fewer disciples here than at the crafting halls, but each one seems to be doing three things at once. A girl with her hair pinned severely under a cloth cap grinds something green-black in a mortar while reading from a hanging slip. Two boys argue in whispers over a tray of rolled bandages.

A senior disciple in pale blue robes is telling someone with a swollen eye that, no, bruises gained from voluntary sparring are not urgent enough to skip the queue, even if the sparring partner had been very large and very unfair. Liu Yinhua waits until she is not in anyone's path, and finds someone to direct her towards her target. Thanking them, she travels on until she sees Xu Qinghe near the second room. They are bent over a low table, folding strips of white cloth into neat stacks.

Their features are fine, almost girlish, with dark lashes lowered over tired eyes and black hair pinned back in a knot that has loosened enough for several strands to fall against their cheek. Their sleeves are tied close at the wrists, one tie neater than the other.

There is a faint green smear near their thumb, a darker stain at the edge of one cuff, and three small jars set beside them in an order that looks deliberate until Liu Yinhua notices Xu Qinghe glancing between them as if trying to remember which is which. Xu Qinghe ties off a roll of cloth, sets it aside, reaches for the next, then startles when a girl at the mortar speaks without looking up.

"Too loose." Xu Qinghe blinks down at the bandage. It is not too loose. Liu Yinhua can see that from where she stands. The roll is even, firm, tucked neatly enough that it will not come undone unless someone pulls at it on purpose. Xu Qinghe says, "Oh. I— yes. I'll redo it." The girl sniffs.

"The whole stack." Xu Qinghe looks at the finished pile. Their mouth opens a little, closes, and then they pull the stack back toward them. A martial disciple approaches before she does. He is broad through the shoulders and smiling in the way boys smile when they think they know what will happen.

"Sect Sibling Xu," he says, leaning one hand on the edge of the table.

"Have you thought more about the trial?" Xu Qinghe's fingers tighten on the cloth.

"A little."

"That sounds like no."

"It is— I mean, not no. Not exactly. I… Ijust have not decided."

"There is not much to decide. My team has three combat disciples already. You would be protected." Xu Qinghe lowers their eyes to the bandage.

"I would be following three combat disciples."

"Yes, as I said, protected." His smile tightens.

"You would have a good chance at rewards."

"I would have a good chance at treating the injuries you gain while chasing them." The words come out too quickly, and Xu Qinghe looks briefly as if they regret speaking at all. The boy laughs.

"You are very pessimistic for someone in the medical hall." Xu Qinghe looks down again.

"I was not trying to be." The boy waits—perhaps for an apology, perhaps for their agreement. Xu Qinghe offers neither, though their shoulders have crept a little higher. After another breath, he straightens.

"Think quickly. No one wants to take last pick," he warns.

"I know," Xu Qinghe says. When he leaves, they let out a small breath and reach for the next bandage. Their fingers slip on the first fold. They stop, press their lips together, and begin again, and only then does Liu Yinhua step closer.

"Disciple Xu?" Xu Qinghe looks up too quickly, the strip of cloth slipping crooked between their fingers. Their eyes move over her face, down to the notebook in her hands, then back up again.

"Sect Sister," they say, and then seem to realise that is not an answer.

"Sorry. Um. Yes?" She dips her head.

"Pan Qiu said you might be able to answer a question," she says, soft and polite. At Pan Qiu's name, Xu Qinghe glances past her toward the path, as if expecting him to appear holding something broken.

"Is he hurt?"

"No," she reassures.

"Oh." They relax a little, then look embarrassed by how obvious the relief is.

"Then what did he break?" Liu Yinhua smiles.

"A gauntlet, I think, but I am not here about that."

"That is probably Sect Brother Gao's fault," Xu Qinghe says, very quietly, and then seems to remember themself. Their fingers go back to the cloth.

"What did you need?"

"He said you were careful, and good at what you do," she says, steady. Xu Qinghe looks down at the stack of bandages they have just been told to redo. The corner of their mouth pulls tight.

"That depends who you ask."

"I am asking you." They do not seem to know what to do with that. For a moment, they only smooth the cloth flat with both thumbs, too firmly.

"I try to be." Liu Yinhua rests the edge of her notebook against the table.

"I am trying to understand what the Lower Valley Trial will need from those of us who are not simply large and difficult to knock over." Xu Qinghe's mouth twitches, then they look as if they are not certain whether smiling would be rude.

"That is most of what people are worried about."

"Being knocked over?" They pause, fingers fussing with the edge of the bandage.

"Sorry. That was not helpful." Xu Qinghe tucks the end of the bandage into place.

"People talk about beasts because beasts are easy to imagine. But most trial injuries will probably be stupid things." Liu Yinhua writes quickly. Xu Qinghe watches the brush move.

"You are really taking notes," they seem, almost bemused with it.

"Yes."

"Most people don't."

"Most people remember more than I do," she admits.

"I doubt that," Xu Qinghe says, and then their eyes flick down at once, as if the words had escaped before they could catch them. Liu Yinhua smiles.

"I will take it as praise."

"It was meant as praise," Xu Qinghe says, then lowers their eyes again. The girl at the mortar looks up.

"Xu, if you have time to chat, the back shelves still need sorting." Xu Qinghe's shoulders draw in.

"I know. I'm almost done here."

"You were almost done before."

"I had to redo them."

"Then do them faster." Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Liu Yinhua turns a page in her notebook and writes nothing. Some things are better held in the mind where no one can read them upside down. Xu Qinghe folds another strip of cloth, too tightly this time. They notice, unwind it, and start again.

"I have not chosen a team yet," Liu Yinhua says. Xu Qinghe's hands pause for half a breath.

"Oh," they say.

"That is… not much time."

"No," Liu Yinhua agrees.

"It is not."

"You train with the Crimson Wastes disciples," they say.

"Yes." Xu Qinghe looks at her for a moment, uncertain.

"Are you asking me?"

"Not yet," Liu Yinhua admits.

"Oh." They seem caught between relief and disappointment, and not entirely pleased with either.

"Alright, then."

"I wanted to speak with you first." That gets the smallest, strangest smile from them, gone almost at once. She lets the silence sit for a moment.

"The Crimson Wastes group may enter the trial together. They are strong, and they train seriously. Later, they will likely take hunting tasks. Spirit beasts. Useful materials. Blood, bone, sinew, cores, reagents. Things useful to someone in medicine," she says, thoughtfully. Xu Qinghe's fingers still again.

"You should not say that unless you can promise it," they say, a little too quickly.

"People say things like that and then— I mean, it might not happen."

"I can't promise it," she admits. Xu Qinghe looks up.

"I am not their leader," Liu Yinhua says.

"I am not even certain I will stand with them yet. But I think standing near useful people may be better than waiting for useful people to remember us."

"Us?" Liu Yinhua keeps her voice mild.

"Neither of us came with a clan name that makes people step aside, I think. I need training, resources, and people who will not decide I am easier to use alone. I think you might need some of the same." Xu Qinghe looks away first.

"I am not very good in a fight," they say.

"Neither am I," she says They glance back at her, doubtful despite themself.

"I am getting better," Liu Yinhua says. Xu Qinghe breathes out softly. Their next fold is uneven, and they smooth it twice before letting it stay.

"If I joined a team like that," they say, then stop. Liu Yinhua waits.

"I would need to know I am not only there to patch people up after they do something reckless."

"I would ask that too."

"And if something charges me, I cannot—" They stop again, frowning at the cloth in their hands.

"I am not useless. I just cannot stop a beast with a bandage."

"No one should ask you to." Xu Qinghe glances at her as if surprised she did not argue. Liu Yinhua closes the notebook.

"You do not need to answer now. I have not answered either." Xu Qinghe nods slowly. Their fingers rest on the bandage stack, not folding now. From the other room comes a sharp hiss of pain, then the clatter of a jar knocked sideways and caught before it can fall.

"I will think about it," Xu Qinghe says.

"That is all I hoped for." Liu Yinhua bows her head and turns to go.

"Sect Sister Liu?" She pauses. Xu Qinghe is looking down at the table again.

"If you ask them anything, ask who stays at the back."

"At the back?"

"Combat disciples talk about the front." Their mouth twists, a little helpless.

"The middle is where I would probably be, and I would probably like to know who is behind me." Liu Yinhua nods once.

"I will ask." Xu Qinghe returns to folding.

"Then I will think about it properly." The noon sun sits heavy over the training yard. It is not the gentle warmth of morning or the red kindness of evening. It presses straight down, white-gold and pitiless, bright enough that the pale dust near Liu Yinhua's feet hurts to look at for too long. Heat gathers on the back of her neck. It slides beneath the edge of her collar, pools in the folds of her sleeves, and turns the bow in her hand almost hot against her palm. She breathes in.

The qi here is different beneath noon. She had known sunlight carried power before, but knowing and feeling are not the same. Morning qi lifts. Evening qi settles. This heat does neither. It demands, lays itself across skin, stone, wood, cloth, and asks what can remain uncovered beneath it. Liu Yinhua notches an arrow. The target is a plain practice post at the far end of the yard, already marked by old scratches, scorched dots, and one long crack likely made by someone much stronger than she is.

No one else is using the small yard at this hour. Most disciples with any sense have taken to shaded halls, meal rooms, or indoor cultivation chambers until the worst of the heat passes. She draws. The first fold of the Ninefold Shadow of the Purifying Sun waits inside her, as it always does. It is not flame, not really, and every time she thinks of it as flame the qi slips wrong. Fire is too easy an idea. Fire eats, dances, announces itself with smoke and hunger and red light. Burning Shadow does not.

It is the little violence hidden behind brightness. The bite beneath radiance. The dark mark left when the sun has touched a thing too closely. She gathers heat into the line of the arrow. Too much. The qi rushes along the wood, bright and greedy, and dies before she releases. The arrow gives a small, pitiful hiss. Smoke curls from the fletching. Liu Yinhua lowers the bow and looks at it.

"Waste," she murmurs. She sets the ruined arrow aside with the others. There are not many others, which is something like success. The first time she had tried to put Burning Shadow into an arrow, she had nearly burned through the string, her wrist had ached for half the day, and the arrow itself had flared uselessly in the air before falling short of the target like a kicked ember. Since then, she has managed it twice. She takes another arrow. The sun presses down. Purifying Sun.

The name still feels like a joke told by someone crueler than Lièjìng. Liu Yinhua, practising a purifying art. Liu Yinhua, drawing on clean noon heat as if light would not recoil from her if it knew what rooms she had come from, what hands had dressed her, what songs had been taught into her mouth, what price had once been placed beside her name. Purification was for temples, for ritual baths, for clean robes and incense smoke. For girls with mothers who had guarded thresholds.

For nobles who could speak of stains because someone else had always done the washing. Not for her. Her fingers tighten around the arrow shaft. Sullied. Spoiled. Lower. Used. Words spoken plainly, words implied, words wrapped in pity until they cut worse. She knows them all, and she knows the faces that go with them. Men who wanted untouched silk and women who knew exactly how much touched silk was still worth if the buyer was drunk enough, lonely enough, cruel enough, rich enough.

The sun burns cloth and skin alike. Liu Yinhua lifts the bow again. She breathes in until her ribs ache. The arrow is shadowed where her fingers cover it, and the sun lies along the exposed wood in a bright line. She draws qi not into the whole shaft, but into the narrow meeting of covered and uncovered, warmth and darkness, seen and unseen. Her dantian pulls hot and small. There. A pinprick of gold-white gathers beneath her thumb, hidden until it is not, and she releases. The arrow flies.

For most of its path, it is only an arrow. Then, just before it strikes, light flashes along the head with a small cruel brightness. The target gives a dry crack, a dark mark appearing where the arrow sinks in, thin as a grain of rice and smoking pouring at the edges. Liu Yinhua exhales as she lowers the bow and lets herself stand still under the noon sun, sweat cooling beneath the edge of her hair. Again, then. She reaches for another arrow.

By the time Xie Lianqiu finds her, there are four new marks on the post and twice as many ruined arrows on the ground. Liu Yinhua is trying very hard not to sway, mostly because the heat has made pride feel more expensive than usual.

"Liu Yinhua," Xie calls from the yard entrance. Liu Yinhua turns. Xie Lianqiu stands in the narrow slice of shade under the gate roof, one hand braced against the post, her bow slung easily over her shoulder. Her hair has been tied high, and there is a wrapped bundle tucked under her arm. Towels, perhaps. Or tea snacks.

"You know," Xie Lianqiu says, looking from Liu Yinhua to the practice post, then to the small graveyard of ruined shafts near her feet, "when I said we should meet before the hot springs, I did not mean you should roast yourself first."

"I am practising," she says, just a little defensive.

"I can see that." Liu Yinhua glances back at the target. One of the dark marks still smokes, barely. Xie Lianqiu follows her gaze. The teasing leaves her face, not entirely, but enough. She walks over and leans closer to look.

"Hm," she says. Liu Yinhua waits. Xie Lianqiu straightens.

"That would hurt."

"It is meant to."

"No, I mean it would hurt more than it looks like it should." Xie's mouth curves. Liu Yinhua does not quite smile.

"It is very small."

"So are needles. People still complain when they are put in the wrong place," Xie Lianqiu quips.

"That is medical advice, not archery advice," she says, amused despite herself.

"It is excellent archery advice." Xie Lianqiu reaches down, picks up one of the ruined arrows, and turns it between her fingers.

"Also, you owe the stores an apology."

"I will pay for them."

"You will complain about paying for them."

"Yes." Xie Lianqiu grins then, bright and pleased.

"Good. You are still alive." Liu Yinhua gives her a look. Xie Lianqiu only steps closer, easy as sunlight on water, and offers the bundle under her arm.

"Come on. Bath first, and tea after. You can tell me all your opinions on hair style fashion, and if you'd like congratulations or praise.." Liu Yinhua looks once more at the practice post, at the tiny black marks sitting beneath the glare of noon.

"Both," she says. Xie Lianqiu's grin widens.

"Greedy," she accuses. Liu Yinhua gathers her bow and remaining arrows, and the sun beats down overhead, hot and merciless and clean.

"Guilty," she says with a smile in return, and follows.