Zhao Yan owned a house near the Academy, complete with servants. He rarely slept in the dorm. Du Hu, once he started drinking, could vanish for days.
So when Jiang Chen returned to the dormitory, the silence struck him. For the first time, the noisy room held only him.
He shut the door. His eyes drifted to the bed in the far left corner.
The bedding lay neatly folded, clean, identical in quality to everyone else's. The bed was empty now. It would stay empty forever.
Fang Heng's bed. He came from wealth, yet never put on airs. He ate and drank with them, never complaining.
Opposite Fang Heng's bed sat an empty one piled with luggage.
The remaining beds fanned out from there, three on each side.
The messiest bed belonged to Du Hu. Bedding tossed in a heap, clothes scattered like decoration. If you sniffed, you caught wine fumes. If you looked under the bed, row upon row of wine jars sat in perfect order. The jars were treated better than their owner's living space.
The bed nearest the door was Ling Chuan's—he always handled the doors. His quilt bore discreet patches, washed to spotlessness.
Jiang Chen's bed matched Ling Chuan's for neatness. Despite his long absence, it remained tidy. Someone had cleaned it. Maybe Ling Chuan. Maybe Zhao Yan. Maybe even Fang Heng.
Next to Jiang Chen's, Zhao Yan's bed was unmistakable. Cloud-patterned silk bedding, golden-threaded canopy. The opposite of Du Hu's chaos.
Strangers might think Zhao Yan difficult. He simply had high standards. Even for occasional visits, he demanded luxury. He had once tried to renovate the entire dorm into a premium suite. Jiang Chen had punched him for it.
Three years. From fourteen to now, Jiang Chen had lived in this room. Every corner held memories.
Things remain. People pass.
He sat in silence, removed his shoes and outer robe, and lay down on his own bed.
He was exhausted. But only now could he finally sleep without fear.
One dream away from the world. One dream closer to the heavens.
Maple City sat in a neat square. The city lord's manor dominated the center. The Academy held the east. Wealthy families claimed the west. Common folk packed the south. Merchants clustered in the north.
Only after Jiang Chen emerged safely from the dean's chamber did Ling Chuan carry Fang Heng's body from the Academy.
Fang Heng had enjoyed popularity in life. In death, he earned contempt.
He had earned it. Ling Chuan felt no injustice on his behalf.
He wrapped the body in his own outer robe—old, patched, but clean.
The walk from east to west was not long. The road to the Fang residence was familiar. But Ling Chuan walked slowly, each step heavy.
He couldn't let go.
He was the eldest. He should have kept his four sworn brothers safe. He had failed.
He remembered the day by the Green Willow River, the five of them swearing brotherhood. Their bright smiles. The clear water reflecting young faces and young hearts. They had ridden swords and horses, shared drinks and dreams, sparred by daylight and talked by candlelight.
They had promised to enter the Inner Academy together. To ride the azure skies. To transcend mortality.
Ling Chuan had never imagined that five brothers who loved each other so deeply could end in hatred and blood.
How could this happen?
He didn't understand. But he carried the cold body, and finally reached the Fang gates.
"What do you want?" The gatekeeper blocked him.
The Fang mansion rose high. Arrogantly high.
"I've brought Fang Heng's body back for burial."
If no one claimed a body, the authorities dumped it in a mass grave. Dark cultivators loved such places. Death brought no peace there.
The gatekeeper's face changed. The gate slammed shut. "Take him away! The master says he's not allowed inside!"
"Please," Ling Chuan said. "Ask again. He was Fang blood. They might have spoken in anger."
The gatekeeper hesitated. "I'll ask again. Don't try to force your way in!"
"I won't."
Ling Chuan stood before the Fang gates, holding the corpse, listening to footsteps fade.
He looked down at Fang Heng's frozen face. "Look what you did? Dead, and not even your own family wants you. Hated by gods and ghosts alike."
A long time passed before the gatekeeper returned.
"The master says." He paused, adopting the tone. "He's dead. Why bring him back?"
Ling Chuan blinked. "The Fang family is a house of dignity. He deserves dignity."
"The master made himself clear. A man who betrays his brothers is no son of the Fang family."
"But he is. He is Fang blood."
"Leave!" A handful of knife coins clattered through the gate slit. "Keep bothering us and we call the authorities!"
The coins rang on the stones. Enough to bury a body, with change to spare.
That was the Fang family's answer.
Ling Chuan stood silent.
He stopped trying to speak.
He was poor. Had always been poor. His only decent robe wrapped the corpse. His underclothes were patched. He stood before the magnificent Fang gates like a beggar cousin turned away.
He turned and walked away, carrying the body.
He never glanced at the coins.
That was Ling Chuan's answer.