Hou clapped his hands three times, and from the crowd emerged two women, both looking pitiful—one was Ruo Jun, pale as death, and the other was Qing Chun, battered and bruised, kneeling on the ground. Hou grabbed Ruo Jun by the arm, his voice icy, "You must kill her with your own hands."
Ruo Wen’s eyes turned cold. "And if I refuse?"
"Then I’ll kill you," Hou replied matter-of-factly.
Ruo Wen looked at his mother. Her eyes were lifeless, completely devoid of any hope. In that moment, he suddenly felt that this woman might not be his mother at all—she was just another Hou: cold, ruthless, and ready to drag the whole world down with her. Yet, even so, he had never considered killing her. He had always thought of her as someone completely separate from his own life, with no connection between them.
Ruo Jun raised her head and saw the sword in Ruo Wen’s hand. She let out a sharp, eerie laugh—the sword she had once unsheathed was now going to take her life. Her laugh pierced the air, sending chills down the spines of the men nearby.
In the midst of that laugh, Ruo Wen tightened his grip on the sword and slowly brought it to her neck. The cold steel cut her skin, and blood trickled down the blade, dripping onto the dry earth. The crowd held their breath, but Ruo Jun showed no fear. She continued to laugh, as if she had lost her mind.
Ruo Wen frowned and moved the sword to her chest, searching for her heart. Then, he looked her in the eye and said quietly, "You’re free now, Mother."
With that, he thrust the sword into her heart. Ruo Jun’s laughter ceased abruptly. She stared down at the blade piercing her body, as if she had returned to her days as the priestess of the Iron Thorn during the hunting festival. It had all been a long nightmare, and in this moment, she was finally waking up. Her eyes softened, and she leaned forward to place a reverent kiss on the blade.
The sight left everyone speechless, their eyes wide with shock.
Ruo Wen watched expressionlessly as his mother collapsed to the ground. The moment someone dies, they are severed from everything around them.
"You can go now," Hou said.
Ruo Wen took a long look at Hou, then stepped forward, lifting the injured Qing Chun into his arms. Without another word, he and his hundred followers mounted their horses and rode out of the camp. Qing Chun sat behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. She turned her head back one last time to look at Ruo Jun’s lifeless body at Hou’s feet, a sudden pang of sorrow seizing her heart. She had once wanted to ask her, "When are we leaving?" Now, she would never get an answer.
Without looking back, Ruo Wen spurred his horse into a furious gallop. But before he could ride far, Hou hurled his massive curved blade, spinning it through the air. It sliced through the wind with a sharp whistle and struck Qing Chun in the back. She clung tightly to Ruo Wen, gritting her teeth to suppress a scream as blood poured from the wound. Sensing something was wrong, Ruo Wen began to turn his head, but Qing Chun whispered weakly, "Brother, I’m fine. Don’t stop."
In that moment, it felt as though the wind and sand had turned into flames, burning through Ruo Wen’s very soul. He lost all feeling, save for the pounding of the horse’s hooves on the sand and the growing coldness of the blood seeping into his back. He knew it was Qing Chun’s blood.
Hou watched as Ruo Wen rode on without looking back. Within moments, he had disappeared from view. Hou let out a wild laugh, shouting into the night, "Son, I give you that blade as a gift! From this moment on, we are on different paths. The next time we meet, it will be life or death—no more ties, no more past!"
Hou’s voice echoed into the night before fading into silence. Ruo Wen’s two hundred followers rode into the desert behind him. After covering dozens of miles, they finally saw the faint outline of a small oasis on the horizon. Ruo Wen, his face covered in dust, turned back to Qing Chun and smiled for the first time.
He wanted to tell her, "Just a little longer, we’re almost there."
But she looked as if she had merely fallen asleep, already slipping into an eternal dream. As the moon rose above the clouds, Ruo Wen’s horse gradually slowed to a stop. His waist felt lighter as Qing Chun’s hands, which had been gripping him tightly, slowly slid from his body, her life ebbing away.
Ruo Wen said nothing. He tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and tied Qing Chun’s body to his own, then rode toward the oasis. In the end, he arrived with nothing, and he left with nothing.
The shifting sands claimed their souls, the ties of affection weighed down by endless burdens. From the beginning, it was always swords and blades that led to such isolation.
0 Comments