How could I not see them holding hands under the table? Master Wei’s hands—capable of drawing talismans, forming mudras, and taking lives in the blink of an eye—possessed the strength to pull her close, the dexterity to tease her, and an endless, lingering tenderness born of suppressed desire.
The private booth I later occupied was directly across from theirs. I saw clearly how that girl acted spoiled and willful with him, hugging him and leaning into his side, chirping away with questions, her eyes full of adoration and infatuation. He answered every one with patience, his gaze soft with a doting, profound affection. Occasionally, a flicker of cold jealousy would spark in his eyes—specifically when she praised my beauty and stared at me in a daze. At the time, I only thought his jealousy was a bit too broad; it was only later that I understood why.
I saw Master Wei, unable to endure it any longer, pinch her cheek and release a specialized shielding artifact. As for what happened inside that barrier, I knew, yet I did not know.
All of this took place while my teacher was performing *Banquet of a Thousand Autumns*. It happened to be a collaboration with Dong Banyuan, and their roles happened to be Han Xizai and Wang Wushan. Dong Banyuan’s obsession with her was known throughout the Pingkang District. Although I never dared to openly speculate on my teacher’s feelings, I understood that she was not heartless. She should have refused to share the stage as she always did, yet she uncharacteristically wrote the entire score, and the final dance she composed for Dong Banyuan was so beautiful it took one's breath away.
At that moment, she leaned against the side of the stage, her gaze fixed on Dong Banyuan—a look of ten thousand layers of tenderness and ten thousand layers of desolation, as if mourning the impossibility of possessing her. When the *Six-Yao* dance of Wang Wushan reached its crescendo, even my teacher’s hands trembled slightly, causing a few notes to skew and falter.
The way he looked at her was exactly the same. But why? Clearly, that girl loved him deeply and was happy. Master Wei’s gaze toward her was just like my teacher’s gaze toward Dong Banyuan. I thought perhaps the Lord Emissary was lamenting that despite his power to move clouds and rain, he could not give her a stable home.
During the fifth month, Master Wei was busy without a moment’s rest. Since he didn't sleep anyway, he simply stayed in the yamen. We, his direct subordinates, all knew of this habit. We even grumbled about how this "immortal" who didn't need to eat or sleep could never empathize with the hardships of mortals; not everyone was as brilliant and ruthless as he. Of course, this was just idle venting. When the Lord Emissary’s demands were harsh and urgent—which wasn't actually that common—he appeared cold and heartless, but he was actually quite good to his subordinates. Whether we handled a matter perfectly or botched it, as long as we gave our best, he never blamed us. Instead, he was generous with either rewards or consolation.
That night, I happened to pass by Chongming Street. Seeing the lights, I knew he was inside, and a sudden urge to check on him surged within me. What I saw startled me: the Lord Emissary’s face was deathly pale. Though he was forcing himself to write reports, he would pause for several breaths after every few words before lifting his brush again. I wanted to rush forward and support his shoulders, but I kept my hands tucked neatly in my sleeves and only asked, "Where do you feel unwell?"
His haggard appearance reminded me of the sickly youth I first met in the mountain stronghold. In truth, many people’s first impression of him was that he was too frail and thin. If not for his height, he looked as delicate as a boy of fourteen or fifteen. This led to rumors that he used his male charms to curry favor or that he had the venomous temperament of a woman. The most derogatory nickname was a pun: "Lord Bamboo-Sliver"... But with his years of martial arts training, anyone with eyes would never think him weak; those without eyes were invariably shocked and horrified the moment he revealed his true skills.
He gave a careless smile and replied, "Side effects of medication. It’s nothing."
I poured him tea and sat beside him, watching him drink and write fitfully. I asked softly, "Why the rush? Wouldn't it be better to rest? Why fight for these few moments?"
"She is leaving," he said. "I am seeing her off."
I understood completely. Currently, he was one of Mr. Feng’s most trusted men. To clear ten days or a half-month to accompany his lover through mountains and rivers, the price he had to pay in advance was immense. I could only joke, "Fine then. Why don't you hand your Emissary seal to me? I’ll take your shift for a year, enough for you to travel through all fourteen provinces of the realm with her."
He laughed too. Merely fantasizing about such a scene seemed to brighten his mood instantly. "In that case, there’s no need to write these damn reports. I’ll draft a transfer order right now and respectfully see Lady Yindeng ascend to the position."
Who would have thought that two days later, at noon, he would return to the office and dismiss all the deployed troops. His demeanor was natural and relaxed, as if the conversation we had that night was merely a foolish dream of mine, and there was no romantic play of seeing her home. The next day, he galloped north to wipe out banditry in Qing and Han Provinces.
When I heard he had punished Commander Zhou—who had acted on his own initiative—so severely that the man couldn't walk for three days, I realized it wasn't that nothing had happened, but that something major had. It turned out he, too, could feel extreme rage and hatred for the sake of one person, with no outlet for his frustration, resulting in a warehouse filled with the severed heads of bandit leaders. Everyone said the cold immortal from the heavens had finally developed human emotions, only to instantly transform into a life-claiming Yama from the underworld.
He returned from Han Province, and within a month or two, he resumed his usual routine, his conversation and laughter as they had always been. He truly did everything so well—even moving on and forgetting. Forgetting, perhaps, is the nature of men.
I knew, of course, that if I wanted to, I could use my well-practiced wiles; it wasn't entirely impossible between us. But I was proud, after all, and could not lower my dignity to take advantage of his vulnerability. Moreover, I had lost the ability to give my heart. Or perhaps, from the very beginning, I had ground my heart into dust and unknowingly scattered it, letting it dissolve like the leftover rouge the women of the district pour into the Dan River night after night.
Furthermore, in the countless moments when he randomly came to mind, I asked myself repeatedly and could not find an answer: did I love him or not? Only then did I understand another layer of my mother’s metaphor about the willow catkins—willow catkins are rootless things, and it is the equally rootless wind that determines their destination. The truly unpredictable thing isn't the catkin, but the wind that blows it. Just as the human heart sometimes has no autonomy; once or twice, it will be toyed with by fickle fate, or moved by a fickle person.
When I saw him, I still couldn't help my mocking tone, my mask thick. He seemed the same as before, yet different. He had learned to occasionally respond with a few words, but they were always deflective jokes—the kind of words a superior uses to show care, respect, or a willingness to listen to a subordinate.
Three years later, she returned to the capital.
I ran into A-Zhi in Yongjia District. The once frail and willful girl had transformed into someone capable and steady. Her speech and conduct were graceful and perfectly measured, yet that god-given spirit and wit remained. I couldn't help but sigh in my heart: why is it that we commoners, amidst the daily betrayals, deaths, and filth of this rolling red dust, age into something like foul, yellowed fish eyes, while she remains forever clean and bright? Even while performing the mundane tasks of the world, she still allows one to see her perfectly preserved, innocent heart.
What he loved was exactly such a heart—so different from mine, as far apart as clouds and mud.
I naturally mentioned meeting her to him as if making small talk. Master Wei’s expression was serene; he had clearly known already. He only nodded and said faintly, "She is doing well," before casually moving on to other topics.
I savored that sentence over and over but couldn't find a trace of lingering attachment. He truly had let go; he didn't care. In accordance with his etiquette and grace, he was responding to my detailed description, not to the fact of her return. A sense of relief suddenly surged in my heart. I realized that never having gained his love, nor his lack of love—never being remembered or yearned for—meant I would never be forgotten or discarded. This was actually for the best. I couldn't imagine what I would look like or how I would live if I had given him my heart, only for him to crush it.
A-Zhi had been in the capital for nearly a month. He was truly so resolute that he ignored her completely, not even going to take a single look. Instead, it was I who constantly remembered the shop *Into the Dream*. Intentionally or not, I always sent Biyao to buy useless trifles nearby to see what she was doing—if she had sudden joys or sudden sorrows. But there were none. She lived her peaceful, quiet, ordinary life, while he did his dark, joyless, arduous work.
Though Master Wei had been injured countless times, in all the time I had known him, a ten-day coma was unprecedented. I heard that the Temple had mobilized an entire guard to indiscriminately hunt down anyone related to the *Xianshang* incident. I heard Honglu weeping like rain, and the two old Commanders, Zhou and Yuan, shedding tears as they described his wretched state that night—how even now, the possibility of death far outweighed life. Only then did I grasp the general sequence of events from that night.
Commander Zhou choked out that if he died, where would they find such an easy-going and generous boss? The game of chess he had been playing with the Lord Emissary that evening wasn't finished yet; for the first time in his life, Old Zhou had a chance of winning.
We stood silently in the Wujing Sect’s Jingguan, watching him. Even with a finger held close, it was hard to feel him breathing. By his pillow lay a necklace—a precious artifact in the shape of a flower. For a man like Master Wei, this ornament was perhaps too feminine.
None of us recognized what it was, but I knew by instinct it was something A-Zhi had given him. Commander Yuan said that when he lay in the corrosive rain of the capital's outskirts that night, he was practically a corpse, yet this flower emitted a faint, ethereal glow. It seemed to contain magic of the *Canxia* realm, guarding his heart like a tiny firefly, like a star in the sky. It was the only star in that dark night that held not a single ray of light.
His convalescence took over a month. On the day he appeared at Wangxiang Tower, I wasn't entirely faking my illness to ruin Prince Chen’s birthday feast. Hearing that he was alright, my vision actually went white for a moment, and I nearly fainted. Because I was his first patron, the Prince had treated me with particular warmth and kindness over the years—treating me as a lover, a plaything, and also a bit like a daughter. Distressed, he hurriedly sent people to escort me back to the tower.
But when I saw him leaning sloppily against the railing, his demeanor relaxed and lazy as if life and death were of no consequence, still as reckless with himself as ever, my rage flared up with unprecedented intensity. I wanted to curse him, to hit him, to force him to promise never to maliciously provoke the gods of fate again.
Yet I could only blame him for making me ruin the Prince’s feast. He smiled faintly. "The Prince’s birthday feast... it passed last year, and there will be another next year. It’s nothing special." His words left me stunned; there was a sort of enlightened desolation in his voice. He was saying that someone like him might not be able to hope for a next year, so he might as well enjoy the moment.
During that time, we rarely met many times outside of missions, all for the sake of that fragmented score of *Excursion to the Red Cliffs*. I transcribed the flute melody he composed and showed it to my teacher. She smiled and said, "This person has attained some enlightenment. From now on, the world is wide, and he can roam as he pleases. A-Mei, he is going to fly far away. Aren't you going to catch him?"
I shook my head with a scoff. "Fly? The monk can run, but the temple remains." As long as we don't love each other, we can see each other for a lifetime. Besides, as long as he lives, he must return to the Temple, back to the capital. I only need to be a willow tree that does not move, waiting for him to drift back to my side after his wanderings. That is enough.
Biyao and I were sarcastic and mocking toward him. In our anger, we even dared to splash tea on him. He would talk back now, often upsetting Biyao so much she couldn't sleep all night and couldn't eat breakfast the next day. That day, she and I were discussing how to tease Master Wei into crying. We chose to sing an extremely tragic song, and he indeed came. But he did not shed tears. Instead, just as my teacher had said, he told me he was leaving.
In truth, he had been "leaving" all these years, never staying for anyone—at least, not for me.
But I had guessed wrong. That night, he was near *Into the Dream*. Even if he were to die, he wanted to die in the place closest to her, to stay there forever. I was wrong, utterly wrong. When he confessed his true heart for her to me, I suddenly felt it was all too ironic, and I was too ridiculous. I actually thought he had forgotten.
It wasn't that he lacked sincerity; he just hid it too well. It turned out the cowardly one was me—the one unwilling to let her heart love freely was me.
The shock he gave me went far beyond that. Those mysterious phantom patterns, glowing with a faint golden light, illuminated his face with a gentle brilliance, stripping away all that cold severity. It turned out this person was not a man at all. It turned out the wiles I had been using were inapplicable to her from the very beginning. It turned out she was just like my teacher with Dong Banyuan—she had fallen for a young woman who was impossible to refuse.
On the day she left the capital for the north, even the heavens joined in the occasion, letting a world of early morning snow fall to see her off on behalf of her beloved. I stood in the slight gloom and loneliness, listening to the sound of the snow for a long while, until I saw A-Zhi emerge from the shop. She waved at me with a smile, saying she would warm a cup of green wine to ward off the cold for me.
We looked at the snow side by side, each lost in our own thoughts.
Three years later, in the season when the willow catkins rise again, she still hasn't returned, but she is also heading north.
I sit in the pavilion, remembering a poem by Scholar Su. I take up my zither and sing:
"Last year we saw each other off outside the Yuhang Gate, the flying snow was like willow catkins."
"This year spring is ending, the willow catkins are like snow, yet I still do not see you return home..."
Willow catkins must eventually settle. I have truly become that eternally silent, lush green willow, smiling as I watch her and her return home hand in hand.
***
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Dreams of the Ancient Mountain: The Cat's Masquerade | Chapter 221 | Catkins Like Snow | Novela.app | Novela.app
