Volume One: The Scroll of Fresh Rain Chapter Twenty-Three: An Ancient Tree in the Courtyard

“A being above even immortals… Uncle, do you mean all this wasn’t just coincidence, but someone’s deliberate design?”

“But… with so many accidents, who could possibly foresee everything?”

Ye Mingke sensed something chilling hidden within Uncle Jian’s gently spoken words.

“An accident is an accident when it happens once. But when there are many, perhaps it’s fate.”

Uncle Jian sat in his wheelchair, gazing out at the high, dark sky through the window, a sharp light glinting in his black eyes.

“Someone once told me, ‘The storm of Qinglan rises from a blade of grass; a butterfly flaps its wings, and at the right time, in the right place, it can stir up a tempest.’”

“All accidents and chance in this world are, in fact, inevitable. But few can see, understand, or grasp that.”

“To control accident is to control fate itself. Or perhaps, you could call it wielding the power of destiny.”

“To command fate itself—is there really such a person in this world?” Ye Mingke asked, stunned.

“There may be none who can completely master destiny, but there are some who can make use of it, at least in part.”

“The one who told me those words is one of those rare few.”

“He is your father.”

Uncle Jian slowly raised his head, looking at Ye Mingke.

“My father?” Ye Mingke stared into Uncle Jian’s eyes, bewildered.

All these years, with Uncle Jian and Aunt Long by his side, he’d never felt lonely in this home. Yet, time and again, he would wonder—where were his parents?

Why? Why weren’t they by his side? Was it because of his strange illness that they had abandoned him?

He had asked Uncle Jian before, who had never lied to him, but had never answered, either.

“My father—who is he?” Ye Mingke asked, his gaze heavy and slow.

“About your father, that’s the next answer. And the things he was involved in back then were too complicated and dangerous. I know little myself, so the next answer can only be how you might find the truth.”

Uncle Jian avoided his gaze. If he told him the truth now, what kind of person would the boy become?

“The rest of the trial—can you guess what happened next?” Uncle Jian asked.

Ye Mingke pondered a moment, connecting the questions from his past with what he’d learned today, and slowly said,

“Because of the accident, I got caught up in it too. Things escalated. The ones who tried to kill Qiao Qiao were eventually exposed—they must have been the old mat weaver who died of a strange illness and the tailor’s family who suddenly moved away.”

“And the teacher shaving his beard, the collapse of the study hut, the village chief’s injuries—those were the price paid by the conspirators.”

“But… no, that doesn’t feel right. Uncle, what did the person behind the scenes want? What was the outcome they sought?”

“That person’s existence is only my guess. Maybe they’re not real, and even if they are, I can’t fathom their purpose.” Uncle Jian once more looked out into the night sky.

Ye Mingke was silent for a while, then suddenly said,

“No, Uncle, you’re hiding something from me.”

He looked seriously at Uncle Jian’s face.

“Maybe you don’t know their ultimate goal, but you’ve seen them striving for an outcome. In that case, what was the outcome they wanted?”

“The disappearance of the old mat weaver and the tailor’s family? The growing conflict between our family and the teacher and village chief? No, that doesn’t feel right. What did they really want?”

“They wanted you to leave this town six years after that trial,” Uncle Jian replied calmly.

“To leave the town?” Ye Mingke frowned. “Is that all? Why?”

The town was small, the island still smaller. He’d heard so many stories from Dabai, read so many books at the academy—he’d always planned to leave one day, to see the world beyond.

“I don’t know. That’s enough for today. Anything more isn’t for you to know yet.”

Uncle Jian waved him off, looking weary.

“And you don’t have to find all the answers from me. Sometimes, they’re right in front of you on this little island. Some truths are so plain you simply overlook them.”

“For example…” Ye Mingke couldn’t help asking.

“For example—the name of the town.”

Uncle Jian wheeled himself out of Ye Mingke’s room, leaving him with those final words.

“The name of the town? What is it?” Ye Mingke found himself musing. “It’s called Nameless Town—not that it has no name; it’s literally called Nameless.”

“Yezi,” Aunt Long suddenly called him.

Ye Mingke, still sitting on the floor, looked up and saw that she hadn’t left with Uncle Jian, but had instead come to his side to gently embrace him.

“Yezi, one day you may find that this town isn’t what you thought it was. But don’t be afraid. No matter what happens, your uncle and I will always be here.”

She whispered softly to the child in her arms.

“Alright, Auntie, don’t worry. I’m not afraid. When I’m grown, I’ll protect you both, too.” Ye Mingke rested his head on Aunt Long’s shoulder, just as he had on so many long nights as a little boy.

Outside, Uncle Jian sat in the courtyard, staring at the silent old tree standing in the darkness. His face was still tired.

He had always been as hard and unyielding as the iron he forged, but tonight he looked worn and aged.

Even metal grows fatigued, twisted and strained by powerful, complicated forces. In time, even the strongest metal will break.

Let alone after all these years.

“So many years. Back then, I promised you I’d never lie to the child. I thought I’d kept that promise, but wasn’t the very person keeping it a lie from the start? All these years, it’s been lies from beginning to end.”

“You really are a troublesome boy,” Uncle Jian murmured, gazing at the old tree as if speaking to an old friend.

Behind him, a door creaked. He heard a familiar tread approach.

“I comforted him. After all, he’s still just a child,” Long Yinling said, stopping behind him.

“Mm,” Jian Nantian replied softly without turning.

“It’s better not to tell him too soon about the town. It’s the only place he’s ever known, and even if we told him, would he believe it?” Long Yinling continued.

“Alright.” Jian Nantian still didn’t turn, his eyes fixed on the tree.

Long Yinling fell silent, gazing at the man before her—so weary and aged for the first time. She felt a sudden, inexplicable anger at him, and at herself too.

She stood there in silence for a long time.

In the darkness, she finally spoke softly.

“You… still can’t forgive me, can you?”

The courtyard was silent. No answer came.

“Only a few years left, isn’t it?” she said, biting her lip, dressed in plain white, facing the travel-worn man.

It was just like years ago—the brash, headstrong girl who was always mistaken for a boy, suddenly appearing in a beautiful dress, walking up to the aloof youth sharpening his sword, biting her lip, mustering all her courage to say:

“Hey, we’ve known each other for years, haven’t we?”

But it’s not the same anymore. From “knowing each other for years” in youth, to “only a few years left” now. So much pain and turmoil, so many changes between then and now.

But do we always measure things only by the time we’ve known one another?

White-haired and still strangers, a moment’s acquaintance yet as close as old friends.

A thousand years by his side is wishful thinking; he could fall for another in just days. That’s why she envied that other woman so much, why she made her mistake.

Long Yinling stood in solitude, just as she had so many years ago, a helpless girl before the sword-grinding stone.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Because you did nothing wrong.”

“Don’t overthink it. Go get some rest.”

Jian Nantian’s voice was cool and distant.

So, in the end, not being liked, not being the right one—that was her greatest fault and sin, wasn’t it?

“Alright. Thank you.”

Long Yinling pressed her lips tight, answering with cold politeness, then turned and walked away.

Jian Nantian lowered his head, gazing at the tree’s shadow, listening to her fading steps.

He heard the unhappiness she tried to suppress in her voice, but he didn’t really understand.

He didn’t know if he liked her or not—it was simply habit.

In the affections of adulthood, most of it is just habit.

Being used to her presence became affection; not being used to her as his wife—because she was not the one.

The old tree in the yard was planted many years after his wife’s death, and now it too had grown old.

And that woman—how many years had she accompanied him?

He could no longer say.