Chapter Thirty: A Thousand Threads of Blood and Affection

Back in their own courtyard, Yun Cuixian, Ju Xue, and Hongyu wore faces of curiosity. Though they didn’t fully understand the talk of virtue and the foundations of Tao, they knew that Chu Youcai must be an extraordinary talent—how else could he have so deeply shocked Shangguan Wanru?

Chu Youcai recounted his story: how yesterday he’d gone outside the city, discovered Lord Lei’s mansion embroiled in a deadly gang conflict, and, fleeing into a nearby forest, had encountered a woman named Second Mother. This Second Mother was a chivalrous woman who’d journeyed a thousand miles to avenge a stranger’s child and who felt deeply for the suffering caused by a locust plague. Generous and forthright, she’d also imparted to him the rudiments of Taoist arts, and it was she who spoke of Shangguan Wanru’s past.

Only when Chu Youcai finished telling the bitter story of Shangguan Wanru’s life did Yun Cuixian, Ju Xue, and Hongyu finally understand.

“So that’s how it is… Sister Wanru is truly pitiful…” Hongyu’s eyes brimmed with emotion.

“Yes…” Ju Xue was already in tears.

Yun Cuixian, meanwhile, sighed deeply, her gaze full of resolve: no matter what, she would treat Shangguan Wanru as her own flesh-and-blood sister.

At that moment, Hongyu asked curiously, “Brother, who exactly is this Second Mother?”

“I don’t know either…” Chu Youcai replied with a wry smile. He recalled how, by chance, he’d sensed the radiance of the stars, which had alarmed Shangguan Wanru. She’d guessed it was Second Mother’s doing and had urged him to keep her identity a strict secret—evidence enough of how mysterious her background was.

He had always been curious about Second Mother’s identity, and seeing Shangguan Wanru’s reticence only deepened that curiosity.

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As dusk settled, the chill from Hansa Lake swept over the city of Yanzhou. The distant Golden Thunder Pagoda gleamed faintly in the twilight. Somewhere offshore, a small family boat cast nets for fish, its lantern flickering on the water.

It was the rainy season, yet today’s weather was fine. Gazing at the Golden Thunder Pagoda in the distance, Hongyu sat on the steps in the courtyard, hugging her knees and watching a meteor streak across the sky. The crescent moon hung suspended above. The scene was beautiful, but for reasons she couldn’t name, sadness welled in her heart.

Today, she had waited anxiously for Chu Youcai’s return. Seeing him safe and sound, her usual coldness and solitude had vanished in an instant. When Sister Shangguan had threatened Chu Youcai, she had stepped forward without hesitation to shield him.

Yet, though her brother smiled warmly at her, though Sister Yun always looked after her, though Ju Xue treated her like a lady, though her loved ones could now rest in peace and her great vengeance had been fulfilled, though her brother was safe and home again—she should have no reason to feel sad. So why did she feel such a deep sense of loss now, unable to hold back her tears?

Hongyu didn’t know the reason.

Another meteor flashed by.

Was it because this place wasn’t truly her home? Was it because Red Aunt was no longer here? Was it because her brother and Sister Yun weren’t good enough to her?

Or was it that no one was there to watch the sunrise, the moonset, or the falling stars with her? Or was it that she had so much she longed to say to her brother, yet he had spent the whole day by Sister Yun’s side?

She simply didn’t know.

Last night, worried for her brother, she had tried her utmost to help him—extracting the blood from her own body and blending it with her hair, painstakingly making ten silk pouches. She had wanted to save her brother.

But in the end, she couldn’t create anything as powerful as the blood-fox fur. Did that mean she was foolish and useless?

Just then, a warm voice sounded beside her, “Hongyu.”

Chu Youcai had sat down next to her. His presence sent her heart fluttering.

Hongyu lifted her head gently and saw Chu Youcai. In that moment, she felt an overwhelming warmth.

“Hmm? Have you been crying?” Chu Youcai asked, surprised.

“No.” Hongyu blinked and said, “There was dust in my eyes.”

Chu Youcai looked at the tightly closed door. “But there’s no wind tonight.”

“Ah?” Hongyu’s cheeks flushed red.

Chu Youcai smiled. “Hongyu, there’s something I want to ask you.”

“Go ahead, brother.”

“The blood-fox hair you used before—how did you make it?” Chu Youcai finally voiced the question that had been on his mind.

That day, he had made eight doses of medicine—two for Shangguan Wanru’s mother, who had already improved greatly. With the remaining six, administered regularly, she would soon recover.

After coaxing Yun Cuixian to sleep, he had come out looking for Hongyu and found her stargazing.

Hongyu answered softly, “The blood-fox hair was made the same way as the Thousand-Blood Sentiment Threads. I used my blood and hair for those threads, but that day, I just replaced my hair with blood-fox fur. Brother, did the blood-fox hair work well?”

Chu Youcai nodded. “Yes, it did.”

He had long suspected as much—after all, that tuft of blood-fox fur, taken from Red Aunt’s nape and infused with her life’s cultivation as she lay dying, was naturally far beyond anything Hongyu could usually craft. It was a treasure, rare and precious.

But now, knowing this for certain, he still felt a sense of disappointment.

Hongyu noticed the change in his expression and felt a pang in her heart. She vaguely understood the significance of the blood-fox hair, yet there was nothing she could do. In a low voice, she explained, “Red Aunt once told me I’m a ghost intermediary—I can enter haunted realms, sense the presence of spirits, and make Thousand-Blood Sentiment Threads. But as for other methods, I really don’t know them.”

She paused, then hurriedly pulled out ten silk pouches from her clothes and handed them to Chu Youcai. “By the way, brother, are these useful to you?”

Chu Youcai was taken aback. He could sense the powerful energy within each pouch. Though they were still far less potent than the blood-fox hair, ten together were already formidable.

“You made all these yesterday? Aren’t you feeling unwell?” Chu Youcai asked, noticing how drawn and weary Hongyu looked.

He knew well how sincere the little girl’s heart was. These pouches were no ordinary blood charms—they were made from heart’s blood. Even three or four drops would severely weaken a person, yet Hongyu had made so many, risking her own life.

Was it because she’d been so worried about him when he went missing yesterday?

Hongyu said, “I’m fine, really. Do you think they can help you?”

Chu Youcai took the pouches in hand. Feeling none of the scorching power from before, he realized their effect was limited. Still, he broke into a brilliant smile. “These are invaluable, Hongyu. They’ll help me a great deal. Thank you, little sister.”

He didn’t explain further, not wanting to worry the girl. If he did, she might exhaust her life force in a desperate attempt to help.

The more solitary and proud a girl is, the more fiercely she throws herself into what she believes in.

“That’s wonderful!” Hongyu smiled gently.

Noticing her exhaustion, Chu Youcai said quickly, “Hongyu, you should get some rest. You haven’t slept for a day and a night. Tomorrow, I’ll spend time talking with you.”

“All right, brother. You should rest, too.” Hongyu turned and headed inside.

Chu Youcai did not see, in the instant she opened the door, that Hongyu’s expression had turned resolute—Brother Chu, it’s only because my power isn’t enough that I can’t make blood-fox fur and help you as I wish. But I will do everything I can. I will find a way to make a Thousand-Blood Sentiment Thread as powerful as the blood-fox hair!