The Riddle of a Heartless Mouth

At the tender age of six, Murong Qihuang was guided to meet her new junior fellow disciple.

Despite his undeniably childish face, he defiantly lifted his head, determined to project an unruly demeanor.

Her eyes crinkled into slits as she smiled, her brows curving like slender crescent moons.

“You are truly beautiful.”

By the age of fourteen, she had mastered sword flight, while he still struggled, stumbling awkwardly upon the plum blossom stakes.

Gently, she brought her sword down, then extended a hand towards him. “It’s alright,” she said softly. “Come with me.”

At twenty-two, their grand wedding took place. Adorned in a phoenix coronet and robes of embroidered clouds, she commanded a dowry that stretched for ten miles.

The moment her bridal veil was lifted, her eyelashes fluttered with a delicate tremor.

“Ye…my husband.”

Then, an indeterminate number of years slipped by.

The Demon Lord emerged, casting the world into an abyss of suffering and desolation.

He, who had long been revered as the ‘Sword Immortal’, confronted the Demon Lord entirely on his own.

On the eve of their farewell, he spoke:

“You understand, I will not return from this journey.”

Murong Qihuang gazed into his eyes, which seemed to hold an understanding of everything, and offered a soft nod.

To her junior fellow disciple from childhood, her dearest friend in youth, and now her Dao companion—

She finally uttered the words she had meticulously planned for half a lifetime:

“Sword Immortal, I ask that you go to your death.”

****

After his death, the bamboo shoots in the courtyard began to sprout with an almost heartless abandon, growing wildly.

Now, they had nearly transformed into a small bamboo grove.

‘Murong Qihuang mused.’

Whenever she sat by the window, reading or writing, her gaze would invariably drift outside, fixating on the lush greenery until she was lost in thought.

The disciples who came to pay their respects dared not disturb her reverie.

They would offer a perfunctory bow, unconcerned whether their Master had truly noticed their presence.

Then, they would swiftly depart, leaving behind hushed whispers of, “Master is staring blankly at the courtyard again…”

Murong Qihuang possessed an inherently refined elegance, akin to a secluded orchid blooming in a quiet valley.

The disciples on the mountain would often discuss amongst themselves, remarking:

“The bamboo grove in the courtyard, personally planted by Master, is truly cared for with such meticulousness.”

In stark contrast to her usual detached demeanor towards her disciples,

It was as if those very bamboo stalks were her true, personally tutored disciples.

Yet, this was not the truth.

This bamboo grove had not been planted by Murong Qihuang herself.

In fact, she held no affection for them whatsoever.

The soft ‘fluttering’ of wings drifted from beyond the eaves as a carrier pigeon settled gracefully upon the windowsill.

Murong Qihuang’s thoughts returned to the present. She rose, carefully untied the slender bamboo slip from the pigeon’s leg, and then released it to fly freely.

As she unrolled and read the message, her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

Today marked Yicheng’s River Lantern Festival.

Yicheng, a town of moderate size, lay nestled at the foot of the mountain.

The River Lantern Festival was, without a doubt, the most vibrant and celebrated occasion for the people of Yicheng each year.

However, the city had recently been plagued by a notorious ‘Flying Thief’, leaving numerous households plundered and distressed.

This very letter, penned personally by the Yicheng Magistrate, was an urgent plea to maintain order during the festival.

It earnestly requested the White-Clad Sword Immortal to personally descend the mountain and apprehend the bandits.

Folding the letter, Murong Qihuang’s hand instinctively reached for the Fengwu sword resting upon her desk.

She paused for a brief moment, an irrelevant thought surfacing in her mind.

‘I am not the White-Clad Sword Immortal,’ she mused.

‘Only he was truly worthy of the title ‘Sword Immortal’.’

Murong Qihuang passed through the whispering bamboo grove, beneath the courtyard’s arched gateway, and along several winding flagstone paths.

As she walked, she passed disciples engaged in spirited sword sparring.

They promptly sheathed their blades, bowing deeply as they greeted her.

“Greetings, Master.”

Murong Qihuang offered a slight nod in return.

“Your Master has urgent matters requiring a trip down the mountain,” she announced. “For today’s regular lesson assessment, you may seek out your Senior Disciple Brother.”

A chorus of crisp, resounding “Yes!” echoed in response, startling a flock of birds into flight from the nearby trees.

Her distant gaze settled on a particular spot, and her eyes subtly dimmed.

Drawing a slow, deep breath, she summoned a nearby disciple.

“Please ensure the mottled bamboo in the courtyard is watered when needed,” she instructed.

With these words, she drifted away, her form seemingly weightless.

****

Yicheng’s River Lantern Festival reached its peak vibrancy in the evening.

A tapestry of humanity flowed through the streets. Murong Qihuang, clad in white like a banished immortal, appeared conspicuously striking amidst the throng.

Howerver, deterred by her cold, ethereal aura and the palpable pressure she exuded, no one dared to approach her for conversation.

Instead, people instinctively parted, creating a clear path for her.

Whispers rippled through the crowd: “Which celestial maiden is this?” and “Even immortals descend to partake in our River Lantern Festival!”

Murong Qihuang typically lived a reclusive life, rarely venturing out or making public appearances.

Thus, it was entirely understandable that the residents of Yicheng did not recognize her.

After a brief period of observation, she detected nothing amiss.

Feeling a touch of weariness, she paused before a vibrant stall.

Pointing to a row of glowing red river lanterns strung across the stall’s front, she inquired:

“Vendor, I’ll take one. How many coppers?”

The bearded old vendor responded with hearty enthusiasm.

“Ten coppers each, and you can also try a lantern riddle. Would the young lady care to participate?”

Murong Qihuang gave a slight nod, her tone cool and clear.

“Then I shall attempt one.”

“Excellent! Pray, listen closely!”

The old vendor carefully took down a single river lantern, then unfurled the small paper slip tied to its base.

He recited the riddle with clear, precise articulation:

“‘What is thought of, possesses a mouth but no heart.'”

Murong Qihuang’s brows knitted together. “A ‘thought’ without a heart,” she mused aloud. “Vendor, might it be the character for ‘field’ [田]?”

“Ah, young lady, that is incorrect.”

The old vendor shook his head with a smile, his palm-leaf fan swaying gently in his hand.

Murong Qihuang mentally deconstructed the characters once more, then reassembled them. “Then it must be the character for ‘ancient’ [古],” she stated.

The old vendor merely smiled, offering no answer.

As Murong Qihuang was deep in thought,

A sudden flash, like lightning, struck her mind, causing her pupils to involuntarily constrict.

She was abruptly transported back to the summit of Xianjue Peak, many years ago.

He and she stood facing each other, the mountain wind, sharp as a blade, howling past them.

This was their final parting, and so he spoke in a voice that was both soft and deliberate:

“All those years of affection, were they merely a prelude to this day, to personally push me onto the front lines against the demonic cult? Is that it?”

Murong Qihuang offered no reply.

He shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips.

“Truthfully, if you had told me directly, I would still have done it.”

Murong Qihuang’s eyes widened, a look of profound surprise on her face.

He continued:

“If you had told me directly, my journey would have been a sacrifice for the common people of the world. But by concealing it from me until the very last moment, this journey of mine now serves only for the sake of our past affection.”

“From this day forward, we owe each other nothing.”

He leaped, landing firmly upon the ancient sword Tangxi, which hovered steadily in the air.

How truly wonderful it was; he was no longer that junior fellow disciple who had once needed her support to navigate the plum blossom stakes.

Murong Qihuang stared upward, her gaze fixed on his figure—now beyond her reach, as tall and unyielding as a verdant bamboo stalk.

“Then, let it be that we owe each other nothing,” she murmured.

He smiled serenely, then drew three inches of sword light from Tangxi, severing a strip from the hem of his robe.

“Senior Sister Murong, Qihuang, my 凰儿, you truly possess only a mouth, yet no heart.”

A sudden chill of cold sweat instantly drenched her robes.

Night descended before her eyes, and the multitude of glowing red river lanterns seemed even more blinding than the sun on that fateful day.

“It’s ‘Ye’,” she whispered, like a woman in a trance, as if speaking only to herself.

“What was that? Young lady, what did you just say?”

The old vendor, clearly believing his hearing had failed him, paused his fanning and leaned in, straining to hear her words more clearly.

“It’s ‘Ye’,” she repeated.

A profound tremor ran through Murong Qihuang’s entire body, an emotional upheaval she had scarcely ever experienced in her life.

“‘Ye’—the ‘Ye’ from ‘leaf’.”

She snapped back to reality, her hand shooting out to grasp the old vendor’s lapel, her eyes tinged crimson.

“This… this lantern riddle,” she demanded, her voice raw, “who devised it?”

Clearly terrified by the chilling, almost murderous aura radiating from the woman,

The old vendor gaped, utterly tongue-tied, and it took him a long moment to stammer out a few words.

“Heroine, have mercy!” he pleaded, his voice trembling. “It… it was a young man who was strolling with a girl just a moment ago who gave it. It has nothing to do with this humble one!”

“Where did they go?” Murong Qihuang’s voice was barely a rasp.

“They… they went that way,” the old vendor gasped, struggling to breathe as his lapel was still clutched tight. “They shouldn’t have gone far…” He lifted a trembling finger to point in a direction.

Murong Qihuang spun around, her gaze sweeping across the vast, surging river of people.

Suddenly, a stern shout from an official resounded through the air.

“‘The Flying Thief’ has appeared in Yicheng! We are now conducting house-to-house searches. Anyone found harboring or protecting the culprit will be punished as an accomplice!”

As the soldiers patrolled, they suddenly encountered a woman in white, whose demeanor was as cold and pristine as freshly fallen snow.

“What petty ruffian dares to—” one began, “—did you not see the officials patrolling—”

But the moment their eyes landed on Murong Qihuang, their words caught in their throats.

Her otherworldly, proud frigidity seemed to freeze the very mouths that had just been boasting.

Murong Qihuang stood before them, her expression cool and collected.

“‘The Flying Thief’ has truly appeared?” she inquired.

One officer, slightly more composed than the others, quickly regained his wits and replied.

“Ah, yes, that’s right! According to reliable intelligence, he reappeared tonight, and even kidnapped the Assistant Magistrate’s beloved daughter!”

Murong Qihuang instinctively bit her lip.

The direction the old vendor had indicated earlier—

If she didn’t pursue that path immediately, it would likely be too late.

Yet, ‘The Flying Thief’, who had been plaguing the region, had also made an appearance.

Apprehending him presented a golden opportunity that could not be missed.

Murong Qihuang felt as though her entire life had been spent navigating such dilemmas.

Just as, years ago, she had chosen the common people over her Dao companion without a moment’s hesitation.

She might suffer immense pain.

But she would never regret it.

She cast one last, deep gaze towards the distant night.

The one who posed the riddle must have been merely a phantom, a dream.

He had died long ago, a century past, on the summit of Xianjue Peak.

Having thus convinced herself,

Murong Qihuang turned and walked in the opposite direction.