My Wife Is A Sword Immortal-Chapter 129 - 114: Holding Hands Again

Chapter 129: Chapter 114: Holding Hands Again

Zhao Rong buried Liu Sanbian at the foot of an unnamed green mountain.

There was nothing particularly eye-catching about the landscape or any intriguing historic tales.

It was just an ordinary green mountain.

A small, low hill.

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Just like the clear morning when he buried Liu Sanbian.

Plain and ordinary.

Zhao Rong had originally wanted to bury Liu Sanbian next to his father’s grave.

But that day, not long after Zhao Rong and Su Xiaoxiao had “razed to the ground” the Qin residence in Liangjing.

Officials from Great Wei and the remaining members of the Qin family from Langxi began an overwhelming manhunt for the culprits.

With no other choice, Zhao Rong and Su Xiaoxiao had to carry Liu Sanbian’s body, traveling day and night, in a hasty and nonstop flight.

They faced some setbacks along the way, but overall, they managed to escape smoothly to the border of Great Wei.

Now, having reached a place of safety, about to leave Great Wei,

Zhao Rong and Su Xiaoxiao finally had the chance to lay the deceased to rest, at least in Liu Sanbian’s homeland.

He specifically chose this secluded and peaceful place.

Facing south.

Towards the direction of Liangjing in Great Wei, the direction from which Liu Sanbian had come, the direction he had always looked back on, the direction of home.

Between the trees, a hazy morning mist lingered.

Through the moist crevices of leaves, strips of pale gold light leaked down.

The air of the early morning was still cold, but it carried the scent of the earth.

In front of a newly erected lone grave,

Zhao Rong lit three sticks of incense.

He took the yellow paper from Su Xiaoxiao’s hand.

Squatting down.

Together with her, he lit a fire and burned the paper.

The lonely grave was in a remote location.

No one else was around.

Only the two of them were busy in this desolate wilderness.

A Confucian Scholar and a Fox Demon.

Paying homage to a Martial Artist’s grave.

Zhao Rong stood before the tomb.

He took out a flask of alcohol.

It wasn’t some fine brew from the Immortals; it was just what he had bought from the open-air tavern Liu Sanbian had briefly visited on his way to death.

Zhao Rong felt at the time, it would be needed.

He poured the liquor in front of the grave.

Quietly watching this solitary burial mound.

Above it stood a simple tombstone.

Bare, without a single word.

It’s not that Zhao Rong didn’t know how to write an epitaph; on the contrary, he knew many remarkable ones.

Some were passionate, some tragic, some philosophical, some free-spirited.

At the very least, he could have carved Liu Sanbian’s name.

But he didn’t.

It was to leave something for the future, for that child named Qing Jun to do.

When Zhao Rong would later hand over the belongings to Liu Qingshan, he planned to tell him honestly where his father’s grave was, why his father went to his death.

Tell him, on the lengthy journey, by every campfire, on every night they drank, the normally silent and taciturn Liu Sanbian would tirelessly recount stories about him.

Tell him, whenever he heard the word “Qingshan,” no matter when or where, that stern and fierce face would always bloom with the warmest and most tender of smiles.

Tell him, Liu Sanbian didn’t disregard him, but as a son, he had to fulfill his own responsibilities toward that unsatisfactory outcome, to personally ask, “Why?”

Zhao Rong would point in that direction for Liu Qingshan, let him inscribe the tombstone himself, because he too was a son.

The flask was now empty.

No more drops fell.

Zhao Rong stood quietly.

Su Xiaoxiao was squatting on the ground, watching the burning flames.

Neither of them spoke.

When the flames died down.

Zhao Rong turned, shouldered his bookcase, and walked away without looking back.

Su Xiaoxiao hurriedly followed. As she walked, she couldn’t help but look back several times.

This was their companion, who until not long ago still resonated in her mind; now he lay alone in a cold wooden coffin, eternally asleep.

Su Xiaoxiao hated farewells, hated death, hated all sad stories.

Therefore.

She would cherish everything that she still had.

The little Fox Demon quietly glanced at Zhao Rong’s thinning silhouette.

Together they journeyed on, leaving the lone grave behind them, embarking once more on the journey northward.

Zhao Rong, in the end, still didn’t look back.

In fact, he didn’t feel sad at all.

Even on that day, behind the door on Vermilion Bird Street, after he witnessed Liu Sanbian go to his death, apart from that dying gesture that gave him an inexplicable revelation about Martial Arts,

he felt no sadness.

In his heart, there was only a simple thought.

Ah, he’s dead.

It’s just that.

On the road thereafter.

Sometimes when buying wine at a tavern, he would habitually buy an extra flask, only to hesitate for a moment, then silently retract half the money for the wine.

Sometimes, in the broad daylight, when he was frolicking with the once again cheerful Su Xiaoxiao and teasing the clumsy girl, he would inexplicably turn his head to look around, and in his field of vision, the silent man who used to silently watch their fun was no longer there.

Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, when he sat quietly by the fire and heard Su Xiaoxiao get up during the night, he would look over in confusion, but then his brows would relax, he would calmly turn back, and gaze at the happily dancing flames. Oh, it wasn’t that person taking turns with him to keep watch anymore.

Zhao Rong wasn’t sad, he just missed the man a little.

The yearning for Qing Jun and Qian’er was different; Liu Sanbian was the first person he missed in this world after he had awakened the memories of his previous life.

He missed their first encounter at Longquan Crossing because of a Spirit Stone.

And those repeated Martial Artist refinements, walking the stakes under the moonlight…

Zhao Rong understood a bit more.

It turned out that thread hadn’t been broken.

The thread that pulled at him, connecting his heart that walked on air to the thick and solid earth.

It hadn’t broken at all.

Instead, it had grown even stronger.

He no longer held a detached indifference and a sense of absurdity towards this world.

Whether it was the first time he had killed someone not long ago, or the people and landscapes he encountered while on the road now.

They were all real.

He was himself.

He was Zhao Rong.

He was Zhao Ziyu, the Confucian Scholar who grew up in Qianjing of the Great Chu Dynasty in the Wangque Continent of the Xuanhuang Realm and married into the family of Princess Lingfei.

He was seventeen years old.

His “story” had just begun!

————

On this day.

Zhao Rong and Su Xiaoxiao left a small frontier town known for its fierce folkways.

They entered a stretch of mountainous woods.

According to the Mountain And River Map, this was the last kingdom at the foot of the mountains.

Passing through it, they would reach the Li River.

Noon.

The two quickly made a fire to eat, then hurriedly hit the road.

Zhao Rong glanced at the sky, which had gradually become overcast.

The bright sun that shone in the morning was now hiding behind the dark clouds.

The air was so sultry it made breathing somewhat difficult.

Su Xiaoxiao handed him a silk handkerchief, “Here, wipe off your sweat.”

Zhao Rong took the neatly folded handkerchief, faintly scented with the fragrance of a young girl, casually wiped his face with it, handed it back, and looked around.

“Let’s walk faster and find a place to shelter from the rain; this rain looks like it’s going to last for quite a while.”

“Oh.”

Su Xiaoxiao lowered her head, carefully folded the handkerchief stained with his sweat, put it away, and cheerfully responded.

Before long.

A strong wind started to blow.

The stifling air cooled down for a moment.

But in this wilderness, aside from the shade of the trees, Zhao Rong and Su Xiaoxiao still couldn’t find a place to shelter from the rain.

Zhao Rong had no choice but to take out an umbrella.

Seeing this, Su Xiaoxiao blinked.

Zhao Rong turned to her, “What are you staring blankly at me for? Take the umbrella.”

Su Xiaoxiao said pitifully, “Um, I was in a hurry this morning, and I forgot the umbrella in the guest room…”

Zhao Rong slapped his forehead, “How did you not forget yourself at the inn?”

Her eyes, like that of a fox, squeezed into crescents with laughter, but she didn’t reply.

“I surrender, come here.”

Zhao Rong took Su Xiaoxiao’s favored small book box she liked to carry on her back and stored it inside the Sumeru Object, then made room under the umbrella.

And so, the two of them ended up sharing the same umbrella.

“Boom—!”

“Whoosh—”

A deluge, long in the making, finally came pouring down.

Thunder rumbled and the rain poured heavily.

Zhao Rong and Su Xiaoxiao continued on their way.

Under the umbrella.

The man was tall and lean, the girl petite and delicate.

One on the left, one on the right.

The umbrella wasn’t large, so the two had to press close to each other to barely fit underneath it.

At a certain moment.

Zhao Rong, holding the umbrella in his right hand, tilted it slightly to the right.

By now.

It wasn’t yet evening, but the sky had already turned dark.

For a time, Zhao Rong’s attention was entirely focused on the path ahead.

Suddenly.

Zhao Rong felt a warm, small hand placed on his right hand that held the umbrella.

The palm was soft and smooth.

He was very familiar with it.

Because not long ago in Great Wei, he had been in intimate contact with this hand.

However, at that time, it was just an act.

On the road that followed, the two of them, by some unspoken agreement, maintained their original distance.

But now…