【One】

The bamboo craftsman has no name; everyone just calls him the bamboo craftsman, so I do too.

I sneak out of the house while my parents are not paying attention and run straight to his place. The house always smells of fresh bamboo, like the fairyland described by storytellers. Every time I think of an immortal, I imagine the bamboo craftsman sitting by the paper window. As a craftsman in a remote town, his appearance is extraordinarily handsome.

The bamboo craftsman seldom speaks. When he sees me, he asks, “Escaping again?”

When he shows no expression, I feel a bit afraid of him. I force a mischievous smile and say, “Good master, let me hide here for a while longer. Practicing martial arts is truly unbearable.”

The bamboo craftsman neither nods nor chases me away, just pretends not to see me. So, I drag a bench over, sit down, and rest my chin on my hands, watching him split thin strips of bamboo to weave sieves and mats.

My parents are people of the martial world, running a small, obscure sect. It is said that during my master’s time, it was quite prominent, but now it has declined, and my father only has four disciples. Occasionally, some neighbors come to learn some basic skills.

My father is quite bitter about this and often urges me to focus on martial arts to revive the sect. But I am naturally lazy and have no interest in the hard practice of regulating breath, recognizing acupoints, and horse stance training. Life is very hard for me every day.

In comparison, watching the bamboo craftsman work is much more interesting. His pale fingers fly up and down, and the long bamboo strips weave in and out under his control. I once closely observed his hands; the palms and fingers were covered with thick, rough calluses, showing signs of hard labor.

I furrowed my brows tightly, perhaps amusing him. He turned to ask me, “What’s bothering you?”

I said, “Your hands are ugly.”

In fact, I felt sorry that such beautiful hands were paired with such rough ones; it seemed unfitting.

He finally laughed. At that moment, my father’s angry roar came from outside. I jumped up in surprise, wanting to escape through the window, but my father burst in, grabbed me by the collar, and gave me a few spanks. My father scolded me a bit and then apologized to the bamboo craftsman, saying, “Sorry for the trouble my child caused you.”

He smiled and said it was fine, then looked at me, probably to see if I was crying. I made a face at him and mouthed, “See you tomorrow.”

My family frequently requested bamboo baskets and sieves from the bamboo craftsman. When he first appeared in town, it was my parents who saved him.

He was a young man then, severely injured and almost dying on the street. My father carried him home, and my mother, with her limited medical knowledge, stayed up for three days and nights to make medicine for him, saving him from the brink of death. When he woke up, he forgot his name and where he came from, nor could he remember why he ended up here. The old bamboo craftsman in town, needing help, took him in as an apprentice.

Within a few months, the young man surpassed his master in craftsmanship. His bamboo strips were as precise as if measured with a ruler, and the items he made were both beautiful and sturdy, quickly gaining a reputation far and wide. After the old craftsman passed away, he became the town’s bamboo craftsman.

The neighbors speculated about his origins. He didn’t look like a craftsman, nor a martial artist; he had the air of a scholar yet possessed an indescribable aura of freedom. My parents once privately asked if he remembered any past memories, but he just shook his head, so they dropped the matter.

Only once, I followed him to a bamboo forest five miles away. While he was cutting bamboo, I fell asleep waiting. When I woke up, lying on the fallen leaves, the fresh scent of grass and wood filled my nose. Through my blurry vision, I vaguely saw a figure holding a bamboo branch, as graceful as a startled swan.

The setting sun cast a misty golden veil on his flying hair. It seemed like he was performing a sword dance or simply moving gracefully, blending with the fluttering leaves. It felt like a dream.

He never mentioned it later, and I didn’t dare ask, fearing he might not let me visit him again.

【Two】

My parents were not particularly skilled in martial arts, and they failed to produce any outstanding disciples. The disciples, however, were as nosy as they were. One winter when I was seven, it snowed heavily, freezing everything. My senior brother brought home a nearly dead man, his body reeking of blood so strongly that I refused to enter the house. My father counted seven or eight sword wounds on him.

My mother advised, “This man has made such enemies. Bringing him here might cause trouble.” But my father said, “We can’t just leave him to die. We’ll send him on his way once he recovers.”

No one expected the man to be a despicable thief. He stayed at our house for three days, and before my mother’s medicine was ready, he stole some silver and vanished.

Even more unexpected was that he was being hunted for stealing the treasured martial arts manual of the rising Eight Bitterness Sect.

A few days later, while I was playing in the bamboo forest, it was almost noon, and I worried my parents would come looking for me for lunch. As I headed back, I saw columns of black smoke rising in the distance, accompanied by strange cries and shouts. Remembering my father’s advice on dealing with bad people, I hid in the shade and slowly approached.

The Eight Bitterness Sect had come in full force, searching for the thief and interrogating the townspeople. They burned down houses and caught anyone who resisted. Some neighbors, fearing for their lives, directed them to our house.

When I saw my house, the gate had already been broken down.

A group of men in crimson robes rushed out, leaving bloody footprints everywhere. My parents’ bodies lay twisted at the entrance, like broken dolls. A crimson-robed man was pulling a long sword from my senior brother’s stomach, his intestines spilling out. He wiped his sword on my brother’s body in disgust.

Suddenly, a pale hand covered my mouth from behind. I was picked up, and the familiar scent of bamboo filled my nose.

He quickly retreated with me. I struggled to see my parents, but he chopped at my neck, and I remembered nothing more.

I fell seriously ill, regaining consciousness half a month later. Before leaving, the Eight Bitterness Sect had burned down our house and the bodies within.

That winter, I slept in the bamboo craftsman’s bed at night and spent the days sitting by the ruins, warming my hands. Sometimes, I found half a porcelain bowl or a piece of cloth in the snow and took it back to the bamboo craftsman’s house. He said nothing, pretending not to see.

In spring, as the flowers bloomed, the neighbors who had their homes burned began rebuilding. Hearing the sounds of construction made me envious.

One day, four or five neighbors came knocking. I hid inside and heard an elder say, “That child has brought misfortune, causing the death of his whole family. Keeping him here might attract more trouble from those demons…”

The bamboo craftsman remained silent. After a while, the elder added, “We’re not unreasonable. Though you’re an outsider, sending the child away would allow you to stay in peace.”

The next morning, I found myself on a wobbly donkey cart, carrying the bamboo craftsman’s few belongings. He walked in front, holding the reins. I cried until I was exhausted and then stared at his slender, upright back until I felt calm and fell asleep. When I woke up, he was still driving the cart the same way, as if he hadn’t moved at all. We traveled like this for several days, with birds chirping and flowers blooming along the roadside.

【Three】

The bamboo craftsman and I settled in a more remote village, and he naturally took me as his apprentice. Looking back, human affairs seem predestined, with no room for error.

I was old enough to understand right from wrong and knew he had done me a great favor. I helped with chores like chopping wood, lighting fires, sweeping, and cooking. I quickly became proficient at splitting bamboo. The bamboo craftsman was always quiet. Sometimes, I woke from nightmares drenched in cold sweat, feeling the oppressive silence of the house. I would quietly move to his side of the bed, and in the dark, feel his calloused hand gently patting my back. I felt ashamed and would bite my lip and move back.

He was a young man living alone with me in hiding. The villagers often gossiped about us. A group of older boys once mocked me, calling me a motherless wild child and said he was useless. I didn’t fully understand, but I later found the leader’s house and ambushed him, beating him with a bamboo stick when he came out to fetch water.

The boy screamed and tried to fight back, but I beat him until he couldn’t resist, his cries echoing for half a mile. By the time his parents drove me away, he had fainted.

Back home, the bamboo craftsman took out my stash of broken items and threatened to smash a porcelain bowl. I cried and begged, and he sneered, “Is this what your parents wanted to see from you?”

My rebellious nature flared up. I shouted, “Making bamboo crafts is useless! You can’t beat the bad guys, always getting bullied!”

The bamboo craftsman laughed instead of getting angry, and instead of smashing the bowl, he grounded me for a month. He became stricter than my father had ever been. Besides making me help with his work, he also forced me to study and practice writing, preparing me to take the provincial exam to become a scholar. I hated studying but loved picking fights with the local boys. I remembered a few martial arts moves my parents had taught me, and I fought fiercely, eventually earning their respect.

But this was far from enough. I wanted to defeat enemies much stronger than them.

Occasionally, I came home with injuries, which the bamboo craftsman always noticed. He would punish me by not allowing me to eat, and I would sit on the bed, hungry, trying to meditate. I hadn’t paid attention to my training before, and now it was difficult to practice properly.

One day, he asked, “Are you seeking revenge?” I retorted, “Shouldn’t I?”

He replied, “I won’t allow it.”

Angrily, I shouted, “What gives you the right to stop me?” He remained calm, “Your parents saved my life. I’m raising you in their stead and won’t let you throw your life away.”

I argued, “If you truly want to repay them, you should help me avenge them!” He remained unmoved, “I can’t do it, and neither can you.”

I realized I had misjudged him. From that day, I watched him more closely and noticed he wasn’t as tall and imposing as I remembered, perhaps because I had grown taller. Dressed in coarse cloth and doing mundane work, he seemed no different from the other villagers. He was not like my parents.

Yet, he was exceptionally good-looking and skilled. Over the years, people from nearby villages came to propose marriage, even willing to overlook my presence.

The bamboo craftsman never married. When I asked why, he said, “Life is fine as it is. Having another person would be bothersome.”

I said, “How can a spouse be bothersome? She can share your meals, keep you company, make clothes for you…”

He replied, “You already do those things.”

I continued, “She can also share your bed.”

He said, “You do that too.”

I couldn’t argue with him, but it felt strange. As I grew older, I heard the older boys hinting that sharing a bed involved hugging, kissing, and other things. I couldn’t fully understand, but one night, I dreamed of him with a woman, their faces indistinct, kissing each other. I woke up confused and wet the bed.

I quietly climbed out of bed that morning, and the bamboo craftsman said nothing. A few days later, he made a new bed, and we began sleeping separately.

【Four】

I grew rapidly, and by the time I was thirteen or fourteen, I was taller than his shoulder. Over the years, I behaved well, and he thought I had given up on revenge. He saw me practicing the basic martial arts my parents had taught me and thought I was just keeping fit. Occasionally, he would even give me pointers. Those moves seemed exceptionally skillful, but I couldn’t explain why. When I asked how he knew them, he said my parents had taught him.

Ten miles away, there was a small town, and I went there with the bamboo craftsman every month to sell our bamboo baskets and buy supplies. One day, while hawking our goods, I suddenly saw two familiar crimson robes in the crowd.

A surge of hot blood rushed to my head, making my vision red. I lost control of my limbs and, grabbing the bamboo knife from my waist, charged into the crowd. I caught up with the two men and swung the knife at one of them.

He suddenly turned and dodged my blade, drawing his sword to counterattack. I stumbled backward, and his companion struck at me, blocking my retreat. Facing strong enemies, I lost all strategy, driven only by hatred. I charged at them, slashing wildly. My abdomen felt cold, but I managed to sever the sword hand of the man I first attacked, his arm dangling by a strip of skin.

Both men seemed shocked by my ferocity. The injured man retreated, while his companion’s palm strike descended like a blade towards my head.

Suddenly, someone kicked the back of my knee, causing me to kneel and narrowly avoid the strike.

When I fell, I caught a glimpse of the bamboo craftsman’s hem.

It was the second time he had saved me from behind.

In that split second, he effortlessly pulled out the sword embedded in my abdomen. With a quick twist of his wrist, the man who had struck at me couldn’t retract his move and ended up driving his palm into the sword’s edge, screaming in agony as blood gushed out. Lying on the ground, the pain almost made me pass out. In my daze, I saw the bamboo craftsman standing with the sword, not attacking but with a gaze as cold as the hellish Yama.

The two men fled, and only then did the bamboo craftsman pick me up and carry me on his back to find a doctor for treatment and bandaging. Not daring to stay long, he hurriedly took me home.

Over that ten-mile journey, he was panting heavily and on the verge of collapse. Half-conscious from the pain, I suddenly realized he had no internal strength.

Hoarsely, I asked him, “Are you…are you okay?” He didn’t answer, gritting his teeth as he carried me home and laid me on the bed before slapping me hard enough to see stars.

He coldly said, “I saved your life. Who gave you the courage to throw it away so carelessly?”

Spitting out a mouthful of blood, I replied, “Those men killed my parents…” He retorted, “So what? Are you planning to die with them?” I said, “What’s the big deal? An eye for an eye, a life for a life. They killed, and so will I! Since you can fight so well, why don’t you teach me so I can take down a few more villains?”

The bamboo craftsman sneered, “You truly are a natural for the martial world.”

I was severely injured, and by midnight, I was burning with a high fever. I felt like I was plunging into an ice cave, and in my confusion, someone lifted me and poured bitter medicine down my throat. I babbled nonsensically, sometimes shouting to fight and kill, sometimes begging him to let me hide a little longer, afraid my father would find me and pull my ear. I kept muttering, “Don’t leave me, don’t go—”

I don’t remember how he answered.

【Five】

When I recovered enough to sit up, the bamboo craftsman would tie my hands and feet with cloth and lock me in the house whenever he went out.

One of my virtues was that I never openly rebelled against him. During those days, I quietly recuperated, replaying in my mind every move my parents and the bamboo craftsman had taught me, and analyzing the moves those two men had used. Eventually, I reached a despairing conclusion: at fourteen, I had missed the prime age for learning martial arts. Even if I found a good teacher now and worked hard, I would never be able to defeat them.

I became less anxious. When the village children tore the window paper to peek inside, I was bound to the bed, humming a song. One of the children, the son of the boy I had beaten with a bamboo stick, grinned mischievously and said, “I heard you were locked up for stealing.” He was simple-minded and mischievous, with a dirty face from playing in the fields.

I laughed and said, “Nonsense, I’m doing something important.”

The child asked curiously, “What important thing?” I said, “I’m looking for a pair of scissors. Only the fastest scissors in the world can cut through these cloth strips binding me. But so far, hundreds of people have tried, and none have succeeded.”

The child tilted his head and said, “We have scissors at home, but my parents don’t let me touch them.” I smiled and said, “Why don’t you sneak them out and throw them in through the window? I’ll give them a try.”

Half an hour later, with a bit of money and a dagger, I climbed out of the window and left the village.

I asked around for the direction of the Eight Bitterness Sect, and at night, I slept wherever I could find shelter. I wore out two pairs of shoes before finally reaching the territory of one of their branches.

In the town, I found the busiest teahouse and got a job washing dishes and cleaning up, all the while eavesdropping for information about the Eight Bitterness Sect. They had become the dominant force in the area, even the local officials had to show them some respect, and their underlings acted arrogantly in the teahouse.

When someone is determined to die for a cause, they often succeed. I put on a clever face and worked diligently. A year had passed since I left home by the time I was promoted to a waiter in the main hall. I had only dreamed of the bamboo craftsman six or seven times.

In the first few dreams, he always scolded me harshly. Later, he remained silent, looking at me coldly before turning away. I chased him into the dark, chaotic night in my dreams, unable to find his shadow. Exhausted, I would wake up to the sound of the night watchman’s clapper echoing through the streets.

I wasn’t afraid of death; I was only afraid of him waiting for me to come home.

【Six】

I had spent a lot of effort to uncover the details of the Eight Bitterness Sect. So, when the scarred-faced man was escorted into a private room by a group of crimson-robed men, I recognized him as a high-ranking leader.

I went to the kitchen to fetch the dishes, discreetly emptied a packet of rat poison into the soup, stirred it, and served it with a smile.

Half an incense stick later, there was a commotion inside, followed by a dying scream, which was immensely satisfying. Then there was a loud crash as someone kicked a hole in the private room’s wooden wall. The hall erupted into chaos. The crimson-robed men drew their swords and rushed out, searching the crowd with their eyes before locking onto me and charging.

I turned to run but didn’t make it far. The men shouted, and the two leading swordsmen’s blades were already at my back, their coldness chilling my bones. I had to turn and defend myself. Seeing the swords coming at me, I instinctively ducked between them, lightly touching one man’s arm with my fingers, causing his blade to veer and strike his companion. Taking advantage of their confusion, I grabbed the teacups and plates from the table and threw them at my pursuers.

Just as I reached the door, a hand grabbed my collar and lifted me, carrying me in a leap onto a horse. The rider squeezed the horse’s sides, and we galloped out of the city.

In the jostling ride, I turned excitedly to look but didn’t see the familiar face. The person behind me removed a human skin mask, revealing a middle-aged man with fine eyebrows and a long beard.

He rode to the outskirts before dismounting with me and laughed, “Young man, that move of yours was impressive. Where did you learn it?”

I was stunned and thought back, vaguely remembering the bamboo craftsman teaching me that move. Warily, I said, “No sect or school, I made it up myself.” To my surprise, he praised me, “Then you are a genius. That move reminded me of a master from years ago.”

Curious, I asked, “Which master?”

He asked, “Have you heard of Gu Jiu?”

I had never heard of him. In the martial world, I only knew my parents.

He asked again, “You know nothing, so how did you think of poisoning members of the Eight Bitterness Sect?” I told him my story, and he sighed, “The Eight Bitterness Sect is ruthless. You killed that leader, so they won’t let you off. If you want revenge, you might as well join my sect and come with me to Cangzhu Mountain to train.”

Immediately, I knelt and called him “Master.”

I begged him to let me go home and bid farewell to my family and collect some belongings. He said it was too dangerous with the Eight Bitterness Sect searching for me, and it was safer to leave as soon as possible.

The journey to Cangzhu Mountain took half a month. My master was the junior brother of the sect leader and had come to visit a friend. He ended up taking a disciple back with him. Once I joined his sect, I began training day and night. Given my age and foundation, I couldn’t achieve much in martial arts. Fortunately, the sect was known not for its martial skills but for its expertise in poison.

A packet of rat poison could kill a leader. If I could master the most potent poisons, could I not destroy my enemies? I diligently studied the art of poison, my heart burning with a dark fire and a few relatively bright hopes.

I wanted the bamboo craftsman to see me differently.

I wanted him to know I had made a name for myself in the world he despised.

Most of all, I wanted to drag him out of that impoverished backwater into this vibrant world.

When my master finally allowed me to return home, another six months had passed. I carried a bundle of nourishing herbs but felt nervous as I approached the familiar dilapidated house.

He was still sitting by the window, trimming bamboo strips. Hearing my footsteps, he slowly looked up at me. Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, I knelt before him.

He had lost a lot of weight and looked haggard, calmly observing my new clothes and the sword at my waist. I said, “I have joined another sect.” He was silent for a long time before slowly saying, “You’ve done well.”

He stood up and went to the kitchen to start a fire for cooking. After a

 moment of kneeling, I got up to help wash the rice and vegetables. He made enough food for two, and I set the table for both of us, just like old times.

The cicadas were buzzing outside.

After a long silence, I said, “You forgot your name, but I found out. You are…” He interrupted, “I know.”

I was shocked, “You pretended to have amnesia? Then why didn’t you go back?” During my time at the sect, I had learned many legends about Gu Jiu. He had become famous young, undefeated in the martial world—what a carefree and exciting life!

He laughed. I hated seeing him laugh like that, as if I were always a naïve child in his eyes. He said, “If you looked into it, you should know that Gu Jiu is dead. He was falsely accused and attacked by several former friends, ultimately killing his best friend and crippling his own martial arts before leaving.”

I anxiously said, “Your name has been cleared. Even if your martial arts are gone, your reputation remains. Many people are waiting for your return… Don’t you want to take revenge on the one who framed you?”

He replied, “No. I’ve caused enough death; I’d rather chop bamboo.”

I thought: You are a coward.

He raised me, but I was completely different from him. I suddenly understood he would never see me differently, just as I would never understand him.

Everything in my bedroom was as it had been, spotless and tidy. I felt a pang of sadness and quickly looked away. By now, nothing could hold me back, whether it was the cloth strips that had once bound me or any other ties.

I shook out the bedding and slept for a night. The next morning, I folded it back. As I placed the herbs I had brought for him on the table and prepared to return to Cangzhu Mountain, I noticed a newly woven bamboo mat added to my bundle.

【Seven】

Cangzhu Mountain was cool year-round, and the bamboo mat was only needed for a few days during the hottest part of summer. I spread it on my bed, and at night, when I closed my eyes, my mind felt like it was sinking into a dark well, descending peacefully and slowly. Sometimes, I had the illusion that he was still by my side.

【Eight】

I didn’t have an easy life in the sect. I heard that the Eight Bitterness Sect had become a colossal entity, almost impossible to shake. What was even more frightening was discovering that their reputation in the martial world wasn’t as tarnished as my master had led me to believe. They were even honored guests at the martial arts gatherings.

I wanted to attend the martial arts gathering, but several senior brothers laughed at me, saying, “Who do you think you are?”

I had been brought back by my master halfway through my journey, without any foundation. From the beginning, I was ostracized, even having my food snatched away during meals. My master initially praised me as a prodigy but later seemed to lose interest when he realized I was nothing special.

He mentioned Gu Jiu to me twice, but I pretended to be ignorant, never revealing the bamboo craftsman’s whereabouts. This was a promise I made to the bamboo craftsman.

I also asked my master when he could help me seek revenge, but he brushed me off several times, and I gradually understood.

Back in the village, my fists were the hardest, and I established myself through brute force. Now, despite my efforts in training and making poisons, I couldn’t surpass them. My thinking began to change.

Rather than fighting with fists, why not use those fists to my advantage? Day by day, I coldly observed their interactions and gradually learned to manipulate people. From surviving in the cracks to forming alliances, I mastered everything the bamboo craftsman had never taught me.

In this vast martial world, true prodigies are rare. Most people’s skills accumulate bit by bit over time. If I could catch up with them a little each year, maybe in ten years, I could match them. In twenty years, I could gain some renown. With good connections and building my own power, who’s to say I couldn’t become the sect leader in thirty years?

The human heart changes quickly. What was once a bright, sharp blade now hid behind deep crevices.

Returning home from this place took several days; I couldn’t take leave unless it was urgent. Moreover, if I wanted to return home, my master would ask why, considering my parents were gone. I seldom returned, only sending many letters to the bamboo craftsman.

In the first two years, I wrote about my feelings. After that, I only wrote about trivial matters once a year. Eventually, I stopped mentioning anything specific, only writing two words: Safe and sound.

I never received a reply to any of those letters, so I gave up. I just sent him good herbs frequently, thinking he could use them or sell them if he didn’t need them.

On my twentieth birthday, my master said that scholars would perform a coming-of-age ceremony and choose a style name, but since we weren’t scholars, we wouldn’t bother with such formalities. Instead, after paying respects to our ancestors and the sect, we would have a drink. Everyone was happy to have a reason to drink, and the feast was lively. As I clinked glasses and laughed with others, my thoughts wandered. If anyone were to give me a style name, it should be the bamboo craftsman.

I planned to take leave during the New Year to see him, but fate had other plans. I was finally taken to participate in a grand martial arts gathering.

All the notable righteous sects gathered to denounce the Eight Bitterness Sect’s crimes. Over the years, that group had expanded their territory, seized businesses, and acted arrogantly, accumulating grudges until they finally crossed the entire martial world’s bottom line.

When it was our sect’s turn, the sect leader pushed me forward and said sorrowfully, “This disciple’s parents were both killed by the Eight Bitterness Sect. He was only seven at the time, watching helplessly as those villains burned his home to the ground…” The righteous sects were incensed, shouting to unite and eradicate the villains and uphold justice.

In the crowd, my master patted my shoulder, saying, “It’s up to you now.”

Before departing, I wanted to write a letter to the bamboo craftsman. Having not written for a long time, I felt at a loss for words. I dryly wrote, “This journey is dangerous. If I survive, I will return home. If not, I will visit you in a dream. It has been many years since we parted…”

At this point, I scratched my head, then borrowed some books from my master and copied a phrase: “I miss you dearly.” It seemed like an expression of longing.

After sending my letter, he sent back a package of food. Unwilling to give up, I searched through it but found no words, only discovering a short dagger at the bottom.

It lay casually among the snacks, giving no hint of its famous past.

I had heard that Gu Jiu once had a dagger that never left his side, shining like water and cutting through iron like mud, called “Spring Breeze Pen.”

Now Xun is growing old.

The battle lasted for years, leaving the entire martial world weakened.

I stood among my brothers, staring at the collapsed gates before us. Inside, flames roared, and black smoke billowed into the sky.

This wasn’t the branch that had killed my parents. The righteous alliance had given us face, sending our sect to eliminate the remaining members of the main headquarters. It was the final stage, with several powerful sects attacking the front. Our job was to block the side doors, preventing anyone from escaping.

A junior brother grabbed my arm, saying, “Today, the villains will die. Brother, you can finally avenge your parents.” I remained silent, gripping the dagger tightly. It had accompanied me all this way, fed with the blood of the men I killed, becoming even sharper.

Screams echoed from the flames, and members of the Eight Bitterness Sect fled, their crimson robes still burning. We blocked the doors, slashing down anyone who tried to escape. Some tried to resist, but we cut them down with poisoned blades, their faces turning black as they fell, limbs twisting like grotesque puppets.

Blinded by rage, I raised my dagger, ready to charge inside, but someone pulled me back, shouting, “It’s too dangerous inside! You can’t fight them!”

I turned instead to the fleeing remnants, stabbing them with my poisoned blade, pulling out entrails with every thrust. Poisoned blood splattered on my face, making me retch violently.

The Eight Bitterness Sect, which I had been unable to touch for over a decade, was ground to dust that night.

After the various sects had divided the spoils, I asked my master for leave to go home and pay my respects to my ancestors. He granted it, saying, “You did well this time. The sect leader noticed your performance.” I couldn’t read his thoughts, so I quickly replied, “It was all thanks to your guidance, Master.”

My master patted my shoulder meaningfully and said, “That dagger is quite good.”

…

I was wary as I took a detour to the small town where I had lived with my parents. A new house had been built next to the old site. I knocked and asked about the fate of the ruins. The owner, annoyed, said, “It took a lot of effort to cleanse the bad luck. Why bring it up again?”

After many apologies, he finally pointed and said, “Maybe it’s in that forest.” I paid people to erect a stone tablet in the forest, inscribing my parents’ names and offering wine and meat.

The bamboo craftsman still lived in the same village, in the same house. Sitting at the table, I looked around, feeling no sense of home, only a cramped, dim space, with a flickering lamp barely holding back the darkness.

The bamboo craftsman was no longer young, with white hair at his temples, looking very different from my memories. I could hardly see the immortal-like figure from before. He had worked hard all his life, and his hands were no longer nimble, producing fewer and fewer items each month.

I asked him, “Why didn’t you ever reply to my letters?”

He said, “I can’t read.”

I was speechless. Growing up by his side, I had never realized this. In hindsight, it wasn’t my fault for being slow; he didn’t seem like someone who couldn’t read.

I told him a funny story, “When I came of age, my master said scholars should take a style name. I wanted you to give me one. Later, I got your dagger, which I liked, but I still wanted a name… I hadn’t read much, so I thought for a long time and chose one for myself, ‘Gu Zhi.’ It follows your surname.”

The bamboo craftsman asked, “Have you avenged your parents?”

I replied, “Yes.”

He asked, “Is your heart’s desire fulfilled?”

I bowed my head, “Yes. But I can’t stay. My master and the sect leader value me highly now, planning to cultivate me further. I still owe many people, and I made many new connections during the battle against the Eight Bitterness Sect. It’s a good time to build my influence…”

As I stammered, he laughed, “Stay? I knew the day you left that you would never come back. You are destined to die in the martial world.”

…

I couldn’t help but plead again, “Come with me. This isn’t your home anyway. Cangzhu Mountain has beautiful scenery, though it’s a bit cold in winter, but comfortable in summer. If the sect leader knows your identity, he will welcome you. My master seemed curious about you, but if you come, I’ll protect you…”

He sneered, with a hint of mockery, “No need. You owe me nothing. Raising you was already enough to repay your parents’ kindness. I owe nothing to this world, and I’ll leave nothing behind. After I die, there’s no need for a grave. If you could bury me in the bamboo forest, I’d be grateful.”

The bustling martial world I was infatuated with, he discarded like trash. I asked, “Why don’t you become a monk?” He smiled without answering.

I felt a mix of emotions I couldn’t describe. I took out all the silver I had and handed it to him, saying, “Take this. With your hands not working well, you should do less work.” He shook his head, “Take it back. I’ve never used any of the silver you sent; it’s all gathering dust on the table.”

When I woke up, the pale morning mist was hanging outside the window, and the bamboo craftsman had already gone out to cut bamboo. I put on my clothes and left my room, finding a bowl of noodles on the table, almost cold, next to a new bamboo mat.

Unwilling to give up, I left the silver on his bed in his room. Glancing around, I noticed that the money I had sent over the years was indeed collecting dust on a corner of the table. True to his word, it lay there untouched.

I felt a mix of anger and amusement. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the letters I had sent were neatly stacked together, clearly well-read countless times.

Thinking back, he couldn’t read, so he probably never asked anyone to read them. He might have just looked at the shapes.

For some reason, sadness welled up in me, and I carefully placed the letters back in their original spot.

【Nine】

In the thirtieth year since I joined the sect, my master fell gravely ill. Two days before he passed, he called me to his bedside and asked, “How is Gu Jiu?”

I stared at him, hesitant to speak. My master smiled and said, “Do you know why I took you as my disciple back then?” I replied, “I remember, you said my moves resembled his.” My master chuckled weakly, coughing, “I didn’t have such keen eyes. Gu Jiu once saved my life. Not long after you entered the realm of the Eight Suffering Sect, I received a letter from him, asking me to take special care of the son of an old friend.”

For a long moment, I couldn’t find any words to say.

He said he was illiterate. He had never told me a single truth.

“He said he is still alive but unwilling to show himself, and that you are unaware of his identity. You are indeed talented, but I took you under my wing, recommended you to the sect leader, and gave you opportunities to earn merit, all to repay his kindness.”

My master said with a hint of sarcasm, “Gu Jiu probably saw then that you would eventually rise to the position of sect leader. When it comes to foresight, no one matches him.”

…

Is that how it was? Had the bamboo craftsman already bid farewell to me in his heart from that moment?

Two years later, the sect leader passed away, and I took over the sect as I had wished. Thanks to the support of my friends, although my martial arts skills remained average, I was still called a great hero in the martial world. It’s worth noting that my father, despite his righteous deeds, was never called a great hero in his lifetime.

There were always friends trying to match me with a potential bride, saying that a hero should have a beauty by his side and that at my age, I should have someone to care for me. They didn’t understand why I remained unmarried and would often ask directly. I would laugh it off, saying that I was fine as I was, and that having another person would be a hassle.

They laughed at me for not appreciating the romance of spring flowers and autumn moons, but how could I not understand sorrow? I even copied a poem once, carefully writing each stroke on a letter: “Miss you, miss you, when will I return?”

The bamboo craftsman grew old, and his clothes hung loosely on his thin frame. His calloused fingers were stiff and unable to work anymore. He refused to use the money I sent, so I occasionally sent clothes and supplies, secretly giving money to the neighbors to help take care of him.

Strangely enough, whenever I thought of him, I still saw the image of his younger self. Every time I saw him, it was shocking, like looking at a reflection of my own changed face. I didn’t want to face his drooping eyes any more than I wanted to face my own.

The bamboo craftsman began to fall ill intermittently and became somewhat confused. Sometimes, in the middle of a meal, he would suddenly ask, “Aren’t you going home? Aren’t you afraid your father will come and spank you?”

I would put down my chopsticks and slowly say, “I have no home to return to anymore. Please let me stay a little longer.”

But I couldn’t stay long. There were many orphans in the sect who saw Cangzhu Mountain as their home. As the sect leader, I had to take care of them.

One day, I laid out the bamboo mat he had made for me. It had been used for so many years that some parts were worn through, but I couldn’t bear to throw it away. That night, perhaps because I was sleeping on the bamboo mat, I dreamed of that bamboo forest again, catching a glimpse of a figure as graceful as a startled swan. Someone danced freely in the twilight, like a mountain god, with the sound of the bamboo leaves singing an eternal song.

Had he ever dreamed of me? What did I look like in his dreams?

In the end, I never asked him.

That winter, the bamboo craftsman’s condition suddenly worsened. He stopped eating and drinking, and despite my efforts to give him medicine, he remained unconscious for ten days before improving slightly. I took his pulse daily, knowing it was time to prepare for the worst. But my heart was unwilling, hoping to drag it out for another year or so.

The bamboo craftsman was strong-willed and managed to pull through the gates of death once again, but he remained in a deep sleep. With New Year’s Eve approaching, I was supposed to return to the sect for the annual banquet. But this was likely our last New Year’s Eve together, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave.

A thought struck me—why not take him to the sect? I had tried to persuade him all my life to no avail, but this time, it would be my decision.

I prepared a carriage, packed our belongings, and stood by his bed, saying, “If you don’t say anything, I’ll take it as a yes.” His face was pale, and he kept his eyes tightly shut, showing no reaction. Feeling guilty, I carried him, muttering, “The outside world is beautiful. If you wake up, you can see the lakes and mountains; it will be worth coming to this world.”

As I carried him out of the house, I looked down to see a tear rolling down his thin, pale cheek.

…

On New Year’s Eve, the village was filled with festive joy. I cleaned the small house, put up couplets, made a few simple dishes, and sat by his bed with a jug of wine, drinking alone until the moon was high in the sky.

When the distant sound of firecrackers rang out, I leaned close to his ear, wanting to say something auspicious, but the situation seemed too absurd. The candlelight cast a slight blush on his face, as if he had absorbed some of the festive spirit. I suddenly remembered how, as a child, I had naïvely imagined what it would be like to kiss him.

Thinking this, I touched his pale lips. They were dry and chapped, rough against my fingertips. The sound of firecrackers echoed from all around the village. Tilting my head, I thought for a moment and said, “You’ll be angry, won’t you? But what can you do now? You can’t stop me.”

I pressed my lips to his, gently moistening them with my saliva. I laughed and said, “Open your eyes and see; isn’t this like a wedding night?”

【Ten】

The bamboo craftsman didn’t die from anger that night, and miraculously, he held on until the fifteenth. I even had the illusion that he would get better, open his eyes, and softly scold me again.

I hadn’t yet solidified my position as sect leader, and my extended absence from the sect led to restlessness among the members. Upon hearing that one of my trusted subordinates had been assassinated, I finally summoned two disciples to take care of the bamboo craftsman and rushed back to the sect to stabilize the situation.

After purging the traitors, a pigeon brought me news of his final moments.

My two disciples, panicked and trying to use their internal strength to keep him alive, failed. His life force was like a flickering candle in the wind, impossible to protect. I rode two horses to death, rushing back home, where a few neighbors were waiting for me to take care of his body.

In a daze, I dismounted and slowly walked to his bedside. He was already cold, his pale, thin corpse like the bamboo he had cut all his life, his face as emotionless as grass and wood.

Was it because I had left? Or had he waited until I was gone to let go?

My disciples, fearing my wrath, knelt beside him and wailed. I impatiently stopped them and asked, “Did he leave any last words?” After some recollection, one disciple replied fearfully, “He woke up once and said something. I tried my best to hear it clearly…”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Do not forget my request, bury me in the mountain.'”

Numbly, I repeated, “Bury me in the mountain…” It was his final request.

To me, he left not a single word.

I buried him deep in the bamboo forest and mourned for him until the seventh week. There were few belongings in the house, and I only took two bamboo knives, one his and the other mine from my youth, now rusted.

On my way back, I stopped by my parents’ grave, drank once more, and told them everything that had happened over the years. I spoke of the boy I had beaten with a bamboo stick, the cicadas in the small village, the rat poison, the sound of the night watchman’s clapper, the sect, being chased by wild animals while gathering herbs, the silk handkerchief I returned to my junior sister, the fireflies in the mountains, the midnight killings, and many moments of joy and regret.

Finally, I said, “You taught me to be a good person, but I failed. It’s not his fault. If you meet him, take good care of him.”

I returned to the sect to continue my life as a hero. As I grew older, I felt the fleeting nature of time, like morning dew, with so many grudges taken to the grave by those who came before me.

Yet one thing continued to trouble me. I couldn’t understand why he left me no final words. I wondered if I could find him in the afterlife and ask him.

The bamboo mat he had given me was now full of holes. Unwilling to throw it away, I took out his bamboo knife one day, went to the nearest bamboo forest, cut some bamboo, stretched my old bones, split the strips on the spot, and brought them back to try to mend it. As I dismantled the mat, I noticed something carved on the back of the bamboo strips between the layers.

Peering closer, I saw a few shallow characters: “Gu Zhi, Gu Zhi, miss you, miss you.”

In a flash, I was back to my lonely youth, burning with fever, mouth filled with the bitterness of medicine, clinging to his arm, saying, “Don’t leave me, don’t go—”

He patted my back and said, “Alright, I’m always here.”

【The Bamboo Craftsman: End】