The moment the name left his mouth, Zhang Tuhu blinked, still half-asleep.

Then the haze cleared.

His heavily bearded face was rapidly overtaken by something that started as surprise and kept going.

Similar to what Lin Baixi had been, in her own way.

In the jianghu, this was a name that existed only in stories.

Palms that could shake mountains. Demons that had died under his feet, enough to build a hill of their own. Chosen by the Qingzhou General, taken as the last accepted disciple, passed techniques of a quality that came along once in a generation.

And this kind of person had come to the door with tangerines.

Zhang Tuhu had his confidence, but he wasn’t under any illusion that this visit was for him. He managed an awkward smile. “Good day, Commander. I’m just a temporary lodger — the owner of the room has stepped out.”

“Where did he go?” Fang Heng pressed down the irritation rising in his chest.

“He—” Zhang Tuhu clicked his tongue, raised a hand, and pointed toward the courtyard gate. “There — he’s on his way back.”

Fang Heng turned.

A young man in an ink-black robe, saber at his hip, carrying two stacked food boxes, stepped into the courtyard at an unhurried pace.

Not a mark on him. Eyes clear and still. And the embroidery at his cuff had become two bands.

“Constable Shen — visitor!”

Zhang Tuhu called out loudly, partly because whatever this was — family visit or trouble — at least the man deserved a moment’s warning.

Though it probably wasn’t trouble.

If it were, Zhang Tuhu reckoned he’d be the one on the floor.

Shen Yi blinked slightly.

He’d registered Fang Heng’s presence some time ago. He just hadn’t expected the man to be holding things.

He walked inside without hurrying.

“Something you need?”

He’d thought the last conversation had been reasonably clear. There was no particular relationship between them, and no grievance either.

“…”

Zhang Tuhu was quietly tense. In Baiyun County, Shen Yi had worn that same expression of mild indifference at everything — and now he’d brought it to Qingzhou without modification.

If there were any chance of getting Fang Heng as a connection here, the whole flood dragon mess would sort itself out. One word from someone at that level could turn things around.

“Hah.“

Fang Heng steadied his breathing. He passed the things he’d brought to Zhang Tuhu.

He narrowed his eyes, assembled his words with visible effort, and offered a formal bow.

“I looked into it. You were brought from Baiyun County by Li Xinhan.”

“Mm?” Shen Yi wasn’t sure where this was headed.

“You’re unfamiliar with Qingzhou. With him talking in your ear, any impressions you formed weren’t your own fault. I was presumptuous.”

As he said it, Fang Heng inclined forward slightly. “I came today, first, to clear up any misunderstanding. As an expression of regret.”

Zhang Tuhu’s mouth dropped open.

His breathing stopped for a moment.

An apology.

Shen Yi glanced at him, noticed the frame tightening and beginning to tremble, and allowed himself a quiet sigh.

There it is.

Fang Heng straightened, spread his hands, fingers closing into fists. He exhaled slowly.

He’d said what the senior brother told him to say.

Heat moved through his eyes.

“Second — to make amends by bringing you back. If you’re still unwilling, I’ll have to use force. After which, back in the courtyard, I’ll express my regret again.”

The dense qi spread outward immediately, filling the air with warmth that had an edge to it.

“Hell.“

Zhang Tuhu closed his mouth. His expression was extraordinary.

So it is trouble. He went rigid, hand sliding quietly toward his back.

He glanced sideways at Shen Yi, not without exasperation. Every time he spent time near this man, the problems kept arriving — and getting worse. He’d been able to throw in a hand before. This time, not a chance.

Then he heard that familiar voice again — not the panicked response he’d been bracing for, but something casual, almost bored.

“Don’t bother. Just say so next time if you want to fight.”

Shen Yi set the food boxes on the table and stood with his hands at his sides.

The complete absence of preparation gave Fang Heng pause, and something self-aware moved across his face.

“A reputation once lost,” he said quietly, “is very difficult to recover.”

Before the words had settled, he was gone — a blur where he’d stood.

No restraint this time. He was taking back what he’d lost, by hand.

The dense qi of a Jade Liquid mid-stage practitioner swept through the room, pressing down like something physical.

“I assumed my carelessness last time would have taught you something.”

Fang Heng appeared behind Shen Yi, eyes deep and still, the coiled muscle in his frame containing something genuinely frightening.

Sever. Capture.

“Don’t worry — Senior Brother Bai is skilled. It’ll just hurt. Think of it as a lesson.”

The meridian map across Shen Yi’s body lit up before his eyes.

Full force.

Both palms launched forward with the weight of everything behind them.

Shen Yi turned slightly. The same motion — but more naturally integrated, as if the technique had always lived there.

Not fast in any dramatic sense. Just fractionally ahead.

In the time it takes to blink, his fingertips had already made contact with both of Fang Heng’s forearms — and then the hands changed to fists, and a completely unadorned Cloudscattering Longfist punch landed squarely on his chest.

Thud.

Fang Heng left the ground and rolled across it several times.

Both arms fell limp at his sides, faintly trembling.

It had all happened before he could form a response. No gap left to fill.

Fang Heng lay still on the ground, swallowed the copper taste in his mouth, and stared at the sky with unfocused eyes.

“…”

Inside the room.

Shen Yi straightened his collar, sat at the table, opened the food boxes, and produced two pairs of chopsticks. He held one pair out toward Zhang Tuhu.

“Let’s eat.”

The big man looked outside, looked at Shen Yi, then at the chopsticks extended toward him.

His face underwent several transformations.

He tugged at his beard.

Eyes wide, he worked very hard to find any explanation in the world for what he’d just watched.

Either Fang Heng wasn’t Fang Heng, or Shen Yi wasn’t Shen Yi.

“Pass me a tangerine.”

“Oh.”

Zhang Tuhu’s train of thought broke. He handed one over silently.

It came back to him — something Chen Ji had once said.

With someone like him, nothing would surprise you.

“…”

Shen Yi peeled the tangerine, watching the courtyard from the corner of his eye.

Since Fang Heng had said there was someone who could treat him — this time he’d put some actual weight behind it. Two months of recovery at minimum, probably.

With this sort of martial obsessive, unless you beat them into genuine respect, the complications would keep coming.

After the jade liquid had permeated the entire body, the difference wasn’t just reserves and qi density — it was everything at once, compounded further by the Flood Dragon’s Power.

By Shen Yi’s current reckoning, Fang Heng was slow, not particularly strong, and used techniques he knew intimately. Against what Shen Yi was now, the odds had tilted past any reasonable expectation of recovery.

I came to the Division to kill demons.

What’s the point of keeping me locked in that courtyard?

If flood dragons come looking for revenge, there won’t be anything left to cry over.

After a while, Fang Heng pulled himself off the ground with visible effort, spat out a mouthful of blood, and walked inside with both arms hanging.

He sat down at the table. “I can’t work it out.”

“Neither can I,” Zhang Tuhu said with complete sincerity, picking up a chicken leg. “What happened to your arms? Want some?”

Fang Heng opened his mouth and took a bite from the offered leg, chewing with focus.

Shen Yi picked up a mouthful of greens with his chopsticks, working through the rice unhurriedly, and glanced over. “Shouldn’t you go get treated?”

“Can’t today.”

Fang Heng thought of the senior brother’s parting instructions, stood, and walked toward the adjacent room. “I’ll sleep here tonight. Leave tomorrow.”

The back of him carried something melancholy.

At the door, he half-turned, face flushing slightly. “Do you think what I said before was ridiculous?”

Shen Yi set down his chopsticks. “No. You’re talented. Talented people have some arrogance. That’s normal.”

“If you’re not talented, why don’t you have arrogance?” Fang Heng looked genuinely puzzled.

“Because I’m obviously not talented.” Shen Yi stretched. What kind of genius takes thirty years to learn a basic bladework.

“…”

Fang Heng was quiet for a long time. Something moved across his expression — something like respect, slowly rising.

So in the eyes of the truly exceptional, even our own group is just a collection of people too vain about modest gifts to see themselves clearly. To be without humility while calling ourselves talented — how laughable.

“If I hadn’t started a decade earlier, and if I had no sect — I would be honored to call you teacher.”

He left that there and went to the next room.

Shen Yi sat with his chopsticks lifted, pressing his lips together, turning it over for a moment before the meaning landed.

He misunderstood completely.

(End of Chapter)