Sikong Yan’s smile grew colder.
"Bu Suanzi, it seems like you don't want to live anymore."
As soon as Sikong Yan spoke up, Sand Scourer Fu Yiran slammed the table and stood up. With a shake, he tore the cloth covering his weapon aside. By the time the cloth bag landed, the Heaven-and-Earth Sun-and-Moon Blade was already in his hands.
The storyteller took a step back, waving his hands dismissively. "Fine, fine, I won’t look. No need to pull out the weapons just because of some idle curiosity. Old Fu, aren’t you being a little too loyal for your age, you old dog?"
As he spoke, Bu Suanzi pulled a cylindrical bundle of sheepskin from his robe and slowly unrolled it on the table, revealing its contents.
Once unrolled, the sheepskin revealed three short arrows of different colors, red, blue, and green, each fitted with gunpowder on the shaft.
The storyteller picked the green arrow, smiled at Sikong Yan and Fu Yiran, struck a flint to light the fuse, and tossed it into the air. The arrow let out a sharp whistle as it soared upward before exploding into a brilliant green firework.
After finishing, the storyteller rolled up the sheepskin, tucked it back into his robe, and clapped his hands. "Alright, just wait here. Someone should be along shortly." With that, he returned to the awning, sat down, and began to doze off.
Fu Yiran glanced at Sikong Yan, who nodded and said, "Let’s wait by the shore. It shouldn’t take long."
The two strolled toward the shore. Before long, they saw a small sailboat drifting toward them in the distance. It was a modest vessel that could seat no more than five people. A boatman wearing a bamboo hat sat at the bow of the boat.
The boatman spotted them from afar and quickened his pace toward the shore.
The aged boatman had coarse hands and leathery skin from the sun and the salt. He was clearly a man who was familiar with the harsh elements of the sea. Once Sikong Yan and Fu Yiran boarded the boat, the boatman did not say anything, nor did he spare them a second glance. Without a word, he took up the oars and began rowing back.
Fu Yiran helped Sikong Yan into the cabin and hastily wiped a bench with his sleeve before letting Sikong Yan sit down. Sikong Yan leaned out slightly, glancing at the boatman’s back, and after a moment of thought, asked, "That boatman... is he still the mute from back then?"
"You have a good memory, young master," Fu Yiran said with a smile. "It’s him."
Sikong Yan frowned, thinking for a moment. "He’s gotten so old. I thought he’d be dead by now... I remember, his name was Eighth Brother, wasn’t it?"
"Yes, he’s called Eighth Brother. He was the eighth in his family, and since he’s mute, everyone used the name to tease him," Fu Yiran nodded.
Sikong Yan nodded noncommittally and closed his eyes to get some rest.
Fu Yiran licked his dry lips, unwilling to disturb Sikong Yan further. He pulled a waterskin from his bag and quietly stepped out of the cabin.
At the bow, the boatman Eighth Brother continued to row steadily. In the distant horizon, the island loomed faintly, but it would still take some time to reach it.
"Hey! Eighth Brother!" Fu Yiran called out as he stepped out of the cabin.
The boatman turned his head to glance at Fu Yiran but said nothing.
Fu Yiran shook the waterskin in his hand and said to the boatman, "I’ve got some good wine here. Want a drink?"
The boatman looked back toward the distant island, saw that it was still some distance away, and nodded.
Fu Yiran chuckled, walked over to the bow in a few strides, sat cross-legged, and, as if by magic, produced two small wine cups. He handed one to the boatman and filled it to the brim.
After downing a cup, Fu Yiran let out a long breath, squinting his eyes in enjoyment. "Ah—our last drink together must’ve been decades ago, right?"
The boatman nodded and raised three fingers.
"Thirty years already," Fu Yiran muttered, pressing his lips together. "Time flies..."
The boatman shook his head in disagreement.
Fu Yiran glanced at the boatman. "Doesn’t time fly? Hmm, maybe not for you... After all these years, you’re still here rowing. Aren’t you tired of it? Why not find someone to take over? You’re getting on in years—go talk to the people at the main headquarters. They’d probably send someone else to replace you. In a few years, you might not even be able to keep rowing."
The boatman tilted his head back, downed the cup of wine, and simply shook his head without saying a word.
Fu Yiran, unbothered by the silence, poured him another cup and asked casually, "I remember you once told me your name... but it’s been so long. Everyone just calls you Eighth Brother now—they’ve all forgotten your real name."
The boatman stared at Fu Yiran for a while, then dipped his finger in the wine and scrawled three crooked characters on the deck: "Qin Gensheng."
Fu Yiran was visibly surprised. "Ha! I thought you were illiterate?"
The boatman shook his head and pointed at the characters on the deck.
"You only know how to write your name?" Fu Yiran asked.
Fu Yiran grinned. "Not bad! You couldn’t recognize a single character before, and now you’ve learned to write your own name."
The boatman seemed excited by the topic. He mumbled something unintelligible while gesturing with his hands. After watching for a while, Fu Yiran seemed to understand and tentatively asked, "Are you saying... someone at the main headquarters who remembered your name wrote it down for you, and you learned to copy it?"
The boatman nodded eagerly.
Fu Yiran chuckled, turning his head away. "All that trouble, and who even calls you by that name anymore? No one’s going to remember it."
The boatman’s expression turned gloomy. He blinked and stared at Fu Yiran. When Fu Yiran finally turned back to face him, the boatman pointed at himself earnestly.
Fu Yiran’s laughter faded. After a moment of silence, he patted the boatman on the shoulder. "Then... make sure you remember it yourself."
The boatman grinned, revealing the dark void of his mouth. His tongue had been severed entirely at its base.
It was unclear how much time had passed when a noticeable jolt roused Sikong Yan from his half-sleep. He opened his eyes just as Fu Yiran lifted the curtain and entered.
"Young master, we’ve reached the shore," Fu Yiran reported respectfully.
Sikong Yan nodded and headed out. Fu Yiran grabbed their belongings and followed.
Setting foot on solid ground again, Sikong Yan’s steps faltered slightly. Fu Yiran quickly moved to support him. Sikong Yan glanced back to see the boatman rowing away from the shore, disappearing into the sea mist.
Fu Yiran asked, "What’s wrong?"
Sikong Yan shook his head. "Nothing. I just suddenly remembered... Eighth Brother didn’t used to be mute."
Fu Yiran’s lips curved into a slight smile. "Of course not. Back then, it was he who rowed the boat that took the old master into the Ghostbane Association. It was the old master who ordered me to cut out his tongue. Since then, he hasn’t been able to speak or write. Even if he knew the greatest of secrets... he would never be able to reveal them."