“But he isn’t Master Ping’s disciple… he, he…” Song Aiguo’s tongue was so tied up with anxiety that he was stuttering. “Didn’t you say this skill wasn’t passed down to outsiders? Didn’t you say no one could be told about the Hall of Affairs? Grandpa Xu and the others have bought paper offerings here for so many years without ever knowing you made them, and now not only do you bring him here, but you’re also handing down the ancestral craft to him? Just who on earth is he?”
“He also counts as your Uncle Ping’s disciple, only he went up the mountain to study Daoism later on. It wasn’t convenient for me to talk about the Hall of Affairs outside, so I just said he was Sister Xiu’s apprentice,” Song Huaiyan continued making things up, his reasoning weak yet his stance unyielding.
“Then why did you say before that the Hall of Affairs lineage is passed down to only one person per generation, and that I’d be the only one relying on it to inherit the mantle in the future? And that I could only learn these things after turning eighteen?” Song Aiguo’s face was plastered with disbelief. “I’m turning eighteen very soon, why aren’t you teaching me?! Do all those years I spent painstakingly splitting bamboo count for nothing?”
Song Aiguo poured out his grievances with bitter resentment, feeling as though the roasted chestnut in his hand had suddenly lost its flavor.
“You’ve spent all these years splitting bamboo, yet you still can’t match someone else’s single day’s work, can you?” Song Huaiyan’s tone carried the exasperation of someone dealing with a hopeless protege.
Feeling somewhat in the wrong yet refusing to admit defeat, Song Aiguo muttered under his breath, “It’s meant for the dead… I mean, it’s going to be burned anyway. Is there really any point in making it so meticulous? Besides, once the paper is pasted on, you can’t even tell… it’s all the same.”
The joking smile vanished from Song Huaiyan’s face, replaced by a flat tone: “If it’s meaningless, why bother learning it at all?”
Seeing that Song Huaiyan seemed genuinely angry, Song Aiguo suddenly deflated like a punctured ball. He put down his roasted chestnuts, pulled over a small stool to sit to the side, and buried his head to start splitting bamboo.
Song Huaiyan didn’t say anything more. He picked up a few bamboo strips and thin laths to begin framing. His fingers were slender and nimble; as they danced flexibly, the pliable and light bamboo strips bent and wound according to his will, and very soon the outline of a rabbit took shape.
Once the framework was done, he moved on to pasting the paper.
“Junior brother, give it a try.”
Song Huaiyan handed the half-pasted rabbit over to Shen Yu. Taking it, Shen Yu quickly finished the remaining half, mirroring the motions he had just observed. Song Huaiyan then picked up a writing brush dipped in cinnabar to draw the eyes, and a lifelike paper-crafted rabbit was complete.
Laborer Xiao Ai sat off to the side, swinging his bamboo knife with a fierce whoosh, hacking away at the bamboo with loud thuds. From time to time, he would sneakily stretch his neck to peek over, nearly twisting it into a cramp, yet not daring to utter a sound as he silently fumed in grievance.
After two days of splitting bamboo with blisters forming on his hands, a resentful yet tight-lipped Song Aiguo sullenly returned to school on Sunday afternoon.
Throughout the following week, Song Huaiyan closed the doors of Liangbuyi and dedicated himself entirely to making paper offerings alongside Shen Yu at the Hall of Affairs.
Shen Yu grew even quieter than before, his words and actions lacking the mental cloudedness of previous days. He appeared cold, detached, and aloof—resembling exactly what he had been like at fourteen years old.
His nighttime condition had stabilized considerably as well, no longer plunging into frenzied madness as before; he would simply head to bed early every night after taking a bath.
During the Qingming season, continuous drizzle fell day after day. Since the courtyard lacked shelter from the rain, they moved everything under the corridor eaves. Song Huaiyan was responsible for building the frames, while Shen Yu handled paper-cutting and pasting, leaving the final touch-up coloring for Song Huaiyan to complete.
Within a few days, the inner hall was already piled high with dozens of paper crafts: paper figures and horses, mountains of gold and silver, carriages, boats, houses, and various everyday household items.
The bamboo strips they had previously prepared were nearly exhausted, so Shen Yu resumed splitting bamboo while Song Huaiyan contentedly sprawled out on a reclining chair to rest. With Shen Yu serving as a free laborer, Song Huaiyan had taken to whining about exhaustion and fatigue after working for only a short while these past few days, spending half his time dozing off and slacking on the recliner.
Perhaps crafting these paper offerings genuinely demanded a great deal of energy, as Song Huaiyan’s complexion didn’t look particularly well. Though he still joked around with Shen Yu daily, his words had noticeably decreased.
Shen Yu’s bamboo-splitting technique had reached a level of pure mastery by now, allowing him to control even the sound and rhythm perfectly. Stopping at some unknown moment, he stood up and walked over to the reclining chair.
A fine drizzle was falling, and the wind carried a trace of chill.
Leaning against the reclining chair as if fast asleep, Song Huaiyan rested his hands casually across his lower abdomen. Whether dreaming of something or not, his eyelashes fluttered lightly and his brow knit into a shallow crease.
Standing there, Shen Yu gazed down with his habitual look of detachment, betraying no emotion. Though he held a heavy bamboo knife in his hand, he carried himself as though wielding a three-foot azure blade. Standing tall and upright like a snow-laden pine, an aura of coldness radiated from his entire frame.
Song Huaiyan opened his eyes, locking gazes with those grayish-blue pupils.
Without a change in expression, Shen Yu simply stated indifferently: “The bamboo is all split.”
Song Huaiyan didn’t answer right away. Turning his head slightly to look away, he said, “Shen Yu, I dreamed of Master.”
The master he spoke of was not Muzhangfeng.
Instead, it was the previous owner of the Hall of Affairs.
He wasn’t trying to probe Shen Yu; he had simply found himself suddenly missing the grumpy old man.
He had no one else to talk to about it.
Yet Shen Yu was standing right there. For reasons unknown, the words slipped past his lips.
After saying them, he felt a slight pang of regret.
“I dreamed I couldn’t make the paper offerings right, and Master chased after me with a bamboo strip to beat me.” He pulled his lips into a slightly provocative, cheeky grin, then stood up to massage his waist and legs. “It hurt like hell.”
Picking up the teacup at his side, he took a sip and acted as though nothing had happened.
Shen Yu fell silent for a moment before suddenly asking: “Your master… treated you badly?”
Taken somewhat aback, Song Huaiyan lowered his eyes to ponder: “He treated me quite well. Everything I have now was given to me by him. If not for the fact that he was unwilling to be my master on paper, he probably would have been the best master in the entire world.”
Shen Yu didn’t quite grasp his meaning, but he didn’t press further either. Looking around at the room full of lifelike paper crafts, he merely said: “He taught you well.”
Unwilling to dwell on these old matters of the past, Song Huaiyan exchanged a few casual remarks with him before both returned to their respective tasks.
Saturday was Qingming. On Friday morning, Song Aiguo rushed back from school as soon as his morning classes ended, dutifully and diligently returning to splitting bamboo and polishing bamboo strips.
Knowing that the boy carried a sense of guilt coupled with a stubborn refusal to admit defeat, Song Huaiyan wanted to temper the youngster’s character and was therefore quite happy to let him be.
Gazing at the half-courtyard of shaved bamboo strips, he teased, “The Qingming peak season is about to pass. You’ve shaved so many bamboo strips—are you keeping them to burn as firewood for the New Year?”
“They’ll be needed eventually, just in case,” Song Aiguo muttered stubbornly as he worked. “If I shave ten thousand bamboo strips, can I learn the next step?”
Song Huaiyan hadn’t expected Song Aiguo to still remember the offhanded remark he made previously. Reaching out, he ruffled the boy’s round head: “Mhm, opportunities are reserved for those who are prepared.”
Just as Song Aiguo’s face lit up with joy, the leisurely voice from above delivered the next sentence: “But if there’s no opportunity, don’t go wasting your time preparing blindly.”
“Did you look down on me right from the start, which is why you never taught me?” Song Aiguo stopped his bamboo knife. “You always said you were waiting for the right timing were you just waiting for your good junior brother?”
Accustomed to bantering with him, Song Huaiyan hadn’t expected the kid to take things somewhat seriously this time.
“Did you eat too much bamboo? Why are your words so full of thorns?”
“Don’t think you can fool me so easily,” Song Aiguo muttered gloomily. “You’re just biased toward him.”
“Are you targeting him or me?” Song Huaiyan raised an eyebrow. “It’s been so many days, and you still haven’t realized where your own problem lies?”
“Ask yourself less about ‘why,’ ask others more about ‘by what right…'” Song Aiguo ground his teeth. “Just who on earth is he?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Matters concerning our sect are a bit complicated. He… was sent up the mountain to study by Uncle Ping when he was little, and his personality is a bit reclusive,” Song Huaiyan bluffed half-truths with a straight face. “But looking back, I as the senior brother bear a certain amount of guilt toward him in many ways, so naturally I need to take care of him more nowadays. Making paper crafts is just something to help pass the time for him. Do you really think a little immortal like him could stay here and work as a paper-craft artisan?”
“So… you will teach me, right?” Song Aiguo’s expression relaxed slightly, though he still refused to let the matter drop.
Pressing a hand lightly onto Song Aiguo’s head, Song Huaiyan asked gently, “Xiao Ai, do you genuinely want to learn these things?”
“Of course I do!” Song Aiguo answered without the slightest hesitation.
“You won’t be scared? You won’t regret it?” Song Huaiyan asked.
“Bro, I’m not a kid anymore,” Song Aiguo’s eyes flashed with conviction. “I’m actually never scared of this house full of paper figures. On the contrary, the smell of bamboo and ash here gives me a deep sense of peace. It’s not a passing whim, nor is it just wanting to help share your workload—I genuinely want to do this.”
Saying this, a slight flush bloomed across his face, revealing a look of shame.
“Before, I was just angry and spoke without thinking. I believe these paper figures and paper money really can bridge yin and yang, convey the yearning of the living, and comfort the souls of the dead. All of this is deeply meaningful.”
Song Huaiyan’s eyelashes fluttered slightly in surprise. Patting the bird-nest-like mess of hair he had just ruffled, he said, “Our Xiao Ai has truly grown up. However, these matters…”
Carrying a bundle of white paper out from inside the house, Shen Yu caught sight of Song Huaiyan smilingly stroking Song Aiguo’s head. He sat down with a cold expression and began cutting paper.
“I’ll tell you slowly when summer vacation starts,” Song Huaiyan smoothly changed the subject. “It’s almost lunchtime; today we’re having Qingming dumplings.”
After Song Huaiyan stepped into the kitchen, Song Aiguo walked over to the corridor and watched Shen Yu quietly for a moment.
“You don’t actually like doing this, do you?” Song Aiguo spoke up suddenly. “Your gaze is too cold, as if everything in the world is dead to you including yourself. You carry the aura of a dead person on you.”
Without speaking, Shen Yu used his paper-cutting knife to swiftly and cleanly slice a stack of white paper in half with crisp efficiency.
“But the way you look at my brother is different.” Song Aiguo’s gaze dropped onto the paper-cutting knife. “I don’t care if you’re some kind of demon, monster, or beauty with a painted skin—I won’t let you keep fooling him.”
Reaching out, Song Aiguo pressed his hand down flat against the paper, blocking the path of the cutting knife.
“My brother looks smart, but he’s actually pure and kind to a fault. He can only get by relying on that face of his; when he gets old, he’ll definitely get tricked into buying health supplements…”
“Song Aiguo! Are you bad-mouthing your brother again?” Holding a plate of bright green Qingming dumplings, Song Huaiyan strode out the door in large strides.
“No! I was telling Brother Shen that we should buy health supplements to nourish you! With how your waist and legs ache whenever it rains, you look nothing like a young man!” Rushing over to take the plate from his hands, Song Aiguo stuffed a dumpling straight into his mouth. “My brother makes the best dumplings in the world!”
“Stop sucking up. If you don’t wash your hands, can’t you use chopsticks?” Song Huaiyan feigned a slap at his hand, handing chopsticks over to him and Shen Yu. Hesitating for a moment, he added, “Junior brother, try this one. You probably haven’t had it before; these ones are filled with sweet bean paste.”
Taking the chopsticks, Shen Yu picked one up and uttered a single, precious syllable: “Mhm.”
Clutching the plate against his chest, Song Aiguo declared, “If you don’t like it, don’t force yourself to eat them give them all to me!”
“Glutinous rice is hard to digest, eat three at most!” Song Huaiyan gave the back of his hand a light smack. “Hurry up and finish eating so you can get to work delivering those paper offerings around the house.”
“Hooray!” Seeming exceptionally enthusiastic about the chore, Song Aiguo hurriedly shoved another dumpling into his mouth, grabbed one more for the road, and ran inside to get things ready.
“Make sure there’s a note attached to every single one so you don’t deliver them to the wrong households,” Song Huaiyan instructed.
“Got it, got it.” Skillfully opening the cabinet, Song Aiguo pulled a stack from a pile of folded tin-foil gold ingots, wedged in dried peach leaves, wrapped them neatly in newspaper, and then retrieved the first paper craft in order. It was a two-courtyard miniature house complete with pavilions, terraces, carved beams, and painted pillars exquisitely crafted, meant for Auntie Li’s deceased younger son.
“Then I’m off to Auntie Li’s place first.” Holding the paper craft in one hand and opening his black umbrella with the other, he stepped out through the front door this time.
Though it wasn’t raining, ritual paper goods could not be exposed to “sunlight” during the daytime and had to be transported under the cover of a black umbrella.
In modern society, traditional sacrificial customs were gradually being simplified and forgotten in daylight hours, and burning paper crafts during Qingming was becoming a rare sight. Only families near the old street of the small town kept coming to the Hall of Affairs to place custom orders, maintaining this habit year after year.
It took nearly four o’clock for Song Aiguo to finish delivering the dozen or so paper crafts inside the house. Pointing at the corner of the inner room, Song Huaiyan asked, “That boat Grandpa Xu asked for is it the same old routine this year?”
“Mhm, Grandma Zhang said I’m the one who should burn it for them as usual.” Song Aiguo hauled out a paper boat roughly the length of his own arm. “There probably won’t be many people going to the martyrs’ cemetery to sweep graves at this hour; I’ll head over now.”
“Alright, it’s about to rain. Hurry back and stay safe.” Having finished his work for the day, Song Huaiyan was tidying up the courtyard items alongside Shen Yu.
Nodding in acknowledgment, Song Aiguo headed out under his black umbrella.
An hour passed. A light rain began to fall from the sky, yet Song Aiguo still hadn’t returned, and his phone was turned off.
The cemetery was a twenty-minute round trip from the Hall of Affairs. Xiao Ai went every single year, usually returning in half an hour or so.
Lying down for another ten minutes, Song Huaiyan finally grew too restless to wait. He stood up, his knees buckling softly as he staggered slightly forward, hastily catching himself against the pillar of the corridor.
“What is it?” Shen Yu turned his head upon seeing him double over.
“…My legs fell asleep.” Patting his own thigh with a sheepish cough, Song Huaiyan muttered, “Well, I’m going to go check where that brat got lost.”