Jua had given in to the boy's cute face and agreed to let him sleep beside him, but even so, having someone else in the same bed felt rather awkward. He could feel Ying Mao lying quietly beside him, close enough that Jua was constantly aware of his presence.
For some reason, that small warmth beside him brought back memories of his own childhood, from the days when he had been nothing more than a young disciple living under his master.
Memories he had no desire to remember came surging back.
Life had never given him much when he was born into that world. He had been nothing more than a beggar, struggling from one day to the next simply to find enough food to survive. His parents were unknown, and there had never been anyone he could call family.
Even among beggars, there was fierce competition. Everyone fought for whatever little resources they could find, and as a small child, Jua had always gotten the short end of the stick. Even when he somehow managed to beg enough food to last him through the day, someone would often steal it from him moments later.
There had been no one to protect him.
No one to care whether he lived or died.
Then, one day, while he was being beaten, he met him.
His master…
The man had looked almost like an immortal who had stepped straight out of an ancient painting. He wore traditional blue robes, the fabric falling elegantly around his tall figure, and held a simple umbrella in one hand as he quietly watched the scene before him.
Jua had been lying on the muddy ground, his small face beaten until it was swollen and bruised, blood staining his lips.
The sight must have been repulsive.
Yet the man had simply looked at him.
There had been no disgust in his eyes. No disdain. Not even the slightest hesitation.
Jua remembered slowly dragging himself off the ground, his small body trembling from the pain. Somehow, he had managed to crawl toward the stranger and grab hold of his robes with his filthy, muddy hands.
His broken lips parted weakly.
"Can you give me some food?"
It had been such a simple request.
The man hadn't answered immediately. Instead, he had lowered himself to Jua's level and gently lifted the filthy, battered child into his arms.
He didn't care about the dirt covering Jua's clothes. He didn't care about the mud staining his pristine robes or the unpleasant smell clinging to the child.
He simply held him.
Seeing the dirt he had transferred onto the man's clothes, Jua had instinctively struggled, embarrassed by how filthy he was.
"Don't…"
He had tried to pull away, afraid of dirtying him even more.
But the man only tightened his hold. One hand came up to cradle the back of Jua's head, gently guiding him against his shoulder.
"Sleep."
It was the kindest voice Jua had ever heard.
"Brother Jua…"
The soft voice pulled Jua out of his reverie. Only then did he realize that he had been holding his breath.
"Brother Jua, am I making you uncomfortable?" Ying Mao whispered, peering up at him with only half of his face visible above the comforter.
"No, no…" Jua quickly reassured him, a small smile appearing on his face. "I just remembered something. It was a pleasant memory."
Ying Mao seemed relieved by the answer and slowly scooted closer until he was practically clinging to Jua's side.
"What was it about?"
Jua was quiet for a moment before his gaze drifted toward the blank ceiling.
"It was about a kind man who once helped me," he finally said. His voice softened. "A man whom I ended up letting down…"
Jua sighed quietly.
That was the greatest regret of his life.
He had failed his master.
Worse than that, he had been the reason his master had died.
The thought still carried a weight that even the passing of countless years had never managed to erase.
Ying Mao frowned when he heard the sadness in Jua's voice. Without fully understanding why, he tightened his arms around Jua's waist.
Who is Brother Jua thinking about?
For a brief moment, a thought crossed his mind.
Is it Ying Di?
He didn't want Brother Jua thinking about Ying Di anymore. He especially didn't want that man to make Brother Jua sad.
Desperate to distract him, Ying Mao lifted his head slightly.
"Brother Jua… can you tell me a story?"
"Hmm?" Jua looked down at him. "I don't know any stories."
It was a lie.
Jua knew plenty of stories.
He remembered how his master used to read to him when he was very young. Whenever night fell, the man would sit beside him and patiently read one story after another until Jua finally drifted off to sleep.
Those memories were among the few precious things he had left of his master.
Jua clenched his hand beneath the blanket, unwilling to let Ying Mao see the sadness that had settled over his face. He slowly turned onto his other side, facing away from the boy.
"I'm tired today, Mao," he murmured. "Let's sleep."
There was a brief silence behind him.
"Okay…"
Ying Mao's voice sounded noticeably sad.
Jua closed his eyes, pretending not to hear it.
Yet after a moment, he felt the small body behind him move closer again, until Ying Mao quietly rested against his back.
Neither of them said another word.