Chapter 110: Follow-up Story (2)
The tree shadows were sparse. Han Min sat by the pond, holding the white cat, for a long time.
He had known the system since he was young. One night, the young Han Min was standing at his desk, wrist raised, practicing large characters stroke by stroke, when the system’s voice suddenly sounded beside him. Han Min was so startled that his pen paused, leaving a blot of ink on the paper.
The system said he was a natural scholar, and it was a literature system sent by heaven to help him. Han Min didn’t quite believe it but couldn’t get rid of it. The system explained that this was its first mission; if it were sent back to the control center, it would be recycled and destroyed.
Han Min could only keep it. But unlike other systems, it didn’t have attributes, assign tasks, or force the host to do things. It only possessed an immense library of classical texts, along with an extremely powerful search engine.
Its tasks were optional. Completing them only lit an icon. Han Min didn’t have a strong competitive spirit, so he never felt compelled to light every icon. The system didn’t mind—it quietly helped him find literature and occasionally bickered.
Thus, they supported each other through Han Min’s first dozen or so years of life, though no one else knew about it.
Han Min had once asked if it had a specific purpose in coming here, but the system never gave a clear answer.
Now he realized: its mission was to collect the Song Kingdom’s archival texts. After Qi destroyed Song, the Song archives would naturally belong to Qi. So the system had chosen Han Min as its host in Qi. But it didn’t want to pressure Han Min or reveal that once the collection was complete, it would leave—hence it had never told him.
The system either doesn’t speak or never lies. When it said it wouldn’t return, it truly meant it wouldn’t.
Knowing this was irreversible, Han Min still held the cat tightly.
“Then I’ll wait until you’ve finished recording the last book.”
By evening, Han Min returned to Funing Palace with the white cat. Fu Xun was not in the hall; he sat alone, listless, without even having dinner, just leaning against the couch, lost in thought while holding the cat.
The cat’s furry head rubbed against Han Min’s hand, and he stroked its head in return.
The system said, “Why feel sad? We’re going to part sooner or later. You’re already the foremost scholar in the realm. Me staying won’t help you anymore.”
Han Min didn’t respond. It wasn’t that he needed the system’s help; it was that a friend who had been with him for over ten years was leaving, and of course, he was unhappy.
“You’ve always liked this cat more anyway…”
Before the system could finish, Han Min half-sat up and retorted, “I didn’t!”
He faced away from the door. The system, still wanting to speak, looked up to see someone entering. It struggled out of Han Min’s arms and jumped off the couch.
“Hey? Where are you going?”
Han Min turned back. Fu Xun sat beside him, touching his face: “Sick? Why didn’t you have dinner?”
Han Min’s gaze followed the white cat that had run out. Fu Xun noticed this was unusual. The cat normally guarded Han Min fiercely, hissing and warning anyone who got close. Yet today, it had just left.
Fu Xun checked Han Min’s forehead again: “What’s wrong?”
Han Min shook his head. “Nothing.” He rubbed his stomach and gave him a weak smile. “A bit hungry.”
Fu Xun could tell he was down but didn’t ask further. He simply kept him company while he ate a little.
By late night, the white cat had not returned. Han Min called for the system, but it did not appear.
It wouldn’t get into trouble; it was probably hiding somewhere.
After blowing out the lamp, Han Min lay flat on the bed under the covers, staring at the indistinct patterns on the canopy, unable to sleep. Fu Xun lay on his side, back to him, equally awake.
After an unknown amount of time, rustling sounds came from the covers and clothing. Han Min moved closer behind Fu Xun, wrapped his arms around him, and rested his face against his back.
He couldn’t sleep at night without holding Fu Xun.
Fu Xun held his hand. Han Min’s muffled voice came from behind: “A friend I’ve known for over ten years is leaving.”
Fu Xun clasped his fingers.
—
The last book the system needed to record was still with a Lantai official. Han Min asked him to let the system read it first before bringing it over.
Now, Han Min hoped it would take its time. Sometimes he even wished the book would get damaged. This copy was unique in the entire Song imperial palace; if damaged, it would have to be found again, and the system would stay a little longer.
Every day felt like a countdown to their separation, uncertain when the system would leave.
In recent days, the system didn’t linger in front of him. Sometimes Han Min called, and it didn’t come—perhaps preparing him for life without it.
Finally, one day Han Min sat by the window, flipping through a book. Little Jizi came in holding a wooden tray.
“Master, Mr. Hu from Lantai sent this book over. He said it’s what you requested last time.”
Han Min instinctively wanted to have it returned. Perhaps by coincidence or not, the white cat jumped in through the window and snuggled into his arms.
He had no choice but to let the tray be set down.
Little Jizi left. Han Min straightened the book and said to the system, “Here’s what you wanted.”
The system, curled in his arms, glanced at it and, seeing only the cover, said, “Hmm, you flip it for me.”
Normally, the system didn’t need him to turn pages; it would extract the text automatically. But this was the last book.
For a long moment, there was silence—only the soft rustle of pages.
Halfway through, the system said, “Actually, Fu Xun’s not bad.”
“Mm.”
“I feel quite at ease leaving you here.”
Han Min lowered his eyes and continued turning pages. After a while, he softly asked, “Will you have to find another host to collect texts from other dynasties?”
“Probably. It depends on the control center’s assignments. My first mission went so smoothly; I might stay at the center from now on.”
“Really can’t come back?”
“Returning after the mission would interfere with the world’s course. That’s not good.”
“Well…”
Han Min couldn’t ask anything further. He slowed his page-turning, and the system didn’t rush him.
“We’ve been together for over ten years. That’s enough. There’s no reason to always be together. You’ve grown up; you don’t need me…”
The system suddenly felt a warm drop hit its fur. Looking back, Han Min’s expression hadn’t changed.
He had shallow tear sockets and had loved to cry as a child—the system knew this. Unexpectedly, he still behaved like that grown-up version. Hard to handle.
By dusk, Han Min finished the last page.
He had delayed as long as possible, but it was over.
Neither spoke. When Han Min tried to, the system jumped off the couch and dashed out the hall. Han Min hurried after it, forgetting to put on shoes, almost tripping.
The system quickly vanished. Han Min leaned against the doorframe, scanning around. It was gone.
Gone.
—
Han Min sat alone, dazed, without dinner.
When Fu Xun came, he was listless, holding his hand: “It’s gone. It will never come back.”
Fu Xun held him, patting his back. Han Min cried. He was loyal and sentimental; in these moments, he couldn’t help being sad.
After a long time, he finally calmed down, drank some milk tea, and fell asleep holding Fu Xun.
He lazed on the bed, unwilling to move, sleeping into the next morning.
Fu Xun brought the memorials for review. The bed canopy hung low. The white cat quietly slipped in, rubbing its head against Han Min’s outstretched hand.
Han Min stirred, picked it up, called its name twice, finally realizing the system had truly left. This was just the little cat.
The kitten understood nothing, only meowing at him with clear, innocent blue-green heterochromatic eyes.
—
In July, Fu Xun went on an inspection tour to the northwest, and Han Min accompanied him to assess the situation, plan future developments, and change his mood.
They stayed in the fifteen newly acquired northwestern towns. His elder brother Han Shi was stationed in the northwest, waiting at the city gate.
Han Min sat in the carriage. Han Shi rode up beside it: “The Emperor said you’ve seemed out of sorts lately?”
“I’m much better now.”
“The scenery in the northwest is nice. We’ll take you out horseback riding later.”
“Good.”
Fu Xun felt the same. Having just arrived in the northwest, with officials still settling in, political affairs could wait; he wanted to let Han Min enjoy the scenery.
White grass like frost, horse hooves kicking up dry dust. The vastness of the land was very different from Yong’an.
Han Min wore a narrow-sleeved riding outfit. The cold wind stung his face.
He turned suddenly and caught Fu Xun’s eyes, laughing unexpectedly—the first time in days. Fu Xun touched his hair, then took his hand.
Han Shi, irritated, looked away, turned his horse, and moved the following guards farther off.
The two rode together across the plains. Usually, Han Min spoke more. Today, with his mood low, Fu Xun spoke more.
Fu Xun pointed ahead: “I used to stand on that dune and see Song towns flourishing with water and grass. It was nice.”
Han Min smiled and nodded. Fu Xun continued: “I remember you once said you didn’t like riding because it meant traveling alone.”
He had said that years ago, but didn’t expect Fu Xun to remember so clearly.
“This time is different. From now on, I’ll accompany you.”
—
Returning to Yong’an in early winter, Han Min was much better, having ridden back on horseback.
The journey was scenic, gradually changing from north to south, west to east.
On the day they returned to the capital, the first snow fell. Officials welcomed them at the gate. Back at Funing Palace, everything had been prepared. Han Min changed, washed, and planned to organize the poems and essays written along the journey. Unexpectedly, Chu Yu arrived, insisting he meet someone.
Chu Yu took his arm: “Let’s go. Tomorrow you can organize your writings. A familiar friend wants to see you.”
Han Min had no choice but to follow.
The carriage left the palace, arriving at the Chu residence. On the way, Han Min asked who the friend was; Chu Yu didn’t say.
Snow still fell. A snow-covered stone pavilion stood in the center of the lake. From a distance, a few people were enjoying the snow inside.
Chu Yu led him through the winding corridors, loudly: “Here they come! Xi Ci has finally returned from the northwest.”
The cold air blurred Han Min’s vision. Waving away the mist, he saw, besides Wen Yan and Liu Ting, two more inside the pavilion.
One was Mr. Ge Mi, dressed in a simple Daoist robe, sporting a small beard. The other was a young man in his twenties, likely a scholar introduced by Mr. Ge. His eyes smiled, but when he looked at Han Min, his expression turned serious.
He opened his mouth to speak. Han Min froze at his eyes.
The young man wore ordinary Qi robes but had blue-green heterochromatic eyes, the eyes one would expect on a Persian cat.
He put down his wine cup and stood. Han Min didn’t wait for a bow—he quickly stepped forward and hugged him. The young man, slightly helpless, patted his back.
Chu Yu and the others watched, puzzled: “Eh? Han Min, this isn’t right. If the Emperor knew, we’d be doomed. You two have just met, don’t even know each other’s names, yet you act like old friends?”
Han Min hugged him tightly, turning to ask: “What’s your name?”
He answered calmly: “Xi Tong, Liu Xi Tong.” (Xi Tong = System)
Author’s note:
Mr. Ge: eternal god! Walking detector.
