Beneath the archway of the government office.
Chen Dui had been chatting about all manner of remarkable people and curious tales from every corner of the land. The little girl from Zhengyang Mountain listened with rapt attention, clicking her tongue in admiration: "Big sister, you know so much."
Chen Dui smiled: "When you grow up, you'll know many things too."
Song Jixin said, half in jest and half in earnest: "In ordinary conversation, you seem perfectly reasonable."
The young woman arched her long eyebrows. "Are you saying that before your Great Lu prince Song Changjing, I ought to bow my head and grovel?"
Song Jixin burst out laughing, pointing at Chen Dui: "Miss, if the schoolmaster Mr. Qi heard you speak like this, he'd furrow his brow, you know. This is what they call a false dilemma—very unreasonable. It sounds convincing at first, but it falls apart under scrutiny. My real meaning, of course, is that you don't have to fawn over Song Changjing, nor should you. But he is still the biggest local serpent in all of Great Lu, not to mention a supreme grandmaster of the martial path, right? As an outsider, a bit of courtesy toward the master of the house—would that not be appropriate? Why must you put on such a sour face and play the lord? Fine, you played the lord, and after Song Changjing beat you half to death, you still had the nerve to talk tough to his face. I truly don't know what to make of you."
Song Jixin finally pointed at himself and added with self-deprecation: "Even a foul-mouthed, black-hearted person like me knows to read the situation and serve the appropriate dish."
Chen Dui hesitated briefly, then said: "I suppose like repels like. I am a martial practitioner myself, and I confess—I have never thought much of your Eastern Baoping Continent's martial artists. Though in the end I was proven wrong. Completely, catastrophically wrong."
Song Jixin raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Well, that's refreshingly honest."
Chen Dui replied evenly: "Martial practitioners—if we don't trust fists, what do we trust?"
Song Jixin suddenly posed a sharp question: "You outsiders who come to this town seeking treasures and opportunities—your sense of justice seems rather different from ours. Is it because your fists are harder?"
Chen Dui shook her head with a smile. "There's no need for me to explain. Once you leave this town, you'll quickly become like us. The day you set foot on the path of cultivation, you'll understand naturally. Otherwise, I could talk until my mouth goes dry and you still wouldn't get it."
Song Jixin sighed: "Become like you lot? How dull."
The little girl interjected: "Then come play at our Zhengyang Mountain—it's really fun!"
Song Jixin patted her small head, saying carelessly: "All right."
Chen Dui turned to look, a trace of instinctive tension in her bearing.
There stood the Great Lu prince in his white robe and jade belt before the archway, addressing Song Jixin: "Go back to Mud Vase Lane and pack your things. We're leaving."
Song Jixin grinned: "Well then—it's time to leave home and country."
The little girl asked, reluctant to part: "Leave home and country—does that mean carrying a well on your back when you leave?"
Song Jixin laughed heartily and rose to his feet: "Come, I'll walk you back to the Li family residence first. That's called seeing things through."
Song Jixin took the little girl by the hand and walked toward the government office gates. He turned his head and asked: "There won't be any assassins on Fulu Street outside, will there?"
Song Changjing smiled: "You'd have to ask your neighbor about that."
Song Jixin curled his lip, turned to glance at the sky. Dark clouds gathered, with signs of rain. His mood soured instantly.
After escorting Tao Zi of Zhengyang Mountain back, Song Jixin was surprised to find Song Changjing standing beneath the descendants-and-grandchildren scholar tree. He quickened his pace, asking curiously: "In such a rush to leave?"
Song Changjing nodded: "I received an urgent message. Something needs handling outside, and I must deal with it personally. We'll ride straight to Mud Vase Lane in the carriage, pack up, and go."
Song Jixin looked ahead and saw three carriages indeed waiting outside the office gate. This would likely be the first time in his life he rode in a carriage.
Song Jixin bent to enter the foremost carriage, Song Changjing following close behind, settling cross-legged. Song Jixin looked around—the interior was bare, with only the straw mat beneath his backside. There was nothing of the opulence or hidden grandeur he had imagined. This disappointed him; he had been eager to see the look of astonishment on Zhigui's face when she stepped inside.
Dense hoofbeats tapped crisp rhythms against the stone-slabbed street as the three carriages rolled out of Fulu Street in succession.
Song Changjing lifted the curtain and gazed at the townscape beyond the window. From this day forward, the Great Lu dynasty would lose its nominal control over this small cave-heaven entirely.
But on reflection, it was precisely the enormous profits from this small cave-heaven that had allowed Great Lu, since its founding, to rise step by step from a minor regional power into the greatest secular kingdom in the northern Baoping Continent—bar none.
A thousand li of river and mountain, a small cave-heaven. In the future, it could probably only be found in the secret histories of the Great Lu palace.
Song Changjing set aside these thoughts and asked casually: "Not going to say goodbye to that Chen Ping'an?"
After leaving Fulu Street, the road grew uneven. Song Jixin's body began to sway gently with the carriage. He shook his head: "Whether that fellow can even survive is still uncertain. What if I only get to see a corpse—how disgusting. Chen Ping'an has no father, no mother, and now his best friend is dead too. Wouldn't that naturally fall to me, the neighbor, to handle his burial affairs?"
Song Changjing gave a grunt of acknowledgment.
Song Jixin asked: "That little girl from Zhengyang Mountain mentioned someone called Ma Kuxuan—from Apricot Blossom Lane, about my age. Apparently he sold the hiding place of Chen Ping'an and that girl to Zhengyang Mountain in exchange for a bag of tribute coins. Do you know anything about this fellow's background? I'd only heard he was a fool—never suspected he was hiding so deep."
Song Changjing considered for a moment. "The assassin who had been lurking in the Song household attempted to kill the Great Sui prince on Qilong Lane. Some traces were uncovered, and they involved this Ma Kuxuan. Over the years, that convict-born assassin had made multiple secret contacts with Ma Kuxuan—a possible master-disciple relationship. Now that Zhenwu Mountain has stepped in, we'll have to shelve the matter for the time being. After all, many Zhenwu disciples serve in the Great Lu military, and their ranks are not low."
Song Jixin laughed: "Uncle—so even you have moments of 'have to'?"
Song Changjing replied without rancor: "Who asked this prince to carry the deadweight title of Great Lu's vassal prince?"
As the carriages neared Mud Vase Lane, Song Jixin remarked, whether intentionally or not: "Chen Ping'an—is he really just Chen Ping'an?"
Song Changjing laughed despite himself: "Before you were moved to Mud Vase Lane, the office had already conducted a thorough investigation. Chen Ping'an's ancestry for eighteen generations—a clear lineage, no irregularities whatsoever. Nothing connected to wealth or power. What, did that Chen Dui frighten you? Rest assured, I've already guessed her identity roughly. Her branch of the Chen family shares no kin whatsoever with the branch Chen Ping'an's ancestors left in this town. So relax—Chen Ping'an is simply Chen Ping'an. The closest thing to a distant relation would be the Chen family of Longtail Commandery, where Chen Songfeng comes from. But think about it—relatives who haven't been in touch for several centuries, are they still relatives? Besides, the Chen branch in this town has fallen so low that only one person remains who isn't a servant or maid. Poverty in the marketplace means no one asks after you; wealth in the deep mountains brings distant kin. You've read enough books—don't you understand even this?"
Song Jixin was still not satisfied. "And the eighteen generations before those eighteen? Was there never a single extraordinary figure? Not one?"
Song Changjing smiled: "So you were hoping Chen Ping'an's background was a bit special?"
Song Jixin did not conceal his thoughts, nodding: "If he were different from ordinary people, I'd feel a bit better."
Song Changjing grew more curious, teasing: "What exactly did that fellow do to you to make you so fixated? From what I know of the boy, he doesn't seem the type to..."
Song Jixin cut the prince off with a cold laugh: "People from small places may not have wide horizons and may be narrow-minded, but never assume they're stupid. The good ones are good with the pure heart of a child; the bad ones are bad with festering sores on their heads and rot on the soles of their feet. And some are simply too stupid for any remedy—stupid and vicious both."
Song Changjing grew more puzzled. "Which type is Chen Ping'an?"
Song Jixin sighed, vexed: "He's none of them. He really is just a fool. That's exactly what makes me so bitter."
---
Ning Yao crouched before the bench, carefully studying Chen Ping'an's sleeping face, her heart filled with wonder.
Such a power defied description.
Chen Ping'an's peculiar sleeping posture made the boy, from head to toe, emanate an air of returning to the primordial simplicity.
Ning Yao could not articulate it precisely, but she possessed an innate, razor-sharp intuition for distinguishing high arts from low.
She turned and asked with curiosity: "Are you the one who guided Chen Ping'an's cultivation?"
The old man puffed on his pipe, legs crossed, gazing at the dark curtain of rain beyond the eaves. He chuckled: "Cultivation? This counts as cultivation now? What—is there someone else out there who considers himself qualified to found a school and claim the title of ancestor? Has the atmosphere degraded so far that the scenery on the path of cultivation grows worse with each passing year? Surely not. Those few are no vegetarians. Having already become gluttons at the feast, they can only continue down this road from which there is no return—and they will never permit outsiders to claim a share of the spoils."
Ning Yao was bewildered. "Elder Yang, what are you saying?"
The old man paused, blinking. "Your elders never told you about those ancient accounts of the old fossils?"
Ning Yao shook her head. "My grandfather's generation passed early. My parents don't like telling stories from the other worlds, afraid I'll run away from home."
Old Man Yang turned his head and studied the young woman carefully, then finally said: "On that city wall—how many characters are carved now?"
Ning Yao answered honestly: "My grandfather's generation produced many heroes, so in just a hundred years, two new characters were carved. The total is now eighteen."
The old man sighed: "Eighteen already. 'Dao-Law,' 'Haoran,' 'Western Heaven'—after those six, what others were added?"
Ning Yao said gravely: "'Thunder Pool Forbidden Ground'—four characters. 'Sword Qi Endures Forever'—another four. Qi. Chen. Dong."
Old Man Yang frowned: "Little girl—one character is missing. Did you eat it?"
Ning Yao replied irritably: "Forgot!"
The old man did not press the point and changed his question: "Same old rule—only by slaying one demon of the Ascension Realm does one earn the right to carve a single character on the Great Wall?"
Ning Yao frowned: "Why do you know so much about conditions back home?"
The old man smiled: "A long time ago, a wandering swordsman came through. He had a habit of keeping a travel journal—everything he saw, the local customs and all, he wrote down. In the end, he died near our town, and I brought that thick journal back. I read through it when there's nothing to do."
Ning Yao suspected the truth of this claim.
The old man seemed to have eyes in the back of his head: "Believe it or not."
Ning Yao observed Chen Ping'an's state. It resembled something like the Daoist practice of sitting in forgetfulness or the Buddhist meditation of dhyana. "What happened to him?"
Old Man Yang replied slowly: "A small death."
When a person sleeps, it is a small death.
Ning Yao felt somewhat helpless. This old man at the Yang family shop either spoke harsh, grating words or said things that were utterly baffling.
The old man murmured to himself: "Little girl, let me ask you—when a person silently recites something in their heart, that so-called inner voice—whose voice is it, really?"
Ning Yao froze, sinking into contemplation.
Almost naturally, she closed her eyes in concentration. Then she grew drowsy, and finally, with a sudden nod, she fell fast asleep.
Old Man Yang rose, walked around the girl, and came to stand before the boy. He pointed his pipe at Ning Yao and said to him: "Look at her—a single pointer, a few words, and she breaks through a realm in one leap. Now look at you—not a shred of ability and you love to be stubborn. Who are you being stubborn with? Heaven has been dozing for how many years now—do you think it cares about someone like you?"
The old man returned to his seat and gazed at the curtain of rain growing heavier beyond the eaves. The rapid patter of drops against the courtyard ground filled the air with a clattering din. A trace of melancholy crossed the old man's face: "So many years have passed, picking and choosing, searching through so many people—never expecting that the one I had the least hope for would turn out to have the hardest fate of all."
---
A gaunt, skinny child trudged through the alley with a large basket of wild greens on his back, string of dog-tail grass threaded through seven or eight small fish in his hand. After pushing open his courtyard gate and stepping inside, a young master in fine silk from next door immediately stepped onto a stool, climbed nimbly over the low courtyard wall, and crouched there without a care for soiling his expensive clothes. He grinned: "Hey, you Chen—out foraging in the mountains and streams again? You're quite skilled at living off the land. Think you could take me along sometime? I'll give you copper coins as payment!"
The gaunt child smiled: "No need for money."
The little master of wealth and privilege curled his lip: "Don't want them? Fine—I didn't want to go anyway."
The child plucked the small fish from the dog-tail grass one by one—the largest as long as a palm, the smallest no bigger than a thumb. He rose on tiptoe to set them on the windowsill to dry. Once dried, they could be eaten without salt. No need to gut them either—not because the child was lazy, but because doing so would leave barely a few ounces of meat. They tasted crunchy and fragrant either way.
The little master on the wall, having spoken, actually felt a twinge of regret. In truth, he had always envied his neighbor. Every time the boy came home, he never returned empty-handed—wild rabbits, loaches, stream fish, wild berries. The sight made him envious. Not because he craved the food, but because he craved the freedom. Yet too proud to take back his words, and seeing the Chen boy across the wall moving with such easy, carefree motions, he grew somewhat sulky.
Look at you, Chen Ping'an—too poor to put food on the table year-round, sleeping in a drafty wreck of a house, never once affording even a stick of candied hawthorn in an entire year—and what are you so happy about?
The young master named Song Jixin, perched atop the wall, could not comprehend it in the slightest.
---
One day, a child who had never wanted for food or clothing but was doomed to live in Mud Vase Lane returned home with a bruised face and mud-caked body.
The girl who had just become his personal maid asked what happened. Song Jixin refused to say a word. He went to his room, shut the door, and lay on the bed.
He had argued with someone that day—and even come to blows. Certain vicious words still echoed in his ears, cutting this fiercely proud child to the heart. His expression shifted between sorrow and rage.
"All you've got is a bit of stinking money—what's there to be so proud of? You're not even fit to compare with Chen Ping'an! He may have lost his parents, but at least he knows who they are. Do you know who yours are?"
The child surnamed Song tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
The next day, instead of squatting on the wall to chat with his neighbor as usual, the child did the unthinkable: he went knocking on doors and walked right into Chen Ping'an's house.
He said one sentence to Chen Ping'an, and before long the boy left the town—breaking the vow he had made at his mother's deathbed, leaving at such a tender age to become an apprentice at the kiln.
---
A figure lurked furtively behind the shop's rear door. Old Man Yang caught sight of him but said nothing, simply turning away as though the sight offended his eyes.
The figure, seeing the old man's reaction, felt particularly wounded.
What wounded him more was that a woman he ought to call sister-in-law—holding an umbrella in one hand, she shoved his head aside with the other, strode toward the back courtyard, and upon seeing the old man, immediately opened her mouth to shout.
Old Man Yang sighed, rose quickly, stepped outside, and shut the door behind him. He stood on the steps, watching the woman who had struck a posture of righteous accusation. He had lost even the desire to smoke his pipe.
The woman stopped, hands on hips, and cursed: "What are you doing, treating me like a thief?! Old Man Yang, you're supposed to be my husband's master—how can you keep doing such despicable things? Li Er was doing perfectly well as a shop assistant, so why did you throw him out on his ear? Did you build this Yang family shop yourself? Huh? Did Li Er sleep with his master's wife, or seduce his master's daughter?!"
The man, chased back from the street and now cowering behind the rear door, wished he could dig a hole and bury himself. He knew his master's temperament, and he knew his wife's nature—and he knew he would be lucky to escape with his hide intact.
Old Man Yang's expression was blank. "Done talking? Then go home and call in heat— I hear the cats on the far west side of town never stop caterwauling. Day and night, year-round. Some people have even moved away to escape the noise..."
The woman seemed to hit a sore spot, her voice rising further: "You old fossil, you've got the nerve to say go home! Your apprentice lost his livelihood, spends his days loafing about. The roof caved in two days ago and we don't even have money for repairs—I had to take my children back to my parents' house with our whole fortune and suffer every indignity! If Li Er hadn't been thrown out of your shop, would our family of four be in such misery? Old Man Yang, cough up your coffin money and fix our house, or I swear I'm not leaving today!"
The old man's cold gaze drifted to the cowering figure in the back—Zheng Dafeng.
Zheng Dafeng said miserably: "Master, Li Er went to handle that matter you ordered. He can't possibly be back anytime soon."
The old man's expression darkened.
Zheng Dafeng felt as though he might drop to his knees and kowtow.
The woman hurled her umbrella aside and sat down on the wet ground, wailing: "You old fossil—you're into badgering women, and you won't even spare your own apprentice's wife!"
Old Man Yang dragged a small stool from under the eaves, sat down at a leisurely pace, pinched a wad of pipe tobacco from his waist pouch, rolled it into a ball, stuffed it into the bowl, and lit up. He gazed at the sky, paying the woman no mind whatsoever.
Zheng Dafeng watched the woman throwing a fit in the courtyard. The rain was pouring, the woman was full-bodied and generously proportioned, and her clothes were thin—several of the Yang family shop's workers had gathered to watch, snickering to themselves and enjoying the show.
The woman's screams were heart-rending—until they stopped abruptly, as though someone had seized her by the throat. She rubbed her eyes, scrambled to her feet, grabbed her umbrella, and ran.
As she fled, she screamed: "There's a ghost!"
The old man tugged at the corner of his mouth and said: "Rat droppings on the incense altar—cursed by gods and shunned by ghosts."