The Little Steward stood with hands clasped behind his back, watching the monk beneath the boat. The monk’s manner was extremely deferential — he boarded neither the tower boat nor the red boat.

Not knowing what the monk had come for, the Little Steward mused for a moment, then asked Sikou: “Xuan Shan’s whole life was as brilliant as a dazzling array of stars, and the twenty-four disciples under him were each people of extraordinary talent. For years this old man has wondered — why did you, a little monk who entered the mountain gate less than a year ago, end up becoming his successor?”

Sikou intoned a Buddhist invocation and earnestly explained to the Little Steward: “Old sir, before my late master passed into nirvana, he once wrote a letter to His Majesty. In the letter he said: ‘This humble monk has twenty-four disciples beneath him, yet there is a newly-entered little monk, poor in talent and dull in wisdom, who nonetheless has an affinity with the Buddha — thus this little monk was fortunate enough to become the twenty-fifth.'”

Great Master Xuan Shan devoted his life to developing the Northern Huguo Temple. Back then, supporting the imperial court had been the custom of the Huguo Temple across successive dynasties — you build a great temple, and gathering believers is your proper duty and nature, but serving the court was not originally meant to be the rule; it merely came to be so.

Originally, when Huguo Temple was founded, its important purpose lay in delivering all sentient beings from suffering. As it developed, it was eventually drawn into the martial world and became a great sect — this came about naturally with the flow of circumstances, yet it drifted further and further from the path on which the temple had first been founded, twisting further astray, until in the end there was no turning back.

Over several hundred years, the lay disciples of the Northern Huguo Temple, sheltered under its protection, developed splendidly, one after another establishing their own sects outside, each making a name and each achieving success. Linked together, they became a power bloc.

Their momentum and reputation were once unrivaled in their age — even in a certain previous dynasty, when an emperor was choosing his crown prince, he had to seek out the Huguo Dharma Master of that era’s Huguo Temple to examine the prince’s physiognomy and consult on his fate.

And this sort of conduct was, in itself, a violation of the Buddhist path.

Yet the monks, one and all, failed to notice it — living as if flowers bloomed upon brocade, as if fierce fire boiled oil, right up until the previous dynasty met its end and a new ruling class rose. Amid this shift from cold to heat, Great Master Xuan Shan suddenly awakened to understanding: it was wrong, all of it had been wrong…

The Great Master understood clearly, too, that as long as he lived, the forces gathered around the Northern Huguo Temple would always have a backbone to rely on — they would surely presume upon his reputation and standing, disrupting the peace of this land and disturbing the rest of the common people. A Buddhist gate that had taken the wrong path had become, of all things, an obstacle to the people’s livelihood, falling into the demonic path.

This was why Great Master Xuan Shan suddenly passed into nirvana. In truth, everyone knew that Xuan Shan had severed his own meridians to preserve the bloodline of the Northern Huguo Temple — and it was this that allowed the temple, ten years ago, in a punitive war, to find a path to survival once more.

Had Xuan Shan not died, the fate would have been that of the Nine Provinces Domain ten years ago. The Little Steward did not contend, though others did — some, relying on the power of the Nine Provinces Domain, charged directly into the Great Liang palace, and the calamity grew ever larger, losing the goodwill of righteous public sentiment, thereby giving the imperial court a righteous pretext for a punitive campaign.

Even more dire, as with the Little Steward and his people today — the only chef capable of carrying on the lineage had been imprisoned. The court’s intention was clear: to sever the bloodline of this great sect.

That person was bait. But whether you ate that bait or not —

The Nine Provinces Domain’s method of succession had always been strange: it was chef passing to chef. Without a chef to season the cauldron, there would be no Nine Provinces Domain.

The Little Steward’s heart grew desolate. He stood dazed for a long while before sighing to Sikou: “This one — I am not his equal.”

Sikou said: “Old sir, you must absolutely not belittle yourself so. My senior brother said that you, old sir, carry a body full of righteous energy, and harbor great ambitions in your heart, caring little for the troubles of the mundane world. Yet after inheriting the position of Little Steward, you suffered much entanglement because of the sect.

“For half your life you never once set foot off the mountain, pouring all your energy into passing down the martial arts of the Nine Provinces Domain, seeking to thoroughly unite the hard path of martial arts with the refined path of scholarly energy. You are persistent and upright, and you pursue great learning — you are merely one step short of being a true master of synthesis. This lowly monk admires and reveres you greatly for it.”

The Little Steward had not expected the people of Huguo Temple to judge him this way. In this life, even a sage wishes to hear others’ opinions of himself. And yet — one step short of being a master of synthesis was still one step short.

Once he had come down the mountain, there was no going back.

He had brought people to seize this young noble; the Nine Provinces Domain — from this point on, they were villains.

But what other way was there? The imperial family could not be touched, and no one else carried enough weight. After much deliberation, in all of Great Liang, only the She family had this strange child — someone who wandered freely among the common people, unrestrained. This was how the Nine Provinces Domain came to abduct him.

But calculate as they might, the Nine Provinces Domain had misjudged its position after all. Now, thinking on it, that child dared to wander about in Qingfeng City precisely because this was the foot of Mount Baiquan — the territory of Yushu Niang, who had already entered the ranks of a Half Martial Sage.

Since the founding of Great Liang, this woman either did not act, or when she did act, it was never anything less than earth-shaking. Her reputation and power had long since reached its zenith, and yet she happened also to be a clever woman — to this day, no one knew her true surname or given name, nor did she accept tribute from the martial world, so no one could presume upon her power to build something new — the very thing those in power most despised.

The Little Steward and his people had originally hoped that, however far they had fallen, out of consideration for their shared bond, Yushu Niang would simply feign deafness and blindness as she always had.

But who could have guessed — in the end, they had truly enraged her.

The Little Steward sighed long, and looking at Sikou’s expression, felt a touch of apology rise in him. Yet not wishing to soften before a junior, he said awkwardly instead: “You monk — why do you keep saying ‘my senior brother’ this and ‘my senior brother’ that?”

Sikou smiled openly: “Old sir has forgotten — my master has passed into nirvana. Besides, this lowly monk was not even all that close with my master. Amitabha~.”

Hearing this, the Little Steward looked embarrassed, his mouth twitching as he said: “So you truly are the most foolish one after all. Well then — will you spar with this old man today?”

Sikou finally lowered his clasped hands, revealing a flash of alarm, waving his hands repeatedly: “Amitabha, I would not dare, I would not dare! Old sir entered the path of a Martial Sage in seclusion decades ago — how old am I this year? I would never dare to duel you. I only wish to beg a favor — please allow this lowly monk to remain from today onward always at Benefactor She’s side. My Huguo Temple will surely remember this kindness, and will forever keep a Vajra guardian before the Buddha to add to your blessings and longevity, Amitabha.”

The Little Steward pondered, then asked Sikou seriously: “Do you know what will happen to my Nine Provinces Domain without a chef? What should be done? Things have already come to this — what use do we have for your blessings and longevity?”

A pained expression crossed Sikou’s face. He thought for a long while before saying: “Back then, the Guardian Dharma Master asked my master: ‘You entrust the mountain gate to a fool — where will you leave the mountain gate?’ My master said: ‘There is the Buddha.’ Amitabha…”

The Little Steward said nothing, then after a long while burst out laughing. When he finished laughing, he stared at Sikou and said: “You monks really are hypocritical to the death. I thought you were some brilliant, extraordinary figure, but it turns out you cultivate the path of abandoning sagehood and severing wisdom — aren’t you afraid of shaming your Buddha’s reputation!”

What was called “abandoning sagehood and severing wisdom” was considered a path of non-action.

Sikou could absolutely not admit to this, and explained to the Little Steward all the more earnestly: “Amitabha, old sir, you cling to appearances. The Buddha’s land contains three thousand great worlds — there is nothing it does not encompass, nothing it does not contain, nothing it does not possess.”

This monk sincerely believed everything belonged to the Buddha.

At these words, the Little Steward was nearly choked with frustration. He had always been clumsy of speech, and now he found himself even more at a loss for words.

Suddenly, a sneering laugh rang out, and everyone turned to look — it was the young noble, lounging lazily against the deck planks. No one could tell whether he was mocking the monk or the Little Steward.

The Little Steward would never deign to ask what he was laughing at. Naturally, his tutor scolded: “Boy, you must not be disrespectful to the Little Steward.”

She Wanlin glanced sidelong at him and, looking at the tower boat, explained good-naturedly: “You’re overthinking it. I wasn’t mocking him. I just can’t understand — how much free time do you have? Why are you arguing with a monk?”

The Little Steward was struck dumb on the spot, his mind filled only with — right, why am I arguing with this monk? What are we even fighting over?

What angered him most was that ever since this monk had come out, every single sentence of his had lacked respect, yet somehow it was all a set-up that made him, the Little Steward, come off the worse in speech. Bah! Was he being trodden upon just to spread the fame of Huguo Temple?

This was unfair to Sikou — he had never learned any such tactic.

The more he thought about it, the angrier and more stifled he felt. The Little Steward flung his sleeve at the water and snapped: “Fine — you hypocritical monk!”

In an instant, that unlucky fish was flipped up from beneath the water again, the river surface rising in layer upon layer of waves with a mounting force. Then came a thunderous boom, and the surrounding waters exploded into spray. The spray fell, battering the red boats until they rocked wildly side to side, and some of the more timid young girls had already begun wailing in fright.

This man was already quite advanced in years — how could his temper still be this violent? Truly unexpectedly simple-minded.

She Wanlin stuck out his tongue — he hadn’t meant to do it.

Seeing the old man’s fury rising, the tutor thought this was bad, fearing it would implicate the red boats. Just as he was about to show his own skill, a Buddhist invocation suddenly rang out over the water — the monk Sikou had leapt onto the lead boat, rapidly forming several hand seals with his palms, one being the mudra of “standing on the ground to become Buddha,” palms braced against each other.

With this, the more than thirty red boats on the water were shielded by an invisible current of qi. Though they should have all been flung up from the water’s surface, they were now forcibly held down upon it, though still rocking.

The tutor stood atop the lead boat. By past custom, whenever the Little Steward lost his temper, the tutor would step in at the critical moment to intervene, then plead on his behalf, and the matter would blow over — face saved on both sides.

In truth, if anyone here was simple-minded, it was the Little Steward himself.

But who could have guessed — this generation of the martial world were all fools, and this foolish monk had truly stepped in to help, meeting the Little Steward head-on in direct confrontation.

This left the Little Steward even more unable to back down. He could only give a stern snort and send another wave of invisible qi crashing toward the red boats. He was, after all, a formidable man — and now, throwing a tantrum like a stubborn old child, he was determined to capsize this boat today no matter what.

The tutor, having no choice, could only leap back to the tower boat and scramble up to the crow’s nest to keep watch. He thought to himself that if anyone on the red boats fell into the water, he would step in to save them — otherwise, word would get out, and the reputation of the Nine Provinces Domain would sink another three levels, beyond any hope of retrieval.

Across the river, the various girls’ shrieks rang out one after another as the tower boat, driven forward, pressed toward the red boats. Sikou struggled to resist, and together with the red boats behind him, quickly retreated, until they were about to be pushed right up onto the riverbank behind them.

For the boats to be forced onto the shore would violate the rules of the Crimson Sleeve Sect. The Little Steward himself did not seem to have thought this through — if this continued, would it truly mean stripping these girls of their place of shelter?

Sister Shui cried out anxiously in anger: “What a thousand-cuts-deserving Nine Provinces Domain, what a viciously scheming old wretch — bullying the weak with the strong, have you no shame at all?”

Just as Sikou grew flustered, seeing that he was about to lose, a young man’s voice suddenly rang out in mockery: “What an arrogant fellow, and yet you dare call yourself a Martial Sage? Monk, don’t panic — we’re local folk here, I’ll help you.”

As he spoke, a handsome young man wearing a half-mask had already appeared behind Sikou, palm braced against his back — and in an instant, the standoff held firm.

The red boat slowly drifted from the shore, inching forward across the water, then inching back again, back and forth. The Little Steward’s face showed open disdain, while beads of sweat the size of soybeans dripped from the two young men’s bodies — yet they still resisted stubbornly, showing not the slightest sign of weakening.

The Little Steward was, of course, holding back for their sake, but even so, this was truly impressive.

Standing in the crow’s nest, the tutor thought: truly, this is the blessed land of Yandu — one temple’s foolish monk, one greasy-mouthed, unpresentable little troupe leader, and yet they had the ability to stand against the Little Steward.

Setting ability aside, the sheer nerve and pride of it was something else entirely.

No one in the past would have dared such a thing.

Thinking further of the Nine Provinces Domain, fallen for ten years now — no more years of mountains of gold and seas of silver in tribute, that green-mountain, clear-water paradise of a sect turned to dust. Serves them right — those who caused the trouble have gotten their due.

But what of the sect’s succession? These old bones of theirs, already half in the grave, forced down from the mountain — others, fearing the ever-growing might of the court, naturally avoided them. They could no longer recruit disciples, and were reduced to selecting successors from among the descendants of exiled criminal officials to carry on the lineage.

She Qingling had not had ten years to educate the next generation. He and the Little Steward — neither of them had it either.

Feeling a pang of regret for talent wasted, the tutor tried to dissuade him: “Little Steward, you have long since retired from the world. That you two could fight him to this standstill is already enough to make your name resound through the martial world. Why not offer him an apology? Let the matter end here, and everyone go home.”

Bai Ruyi drew a breath, and as he shifted his palm to strike again, said with a cold laugh: “Apologize for what? The state has its laws, the family has its rules — you people came to the capital and abducted someone, violating the laws of Great Liang, and you still think you have grounds to stand on?”

The tutor was utterly bewildered. He was a man of the old school of the martial world — in the old days, the affairs of the martial world had always been settled within the martial world itself; the court was the court, and the two sides never interfered with each other, each pretending the other did not exist.

What was this little troupe leader even talking about? Since when did people who lived off the martial world have to abide by the laws of the state — wasn’t martial skill supposed to decide victory or defeat, and then reason follow from there?

These people simply refused to see sense. Hearing this young man’s words go so wide of the mark, the Little Steward gave an angry, cold snort, and was just about to unleash fifty percent of his power to send all these red boats up onto the shore —

Then everyone heard a crisp snapping sound, followed by the young noble’s shout: “Hey, everyone look at me!”

Everyone turned to look and saw, in a corner at the bow of the red boat, the young noble had shattered a shallow porcelain bowl and was now holding the jagged, broken edge against his own neck.

Seeing that everyone was looking at him, he put on a grave and serious expression and threatened: “Tell me — do you want me alive or dead!?”

Everyone froze at once, drawing in a sharp breath of cold air — what kind of person was this?

The Little Steward, furious, scolded: “You shameless little brat—”

She Wanlin pressed down slightly with his hand, and a drop of blood seeped out from where the broken edge had cut his skin. Everyone broke out in a cold sweat.

He threatened again: “And don’t you try to scare me either!”

The tutor was nearly frightened out of his wits. He leapt down from the crow’s nest and skimmed across the water onto the boat. He himself did not fear death, but the trouble was — if this little brat suffered any harm, the person behind him, whose name could not even be spoken freely, had a heart no bigger than the eye of a needle.

Boarding the red boat, he forced a smile and pleaded: “Young noble, what is the meaning of this? The Little Steward was merely testing the junior generation — there’s no real conflict between us.”

She Wanlin remained stubbornly resolute, still holding the jagged edge against his neck, a thin line of blood trickling down — quite the ruthless one, this.

He said: “I want my cousin brought aboard. This monk has to come too. You can’t harm this granny of the waters either. And that Ding Yumen fellow, who nags at my ear every single day before it’s even light out with some tattered old book…

“You people are truly exhausting. Isn’t this just threatening the imperial court? Then go ahead and threaten it properly! At the very least you could have found a decent way to do it — hidden yourselves and taken me somewhere no one could ever find, and then we could all have been free and easy. Now look at this — nothing but trouble, one thing after another…”

The tutor was about to lose his mind, saying “yes, yes, yes” over and over, and yet this little scoundrel kept right on threatening.

Not until the half-masked immortal-looking one over there scolded: “Do you think I won’t go tell your little aunt?”

She Wanlin tossed the broken bowl neatly into the water, clapped his hands, and looking at his palms, said: “Oh, I believe you!”

Everyone looked to the heavens helplessly, breathing long and slow — not angry, absolutely not angry… what on earth had they dragged back with them.

Bai Ruyi, furious, still had to suppress his anger and ask Sister Shui for medicine.

Before long, the two brothers sat at the bow of the boat. As Bai Ruyi applied the medicine, he scolded She Wanlin: “Your nerve just keeps growing bigger and bigger. Tell me — what exactly are you trying to do? Who did you even learn this from?”

The young noble confessed frankly: “Granny Wan from Back Street. Her trick works every single time — whoever wants something, the moment that hanging rope of hers comes out on Quanqian Back Street, no one dares refuse. I just couldn’t find a rope, that’s all.”

Bai Ruyi was so exasperated he laughed: “Fine, you win.”

The others didn’t understand what he meant by that, but they heard the young noble say: “Brother, do you know what I always loved listening to most?”

Bai Ruyi thought about it: “Wasn’t it the tall tales the traveling merchants told at the cart inns, or the nonsense the escort leaders and swordsmen used to spin?”

She Wanlin, covering his bandaged neck, said with a touch of wounded frustration: “No. It’s that His Majesty is locked in a small cage, and I’m locked in a big cage. In the past I always thought — if only I had my own freedom, I’d go wander the martial world like the stories say…”

He gazed up at the sky, sitting cross-legged, a wistful look on his face: “I ought to have a good kind of life — not too rich, not too poor, my fortunes like leaves on a branch: when it turns cold, I fall; along the warm wind, I bloom and I wither, free in my own particular way.

“The kind where I go north when I want to go north, and when I want to go south I take a boat upstream, without needing to say goodbye to anyone — just stand up and walk, and when I’m weary, lie down and rest, with no one able to stop my freedom. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Bai Ruyi said mockingly: “You think too highly of it.”

She Wanlin sighed: “Wonderful!”

Bai Ruyi smacked the back of his head: “But along that road, staying at inns costs money, eating costs money, clothes cost money, taking a boat costs money. At first, you could get by on youth and vigor, but the day comes when you can’t keep tossing yourself about anymore — would you join the Beggars’ Sect then?

“Ha, sure, the Beggars’ Sect would do — leaning against the city gate, eating half a melon rind, a stale flatbread from the day before, sour and rank soup water, miserable and lice-ridden all over, shoes so worn your heels stick out the back, just like Old Stinky here — is that your idea of freedom?

“Ha! One uncomfortable undershirt and you’d already be complaining nonstop — and then one day you’d have to wear a single garment till you died, rolled up in a torn straw mat and thrown out, with no one even to dig you a grave… is that your idea of freedom?”

These words were truly vicious, and everyone around them shivered all at once.

Old Stinky, hiding in the corner of the deck, sniffed, glanced left and right, and closed his eyes again.

But She Wanlin was not the least bit afraid. He remained wistfully gazing at the heavens, as if carrying the weariness of an entire lifetime, and said: “How could it come to that? It won’t!”

He patted his own face and, brimming with confidence, leaned toward Bai Ruyi: “The old folks always said I was sweet, and that people take a liking to me. There’s no way in this world anyone could dislike me. Once I’ve had my fill of freedom, and the day comes I can’t keep going anymore, I’ll just squat by the city gate — though I won’t be squatting there long, because surely some wealthy young lady of good family will come and drag me back by force to be her son-in-law. Though I’d resist to the death, that rich young miss will surely be fond of someone sweet, old, and gentle, and I’ll have no choice but to give in to her…”

Just then, a gust of river wind blew past, and from the trees on the riverbank a tender young girl’s voice suddenly cut in: “Ha! I had no idea you were this sweet!”

At these words, everyone else was left speechless, while Bai Ruyi looked on with open amusement at the show. The young noble sprang up at once, glancing left and right urgently, hastily found another black porcelain bowl and cracked it, holding it against his own neck again, and shouted toward the riverbank in threat: “You can’t hit me! I — I’m not bluffing either. If my hand slips and I cut the wrong spot, well, that’ll make you regret it for the rest of your life. Never mind anything else — every morning when you wake up and see my face, you’ll ache with envy over how good-looking I am!”

“Ha ha ha~!”