“Why the rush to return to Zhongnan Mountain?”

Li Chi looked at Peng Shíqī, the reluctance in his words plain to see.

But Peng Shíqī seemed to have made up his mind.

He smiled and said, “Your Majesty, I made a promise to my master — I would go back and build him a new house. A big one.”

Li Chi nodded. “Then go. Once the house is built, come back and bring your master and the others with you.”

Peng Shíqī laughed. “My master, with a new house waiting for him at home — he probably won’t be willing to leave.”

“That’s easy enough,” Li Chi said. “I’ll build you all new houses here in Chang’an as well. That way he’ll be moving between two new homes, and he’ll be more than happy to come.”

Peng Shíqī bowed. “Many thanks, Your Majesty.”

Li Chi asked, “Besides the silver needed for expenses, is there anything else you require?”

Peng Shíqī shook his head. “Being able to restore the Daoist temple is already my greatest wish. Now that it has come true, what more could I possibly want?”

He looked at Li Chi and said, “Your Majesty, I only… I have one more request…”

“Whatever it is, speak freely,” Li Chi said.

Peng Shíqī said solemnly, “During the Chu era, heretical cults ran rampant and the common people suffered greatly. I ask Your Majesty to establish a state religion without delay — let the Daoist Sect, as the orthodox tradition, spread the teachings of goodness, and let it complement the court’s policies for the people’s welfare.”

Li Chi nodded. “I have been thinking the same.”

Peng Shíqī smiled. “Then I have no more wishes.”

He bowed to Li Chi and took his leave.

This young man might appear wild and unrestrained, yet his heart was full of righteousness. Whether it was asking Li Chi to make the Daoist Sect the state religion, or returning to Zhongnan Mountain to renovate the temple — one might seem weightier than the other, yet both sprang from the same great purpose.

Not long after Peng Shíqī’s departure, Tang Pǐdí came to request an audience.

In the imperial study, Li Chi brewed tea for Tang Pǐdí and handed him a cup. “What is it? Come to stir up trouble again?”

Tang Pǐdí said earnestly, “After the Grand Ceremony, I’d like to take Shānhú north to the frontier — to pay respects at my father’s grave.”

Li Chi nodded. “That is the right thing to do.”

As it happened, Li Chi had a matter that needed attending to in the north, so he handed it directly to Tang Pǐdí.

“Do you remember, on the road to Yúnyǐn Mountain, when we came across the Carefree Kingdom in that valley?”

Li Chi asked.

“Of course,” Tang Pǐdí replied.

Li Chi lifted his teacup, breathed in the aroma, and said, “The Carefree King helped us a great deal back then. When you go north this time, pay them a visit as well. If they’re willing, invite them all to come live in Chang’an. We owe them a great debt, and it cannot go unrepaid.”

“Understood,” Tang Pǐdí said. “Leave it to me.”

Li Chi looked at him and after a moment’s silence, said, “I know what’s on your mind… You worry people will say you’re monopolizing military power, so you don’t want Shěn Shānhú appointed as Great General of the Eastern Frontier, and you don’t want Tang Ānchén appointed either. But don’t forget — when have I ever done things based on what others think?”

“Your Majesty…” Tang Pǐdí began.

“There are no outsiders here,” Li Chi said. “Why the ‘Your Majesty’?”

“Your Majesty is Your Majesty,” Tang Pǐdí replied. “In the past, we could be casual — in the future, we cannot afford the slightest impropriety. Your Majesty may be lenient with us, but that is Your Majesty’s generosity. We cannot afford to be thoughtless.”

He looked at Li Chi and said, “The eyes of the world are upon us. We must set the example.”

“Set whatever example you wish,” Li Chi said, “but there is one thing I will not allow — don’t you think about shrugging off your responsibilities. Don’t think you can run off somewhere and live a life of ease. There are many great affairs of state and of the military that still depend on you…”

Before Li Chi could finish, Tang Pǐdí was already nodding. “I hear and obey, Your Majesty.”

“Old Tang…”

Li Chi stared into the steaming tea in his cup and spoke with quiet gravity. “I have always felt that there shouldn’t be such a great divide between us…”

Tang Pǐdí shook his head. “That is where Your Majesty is mistaken. Before, there could be none. Now, there must be.”

Li Chi opened his mouth. Tang Pǐdí shook his head again.

“Your Majesty…”

Tang Pǐdí held Li Chi’s gaze and said, “Your Majesty wishes to establish new rules for the realm. Then we, of all people, must be the first to live by those rules. If Your Majesty still acts as he did before, will these rules not seem unfair to others?”

“Your Majesty has broken the old order and wishes to build a new one — yet if the common people see that those closest to the throne still do as they please without restraint, how will they ever be convinced?”

Tang Pǐdí paused briefly, then continued: “Especially me. Others may be excused from setting the example. I cannot be.”

He looked at Li Chi and said, “Because Your Majesty calls me brother.”

Li Chi stared at Tang Pǐdí, at a loss for words.

“Your Majesty still remembers, I’m sure.”

Tang Pǐdí said, “Back then, Your Majesty said… you would teach the world to wear a new face. That new face must begin with us.”

Li Chi fell silent — and remained so.

Tang Pǐdí smiled and said, “Your Majesty’s heart, I understand. Your Majesty thinks — these old brothers risked their lives together, so they ought to be treated differently from the rest. But does Your Majesty not know what those old brothers are thinking?”

“What the old brothers are all thinking is this: the whole world may fail to understand Your Majesty, but we cannot afford not to understand him…”

He paused for a moment and said, with a trace of pride: “Your Majesty has enfeoffed me as a Prince. Measured across a thousand years of history, among all founding ministers so honored — I am the only one.”

He laughed. “I think… that’s pretty damn impressive.”

Li Chi was drawn into a smile despite himself, though his heart still ached a little.

—

Meanwhile, in the rear garden of Wèiyāng Palace.

Young Zhāng Zhenren sat across from his master, his expression troubled — because his master had just said he was leaving the Dragon Tiger Mountain in his hands.

Others had always called him “Young Zhāng Zhenren,” but he had never seen himself that way.

In his heart, the master of Dragon Tiger Mountain had always been his shifu — not anyone else, and certainly not himself.

Yet his master had just said that the affairs of the Daoist order were now his to shoulder — its rise and fall, its honor and shame, all resting on him.

Old Zhāng Zhenren looked at the expression on his disciple’s face and couldn’t help laughing as he cursed: “What the hell kind of face is that?”

He raised his hand and knocked his knuckles on Young Zhāng Zhenren’s head. “How old do you think I am — don’t you already know? Back in the day, your martial granduncle handed Dragon Tiger Mountain to me when he was only in his forties, then went off to live a life of leisure. Compared to him, your master here has been nothing short of diligent and conscientious…”

Young Zhāng Zhenren said, “Master… your disciple… cannot bear this burden.”

Old Zhāng Zhenren said, “Can’t bear it? Should I strike your name from Dragon Tiger Mountain’s register?”

Young Zhāng Zhenren quickly shook his head. “No, no, no…”

Old Zhāng Zhenren laughed. “I’m at my age — and you have the heart to watch me keep on toiling? I should be out enjoying life already…”

Young Zhāng Zhenren said, “Master, the way you say that makes it sound as if you haven’t been enjoying life all these past years…”

Old Zhāng Zhenren glared at him. “Will you take it or not? If not, get lost — I’ll go discuss it with your martial brothers.”

Young Zhāng Zhenren said, “The martial brothers would probably run faster than me.”

Old Zhāng Zhenren said, “On serious matters — your master is not your equal. Where the Daoist order should stand in this world, you see it more clearly than I do.”

He paused, then continued: “Whenever you’re unsure, just remember one thing — His Majesty is always right.”

Young Zhāng Zhenren bowed deeply. “Your disciple will remember.”

He hesitated for a moment before asking, “Master, are you leaving Chang’an?”

“Leaving?”

Old Zhāng Zhenren’s eyes went wide. “I worked so hard to finally be free, and I’ve landed in such a bright and lively place — you want me to leave? I won’t go until I’ve had my fill of everything Chang’an has to offer…”

He looked at Young Zhāng Zhenren with great seriousness. “If being a Zhenren didn’t get in the way of having fun, I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to hand it off to you.”

Young Zhāng Zhenren: “…”

“Oh, one more thing.”

Old Zhāng Zhenren said, “If you want to take a wife, take one — there’s nothing shameful about it. Don’t follow your master’s example…”

He trailed off, his gaze drifting.

“Some things… the moment you remember them, it hurts.”

In that instant, Young Zhāng Zhenren suddenly felt it — his master had laughed and wandered through half a lifetime of wind and dust simply because of… heartbreak.

Just then, the Zhāng with the Long Brows and the old Dean came in from outside. Seeing the master and disciple in conversation, the two exchanged a glance and were about to quietly withdraw when Old Zhāng Zhenren waved them over. “Don’t go — we’ve finished our talk. Let’s get on with what we came to do.”

Young Zhāng Zhenren asked curiously, “Master, what are you all going to do?”

The Zhāng with the Long Brows smiled. “Children shouldn’t be so nosy. Ask no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies — it’s important business.”

Young Zhāng Zhenren looked the three elders up and down — and the more he looked, the more something felt off.

The three of them were dressed not quite in full bloom, but one could fairly say… rather flirtatiously.

“You’re all…”

Young Zhāng Zhenren leapt to his feet and declared loudly, “You’re definitely up to no good!”

Half an hour later.

At a public academy in the city, the three elders stood by the doorway of a classroom, looking every inch the part of dignified scholars.

Yet Young Zhāng Zhenren could clearly see that the eyes of all three kept drifting — sneaking glances inside.

He tried to go and look, but Old Zhāng Zhenren blocked his way and kept trying to shoo him off.

The more they acted like that, the more suspicious Young Zhāng Zhenren became. With a quick sidestep, he slipped past the three elders and peered in through the doorway — then froze.

Inside the room, a teacher of incomparable bearing was lecturing to a group of students.

Every word, every gesture, every small movement radiated an elegance that was a joy to behold.

Young Zhāng Zhenren could not help but sigh then and there — nowhere under the heavens could there be a second old woman with such extraordinary grace.

—

Outside this public academy, Gāo Xīníng snuck a peek inside, then gave a smug little hum.

“Let you three make things difficult for people — now let’s see how uncomfortable *you* feel.”

She was finally going to do something great — something she had sworn to do well from the very first day she became Li Chi.

Gāo Xīníng, who never forgot, not for a single moment, what her true purpose was.

Just then, two more ladies of exceptional bearing came walking side by side. Gāo Xīníng hurried over to meet them, talking as she walked: “Right here, right here — today I went to great lengths to invite the former Dean of Jìzhōu’s Four-Leaf Academy to give a lecture…”

She walked and held out her hand. “A red envelope is a must — give what you feel is right.”

—