The great immortal left in good spirits, leaving behind a small wooden box as a parting gift — something he said he’d grabbed on a whim as thanks.

Chen Baoxiang rested her chin in her hand and stared at it, fingertips tapping rhythmically against the table, but she didn’t open it.

“My Lady.” Zhao Huaizhu climbed back in through the window. “Word just came back from Wang Wu’s side — Cheng Huaili will be traveling by carriage from the Cheng estate the day after tomorrow, heading to the Temple of the Four Deities via North River Road by way of Xiliang Street.”

“Though his escort numbers over two hundred, there aren’t many official constables among them. I’ve already scouted the route — there’s an abandoned temple along North River Road that would make the ideal ambush site.”

Chen Baoxiang shook her head. “That won’t do. Killing someone on a public street in broad daylight would cost us dearly.”

“But if we let him pass, he’ll enter the patrol garrison’s guarded zone.” Zhao Huaizhu grew anxious. “That old scoundrel has been holed up in his estate this whole time. It’s rare to have such a good opportunity…”

“I have a better plan.” Chen Baoxiang said. “One that won’t expose any of you, and won’t cause too much of a commotion.”

Zhao Huaizhu leaned in close to listen, nodding as she went.

But once she’d heard it all, unease crept across her face. “Every step depends on the one before it. If even a single link in the chain breaks, My Lady will be in grave danger.”

“That’s why I need you to watch over me.” Chen Baoxiang said. “If things can’t proceed at any point, give me the signal and I can retreat immediately.”

Still uneasy, Zhao Huaizhu went over the plan with her again and again. In the end, she sighed helplessly. “If our master knew we were this useless — that you still have to risk yourself — she would certainly blame us.”

“She wouldn’t.” Chen Baoxiang gazed at the embroidered willow leaves on the decorative screen, a faint smile touching her lips. “Even if Grandmother Ye were to know from beyond the grave, she’d think my decision was the wiser one.”

A spring breeze drifted through, and the thread-embroidered willow leaves seemed to sway with it, fluttering as if carried back to the riverside of Guixiang Village.

There had been no writing desks or low stools back then. A group of children — some older, some younger — had leaned against the riverside rocks, reciting alongside a kind old woman: “Warfare is the art of deception~”

“Master, we’ve already memorized it — surely it’s time for sword forms now?”

In the golden haze of memory, the old woman sighed softly. “Literary learning is far more useful than martial training.”

“Sword forms are more interesting than these characters that just repeat themselves over and over. And once we’ve learned them, won’t we be able to protect our little martial sister?”

“Very well. When this old woman can no longer walk, Baoxiang will be in your hands.”

“Alright~! Off to learn swordplay~!”

The jumping, bounding figures — large and small alike — faded together with the old woman into the dazzling light.

Zhao Huaizhu came back to herself, her eyes reddening at the rims.

She clasped her hands toward Chen Baoxiang in a bow. “I’ll go make preparations now.”

“I’m grateful.” Chen Baoxiang tilted her head to look at her, and called softly, “Elder Martial Sister.”

Zhao Huaizhu barely held back her tears. She kept her back rigid and didn’t dare turn around, only hurried out the door.

What kind of elder martial sister was she? She hadn’t been there when the flood struck their hometown. She hadn’t been there when the villagers were uprooted and forced to move to the frontier. And even their reunion had relied entirely on her little martial sister’s meat-bun giveaway obstacle course.

But at least, she thought, they were together now. At least there was still that.

Wiping her nose, Zhao Huaizhu quickened her pace and vaulted over the courtyard wall.

Chen Baoxiang was still staring at the wooden box on the table.

The box was heavy. When opened, it would surely be something she liked.

But she was a little afraid to touch it.

The great immortal truly was so good to her — silver notes, a shop, gold. Things he surely found vulgar and beneath him, yet the moment she said she liked them, he’d send one or another every few days.

He would say offhand that they were of no consequence, worth nothing, chosen at random — but whenever she opened them, she’d find something that never failed to stir her heart.

Silver was, after all, the one thing in this world most capable of moving Chen Baoxiang.

Her fingertip reached out and grazed the edge of the wooden box — then snapped back as though burned. Chen Baoxiang stared at the box with a troubled expression and let out a long, long sigh.

·

The realm of Dasheng had four figures who had ascended to divine standing while still in mortal flesh: one who had saved hundreds of thousands of citizens from a devastating plague; one who had held the line against eighty thousand enemy troops with sword drawn and horse steadied; one whose eloquence in debate among rival kingdoms had kept Dasheng’s crumbling dynasty from collapse; and one who had abolished the old order of the previous dynasty that had placed men above women.

During their lifetimes, these four had been honored with statues and revered by the people. After death, they received offerings from the multitudes. Their divine likenesses were enshrined together in a single place — and so the Temple of the Four Deities came to be.

In Dasheng, only those whom the common people held in the deepest reverence were deemed worthy of enshrinement in this temple, to share in the offerings alongside the Four Deities.

Yet now, Cheng Huaili — through sheer force of his personal authority, deaf to the counsel of the censors and the temple’s abbot — was insisting on placing Lu Shouhuai’s memorial tablet in the main hall.

“He deserves it.” Cheng Huaili sat in his wheelchair, cradling the tablet in his arms, stubbornly repeating the words. “He deserves it.”

Pei Ruheng, frowning, followed at his side. He opened his mouth to remonstrate again — only to have his sleeve tugged by his own mother.

“Let him be.” Pei Ruheng’s mother said with a helpless sigh. “Lu Shouhuai grew up alongside your uncle from the time they were small. When they later joined the military, Lu Shouhuai looked after your uncle greatly — so many things were handled by Lu Shouhuai on your uncle’s behalf. If he doesn’t fight for this, your uncle won’t be able to live with himself.”

“But he was a convicted official.” Pei Ruheng furrowed his brow. “Men who served thirty years with an unblemished record still cannot be enshrined here. Placing him among the Four Deities — won’t that spark public outrage?”

“Public outrage, public outrage — ordinary people can barely even get inside this place to begin with.” His mother clicked her tongue in mild reproach. “You’ve had your head buried in books too long. How can you say such a thing? If it weren’t for your uncle’s protection, your father might well have been dragged down too.”

Pei Ruheng fell silent.

It was true — his family had been entangled in the Xiaohui Moneylender affair. One could say that Lu Shouhuai had shielded them from disaster.

He couldn’t help but lift his gaze toward the outer courtyard.

In the distance, worshippers flowed in like a stream to offer incense. Among them, a white-haired elder prostrated himself with every step, devoted and unhurried. The smoke of incense rose in thick coils; the crowd surged and jostled.

Today’s enshrinement ceremony was a grand affair. The main hall and four side halls had been laid with over a thousand kneeling cushions. All the surrounding meditation quarters had been reserved exclusively for guests of the Cheng and Lu families.

Most of the court’s senior officials had received invitations — even the Zhang Family, with whom Cheng Huaili was at odds, had been sent one.

Everyone assumed Zhang Zhixu would not attend. He disliked crowds, and he and Cheng Huaili were hardly on good terms.

Yet the moment the appointed hour arrived, Zhang Zhixu stepped onto the stone steps of the Temple of the Four Deities.

He was dressed in dark gold and white robes, sleeves wide and flowing, bearing composed and elegant. He lifted the front hem of his robe as he climbed the steps, each footfall unhurried and graceful.

Behind him surged a crowd — some fawning, some respectful, some shyly attempting conversation. Conspicuously absent was the one person who was usually closest to him.

Pei Ruheng raised an eyebrow and asked Shoumo, “Where is Chen Baoxiang?”

Shoumo replied, “She says she caught a chill after falling into the water rescuing someone the other day. She’s been resting at home these past few days.”

The one who’d fallen into the water had no chill — but the one who’d done the rescuing had come down with one?

Pei Ruheng shook his head, withdrew his gaze in mild annoyance, and drifted far away from Zhang Zhixu.

The surrounding din was ceaseless — even in a Buddhist sanctuary, there was no escaping the noise.

Zhang Zhixu kept a civil expression on his face, though inwardly he was growing increasingly irritated.

He asked Xie Lanting, “Is your information reliable?”

“Couldn’t be more reliable.” Xie Lanting glanced back at the miscellaneous hangers-on being held off by the attendants, then raised his sleeve to muffle his voice. “If there’s no grand spectacle today, you can lop off my head and use it as a footstool.”