The bells of Huguo Temple stirred the soul; along the sandalwood-scented ancient path, two young eunuchs ran at full speed.
Beneath the plaque bearing the abbot’s meditation-chamber precepts, a young and handsome monk sat with brows relaxed, holding a white stone.
The young man across from him, wearing monk’s robes with a cloth wrap on his head, smiled with a wicked edge. He glanced up at the monk, set down a black stone, plucked out the monk’s carefully placed piece, tossed it aside, and laughed: “The little monk never likes it when I play aggressively, yet somehow I still win more often than not.”
The young monk had a good temper; looking over the board, it wasn’t as though there was no chance left, but he had no wish to contend further, so he set down his stones and said with a smile: “It seems someone has come looking for Your Highness — this round, this humble monk concedes.”
The prince had been friends with this monk for ten years and naturally knew his temperament; finding the game dull now, he tossed the pieces aside indifferently: “Tsk — hypocrite monk.”
Having said his piece, he rose from the low couch, slipped on his shoes, and shuffled out the door.
Outside, two eunuchs dropped to their knees in greeting, seeming utterly terrified of this particular prince, stammering: “Your Highness — His Majesty, His Majesty summons you to the palace at once…”
How could they not be afraid? Ten years ago, a great fire had claimed Noble Consort Xiao’s life, and this Sixth Prince had thrown caution to the wind ever since — transforming from the most even-tempered of the princes into a sharp-tongued, merciless man.
That was simply how he conducted himself now — unbending in temperament, a sheer cliff face that would tolerate not a speck of sand in his eye. Never mind standing up to scold his fellow princes; even senior ministers, however advanced in years, he’d take to task all the same if they erred.
If the Emperor himself acted rashly, this prince would confront him directly, right there in the throne hall.
He himself was remarkably unguarded about it all — ever since Consort Xiao had died, he’d wanted for nothing and desired nothing. Aside from attending court, he wore monk’s robes year-round and ate only vegetarian food; his conduct never strayed from his faith, yet he remained a wrathful guardian deity all the same.
In the second year of Changshun, when the Emperor had planned to grant his sons princely fiefs, he’d refused, choosing instead to plant himself in the Ministry of Justice, becoming its resident mountain-guarding beast.
He held no formal post there, yet he oversaw everything regardless.
He’d made his position clear long ago — he had no wish for a fiefdom, only to keep himself clean; when he died, wrap him in a mat and bury him anywhere. Wanting nothing for himself, he feared nothing either, and in matters of right and wrong he’d never compromise so much as half an inch. Over ten years he’d elevated no small number of scholars from humble backgrounds, and by now countless young officials at court had gathered around him.
Every one of them had picked up his foul temper too, until Emperor Wu got a headache just looking at him — yet could do nothing about it.
The man simply insisted on being right.
Yang Qian had no wish to move, nor any wish to leave the temple, so he simply brushed off the two eunuchs and asked: “What is it?”
The eunuch replied: “Reporting to Your Highness — the young Prince of the Furui Prince’s Mansion has been abducted…”
At this, Yang Qian’s brow instantly knit, and the air around him turned cold at once. “When did this happen?”
The eunuch said: “Yesterday.”
Something that happened yesterday, and he was only hearing of it today — what did that mean? He sneered inwardly. Was his royal father hoping to make things difficult for him again?
Anyone else, he might have let it go — but in this world, Yang Qian had only one soft spot left, and that was Guan Si’er. That young Prince was a nephew Guan Si’er cared for deeply. He had no choice but to return.
His mind made up, there was nothing left to prepare. He turned and called a farewell into the room; Master Siku came out to see him off. After only a few steps, Yang Qian stopped and shot the two eunuchs a glance — the pair, sharp enough to take the hint, immediately bolted and ran.
Once they’d run off some distance, Yang Qian turned to Master Siku behind him: “I’ve just realized — the south has grown more useless by the year. That Meng Dingchen couldn’t manage Jiu Si Tang properly, and now he can’t even manage being a warden. This whole affair likely traces back to that. I’d wager it’s tied to those people down in the Eastern Prison.”
Siku lowered his head in thought, and once it clicked, nodded earnestly in praise: “Just as you say. Your Highness has always had exceptional insight. Those people have lain hidden in Yandu for ten years — and at last, it seems, they’ve gotten their wish.”
Yang Qian sneered and flicked his sleeve: “Hmph. Fine, then — we’ll play along. The temple can go ahead and arrange some kindly-faced warden. Tsk — my uncle must be worried sick by now. What a pack of bastards, the lot of them!”
Siku, long since accustomed to this, could only press his palms together helplessly: “Amitabha. Please save the cursing for once you’re past the temple gates.”
Yang Qian laughed lightly, pointed teasingly at the pot-bellied Maitreya statue by the temple gate, flicked his sleeve again, and said: “Hypocrite monk, your cultivation still needs work. I’m off.”
Siku stood rooted, palms pressed together, watching him go.
Outside Bei Huguo Temple, the prince’s honor guard was already assembled — even though the Sixth Prince rejected every other trapping of rank, who would dare neglect his ceremonial escort? Catch the smallest slip and he’d grind you into the dirt; no one would dare plead on your behalf either.
This was a man so exacting that if you so much as knelt on a dirty spot in the throne hall, he’d go make trouble for the duty seal-keeper over it.
Truly, a man loathed by all he met, dreaded even by ghosts.
Still in his monk’s robes, he climbed into his carriage. Lifting the curtain, Yang Qian gazed out at the gusts of clean wind, eyes full of lush greenery. Chaos, was it?
Good. Excellent, even.
Ten years ago, when his mother had died, he’d lost all trust in the world entirely. He didn’t trust his royal father — even though his father had sat down with him for long talks more than once, explaining that the failure to properly close the trap that night was what had led to his mother’s death, that it was his own fault, his lifelong regret.
And then? There was no “and then.” Dead was dead — the most helpless truth of all.
In the ten years since, the harem had brought in new women three times over; countless consorts had risen, and even a new Empress now held the primary seat — but there would never again be an Imperial Noble Consort.
Others always said Emperor Wu was a man of deep, lasting affection, but every time Yang Qian thought of this, he felt nothing but inward contempt. That man had long since severed all feeling — especially where consorts and concubines were concerned.
Ten years ago, he hadn’t exposed Yang Zhen either. That damnable, contemptible wretch had the backing of the entire Southern Huguo Temple to “prove” he was of true imperial blood, the Emperor’s own son.
While he himself was nothing but a solitary child who’d lost even his mother.
What a ridiculous farce, when you thought about it — who could ever prove Yang Zhen wasn’t Yang Zhen? Centuries ago there’d been that nonsense about blood-recognition tests, but it had since been proven unreliable by many.
So what was to be done?
The newly-risen Southern Huguo Temple held the extraordinary merit of having safeguarded the dragon’s ascension to the throne. Throughout history there had been plenty of border governors who’d fallen from grace, but a temple of monks never truly falls — and that man was, besides, the eldest of all the princes, drawing endless opportunists eager to buy themselves two generations of prosperity by attaching themselves to him.
Yang Qian knew the road to revenge was a rough one, yet he had no regrets.
His life had been bought with his mother’s own — he treasured it too much to risk carelessly. One only had to look at that night of national catastrophe to see how little he truly counted for. Yang Zhen’s faction could kill on his behalf, yet after that night, only two people in this world had ever given him a thought — Xiaoqi, and his grandmother.
But that night, even his grandmother could barely protect herself.
After that night of fire, the once-kind “Sixth Immortal” had learned that even an immortal couldn’t remain one — nor, for that matter, could he remain merely human.
Yet over these ten years, he’d braced his own thin shoulders against it, pushed, held firm, driven forward. By the time everyone else finally came to their senses, he already held real power, had built a following of his own.
Only then did people realize — the Sixth Prince, Yang Qian, was steadily eating away at Yang Zhen’s foundations. He’d staked everything on it, and now, ironically, it was Yang Zhen who feared him.
How fascinating — that was simply human nature.
As princes grow, do they not become a threat to the Emperor himself? Watching his sons turn against one another, Yang Zao had never once tried to mediate between them — and so Yang Qian had finally come to believe that old saying: better a beggar mother than an official father.
In truth, things suited him well enough as they were. He counted himself half a cultivator now, with no intention of leaving descendants behind. Having become this kind of man, the world, ironically, had learned to fear him instead.
Now that others wished to play the role of the tolerant, benevolent gentleman, he’d simply keep playing the role of the incorruptible, unyielding official. He had no wish to be Emperor anyway — and that other man could forget about it entirely.
After years of private clashes, the resentful, unyielding heart Yang Qian once carried had finally settled into something calmer. He’d found a better way to conduct himself in this world: whatever you favor, I oppose; whoever you recommend, I’ll dig out their entire nest. Just don’t let me catch you.
As for danger — heh, he’d long since grown used to that too.
Yang Zhen had once dared to bring men into the palace to kill; how could he ever let that go unanswered? Since he couldn’t trust his royal father, he’d turned instead and allied himself with Bei Huguo Temple — each side getting what it needed, why not? Bei Huguo Temple guaranteed his safety, and he would spend the rest of his life cutting away, root by root, every last tendril the Southern Huguo Temple had sunk into this world.
Even if that faction backed his father’s rebellion outright — if this generation couldn’t expose it — then it would simply fall to the next generation’s Emperor of Daliang to finish the job.
Revenge was never a matter of a single day, after all.
As the prince entered the palace, the main avenue was cleared of traffic. Yang Qian’s carriage made swift progress into the city, and as fate would have it, he happened to catch sight of Xiaoqi entering the palace as well.
Guan Si’er now held the rank of Dragon-Martial General, fourth grade upper class, and had already taken up the post of Vice Commander in the Five Wards Cavalry Command.
Yet these two, once as close as brothers, now greeted each other with nothing but formal courtesy — Guan Si’er bowing in the manner due a subject: “Greetings, Sixth Prince.”
Yang Qian glanced at him and said flatly: “Commander Gong, no need for ceremony.”
The two then entered the palace, one before the other, exchanging not a single further word the whole way.
Ever since the calamity ten years ago, Yang Qian had grown steadily more isolated — even outwardly, he kept his distance from Guan Si’er now.
These days, he associated with no one but monks.
The two of them arrived at Dongming Hall; upon entering, they found Emperor Wu seated in solemn silence, with the Second Prince Yang Zhen, the Prince of Furui, the Prince’s heir, and various high officials from the Ministry of Justice, Ministry of War, and elsewhere standing silently in two rows.
Yang Zhen looked up and spotted his sixth brother; since the rift between them was long past mending anyway, he sneered: “Sixth Brother — our own family’s child runs into trouble, and you arrive so late.”
Yang Qian glanced at him: “Early or late, either way I’d be blamed for it. Second Brother speaks so loudly — don’t tell me you’ve got some brilliant scheme to find An’er?”
Yang Zhen flicked his sleeve in fury: “You… you’re impossible, talking utter nonsense!”
Yang Qian sneered: “Go on then, let’s hear this ‘something’ of yours.”
Yang Zhen refused to take the bait, instead turning a cold snort on Guan Si’er: “What fine brothers you two are — sharing private words, arriving one right after the other?”
Yang Qian paid his respects to the Emperor first, and only after finishing turned to Yang Zhen with a sigh: “Second Brother is well past his prime himself, already father to four or five daughters — how is it your words and conduct still make no sense, growing more erratic by the year? As if we’d ever tell you our private conversations.”
Yang Zhen had married a woman of the He clan, and had since followed the same path as the deposed Empress Cao before her — nine years married, still without a legitimate son.
Back and forth the two of them went, neither giving the other an inch. Over the years, Yang Zhen had learned to tolerate nearly everyone — except this sixth brother.
Ministers even said privately that whichever of the two ascended the throne, his very first act would surely be to have the other torn to pieces.
Fortunately, Empress Pei had already given birth to Daliang’s legitimate heir; the once-formidable Second Prince Yang Zhen had, these past two years, grown somewhat more restrained and courteous — only Yang Qian still couldn’t bring himself to let it go.
Watching the two of them start bickering again, Emperor Wu finally said flatly: “Enough. Grown men, the both of you, and still no shame, like squabbling children.”
Having said that, he turned to his sixth son with concern: “Why did you run off to the temple again? Why didn’t you come back for the spring planting rites?”
In his heart, the Emperor felt guilty — with this son, he could neither push nor pull; even wanting to show him tenderness, there was nowhere to direct it. The man ate only vegetarian meals and chanted sutras — was he supposed to grant him an alms bowl and send him off begging?
All he could do was coax him along.
The Emperor’s fate was a hard one indeed — first he’d had to coax She Qingling through the founding years of Daliang, and ten years later, along came Yang Qian to coax as well.
As for the Emperor’s favoritism, the court had nothing to say about it — the man was his own brother, his own son, and besides, both of them shared the same unbending integrity; you couldn’t find fault with either. Best just to keep yourself clean and give neither of them anything to seize on.
She Qingling sat beneath the throne dais, turning over in his hands the small peach-wood carving his beloved grandson always wore. Qiqian’er had, after all, reassured him that with An’er’s skill, he’d surely come to no harm, and that had eased his mind somewhat.
But it’s simply the nature of the old — where their children and grandchildren are concerned, the mind always runs dark, spiraling toward the worst.
Unable to sit still at home, unwilling to simply wait, he’d made the rare trip into the palace, hoping to sit in and hear how the court planned to arrange the rescue of An’er.
Who could have guessed that the moment he arrived, he’d find an urgent dispatch on the imperial desk — the kidnappers had finally named their terms.
Once Emperor Wu had finished reprimanding his sons, he picked up the dispatch from the desk: “This letter here, I imagine you’ve all already heard of. They want to trade Wanlin for the Chef. I’ve called you all here because I want to ask — does anyone have a sound strategy?”
The ministers exchanged glances, none daring to speak first.
Who was imprisoned down in the Eastern Prison? The old Domain Master of the Nine Provinces Domain, the Chef — yes, that was indeed the title; generation after generation, the master of the Nine Provinces Domain had always borne that name. The original meaning, it seemed, was to treat the realm itself as a dish to be prepared — the Domain apparently fancied itself the seasoning-hand of the world.
The name alone was treasonous enough.
And yet this place had stood for who knew how many generations; emperor after emperor of past dynasties had been powerless against it. Time and again, great armies had marched to its gates only to retreat in defeat — a growth as stubborn and venomous as any tumor.
Every manner of reclusive old master secretly courted its favor, treating the Nine Provinces Domain as a sacred ground of the heart, a place to retire to, to cultivate the self, and pursue the deeper mysteries of martial arts.
Whenever the court so much as hinted at wiping it out, it would retaliate without end. As with what happened ten years ago — how could a mere handful of jianghu figures have possibly conspired with treasonous officials to carry out something so monstrous?
Call it karma coming full circle — this generation’s Nine Provinces Domain had run afoul of Qiqian’er, who had strayed from the righteous path, and Qiqian’er in turn had raised Chen Dasheng.
Now these very people found themselves cursed with bad luck again — in exchange for the Chef, they’d seized this very same She Wanlin. Whether inviting this calamity through the door would prove fortune or misfortune, no one could yet say.
Whatever their factional divide, north or south, Huguo Temple always held to a certain baseline in whatever chaos it stirred — preserving the world’s grain seed stock, safeguarding the craft traditions of all trades. At its root, it existed to sustain the common people.
So the court had no choice but to deal with it slowly, patiently, each side checking the other.
Ten years ago, Jiu Si Tang had pressed too hard against the Nine Provinces Domain, provoking the disaster that followed — Lao Dao and the others had marched out under imperial order and fought the Domain for over a year before finally bringing it down. Chen Dasheng himself, in single combat with the Chef, had taken a sword straight through the chest, losing half his martial ability and nearly dying outright; it took two full years of recovery before he was fit again.
And that battle had left him with a lasting affliction — these past years he’d suffered recurring lung trouble, no medicine ever quite curing it, and it always flared worse in cold weather.
This had, at least, set both court and jianghu at ease — a man capable of bringing down the Nine Provinces Domain single-handedly, shattering half the roots of the martial world, was a terrifying thing to have loose in the world.
The old guard of the jianghu breathed easier for it, and the Emperor himself, no less so.
Once the Nine Provinces Domain fell, the old order of the martial world effectively became history. In the subsequent purge, beyond the Domain’s own people, Daliang’s forces had also captured upward of a hundred old recluses — men whose crimes weren’t severe, all more or less entangled in that catastrophe, but who couldn’t be pardoned outright either.
Nor could they simply be executed.
Left with no better option, Daliang established the Eastern Prison, demoting Meng Dingchen, once Grand Commander of Jiu Si Tang, down to the rank of unranked warden, while placing it under the joint guard of the Ministry of War and the Ministry of Justice.
The Eastern Prison’s location was kept in the strictest secrecy — no one beyond essential personnel was even permitted to ask where it lay.
Not until word leaked out did people finally realize — the place sat beneath the old imperial mausoleum that had been decommissioned during the original treason case; the royal family had long since surveyed and secretly built a new mausoleum elsewhere.
But even a decommissioned mausoleum still came equipped with elaborate anti-theft mechanisms, which was precisely why the various factions of the jianghu, lying hidden in Yandu for a full ten years, had never managed to locate the Eastern Prison — until, just days ago, a fire broke out at the mausoleum’s entrance, releasing what turned out to be a jianghu signal-smoke.
Though that smoke had burned out in less than the time it takes an incense stick to burn halfway, the message had already gotten out — by now, likely the whole realm knew the Chef was hidden beneath the old mausoleum.
And that was how She Wanlin came to be abducted.
No one dared underestimate this young Prince, small as he was — the She family had once given up their entire clan line in service to the common people, and to this day, nearly half the court owed a life-debt to She Qingling and his son. Add to that the bond between She Qingling and the current Emperor, and small as he was, She Wanlin’s worth truly did match that of the Chef.
With the Emperor himself posing the question, and the fate of the She family’s sole heir on the line, who would dare offer counsel?
After a long silence, the hall filled with Chen Dasheng’s now-familiar cough; just as he opened his mouth to speak, his own father She Qingling cut him off.
She Qingling lifted his face to the Emperor: “Your Majesty — organize the rescue effort first. If we cannot save him, I accept that. But the Chef… cannot be traded.”
Every head in the hall turned at once, all staring at She Qingling in shock.
She Qingling rose, gripping the small trinket that hung always at his beloved grandson’s side, and said gravely: “The foundation of this nation cannot be shaken — what does it matter if the She line ends with me!”
Having said his piece, he turned and left; Chen Dasheng bowed silently to the Emperor and turned to follow him out.
This left the Emperor and the entire assembled court at an impasse.
The man himself had said no trade — which meant they now had to work all the harder to save him. And if they failed?
That was an outcome no one dared even contemplate.
After father and son had been gone some while, Emperor Wu finally sighed: “Ah, that Qingling — standing on a mountain peak and not even feeling the cold. Listen to him — no trade! That’s my own dear grand-nephew. How could I not feel for him, Minister Sun?”
The white-haired Minister of War, Sun Shouyi, gave a start at being addressed and stepped forward, heart pounding.
The Emperor said to him: “Have every bureau of the Ministry of War search with everything they’ve got — spare no cost.”
Sun Shouyi accepted the order and withdrew.
The Emperor then named Gu Hongyun of Jiu Si Tang, and Yu Qingguan, currently overseeing the scouts — in short, everyone who could be assigned was assigned, sent out to search with full effort. If they failed to bring the boy back, the responsibility would be theirs…
But even now, Emperor Wu never once said the words outright — that if all else failed, they’d trade the Chef after all. Of course, he never said they wouldn’t, either.
He was, after all, growing more and more like a true emperor.
The Sixth Prince said nothing either, watching on with cold detachment throughout.
The ministers, hearts uneasy, all accepted their orders and withdrew.
Setting aside those scrambling in worry — the Second Prince Yang Zhen returned to his own residence and immediately summoned his people, giving orders: to protect Meng Dingchen’s position as warden of the Eastern Prison, and for the sake of the alliance between the Prince’s Mansion and Lao Dao’s faction, She Wanlin absolutely must not come to harm.
The old recluses held beneath the Eastern Prison had solid backing within the jianghu; relying on these hostages, the Southern Huguo Temple had reaped who-knew-how-much benefit over the years — how could he possibly bear to give up that leverage?
What was maddening was that An’er, young as he was, had thought this through so poorly — never realizing that on his account alone, every faction across Daliang had emptied out of Yandu to search for him.
And it wasn’t only the court — sects and factions throughout the jianghu, each hoping to save some elder or beloved teacher of their own held within, sought out the official in charge, Ding Yumen, hoping to hitch a ride on this opportunity and smuggle their own elders out alongside the Chef.
Ding Yumen was in fact the former Official of Nine Provinces Domain — a post responsible for assisting the Chef in managing the recluses, with authority over promotions and reassignments among them.
As for his martial skill — it had been personally crippled by Chen Dasheng’s own hand; and the Chef, in trying to save him, was the very reason Lao Dao and the others had managed to capture him in the first place… Old grudges tangled like vines — like weeds on a wild plain, so long as the root remains, they always sprout again.
And so began the eleventh year of Changshun — a hundred heroes pouring out of the capital, the old order of the martial world stirring once more…
And the one who’d set this whole calamity in motion, She Wanlin, was at this very moment staring wide-eyed at the cliffs along the riverbank.
At the cliff’s edge, the exhausted trackers had set down their tow-ropes and sat to eat a meal.
She Wanlin had been aboard the boat two days now; he rarely spoke, simply watching that group of trackers without end.
Today, strangely, when he counted the trackers that morning, there seemed to be one more than before. Once the trackers sat down to rest, he spotted the extra one — his face covered in scars, his whole body corded with dark, sinewy muscle…
Oh, but none of that mattered. What mattered was that he stared, slack-jawed, at that achingly familiar face — his pupils blown wide with shock, and from his mouth, silently, slipped two words: “Old Stinky—!”
Old Stinky smiled at An’er, who had finally spotted him. He had, in the end, broken his promise — slipping quietly out of the capital to make his way here in disguise.
He winked at An’er, made a hushing gesture, then turned, bent his back, and hoisted the tow-rope over his shoulder once more.
She Wanlin’s soul nearly left his body; he turned and sat back down properly, murmuring under his breath again: “Old Stinky—!”
Xiaoqiu set down the fine cloth in her hands, walked over to An’er, bent close to sniff around him, and coaxed with a coquettish little laugh: “Young master, please bear with it a while longer — an old boat smelling a bit off is only natural. You’ll just have to endure it a little, there’s really nothing to be done about it…”
The girl, sixteen years of age, was delicately pretty, a rare beauty indeed.
She had come with a purpose of her own. She Wanlin, born into the height of wealth and privilege, would hardly lack for women like her — so, left with no other option, she’d lowered her aim, repositioning herself instead as an indispensable, intimate presence at his side. Her mistress had given her orders: whatever it took, she was to conceive the fourth generation of the She family line.