HCAW 42

Chapter 42 – A Storm Approaches

In the Immortal Palace of Penglai, fragrant mist wafted across the floor. The sounds of bamboo flutes and silk strings lingered without end. In the brazier burned fine charcoal made from women’s beds, keeping winter’s chill entirely at bay.

Within a secluded chamber, the National Preceptor sat cross-legged at a purple sandalwood desk. Draped in a brocade cloak with a snow hood, he had his eyes lowered to study a list of those awaiting execution.

By protocol, this list should have been reviewed by the imperial family. But Emperor Changyi, now advanced in age, no longer involved himself with state affairs. The National Preceptor, as the most enlightened cultivator of the Immortal Yonghe’s teachings—and the brewer of the Immortal Elixir, who frequently used convicts as labor during grand rites—had taken up the duty of presiding over autumn executions.

As he flipped the page, his brows drew together. The first name on the list was “Fang Jingyu.”

He suddenly recalled the young man who had once knelt in the snow to steady his silver palanquin—upright like a slender bamboo, with the integrity to withstand storm and frost. The National Preceptor asked the judicial officer,

“May I ask who this ‘Fang Jingyu’ is, and what crime he has committed?”

The officer presented the file and respectfully reported,

“My lord, this man was once the second son of the Langgan Guard, Fang Huaixian, but later severed ties with his family and served as a constable in Penglai Prefecture. He contributed to the slaying of the Da Yuan Dao sect leader, but afterward harmed a fellow officer. An imperial relic was found in his home. The crime warrants death.”

The National Preceptor’s face was hidden by the wide snow hood, and the officer could not read his expression—only that soft, eerie voice laughing as it said:

“Indeed, it is a capital crime. But wasn’t the Mohe Guard originally trying to have him convicted of treason? Only, he couldn’t find definitive proof that this man is the orphan of Emperor Bai.”

The officer broke out in cold sweat. How could the National Preceptor, who rarely left the Immortal Palace, know such things? Clearly the rumors were true: he had inherited the full teachings of Immortal Yonghe, and had eyes and ears across all of Penglai.

With a wave of his hand, the National Preceptor dismissed the officer. The chamber fell quiet once more. Chin in hand, he sank into heavy thought. He knew the Mohe Guard had never stood on his side—and that cunning old man had likely already seen through the nature of both Immortal Yonghe’s doctrine and the Immortal Elixir.

At the execution of the Da Yuan Dao sect leader, the Mohe Guard had served as part of the Xian Mountain escort protecting the Immortal Elixir. He had requested two reward portions from the Immortal Palace, claiming that Fang Jingyu had been gravely injured defending his comrades in Milu Village and deserved praise. But the old fox had likely combined the two portions into one, and given them all to a single head officer from the former Jueyuan cavalry.

How could one man endure a double dose of the Immortal Elixir? That was why the man later went mad—his very body bursting apart.

It was clearly the Mohe Guard who had caused that horrific death. But now the shame would fall upon the Immortal Palace and the National Preceptor. Though the Xian Mountain officials present that day kept silent, dread of the Immortal Elixir had begun to spread through Penglai like a plague.

With a sharp snap, the National Preceptor crushed the armrest of his chair—that scheming old fox who had ruined the palace’s good name!

Perhaps it was time to remove him. Penglai did not need two foxes—clever, ambitious, and high-ranking.

The National Preceptor stepped out of the chamber and ordered his attendants to prepare a heated palanquin. He was going to Emperor Changyi’s sleeping quarters. There, he would reveal an old truth—with Fang Jingyu at the heart of it. He would report that ten years ago, the Yu Ji Guard and the Mohe Guard had made a grave mistake: confusing the orphan of Emperor Bai.

Outside, snow fell from the sky. Ten thousand li lay frozen in silence. Inside the warm palanquin, the National Preceptor cradled a bronze handwarmer, lifting the black curtain with one hand. The bearers’ footprints trailed behind in the snow, only to be quickly buried again by falling flakes.

In his heart, he was already plotting how to make the Mohe Guard disappear like those prints—silently, beneath the endless snow.

_____

Since Fang Jingyu was taken away, Xiao Jiao had cried night and day, truly becoming a girl made of tears. Zheng Deli, afraid she might do something rash, didn’t even return home—he moved his bedding into Fang Jingyu’s room and stayed with her around the clock.

When she sat in the courtyard, dazed on a stool, he would sit nearby too. But the days dragged on in boredom, and with nothing else to do, he began inspecting the bone fragment his father had given him. Upon closer look, he noticed something: the script on it was thin, spindly, scattered and irregular—remarkably similar to modern Penglai script, but clearly an older form. He hurried back home, dug up his father’s ancient notes, and spent half a day comparing them. Slowly, some hints began to emerge.

Xiao Jiao, swollen-eyed like two peaches from crying, leaned over and asked,

“What are you looking at?”

Zheng Deli replied, “It’s a bone shard my dad gave me—he said it’s an old historical record.”

Xiao Jiao said, “I don’t care what happened in the past. We’re about to lose our heads—who’s got time to care about history?”

Zheng Deli didn’t know how to respond. He simply said, “You wouldn’t understand.”

Xiao Jiao shouted, “Of course I don’t understand! I still only know how to write one-two-three-four-five!”

She sat to the side, crying sullenly. Zheng Deli could only sullenly return to studying the bone shard. Yet somehow, the more he read, the more uneasy he felt. Those sharp, forceful etchings gradually connected into a strange passage of text. Zheng Deli read it out word by word:

“In the twenty-third year of Changyi, in the month of Jianshu, the orphan of the late emperor was executed by imperial decree.”

Upon reaching that line, he cried out loud in shock. Xiao Jiao jumped, annoyed, and turned her head.

“What now?”

Zheng Deli’s hands trembled as he pointed at the bone shard.

“Th-this doesn’t record the past—it records something that will happen!”

“Something that will happen?” Xiao Jiao was stunned speechless but quickly came to her senses. She lunged forward and grabbed his hand.

“Let me see! Does it mention the Tight-lipped gourd?”

“It does…”

“What happens to him?”

Zheng Deli said, “Executed by decree… execution in a month.”

The two stared at each other. After a long pause, the red-dressed girl let out a shriek and collapsed backward, fainting dead away.

____

It was the height of autumn bustle. In Penglai, the grain markets, cloth markets, and sundry stalls were opening one after another, crowds overflowing the city and spilling into the suburbs. At the same time, a tavern on Yinggu Street was in noisy uproar.

“Mule” sat in a corner, drinking alone and snacking on a dish of roasted peanuts. After a while, a young man stepped into the tavern and took the seat opposite him.

Mule looked up to size him up. The youth wore a coat made of paperbark, his hair loose, a shoulder bag slung over one arm. Though poorly dressed, he was neat and tidy. His features were clean and delicate, but his brow was furrowed, a sheen of sweat across his face—clearly in the grip of a splitting headache.

The tavern was filled with chatter; no one could hear what the two were saying. The young man sat down and went straight to the point:

“I heard you do business outside the Pass. I’d like to hire you to deliver something.”

The man slowly raised his eyes—wolfish and sharp, full of suspicion. He puffed on his pipe. His face was rough with stubble, and he wore a threadbare cotton robe with a slanted collar. To most, he looked like a down-and-out peddler. But in truth, he had long-standing dealings with the immortal mountains beyond Penglai’s Heavenly Pass. Few knew this secret—only his regulars. So who exactly was this young man?

Mule shook his head.

“You’ve got the wrong man. I don’t do business.”

The youth grinned, flashing white teeth like a predator eyeing its prey.

“No. You’re exactly who I’m looking for.”

“Who sent you?”

“The Langgan Guard,” the young man replied. “I know you’ve had dealings with the Fang family. I also know you’re a descendant of the Bai Huan (White Ring) Guard.”

“And what are you to the Langgan Guard?”

The youth seemed about to answer but suddenly winced, clutching his forehead as if in unbearable pain. He slammed his head onto the table. Mule startled and poured him a bowl of water. After a while, the youth gasped, still clutching his head.

“An old acquaintance of his… I want you to make me a batch of arrows. With heads of Tianyu iron, fletched with relic bird feathers, fitted with whistle reeds, carved with red arrow-flowers, and lacquered in cinnabar.”

Mule stared in disbelief.

“You want me to make… the King Yama Whistling Arrows?”

Arrows carved with red arrow-flower patterns—who else used such marks but the legendary King Yama? Could this youth be the King Yama himself?

Mule’s hair stood on end. He felt like his neck had just been laid across a tiger’s maw. He shot to his feet, ready to bolt.

But the youth knocked on the table, voice suddenly cold:

“What’s the rush? Going to report me to the authorities? All your business is illegal too—run to the guards, and you’ll be marching straight into a noose. Sit down. I’m not done.”

Mule shivered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the youth pull out a heavy cloth pouch and slap it onto the table. He slowly sat back down and loosened the pouch’s opening—inside was a hefty load of gold. The pouch bore the embroidery of Immortal Yonghe’s sigil—bounty gold from the Immortal Palace.

“Besides the arrows, I also want a few good horses. And a large amount of fire oil,” the youth said.

Mule replied, “Forget the rest—let’s just talk about those arrows. The red arrow-flower is the King Yama’s mark. Who in Penglai dares to carve that? If the Immortal Palace traces it back to the smith, they’ll wipe out your entire clan! I can’t do this job.”

“Who said I want it forged in Penglai?” the youth said. “I want it made beyond the Pass, using Fang Hu’s iron. I know you can leave through the Heavenly Pass. You have the routes.”

So he knew him inside and out.

Mule set his pipe down, brows furrowed, and pushed the pouch back.

“You want too much. That gold isn’t enough.”

“How much more do you want?”

“No amount is enough. This job means tying your head to your belt. You’re risking your life just to earn a little coin—it’s not worth it. And you want horses and fire oil too—what exactly are you planning? You’re not really a rebel, are you?”

The young man blinked.

“And if I am?”

Mule was speechless.

Was he really facing King Yama today? No matter how he looked at it, this was dangerous business. At last, he shook his head.

“In short, I’m not taking this job.”

“Then I’ll make up the rest… in favors.”

Mule laughed.

“We’re complete strangers. You think a drink and a chat is enough to make me risk my neck? Why would I do business with you?”

The youth looked like the headache was coming back. He pressed his forehead to the table. Mule, not wanting to argue, dropped silver for the drinks on the corner of the table and rose to leave.

But then the youth spoke again.

This time, what he said hit like thunder, sending Luózi’s soul flying.

“Because I’m Fang Minsheng—your young master.”

Mule turned sharply, chest heaving like a tidal wave had just engulfed him. His face drained of color.

The youth raised two fingers and tapped the table again—this time, his voice was firm as iron, leaving no room for doubt.

“If gold isn’t enough, use the Fang family’s name to make up the rest. Sit down. We still have business to discuss.”