Once the troublemaking woman departed and the spring scenery was no longer on display, the crowd outside the Yang family shop quickly dispersed. Zheng Dafeng slunk to the eaves of the main building and squatted at a distance, not daring to get too close to Old Yao. Both were disciples, but the difference in treatment between him and Li Er before their master was as vast as heaven and earth.
Zheng Dafeng resented his master's favoritism, though some things were simply a matter of accepting one's lot. He asked timidly: "Master, Qi Jingchun seems determined to defy the rules. When that happens, what will we do?"
The old man said nothing, puffing on his pipe. A black cat appeared from nowhere and crouched near his feet, shaking its fur and spraying droplets of rain in all directions.
Zheng Dafeng pressed on, worry in his voice: "That fellow from Zhenwu Mountain actually invited a god down from the mountain—won't that cause trouble? After all, countless people are watching this place right now."
The old man still did not speak.
Accustomed to his master's taciturn ways, Zheng Dafeng felt no embarrassment. His thoughts wandered to Qi Jingchun, and he cursed: "Damn it all—Qi Jingchun, you've played the grandson for fifty-nine years, what's a few more days? Scholars are all stubborn fools, impossible to reason with!"
The old man finally spoke: "You're a stubborn fool even without being a scholar."
Zheng Dafeng took no offense, turning to ask with an obsequious grin: "Would you like me to rub your shoulders and knock on your legs, Master?"
The old man replied flatly: "I have no coffin savings to speak of. You can forget about that."
Zheng Dafeng flushed: "Master, that hurts. Your disciple may not be talented, but he is filial—how could I covet such things? I'm not Li Er's wife."
The old man grunted: "You're even worse than her."
Zheng Dafeng's entire face darkened, his head drooping like a frost-bitten eggplant, utterly devoid of spirit. But then his face lit up with sudden joy—he realized that while his master's words were still harsh, the old man had said quite a lot today, which was rare. When he got back to the east building, he could celebrate with a pot of wine.
His mood somewhat lifted, he asked casually: "Can Senior Brother stop that fellow?"
Before the old man could mock him, Zheng Dafeng slapped his own mouth: "It's better if Senior Brother can't stop him. If he actually does, we'll be eating the northwest wind for the rest of our lives."
The old man asked, seemingly at random: "Zheng Dafeng, do you know why you amount to nothing?"
Zheng Dafeng froze on the spot, thinking this question carried deep meaning and he must respond carefully.
Before he could formulate an answer, the old man supplied his own: "Because you're ugly."
Zheng Dafeng clutched his head and stared at the rain splashing in the courtyard. For a man of his age, he wanted to cry but had no tears.
---
The yamen steward did not need to read expressions to know he was no longer welcome. He found an excuse and left the room.
Chen Songfeng continued poring over the archives, having regained some of the poise befitting a scion of a great house—now that Chen Dui was no longer present to make him tremble. But the more composed he became, the more stifled Liu Baqiao felt. His chest was tight with indignation, though there was a difference between being straightforward and being reckless. Liu Baqiao decided to step out for a walk—out of sight, out of mind.
Chen Songfeng suddenly looked up and smiled: "Baqiao, you finally can't sit still?"
Liu Baqiao had just lifted himself from his chair. Hearing this, he sat back down with a huff of exasperated laughter: "Well, well—you're still in the mood to tease me? You've got quite the nerve, kid."
Chen Songfeng set down an ancient volume and said bitterly: "I'm sorry you had to see that. I wasn't ungrateful for your standing up for me just now—it's only that..."
Liu Baqiao could not stomach people wallowing in self-pity or working up sentiment. He waved his hands: "No, no—I just couldn't stand your distant cousin's bullying ways. What I said was purely because I can't keep my mouth shut. You don't need to be grateful, Chen Songfeng."
Chen Songfeng leaned back gently against his chair and let out a soft breath.
Were this the Chen clan of Dragon-Tail Commandery, such a languid posture would earn a beating for a child—whether legitimate or illegitimate—and a lecture for an adult, the moment an elder spotted it.
Scholars of noble families were often mocked by warriors as hypocrites putting on airs. But rules were rules. From the moment they emerged from the womb, they walked a predetermined path, and every young heir of every great family absorbed it through osmosis.
Of course, there was also the Kingdom of Nanjian, famous for producing free-spirited philosophers and eccentric madmen, renowned throughout the land for their disregard of ritual propriety.
Liu Baqiao asked: "What exactly is your relationship with Chen Dui, that you fear her so much? If it involves clan secrets, pretend I didn't ask."
Chen Songfeng stood, closed the door, and sat in the chair the steward had vacated. He asked softly: "The porcelain-buyer status for the boy surnamed Liu—after many twists and turns, it ended up in the hands of our Dragon-Tail Commandery Chen clan. Doesn't that intrigue you?"
Liu Baqiao nodded.
The mountain-moving ape could never have imagined that the rival competing for the sword scripture was not their mortal enemy the Wind-Thunder Garden, but the Dragon-Tail Commandery Chen clan, who had appeared out of nowhere.
Chen Songfeng looked weary, as though the burden of long-suppressed thoughts had finally become too heavy. He trusted Liu Baqiao's character, and so spoke at length: "Although our Chen clan has closer ties to your Wind-Thunder Garden, Chen descendants have abided by the ancestral edict: we do not meddle in the feuds between those above the mountains and those below. We have held to this for generations. Would a sword scripture that is little more than a useless ornament for Chen heirs make us break that precedent? The Chen clan is a family of scholars, not a cultivation lineage. What purpose would wading into this murky water serve?"
Liu Baqiao followed the logic: "So it was that Chen Dui's branch of the family that wanted to acquire the sword scripture? Could her family be some hidden sword-cultivation dynasty?"
Chen Songfeng shook his head: "Not at all. As Steward Xue mentioned earlier, the Chen clan in this town split into two branches. Chen Dui belongs to the branch that left earliest—they left thoroughly, departing the Eastern Baoping Continent entirely for another continent. Over generations of growth and expansion, Chen Dui's branch has come to be known as 'the supreme masters of the world's pavilions and towers.' Naturally, this information never circulated in the Eastern Baoping Continent. Our Dragon-Tail Commandery clan only knows of it because of a tenuous connection."
Liu Baqiao scoffed: "Is that woman bluffing without even drafting her lies, or is she bullying me for being uneducated? Her family owns a Merit Pavilion?"
Chen Songfeng held up two fingers.
Liu Baqiao rolled his eyes: "I said Merit Pavilion, not Fame Pavilion!"
Chen Songfeng did not lower his finger.
Liu Baqiao, slightly deflated, pressed on defiantly: "Then a Confucian academy pavilion—does her family have that?"
By "Confucian academy pavilion," Liu Baqiao meant the orthodox three academies and seventy-two colleges of Confucianism—not the ordinary academies of mortal kingdoms. The entire Eastern Baoping Continent had only two: the Cliff Academy and the Guan Lake Academy.
Chen Songfeng slowly lowered one finger, leaving one still raised.
Liu Baqiao made as if to rise, bracing his hands on the armrests in mock panic: "I'd better go apologize to that ancestor right away. Good heavens—with a background that tyrannical, asking you to flip through a few books is nothing. They could make you work like an ox or a horse and you'd have no grounds to complain!"
Chen Songfeng smiled without a word.
This was perhaps Liu Baqiao's unique charm: he could take something humiliating and mortifying and deliver it in a way that left the other person unable to feel angry.
Liu Baqiao shifted in his seat, crossed his arms, and said with elaborate composure: "All right, now that I know the terrifying provenance of that ancestor-lady, get on with the main topic."
Chen Songfeng smiled: "Actually, Steward Xue already gave the answer."
Liu Baqiao's eyes lit up: "The boy surnamed Liu—his ancestors were grave-keepers left behind by Chen Dui's branch of the Chen clan?"
Chen Songfeng nodded: "There's hope for you yet."
Liu Baqiao went "Huh?" then frowned: "That doesn't add up. The sword scripture passed down in the Liu family came from that traitor of Zhengyang Mountain—one of our Wind-Thunder Garden's founding masters, for that matter. Regardless, the timeline doesn't match. How could they have been grave-keepers for Chen Dui's family?"
Chen Songfeng explained: "I can confirm that the Liu family were indeed grave-keepers for Chen Dui's branch originally. As for the sword cultivator who later fled to your Wind-Thunder Garden—why he eventually came to the town and became part of the Liu family, passing down the sword scripture—there are probably some hidden reasons. In the end, the family heirlooms became two things: the sword scripture and the wart-armor. As for Chen Dui, her interest is not really in the treasures. She has come to pay respects at her ancestors' graves. Beyond that, if any descendants of the Liu family remain—regardless of aptitude—she will bring them back to the clan and raise them with the full resources of the family, as repayment for the old Liu ancestor's service as grave-keeper."
Liu Baqiao looked utterly incredulous: "A family that enormous sends a young woman alone to pay respects at graves? And she nearly got punched to death by the Great Sui prince in the process? Chen Songfeng—I've read plenty of books, even if most are those pillow-fight romances—and I've learned a thing or two about how the world works. So I'm telling you, that woman must be an impostor!"
Chen Songfeng shook his head with a bitter smile: "You didn't see how my grandfather behaved when he met her—how he was... courteous."
Out of respect for elders, Chen Songfeng could not bring himself to describe the truth, settling for the vague word "courteous."
The clan had thrown open its central gates for her. The clan head had bowed to her from the waist. The entire clan had treated her as a honored guest, and at the welcoming banquet she had been seated in the place of honor.
The shock this had dealt Chen Songfeng was immeasurable.
Liu Baqiao asked, puzzled: "But wasn't that boy nearly killed by that old ape?"
Chen Songfeng sighed: "You said it yourself—nearly."
Chen Songfeng rose and walked to the window. Outside, a light wind carried fine rain, though the darkening sky promised a torrential downpour.
He said softly: "Master Ruan seems to be an old acquaintance of one of Chen Dui's elders. They once traveled the world together—bosom friends, in fact."
Liu Baqiao asked cautiously: "Are you saying that Master Ruan was able to replace Qi Jingchun and hold this place because Chen Dui's family pulled some strings?"
Chen Songfeng replied impassively: "I said nothing of the sort."
Liu Baqiao clicked his tongue in wonder.
No wonder that woman could stand so defiantly before Song Changjing. With the distant might of her clan and the near protection of a sage, why wouldn't she be brazen?
Liu Baqiao suddenly asked: "Tell me about the destiny porcelain and the porcelain-buyers. I've always been curious about it. It's a shame our Wind-Thunder Garden doesn't follow that system—I only heard fragments after Master Ruan dragged me here as conscript labor. Apparently, some of the most powerful figures on the Eastern Baoping Continent today originally walked out of this very town?"
Chen Songfeng hesitated briefly, then chose full disclosure, revealing what should have remained hidden: "It's somewhat like stone-gambling in the secular world. Each year, roughly thirty infants are born in the town. Thirty kiln-works, ranked by seat order, each claim a child as their kiln's 'porcelain.' Say thirty-two children are born this year—then the two kilns ranked highest each get two porcelains. If only twenty-nine are born next year, the kiln ranked last goes the entire year with nothing."
"Every person born and raised in the town has their destiny porcelain. Cao Xi and Xie Shi, who now dominate this continent—one a Daoist lord destined to become a Heavenly Sovereign, the other a wild sword-immortal of devastating power—were no exceptions. Though this town's 'fishpond' is far more likely to produce dragons than the outside world, the price of becoming a dragon is terrible. These 'porcelains,' once they ascend to the Middle Five Realms, face a grim fate: if they fail to reach the Fifth Realm in their lifetime, they are doomed to obliteration—soul and spirit scattered, forever and ever, with no reincarnation. Not even the Ancestor of the Dao or the Ancestor of the Buddha could alter that. And during that period, the porcelain-buyer holds a fatal leverage over them. Life and death are controlled by another's hand. Even someone of Cao Xi's or Xie Shi's caliber is no different."
"That said, once one becomes a towering figure like Cao Xi or Xie Shi, the porcelain-buyer would sooner worship them as ancestors than dare to claim ownership. It is, after all, mutually beneficial. Any clan that commands the fighting power of a Cao Xi or Xie Shi can sleep soundly. The reason is simple: for trivial matters, they might not deign to appear. But when the clan faces extinction, they must come to its aid. If they refuse to fight for my clan—very well. Then I shatter your destiny porcelain, and we all perish together."
Liu Baqiao listened with astonishment. No wonder the Great Sui dynasty had risen so meteorically in a mere two to three hundred years, already forming the grand momentum to swallow the northern half of the continent. He sat cross-legged in his chair, rubbing his chin, and asked:
"I know that at six for girls and nine for boys, there is a great threshold—the same as cultivation, when their future potential becomes clear. If the porcelain-buyers come to the town at that point and take away those with promising destinies, what happens to the failed porcelains? What happens to the town children who lost the gamble? How do the kiln-works dispose of their worthless destiny porcelains?"
Chen Songfeng said softly: "They are removed from the kiln and shattered on the spot, then discarded. Outside the town there is a Porcelain Hill—it comes from this."
A faint displeasure stirred in Liu Baqiao's chest: "What becomes of those children?"
Chen Songfeng shook his head: "I've never heard. Presumably, not well."
Liu Baqiao sighed and pressed his hands hard against his cheeks.
This was a secret matter settled personally by sages on all sides—far beyond what a lowly sword cultivator of the Wind-Thunder Garden could presume to judge.
But the young man simply felt it was unfair.
After a long silence, Liu Baqiao said softly: "If that's the case, everyone who walks out of this place is a river-crossing pawn."
Chen Songfeng echoed: "And who on the path of cultivation is not?"
Liu Baqiao felt a pang of something like recognition and nodded: "True enough."
---
The door opened with a soft creak. The pale-faced boy in straw shoes tiptoed over the threshold and turned to close the wooden door gently behind him.
He fetched a small stool just as Old Yao had done and sat on the steps. The raindrops were large as soybeans, the sky as dark as midnight, yet for some reason, despite the tremendous downpour, relatively few drops struck beneath the eaves. The old man had been sitting for a long time, yet only a faint dampness clung to his clothes. Chen Ping'an interlaced his fingers and gazed quietly at the puddles forming in the courtyard.
The old man smoked his pipe, great billows of smoke drifting around them. But beneath the eaves, the smoke and the rain curtain beyond remained utterly separate, as though an invisible line divided heaven and earth.
The reason the old man did not dislike this boy was that no matter the situation, the child never made a ruckus or disturbed him. If silence could avoid annoying others, he would never speak.
In this, the boy was much like his disciple Li Er.
Zheng Dafeng fell far short.
Chen Ping'an said softly: "Grandpa Yang, all these years—thank you."
The old man frowned: "Thank me? If I recall correctly, I have never helped you for free. When have I ever lacked payment?"
Chen Ping'an smiled.
It was like how Old Yao had once agreed to let him gather herbs for the Yang family shop, then buy them at a low price while also selling medicinal herbs to Chen Ping'an at a low price. It seemed fair, but Chen Ping'an understood perfectly—this was the most tangible form of help.
And then there was a simple bamboo pipe—how much could it possibly be worth?
But the fact that Chen Ping'an had managed all these years, remaining free of illness and disaster throughout the seasons, owed much to the breathing technique Old Yao had taught him long ago.
The old man raised his head and gazed at the sky, remarking with derision: "When someone tosses you a crumb of charity, you're ready to worship them as a bodhisattva who rescues you from suffering. Especially when a powerful person picks a scrap from between their teeth, you're especially grateful—even moved by your own innocent heart, thinking you're returning kindness. So you become a loyal minister, a devoted student of so-and-so. They call it 'a scholar dies for his true patron.' A pack of ungrateful bastards—all of them better off never having crawled out of their mothers' wombs..."
Chen Ping'an scratched his head, unsettled, unsure whether Old Yao was talking about him.
The old man withdrew his gaze and said flatly: "Not talking about you."
Chen Ping'an suddenly spotted a familiar figure and froze.
Through the back corridor of the main hall, a middle-aged scholar with frost-white temples approached under an umbrella, carrying a long bench in one hand. He passed through the side door, set the bench in the corridor, and sat down, leaning his oil-paper umbrella against the bench. Then he patted his knees with both hands, straightened his posture, and finally looked toward the old man and the boy beneath the rear eaves with a warm expression.
"Qi Jingchun of the Cliff Academy pays his respects to Elder Yang," he said.
The scholar's boots were soaked through with rain and caked in mud. The hem of his robe was the same.
The old man sat in a leisurely pose and pointed his pipe at the local sage: "From the very first day you arrived, I knew you were a frustrated man. But after all these years, I've never heard a single word of complaint from you—which is rather odd. You, Qi Jingchun, are not the type to swallow insults without a word. So this time you've lost your mind—outsiders are probably baffled, but I'm not the least bit surprised."
Qi Jingchun patted his stomach and smiled: "Oh, I have complaints—my belly is full of them. I simply never said them aloud."
Old Yao considered this: "I don't know what you're capable of, but your teacher—for daring to speak those four words—earns this from me."
The old man raised his thumb.
Qi Jingchun smiled ruefully: "My teacher's learning was far greater."
Old Yao sneered: "I'm not a scholar. Even if your teacher's learning surpassed the First Sage himself, I wouldn't say a good word about him."
Qi Jingchun asked gravely: "Elder Yang—do you believe our teacher's four words were the correct ones?"
The old man laughed: "I don't believe they were correct. It's just that all the robed and scholarly types of the world had been worshipping the previous four words, and it made me sick. So when someone came along to sing a different tune, I found it satisfying—that's all. You scholars squaring off against each other, making a mess of your own dignity—I find it delightful!"
Qi Jingchun broke into genuine laughter.
He was about to speak, but the old man, having guessed his intent, waved his hand: "No pleasantries, please. I don't care to hear them. We are not of the same path—never have been, generation after generation. Don't break the rules. Besides, you, Qi Jingchun, are a rat crossing the street that everyone wants to beat. I wouldn't dare be seen as your friend."
Qi Jingchun nodded, rose, and beckoned to Chen Ping'an: "Using the snake-gallstone you gave me, I carved two personal seals—one in clerical script, one in small seal script. They're for you."
Chen Ping'an ran through the rain across the courtyard, now a pond, and stood before Qi Jingchun. He accepted a white cloth pouch.
Qi Jingchun smiled: "Keep them safe. In the future, when you see a painting or calligraphy you admire—especially landscape maps with a certain grandeur—take out the seal and stamp it."
Chen Ping'an nodded in a daze: "All right."
Old Yao glanced at the pouch in the boy's hand and asked: "What about the 'spring' seal?"
Qi Jingchun smiled: "I carved one earlier and gave it to a child of the Zhao family."
The old man chuckled: "Are you Qi Jingchun or the Boy of Wealth?"
Qi Jingchun took the old man's teasing in stride, then took his leave.
Seeing the boy standing there like a wooden post, Old Yao laughed and scolded: "You took his gift for free and now you're just going to hop home and snigger under the covers? Won't you walk Master Qi out?"
The boy hurried toward the back door. The old man called after him: "Take an umbrella! With your current body, can you withstand this wind and rain?"
Chen Ping'an borrowed an umbrella from a shop assistant and caught up with Master Qi. The two walked together down the street.
The old man remained beneath the eaves, smoking his pipe, smoke curling around him.
He thought of the two personal seals. Though they were still in the pouch, Old Yao had sensed something within—and that was why he had asked about the "spring" seal.
Within those tiny squares, something vast and wondrous resided.
Before long, the straw-shoe boy returned to the courtyard. Old Yao asked: "What did he say in the end?"
Chen Ping'an sighed and sat back on his stool: "Master Qi said one thing—he said, 'A gentleman can be deceived by what is fitting.'"
Old Yao muttered: "Those old fossils standing in the Confucian temple—their brains have rotted. Someone is clearly targeting the Cliff Academy and Qi Jingchun, and they just stand by with crossed arms. Do they really think they're clay statues and wooden carvings?"
Chen Ping'an had not heard clearly: "Grandpa Yang, what did you say?"
The old man said nothing.
What a fine thing—not to be a sage, but to be a gentleman.