Chapter 157 – A Letter from Master

“Candied hawthorn skewers~~sweet and crisp, candied hawthorn skewers!”

“Crisp pears, fresh pears for sale!”

“Hot pancakes—golden, fragrant, and delicious pancakes!”

Along the bustling street, a short-statured peddler balanced his shoulder pole, a young boy trailed with a basket, and the noisy cries of vendors filled the air. Amidst the clamor, Sun Yingxian furrowed his brow, retraced his steps, and withdrew beneath the eaves. From there, his gaze fell upon a shop further ahead. 

Inside, a man clad in the garb of a yamen officer was conversing with the shopkeeper. From his breast, he withdrew a rolled painting.

“Shopkeeper, how many taels is this worth?”

The shopkeeper stroked his beard, carefully examining the scroll. “Hard to say. Not the work of a famed master, so its value is modest. Still… the brushwork is refined.”

He shook his head slightly. “A pity. There’s a fissure running right through the middle. Even if repaired, the painting’s wholeness is marred.”

“Name a price. How much will you take it for?”

“Ten taels. Even if Officer takes it elsewhere to pawn, that’s likely all it will fetch.”

At that moment, the Daoist who had been eavesdropping outside wove an Illusion Concealment Art and stepped inside. His eyes fell upon the painting, unfurled in the shopkeeper’s hands—it depicted a ferocious beast caught in mid-roar. With a sudden motion, he seized it.

“Where did you obtain this painting?!”

His abrupt cry startled both the shopkeeper and the constable. Startled further by the sudden appearance of a Daoist at his side, the constable’s hand flew to his saber, retreating two paces in alarm.

“Who are you!”

“This Daoist asks you—where did this painting come from?”

Before the constable could draw his blade, Sun Yingxian’s toe tapped the weapon’s hilt, and with a sharp clang the half-drawn sword was forced back into its sheath.

The Daoist raised the Taowu painting high, pressing forward. In one swift motion he seized the constable’s collar, dragging him close.

“This painting was wrought by the hand of my good friend—he carried it with him always! How is it that it has fallen into your possession?”

“Nonsense about your friend! This was discovered the day the Immortal of Ying Stone Mountain manifested! We found it within the mountain pavilion!”

Seeing that his claim bore reason, the constable did not rush to strike. Instead he stood his ground, arguing forcefully. He spoke of the day when red light suffused the city, and divine voice resounded through the heavens. Even the shopkeeper behind the counter nodded in agreement.

“Yes indeed, Reverend Daoist. That day was truly a divine manifestation. The immortal declared that foul demons had seized women and children for a profane sacrifice in the mountain. Only a few days ago, we saw the rescued women and little ones with our own eyes—it is beyond doubt.”

At these words, Sun Yingxian finally calmed somewhat. When he had first glimpsed the painting, marked with blade-scars, he feared calamity had befallen Lu Liangsheng, and so his haste had gotten the better of him. Now, hearing the testimony of others, he retracted his hand and forced his breath steady, questioning further. Soon he caught sight of a scholar and an old donkey described in the tale.

The constable, seeing the Daoist was earnest, answered each query plainly.

“No, we did not see that Immortal Senior. Likely he departed before we arrived.”

So—it must have been Old Lu, unable to stomach wickedness, who struck against the villains. His belongings happened to be left here, which meant a trail to follow.

After some thought, the Daoist clasped his hands in apology for his earlier rashness.

“Since this painting has fallen into your possession, this Daoist will not seize it by force. Might I borrow it for but a moment?”

The constable hesitated, then handed it over. Sun Yingxian ignored the other two onlookers. His fingertips brushed the scroll; he pinched a seal with his fingers, then swept his wide sleeve. The painting arced back into the constable’s hands as the Daoist strode outside. Cloaking himself once more with the Illusion of Invisibility, he slipped past the thronging street and sped beyond the city walls.

At the roadside, he clenched his fist and then unfurled it. A wisp of white qi spiraled upward, drifting westward.

“Could it be Old Lu has gone to Chang’an? Makes sense. Since we’ve come all the way to Northern Zhou, how could one not set foot in Chang’an at least once?”

Finding a deserted place, he invoked the Earth-Burrowing Art. A mound of soil rose, carrying him westward before collapsing back into the ground. In the blink of an eye, he vanished into the distance.

Rustle… rustle…

The earth bulged and sank as his magic burrowed onward, dead leaves and branches shifting aside under the pressure of spellcraft. When his spiritual energy ebbed, the Daoist emerged from the soil, slapped a Fleetfoot Talisman upon himself, and continued chasing along the thread of Lu Liangsheng’s qi.

Two days passed. Yet the trail veered not toward Chang’an, but all the way to the borderlands of Jinzhou.

“This Mister Lu… is he toying with me?”

That afternoon, Sun Yingxian sat glumly in the branches of a tree, gnawing on dry rations. Ahead, the silhouette of a distant city shimmered in the haze. By now, even the tracking spell had unraveled.

…Curse your mother… If I’d known, I’d have snatched that painting outright!

What now? Should I turn north to Chang’an, or keep searching here? If I had known, I should’ve just gone to deliver Master’s letter in the first place. Curse your mother, my legs are about to fall off…

Along the way, he had driven his earth-burrowing art too hard. Underground, the directions were treacherous, and more than once he rammed headlong into buried stumps and half-hidden rocks. By now, several swollen lumps adorned his forehead.

Rumble…

Thunder rolled across the heavens. The Daoist took another bite of his dry biscuit, raising his eyes to the sky. Heavy clouds pressed low, dark and oppressive, as though rain was about to break.

On the road not far away, caravans and merchants passed with their carts—a common enough sight, hardly worth a glance. Muttering a curse at the “damnable heavens,” the Daoist tilted his head at the sudden roar of hooves.

“Hyah!”

From the northern official road, a mounted troop thundered southward. These were no ordinary steeds but tall, broad-chested warhorses.

A voice cried out from within the company: “Up ahead lies Shangyong!”

“Whoa!”

At the command, the pounding column slowed. At its head rode a man of towering build, with stern visage and commanding air. He tugged at his reins and raised his hand, halting the others.

“Brother, this place—is it the very same Mr. Lu spoke of?”

Another rider urged his horse forward, bowing from the saddle. “Indeed, cousin. This is the place. Lu Liangsheng and I agreed to meet ten li south of Shangyong. He is a man of upright bearing—he would not deceive me.”

This speaker bore a sword strapped to his back, wore a fitted scholar’s robe with bound sleeves, and at his waist hung a jade pendant on a green sash. His lean face was lit by keen, spirited eyes. It was none other than Yang Su, from the roadside inn days before.

And before him, leading the column, was his cousin—Yang Jian.

Unfastening the waterskin at his side, Yang Jian took a sip. Hearing his cousin’s words, he gave a hearty laugh.

“I do not doubt him. But still—this will be my first time asking a stranger to read my fate. I confess, as elder brother, my heart feels a touch uneasy. Should he find ill-omens in my countenance, how am I to take it? Hahaha!”

With bold laughter, he cracked his horsewhip with a sharp snap.

“Come! Spur your mounts—we make for the southern outskirts without delay. Chang’an cannot be left untended!”

The hoofbeats rose once more, accompanied by a chorus of sharp cries. The troop surged southward along the official road, raising a plume of dust. Not far off, high upon a tree, Sun Yingxian parted the branches and peered at the receding column. His eyes gleamed.

“So, they too seek Old Lu—and even have a rendezvous fixed? Hehe, perfect!”

With a swift motion, he leapt from the tree, invoked his Earth-Burrowing Art, and plunged into the soil. Across the fields a ridge of earth surged forward, racing south. Five li on, the land grew rugged—dense with rock and forest. Here, the burrowing spell lost much of its efficacy, forcing Sun Yingxian to abandon it. Switching instead to his Fleetfoot Talisman, he pressed on through the mountain paths, gauging the distance by sight and instinct.

Waaah—!

A crow cried out at the edge of the forest ahead. Following the road, the Daoist scanned the surroundings. Apart from a solitary pavilion, nothing else stood in sight. 

Boom.

Thunder rumbled once again, the skies dark and oppressive, heavy enough to crush the heart.

Sun Yingxian quickly ducked into the pavilion for shelter. Yet no rain fell. He spat out in annoyance, “Damned heavens, just trying to scare people, eh…”

As his gaze swept the woods, he suddenly noticed an old man trudging past, a bundle of firewood strapped to his back. Thinking him a local villager, Sun Yingxian brightened—at last, someone to ask directions.

“Hey! Old man up ahead!”

The Daoist darted from the pavilion and pursued him into the trees. The elder, hard of hearing perhaps, gave no sign of notice, continuing onward until he reached a crumbling temple and stepped inside.

“Lanruo Temple?”

Reading the weathered inscription on the stone stele, Sun Yingxian frowned. Why would an old villager wander here instead of heading home?

…Wait.

Demonic qi!

“Old man, don’t go in!”

From his waist, the Daoist snatched out a yellow talisman pouch and brandished his demon-subduing bronze mirror, racing forward. At the temple gates stood five more elderly figures: one stoked a cooking pot, sending smoke curling skyward; another swept dead leaves from the threshold. When they noticed the Daoist approach, they merely lifted their eyelids briefly, then returned to their silent tasks.

Sun Yingxian’s heart sank. Their life essence… it’s been siphoned away. A demon’s trickery, luring strong men into servitude, draining their years of life!

From the corner of his vision, he caught a shadow—the hem of a black skirt fluttering within the temple. At once he raised the bronze mirror, ready to storm inside.

Then, a familiar voice rang out.

“Old Sun, must you greet me with killing intent the moment we meet?”

The Daoist froze mid-step, his eyes snapping toward the sound. There stood Lu Liangsheng, brush in hand, before the courtyard wall, smiling calmly.

At his feet squatted the Toad Daoist, bowing with webbed hands pressed together.

“Ha! Old Lu!”

“And Old Toad as well!”

With a laugh of sheer delight, Sun Yingxian stuffed away the bronze mirror, then rushed forward, seizing Lu Liangsheng in a fierce embrace. The scholar gave him a hearty pat on the back.

“How did you know I was here?” 

“Bah, wherever you go, could I not find you? Do you doubt this Daoist’s skill?”

The two parted, and Sun Yingxian excitedly talked about Lu’s home village. Hearing that the family and the villagers were safe and sound, relief washed over him. Lu Liangsheng, meanwhile, continued sketching upon the temple wall, chuckling softly.

“So long as all is well at home, that is enough. In a few days, I plan to return to Southern Chen to visit my kin and pay a call upon my honored teacher in the capital.”

At the mention of Master Wang Shuhua, the Daoist, who had just been brimming with enthusiasm recounting their journey from Lu Family Village, abruptly fell silent. His smile dimmed, his expression turning solemn.

“Why do you not go on?” Lu Liangsheng asked, having just brushed the finger of a Buddha upon the wall. He turned his head slightly.

“That… mm…”

The Daoist pressed his lips together, his gaze skittering aside. For a long while he could not bring the words forth. At last he drew in a deep breath and forced out a broken voice.

“Your honored master… he… he is no more.”

With hurried hands he drew a bundle from his robe, still warm from being pressed to his chest. His fingers fumbled the cloth wrapping open, revealing a strip of prison garb, stained a dark red.

“This was written by Lord Shuhua himself… for you. Look.”

The brush in Lu Liangsheng’s hand froze mid-stroke. His body stiffened, his face still turned toward the wall. Slowly, with immense effort, his gaze slid away from the mural. At last, he turned.

“My mentor…”

His trembling hand reached out, seizing the folded strip of cloth from Sun Yingxian’s grasp. His breath shook as he unfolded it.

Though the blood upon it was long dried, the writing remained clear:

“To my disciple, Liangsheng.

I hope for your well-being. From our parting in the capital, we are now separated by life and death. Your teacher is imprisoned, yet I do not fear death. Liangsheng, you must not grieve.

The path of the sages is strewn with hardship, yet we scholars must embrace death as if it were our duty—so long as it is death with meaning. Still, each time I recall the days spent with you, my heart aches. They are memories I cannot relinquish, even here in this cell…”

Boom—

Thunder roared, rolling across the heavens. The world darkened as if the skies themselves mourned.