Chapter Sixty-Two: The City of Xingyang

These matters were not entirely beyond Qiu Wan’er’s comprehension, yet to say she fully understood them would be untrue as well. She was, after all, still so young; a person who has experienced little cannot grasp the deeper meanings of things. But that was nothing to regret—perhaps never knowing was, in some sense, a blessing.

Time, as always, slipped away in haste, especially in the deep hours of the night. Qiu Wan’er’s head grew heavy and drowsy, her eyelids refusing to stay open. Though the boat was not large, it proved quite convenient, and before she realized it, she drifted off to sleep, leaning comfortably in a corner. The caress of the early summer night’s breeze, though tinged with a trace of chill, was not unpleasant. Thus, she slept soundly and peacefully, and when her eyes fluttered open again, the distant outline of Yingyang City was already visible.

It was not her first time here, though her previous visit had been but a fleeting stop. What little memory she retained of the city had faded almost entirely with the passing of time. Now, as she gazed upon it, her first impression was one of awe. Yingyang had always been an important stronghold in the southwest, nestled between mountain and river, carved with ingenious artistry. The city’s native marble, renowned for its quality, lent an exquisite touch to the ancient architectural style. The mingling of carved dragons and painted phoenixes bestowed auspicious meanings, blending perfectly with the city’s wealth and prosperity. The city seemed to embody its ancient character exactly. Perhaps it owed its fortune to the land itself, occupying a strategic corner and shielded by the confluence of the Xiang River and Mount Balu, rendering it almost impregnable. Even through the past century, as chaos swept the Nine Provinces, Yingyang remained untouched. Wealth, after all, is built by accumulation—a truth beyond dispute.

Of course, such things had little to do with Qiu Wan’er, and even less with Zhuola Weiyang. The two of them shared a single purpose: to find someone. Their targets, however, were different. Still, in a place where there were people, there was always the world of the martial arts. At this very moment, the streets of Yingyang, lively at any time, were busier than ever. Martial artists from all directions flocked to witness the excitement, and even traveling merchants and visitors found reason to linger. Such a grand assembly was rare indeed—a perfect opportunity to do business or simply enjoy the spectacle. After all, the likes of Shen Wansan and the Daoist of Heaven’s Secrets were legendary figures not easily encountered. And on this day, the most storied of all, Prince Qi, Xiao Jinghao, was expected to appear—a symbol of the imperial court itself. His presence would elevate the gathering to new heights.

Yet, while crowds brought fortune to local merchants, for outsiders like Qiu Wan’er and Zhuola Weiyang, it brought a sense of oppression. Before finding the people they sought, even securing a place to stay became a problem. Sleeping in the streets was out of the question, but finding a good inn was no easy matter. Most were already full, and in the rare case that a room was available, the price had soared severalfold. This, of course, was simply the logic of supply and demand—no one could be blamed.

Fortunately, Qiu Wan’er still had plenty of silver. Money could open any door, and besides, she carried a sword at her waist. The innkeepers were no fools; they knew not to press their luck, for should they overreach and anger the wrong guest, they might well see their establishment smashed to bits, with no one to appeal to for justice. Moderation was the first rule of business. When a room reached two taels of silver per night, a tacit understanding was reached. For Qiu Wan’er, it was a small matter—she would stay only a few days, and her funds sufficed. Besides, once she found her senior brother, money would no longer be an issue; she could always borrow from him, provided he was willing.

With everything arranged, Qiu Wan’er set off into the streets. The old man was already gone, vanishing without a word. He was probably off searching for his fellow disciples. It was just as well—they all knew where the Daoist of Heaven’s Secrets would be, but she had no intention of letting the old man follow her every step. She wanted her freedom, and so she abandoned her search for now. After all, she had come to enjoy herself—happiness was all that mattered. When the martial gathering began, their paths would cross naturally enough.

Unlike her leisure, Han Tanyi was in great discomfort. Having committed a wrong, a person’s conscience would always be haunted, especially when facing the one they had wronged. The Daoist of Heaven’s Secrets and Shen Wansan were both famed men, and the Mingyue Villa, as host of the gathering, treated the old Daoist with particular respect—they could not afford to lose face in such matters. The villa was already thronged with guests, many of them renowned figures of the martial world, but only a select few received Shen Wansan’s personal attention.

At this moment, Shen Wansan sat in the great hall, occasionally receiving invitations and names, which he accepted with a nod or a wave, dispatching most guests without much ceremony. Han Tanyi, for his part, wished the old man would leave—at least then he could breathe easier. But fate does not favor the fearful, and every step Shen Wansan took seemed to draw him closer, making Han Tanyi’s heart pound. He dared not meet the man’s gaze, bowing his head, wishing to escape, but unable to do so; every approaching footfall echoed in his chest.

Fortunately, there was still hope. Xia Wuya, alert and attentive, saw Shen Wansan drawing near and quickly patted the Daoist’s arm to rouse him from his nap.

“Master, wake up, master?” His voice was soft, but close to the ear it was more than enough. The Daoist of Heaven’s Secrets had only been dozing, and at the nudge, he woke with a start, his gaze falling blearily on Xia Wuya. “What is it? Is it time to eat?” he asked, still half-dazed.

Xia Wuya could only laugh helplessly—such was the old man’s nature, impossible to change. He hesitated, unsure whether he ought to reply. Shen Wansan, however, betrayed no surprise or annoyance, as if this scene was only too familiar. He simply smiled, an unfeigned expression, and, approaching, said, “Not yet, old Daoist. It seems you spend your days in leisure—I truly envy your way of life!”

Whether he spoke sincerely or not, who could say? The Daoist of Heaven’s Secrets, realizing where he was, straightened up at once, a little embarrassed, yet quickly masked it with a smile. “What is it, Brother Shen? The gathering doesn’t begin until tomorrow, does it? Since you’re in charge of everything, there’s nothing for an old man like me to do. In times like these, a nap is the best entertainment—why begrudge me that?”

“Old ghost, you’ve never changed. After all these years, I’m used to your ways. But today, an old friend has arrived—shouldn’t we go and meet them together?” Shen Wansan’s tone bore no hint of reproach; on the contrary, it matched his words. He handed over the invitation with a look of anticipation.