Yuan Xiaozhong tiptoed to the kitchen, grabbed a few knives, and tucked them behind his waist. Last time, those red-eyed war spirits had broken through the portal with ferocious force, ruthlessly chopping him into several pieces and injuring both his master and Dazhong. This grudge couldn’t be left unavenged. He was determined to show those ignorant war spirits what it meant to face the wrath of a mechanical man.
Stepping out into the snow, he noticed the path by the lake was empty. The ground was covered in white, and there wasn’t even a tree to hide behind. Yuan Xiaozhong longed to bury himself in the snow, hoping to sneak up to the portal and catch the war spirits by surprise.
But before he could make a move, a figure sluggishly emerged from the small building—it was Yuan Zhong. He looked like he had just woken up, his clothes disheveled, with his outer robe hanging loosely off one shoulder. He yawned and stretched as he lazily walked toward the portal.
He can’t go! Yuan Xiaozhong leaped up, ready to shout, “Dazhong...” But just as he uttered the first syllables, it felt as if something was stuck in his throat. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make a sound. Panicked, he grabbed at his neck and began hopping around like a frog.
“Don’t shout,” Tan Yin’s voice suddenly appeared beside him. Startled, Yuan Xiaozhong rushed toward her, almost in tears, pointing at his throat.
“I did that,” Tan Yin said calmly. “You shouldn’t shout.”
Yuan Xiaozhong stared at her in confusion, utterly lost.
She seemed burdened with countless worries. Although she had occasionally looked troubled before, it had never been as overwhelming as it was now. It was as if she was barely holding on, sustained by a single thread, ready to collapse at any moment.
His master was supposed to be intelligent, beautiful, and strong. Yuan Xiaozhong looked at her thin frame, wrapped in white robes, being tugged by the wind and snow. It seemed as though her body could be torn apart at any moment. Was she really so fragile and delicate?
“Don’t tell Yuan Zhong about what happened earlier,” Tan Yin said softly. She didn’t look at him; her eyes were fixed on Yuan Zhong’s shrinking figure in the distance, filled with longing, yet also with the sense of a final farewell.
What happened earlier? Was she referring to her plan to leave Yuan Zhong? Yuan Xiaozhong didn’t understand. She had clearly stayed behind. Since she wasn’t leaving, why couldn’t he tell? He didn’t want to keep Dazhong in the dark—at the very least, he should warn him. In Yuan Xiaozhong’s simple, mechanical mind, cause and effect worked like this: Tan Yin had planned to leave, but chose to stay. Now, he and Dazhong should team up to watch her more closely, making sure she couldn’t slip away unnoticed.
“Yuan Xiaozhong, please, don’t tell him,” she repeated, her voice carrying a note of pleading.
Reluctantly, Yuan Xiaozhong nodded. Tan Yin seemed to relax a little, smiling faintly as she brushed the snow from his shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Ah...” Yuan Xiaozhong’s throat suddenly cleared, and he let out a confused sigh. He watched as Tan Yin’s figure transformed into a shimmering light, quickly catching up to Yuan Zhong. She said something to him and adjusted his robe, which had slipped from his shoulder. Yuan Zhong wrapped his arm around her, their laughter echoing through the wind and snow.
The knives tucked behind Yuan Xiaozhong’s waist suddenly felt pointless. He had originally planned to protect his master and Dazhong, but now, he didn’t feel the need for any of that. They had never needed his protection anyway—it was enough that he didn’t cause trouble.
As the sky grew darker and the snow intensified, Yuan Xiaozhong found himself covered in a layer of snow. He paced back and forth, trying to make sense of what had happened. Why had Tan Yin been crying? Her tears were real. She had intended to leave, and his attempts to stop her weren’t fake. But now, she had stayed, yet wouldn’t let him reveal what had transpired. The complexity and mystery of human emotions were beyond him.
The message had been delivered by Lord Meishan. Previously, Tan Yin had crafted a wooden eagle and sent it with two jars of Zui Sheng Meng Si (a powerful wine). The wine had been good, and the wooden eagle amusing, so Lord Meishan had kept the bird with him, only now returning it.
The wooden eagle was dressed in an elegant little robe, complete with a colorful hat. It seemed that Lord Meishan had made it especially for the bird—the silver threads and vibrant colors were both comical and eye-catching. Yuan Zhong chuckled, flicking the bird's precariously perched hat, causing the wooden eagle to squawk in discontent—it was evidently quite pleased with its current appearance.
“This Lord Meishan, even mechanical birds get spoiled under his care,” Yuan Zhong said with a shake of his head.
Hanging from the bird’s chest was an oilpaper bag, meticulously wrapped. Inside was a letter and a beautifully crafted silk handkerchief, with a small, lifelike amethyst snake attached to it, no bigger than a pinky finger.
The letter, written by Lord Meishan, was full of lavish praise for the two jars of Zui Sheng Meng Si, written in flowery, ornate prose that filled an entire page with nothing but pleasantries. He also mentioned his fondness for the wooden eagle, saying he had it dressed up and sent flying daily—another page of needless details. Finally, on the third page, he got to the point: it was time once again for Lord Xiangqu of Xiangqu Mountain to hold the annual celestial flower and wine festival, and Lord Xiangqu, having heard that the great monk (Yuan Zhong) had left Fangwai Mountain and was wandering, sent an invitation through Lord Meishan.
When Yuan Zhong unfolded the silk handkerchief, sure enough, it was an invitation. The handwriting was elegant, the wording refined, and the handkerchief itself was infused with the fragrance of qingmuxiang (a type of aromatic wood). The fabric was soft to the touch—Lord Xiangqu was known to be an indulgent immortal, always seeking pleasure in the finest things.
0 Comments