Wu Ma Nan Sheng’s mouth hung open for a moment before he finally responded, “Oh… alright.”
And just like that, the convoy left Yingjing City.
For the next forty days of travel, every command—whether to set off, rest, eat, or make camp—was relayed to the Silver Armor Battalion by Wang Cang Hai’s attendants. Wu Ma Nan Sheng, despite leading the personal guard unit, still had not laid eyes on Lord Xiao Wang even once.
On the fifteenth day of the seventh month, Wang Cang Hai’s convoy arrived at Qingze Lake.
According to the customs of the Da Yong Empire, the year had three Yuan Festivals:
- Shangyuan Festival (First Month, Fifteenth Day) was the Lantern Festival, a day of blessings from the Heavenly Official.
- Zhongyuan Festival (Seventh Month, Fifteenth Day) was when the gates of the underworld opened, allowing ghosts to roam freely—a day of pardon from the Earthly Official.
- Xiayuan Festival (Tenth Month, Fifteenth Day) was the Winter Completion Festival, a day of misfortune relief from the Water Official.
That morning, Wang Cang Hai used a tortoise shell for divination and cast six yao [lines in an I Ching hexagram].
"Vermilion Bird, Official Ghost, Hai Water; Mao Wood gains strength under the moon. The buried is easily drawn forth."
Lord Xiao Wang studied the hexagram and smiled.
"The governing spirit overcomes the timing—this omen favors me. The little ghosts are finally taking the bait."
The hexagram suggested that Gui Men [the Gate of Ghosts] was at Zi-Hai Water Position—Qingze Lake. This would be the site of their first confrontation.
The sun was relentless that day, scorching the earth as the convoy pressed onward. By noon, everyone was drenched in sweat. Even though the Silver Armor Battalion had switched to lighter summer armor, the heat was still unbearable.
And yet, Lord Xiao Wang had given no orders to stop for shade the entire morning. By the time they reached the shores of Qingze Lake, the exhaustion among the troops was evident. Their pace had slowed considerably.
By the roadside, a teahouse appeared—clearly a temporary setup. The wooden beams and thatched roof looked new, but the tables and benches were worn and old.
Under the shade outside, a grayish-pink donkey was tethered to a post. Inside the teahouse sat a young man dressed in a fitted black hunting outfit, his face obscured by a cast-iron mask. His posture was strikingly relaxed.
He poured himself a bowl of tea from the earthen teapot on the table and sipped it slowly, his gaze drifting toward the distant road.
At the head of the Silver Armor Battalion, Wu Ma Nan Sheng spotted the unusual teahouse and instinctively tightened his grip on his massive dapudao [a two-handed saber taller than a man], raising it slightly in preparation. His entire posture shifted into high alert.
The iron-masked man let out a faint, mocking snicker.
Wu Ma Nan Sheng sharpened his senses, listening carefully for any unusual movements. Instead, what he overheard was a group of his own soldiers whispering behind him:
“Lord Xiao Wang’s luggage seems to be getting heavier and heavier. The carriages are struggling to pull them—look at how deep the wheel tracks are.”
“It’s strange, isn’t it? We’ve been on the road for forty days. Lord Xiao Wang hands out money like water, treats us to snacks and fruit, and even bought everyone new boots just the other day. Silver flows like a river, yet instead of getting lighter, the luggage keeps getting heavier.”
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