As the pool continued to drain, the previously still underground river began to surge, carrying along dozens of wooden tubs and copper bowls. Initially scattered and clinking against the stalagmites, they eventually aligned themselves in a neat row, following the current toward the hexagonal pavilion.
Inside, the stone furniture consisted of six sets of stools and individual square tables, seating twelve people in total.
Wang Cang Hai directed Wan San to sit across from him at the central stone stools. He reached out to push the small table in front of him, which slid smoothly into position. Its legs remained stationary, but the tabletop extended over the flowing water beneath it.
Wan San imitated him, sliding his own table forward until it aligned with Wang Cang Hai’s, forming a larger rectangular table. The design allowed all twelve small tables to be combined into one long banquet table.
“I’m starting to believe this tomb was indeed designed by an immortal,” Wan San said with a laugh. “Who else in the mortal world could come up with something so ingenious?”
Wang Cang Hai, however, seemed unimpressed. “What’s so difficult about this? Even I could design something like this.”
Wan San laughed even harder. “You’re the Star-Decreed Genius, so you can’t really be considered a mere mortal.”
“The next miracle you’re about to witness is something truly only a divine being could achieve,” Wang Cang Hai said with a smile. “The welcome banquet I’ve prepared for you, Brother Wan, is about to begin. Let the music play.”
As soon as his words fell, the dozens of wooden tubs and copper vessels floating in the pool began to produce sounds, as though they had come to life. The tubs emitted tones like a jade zither, while the copper vessels produced chime-like notes, interspersed with low drum beats created by collisions of wooden and metallic objects. The result was a three-part symphony—ethereal, harmonious, and gradually intensifying as the sounds approached.
“‘The Mother of the Jade Pool opens her ornate window, the song of yellow bamboo echoes mournfully across the land. Eight steeds cover thirty thousand miles daily—why does King Mu not return?’” Wang Cang Hai softly sang along to the melody.
His singing voice was captivating, Wan San thought, a pity that the young master rarely displayed his musical talent in front of others and even avoided indulging in leisure like elegant music and songs. The lyrics he sang came from the Tang poet Li Shangyin’s “Jade Pool,” recounting the Queen Mother of the West’s longing for King Mu of Zhou. But the melody was new—likely composed by Wang Cang Hai himself to match the natural symphony of the musical vessels. This flawless blend of song and sound reaffirmed what Wan San already suspected: genius came effortlessly to Wang Cang Hai. There didn’t seem to be a single thing he couldn’t excel at.
After singing the song twice, Wang Cang Hai remarked, “Earlier today, I had lunch with twenty-four merchants and local gentry. The stench of humanity on them was so overwhelming that I barely touched my food. Before you arrived, I managed to take a bath and nap for two hours, then gathered enough energy to brief thirteen of them about their tasks for the Yellow River engineering project.”
At the mention of the Yellow River project, Wan San snapped to attention, reminded of his true purpose for traveling thousands of miles from the East Sea to the northwest desert.
“Cang Hai, I have an immodest request…” Wan San had rehearsed countless ways to propose that the lucrative river transportation and logistics for the project be entrusted to the Wan family’s merchant fleet.
“Let’s eat and talk,” Wang Cang Hai replied, bending down to retrieve a wooden tub from the flowing water beneath the pavilion and setting it on the table. “There’s an underground river upstream. These are the meals and drinks that Xia Xia and Pa Pa prepared earlier and sent down via the current.” He opened the tub, revealing warm wine bottles and cups inside.
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