Wan San knew the grim events of two years ago—Zhu Di had breached Ying Jing City, and Zhu Wen had immolated himself in the Ji Qing Palace. Rumors abounded that it was Wang Cang Hai himself who had set the palace aflame. Was this true? Wan San had known Wang Cang Hai for four years now, yet he had never dared to ask about the truth behind the charge of "regicide."
Now, emboldened by the wine, Wan San finally broached the subject:
“Cang Hai, the night before Ying Jing City fell, you rushed to Ji Qing Palace. It was to save the late Emperor, wasn’t it?”
Wang Cang Hai’s gaze drifted, his words becoming disjointed, as if the wine had muddled his thoughts:
“I couldn’t save him. I killed him. The Three Yang Calamities, the elusive Bing Yin star, the shift of the Ziwei constellation… The fire in Ji Qing Palace—I started it. The gates of the inner imperial city—I smashed them open. I told Zhu Wen to hide, but he refused, so I locked him inside... The Calamity Star, the conjunction of Rahu and Ketu... I only hoped to deceive the heavens and save his life. But by the time I reached him again, his heart had already stopped... My calculations were all accurate, but my actions were all wrong. I doomed Zhu Wen. I killed him...”
At this point, Wang Cang Hai slumped forward onto the table, unconscious.
Wan San sighed deeply and muttered, “Poor soul. At just 18 years old, you bore such burdens. To be called a prodigy, the Heaven-Appointed Star Lord... it seems more curse than blessing.”
The hexagonal pavilion grew quiet, the surrounding waters’ ethereal music echoing in the stillness.
“‘Lady of the Jade Pool opens her ornate windows,
Bamboo flutes echo with earthly sorrow.
The Eight Steeds gallop 30,000 miles a day;
Why does King Mu not return?’”
Wan San recalled the song Wang Cang Hai had sung earlier. The overwhelming sorrow in its melody wasn’t just regret—it was the pain of irreparable loss.
After some time, Wang Cang Hai stirred awake, blinking slowly.
“How long did I sleep?” he asked.
Wan San shook his head. “I was quite drunk myself. Without a water clock here, I couldn’t tell.”
Wang Cang Hai propped his head up with one hand and asked, “How many rounds of the water-music cycle played while I slept?”
“About two and a half. I heard the melody twice; it was truly beautiful,” Wan San replied.
“Then it’s been three quarters of an hour,” Wang Cang Hai said, rising to his feet. “We still have time. Let me show you the treasure.”
“Treasure? There’s treasure here?” Wan San asked, surprised.
“Of course,” Wang Cang Hai replied with a faint smile. “It’s the keepsake buried by Xi Wang Mu, left behind by King Mu of Zhou as a parting gift.”
As they moved behind the pavilion, Wang Cang Hai continued his tale:
“When King Mu was 105 years old, he abdicated the throne to his nephew Ji He and set out alone to fulfill his promise to Xi Wang Mu at Kunlun Mountain. By then, King Mu had attained a semi-divine state through cultivation. Records in Mu Tianzi Zhuan describe how, on his journey, he encountered a tiger, subdued it barehanded, and caged it as a pet—a feat so legendary that the site was later named ‘Tiger Prison Pass.’
“According to the inscriptions here, upon reaching Kunlun Mountain, King Mu and Xi Wang Mu reunited and were formally married. However, their blissful life together lasted only 15 days before King Mu had a change of heart. He stole ten elixirs of immortality and left her suddenly. He left behind a parting gift and a letter saying that the treasure was his payment for the elixirs and that they should part ways forever, never to meet again.”
Wan San’s curiosity was piqued. “What treasure could possibly be worth ten elixirs of immortality? That’s a thousand years of extended life!”
Wang Cang Hai, now fully composed, replied in his usual calm tone:
“I’ve tested its properties and named it ‘The Treasure Basin.’”
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