Volume One: Chaos in Yan and Yun Chapter 40: Southward (Part 2)

Half a month later, the official road connecting Xiangzhou and Northern Yan lay empty save for a single line of carriages—in truth, just one carriage, a fiery red Scarlet Cloud steed, and a handful of ordinary blue-maned horses.

The Murong household’s procession northward had once been rather grand, though the group itself was not large; it was the many prepared gifts that took up most of the space. Now, with the gifts already presented to the Prince of Northern Yan and the Murongs having politely declined any return offerings upon their departure, their journey had become considerably lighter.

Only the Murong family elder rode in the carriage. In these past two weeks, Feng Qi had finally learned the man’s true name.

Murong Chengzhang. It sounded scholarly, though in fact he cared little for books and greatly loved martial arts; he was also quick to anger. Feng Qi had spoken with him only twice before he lost all interest in further conversation.

Feng Qi lay on the Scarlet Cloud steed, eyes half closed, a red hemp sack resting on his stomach. Inside were a variety of snacks unique to Northern Yan, prepared so that he could reach for them whenever he wished. Yet ever since entering Xiangzhou, he found himself reaching for them less and less.

He gazed at the deserted official road and frowned.

The prefect of Xiangzhou was highly capable; under his governance, the region had enjoyed bountiful harvests year after year. The prosperity was evident even in the width of the road. Northern Yan was the foremost commandery of the north, and with the support of Wuyang had managed to build a sixteen-horsewide road. Xiangzhou, relying solely on its own tax revenues and the work of its government, had achieved the same.

Northern Yan was plagued by wind, cloud, and sand, but though Xiangzhou lay nearby, its terrain was utterly different—mountains, ravines, and deep valleys abounded here. Thus, even though the road was broad, the landscape limited visibility. From where Feng Qi lay, he could see for less than five hundred paces, but it was still strange that not a soul was in sight.

After all, official roads were meant for travel. If there truly weren’t such heavy traffic, the renownedly benevolent prefect of Xiangzhou would never have invested such immense manpower, resources, and funds to build such a road.

It seemed Xiangzhou was already aware of the Fourth Prince affair.

Yet there were no escorts sent for their party—not even a single lookout had been seen along the way.

Could turning a blind eye truly keep them uninvolved? Feng Qi pondered in silence.

If the several prefectures ahead were all like this, it would be a grueling journey indeed, he reflected.

His thoughts then drifted to the entrance of Mount Taixuan, which was located within Xiangzhou.

After half a month apart, he suddenly wondered what Feng Yang might be doing now.

According to their calculations, “Into the Wood, Three Parts” should be within Mount Taixuan; only after obtaining it could they consider “Withered Wood Meets Spring” and “Transplanting Flowers.” The latter two were openly known, and thus easier to pursue.

As he pondered, a crisp jingling sound reached his ears.

He sat up, looking toward its source.

It was a wandering Daoist. The man rode atop a wooden ox and flowing horse, each side hung with a white banner inscribed in bold, dragon-like calligraphy. A horizontal sign hung above:

“One divination to grasp all under heaven, two fingers to fathom the hearts of men.”

The sign read: “Heaven’s Arithmetic in the Mortal Realm.”

Feng Qi arched a brow, giving the Daoist a more careful look.

The man wore a scholar’s robe, washed so often it had faded to white. If he remembered correctly, it was the final version of the Palace School’s uniform before its closure. His hair was bound with a decaying wooden hairpin; his forehead was smooth, and from the temples hung two long strands of hair—a look that marked him as a Palace School scholar at a glance.

Being a scholar of the Palace School, Feng Qi felt a measure of respect.

There was a saying that scholars were useless, but the spirit and resolve the Palace School had shown during the three southern invasions of the demon clan over the past two thousand years was enough to put most armies to shame.

Outside Tong Pass there still remained Broken Book Cliff; atop Sea Watching Pass, the Inscription Stone still stood.

The Broken Book Cliff bore no books, only the bones of scholars. The Inscription Stone bore no words, only the souls of patriots.

Thus, though Feng Qi scoffed at the Daoist’s arrogance, he could not help but feel due reverence for the scholar’s robe.

Of course, knowing of those bones and those souls did not mean everyone else did.

Murong Chengzhang had at some point poked his head out, scoffing at the Daoist’s banner. “Where did this braggart come from? Even the Carefree Pavilion, which claims to know every secret under heaven, would not dare boast of grasping all under heaven, nor fathoming every heart! Where did you find the nerve to hang such arrogant slogans?”

Feng Qi frowned, about to speak, but saw that the Daoist paid him no mind. His eyes were calm, as if he had not heard a word, gazing only at Feng Qi.

Curious, Feng Qi urged his horse forward. “Might I ask your name, sir?”

The Daoist replied, “A remnant of a bygone era, now in the twilight of my years—what use is a name?”

Feng Qi said, “Your attire is that of the last generation of Palace School scholars. May I ask for your learned title?”

The Daoist replied, “Observer of the Seven Luminaries—you may call me Master Seven Luminaries.”

Heaven, earth, and man were known as the Three Talents; sun, moon, and five stars, as the Seven Luminaries—emblematic of the Palace School’s highest wisdom.

In five centuries, the Palace School had produced only two “Three Talents”: one Li Jinxing, and one Dou Xiaotong.

Scholars bearing the title of Seven Luminaries were not numerous, but there had always been successors. Feng Qi could not possibly know them all.

He offered a bow. “Since you are one of such talent, why such words? As I understand it, the pursuit of knowledge is endless.”

The Daoist replied, “Scripture of Learning, scroll three, chapter five, line sixteen—‘Only when bearing armor and spear does one know the mountain of corpses has no summit; only in the pursuit of knowledge does one know the sea of learning has no shore…’ I am well versed in the Canon; there is no need to test me, young lord.”

Feng Qi paused. He had not meant to test the man, and besides, if this was truly the last generation of Palace School scholars, he would be nearly a hundred by now—how could such a scholar be tested with mere scripture?

Only then did he notice the Daoist’s final phrase. “You know who I am, sir?”

The Daoist said, “I came here to wait for you; naturally, I know you.”

Feng Qi was silent a moment. “Do you have business with me, sir?”

The Daoist replied, “If not, I would not be here.”

Feng Qi understood. “In that case, allow me to inform my companions.”

He turned his horse and rode to the carriage.

Murong Chengzhang said, “It has been a long time since a Palace School scholar appeared in the world.”

Feng Qi replied, “Which is why I am all the more curious about his reasons for being here.”

Murong Chengzhang frowned. “It appears he wishes to speak only with you.”

Feng Qi was surprised that Murong Chengzhang had caught the nuance of the Daoist’s last words. With a wry smile, he said, “So the elder does not dislike reading after all.”

“Enough flattery. I’ve only heard Qingyun mention these things often enough that I remember some by instinct. It’s nothing.” Murong Chengzhang waved a hand. “Go on, we’ll wait for you up ahead.”