Qingming Mountain remained hidden in cloud and mist, as always.
A slender figure stood before the small wooden cabin where Fengxue lived. His robes hung loose and light, his white garments trailing to the ground, one hand reaching out to brush against the plum tree by the door.
Winter had already passed, and the plum blossoms had long since fallen, the branches still grew skyward, strong and unyielding. Unlike the delicate charm of peach blossoms, they had a bearing all their own.
There were a few marks scored into the trunk.
They looked like the accidental nicks left from sword practice.
She always trained here.
Shen Yujing thought to himself.
Mist drifted through the mountains like fine gauze. He studied the plain little cabin, and before he quite realized it, found himself standing at the door.
The wooden door was shut tight.
In the past, Shen Yujing had almost never come here.
Because this was where Chi Fengxue lived.
But he remembered coming once before, two years back, when the Sect Head had sent him to fetch his junior sister for a lecture. There had been a light dusting of fresh snow that day, the mist and green mountains blending into one, and from far off he’d seen, against that vast expanse of white, a single tree burning red.
It was the plum tree by her door.
Dazzling red, fierce red, like an unyielding flame.
The girl had been practicing her sword beneath it. Her breath came out in white puffs, her sword’s edge flashing keen and cold, thin snowflakes settling on her hair and brows before quickly melting away in the heat of her body, dissolving into wisps of white mist.
Shen Yujing had stopped in his tracks, utterly transfixed. He hadn’t been sure what had captured him so completely, the plum blossoms, the fresh snow, the sword’s cold gleam, or the bright, unwavering look in the girl’s eyes as she danced with her blade through the snow.
She’d been wearing the plainest blue-green robe the mountain had to offer, and yet she’d shone as brilliant as flame, as brilliant as winter plum blossoms, vivid, unyielding, endlessly alive.
The mist rolled like a tide, thin snow drifting back and forth, and within that ink-wash mountain scene, one blazing red mortal flower had been trapped.
For some reason, looking now at that same tree with its blossoms all gone, Shen Yujing suddenly found himself thinking of that day. He stood still before the cabin a moment, then turned to leave, only to catch, from the corner of his eye, a flash of vivid red.
He spun around sharply, and found himself face to face with a youth in red instead.
The youth’s peach-blossom eyes curved into a smile, his face fine as polished jade, the vivid, fiery red robe he wore didn’t look out of place on him at all, only setting off his romantic, striking looks all the more.
The youth in red grinned, eyes crinkling, and called out to him. “Hey there. Blind man?”
Shen Yujing’s gaze fell on the two drab gray sparrows perched on his shoulder.
Ordinary little mountain birds.
Shen Yujing frowned faintly, and for no clear reason found himself thinking of the two mountain sparrows that always used to follow that girl around.
Even confined to his sickbed, he’d already heard the name Ye Pengzhou.
A youth from Yunmeng, he’d been on the mountain only a few days and had already turned everything upside down.
Proposing a toast between fellow cultivators, then getting the Sect Head’s beloved crane hopelessly drunk, complaining the mountain’s food was too bland, then sneaking off to raid a black bear’s prized honey stash and getting chased halfway across the mountain for it, talking back to the elders during lectures, brawling with disciples after class…
And yet he happened to be strikingly handsome, tall and fine as jade, his smile full of vivid, reckless charm. Somehow even his misdeeds never seemed to earn him real resentment.
“Fellow Cultivator Ye.” Shen Yujing bowed slightly, left hand cupped over right, offering Ye Pengzhou a formal salute.
Among peers within Xuanmen, this was the customary gesture of humility.
Ye Pengzhou returned the bow, then fell into step behind him with a bright smile. “Finally getting to meet the man himself. I hear you’re a heaven-blessed genius, deep cultivation and all, how about a couple of rounds?”
Shen Yujing quickened his pace, murmuring, “Boundless Heavenly Venerable [1]an invocation of the Dao jQuery('#footnote_plugin_tooltip_3024833_1_1').tooltip({ tip: '#footnote_plugin_tooltip_text_3024833_1_1', tipClass: 'footnote_tooltip', effect: 'fade', predelay: 0, fadeInSpeed: 200, delay: 400, fadeOutSpeed: 200, position: 'top center', relative: true, offset: [-7, 0], });, the mountain’s rules forbid sparring for the sake of proving strength.”
Ye Pengzhou clasped his hands behind his head, his red sleeves billowing in the wind, ambling along behind him at an easy pace. “Rules here, rules there. Boring. No wonder the little Immortal Maiden wanted off this mountain.”
Shen Yujing’s steps faltered.
Suddenly, without a shred of concern for decorum, he formed a hand seal, drew on his spiritual energy, and rode the wind away. The mountain breeze wrapped around him, carrying the cool, damp mist of the peaks, and, trailing behind it, the clear, easy laughter of the youth from Yunmeng.
“Hahaha.” Ye Pengzhou laughed for a while, then straightened up and looked out at the misty green mountains, shaking his head lightly. “Boring,” he said. His eyes suddenly lit up, and he tossed his wine gourd into the air. “Off to go drinking, then!”
”””
Ningzhen was a small city ringed by green mountains, surrounded on all sides by steep, elegant peaks.
Once a poor, out-of-the-way place with terrible roads, it had become famous the world over for its fine embroidered brocade. Every year, merchant caravans crossed mountains and rivers to come and buy its finest fabrics.
At the center of the town stood an old shop called Cloud-Weaving House.
The shopkeeper there was known for his honesty, fair prices, and top-quality goods, and customers came streaming in every day to buy fabric.
Today, though, the doors of Cloud-Weaving House stood shut tight, with a crowd gathered outside.
“Why’s the shop closed?”
“I ordered a few bolts of flowered cloth for my wife’s new dress!”
“Where’s the shopkeeper?”
“I heard something’s happened at home.”
Amid the murmuring, a clear voice suddenly cut in. “Haunted?”
“It’s a peaceful, prosperous age, what ghosts would there be? His third son is about to leave to take up an official post. Of course they’d throw a farewell banquet to celebrate.”
The cloth merchant turned, laughing, toward the speaker, and froze the instant his eyes landed on her, an intensely bright light flaring in his gaze. “Miss, please, wait a moment!”
The girl was dressed for travel, crisp and efficient, a red cloak over her shoulders, two swords strapped to her back, and a large and small gourd hanging at her waist.
The very picture of a wandering warrior of the martial world.
But the red cloak she wore was woven from some fabric he couldn’t place, dazzling, luxurious, shot through with glimmers of gold as she moved, as if countless threads of gold had been woven straight into it, and yet it was extraordinarily soft and light, like a wisp of gauze, like a scrap of cloud.
It looked as though someone had cut a piece of sunset glow straight from the sky and sewn it into a red robe, making the girl beneath it shine all the brighter, her looks utterly captivating.
“Miss, that robe of yours,” the merchant said, visibly excited, “where did that fabric come from? Which weaver made it?”
Fengxue said, “The one who wove it has already ascended. This robe is one of a kind.”
The merchant declared, without hesitation, “I’ll pay a hundred gold for it!”
A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Fengxue only shook her head, and after asking for directions to the shopkeeper’s house, turned and walked away. In the sunlight, her red robe billowed in the breeze, rippling with shimmering gold.
The merchant hurried after her, calling out loudly, “I’ll pay a thousand gold for it!”
Fengxue leapt lightly onto a rooftop, and after a few more bounds, vanished entirely from the crowd’s view.
The merchant was left staring after her, dazed, muttering to himself, “Truly a garment fit for the heavens… if it were presented as tribute…”
Overhearing him, a young man dressed as a scholar gave his folding fan a twirl and suddenly smiled, cold and thin, his long, willow-leaf eyes curving upward to reveal a glimmer of jade-green, like still spring water.
“Waaaah—!”
Before she’d even reached the Zhang household, Fengxue heard the sound of mourning wails.
Sensing trouble, she quickened her pace, and after a few leaps, landed in front of the Zhang family estate.
The Zhang residence sat beside green mountains and clear water, its white walls and blue-gray tiles carrying a certain graceful charm.
The main gate stood half open. She pushed through and stepped inside, to find three coffins laid out neatly in the courtyard.
Several women in mourning white were covering their faces, weeping.
A funeral was clearly underway, everything around her white, Fengxue’s red robe stood out sharply against it all.
She felt a flicker of surprise. Going by the letter, this shouldn’t have been anything too dangerous, and besides, the one causing trouble was supposed to be one of the Zhang family’s own ancestors.
Even if an ancestor withheld their blessing from their descendants, they shouldn’t be able to take lives for no reason, let alone three lives at once.
A young man dressed in black stood before the coffins. His expression was grief-stricken but composed, and he offered Fengxue a polite bow.
“The Immortal Maiden arrives too late.” The young man sighed, his eyes rimmed red. “My eldest brother, my second brother, my little sister, all of them were taken by our great-grandfather.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Although for some reason, he didn’t take me.”
Fengxue asked, “Are you the third young master, the one about to take up an official post?”
The young man’s expression turned a bit awkward. “I’m ashamed to say… I am indeed the third son.”
Fengxue inclined her head. “Perhaps that’s exactly why. Ghosts are naturally weaker than the living, and the living weaker than officials of the court. As the saying goes, officials are the earthly incarnations of the Star of Literature and the Star of War descending to the mortal world, being a star lord yourself, what ordinary ghost or spirit would dare come near?”
The young man’s face flushed slightly, and after a long pause he admitted, embarrassed, “Immortal Master… this post of mine was bought.”
In this day and age, buying and selling official titles was hardly unusual.
Fengxue looked him over again.
The young man had ordinary features, gentle and slight of build.
There was an old saying, a well-read mind carries its own natural bearing. Someone of deep learning, fine character, and many good deeds carried a certain clear, refined aura about them, one that a cultivator of real attainment could see from far off. Fengxue couldn’t see it herself, but she could feel something like a fresh breeze coming off him.
Like standing in a spring wind.
Zhang Xingzhi sighed. “If I’d known buying an office would save my life, I’d have had my brothers all buy some minor clerkship too.”
Fengxue said, “It probably wouldn’t have worked for them. You carry a genuine air of uprightness, they may not have had it.” Worried that saying any more might expose just how shaky her half-learned skill at physiognomy really was, she cleared her throat and moved on. “Let’s start from the beginning, why would your great-grandfather come to take lives? Were you all disrespectful to him while he was alive?”
Zhang Xingzhi shook his head. “We may be merchants, but our family has always kept an upright household, everyone knows that.”
Fengxue asked again, “Was there some slight, then, in how you honor him, ancestral rites, tending his grave?”
Zhang Xingzhi’s face turned ashen. “Even if there were some lapse in propriety, why would that call for… taking three lives?”
“Fair point.” Fengxue glanced toward the coffins, inside lay bodies only recently dead, stiff already, their faces tinged with a bluish-purple pallor, eyes shut tight, though the corners of their mouths, oddly, curved in a faint smile.
According to Zhang Xingzhi, for several months running, the family had all dreamed of their great-grandfather crouched weeping at the door. In the dream, the old man wore tattered, ragged clothes, thin as a skeleton, more pitiful than any wandering ghost with no one to mourn it.
He never said anything in the dreams. He only wept.
The Zhang family had hurriedly burned a great deal of paper money as an offering to him.
But the very next night, they’d had the exact same dream. The brocade robes they’d burned for him, he still hadn’t put on, he remained just as gaunt, just as pitifully underdressed.
So they’d assumed the offerings meant for their great-grandfather were being stolen by some other wandering ghost, and had gone looking for a local practitioner to look into it.
But even the practitioner they found couldn’t make anything of it.
What followed was a long, drawn-out search for anyone who could perform the proper rites, but nothing helped. Eventually, the Zhang family had grown almost numb to it.
They’d burned countless offerings of paper money, paper figures, paper clothes and wealth at the grave, held one ceremony after another, none of it made any difference.
The great-grandfather kept weeping in their dreams, drop by drop. Still, the household had remained safe otherwise, and business had even been thriving, growing better and better, and the third son had recently had the good fortune to purchase an official post.
It wasn’t a high rank, but in the eyes of ordinary people, any official title still set a man a cut above everyone else.
So the Zhang family had thrown a grand banquet, made a great show of celebrating with wine, and that evening, held a farewell family dinner for the third son.
Halfway through the meal, the door had suddenly been pushed open.
The great-grandfather, who had lingered at the doorway for months, walked in.
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