Two days later, Shen Xiyin packed her belongings and set out with Xu Yanxing for Jinling. Her illness was becoming more tormenting by the day. Throughout the journey, Xu Yanxing cared for her attentively, constantly asking where she felt unwell.
Shen Xiyin, cheeks flushed, could never bring herself to answer—she only shook her head and pressed her legs together.
There were not many things Shen Xiyin excelled at; endurance was one of them. Or rather, she had grown accustomed to enduring. Born into poverty and orphaned early, she had lived alone for years. Whenever she suffered a knock, a fever, or a headache, she would grit her teeth and endure until it passed. But this illness was unlike the others—the more she tried to bear it, the more unbearable it became.
After several days of such torment, they finally reached the borders of Jinling.
The Pei Immortal Estate stood atop Imperial City Mountain on the eastern side of Jinling. At the mountain gate stretched a long stairway paved with layers of white marble. Above the jade steps rose towering palaces and lofty pavilions, piercing the clouds, their grandeur casting a commanding gaze over the city below.
On either side of the great hall, Pei clan disciples stood in solemn ranks. The invited families of the Daoist sects exchanged silent glances, holding their breath, as an invisible pressure seemed to envelop the surroundings.
Shen Xiyin kept her head lowered, not daring to look around, carefully following behind Xu Yanxing.
Ascending the long stairway, Xu Yanxing nodded to each of the Daoist scholars who had come to attend. In the Xu family of Changliu, these men were honored guests of the highest rank, yet here they could only take seats at the back. It was, after all, nothing more than an ordinary symposium. Yet in the Daoist world, no distinguished family dared to be absent. Perhaps only a clan as deeply rooted and powerful as the Peis could command such universal attendance. He had carefully chosen the seed for his future offspring from none other than the Pei clan. Dragons beget dragons, phoenixes beget phoenixes—if he wished his child to be gifted and handsome, the seed sown must be exceptional.
The appearance of Pei scions was renowned throughout the Daoist world: strikingly handsome, admired by all. As the poem says, “Jiangnan, land of beauty, capital of six dynasties”—referring to Jinling. Truly a land of eminent spirits, where the blessed terrain nurtured bloodlines of not only fine looks but also extraordinary talent and cultivation, far surpassing ordinary sects.
Xu Yanxing’s gaze fell ahead, upon a young man with sword-like brows and starry eyes, head held high, surrounded at the center of the crowd.
This was Pei Jun, the precious young master of the Pei clan. Among his generation, his gifts were the most outstanding, the one most favored by the clan head—and the very candidate Xu Yanxing had chosen after much deliberation.
Pei Jun was proud and aloof; expecting him to cooperate with such a plan was impossible. But Xu Yanxing had his own means to see it done. Not long ago, he had stumbled upon a Bewitching Ghost’s maze of enchantment in a desolate mountain near Jinling.
Among the many vile demons and monsters of this world, none were more troublesome—or more perversely mischievous—than the Bewitching Ghost. Some might not recognize the name, but mention its alias, “Old Lecher,” and its nature was plain. In life, it had been a painter of erotic albums, reviled as obscene and debased. Nursing resentment, it became a vengeful spirit after death, delighting in tormenting hypocrites—those who mouthed virtue while scorning desire. At first, it merely tricked victims into drinking its Bewitching Draught, clouding their minds and driving them to scandalous acts. A famed monk, for instance, once drank the potion, lost his senses, and ran bare-chested through the streets chasing women—until the authorities seized him, his reputation ruined. Or again, a pair of sworn enemies, forever at each other’s throats, awoke after drinking the draught to find themselves lying together in the same bed.
Such incidents were countless. Later, when the ghost grew bored of its Bewitching Draught, it began to use the hidden desires and greed buried in the hearts of lovesick men and resentful women as ingredients, and from them created the Maze of Enchantment.
Within the maze, it set forty-nine trials of passion. Any man and woman forced inside had to pass through each trial; those who failed would be consumed by the maze’s resentment, their bodies and souls destroyed. Only by overcoming every trial could one escape—otherwise they would be trapped there for all eternity.
Since the maze first appeared, no pair had ever emerged unscathed. All who entered were tormented by its trials, compelled into shameful entanglements. Yet a few years ago, this powerful ghost—who had wreaked havoc among mortals for centuries—suddenly vanished without a trace, and the maze disappeared with it.
Xu Yanxing had never expected to stumble upon the Bewitching Ghost’s abandoned maze in that desolate mountain. As a righteous cultivator sworn to vanquish demons, he should have destroyed such a menace without hesitation. But for reasons he could not explain, he did not. Instead, he conceived the thought of claiming it for himself. And so he acted: raising his hand to cast a spell, he set a barrier beside the maze, concealing all signs of its presence so that none but he would know of it. Perhaps, deep down, he had already foreseen that one day he would have use for it.
Xu Yanxing’s gaze lingered on his wife’s pale face, unreadable. All it would take was a carefully staged accident—one that sent her and Pei Jun “by mischance” into the maze. Then he could borrow the seed with ease. Once they emerged, the deed would be done. Shen Xiyin, a conservative village woman, would never dare make a scandal of it. Pei Jun, born into a noble clan, held himself in high esteem. He would never wish to be entangled with a woman as humble as Shen Xiyin, lowly as wild grass. Whatever happened within the maze would be, to him, nothing more than a nightmare he would rather forget.
Moreover, the Pei family was known for its upright conduct and strict discipline. The clan head governed with severity; if word ever spread that Pei Jun had dallied with another man’s wife, he would never again be able to stand within the Pei household. With such a promising future ahead, Pei Jun would never breathe a word of it.
This matter would rot in the bellies of all involved. Xu Yanxing, meanwhile, would have solved his heir problem in secret—and gained leverage over the Pei clan’s cherished young master. No one would ever suspect that he himself had sent his wife into the Maze of Enchantment. After all, who else in this world would willingly let another man put a child in his wife’s womb?
Shen Xiyin knew nothing of her husband’s twisted schemes. Taking small, cautious steps, she followed him in fear all the way until they reached the gates of the Golden Hall.
On either side of the great doors were carved two gilded characters in ancient script, gleaming conspicuously. Shen Xiyin glanced at them curiously, tugged lightly at Xu Yanxing’s sleeve, and whispered, “Husband, what do these words mean?”
Xu Yanxing replied, “On the left is fangzheng—uprightness. On the right is yaliang—magnanimity. Uprightness means a person of integrity, unyielding to outside forces. Magnanimity means a broad heart, calm composure, and refined grace. As the ancients said, ‘Cultivate oneself and remain just’—this is the principle. These four words are the Pei clan’s family precepts, carved at the entrance of their Golden Hall to remind disciples to restrain themselves. But I suspect the Pei clan also carved them so prominently as a way of flaunting their virtue.”
“Flaunting themselves?”
“Indeed. If one were to ask among all the eminent figures of the realm who best embodies these four words, it would surely be the current head of the Pei clan…”
Shen Xiyin listened intently, but suddenly fell silent.
“Enough. Saying more is pointless. You’ll never have dealings with such people, so knowing this serves no purpose.”
Shen Xiyin lowered her eyes quietly and asked no further.
Once inside the hall, disciples of the Pei clan in indigo robes guided the guests to their seats.
The seating arrangement at the banquet was carefully ordered: the most venerable and powerful families sat at the head, those of lesser standing in the middle, and the rest at the rear.
The Xu clan of Changliu was placed toward the back. By the time Xu Yanxing and Shen Xiyin arrived, most of the good seats there were already taken, leaving only a few in the corners. Xu Yanxing felt some dissatisfaction, but Shen Xiyin thought the spot was fine—quiet and inconspicuous—and sat down obediently.
Xu Yanxing did not remain long at the table before rising and leaving, as though some urgent matter called him away, leaving Shen Xiyin alone in the corner.
At a symposium such as this, discussions of Daoist philosophy were inevitable. Someone proposed “Being and Non-being” as the topic for a drinking game: each participant would present an argument, and if their words proved empty and failed to persuade the majority, they would be punished with three cups of wine.
Shen Xiyin understood little of abstruse philosophy, nor was she skilled in debate. But she was adept at playing the part of an attentive listener. Sitting upright at the lacquered table, she listened quietly to each person’s discourse.
At the banquet, the guests sparred with words, arguments flying back and forth in heated debate. Suddenly, someone addressed her: “Madam, I see you listening so intently. Surely you have your own unique perspective on this topic—why not share it with us?”
“I…”
Before Shen Xiyin could reply, a fellow disciple seated beside that man interjected: “Better not. Haven’t you noticed how everyone avoids her when the drinking games begin?”
“Why?” The disciple leaned close and whispered a few words in his ear. After hearing them, the man’s gaze toward Shen Xiyin carried a new shade of disdain.
Shen Xiyin could not hear what was said, but from the movement of his lips she could make out the words ‘country bumpkin’ and ‘lowly’. These were the words she had grown most accustomed to hearing over the past three years. She lowered her head, her hand hidden beneath the table, clutching tightly at the elaborate gown she had donned for the banquet.
Everyone at the feast remained outwardly courteous—no one mocked her aloud, no one glared at her coldly. Everything appeared perfectly normal, except that no one spoke to her, as though by unspoken agreement.
Already unwell, Shen Xiyin now felt her chest constricting, heavy and suffocating, making it hard to breathe. Bracing herself against the lacquered low table, she rose and walked toward the hall doors, hoping to step outside for some air. She glanced around but could not find Xu Yanxing, unease flooding her heart. The grand hall’s crystal lamps blazed too brightly, dazzling and oppressive, making her head spin.
Shen Xiyin staggered forward a few steps, unable to steady herself, and with a loud bang crashed into a nearby wine table. The cups toppled instantly, shattering across the floor with a clatter, wine splashing everywhere—dampening the hem of the robe of the man who had just approached.
The laughter and chatter in the hall abruptly ceased. What had been lively moments ago fell silent, as if a taut string had suddenly snapped.
Shen Xiyin collapsed onto the cold tiles, her palm scraping against broken porcelain. The sharp sting jolted her back to awareness. Seeing the mess around her and the conspicuous wine stains on the man’s robe, panic surged through her. From the moment she arrived here, she had lived in constant fear of misstep, terrified of being ridiculed. Now, the fragile dignity she had tried so hard to maintain lay shattered like the broken cups on the floor.
The silence was suffocating. Countless eyes turned toward her.
After a few breaths, everyone in the hall bowed in unison to the man whose robe she had stained. Shen Xiyin heard the Pei clan disciples respectfully address him as “Patriarch.”
Her mind buzzed blankly. Only after a long moment did she realize who stood before her. She had no idea what to do—her fingers trembled helplessly, and all the carefully rehearsed words of propriety fled her memory. In the end, she could only whisper the phrase she said most often. “F-forgive me…”
The man did not even lower his gaze to her. His tall figure passed by, leaving behind only a calm, indifferent reply: “It’s nothing.”
That lofty, magnanimous tone was all too familiar to Shen Xiyin. She ought to feel relieved that she had not been reprimanded. Yet, for reasons she could not explain, the tears she had held back for so long spilled down her cheeks the moment she heard those two words.