Chapter Eight: A Harsh Lesson (Part One)
Page 1/3
Nestled amidst countless mountains stood a modest courier station. The surroundings, much like other parts of Guizhou, were densely forested, with towering giant tree ferns reaching heights of two to three meters—these were the abundant Cyathea trees unique to Chishui.
The Cyathea, derived from Sanskrit and also known as the Sal tree, is one of the four sacred trees in Buddhism. Legend has it that at the age of eighty, Shakyamuni attained parinirvana in a grove of twin Sal trees outside the city of Kushinagar. Consequently, Indian temples widely cultivate Sal trees, symbolizing unwavering faith and spiritual fulfillment. In the Japanese classic "The Tale of the Heike," there is a poignant verse: "The flowers of the twin Sal trees lose their color; the prosperous turn to decline like the passing years," lamenting the tragic end of the Taira clan.
Inside the courier station, Yun Zheng, Ye Xi, and An Miaotong sat around a small stove. On it simmered a pot of steaming, fragrant red broth, its aroma rich with spices and the fresh essence of ingredients, filling the space with warmth that soothed the heart.
Hot pot has a long history in China; as early as the Shang and Zhou dynasties, bronze hot pots were in use, and by the Han dynasty, there were divided pots resembling the modern yin-yang hot pot. Though some Jurchen people claim hot pot as their invention, such assertions are grossly mistaken.
The red broth bubbled endlessly, intertwining fiery red chilies with golden oil droplets, awakening appetites. Surrounding the pot were various ingredients: tender slices of yellow cattle beef and rolled goat meat, fresh seasonal vegetables like spinach, lettuce, Chinese yam, and water bamboo shoots, alongside an assortment of mushrooms and tofu products. Each ingredient gleamed enticingly, awaiting their plunge into the boiling cauldron.
Nearby sat several jars of rustic, low-alcohol glutinous rice wine, chilled with well water to a bone-cooling temperature. This sweet yet soberly refreshing drink was the finest accompaniment currently available for hot pot.
At this moment, a vigorous young servant named Yun Shi also pinned down a bloodied courier and relentlessly pounded him with fists.
The station master’s face was pale as he looked on helplessly at the servant’s violence, inwardly grateful that he had not involved himself in this uproar surrounding the attempted assassination of the Chishui Pacification Commissioner.
Who could have imagined that this seemingly graceful and unparalleled commissioner wielded such ruthless methods, and that his subordinates were equally formidable?
—The courier being beaten had simply been caught off guard and unable to respond. As for those who drew blades, their tendons had been severed, fingers bent backward until broken one by one, then discarded like lifeless dogs against the wall.
Yun Zheng lightly grasped a pair of silver chopsticks, picked up a wafer-thin slice of lamb, and slowly dipped it into the pot. Moments later, the meat changed from red to white, releasing an even richer fragrance. He lifted it again with his chopsticks, smiling gently as he offered it to Ye Xi.
The hot pot’s aroma could not mask the natural scent emanating from the beauty; rather, the steam intensified her subtle fragrance, mingling with the faint beads of sweat that blossomed on her skin, yet remaining distinct from the cooking aromas.
Ye Xi had removed her veil; her seaweed-like hair cascaded down her back, her neck slender and graceful like a swan’s. Her lips were full and translucent, her delicate nose refined and straight. Beneath finely arched brows, her clear, serene eyes lent her exquisite face a dignified elegance.
The close-fitting attire of a wanderer further revealed Ye Xi’s slender yet full figure, radiating a vibrant beauty akin to the burgeoning flora of the mountain wilderness.
At that moment, her face flushed a gentle crimson from the hot pot’s steam, rendering her all the more breathtaking, an incomparable beauty.
Yet Yun Zheng’s gaze remained as clear and steady as ever, showing not a trace of stirring emotion. His words, at this moment, turned away from the food entirely:
“How do you judge the show Chen Yuchong prepared as a warning for you?”
Ye Xi lifted her teacup, inhaled the aroma lightly, took a sip, then set it down with a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth: “A clumsy assassination attempt, like a child brandishing a stick as if it were a sword.”
Page 2/3
Facing the imminent assassination, the two men remained calm and composed, as if watching the frantic struggles of those at the mountain’s foot from the serene heights above.
Miss An Miaotong, the clerk, scanned every corner of the courtyard with bright, vigilant eyes, ensuring no hidden dangers were overlooked. One hand unconsciously rested on the moth-eyebrow dagger at her waist.
Time ticked away, second by second.
From a distance came the faintest footsteps. To ordinary ears, this sound might be imperceptible, but to the trio, it shattered the night’s silence like a clumsy intrusion.
The Imperial Secret Service was hunting number thirty-seven on the wanted list—Li Daoren, Li Feng.
This Wudang ex-disciple, now allied with Chen Yuchong, wielded a treasured sword, donned a Taoist robe embroidered with the Eight Trigrams, and led a group of young Taoists, their murderous intent palpable, as they stealthily approached the courier station.
Gazing toward the faint lantern light flickering in the night, Li Daoren’s eyes grew deep and cold; a sinister smile curled on his lips, chilling to behold.
“To remain so calm and carefree is utterly laughable,” he murmured, disdain and madness lacing his voice. “This false peace is about to shatter. Today’s grand scene will be tomorrow’s ghostly underworld.”
“Boundless Heavenly Venerable, Yama has sent this humble Taoist to collect souls here. Fellow Taoists, fate is unavoidable.”
Li Daoren’s gaze flickered between firelight and shadow—according to the courier’s words, the woman inside the station resembled Miss Ye Xi, who had left Chishui years ago. Yet the Lady Ye Xi of that time was but a newly come-of-age girl. What did this resemblance truly signify?
“Similarity in portrait does not guarantee the same person,” he sneered, discarding such trivial doubts. “But whether one more or one less is killed, what difference does it make? As long as the Tusi lord is satisfied, this humble Taoist will cease to be a homeless demon!”
With this thought, Li Daoren’s pace quickened involuntarily.
Just as he neared the courtyard’s faint light, a sudden cold wind swept through the forest, bringing an unusual aura.
He halted sharply; years of killing experience heightened his senses. The air around him seemed to freeze, so still that only his rapid breathing could be heard.
Suddenly, several cold gleams flickered in the darkness, silently closing in like phantoms.
Li Daoren’s heart jolted. He spun around to find assassins clad in night garb surrounding him on all sides, blades in hand, their eyes icy and resolute—clearly prepared.
“Looks like the station’s little devils were careless and got caught,” Li Daoren snorted, forcing himself calm.
The killers’ aura resembled the overwhelming murderous force he had once felt upon encountering the Liaodong cavalry years ago.
Page 3/3
Recalling the Mongol cavalry cut down like ripe wheat amid wild grass, blood flooding the battlefield like a vast ocean, Li Daoren’s long-dormant terror was awakened.
The black-clad assassins wielded both swords and daggers, advancing and retreating like turbulent quicksand. Though seemingly unstructured, their formation was subtly arranged.
In moments, half of the young Taoists who had accompanied Li Daoren fell into pools of blood.
After only a brief skirmish, Li Daoren, outmatched by four hands against his two fists, began to falter. The pain and warm flow of blood from his wounds made him realize his peril.
“Could this humble Taoist fall here today?” he roared, eyes flashing with resolute desperation. In this life-or-death moment, he resolved to fight with all his might.
Just as Li Daoren unleashed his full power, a sharp swordlight suddenly attacked from behind. Alert to all directions, he was startled but maintained his footing, swinging his sword wildly in an attempt to deflect this deadly strike with the circular motions of Tai Chi swordplay.
Yet the swordlight behind pursued like a ghostly shadow, moving faster than he had anticipated.
In an instant, Li Daoren felt a chill at his back, a coldness piercing his spine and reaching his heart.
He widened his eyes, trying to turn and find his attacker, but the next moment, multiple razor-sharp blades pierced him from all sides.
Servant Yun Shi stood expressionless as he drew the sword embedded in Li Daoren’s back. Now deeply impaled by several deadly blades, Li Daoren’s body resembled the carapace of a spiked turtle; each wound was a gateway to hell, with blood gushing forth like a dark night stream, swiftly staining everything around crimson.
In the distance, a demon monk clad in bright saffron robes, his face stern, twitched the corner of his eye ever so slightly.
Surrounding him, a group of young novices looked bewildered, yet none dared speak under the monk’s long-standing intimidating presence.
“Master, it seems the target was well prepared. Shall we proceed further?” After a long pause, someone finally asked.
The demon monk’s lips curled into a sinister smile. “Of course.” Like a Zen patriarch delivering a sharp rebuke, he declared, “The Buddha’s sea is boundless; the path of cultivation is fraught with dangers unknown. This is the true test of our steadfastness!”
Before his words had fully faded, the demon monk vanished from sight like a phantom, leaving the novices staring at one another, stunned.
They soon realized they had been used as bait—or worse, sacrificial lambs—by the very master they followed.
Yet none dared move; given their level of cultivation, feigning death was their best hope of survival. To scatter would surely reveal them, and then their lives would be forfeit—lessons hard learned from long years of beatings at the hands of the demon monk.