Chapter Fifty-Three: Right and Wrong

The main hall of Qilian, originally intended as a gathering place, could not be called particularly grand, yet compared to the ordinary wooden huts, it possessed a far greater sense of solemnity. Flagstones paved the floor, orchidwood beams supported the structure; though the style was somewhat austere and archaic, the craftsmanship was exquisite beyond doubt. Dragons and phoenixes entwined in intricate carvings, every detail complete and unblemished. To Hantan Yi, however, this hall was hardly a familiar place. Though he had grown up here, he had rarely set foot in this main hall, which remained locked year-round. Not that it mattered much—after all, a house was just a house. To a young man living in the wilds, such a thing held very little allure. Of course, there had been times when he was tempted to sneak a look inside, but since he had already defied the old man in some other matter, to trespass here again seemed somewhat impertinent.

Sunlight could only slip through the narrow cracks between the not-so-large doors and windows, so from any angle, the place seemed dim, its depths difficult to discern. What’s more, today felt different. With every step he took, Hantan Yi sensed a heaviness in the air—no doubt due to the old man’s presence. Looking to Xia Wuyai, she seemed little better off; her pace matched his, slow and weighted, her footsteps echoing with a somber note.

Things were quite different in the Blue Lotus sect. Within its grounds, a unique scene unfolded. Half a month’s time had pushed the early spring further along; now, as spring flourished in full, flowers bloomed in riotous color, their fragrance filling the air and soothing the soul. By a small bridge and flowing stream stood a long pavilion, and beneath the lingering strains of a zither, poetic inspiration seemed to spring forth. Viewed from afar, the scene was dreamlike, as if painted from a vision. If one looked closely, one could see the musician: her face veiled in violet gauze, her features hidden, her dark hair cascading, blending with the purple silk of her robes—youth’s beauty expressed to the fullest.

All was nearly perfect, save for a single discordant note: the music itself. Though pleasing to the ear, the zither’s melody was tinged with mournfulness, the transition between modes touched by a strange, inexplicable quality. The final notes lingered with unnatural length, as if the musician’s own indecision had seeped into the sound. Such hesitation is rarely a good omen, especially for someone like her. Love, it seemed, could make even the strongest waver.

Suddenly, two figures flashed forward, one to the left, one to the right, bearing down on the musician without warning. Their speed was formidable, but what truly startled was the force of their attack; as they struck with open palms, their momentum seemed to stir the very air, disrupting the flow of music and breaking it into fragments. The assault was so swift that no one could have reacted in time—not even the musician. She remained seated, only slowing her movements, her forefinger poised against the string. As the attackers drew close, the wind from their blows lifted her hair back, her long tresses billowing, imparting to her an ethereal, almost celestial aura.

Yet, in this moment, such beauty was of little importance. If those strikes were to land, even the strongest body would be gravely injured—let alone hers, delicate as a zither player’s hands must be. Escape was impossible.

But then, with a sharp twang, her finger plucked the string, and the instrument sang with sudden, violent resonance. Spiritual energy burst forth, the sound piercingly sharp, as though to rend the very air. The two attackers, who had been bearing down upon her with unstoppable force, suddenly found themselves checked, as though they’d crashed into an impenetrable wall. The musician’s brows lifted in a subtle, triumphant smile, her words calm and unhurried: "Left and Right Protectors, I didn’t expect you two, at your age, to still be so playful. If you wished to test my skills, there was no need for such coordination, nor to choose this very moment. You’ve ruined my mood for music—how very disappointing!"

As she spoke, her finger danced again across the string—a sound even more resonant than before. At the same time, a powerful force burst outward, pushing the two figures back several steps. Only then did they halt their assault. As the musician settled herself serenely, the Left and Right Protectors landed on the ground, their appearances finally clear to see. One wore a white veil, her features hidden, though the wrinkles at the edge of her skin and stray strands of white hair betrayed her age. The other was unmistakably old, his face unmasked and lined, none other than Old Su. As for the veiled woman, none but Shui Lianhua dressed so.

"Forgive us, Mistress," Shui Lianhua spoke, for it would seem odd for a man to address such matters, and Old Su had no desire to involve himself. If given the choice, he would much rather spend his days quietly as a tavern keeper, indulging in drink. And so, he chose silence. There were two things in this world he feared: love, and people—and now both had appeared. At this thought, Old Su glanced at Shui Lianhua, then quickly looked away. The memories of the past rushed back to him.

Shao Donghua was a true hero—at least in Su Qingyang’s eyes. Admittedly, he was but a servant, and naturally loyal to his master, but even so, nothing could diminish the brilliance that young Master Donghua radiated. Who in the martial world had not heard of the Four Great Sects? Even Mingyue Manor, the foremost sect today, had once ranked below Donghua Sect. Though young, Shao Donghua’s martial prowess rivaled even the famed Shen Wanshan.

Such a man could never have been ordinary. In truth, if Shao Donghua were to be called ordinary, then the whole martial world would fade into obscurity. None ever doubted his place among the nobility. Beyond his formidable skills, his character was unassailable; coupled with his unmatched handsomeness, these qualities became his greatest weapons. And this weapon wounded most deeply not the flesh, but the heart. Countless women—young and old, highborn and low—had lost their hearts to him, though it was always in vain. To stand beside Shao Donghua was to be instantly outshone, even the most exquisite dancer paling into insignificance.

Yet even such a man made a mistake—or perhaps it was fate’s jest. He encountered Shui Lianhua—so she was called then, now known as Shui Linglong. What transpired after the Battle of the Three Wolves, Old Su never knew. Sixteen years had passed—a woman’s beauty is said to fade most quickly, yet on her, time seemed to have no effect; if anything, she appeared even younger than before. As for Shui Lianhua, Old Su remembered once promising her lifelong devotion—a promise born of impulsive jealousy at the tender affection between his young master and Shui Linglong. Whether he now regretted it, he no longer cared.

Shao Donghua and Shui Lianhua were little more than puppets of fate. For two lovers to suffer such a cruel twist could never be called a blessing. Four Great Sects, Blue Lotus Cult—all labels and words spoken by others. Shui Lianhua could disregard it all, but Shao Donghua could not. Perhaps it was precisely because the world saw him as too perfect that the line between good and evil became a shackle around his neck. However lofty his skills, he could not break free. Otherwise, why would there have been the Battle of the Three Wolves? The greater tragedy, Old Su now realized, was that Shui Lianhua had only feigned death, while Shao Donghua had willingly followed her to the grave. Of course, no one in the orthodox world could know that a righteous hero had taken his own life for a so-called demonic enchantress. Thus, from that moment on, the legend spread: the Lord of Donghua fell at Three Wolves.