Chapter 265

The envoy convoy was ambushed, and Jingzhou was shaken.

Before this, no one had imagined the Southern Barbarians would dare attack and kill the imperial envoy; even fewer had imagined that the brilliant young genius, who had shone like a star and dominated Jingzhou's spotlight, would be dragged into a life-or-death calamity because of this.

The students panicked; the great clans began to mobilize. Messages flew through every channel to the officers in charge of search and rescue, mounting relentless pressure on the relevant bureaus—even the most lethargic officials were forced to summon all their energy to respond to the ceaseless demands and inquiries.

The Governor of Yongning, Zhang Jue, barely slept for nights on end; letters came in waves, visitors followed one after another; reports, petitions, and memorials poured into the Inspector's mansion like a river. At the Han border, crowds gathered like a market; tents lined both sides of the road, stretching like a continuous encampment. Official and private relay horses shuttled day and night. Daoist masters held jade tablets, erected altars, and performed rites; temple incense and ritual feasts never ceased.

The reason for such an uproar was not merely because of Wang Yang. Wang Yi, as the imperial envoy bearing the imperial scepter, was sent to proclaim the Son of Heaven's edict and offer comfort—he was already a figure of great importance. Moreover, since the founding of the dynasty, no imperial envoy had ever been killed. Thus, Wang Yi's life or death did not concern merely one family, but very likely the entire fate of Jingzhou.

To outsiders, although both Langya Wangs had suffered misfortune, a mere prefectural student seemed trivial compared to the imperial envoy whose life or death carried immense weight—especially since the latter was the true direct heir of the Langya Wang clan.

But in Jingzhou, it was not so.

Wang Yi had just arrived; Wang Tai had shut himself away. For the people of Jingzhou, the only Langya Wang they truly saw, heard, and knew was that vibrant, brilliant young lord—whose mastery of Confucian classics silenced the elders, whose scholarly debates bowed the scholars; whose noble birth did not bind him in restraint, yet whose business acumen stirred all merchants to bid fiercely.

His learning ran so deep, yet he never lost his vitality to books—he could wield his brush and make a thousand scrolls pale.

His elegance was so refined, yet he never clung to aloofness—he could turn a conversation and fill the room with spring.

His eloquence was peerless, yet he often assumed the posture of one who listens, never dominating the discourse.

Though of noble rank, he rarely displayed arrogance; all who met him were met with smiles.

But note: he was "rarely arrogant," not "never arrogant." If someone dared oppose Young Master Wang, the people of Jingzhou would warn him to tread carefully. They would tell him how the fourth son of the Liu family could never ride a buffalo cart; they would vividly recount how Young Master Wang dined at Xiangxue Pavilion while Liu Yin stood beside him, serving dishes.

When Young Master Wang was humble, he was truly humble; when he was proud, he was truly proud!

He lowered grain prices when he said so; he dismantled the Ancient Text Minister when he said so!

What prince, what provincial secretary—facing Young Master Wang's folding fan, could do anything but bow.

Students and scholars revered his profundity; noble youths envied his talent; rivals and enemies feared his edge; friends and companions were intoxicated by his grace.

Wang Yi, no matter how lofty his rank or noble his bloodline, was merely a stranger passing through Jingzhou. Wang Yang was the one truly alive in the soil and wind of Jingchu—someone to envy, to resent, to long for, to obsess over, to tell stories about, and to make some enemies hate until their teeth ached.

Yet even those who hated Wang Yang had to admit: he was a man impossible to ignore—even in disappearance, he vanished with shocking force, shaking heaven and earth.

Saying he "disappeared" was merely a euphemism. Though his body had not been found, everyone knew the odds were grim. For if Wang Yang were still alive, he would have sent word by now—unless, like the Liu family's son, he had been captured by the barbarians. But if that were true, why had no ransom demand come?

Yet even as hope grew faint, the search for Wang Yang never ceased: Liu Zhao and Zong Ce ran tirelessly, leveraging every connection; Yue Zhan and his wife reached out everywhere, gathering intelligence; Little Fat Yue and Yu Yu Yuling journeyed together to Yongning Commandery; Lady Lady Lady Lady Lady Lady Xie Xing poured his network and wealth into deploying spies, even briefly directing military patrols from Hu Tou Road to Fen Yang Gorge; he secretly hired two black merchant bands to infiltrate barbarian territory for covert inquiries...

At banquets, when people spoke of Wang Yang, they sighed repeatedly.

"Alas, brilliance invites misfortune; extraordinary talent rarely endures. Had he been ordinary, perhaps he might have lived out his days under the eaves. Yan Hui died young; Jia Yi perished early—Heaven envies the gifted, as it has always been."

"Indeed. Wang Yang himself once said: 'The world has no pity for talent; beauty is often betrayed. This is Heaven's cruelty. It bestows brilliance, yet casts it into the dust of the mundane.' Now, rereading his words, one realizes they were prophecy. If Heaven is cruel and the world has no pity, how could the mundane world hold him long? In the Jin era, Pan Yue wrote: 'I entrust my bond to Shi You (Shi Chong); we shall grow old together.' Later, both were executed side by side in the marketplace—truly 'growing old together.'"

Previously, I climbed the Southern Tower with Wang Yang and watched him compose a eulogy for Wang Wang Xiaobo. His characters carried frost and hail; his brush wielded wind and thunder; his spirit and bone were so strong they could bend iron! Yet his words were too heavy with sorrow—reading them, one felt grief and heroism piercing the paper, desolation filling the eyes. At the time, I thought: Wang Yang, young and vibrant, should have been like new paulownia shoots, dew still glistening, gleaming under morning sun. Why then did he appear like a cold pine burdened by snow, assuming this frost-defying posture?

Now I understand: his inner landscape was too profound, his vision of the world too clear. Having read too much history, his heart inevitably carried sorrow. This is what is called 'wisdom brings early grief; insight brings premature pain.' His talent is admirable, yet it is not a sign of long life."

"Exactly, exactly. Wang Yang's 'New Music of Mo Chou' says: 'I once drank till my face flushed red.' In 'The Green Forest Mountain Water Verse,' he wrote: 'Those who came with me are gone.' In his eulogy for Wang Wang Xiaobo: 'The crane-feather robe lies in dust, yet the scroll lingers with fragrance' and 'The clear stream is cut off, the turbid waves surge.' Now, looking back, all are poetic omens..."

In the academy, an old scholar held a scroll, lecturing his pupils. Suddenly he paused, silent for a long while. The students asked why. He replied: "I made a mistake just now. Had Young Master Wang been here, he would have challenged me. Now, there is no reply, no one to correct my error... Enough. Enough."

The old scholar threw down his book and left the classroom.

In his study, a student wrote furiously, petitioning the court to exterminate the barbarians and avenge the cultured. As he wrote: "The Langya noble son, his learning buried in barbarian smoke; the Jiangzuo talent, his lonely soul returning to Chu clouds," his brush froze in a daze...

He had once written a famous long essay titled "On Grain Supply." Back then, defending the living, he had been fierce and triumphant—his name had been made in one battle. Now, pleading for the dead, his blood boiled; he stayed awake day and night, wishing he could see the army slaughter every last barbarian!

But now he wondered: even if they slaughtered them all, what would it change?

Even if ten thousand are slaughtered, one soul cannot be redeemed; even if the barbarian lands run red with blood, the spirit cannot be recalled.

The man is gone—what more can be said?

A drop of ink fell silently onto the paper, spreading into a dark, damp stain.

In the mansion, a scholar sat reciting "The Master Wang's Records on the Minister." At a certain passage, he forgot the text, opened the book to check, then suddenly noticed a small tripod on the desk, engraved with the eight characters: "Long Life to Heaven and Earth, May All Auspiciousness Attend." He stared for a long while, then seized his folding fan and struck it in fury!

The tripod fell to the ground.

The candle burst into a wick spark, illuminating the two characters "Long Life" on the tripod—twisting like a sobbing face.

On the wine terrace, a middle-aged man held a cup, chatting merrily with a friend:

"When Wang Yang said it, I didn't refute him. Why? Because I felt his position was hard-won, and I didn't want to break his wings. But after the debate ended, I asked him one question—just one: 'Dare you debate the 'Yu Gong' chapter of the Minister with me!' He was stunned! His face turned pale—he couldn't even speak."

"I'm not lying! He didn't say a word! He gave me a gesture and fled in haste! Many people saw it."

"Why didn't he answer? Because he knew his entire argument had a fatal flaw in the 'Yu Gong' chapter! So he dared not engage me. But I won't belittle him—I'll say this: Wang Yang's scholarship was quite good. In philology, he had unique insights—on par with me. But in principle and doctrine, he fell far short."

"This man had too many assumptions. He knew it himself, so he dared not take my challenge. If it had been an ordinary question, I wouldn't have corrected him—he could have argued freely and gained fame. But this question was different: to claim the Ancient Text Minister is a forgery? Ridiculous! The text may be forged, but the sage's classics cannot be! To destroy the sacred texts of the sages—would Heaven forgive him? That's why this disaster came. He died as he deserved—'died in the right place.'"

Bang!

The door was kicked open.

Zong Ce stood at the threshold, scanning the room.

The three men inside immediately shouted in protest. Zong Ce laughed coldly several times:

"If this man is dead and such men still live—what justice is there in Heaven?"

The three were about to curse, but Zong Ce said nothing—he stepped forward and struck!

Liu Zhao's two disciples heard the crashing from next door and longed to rush in and help—but they knew their master's rules. Seeing their teacher's icy face, they dared not move.

Liu Zhao spoke slowly:

"My disciples are not allowed to fight. But I am."

In the stunned gaze of his two disciples, Liu Zhao rolled up his sleeves, rose, and swiftly seized a dining table before charging out...

Inside the Wang Fu,

A prince rubbed a copper coin in his palm, his expression dark.

A maid, curled under the quilt, wept silently.

"Hahahaha!"

"Good riddance! Good riddance!"

"Too good!"

Wang Tai laughed loudly, clapping his hands—long-held bitterness in his heart had finally vanished!

After laughing enough, he suddenly burst into wailing.

"Oh my poor fifth uncle!"

"You died so cruelly!"

"Damned barbarians!"

"Heartless Heaven!"

"..."

Wang Tai pounded his chest and stamped his feet—roaring thunder without rain.

The man with the eye patch beside him could no longer bear it: "My lord, please control your grief."

Wang Tai roared: "Control my grief? Easy for you to say! It's not your fifth uncle who died!"

The man replied calmly: "My fifth uncle died long ago."

"Oh? Then we are truly kindred in sorrow. Tell the kitchen to add a few more dishes—let's honor our shared grief." He sighed: "'Seven sharpnesses, nine clevernesses—none match five skills.' Hmph. But no skill can outwit fate..."

The man asked: "Can we proceed with the plan?"

Wang Tai shook his head, patting his thigh as if speaking to himself, murmuring:

"One more step... the final step..."