Chapter 69: Seventy, the First Meeting of the Two

Seventy, the First Meeting of the Two

“After returning, have them change the name—don’t give me this nonsense. ‘Lianghan Qu’? Call it ‘Sycophant Qu’ instead.”

“My Lord, they truly meant well—it’s an unprecedented flood control project; it’s only right that your name be left on it.”

“This wasn’t your doing, was it?”

“No no, I don’t have that kind of literary talent… It was Master Diao who named it. Master Diao is famed in Longcheng for his naming skills—he’s been commissioned to inscribe plaques for countless streets and pavilions around town.”

“He knows how to name things? He knows how to get promoted. No wonder half our streets and lakes are named after Di Gong or Tao Gong—outsiders might think we’re their hometowns, when all they did was serve as county magistrates… I bet their own hometowns aren’t even as eager as we are.”

“In any case, don’t use my name.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

A light drizzle.

On the mid-slope of Mount Dagu, the Zhe Mu Pavilion.

Ouyang Rong, Yan Liulang, and Liu Ashan once again rested in this open-view pavilion to shelter from the rain—though this time, they were not descending, but ascending.

Yan Liulang handed Ouyang Rong a document from the county office proposing names for the new straightened channel; after reading it, Ouyang Rong harshly criticized it, leaving the blue-clad constable scratching his head, face flushed with embarrassment.

“Forget it. I’ll name it.”

Ouyang Rong sighed, returned the document to Yan Liulang, stepped to the pavilion’s railing, and gazed into the distance.

The pavilion fell silent for a moment.

He squinted at the Butterfly Stream, soon to be straightened, and lightly tapped the railing with his right hand:

“Since the original winding river resembled a butterfly’s wing, and today we cut it straight—breaking the wing—let’s call it… Zhe Yiqu.”

Yan Liulang’s eyes brightened slightly; he nodded and muttered, “Zhe Yiqu… My Lord, your brilliance! I’ll return immediately with the new name.”

After a pause, he chuckled bitterly:

“By the way, My Lord, there’s also the new ferry’s name. They suggested that since there’s already Peng Lang Ferry, this one should be Tan Lang Ferry—but according to your recent directive, that name won’t do either…”

“Enough, enough. We’ll discuss that another day.”

Ouyang Rong turned back helplessly, brushing it off vaguely—he himself was terrible at naming things; he’d already used up his quota of brainpower.

The young county magistrate gazed at the dim sky beneath the pavilion eaves and murmured:

“Zhe Yiqu is the priority. Once dug through, it will open vast horizons. The new ferry and new market street are merely side benefits that will follow naturally. Take it slow—it’s still early.”

Ouyang Rong didn’t say this aloud: perhaps by then, he’d already returned home.

Eager Yan Liulang knew none of this; he only felt invigorated following his Lord.

He’d witnessed the new vitality brought by Zhe Yiqu’s excavation, his face alight with enthusiasm; he nodded firmly, “Then it’s settled—we follow your orders, My Lord.”

“How’s the grain from the public granary coming along?”

Ouyang Rong turned to ask again.

Yan Liulang smiled:

“Reporting, My Lord—the grain has already begun loading onto boats; it will be shipped out of Longcheng soon.”

“As you previously instructed, we’ve retained 150,000 shi from Longcheng’s public granary for disaster relief and Zhe Yiqu’s excavation. The surplus—roughly 160,000 shi—will all be sent to aid Jiangzhou City and other affected counties and towns.”

Ouyang Rong nodded and warned:

“Remember: first deliver the grain transport ledger to Inspector Shen of Jiangzhou City. Let Shen handle the grain distribution—do not send it to other counties on your own initiative. Also, watch your safety on the road.”

“Yes, My Lord. As for burning grain boats… we’ve already done that.”

Ouyang Rong glanced at him, said nothing, then turned to the silent Liu Ashan:

“Any movement from the Liu family?”

Liu Ashan shook his head. “Only a few old swordsmiths have grumbled. No signs of action from the Liu family—the sword shops on the west bank remain unchanged.”

Ouyang Rong nodded thoughtfully.

Yan Liulang couldn’t help casting a sidelong glance at the quiet, tall man.

His own role beside the Lord was mainly handling county office affairs—public matters; but any covert operations, the Lord entrusted entirely to Brother Ashan.

Some matters even he, as a trusted aide, was kept in the dark about—only realizing later, dimly.

After Liu Ashan bought his freedom, the Lord didn’t integrate him into the county bureaucracy; instead, he sent him to organize a group of able-bodied men among the refugees in the relief camp.

So, compared to Yan Liulang’s constabulary, they were two separate groups, both serving the Lord—one visible, one hidden. Their first joint operation had been during the recent warm reception of outside grain merchants like Wang Cao.

But now it seemed Brother Ashan’s local connections and intelligence network in Longcheng were even broader than his own—at least within the ancient Gu Yue Sword Workshop, where Ashan had once served as a cook-slave for many years.

“Don’t follow us afterward. I’ll go with Liulang to meet the abbot. You go home and visit your mother and younger sister.”

Ouyang Rong gave Liu Ashan an unyielding order, then led the two away from Zhe Mu Pavilion, continuing up the mountain. Wildflowers and grasses jutting into the path dampened their robes as they passed.

These past days, Longcheng had seen much rain—falling intermittently.

It was barely past noon; the sun hung high overhead, yet the fine rain persisted capriciously. Taking advantage of this brief pause in the sunshower, Ouyang Rong’s group pressed on toward Donglin Temple.

Today’s ascent was official business.

The excavation of Zhe Yiqu, with its straight channel, bypassed the main clusters of county buildings, cutting directly through the foot of Mount Dagu.

This young magistrate, eager only for funds, reasoned: since he’d soon reap the benefits of this water transport convenience—increased incense offerings—how could this wealthy old temple not contribute some money and effort? A joint project between officials and monks, after all.

So today was a second visit to beg for donations—no, correction: the benevolent magistrate had come again to visit the grassroots, offering warm inquiries, and sampling the temple’s vegetarian fare.

Thinking of Master Meikai’s saintly, unyielding face, the young magistrate couldn’t help smiling sheepishly as he walked the mountain path.

But he wasn’t to blame for his interest: Empress Wei was openly promoting Buddhism while suppressing the Daoist sects closely tied to the Li imperial clan, causing Buddhist fervor to surge across the Zhou realm—temples everywhere were indeed wealthy.

After covering half the journey, before reaching the ancient temple, the drizzle returned.

Fortunately, though quiet, Liu Ashan was experienced—he’d brought three oil-paper umbrellas. Ouyang Rong took one, opened a red one.

The three walked under their umbrellas, seeking another pavilion to rest.

Perhaps the morning’s clear sky had been deceptive, or perhaps today was some special day—along the way, they saw many wealthy patrons from Longcheng climbing the mountain.

Especially wealthy ladies and their daughters—many veiled women, accompanied by maids, ascended to Donglin Temple to burn incense.

But this mid-path sunshower clearly threw most of them off balance.

After walking a while, they finally came upon a small, empty pavilion beside a bamboo grove. They were about to enter and rest, when Ouyang Rong noticed many unshielded female pilgrims rushing toward it.

He exchanged glances with Yan Liulang and Ashan, then chose not to claim a spot.

Ouyang Rong led them to stand slightly farther away, beneath a dense cluster of bamboo leaves, holding their oil-paper umbrellas.

One after another, passing female pilgrims spotted the pavilion and hurried inside.

Watching the pavilion gradually fill with fluttering young ladies, and having nothing else to do, Ouyang Rong’s gaze drifted toward it.

His eyes soon fixed on one particularly striking figure.

A young lady in peach-colored qixiong ruqun, wearing a white gauze veil, her face hidden, yet her figure slender and graceful, standing still in the rain.

Beside her stood a plump-faced maid, anxious, trying to squeeze into the crowded pavilion—but like other women at the edges, she couldn’t get in.

But if that were all, the discerning Ouyang Rong wouldn’t have paid much attention.

Yet, bored during the rest, he noticed something unusual.

For instance, the pavilion was now fully occupied by wealthy young ladies and their maids, who had secured the best positions.

The peach-dressed lady and her plump-faced maid were forced to stand on the very last step outside the pavilion—beyond the eaves’ shelter, half their bodies already dampened by the rain.

Yet unlike other anxious women similarly excluded, the peach-dressed lady remained utterly calm. Her veil offered little protection from the rain; her expression unseen, she stood quietly, unmoved, in the drizzle.

Soon, the sunshower outside the pavilion slowly ceased. The ladies inside reached out, startled, then hurriedly gathered their maids and ran toward the temple.

The peach-dressed lady still didn’t move. Instead, she calmly turned with her puzzled maid, entered the now-empty pavilion, and gently brushed the rain from her sleeves.

At that moment, the sunshower returned—suddenly, as if summoned. The ladies who had just run ahead, seeing the temple still far off, turned back. By the time they reached the pavilion again, they were soaked.

The peach-dressed lady standing in the pavilion’s center didn’t gloat. She quietly turned, took out a handkerchief, and lowered her head to wipe rain from the robes of several women who seemed familiar.

All of this was seen by someone standing nearby.

Her entire behavior, contrasted sharply with the flustered, conformist women, was impossible to ignore.

Some women, even with their faces hidden, radiated a presence that drew the eye.

Beneath the misty veil of rain, the young magistrate considered, then calmly folded his red umbrella and handed it to Liu Ashan.

“Take it to the pavilion.”

“Master, how can one umbrella be shared? Better not bother—you’re busy.”

“No need to share. Just send a maid to the temple to borrow another umbrella.”

Ouyang Rong shook his head lightly, then turned to share an umbrella with Yan Liulang.

Liu Ashan paused, nodded, and hurried toward the pavilion with the crimson oil-paper umbrella.

Without a word, he slipped the umbrella into the hand of a startled young maid standing in the rain, then immediately turned and ran back to catch up with Ouyang Rong and Yan Liulang.

They treated it as a minor incident, pressing on without looking back, heading toward Donglin Temple.

Behind them, inside the pavilion, the other ladies glanced curiously or shyly at the retreating back of the handsome young man who’d sent the umbrella without a name. Su Guoer gently lifted the veil’s edge with two fingers, glancing at the red umbrella.