Chapter 264: The Portrait Resembles the Young Master

October 1st, the Cold Clothes Festival.

The newly relocated ancestral hall stood in a three-court courtyard east of Lady Rongguo Prefecture.

The courtyard's black-oiled fence featured five large gates, above which hung a plaque inscribed with the four characters "Jia Clan Ancestral Hall," with a side note reading "Written by Kong Jizong, the Descendant Sage."

On either side hung a long couplet: "With liver and brain spilled on the ground, ten thousand clans rely on the grace of nurture; with merit and fame piercing heaven, a hundred generations revere the solemn rites of sacrifice."

This couplet, too, was written by Kong Jizong, the Descendant Sage—a hereditary title of Confucius's direct line. No other prominent family in the Divine Capital had ever received such a personal brushstroke from the Descendant Sage.

These plaques and couplets had been moved intact from the original Ningguo ancestral hall, once a sight of such formidable prestige.

Yet though the Jia Ancestral Hall still bore its former form, with the senior line of Ningguo stripped of its title and its mansion seized, the family's depth and splendor had been halved.

…

That morning, the eldest male heirs from all eight gates of the Jia clan in the Divine Capital gathered at the main hall of the Jia Ancestral Hall by the hour of Chen.

Otherwise, they would disgrace the Emperor's face and invite the charge of overstepping and betraying the sovereign—how could the Jia clan afford another such upheaval?

In the main hall, Jia She presided over the rites, Jia Jing assisted as co-officiant, Jia Lady Lian presented the wine vessel, Jia Cong offered the silk, and Jia Baoyu held the incense.

Not only had he naturally become the clan head, but he had also risen from decades of assistant officiant to chief officiant.

After the rites concluded, all Jia male descendants knelt before the ancestral portraits in the main hall.

Now that Ningguo had been deposed, this once-ignored eldest son of Lady Rongguo's main line had suddenly risen again.

Jia Jing, now demoted from chief to assistant officiant, had once been among the brightest of the Jia clan, youthful and prosperous in his prime.

The position of chief officiant at ancestral rites belonged solely to the eldest legitimate heir—it was the most honored and dignified role in the clan. How could Jia She not bask in self-satisfaction?

In the main hall hung the portraits of the founding ancestors of Rong and Ning, both clad in python robes and girded with jade; on either side were portraits of close ancestors like Jia Daihua and Jia Daishan.

But for over a decade he had languished in the Xuanyuan Hermitage, chasing immortality with pills and elixirs, shutting out the world, abandoning all his former connections, and letting his talents and abilities wither to dust.

Great state ceremonies were matters of war and sacrifice.

In Jia She's mind, the old matriarch's favoritism toward the second branch meant nothing—his own standing outside the household remained the most prestigious.

He spent his days idling with the eastern courtyard concubines, collecting antiques, or sending Jia Lady Lian to Ping'an Prefecture to conduct business.

After Ningguo was stripped of his title by the Emperor, the senior heir's crime amounted to lineage extinction. Though Jia Jing still lived, the Jia clan dared not let him preside again.

…

Since that year Jia She had been ensnared by Jia Cong's scheme in the Wang Wang Shanbao's witchcraft affair, he had grown even more despised by Jia Mu, and had no choice but to remain low-key in the Jia household these past years.

Yet his body had long been ruined by indulgence, yet he still craved more than he could digest—even now useless and hollow, he had bought several new beautiful concubines, spending silver without restraint.

Lady Xing knew he had made a great deal of silver in Ping'an Prefecture.

As for what business Jia She conducted in Ping'an Prefecture, even Lady Xing did not know, save for Jia Lady Lian.

And now the chief officiant had changed from Jia Jing to Jia She.

No matter how outstanding a man once was, once he abandoned ambition and sank into self-destruction, he would inevitably become worthless mud.

Two other "Cao"-generation youths spread the prayer mats and guarded the incense burner.

In the inner chamber behind the main hall, Jia Mu and the female members of the household stood in order of rank and knelt before the ancestral spirit plaques in the inner shrine.

Though the turmoil of this year's spring sacrifice had long passed,

standing again before the inner shrine's spirit tower, Jia Mu, Lady Wang, and others still trembled with lingering fear; Wang Wang Xifeng, You Shi, and others remembered it vividly.

Their eyes all turned, without speaking, to the third position on the right of the second tier of the spirit tower.

There stood the spirit tablet of Du Du Jinniang, Jia Cong's mother, posthumously enfeoffed as a Fifth-Rank Lady of Virtue by imperial grace.

The tablet was newer than all others beside it; the gold lacquer on its engraved characters gleamed cold and blinding.

…

Jin Ling, Yumin Alley.

In the alley stood an empty three-court courtyard, formerly owned by an official of the Jin Ling Maritime Office.

Last year, during the Grand Water Surveillance Case in Jin Ling, the owner was implicated and died in the Embroidered Uniform Guard's prison.

The courtyard was confiscated and put up for sale by the government.

Recently, it had been freshly repaired—someone must have bought it and moved in.

This three-court courtyard was among the larger residences in Yumin Alley; only the wealthy or noble could afford to buy it outright.

Naturally, it drew the attention of nearby old neighbors, yet the owner remained reclusive, never mingling with the neighborhood, and few had seen his true face.

These old neighbors, of course, had no idea this was in fact the new private residence of the owner of Jin Ling's Xinchun Trading House.

Today was the Cold Clothes Festival, a day for ancestral sacrifice.

In a small side room of the residence, a black-lacquered tablet with white characters stood on the offering table.

In the bronze basin before it lay two sets of paper clothes, half-burned.

Qu Qu Hongxiu wore plain white robes, her shoulders straight and back erect; years of martial training had given her slender, graceful form a strength and vitality uncommon in ordinary women.

The tablet on the offering table was for her father; though she had spent many years with Jia Cong, she had mentioned her father to him only once.

After lighting incense and bowing before the tablet, she suddenly thought of Jia Cong far away in the Divine Capital, surely now kneeling before the ancestral portraits in the Jia Ancestral Hall.

She sighed softly, then reached into a hidden compartment beneath the offering table and withdrew a scroll.

The scroll's edges were slightly yellowed, as if worn by years of time; it was both Qu Qu Hongxiu's most precious possession and her most private secret.

Though she had been intimately close to Jia Cong for years, he had never known of this scroll's existence.

She gently unrolled it, as if opening a long-forgotten dream that had puzzled her for years.

The scroll was a portrait of a woman.

The woman in the painting was slender and elegant, her beauty flawless, clad in black robes with a jade belt, like a celestial being descended to earth, her grace beyond compare.

The painter was surely a master of brush and ink; every stroke was precise and lifelike, capturing the woman's features with exquisite charm—her eyes smiled gently, her expression vivid as if breathing.

Sometimes, when Qu Qu Hongxiu gazed at the painting, she felt the woman's autumn-water eyes might turn at any moment, as if about to step out of the canvas.

Even as a woman herself, she was awed by the woman's grace; the woman's voice, face, and laughter had sunk deep into her mind.

…

Qu Qu Hongxiu's father held a high position within the Hidden Gate and spent years constantly traveling.

More than a decade ago, he returned to Dezhou grievously wounded; Qu Qu Hongxiu was young then, just beginning to remember things, and many details were hazy.

It was around that time that this portrait appeared.

Every Qingming and Yuanxiao Festival, she often saw her father carry her on his back, burning incense and bowing before the portrait with solemn reverence.

Her father never told her who the woman was; coming from her family's background, she knew some things were never to be asked.

Her father remained bedridden from his injuries until five years ago, when his old wounds finally claimed him.

But even these details alone were not the most important to Qu Qu Hongxiu.

This portrait, in some way, changed her life.

Years ago, the Hanlin Academy's junior scholar Wu Wu Jinrong accidentally learned a Hidden Gate secret from his brother-in-law.

He reported it to Zhou Jun, the military commander of Dezhou, leading to the deaths of over a hundred members of the Dezhou Hidden Gate branch.

Seeking revenge, Qu Qu Hongxiu assassinated Wu Wu Jinrong at the Nanxi Literary Gathering; wounded and fleeing, she unexpectedly encountered Jia Cong—just as she was about to kill him to silence him,

she realized his face was nearly identical to the woman in the portrait!

She had grown up staring at this painting, watching her father reverently worship it every year—it had become an indelible image in her mind.

In that dark cave, for the first time, by the flickering firelight, she saw Jia Cong's face clearly—as if meeting an old acquaintance she had known for years.

In that moment, the woman in the painting seemed to step alive before her; the shock and strangeness of it remained vivid in her memory even after all these years.

That night, she and Jia Cong joined forces to kill the Secret Investigation Bureau's spies to survive…

From that moment, their strange fate was sealed; years of companionship had made Jia Cong the most important person in her life.

…

She had once suspected the woman in the portrait was Jia Cong's mother, for only mother and child could share such striking resemblance.

But the year her father returned wounded to Dezhou, the new Emperor had not yet ascended the throne—her father had begun worshipping the portrait that same year.

That meant the woman in the portrait had already died by then.

Jia Cong was born in the first year of the new Emperor's reign; by then, the woman in the portrait had long been dead, so Jia Cong could not be her son.

Everyone in the Divine Capital knew Jia Cong's father was Jia She of Lady Rongguo Prefecture, and his mother was Du Du Jinniang, the famed courtesan who once dazzled the capital.

Yet Jia Cong's face bore such uncanny resemblance to the woman in the portrait—there must be some strange connection.

Though she had spent years with Jia Cong, she had never whispered a word of this to him.

He was a noble son of Lady Rongguo Prefecture, a genius of extraordinary talent, the focus of the world's attention; in his youth, he passed the imperial examinations and became a court official, destined for a brilliant future.

The woman in the portrait, revered and worshipped by her father, was surely a major figure within the Hidden Gate.

If anyone learned of any link between Jia Cong and the Hidden Gate, the court's dread of the Hidden Gate would instantly destroy him.

She would rather die herself than let such a thing happen; burying this secret forever was the only safe path.

Even Jia Cong himself need not know—secrecy ensures success; speech invites ruin, lest he grow wary and betray himself.

Qu Qu Hongxiu gazed at the portrait, her beautiful eyes glinting with cold resolve; she carefully rolled it up, a faint reluctance in her heart.

Her gaze drifted to the flames burning in the bronze basin…

(End of Chapter)