Chapter 31: The Returnee in the Snow and Wind

Zhou Jun remained unwilling to give up, arranging personnel to coordinate with the Zhen’an Prefecture forces while conducting another search of Shuyun Villa.

He also ordered Wang Dong to gather all the maids not on duty and question them personally, but ultimately found nothing.

In the stone pavilion, Prince Jia Shun’s face was dark with anger; the villa had been ransacked by a swarm of officials, leaving this virtuous prince humiliated.

Yet he could not stop them, for without catching the killer, he could not answer to the Divine Capital or the scholarly world—this literary gathering would be the last Nanxi Literary Gathering.

The group of eminent scholars and literati attending the gathering, seeing the officials scrambling through the villa with swords and bows glinting coldly, had long been sitting on pins and needles, eager to leave at once.

But since the killer had not yet been caught, they dared not propose departure now, fearing suspicion; Zhou Jun was a notorious harsh official, skilled at fabricating charges, and if entangled by him, they would regret it too late.

All of them endured in silent agony.

In the end, even Zhou Jun abandoned hope; he and Zhang Shou both concluded the killer must have fled the villa immediately after the murder, leaving only the possibility of future investigation.

Zhou Jun glanced at Wu Jinrong’s corpse, as if lost in thought, then cast a chilling look at the gathering attendees before turning away with over a dozen black-clad attendants.

Ge Chunjiang mocked: “I told you to wear more when you left—didn’t listen. Now you’re freezing your skin off.”

Ge Chunjiang quickly lifted the other end, smiling sideways: “Where did you even come from? Let’s get this thing down fast—Father’s carriage is waiting below.”

Many have gained fame among the literati through the Nanxi Literary Gathering, but none as young as Jia Cong—likely the first and last of his kind.

Today’s gathering was far too tumultuous—someone was murdered right before their eyes, truly horrifying—but it also produced the extraordinary case of Jia family’s son. As the literati dispersed, within days Jia Cong’s peculiar tale and that shocking poem “Bu Suan Zi: Ode to Plum Blossoms” would spread throughout the Divine Capital.

Xiao Qin’s clothing was too thin; he hunched his back in the snowstorm and shivered as he replied to Ge Chunjiang’s words.

Suddenly, a slender figure appeared in his vision, head tightly wrapped in a dog-skin hat, running over to lift one end of the corpse bier.

The snow had grown heavier; all visible space was a blinding white.

…

Ge Chunjiang had grown up playing with this cousin; their bond was strong, yet he knew his father looked down on Xiao Qin, deeming him fickle and incapable of accomplishment.

Once Zhou Jun and his men departed, the elderly scholars and literati attending the gathering quickly took their leave of Prince Jia Shun; soon, most were gone.

Ge Wu tightened his collar and muttered under his breath: “Damn weather—snow and rain together, won’t let up. Where’s that idiot Xiao Qin running off to now?”

One was his son, Ge Chunjiang; the other was his niece’s son, Xiao Qin.

Ge Chunjiang, thickset and simple-minded, easily lifted Wu Jinrong’s body and placed it into the bier—a device used exclusively by coroners, resembling a modern stretcher.

Ge Wu had served as a coroner in Zhen’an Prefecture for twenty years; handling corpses was a family craft, and this time he brought two apprentices.

“Father, Xiao Qin had to relieve himself—he’ll be back soon.”

Because of this, Ge Chunjiang had often covered for his cousin.

The hour had passed Wei; the sky darkened again, and heavy snow began falling.

Born into a noble house, yet with a lowborn mother, yet possessing extraordinary talent and brilliance—this alone was legendary.

Ge Chunjiang feared his father would urge him again; gazing at the worsening snowstorm, he grumbled: “That lazy lump Xiao Qin—always needing to piss and shit. Why hasn’t he come back yet?”

I’ll tell you—when we left, my mother simmered a pot of black fish and lamb stew. Let’s hurry home for a feast.”

Zhang Shou anxiously bid farewell to Prince Jia Shun, Liu Yanxiu, and Zhang Tianshi, then instructed the coroner Ge Wu to remove the body.

As they departed Shuyun Villa, they happened to overhear gossip among the eunuchs and maids: Jia Cong had been despised by his family since childhood due to his lowborn mother, and surviving this long was no small feat.

This stirred deep emotion among the literati; many recited lines about heaven’s great burdens falling upon chosen souls.

Many of those attending the Nanxi Literary Gathering came from humble origins, and even those from middling or upper families had no one as privileged as the Jia household.

The world abounds with those who despise poverty and idolize wealth; the secret resentment toward the rich has always been the same. In their leisure, they delighted in recounting the scandals and misdeeds of great clans.

They would surely turn Jia Cong’s extraordinary tale into a key topic of conversation at future gatherings with friends and kin.

Liu Yanxiu and others summoned Jia Cong to the stone pavilion to speak, offering further praise for his poem “Bu Suan Zi: Ode to Plum Blossoms.”

Jia Cong was not surprised; that great man, though a sovereign who pacified the realm, was also famed for his celestial talent, and this plum blossom poem was his most original work—how could it fail to astonish?

Liu Yanxiu said: “Your talent is exceptional. You must devote more effort to your studies and not waste such a divine gift.”

Jia Cong replied respectfully: “Your humble disciple will follow Master Jing’an’s teachings and study diligently.”

“What books are you reading now? Who is your tutor?”

“Master Jing’an, I have completed elementary studies and have begun reading the Four Books. I have no tutor—I study alone. I acquired a few annotated editions of the Four Books from my family’s Second Master, and I carefully ponder them daily.”

Liu Yanxiu’s expression darkened: “No tutor? With such talent, your family has not hired a renowned master to guide you? Don’t you fear wasting your potential?”

Jia Cong looked embarrassed; though the Jia family treated him poorly, family shame must not be aired abroad. Bound by ancestral rites, even if he resented it, he would never speak of it to outsiders, lest he invite disaster.

Liu Yanxiu was no ordinary man; his lifelong experience and deep understanding of human nature allowed him to read Jia Cong’s expression clearly.

Remembering his lowborn mother, he guessed Jia Cong likely lived in hardship within the clan. He had heard enough of such noble-house filth to change the subject.

It was past the Wei hour; returning to the eastern quarter of the Divine Capital would take two hours. Spring nights were short, and by the time they reached the city, it would be dark.

With the murder at Shuyun Villa, lingering there was ill-advised. Liu Yanxiu and the others did not wish the boy to risk traveling at night, fearing mishaps.

After a few more words, Jia Cong took his leave of Prince Jia Shun, Liu Yanxiu, and Zhang Tianshi.

Though these three had shown him warmth due to his talent, they were still strangers. Jia Cong feared speaking too much might reveal undue familiarity, which would be unseemly.

He was not so naive as to believe writing one fine poem would make them treat him like a nephew, securing his future forever.

These men had reached their positions precisely because they were not shallow fools. His fame from the Nanxi Literary Gathering had already been achieved—he had not come in vain.

Relying on others is inferior to relying on oneself—a truth unshakable in any world.

Since this world was as it was, he would find his own way to stand firm; once he accumulated enough foundation, a vast and splendid future would await him.

At least he would no longer live under the shadow of Jia She and Lady Xing, enduring each day in the storage shed of the Eastern Courtyard.

Zhang Yu zhen watched Jia Cong’s retreating figure and said:

“Master Jing’an, how many years since we’ve seen such an extraordinary boy? Old Taoist has truly been moved by his talent.”

Liu Yanxiu smiled: “Such a boy is rare indeed. Could Master Zhang be thinking of taking him as a disciple?”

Behind Zhang Yu zhen, the sword-bearing girl’s eyes brightened as she imagined Jia Cong in his little adult manner, dressed in Daoist robes—she guessed it would be quite amusing.

Zhang Yu zhen chuckled: “I lead the Zhengyi lineage—if I were to take him as a disciple, he’d have to become a little Daoist monk. The Jia family, a great household, would never consent.”

Yet this child’s destiny is elusive, his three souls scattered, fraught with unpredictable fate, yet his intellect surpasses all. Such a destiny is one in ten thousand—not great fortune, then great calamity.

Since birth, his path must have been fraught with hardship. He is still young; he needs guidance and teaching to be safe.”

Hearing this, Liu Yanxiu felt a chill. The Zhang family of Tian Shi had preserved their lineage for a thousand years, their esoteric Five Aspects art holding secrets beyond mortal comprehension—not mere street sorcery.

Since entering the villa, Liu Yanxiu had noticed Zhang Yu zhen’s gaze often fixed on Jia Cong—had he seen something?

Zhang Yu zhen added: “Master Jing’an, you’ve spent ten years on Luocang Mountain, your gate empty. Seeing such an outstanding boy—surely you’ve felt the stir of talent?”

Liu Yanxiu collected his thoughts and smiled: “You can’t take him yourself, yet you’re nudging me? You’re oddly fond of this boy, going to such lengths for him.”

Zhang Yu zhen’s expression turned grave: “Fondness is not destiny. Such an extraordinary boy, if raised well, could benefit the world; if left unguided, he may bring chaos upon humanity.”

Liu Yanxiu’s face showed astonishment: “Master, are you exaggerating?”

Not a word without foundation. His destiny and qi are utterly unlike any other’s—born into wealth, raised in humility, his heart burns with a fierce will to shatter his fate. His life is destined to be a blend of fortune and disaster.

…

Jia Cong stepped out of Shuyun Villa’s gate and found the snowstorm had intensified.

Standing on the mountainside, he saw a long line of carriages and horses winding through the snow—likely Zhou Jun and Zhang Shou’s men.

He tightened his crimson Xingxingzhan cloak and descended the mountain steps.

As he boarded Guo Zhi’s carriage and sped toward the Divine Capital, he did not know a commotion had just erupted within Shuyun Villa…

(End of Chapter)