Chapter 322

The next morning, after we had a luxurious breakfast, our whole group set out to experience the feng shui and local customs of Lujiang.

Having come to Lujiang, there is a place we absolutely cannot miss—the tomb of Zhou Yu, Zhou Gongjin.

Zhou Yu—who was he? The foremost general of the late Han, who met Bo Fu at the age of twenty, rode a white horse to open Wu's territory. He devoted his life to the foundation of Jiangdong, sparing no effort, and finally fell ill and died in Baqiu, leaving behind the timeless masterpiece 'Yangtze River Chant'.

From ancient times to the present, countless literati and poets have left ink brushes praising Zhou Lang, such as Su Shi's Nian Nu Jiao, Red Cliff Reminiscence, Du Mu's Red Cliff; Ma Zhichun's "Zhou Lang Bridge," Dai Fuguo's Man Jiang Hong, Yue Fei's grandson Yue He's inscription on Red Cliff, and so on—hundreds and thousands, too many to count.

He is one of the people I admire most in my life, and at the same time he is one of the most mysterious figures in the history of metaphysics. He is not a Daoist, yet he used the Daoist Sect's Mysterious Gate Escape to construct the Nine Provinces Eight Trigrams Formation on Sangluo Continent, making the provinces interact with each other, repairing the Nine Provinces, dredging the nine rivers, gathering the waters into the great marsh, so that the people of Sang Prefecture would no longer suffer from floods.

The Nine Palaces Eight Trigrams Formation he laid down, whether descendants of Daoism or the Fa Sect, cannot help but carefully contemplate it. Yet the more one contemplates, the more one feels Zhou Yu is unfathomably mysterious; this Nine Palaces Eight Trigrams Formation, vast in scale and magnificent in momentum, actually harbors the mechanism to encompass the universe and swallow and exhale all things.

Alas, this learned and mysterious scholar became a sacrificial victim in Luo Guanzhong's fictional Romance of the Three Kingdoms. The fabricated 'Three Infuriations of Zhou Yu' from baseless nonsense firmly led later generations to mistakenly regard this graceful, beautiful Zhou Lang as a narrow‑minded, sinister petty man.

It is lamentable that such a youthful general ended up bearing a thousand‑year‑old infamy. People only know the Romance of the Three Kingdoms; how many have read the authentic Records of the Three Kingdoms, and how many truly understand the real Zhou Gongjin? Luo Guanzhong, in order to exalt Zhuge Liang, buried a general who ought to have been celebrated for a thousand years.

Whether to mourn him or to satisfy my curiosity, since I have come to Lujiang, I feel I ought to pay my respects to this tragic legendary figure.

Under my suggestion, everyone came to the side of Zhou Lang's tomb, which lies south of Lujiang.

This tomb was built in the late Eastern Han dynasty; even after several repairs, it cannot conceal the desolation that time has left on the stone tablet.

When I touched the weathered stone beam with my trembling hand, I could not help but feel a surge of emotion.

Ming Chao, Shu Han, the wind rages wildly, the heavenly net falls, also in panic. Bowing and exhausting oneself, talent devoted to the nation's ruin. Once Xu Fu could have achieved hegemony; gazing at the moon, the heart aches even more. In that year, at the Battle of Red Cliff on the Wu River, bows and crossbows were drawn, flames soared. Before the collapse, I still sigh, recalling Xiao Qiao's fragrance.

A generation's famous general did not die on the battlefield but succumbed to a sudden illness. I know his heart must have been filled with regret—unable to assist Sun Quan in establishing the hegemony of Jiangdong, unable to grow old with Xiao Qiao; this was surely his lifelong regret.

I suddenly recalled a poem: 'The zither's golden pillars ring, white hands before the jade chamber. To win Zhou Lang's glance, I constantly brush the strings by mistake.'

Since Zhou Yu's injury, the melody has been flawed; who then comes to attend to him? And who, when drunk, can discern the error in the tune?

'I don't get it—just the tomb of a petty miser. What's there to see? If we want to see something, let's go to Chengdu to visit Zhuge Wu Hou's mausoleum; Zhuge Liang, our elder, is truly worthy of everyone's reverence.'

'Who are you calling petty? What damn qualification does that Zhuge Wu Hou have to compare with Gongjin?' I flared with anger, staring at the speaker—the Zheng Yang standing beside Yao Yirong.

Perhaps because he felt provoked by my challenge and lost face before so many people, Zheng Yang glared at me angrily. Yet with so many around, he, eager to save face, dared not lash out immediately; instead he began to flaunt his self‑important erudition.

'What does Zhuge Liang, our elder, have that Zhou Yu this petty miser cannot match? Borrowing arrows with straw boats, the Battle of Red Cliff, the six expeditions to Qishan, the three visits to the thatched cottage— which of these can Zhou Yu rival? To put it bluntly, Zhou Yu is nothing but a petty miser, a lustful, greedy villain who monopolizes Xiao Qiao, talentless and ignorant; how could he possibly be compared to Zhuge Liang, our elder, the Wu Hou?'

I not only did not get angry, I burst out laughing, my laughter filled with contempt for Zheng Yang.

'What are you laughing at?' Zheng Yang's face flushed red, like a jumping clown.

'I laugh at your ignorance, I laugh at your foolishness, I laugh that you haven't read the authentic Records of the Three Kingdoms.' I showed no restraint in my contempt for him.

Under everyone's astonished gaze, I spoke each word deliberately.

'Gongjin, antiquity praised him with "graceful and handsome, appearance exquisite." Even later generations called him Mei Zhou Lang. Looking over Gongjin's life, he loved only Xiao Qiao. This shows his devotion; though in a feudal age even the most beautiful woman could be treated as a commodity, and for power Zhou Yu could have offered Xiao Qiao to Cao Cao in exchange for wealth and honor—but did he?'

'Gongjin controlled a third of the world; at the age of weak crown, Xu Fu swept across Jiangdong and established an unparalleled hegemony. After Xu Fu's death, Gongjin could easily have taken Jiangdong for himself. Did he? When Jiangdong was storm‑tossed, tell me who first stepped forward to stabilize Sun Quan's position. Though talented enough to crown the three kingdoms, he preferred to remain subordinate, solely for the brotherly bond with Xu Fu. A man so devoted to love and righteousness—do you dare say he lacks love and righteousness?'

'The central commander expelled Jiang Xia internally, captured Huang Zu, at Red Cliff waved the feather fan and, laughing, shattered Cao Cao's million‑strong host. He recognized talent, gaining Lu Su; he added a tiger general to Jiangdong—tiger armor, falcon plumes, silk scarf fluttering, a white horse rider, controlling a third of the world. The melody has an error, Zhou Lang attends to it; a song of the endless river flows through the ages. Such a man—you say he lacks talent and knowledge? Do you dare?'

I had asked three questions in succession; facing Zheng Yang head‑on, I was not outmatched in the slightest. I admit I was biased, yet I do not know why I became so biased—perhaps because I love Zhou Yu too much. In my heart his stature is no less than that of Yue Fei, who wrote Man Jiang Hong.

After hearing my words, Zheng Yang showed no urgency; instead he rebutted with piercing logic: 'Even if it's true, so what? He didn't die proudly—he was supposedly made to vomit blood by Zhuge Wu Hou, our elder, through the Three Infuriations. What is there to be proud of?'

'The Three Infuriations of Zhou Yu are pure fabrication. Borrowing arrows with straw boats is merely something the writers invented to glorify Zhuge Liang. Zhou Yu died of illness in the thirteenth year of Jian'an; at that time Zhuge Liang had only just been invited out of retirement by Liu Bei, and the two had never had any contact—so where did the straw‑boat borrowing come from, where did the Three Infuriations come from?'

Furthermore, the three visits to the thatched cottage are truly laughable—in a time of chaotic world when the people cannot make a living, yet someone could bow in Nanyang, lie high in Longzhong, constantly claiming not to seek fame among the lords, yet comparing himself to Guan Yu and Zhang Liang; after Liu Bei's death he still held sway over the whole of Shu—do you not think this hero is somewhat hypocritical, his ambition overly heavy?

After saying that, I no longer paid attention to Zheng Yang; instead I stood silently before Zhou Yu's tomb, paying homage to the ancients. Alas, a generation's hero—by Red Cliff with feather fan and silk scarf, borrowing the east wind to overthrow Cao Cao. After a thousand years, a historical site that cannot be concealed ends up merely serving as a wedding dress for others.

'You scoundrel…' Unable to win the argument, Zheng Yang's face flushed red; he could no longer maintain his graceful gentlemanly image and kicked Zhou Yu's tombstone.

Then he clenched his fists and charged at me.

No one expected Zheng Yang's reaction to be so fierce; a war of words turned into a brawl.

His face flushed red, he raised his fist and slammed it hard into my chest.

But… when I clenched my fist, ready to counter, he stumbled and fell to the ground. Moreover, the punch he landed on me had no force at all.

After he fell, my clenched fist halted in mid‑air; to an outsider it looked as if I had knocked him down.

'Chen Hai Sheng, what are you doing? I invited you here not to hit my friend.' Yao Yirong scolded me, helping Zheng Yang up.

I said nothing, merely furrowed my brows.

What is Zheng Yang doing, feigning weakness to gain sympathy? Yet why is his complexion pallid, his body breaking out in cold sweat, his feet unsteady? Though he is taller than I and his fists larger, how can he be so unable to take a punch?

With the help of several men, Yao Yirong helped Zheng Yang into the car and returned to the ancient fortress to rest.

After Zheng Yang was helped away, I remained standing there, dazed.

I don't know why, but I felt there was something strange about his demeanor, though I couldn't pinpoint what it was.

After they left, Pangzi came over, looked at my clenched fist, swallowed, and said, 'My goodness, Hai Sheng, when did you become so good at fighting?'

I shook my head and explained that Zheng Yang had tripped himself; I hadn't hit him.

But this excuse wasn't sufficient; even Pangzi didn't believe it.

Finally I grew too weary to explain; let them think what they will—I'm not living for anyone else.

I lingered at Zhou Yu's tomb for over ten minutes, about to go wandering elsewhere with Pangzi.

But then I saw Meng Xue running over, panting, her face panicked as she told us, 'Something's wrong, Hai Sheng brother, Wei Qiang brother—come quick, Qing Qing has had an accident.'

What? A bolt of lightning flashed in my mind—Qing Qing, isn't she the girl who resembles little Meng? How could she have met with misfortune?

No time to think further, I and Pangzi followed Meng Xue in a light jog to a nearby barren hill.

Meng Xue, Qing Qing and the other girls had been playing separately from us, but I didn't realize they had run so far.

On the summit of that barren hill, several girls had gathered around Qing Qing, administering first aid.

I went over and saw Qing Qing had fainted, her face pallid. I and Pangzi had never encountered such a situation before.

I checked her breath and pulse; they were present but extremely slow, as if she might stop breathing at any moment, her pulse moving only a fraction of the normal rate.

'How strange—what could have happened to her? Could she have some hidden illness?' I muttered to myself, chin in hand.

At that moment, a girl, under Pangzi's questioning, sobbed, 'I don't know why either—Qing Qing merely answered an old woman's words, and then she became like this.'

'What do you mean, she answered an old woman's words? What words?' I seized the girl's shoulder and pressed her urgently.

No wonder I was anxious, for I had heard of similar cases before. In the Fa Sect there is a secret art, transmitted in the same way as the Jue Sect's lineage, employing a mysterious question‑and‑answer method. If you speak a sentence to him while meeting his gaze, you may have your soul seized and be mysteriously struck by his spell.

But when the girl slowly recounted everything, I couldn't help cursing mother in my heart.

Damn, it's actually the work of those wild immortals again.