Chapter 50

The next morning, after eating a luxurious breakfast, our group set out to experience the feng shui and local customs of the Lu River.

Having come to the Lu River, there is a place that is absolutely not to be missed: the tomb of Zhou Yu, Zhou Gongjin.

Zhou Yu, who was he? The foremost general of the late Han, at the young age he met Bofu, riding a white horse he opened Wu's territory. He devoted his life to the foundation of Jiangdong, spilling his heart and blood, finally falling ill and dying in Bajiu, leaving behind the timeless masterpiece "Long River Chant".

From ancient times to the present, countless literati and poets have left their ink praising Zhou Yu, such as Su Shi's "Reminiscence of Red Cliff", Du Mu's Red Cliff, Ma Zhichun's "Zhou Yu Bridge", Dai Fuguo's "Full River Red", Yue Fei's grandson Yue He's inscription on Red Cliff, and so on, hundreds upon 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 and Concealment 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 the descendants of Daoism or the Dharma Sect, cannot help but carefully contemplate it. Yet the more one contemplates, the more one feels that Zhou Yu is unfathomably mysterious; this Nine Palaces Eight Trigrams Formation, with its vast scale and grand momentum, actually harbors the mechanism to contain the universe and swallow and exhale all things.

Alas, such a mysteriously learned scholar became a sacrificial victim in Luo Guanzhong's fictional Romance of the Three Kingdoms. The baseless "Three Infuriations of Zhou Yu" firmly led later generations to mistakenly view the graceful and beautiful Zhou Yu as a narrow-minded, sinister petty person.

It is a pity that such a young general ended up bearing a thousand-year-old infamy. People only know the Romance of the Three Kingdoms; how many have read the Official History of the Three Kingdoms, and how many truly understand Zhou Gongjin? Luo Guanzhong, in order to exalt Zhuge Liang, buried a general who should have been renowned for a thousand years.

Whether to mourn or to satisfy my curiosity, since we have come to Lu River, I feel we must pay our respects to this tragic legendary figure.

Under my suggestion, everyone came to the side of Zhou Yu's tomb located south of Lu River.

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

When I touched the weathered stone beam with trembling hands, I could not help but feel a sigh rise in my heart.

Ming Chao Shu Han wild winds, fell the heavenly net, also in panic. Giving his all, his talent devoted to the nation's ruin. Once he promised Bofu to achieve hegemony; gazing at the moon, his heart ached further. In those years, at the Battle of Red Cliff on the Wu River, bows and crossbows were drawn, flames soared. Before the collapse, he sighed again, still recalling Xiao Qiao's fragrance.

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

Suddenly I recalled a poem: "The zither's golden pillars ring, with bare hands before the jade chamber. To win Zhou Yu's glance, I often mistakenly pluck the strings."

Zhou Yu's impairment led to errors in the melody; who then would come to attend to him? And who could, while drunk, discern the mistake in the tune?

"What's there to understand? It's 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 Wuhou's mausoleum—Zhuge Liang, our venerable elder, is truly worthy of everyone's reverence."

"How dare you call someone petty? What the hell good is Zhuge Wuhou to compare with Gongjin?" I flared with rage, staring at the speaker, Zheng Yang standing beside Yao Yirong.

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

"What does Zhuge Wuhou, our venerable elder, have that isn't surpassed by Zhou Yu, that petty miser? 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 match? To put it bluntly, Zhou Yu is nothing but a petty miser, a lecherous, greedy villain who monopolized Xiao Qiao, talentless and ignorant—how could he possibly be mentioned in the same breath as Zhuge Liang, our venerable elder?"

Not only was I not 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 at your not having read the official History of the Three Kingdoms." I did not conceal my contempt for him.

Under everyone's astonished gaze, I spoke each word clearly:

"Gongjin, antiquity praised him with 'graceful bearing and lovely appearance'; even later generations called him the beautiful Zhou Yu. 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, 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 young age he pledged with Bofu, he swept across Jiangdong and established an unrivaled hegemony. After Bofu's death, Gongjin could easily have taken Jiangdong for himself. Did he? When Jiangdong was storm‑tossed, who first secured Sun Quan's position? Though talented enough to stand among the three kingdoms, he willingly took a lower place, solely for the brotherly bond with Bofu. Such a man of deep feeling and righteousness—do you dare say he lacks feeling and righteousness?"

"The middle army expelled Jiang Xia internally, captured Huang Zu, Zhou Yu waved his feather fan at Red Cliff 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 banners, fluttering ribbons, a white‑steed rider, ruling a third of the world. The melody erred, Zhou Yu attended to it; a single Long River chant flows through the ages. Such a man—do you say he lacks talent and insight? Do you dare?"

I fired off three questions, facing Zheng Yang head‑on without yielding an inch. I admit I was overexcited, yet I don't know why I became so overexcited—perhaps because I love Zhou Yu too much. His place in my heart is no less than that of Yue Fei, who wrote "Full River Red".

After hearing my words, Zheng Yang showed no urgency; instead he rebutted firmly: "Even if it's true, so what? He still died vomiting blood from Zhuge Wuhou's three infuriations—what is there to be proud of?"

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

Moreover, the 'Three Visits to the Thatched Cottage' is downright laughable. In an age of chaos when the people cannot make a living, yet someone could bow in Nanyang, lie low in Longzhong, constantly claiming he seeks no audience with the lords, yet he compares himself to Guan Yu and Zhang Liang; after Liu Bei's death he still held sway over all of Shu—do you not think this hero is somewhat hypocritical, his ambition too great?

After saying that, I no longer paid attention to Zheng Yang, but stood silently before Zhou Yu's tomb, mourning the ancients. Alas, a generation's talent—by Red Cliff with feather fan and silk headband, borrowing the east wind to overthrow Cao Cao. After a thousand years, a historical site that cannot be concealed has merely served as a wedding dress for others.

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

Then he clenched his fists and charged at me.

Nobody expected Zheng Yang's reaction to be so fierce; a war of words turned into a brawl.

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

But… when I clenched my fist, ready to strike back, 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 furrowing my brow.

What is Zheng Yang up to—pretending to be pitiful to gain sympathy? Yet why is his complexion ashen, his body drenched in cold sweat, unable to stand firm? Though he is taller than I and his fists larger, how can he be so fragile?

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 sense something odd about him—I just can't put my finger on it.

After they left, Pangzi walked over, looked at my clenched fist, swallowed, and said, "Good grief, Hai Sheng, when did you become so good at fighting?"

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

But this explanation wasn't convincing enough—not even Pangzi believed it.

In the end I grew too weary to explain; let them think what they will—I don't live for others.

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

But then Meng Xue came running up, breathless and panicked, telling us, "Oh no, 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 an accident?"

Without time to think further, I and Pangzi trotted after Meng Xue to a nearby barren hill.

Meng Xue, Qing Qing, and the other girls had been playing separately from us, but I never imagined they would have run so far.

On the summit of that barren hill, several girls gathered around Qing Qing to give her aid.

I went up and saw Qing Qing ashen and fainted on the ground—a state I and Pangzi had never encountered before.

I checked her breath; it was there, but so faint it seemed she might cease at any moment, and her pulse was likewise, beating only a fraction of the normal rate.

"How strange—what could have happened to her? Could she have some hidden ailment?" I muttered, resting my chin on my hand.

At that moment, a girl, under Pangzi's questioning, sobbed, "I don't know why this happened; 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, urgently pressing for details.

No wonder I'm anxious, for I have heard of similar cases. In the Dharma Sect there is a secret art, transmitted in the same way as the Jue Sect's lineage, employing a question‑and‑answer of mysteries. If you speak a sentence to him while looking into his eyes, 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, it turns out it's the work of a wild immortal again..