Chapter 640: The Grand Master of the Academy, the Demon Master, the High Monk, the Celestial Master, Gather

The water's surface gradually calmed.

The violent waves that had just churned the river had vanished.

The burly man's face was still pale, his heart still racing—he had truly feared the monstrous thing in the river would open its bloodied maw.

A head larger than a waterwheel had surfaced, ready to swallow them whole.

Unexpected!

This… the water monster fled like a bird startled by a bowstring, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

It wasn't they who were frightened.

It was the water monster that panicked, fleeing blindly.

The burly man immediately turned and steadied his wife.

His wife had been distracted and hadn't noticed the lake's waves; she'd only nearly stumbled, saved at the last moment by the boatman's hand.

The boatman, appearing to be in his forties or fifties, was sturdy, his arms bulging with muscle.

Though the weather was cold, he wore only a short shirt, his chest half-exposed, revealing hardened muscle.

Yet, his left leg was slightly lame.

A dark-gray scar, winding like a snake, marred his leg, strikingly visible.

His calf muscles had visibly atrophied, thinner by a full fist's width, appearing shriveled and weak.

He had a crew cut, well-proportioned features, and a bright smile revealing white teeth—he was clearly talkative.

"Madam, be careful."

As he spoke, he firmly supported her with his large hands.

She felt the firmness of his muscles beneath her grip, looked up, and felt a faint blush rise on her cheeks.

Her own five-foot husband was nowhere near this strong.

She quickly lowered her head, flustered.

Beside her, the burly man swiftly pulled his wife's hand from the boatman's grasp and held it tightly in his own.

His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he sized up the boatman—the man stood a head taller, his age similar, yet his frame far more robust.

The man silently guarded himself: boatmen who plied the Xi Xiang Lou route were notoriously unrestrained. Once ashore with silver in hand, they headed straight to brothels and taverns, either drowning in drink or seeking pleasure—hardly respectable folk.

He tightened his grip on his wife. "Wife, stand firm. Don't fall."

The woman didn't mind; she merely gazed at the banks of the river.

Their route was clearly headed across to the opposite bank of the river.

The boatman smiled. "Old sir, you're crossing the river, then?"

Only then did they notice the old man who had been gripping the boat's edge tightly.

He was bound for Xi Xiang Lou.

The Qun Fang Ban required crossing the arched bridge, but Xi Xiang Lou lay simply across the river.

The boatman studied the old man in his Confucian robe and smiled. "Old sir, you're not from Bianjing, are you? A stranger?"

The old man's Bianjing dialect sounded stiff, thick with a heavy accent—not quite Da Qi, almost like the nasal tones of the western regions.

The old man nodded, then shook his head. "Call me half a stranger."

"I once lived in Bianjing, then wandered far and wide, leaving footprints across the land."

"Though old, I cannot sit still—I love traveling, admiring the beauty of mountains and rivers."

The burly man chuckled silently. The old man looked well past sixty—he should be resting at home, yet he insisted on constant travel.

As for his claim of having trodden every corner of the land, it was surely boasting.

The world was vast: the endless northern grasslands, the unfathomable southern bays, the ten thousand western mountains.

How could one man possibly cover it all in a lifetime?

Yet his clothes were shabby, his demeanor timid—he was likely a man who had suffered much.

The old man continued, "I'm alone, no ties, no burdens. Wherever I go, I provide for myself—eat my fill, and no one starves."

As he spoke, his thick foreign accent gradually melted into pure, fluent Bianjing dialect, smooth and natural—as if he'd been born and raised there.

The woman blinked in surprise. Changing one's accent was no small feat, especially deeply ingrained speech habits formed since childhood.

She thought to herself: this old man was no ordinary traveler—he was a seasoned veteran of the world.

The boatman teased, "Old sir, take it easy—you're not young anymore."

"I know, I know."

"Since you've seen so much, tell us—where's the finest scenery? Where are the most beautiful women? Surely it's Bianjing?"

"Naturally. Bianjing is the finest place under heaven—no exaggeration."

"Are Da Qi's academies the best in the world?"

"Of course."

"Is Da Qi's army invincible?"

"Probably."

"Is Da Qi the strongest nation under heaven?"

"Impressive, impressive."

The boatman stopped teasing the easygoing old man.

The old man had no temper—he simply nodded at everything.

The boatman, growing fond of him, smiled and warned, "Old sir, when you travel, don't be so agreeable everywhere. You must have some spirit. Otherwise, people will look down on you. Especially the young—they don't respect elders like we do."

"They've no sense of honor."

The old man smiled warmly and nodded. "I know, I know."

The burly man couldn't help but ask curiously, "Old sir, why are you here for the Qun Fang Ban at this hour?"

He half-joked, "Are you here to see the Flower Queen?"

The old man waved his hands quickly. "No, no—I'm here to find a friend. A few acquaintances in Bianjing are in trouble. I still have some standing here—I might be able to help."

The boatman feigned astonishment, raising his voice. "Old sir, you must've been a formidable figure in your day—famous far and wide!"

The old man straightened his back, a hint of pride on his face.

"I can't claim that. Back then, I was second only to one man."

"Just a few unworthy junior brothers."

The burly man burst out laughing.

The old man's words reeked of self-aggrandizement.

"Second only to one man, with a few unworthy junior brothers"?

That sounded utterly implausible—hardly believable!

He knew the old man loved to reminisce about his youth.

Whether any of it was true depended on how much wine he'd drunk and how high his spirits were.

The woman now studied the old man closely. His manner and speech revealed no trace of a lecher—he felt a pang of guilt.

She apologized, "I misjudged you, old sir."

The old man, taken aback by her change in tone, blushed slightly. "No matter, no matter—just a small thing."

The boatman drew closer to shore.

He steadied his pole; the small boat glided smoothly through the wind and waves, revealing his mastery.

This stretch of water, churned by passing large ships, was turbulent—but the boatman handled it effortlessly, far from a fraud.

Against the wind, the river's misty expanse stretched wide, yet the boat held steady.

The small boat neared the shore.

The old man pulled a small parcel wrapped carefully in a handkerchief from his robe and paid the fare.

He opened it slowly—inside lay crushed silver pieces and polished copper coins of varying sizes, clearly long-saved savings.

He hesitated, a flicker of reluctance crossing his face, then clenched his teeth and counted out thirty taels of silver, slowly offering them to the boatman.

As he handed over the silver, he turned his face aside, as if pained beyond words—daring not even glance at the money.

The boatman laughed heartily, took only one coin from the pile, weighed it in his palm, and said cheerfully:

"Today's river disturbance—I'll take five taels. Keep the rest, old sir."

The old man suppressed a smile, coughed. "This… this won't do!"

Yet his hands moved swiftly, rewrapping the handkerchief and shoving it back into his robe as if afraid the boatman would change his mind.

The boatman didn't press him, only smiled and warned, "Old sir, when you reach Xi Xiang Lou, be careful. Don't say you're a stranger. Locals are ruthless with outsiders—they charge more for lodging and meals. Stay sharp. Don't say you're alone—say you're visiting relatives."

"Avoid taverns with wine girls or wine recommenders—they'll rip you off at the bill."

His tone was sincere—he genuinely meant to help.

Though the old man had traveled far and wide, he was old, childless, alone. The boatman wished to do him a kindness and charge less.

The boat gently docked. The woman spoke up: "Boatman, please drop us off at shore too."

The burly man asked quickly, "Our fare is five taels too?"

The boatman grinned. "Sure. Same price."

The burly man's face lit up.

Today was a windfall—they'd saved a fortune, a delightful surprise.

The boat had docked, resting against the wooden pier.

The woman and the burly man had already stepped ashore.

The old man stood up and walked over, patting him on the shoulder.

The boatman froze—when had the old man placed his hand on his shoulder without a sound?

The old man in Confucian robes smiled and said, "A true second-rank martial expert, why waste your days rowing on this river? Your lame leg was surely pierced by a scholar academy disciple, wasn't it?"

"Residual sword intent lingers in the wound, never fading, blocking your blood and qi. If left unchecked, you'll lose this leg."

"Fortunately, this sword only learned a fraction of your brother's technique—if it had been full power, you'd be dead already."

"You came here to live by the river, hoping the current would disperse the sword intent. But this method only treats the symptom, not the root. If you delay further, within two years the intent will erupt—and then, death will be your only path."

Hearing this, the boatman's face turned deathly pale; his entire body stiffened, unable to move an inch, even raising his hand becoming excruciatingly difficult.

The old man smiled and continued, "I dislike owing others. You spared me the ferry fare—I'll remove this sword intent for you. We're even."

With that—

The boatman felt a vast, righteous qi surge into his shoulder, racing down his meridians, instantly unblocking the withered vessels in his calf.

The searing sword intent that had festered for years seemed forced out of his body by an invisible force.

"Puff!"

A white blade of qi erupted from the boatman's soles, shattering his boots, then carving deep grooves into the boat's hull like an axe or chisel.

The boatman's body relaxed, as if shedding a thousand jin of weight; black, stagnant blood spewed from his mouth, and he instantly felt lighter.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his body remained locked, as if crushed by invisible pressure—he couldn't utter a single word, only stared wide-eyed as the old man slowly stepped ashore, his figure receding into the distance.

Only when the old man reached land did the boatman regain movement.

He immediately knelt and bowed three heavy, resonant bows toward the old man's departing form, his face filled with gratitude, voice trembling with reverence.

"Humbly see off Great Master!"

This sword wound was inflicted years ago when he challenged a scholar academy disciple, struck by the disciple's use of Second Master's sword art.

That sword intent clung like a bone-deep plague, tormenting him for nine full years, never dissolving.

Even members of the Nine Surnames who could have healed it dared not intervene, fearing the Second Master.

And today!

This old man saw through his injury at a glance and dispelled the sword intent with effortless ease.

More astonishing still—he called the Second Master "younger brother," and referred to himself as "a wanderer of the world."

The boatman understood at once—this old man must be the legendary Great Master of the Scholar Academy!

The Great Master of the Scholar Academy who loved "mountains and rivers."

He knelt on the ground, Jiujiuweiqi, his heart brimming with profound emotion.

"Wife, just now I looked back at that boatman—he seemed to be kowtowing toward us. Did I imagine it?"

The burly man scratched his head, voice tinged with confusion. "That old master just came up behind us too."

The woman turned and looked back—sure enough, the old man in Confucian robes was stepping onto the shore.

She was about to speak when she suddenly noticed three figures standing on the dock, as if waiting.

On the left stood an old monk in simple robes, his face gentle, eyes closed as he murmured silently.

In the center stood a Daoist woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat, her figure concealed beneath a flowing robe, her face hidden beneath the brim.

On the right stood a mature middle-aged man, hands clasped behind his back, temples slightly streaked with gray, his demeanor refined, gaze deep and profound.

The woman's eyes sharpened—wasn't that right-side man the refined middle-aged man who had eaten mutton soup at her stall by Nai Bridge?

Her heart leapt with joy—she had traveled countless miles to the Qunfang Banquet, and now she had truly found him!

These three were Lu Hua, the Demon Master Xu Jiangxian, and the Lotus Pool Master.

Lu Hua, persuaded by Xu Jiangxian, had decided to join him in investigating the Scholar Academy.

Yet today, at the Qunfang Banquet, one promised, crucial person had yet to arrive.

This person was Lu Hua's sole reason for daring to enter Bianjing alone.

Formerly the Great Master of the Scholar Academy, now the Imperial Preceptor of the Great Sui.

Since the three had agreed to unite under one cause, Lu Hua no longer concealed his identity—he brought Xu Jiangxian and the Lotus Pool Master to the agreed meeting spot.

Seeing the old man approach slowly, they hurried forward to greet him, passing the couple, and stood before him.

The Lotus Pool Master clasped his hands and murmured, "Master Xu."

The Great Master's name was Xu Xian; he nodded slightly in response.

The Demon Master's face softened with respect. "Greetings, Great Master."

Lu Hua also performed a deep Daoist bow. "Humbly pay respects to the Imperial Preceptor."

Great Master Xu Xian gave Lu Hua a slight nod, then smiled toward Xu Jiangxian and his wife. "I never expected to meet you two again here."

By his age, Xu Jiangxian and his wife were his juniors.

Beside them, the burly man also recognized Xu Jiangxian.

The couple exchanged glances, surprised—the old man they'd met on the road was clearly acquainted with this middle-aged man, and had apparently been waiting for him.

(End of Chapter)