Chapter 683: Mediocrity Alone—The Lake

Daguan Garden.

From the viewing pavilion across the lake, a sharp crack of shattering porcelain suddenly rang out.

“Who are those people? Wasn’t it agreed no boat would carry Xie Guan across the lake?”

The curses were hoarse and grating, like a dull blade scraping across blue stone.

The teacup slammed violently against the corridor pillar, shards flying and sending servants scrambling backward.

The culprit was a youth, gaunt as a skeleton, yet draped in brocade finery.

Five or six incense pouches hung heavy from his jade belt, tilting it askew; his jade hairpin and crown pin stuck crookedly. His narrow, donkey-like face was caked thick with lead powder, yet could not hide the sunken, sickly hollows in his cheeks—he looked like a corpse wrapped in silk and brocade.

This man was Zhao Yang.

The fourth young master of the Zhao family, Xie Renfeng’s cousin.

Compared to a few months ago, his complexion had grown even paler and more haggard, his eyes flickering with mad brilliance, as if consumed by a lingering, inescapable illness.

When he learned his cousin Xie Renfeng had been beaten to the brink of death by Xie Guan, he felt no pity whatsoever—only sneered coldly: “Useless waste!”

Today, with Lady Zhao’s tacit approval and long-standing grudges against Xie Guan, he resolved to end the life of that bastard right here in Daguan Garden.

“Why bother with elaborate plans?” Zhao Yang nervously gnawed his fingernails. “Slice him as he crosses the lake, sink the body in the center….”

Thinking of the esteemed guests in Hongjing Courtyard now drinking and reveling, his sunken eye sockets glinted with malice: “Who cares about the life or death of some lowly bastard?”

Everything will vanish without a trace!

“Waste! A bunch of wastes!”

He suddenly flew into a rage, kicking over the stone bench beside him with a clatter.

The ripples on the lake’s surface trembled in his twisted reflection, like a demon manifesting.

“Get out! All of you! Useless trash!”

The servants turned ashen-faced, crawling and scrambling out of the pavilion, leaving only chaos behind.

Zhao Yang screamed hysterically until only the white-haired, ruddy-cheeked Daoist remained inside.

The Daoist was unnaturally tall; the hem of his robe trailed over the ground by more than three inches, like a withered bamboo stalk carrying a gray robe.

“Young Master Yang, still planning to act?” The Daoist’s voice was hoarse, like dry leaves scraping together. “Xie Guan isn’t alone anymore.”

Zhao Yang squinted toward the lake center, recognizing only two courtesans on the boat.

Everyone else were mere ants in his eyes; he sneered: “Who cares who they are? If I don’t know them, how could they be anyone important? Daring to offend the Zhao family?”

Then he remembered something, his tone shifting abruptly: “Master You, you won’t fail, will you?”

To this Daoist, Zhao Yang’s tone carried three parts more courtesy.

“Young Master Yang may rest easy,” the Daoist smiled with benevolent features, yet it sent chills down the spine. “My corpse puppets have been waiting beneath the lake for a long time. All I need do is shake this silver bell, and they’ll rise to kill, draining them into dry corpses.”

“All my cultivation rests on these corpse puppets—silent, invisible, even the top three realms of martial cultivation cannot detect them. The White Bone Pavilion has nurtured these puppets for three hundred years; even the top three realms of martial cultivation can be slain.”

“Xie Guan, as you described him, is certain to die!”

A string of silver bell chimes suddenly rang from the Daoist’s sleeve.

His bony fingers pinched a small silver bell, its body engraved with grotesque demon faces.

As he gave it a gentle shake, cold winds surged through the pavilion, faintly carrying wails of anguish.

His gray-white beard stirred in the chilling wind, revealing a faint thread along his neck—clearly, a human skin stitched together.

The Daoist was none other than You Daoren, the famed master of the White Bone Pavilion in Bianjing.

This should have been a heretic exterminated by the Divine Concealment Bureau of the Great Qi—but due to a single official document, he became a honored guest.

The White Bone Pavilion was originally a orthodox Daoist method, teaching “contemplate the body’s impurity, contemplate suffering in sensation,” using meditation on the decay of flesh into bone to shatter attachments.

But You Daoren’s lineage perverted it, creating the heretical “Ninefold White Bone Dao.”

They slept among corpses in mass graves, refining corpse puppets with death qi, requiring fresh human blood to sustain them—long since fallen into demonic ways.

Rumor says White Bone Pavilion disciples walk carrying coffins; by day they chant sutras as Daoists, by night they become corpse-stealing demons.

You Daoren’s ancestor, Yuan Jian, long ago attached himself to the Zhao family and obtained a Ministry of Rites document, laundering this demonic den into a legitimate temple.

In broad daylight in Bianjing, they dare not commit murder, but keeping blood slaves and human feeders in the black market is nothing new.

And Bianjing’s black market? All run by the Nine Surnames.

Hearing this, Zhao Yang’s sickly flush deepened. “Good! Good! After it’s done, Grand Elder will grant you one technique from the ‘Demon Art of Heaven-Shaking Earth-Splitting’ you’ve long craved. And the Xie family… won’t forget your reward either.”

At these words, the Daoist’s withered face trembled violently; he bowed three times in reverence: “Wu Liang Tianzun! I, this humble Daoist, shall not fail Grand Elder Zhao’s great trust.”

His voice trembled like a starving ghost spotting food.

At that moment, the silver bell in the Daoist’s sleeve trembled faintly; from beneath the lake, a faint “gurgle” echoed.

His claw-like fingers clenched tightly—the silver bell rang out like a demon’s shriek!

The human-skin talisman around the Daoist’s neck glowed faintly blue, yet he forced down his triumph: “The scholars in the Academy watch too closely—I’ve been stifled for years…”

“Today, let me taste the blood of the Nine Surnames and see what flavor it holds.”

The lake’s storm brews!

【You hesitated no longer. Given the Xie family’s current disdain for you, this small boat crossing the lake might never arrive.】

【You walked slowly forward and boarded the vessel.】

【“Apologies for the disturbance.”】

【The mute boatman, seeing you board, silently pushed out the long pole.】

【On the bow, Liu Zixin and two others shared one umbrella.】

【Xue Huai’an and the others studied you as you drew near.】

【Mei Qingsu’s expression grew increasingly uncertain.】

【The purple-clad woman, arms cradling the Eight-Faced Han Sword, leaned against the boat canopy, her dark brows furrowing as she looked at you—even from such close range, your aura blended seamlessly with the lake’s shimmer.】

【She noticed your pant legs soaked by rain, your shoe tips caked with mud, your steps unsteady.】

【This feeling… you were clearly unskilled in martial arts, yet radiated an uncanny, heart-stopping profundity.】

【When Liu Zixin turned back, her almond eyes suddenly sparkled with delight. Had she been a woman of superior looks and refined features, she might have seemed overly delicate.】

【This young master, up close, appeared even more elegant than from afar—his features held the mist and rain of lake and mountain; every gesture carried an uncommon grace.】

【Such a man—even the self-proclaimed literati of Zixiao Pavilion could not match him by a fraction.】

【Her lips parted softly, voice like pearls falling on jade: “My lord, truly ‘bone-heavy, spirit-cold, temple-worthy; jade tree standing in the wind.’”】

【At these words.】

【Luo Su-su of Jinxiu Pavilion, ever haughty, now nodded slightly, her gaze lingering on you a moment longer.】

【Mei Qingsu recovered, fanning himself lightly, smiling: “Had I not seen the Sima family’s ‘Jade in the Book,’ Sima Chunfeng, who cultivates righteous qi, I might have mistaken you for him.”】

【Xue Huai’an’s expression flickered faintly stiff, then he bowed respectfully: “I am Xue Huai’an. May I ask your noble name, my lord?”】

You raised your eyes in curiosity—Xue? At such a young age, he had ignited divine fire and appeared here in Daguan Garden—he must be a scion of the Xue family, one of the Nine Surnames, undoubtedly famous.

【Alas, these past years you’ve lived secluded in a small courtyard, never even visited all of Bianjing, let alone known these favored sons of the Nine Surnames.】

【As your words faded, the boat fell silent, save the soft patter of rain on the canopy.】

【All eyes burned into you, as if trying to discern your identity from your features.】

【Meeting their gazes, you smiled calmly: “I am Xie Guan.”】

【Your sleeve fluttered in the wind: “Merely a mediocre talent, flattered by your kindness.”】

【“Xie Guan—”】

【Liu Zixin’s silk handkerchief tightened suddenly; she met Su Zhirou’s gaze. Both women’s eyes widened in surprise, then shifted to realization—of late, the most famed figure in the West Wing Pavilion was none other than this Xie Guan.】

【Usually cold and distant, Su Zhirou stepped forward half a pace, her crimson lips parting: “Are you the one who wrote, ‘My belt grows looser, yet I never repent; for you, I waste away’? ‘How much sorrow can you hold? Like spring river flowing eastward.’”】

【“The young master Xie Guan, praised by Old Master Jinzi as ‘White-Robed Minister’?”】

【You recalled Hu Yunniang once saying that Old Master Jin had indeed intended to spread your fame.】

【You smiled: “If there is no other Xie Guan in Bianjing, then it must be me.”】

【Su Zhirou’s gaze flickered; she already believed seven-tenths. Such refined grace could only match poetry plucked from heaven.】

【She curtseyed: “The sisters of Zixiao Pavilion greatly admire your literary talent. To meet you today, I am truly honored.”】

【She had another unspoken thought: countless courtesans in the West Wing Pavilion would willingly offer their beds for a single poem from this Xie Young Master .】

【Liu Zixin bowed gracefully, her eyes brimming with admiration: “Zixin greets Master Guan.”】

【Her voice was soft as spring water: “Your fame spreads far and wide; now that I’ve met you, I see your poetry truly reflects your person.”】

【The girls of the West Wing Pavilion revered such romantic literati above all. A single exquisite poem could double their worth.】

【They knew nothing of court politics, kings and generals, nor the distant battles of sword and blade.】

【Their daily talk was always of these elegant poets.】

【Moreover, under Great Qi’s Confucian influence, the title ‘White-Robed Minister’ was no empty honor.】

【Luo Su-su’s gaze flickered—she knew the name Xie Guan well. As one of Bianjing’s top two escort agencies, gathering intelligence was their specialty.】

【This Xie Guan reportedly suffered a poor standing in the Xie family, and rumors among the Nine Surnames claimed he possessed no talent, merely empty fame.】

【Today’s encounter suggested otherwise—at least, he was truly golden on the outside!】

【Xue Huai’an, seeing the two women’s expressions, showed a flicker of discomfort: “So you’re Master Guan. Long admired.”】

【Su Zhirou promptly introduced: “This young master is the second son of the Xue family, top scorer in last autumn’s metropolitan examination. Renowned for his calligraphy and painting, he now teaches at the Academy.”】

【One title after another—Xue Huai’an glanced at Liu Zixin’s eyes, still glowing from moments ago, yet even that glow paled beside the name Xie Guan.】

【Mei Qingsu suddenly clapped and laughed: “So you’re the young master who wrote, ‘The roc flies north, the phoenix faces the sun, carrying books and sword through boundless paths!’”】

【His tone held amusement: “Yet the rumors are absurd—the Xie family claims you’re frail, plagued by sores on your head, and covered in fat?”】

Liu Zixin covered her lips and laughed softly: “I’ve also heard that Master Guan hasn’t bathed in half a year—lice fall off him as he walks.”

“Truly vile—how dare they slander the Young Master’s reputation?”

It was hardly surprising—few had seen your true face at the Gathering of Beauties, and afterward you ascended the Invite-Fairy Tower, appearing even less in public.

Added to that, the Xie family seemed to encourage it; during your reclusive days, the Western Wing Tower was filled with such rumors.

You spoke calmly: “Just a few humble verses—I earned the reputation of a fickle poet in the brothels.”

Liu Zixin shook her head urgently. “That won’t do! When I return to Zi Xiao Pavilion, I’ll make it clear to the girls—those rumors are utterly false.”

Mei Qingsu suddenly let out a loud laugh, clasped his fists in a standard martial salute: “I am Mei Qingsu, nominally head of the Giant Whale Gang, specializing in waterborne trade.”

“The Giant Whale Gang?” Your mind stirred—you recalled Wu Tong’s whispers about Bianjing’s canal secrets: when the capital’s grain transport stalled, it was this martial sect that held up half the waterway. To operate canal trade beneath the Emperor’s nose and make the gang’s name known throughout the streets—this Master Mei was no ordinary man.

You returned the salute: “Greetings, Master Mei.”

Xue Huai’an’s eyes flickered with surprise—this Master Mei, always so haughty, had just revealed his identity? Before he could ponder further, another cold voice spoke:

“Xiujin Tower, Luo Susu.”

Just six words—but Xue Huai’an was even more startled. He knew the nature of this Luo sister of Xiujin Tower: she scorned men, rarely found anyone worthy of her notice.

“Xiujin Tower,” you regarded the purple-clad woman—her reputation in Bianjing’s alleys was no less than the Giant Whale Gang’s. Judging by her bearing, her status within Xiujin Tower was likely no lesser than Mei Qingsu’s.

Outside the boat canopy, the rain had eased, leaving only a few damp wisps of mist over the lake.

Liu Zixin was a talkative soul; she chattered beside you, her laughter ringing over the bow, making the atmosphere feel anything but awkward.

You observed silently: Xue Huai’an’s gaze lingered, faint yet tender, on Liu Zixin.

Su Zhirou kept glancing repeatedly at Xue Huai’an.

Yet none of the three noticed the feelings hidden between them—romantic longing buried deep, none daring to pierce the gossamer-thin veil between them.

Liu Zixin asked curiously: “I heard someone offered four million taels of gold for just one painting and one poem from you—is that true?”

“Master Guan, have you truly ascended to the fourth floor of the Invite-Fairy Tower and met Su Xiang and the Third Master?”

“And—oh, and—didn’t you say you saw the Immortal Realm and heard poetry from five thousand years ago?”

Just as you were about to answer—

A sudden disturbance erupted on the lake!

The entire lake surface tilted like a bowl overturned by a hand, emerald waves churning violently.

The boat groaned under unbearable strain; several planks cracked open.

“Ah—”

Liu Zixin cried out in alarm.

Your eyes flickered—you had sensed the lake’s strangeness long ago.

Xue Huai’an remained calm, silently shielding the two women behind him.

Luo Susu stood rooted to the deck, arms crossed, sword in hand, gazing coldly at the lake’s depths.

Luo Susu’s feet were planted like roots on the deck, her eight-sided Han sword humming and trembling in her arms. Her gaze, sharp as blades, fixed on the dark depths below.

Mei Qingsu felt the killing intent in the lake, yet his eyes held a thoughtful gleam.

～

(End of Chapter)