Chapter 77: The Laughing Talk of Kingship and Dominion

Auntie, you don’t understand martial arts?

Li Guanyi very much wanted to refute.

But now he understood cultivation better, and said: “Auntie means you’re not some crude martial cultivator?”

“Are you cultivating some other path?”

Murong Qiushui blinked her eyes, rubbed the boy’s head with her palm, and said: “Don’t interrupt, Little Lynx, sit still.”

“You’re growing up, and your features resemble your father’s.”

“But overall, you take after your mother—you’re much better-looking than your father.”

Li Guanyi rarely heard Murong Qiushui mention his parents, and asked: “So you’re saying my father wasn’t good-looking at all?”

Murong Qiushui frowned, then smiled: “Can’t say he wasn’t good-looking—men are judged by their martial vigor. But forget that. You resemble your parents, but your father wore a face mask when he campaigned across the land; ninety percent of the people in this capital never saw his face. Those who did? They all wished you’d disappear.”

Li Guanyi had thought about this, and said: “What about disguise?”

Murong Qiushui said: “But there are many ways to recognize a person—even if burned to ash, they can still tell if it’s the real you or a decoy.”

“Perhaps in this chaotic age, the killing between people and the games between monarchs have multiplied.”

“The techniques for identifying true identities have advanced faster than in the thousand years of peace before.”

“Some call it ‘gazing at qi,’ others ‘fate patterns.’ In truth, it’s tied to the [Spirit]. Different people’s qi may shift and hide; their bodies can shrink bones or alter appearances—but the [Spirit] itself resists change. In many legends, what they call the soul is precisely the Spirit.”

A ripple passed through Li Guanyi’s eyes, and he asked: “It truly can’t change?”

He thought of himself.

Murong Qiushui smiled: “Of course. When I first saw you, you were a wrinkled little thing, utterly unlovely. Your Spirit was curled up, like a flower bud. Then, when we were being hunted, perhaps the trauma uncurled it.”

“And suddenly, you became sensible.”

She whispered: “Books say trials temper people—truly, it’s no lie.”

Murong Qiushui didn’t go on. Sometimes she felt she’d rather the boy be foolish, spoiled, and live a peaceful hundred years than endure this decade of flight. But she’d never say such a thing to her Little Lynx.

Before her Little Lynx, she was always lazy and bright, never a trace of sorrow.

Li Guanyi caught the tone, and deliberately said:

“Such a rare method—where could it possibly exist?”

The boy sighed: “What am I supposed to do now?”

Then he saw his aunt’s eyebrows lift, Murong Qiushui’s lips curved in a smile, and she said:

“So it happens I know a method—one that can conceal the Spirit.”

The boy exaggerated his reaction: “Is it really that coincidental?”

Murong Qiushui laughed, doubling over, pinching the boy’s cheeks on both sides, then rubbing them while scolding: “Enough, I know you’re clever—don’t give me that puppet-show expression.”

“It’s just a small trick.”

“The Spirit can’t be hidden—but it can be disguised.”

Li Guanyi looked at Murong Qiushui, puzzled: “How do you disguise the Spirit?”

Murong Qiushui smiled faintly, carelessly saying:

“It’s a method known to many, many people.”

“The technique of playing the qin.”

Li Guanyi frowned: “Everyone knows this?”

Murong Qiushui widened her eyes: “Of course. Would I lie to my Little Lynx?”

Li Guanyi grunted for a long time, unsure how to answer—he couldn’t say he already knew it. He couldn’t speak, because if he did, this beautiful woman might suddenly bow her head, tears in her eyes, as if struck by some terrible wound. And if he admitted defeat, she’d instantly smile again.

It was just like the wind of Jiangnan.

Sometimes it brought misty rain, sometimes it was gentle.

Murong Qiushui took out her qin and played: “The qin is the voice of the heart.”

“It can carry the clang of border warfare, the grandeur of the desert, the spring breeze of Jiangnan, the solitude of the Central Plains.”

“Have I truly been to these places? Have I heard the thunder of war, the sharp cries of martial heroes? Am I an aged general, a free-spirited swordsman? If I were, then who am I? If I’m not them, then how can I convey all this through the qin?”

“I am none of them. I merely imagine all this in my heart, then let it fall upon the strings.”

“Little Lynx, do you remember what I once told you?”

As Li Guanyi listened to his aunt’s qin, he seemed to see Jiangnan and the northern frontier, hear the wind across ten thousand miles. Because of her music, he always felt himself still an uninitiated disciple. He sat quietly, back straight, and answered softly:

“Harmonic tones resemble heaven, pressed tones resemble man, open tones resemble earth.”

Murong Qiushui pressed her hands on the strings and replied: “This phrase must be broken apart.”

“Heaven, earth, man—three talents, all phenomena.”

“Little Lynx, this phrase is for internal cultivation. But if you use it to deceive others, you must reverse it—that’s the difference between [practice] and [application]: one inward, one outward.”

“Look—”

Murong Qiushui’s fingers touched the strings, smiling faintly. Her gaze was soft. As she played, Li Guanyi’s eyes widened—he felt his hair strands lift slightly, the surroundings shifting, as if he’d arrived in Jiangnan, seeing spring breezes and willow banks.

As if he’d reached the central plains’ forests, seated atop the highest peak of the orthodox realm, watching clouds swirl.

As if he’d arrived in the northern frontier, seeing swords clash, iron steeds reunite. Left: a Jiangnan woman singing softly; right: a northern horse galloping across the horizon—male ambition, female tenderness, sword fights, countless emotions surging like rivers.

He seemed to see the entire world.

Lost in reverie.

When the music ended, Li Guanyi remained dazed for a long time.

Only when something prodded his cheek did he snap back.

He looked up. Murong Qiushui crouched before him, smiling, her finger extended toward his third eye. She whispered:

“The qin is the voice of the heart. The next line is: [The heart transforms the Spirit].”

“Harmonic tones resemble heaven, pressed tones resemble man, open tones resemble earth.”

“Thus one can [depict human emotion, express cosmic truth].”

“All my inner images fall upon the strings.”

Murong Qiushui rose, hands before her, strands of hair fluttering at her temples, smiling:

“Thus, all things under heaven and earth.”

………………

When Li Guanyi was intercepted:

The Lord of Destiny flashed back to his residence, picked up his brush, and wrote letter after letter, briefly describing what had happened. Then he blew on them—each sheet came alive, fluttering like butterflies into the sky.

The letters flew on their own, riding the wind, faster than hawks.

Yin and yang qi sealed—invisible to mortal eyes.

Those who could pierce the Lord of Destiny’s methods wouldn’t stoop to snatch a letter.

The Lord of Destiny sighed: “A king’s seal, used to refine the body.”

“Golden flesh, jade bones, dragon sinews, tiger marrow.”

“Requires impossibly strict conditions—hard to gather.”

“But here, this capital will become the world’s vortex. Around it, there are old scholars who can calculate the perfect array, Confucian masters who can mask his breakthrough with their qi, and Mohist masters who know how to refine the body. And they all intend to meet him.”

“Old friend, I don’t understand anymore.”

The old man closed his eyes. The black tortoise lifted its head.

The Lord of Destiny pointed a finger at the sky and said:

“Is it sheer luck? Or has Bai Hu’s heavenly mandate swept up this moment?”

“Or have we all become this moment?”

“Only then could a Bai Hu Grand Master, refined both inwardly and outwardly, arise?”

The long-lived tortoise shook its head slowly:

“You’ve seen much too. Who can say for certain?”

“Before the event occurs, all paths are possible—the whole world lies open. But looking back afterward, it seems only one path existed. Not because there was only one choice—but because the past is fixed, unchangeable.”

The Lord of Destiny sent all the letters. He stared at the seal, thought for a moment, tucked it into his robe, and wandered out. He turned, went to the tavern, ordered strong liquor. This time, no water was added—as if he’d forgotten how he’d vomited after drinking before.

Strong liquor—two cups.

The fat shopkeeper wiped his hands with a cloth and chuckled: “Old sir, our liquor’s quite potent. Why not try something milder today? I’ll treat you to a plate of peanuts.”

He worried the old man had suffered some blow.

The old man laughed loudly: “No need. Today, I’m meeting an old friend.”

“It’s been years. We must drink properly.”

“Don’t worry—just one cup.”

Seeing the old man so resolute, the shopkeeper agreed, smiling: “Then it’s settled.”

“Meeting an old friend is indeed a good thing.”

The Lord of Destiny lifted his cup, sniffed, grimaced: “Good liquor.” It was just sweet potato liquor—no fragrance, only a burning throat. Those with spare cash wouldn’t touch it. He rummaged in his robe, pulled out the seal.

The old man studied the seal, then smiled.

He placed the seal before him, then set the full cup of liquor in front of it.

After a long silence, he whispered:

“A Chai, after all these twists and turns, three hundred years—your seal is back in my hands.”

“Old friend, your hegemony, your long dream—it’s ended.”

He raised his cup. His face no longer held its earlier carefree arrogance.

A Chai.

That was a runaway slave, beaten severely, who met a wandering street boy con artist; back then, the boy-slave stared at him like a wolf, claiming to read feng shui but not even knowing how to sense qi, beaten black and blue, and finally stole a steamed bun.

Back then, the young Siming didn’t know why, but tore the bun in half and gave one half to the boy.

It was as if he had tamed a wild jackal—but in truth, they became best friends.

They traveled across half the world together, but in the end, the dark-skinned boy returned home, raised the banner of rebellion beneath the mines, and as a slave, swept through the Western Regions, unifying the former thirty-six tribes.

Now, only fragments of the Tangut and Tielei remain among the thirty-six nations.

Siming tilted his head back and drank.

The liquor was fiercely strong; after just one sip, he was drunk, slumped over the table.

The wind from Jiangnan brushed his face, as if he had returned to his youth, stealing sweet potatoes with that gaunt boy from the Western Regions.

The winds of youth had finally come to him again—he was drunk, yet felt as if awakening within memory.

He could still see, three hundred years ago, that dark-skinned Western Regions boy lying atop a haystack, his buttocks and back striped with whip wounds, pointing at the stars, gritting his teeth:

“I will return to the Western Regions. One day, I will become the greatest ruler, and build a kingdom with my name. You must come too, brother—I’ll treat you to sweet potatoes. We’ll eat one, throw one away!”

“No one will dare whip me again!”

“Nor you!”

“Whoever whips you, I’ll whip him!”

He picked up the stolen liquor and tossed it to the fourteen-year-old boy con artist beside him.

That boy, who cheated the world with nothing but his tongue, wiped the liquor from his face—and yet he still lived, three hundred years later.

Drunk, Siming raised his cup, momentarily dazed, as if seeing the boy raise a chipped bowl filled with liquor, lift it toward him, grin with a tooth missing, and say: “What’s wrong? Aren’t we drinking?”

“Heh, this stuff we stole—smells amazing. Back home, I’d never seen this. Only the big shots drink it. It burns like fire down the throat.”

“Hey, Afeng, do heroes like this?”

“If we drink this, will we become heroes?”

Siming laughed loudly.

He raised his cup to his friend in memory.

Then he collapsed, drunk, the golden seal in his eyes glowing just as it had when the old man had forged it himself.

The leaders of the thirty-five tribes were beheaded, their blood dripping into the furnace, turning the flames crimson.

The one who performed the forging was none other than he.

His friend’s name was Achai—like a jackal of the grasslands, despicable, base, looked down upon, driven away by lions, yet somehow always surviving. He was called Achai, though he had a true name, long and hard to pronounce.

Tu Yuhun.

The greatest hero of the Western Regions in a thousand years.

The fat shopkeeper brought out peanuts, watching the old man slumped over the table, long since drunk, his gray-white hair dancing in the wind. He placed the perfectly roasted peanuts on the table, closed the door to shield the old man from the wind, and murmured, “Strange.”

“Didn’t the old man say he was drinking with a friend?”

“Where is his friend?”

The old man slept with closed eyes, mumbling in his drunken slumber: “Empires and ambitions, all just laughter.”

“Better than life itself—a single drunken dream.”

In his dream, the boy turned his head, eyes bright.

What a pity.

The heroes of three hundred years ago, who raised swords against injustice for the sake of all living beings, who tore the world apart.

Only he remains alive.

……………

Li Guanyi took a long moment to return to himself, looking at his aunt and saying, “This is…”

Murong Qiushui smiled. “Just a small trick. What you learned before was the basics—the first chapter. This is chapters two through five.”

Li Guanyi asked, “How many chapters total?”

Murong Qiushui blinked.

She smiled calmly:

“It used to be twelve.”

“I’ve been refining it these past few years.”

“Now, it’s fifteen.”