Chapter 93: Phoenix's Journey

That roar was immense and majestic, as if it could be heard throughout the entire Jiangzhou City.

The horses panicked.

They all knelt down on the ground.

Li Guanyi dismounted in one fluid motion; the bronze tripod rang violently, as if sensing an overwhelming divine aura.

A layer of mist appeared before Li Guanyi’s eyes, forming an image.

The world before the boy rippled, the ripples spreading into water, separating reality from illusion; the ordinary world before him rippled, and a being emerged from slumber—first appeared before him were dragon-like horns, then tiger-wolf claws, flames clustering around it like subjects honoring their sovereign.

It was a Qilin.

Li Guanyi saw the Qilin appear before him.

Dragon’s head, tiger’s claws, scaled body, four feet treading fire, its gaze slowly fixed on him, motionless—yet no one else saw this Qilin; they only panicked. Li Guanyi froze—he seemed to glimpse a glimmer of humanity in the divine beast’s eyes, saw its inner agitation; the bronze tripod rang, and deep within Li Guanyi’s heart, someone seemed to speak.

His voice carried sorrow and joy.

“It’s you… his child…”

“Good, good.”

The Qilin’s voice echoed softly in Li Guanyi’s heart:

“You made it out alive.”

“You’re still alive!”

The emotion in that voice was too complex.

Soft, yet it filled Li Guanyi with a sorrow so deep he felt like weeping.

Li Guanyi saw the massive Qilin draw near, reaching out as if to touch him—hesitant, uncertain, unsure how to proceed.

The next moment, chains clanged loudly; the Qilin roared. Li Guanyi grunted, the vision vanished—last he saw were colossal chains rising from all four directions, forming the shapes of the Four Symbols, binding the Qilin tightly; the Qilin roared, then the vision shattered before his eyes.

Chaotic panic surged back into his ears—the Qilin’s roar had caused great turmoil.

Not just beasts, but most humans sat trembling on the ground, drenched in cold sweat.

Even a tiger’s roar could freeze one’s limbs; how much more so the wrath of a Qilin?

Li Guanyi raised his hand and pressed it against his chest.

Beside him, a sturdy Central Plains youth stared at his donkey, sighed, and crouched to pat its face:

“Brother Donkey?”

“Brother? Hey hey hey, wake up, Brother Donkey.”

Helpless, he looked at Li Guanyi and said, “My brother donkey’s down. Looks like I can’t travel with you anymore.”

“Your martial arts are impressive—for someone so young, I’m no match.”

Li Guanyi lifted his head: “Tielei?”

He spoke those words in the Tielei tongue.

His first opponent had been the Tielei Third Prince—he’d learned a little of their language.

The youth’s Central Plains Mandarin was awkward, thick with Tielei inflection.

The youth’s face showed clear surprise, then he grinned: “Brother, you know a lot.”

“Good martial arts, kind heart, and you even speak our Tielei tongue.”

“Is this what the Central Plains books call a ‘gentleman’?”

He heaved the donkey onto his shoulders with a grunt and smiled: “Looks like the books aren’t all lies.”

“I heard the Central Plains emperor was a sage—but he’s no better than the chieftains of the Western Regions. Western lords whip their cattle and sheep; the Central Plains sage whips his people with edicts. All kings everywhere are the same.”

“If he were truly a sage, the Western lords wouldn’t demand their cattle and sheep to peel off their own hides and kneel to offer them.”

The youth, carrying the donkey on his back, said:

“Brother Donkey, you’ve carried me over three thousand li—now it’s my turn to carry you.”

“Young Central Plains lord, you’re a good man. May we meet again.”

Li Guanyi nodded—he saw the youth’s formidable bearing—and asked: “A warrior like you—why leave the Tielei?”

The youth grinned, tapped his uniquely shaped curved blade, and began singing.

His voice was ancient, mournful, powerful—he tapped his foot to the rhythm, singing in Tielei:

“The Tielei steppe, beneath Yin Mountain, the sky like a dome, covering all four corners.”

“Blue sky, endless grassland, wind blows low, revealing cattle and sheep.”

“The rule of the Tuyuhun in the West has ended. I came to the Central Plains hoping to obtain the Tuyuhun king’s seal.”

“So our Tielei people might free ourselves from servitude and serfdom in the West.”

“But the king’s seal likely fell into the hands of the great ones—I came here hoping for help from Central Plains gentlemen, so our Tielei tribe might claim its own name in the West, so my people might live well. If possible, I’d give my life for it.”

“When we meet again, I’ll invite you to drink our sheep-milk wine—we can be good friends.”

“Then I’ll toast you, and tell you my name.”

This was the Northwest folk song, “Tielei Song.”

The ancient, mournful youth, wearing a curved blade identical to the Tielei Third Prince’s, carried his donkey on his back—and walked away, calm and bold, amid the stares and laughter of the crowd.

Li Guanyi watched his back and murmured: “Tielei Song… the Tielei tribe still exists in this age.”

“The Tielei’s golden curved-blade cavalry—called the King of Steppe Light Cavalry.”

He suddenly recalled Xue Shen’s words.

I truly wish to clash with all the heroes under heaven.

Li Guanyi shook his head, banished the thought—he felt the world teemed with heroes; Jiangzhou City gathered the tide of the realm, where outstanding figures from every nation converged. The Tuyuhun had fallen; the Tangxi had founded a state as Chen Guo’s western bulwark; naturally, the Tielei sought Chen Guo’s support.

Li Guanyi thought this natural—Chen Guo would surely support him.

Central Plains people always preferred the West in chaos.

As for the king’s seal, Li Guanyi had no intention of revealing it.

It represented legitimate kingship over the thirty-six Western tribes—revealing it would only invite disaster.

Xue Daoyong came to his side and said: “Guanyi, are you alright?”

Li Guanyi nodded, feigning ignorance: “Just now—that sound was…?”

Xue Daoyong said: “It was a Qilin.”

Li Guanyi asked: “Chen Guo has a Qilin?”

Xue Daoyong whispered: “Yes—it was Chen Guo’s ancient guardian beast. Legend says over two hundred years ago, when the Founding Emperor rose in rebellion, five hundred iron-armored guards stormed his residence—this Qilin unleashed a single blast of Qilin fire, burning all five hundred to ash, allowing the Emperor to survive. But over a decade ago, this Qilin gained another title known to all.”

The elder paused, then said:

“The Taiping Duke’s mount.”

Li Guanyi’s eyes rippled with fierce emotion.

Of course!

The truth of his parents’ fate, and the existence of his father’s mount—emotions surged like waves in Li Guanyi’s heart.

He longed to rush to the Qilin’s side.

The elder said: “Back then, the Taiping Duke was a peerless hero—wearing black armor, draped in a crimson cloak, masked in dark gold, riding the Qilin.”

“Commanded three hundred thousand troops, pacified the southwest, crushed the farthest realms—he was among the top ten divine generals of the realm.”

“His bearing unmatched.”

“When the Taiping Duke married, the Qilin walked across water and vanished.”

“They say this divine beast was sentient, bound to the Taiping Duke in life and death—and there’s another legend…”

Xue Daoyong chuckled as he spoke: “The fire Qilin had a violent temper.”

“Even the Taiping Duke himself sometimes got kicked over by it.”

“But they say the Qilin adored the Taiping Duke’s child—when the child was young, he often rode on the Qilin’s back across water, and the beast would shrink to play with him.”

“Too bad… the child also… later, the Qilin went mad with rage, and several court advisors died beneath its Qilin fire.”

The boy clenched his fist, suppressing his emotions, and whispered:

“Qilin… I’ve never seen one. Where is it, Xue Lao?”

The elder said: “When the Taiping Duke died, the Qilin remained in the imperial palace.”

“It’s deep within the palace—strictly guarded. Not just anyone can enter.”

“Come to think of it, Guanyi—if you want to see the Qilin, there’s one way: on the day of the Great Sacrifice.”

Li Guanyi smiled: “What way?”

“I’ve lived outside since childhood—I’ve always wanted to see a divine beast like the Qilin.”

Xue Daoyong said casually: “Aren’t you one of the seventy-two seventh-rank military attendants appointed by imperial decree? Foreign military officers entering Jingcheng must be assigned duties. If you’re assigned to the Jinwu Guard, you’ll gain access to the palace—guarding the Qilin Pavilion requires Jinwu Guard troops.”

“But Jinwu Guard posts are mostly held by sons of military aristocratic families.”

“Though there’s a selection process, over the years it’s become a de facto golden opportunity for noble youths to gain prestige.”

“If you want to join, as my Xue family’s adopted son, you’re eligible—but you’ll clash with those aristocratic youths who also want the post. Right now, His Majesty’s decree has kept them from acting against you.”

“If you pursue this, they’ll move.”

Li Guanyi whispered: “If I want to become Jinwu Guard, will it bring trouble to you, Xue Lao?”

Xue Daoyong burst into laughter: “Ha ha ha, trouble?”

“If those youths’ fathers want trouble, let them come fight me!”

“Let’s see who wins!”

“If you have this ambition, I’ll put your name forward. Indeed—if those military aristocrats won’t let us rest, we won’t let them rest either. Only with such spirit and boldness can you be called a Xue family Qilin child.”

“Don’t worry—I’ll cover for you if anything happens.”

Li Guanyi calmed his emotions and softly thanked them.

He arrived with the Xue family’s party at a residence in Jingcheng.

This was the Xue family’s compound in Jingcheng, worth tens of thousands of guan—Jiangzhou’s population was enormous, housing prices absurdly high, and many officials could only rent homes. The Xue family’s wealth exceeded hundreds of millions of guan, so they had no need to reside in the imperial-provided lodging. Li Guanyi was allotted a separate villa, moved his belongings in, and, hand resting on his long blade, pondered his next goal.

The Qilin—he must seek out the Qilin.

But the imperial palace was filled with experts; he’d need to wear another skin to enter. After weighing options, he still had to take on that assignment—the imperial decree he’d once seen as a nuisance now became an opportunity.

The Jinwu Guard…

Li Guanyi murmured softly, his breath slow and steady.

He also needed to visit Zu Wenyuan, the Old Master, and the Si Ming Old Master.

Li Guanyi instinctively glanced at the corner, smiling inwardly—would the Si Ming Old Master’s white-haired head appear first, or some silver-haired girl? He shook his head, told the Xue family’s steward, picked up his long blade, and stepped out. The steward said, “Young Master, if you’re going out, return early.”

“A guest letter arrived this morning—the second son of the Yingguo Duke’s mansion is coming to visit the Old Master tonight.”

The Yingguo Duke’s mansion?

The second son who wrote the letter?

Li Guanyi’s heart leapt with joy; he nodded and said, “I’ll take a stroll and be back soon.”

He stepped outside, oriented himself, mounted his horse, and rode off. Zu Wenyuan had told him he resided in a Daoist temple in the eastern quarter of the city; if Li Guanyi wished to find him, he should go there. Li Guanyi spurred his horse forward, but the animal could not gallop fast—he rode slowly, taking in Jiangzhou’s scenery, and when he reached the eastern quarter, he dismounted and walked on foot.

The temple was not far, yet the scent of medicinal herbs grew thick.

Many herbalists inside the temple were treating common folk.

Daoists often knew medicine and offered free treatment to nearby residents. Li Guanyi tied his horse outside, declared his identity, and soon a young Daoist emerged: “The Sacrificial Officer is currently arranging the ritual array for the Grand Sacrifice—he has no time to receive you now. Young Master may wander the temple grounds.”

Li Guanyi nodded and thanked him.

The young Daoist hesitated, then added, “Be careful—especially of the monks.”

“They came before and had disputes with our senior brothers.”

Li Guanyi said, “Monks?”

The young Daoist replied indignantly, “Yes. They claim this place was originally theirs and demand we vacate it. Because His Majesty decreed during the Grand Sacrifice that no non-clergy may harm monks or Daoists—any violence would be an act of disrespect—so even the constables can’t touch them.”

“Young Master, don’t mind them. Just enjoy the temple’s scenery.”

Li Guanyi thanked him again and walked alone, his mind calm.

A Buddhist-Daoist conflict?

I heard over a decade ago, the Regent swept through countless temples. That was more than ten years ago, yet now the Emperor has begun revering Buddhism and Daoism again.

How many auspicious omens have been sent from the provinces?

So the monks plan to return and reclaim their territory?

Li Guanyi felt Chen Guo appeared splendid on the surface, but problems piled one atop another.

Civil and military officials, noble families, imperial in-laws, the royal house—and now Buddhism and Daoism.

He cast these thoughts aside, exhaled, emptied his mind, and felt his spirit ease. As he gazed at the scenery, he suddenly felt a Qingluan bird land on his shoulder. The bird seemed to sense something, ecstatic, circling him, wings fluttering, its cry clear and bright—as if seeking someone. Li Guanyi stepped forward instinctively.

The Qingluan suddenly accelerated. Li Guanyi quickened his pace, turning a pavilion.

Ahead stood an old man with snow-white hair, eyes closed, fortune-telling. Before him stood a boy and a girl.

The girl was beautiful and gentle, graceful and poised.

The boy was different—hands behind his back, jade belt at his waist, brocade robe embroidered with golden thread depicting full peonies, born to wealth.

His phoenix eyes slanted upward, eyebrows arched sharply, a red mark on his brow, radiating brilliance.

A phoenix perched on his shoulder.

The crimson phoenix met Li Guanyi’s Qingluan—and both seemed delighted, emitting clear, harmonious cries.

Phoenix and Qingluan sang together, dancing in the air.

Li Guanyi glanced over instinctively. The boy was waiting for the fortune-teller’s words. At that moment, the boy also sensed something; their eyes met—and in that instant, only each other existed.

The boy across from him froze, then smiled faintly and nodded.

Changsun Wugou said, “What is it, Er Lang?”

The boy replied, “I just felt drawn to look over there.”

The Crimson Dragon also rose, chasing after the phoenix and Qingluan.

Li Guanyi considered, then stepped forward. The Daoist, frowning as he arranged his counting rods, was the temple’s oldest priest—born blind, seventy years old, possessing no real skill, surviving only by fortune-telling. Today, he could not decipher the fate before him—it was impossibly complex.

But when Li Guanyi stepped beside him, the old man’s counting rods fell to the ground—and suddenly, he understood.

The old man exhaled in relief and said politely, “I’ve deciphered your destiny, Young Master.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“A destiny of great wealth and nobility.”

The blind Daoist, fingers tracing the rods, the spring sun bright, the phoenix and Qingluan singing together, placed his hands on his knees. He no longer saw the two youths before him—one radiant, one still as a mountain. Gently, he placed two rods on the table and pushed them forward toward the two boys.

Li Guanyi stood shoulder to shoulder with the boy.

Spring was perfect. The Emperor of Chen Guo prepared for the Grand Sacrifice. The Emperor of Zhongzhou raged in frustration and resentment. The Turkic king eyed the Central Plains.

Kings vied for dominion over the land, like dragons contending for supremacy.

Inside the temple.

The blind fortune-teller, seventy years blind, answered:

“The form of dragon and phoenix.”

“The bearing of sun and sky.”