Chapter 86

Tong Guan went to open the door and saw a stunning young girl in a pale pink gauze robe standing before it with two maids, leaving him puzzled.

The girl’s eyebrows were like distant mountains dusted with ink, her eyes like autumn waters rippling gently; she lowered her head slightly and whispered, “Mother sent me to pay respects to Prince Yan.”

Tong Guan turned to look at Zhao Ti, who recognized Wang Yuyan at once and said, “Come in.”

The three entered and bowed; Wang Yuyan said, “Your Highness, please give your orders—Mother has already told me to come, to come…”

Zhao Ti gestured idly to one side, then after a long pause asked, “Do you, Wang Girl, also enjoy reading?”

Wang Yuyan stood nervously; upon hearing this, she felt a slight easing within: “I have read since childhood, mostly classics, poetry, and verse, and also some martial arts…”

“Oh?” Zhao Ti set down the scroll he held and glanced at her. Wang Yuyan raised her head; seeing her tension, he smiled slightly: “Forget martial arts—since you read these books, I suppose you can compose poetry and lyrics?”

Wang Yuyan nodded: “I know a little, but I’m not good at it.”

Zhao Ti thought a moment: “You don’t like martial arts, yet these literary works—surely few in the manor understand them? Even if you wrote them to pass the idle hours, it would only be for your own pleasure.”

Wang Yuyan showed a flicker of surprise, looked up at Zhao Ti, and felt as if his eyes could pierce straight through her soul; she grew flustered and quickly turned away: “Everyone in the manor practices martial arts—I truly have no one to discuss these things with.”

Zhao Ti smiled: “Why not bring me something to read? Let me see your literary talent. In Dongjing there are many talented women—I know one little girl named Li Qingzhao, whose father is a Vice Minister of Rites. She’s only eleven, yet writes exquisite lyrics.”

Hearing this, Wang Yuyan’s cheeks flushed faintly, and she grew even more uneasy: “How could I compare to daughters of official families? I’ve only taught myself, and what I write is unworthy of notice…”

Zhao Ti waved his hand with a smile and glanced at a green-clad maid—the same little servant he’d met when first landing ashore, named Youcao.

He said, “Youcao, go brew some tea.”

Youcao replied, “I’ll go at once, Your Highness, please wait.”

Wang Yuyan said, “I’ll help too.”

Zhao Ti picked up his scroll: “Do as you like—just make sure the tea’s ready.”

Wang Yuyan stepped outside, patted her chest, and exhaled softly; her tense expression eased somewhat.

Youcao asked, “What’s wrong, Miss?”

Wang Yuyan shook her head: “His status is different—I felt uneasy inside, but now that I’m out here, it’s better.”

Youcao said, “The Prince is quite kind—it’s just his men, all fierce and brutal, shouting and barking orders, that are truly frightening.”

Wang Yuyan asked, “You mean those martial artists?”

Youcao nodded: “Exactly—they speak as if they’re about to devour you, so vile.”

Wang Yuyan fell into thought, then after a moment said, “Let’s go brew the tea.”

Youcao agreed, and the two walked away.

Near dusk, the setting sun blazed crimson and gold like a giant rouge fireball hanging in the western sky over Taihu, painting half the lake shimmering green and half blazing red.

Zhao Ti stood on the shore, watching the scenery: distant fishermen were hauling in their nets, singing tunes as their small boats sailed toward the other side of the lake; the fishermen’s songs faded into the distance, while waterfowl rose and flew home beneath the horizon, the sky and water merging into one serene scene.

Behind him, Tong Guan opened his mouth, wanting to ask about the Kuihuabaodian , but each time he was about to speak, he dared not.

Zhao Ti never brought it up first, and Tong Guan feared asking might seem disrespectful—after all, such matters couldn’t be spoken of lightly; he must help conceal them, not let even a whisper leak out.

Yet he had committed grave sins; even if the Prince said nothing, he must confess voluntarily. Last night he’d dreamed of his adoptive father Li Xian, whose eyes blazed with fury as he cursed him a traitor and nearly strangled him awake—now, just recalling it made him shudder.

Zhao Ti turned and said, “Let’s return. Send Zhou Dong here.”

Back in the study, he sat only a short while before Zhou Dong entered and bowed. Zhao Ti asked, “How is Jiumozhi ?”

Zhou Dong replied, “Your Highness, this monk eats and drinks fine, accepts treatment for his wounds without resistance, but he seems possessed—he keeps muttering sutras. I don’t understand Buddhist texts, so I can’t make sense of what he says.”

Zhao Ti said, “As long as he eats and drinks, that’s enough. I know what he’s thinking inside—ignore him. If I speak to him directly, I might shatter his Buddhist heart, and then he’d have no face left to live with.”

Zhou Dong said, “Your Highness, I heard Tong Diao say this monk’s martial arts are extraordinary…”

Zhao Ti said, “His talent is astonishing, rare in this world; every technique he practices is a supreme art. Your own talent is fine too—I just wonder why Jin Lao never passed down any supreme skills to you.”

Zhou Dong blushed: “Master’s knowledge was broad—he taught three disciples. I’m the youngest, and he focused most on teaching me spears, horses, bows, and arrows, battlefield combat. He taught me fist and blade techniques too, but far less than the others.”

Zhao Ti nodded: “Battlefield skills will always be useful—you must study them deeply.”

Zhou Dong bowed: “Yes, Your Highness.” Zhao Ti paused, then said, “I have several martial arts manuals suited to you—all spear and blade techniques, and one internal cultivation text. Take them.”

He pulled out several scrolls and handed them to Zhou Dong, who immediately bowed deeply: “Thank you, Your Highness—I would gladly give my life for you.”

Zhao Ti said, “Lead those martial artists well—don’t let them cause trouble.”

Zhou Dong nodded, bowed again, and left.

Zhao Ti watched him depart, sipped tea, then suddenly heard a long, resonant howl echoing from afar.

The sound was powerful and deep, as if shaking the heavens—clearly the work of extraordinary internal energy.

He narrowed his eyes, set down his scroll, and rose to his feet.

At that moment, hurried footsteps sounded outside the door; Tong Guan burst in: “Your Highness, assassins have arrived on the island—please take temporary shelter…”

“What assassins?” Zhao Ti stepped around the desk.

“Your Highness, the scout reports a man with white hair and a youthful face, as handsome as a jade crown. His martial arts are extremely high—he didn’t land near the camp, so the crossbowmen couldn’t block or kill him. He first went to Lady Wang’s quarters, then swiftly headed this way.”

“White-haired, youthful face, handsome as jade?” Zhao Ti thought—could this be Ding Chunqiu returning?

Ding Chunqiu visits the Mantuo Manor every year to see Li Qingluo; he arrived a few days ago, then left again, no one knowing where he went.

“Go outside and see,” Zhao Ti said.

“Your Highness, no! That man’s martial arts are too high—if anything happens to you, I’d deserve a hundred deaths—I beg you to retreat to the rear, let me guard this door. Unless I die for the realm, no one shall pass!”

Zhao Ti shook his head: “Better to practice the Kuihuabaodian than to bluster and flatter.”

At the mention of the Kuihuabaodian , Tong Guan fell silent, then followed Zhao Ti outside.

Outside the study was an open courtyard, with tea bushes planted at either end; now, their fragrance drifted through the air, intoxicating.

The howl grew closer, then suddenly appeared ahead—a tall figure in long sleeves; soldiers rushed to intercept him.

But his movement was lightning-fast; his sleeves whipped the air with thunderous force, his internal energy tearing through space without pause—he broke free in moments and appeared five or six zhang from Zhao Ti.