Chapter Three: An Encounter with an Old Acquaintance

Within the mist-shrouded pavilion, two men played chess and idly conversed.

“When endless night shrouds the earth, which will arrive first—dawn, or death?”

“Night is never endless, but death paves the way for dawn.”

“Then, have you come here to wield the power of life and death, or to relieve suffering and save the world?”

“What are the affairs of the world to me?”

Upon hearing this, the masked man let out a derisive laugh. “You are the sovereign of men—how could the fate of the world be unrelated to you?”

The other man appeared frail, his hand trembling slightly as he played, forcing a smile as he placed a white piece back into the red jade chess container.

“If you’ve no heart for chess, let us set it aside. There are more serious matters to discuss.”

…

Lately, in every teahouse and tavern across the nations, even along remote country roads, wherever two or three people gathered, they would murmur in hushed tones.

For in the sixty-third year of the Zhao Moon era, five major events had captivated the world, becoming the favorite topic of conversation after meals and wine.

First: On the fifth anniversary of Gu Qiu’s sacrificial death—which was now—nobles from every land enshrined his spirit tablet in their ancestral halls and worshipped him daily.

Second: The Grand Shaman of Spirit Mountain had vanished, his disciples proclaiming he had ascended to immortality.

Third: The fifth prince of Nansheng, Fuhua, was rumored to squander his days in drunken revelry, obsessed with the courtesans of the pleasure quarters.

Fourth: Wanxu Pavilion, long secluded for a century, had inexplicably resumed its former mysterious activities.

Fifth: The seventh prince of Xize, Changsun Chenmin, had been named Crown Prince of the Five Kingdoms.

Though winter had arrived, the gardens of Wanxu Pavilion were still awash with spring. Blossoms of every kind filled the air with heady fragrance, butterflies danced among petals, and five or six red lotuses bloomed quietly upon a small clear pond…

Changsun Chenmin, dressed in an azure robe embroidered with delicate white plum blossoms, his jet hair bound with a jade crown, sat cross-legged and lowered his gaze. His fair, slender fingers, elegantly jointed, glided over the zither strings like flowing clouds. Coupled with his strikingly handsome features, he appeared in that moment as a celestial being stepped from a painted scroll.

As the melody ended, he looked up to see a man in black, wearing a mask that revealed only his mouth and eyes, sitting leisurely opposite him on a stone bench, sipping tea.

Chenmin carelessly set the zither aside, grinned, and snatched the freshly poured tea from the masked man’s hand. Having drained it in one gulp, he poured himself another.

“That is a fine instrument—must you treat it so carelessly?” The masked man’s voice was clear and alluring, with a mysterious charm.

At this, Chenmin hastily cradled the zither in his arms, then circled behind the masked man, whispering teasingly in his ear, “There’s no one else here—why keep wearing that wretched mask? Afraid I’ll covet your beauty? Hahaha…”

His words dripped with mockery.

The masked man merely poured himself another cup, unperturbed. “Was the Mute Spirit Pill to your liking?”

Chenmin swallowed nervously. “No, no, I’ll stop teasing you.”

At the cold look he received, he quickly clamped his left hand over his mouth and shook his head vigorously.

He knew well that the greatest folly of his life thus far had been accepting the Mute Spirit Pill from this enigmatic man—who, despite his icy demeanor, was darkly vengeful and not to be trifled with.

Because of that pill, he’d been mute for three days, reduced to wild gestures to communicate, a spectacle so absurd his own mother had looked at him as if he were a fool.

The Mute Spirit Pill resembled a small brown pellet, growing only in the coldest, darkest places, blooming and fruiting once every fifty years. Its effect, naturally, was to render one mute.

It was only during that ordeal that Chenmin learned its name.

“You, as Crown Prince of the Five Kingdoms, ought not to be so noisy,” the masked man admonished.

“I know—careless words invite trouble. Relax, I’m only talkative like this with you. I’d never behave so with anyone else.”

“Hmm.”

Su Qingfeng had intended to visit an old friend, but passing through the deep courtyard, saw the two drinking tea and hurried over.

“Master, Your Highness.” He pressed his palms together and bowed respectfully.

Upon seeing him, Chenmin tossed the zither to the masked man and scrutinized Qingfeng.

The masked man set the instrument upon the table in silence.

“My, my, Xiaofeng, it’s only been a few days and you’ve grown even more handsome. This moon-white robe suits you perfectly. Look—sword-brows and starry eyes, fine features, and an exquisite sword at your side—like the dashing heroes in storybooks, sure to sweep countless maidens off their feet.”

Qingfeng shrugged, cradling his sword to his chest and shot Chenmin a look that clearly said, “My sword is here—try me if you dare.”

Chenmin pouted in dissatisfaction.

“You’ve been with him two years, and already you act just like him? As the saying goes, the crooked beam warps the rafters beneath.”

No sooner had he spoken than he felt an unfriendly gaze upon him from behind.

He could only laugh awkwardly, waving his hands. “Just kidding, just kidding!”

The masked man ignored him, turning to ask Qingfeng where he was headed.

“That old friend has been at Wanxu Pavilion some days now—it’s time to pay a visit.”

The masked man rose. “Let us go then.”

“Wait for me—I’m coming too.”

The three made their way down the long corridor to its end, where a towering grey wall stood. The masked man stepped forward and knocked lightly twice. Instantly, the wall collapsed and a vermilion door appeared.

Exchanging a glance with the masked man, Chenmin pushed the door open and entered.

Once inside, the wall reformed as if untouched.

“Qingfeng, light the lamp.”

“Yes, Master.”

Suddenly, an underground tunnel appeared, damp and dimly lit.

This passage led to Wanxu Pavilion’s “Void”—a realm of blinding whiteness, with no visible bounds.

Those trapped within would face unending terror and despair.

“Master, he doesn’t look well,” Qingfeng said, seeing a figure curled up on the ground.

Chenmin frowned. “He cannot die yet.”

Before them crouched an old man in a black robe, his skin pallid, yellow hair in disarray, brown eyes gleaming with a strange light, his face etched with deep wrinkles. Chenmin squatted and nudged him.

“Tsk tsk, giving up already? It’s only just begun.”

The masked man took a pill from the white sachet at his waist and handed it to Qingfeng.

“Give this to him.”

After swallowing the pill, the man coughed up a mouthful of black blood. His color returned, and he slowly sat upright.

Chenmin followed suit, sitting cross-legged before him.

The old man glanced at the three, then closed his eyes, ignoring them.

Chenmin rested his chin in his hand, scrutinizing the man before him.

“Grand Shaman, it has been years since we last met,” the masked man spoke in a low, deep voice.

At these words, the old man’s eyes flew open, an inexplicable fear flashing as he beheld the masked figure.

“Who are you? Why have you trapped me here? What do you want?”

“Do you recall the fifty-eighth year of the Zhao Moon?”

The old man’s face darkened, his heart quivering as if recalling something dreadful. He rose unsteadily.

Since Gu Qiu’s death, he had been tormented by nightmares, driven nearly to suicide—though this, he had told no one, not even his disciples.

Steadying his breath, the Grand Shaman finally spoke. “That year, the kings of all five nations climbed Spirit Mountain to beg me to save their people from the plague. I thought the method hopeless, but they all believed. On the day Gu Qiu was sacrificed, before a multitude, I sliced his flesh again and again with a dagger, until he was drenched in blood—and no one stopped me. The altar was awash with fresh blood, still warm. The eldest prince was truly remarkable; despite his wounds, he never showed pain, not even a blink. When his last drop of blood was spent, the crowd dispersed smiling… After his body rotted, I replaced it with bones I’d prepared. The pills I made from his ashes were of the highest quality—everyone scrambled to buy them, even his father. Hahaha…”

He broke into wild laughter.

Hearing this, the masked man turned away, his expression unreadable. Chenmin’s eyes reddened, and blood seeped from his clenched fists.

Qingfeng’s sword was already drawn; he longed to cut the old man to pieces. Such a charlatan, lauded as a protector, yet guilty of such monstrous crimes.

The one who truly sought the people’s good died in blood, his body lost to dust.

Qingfeng roared, “What grudge did you hold against him?”

“No grudge, no hatred. It was Heaven’s will.”

“Did you find peace after his death?”

“The people found peace, so did I.”

“You villain—I’ll let you taste the agony you wrought!”

Qingfeng’s sword was poised at the Grand Shaman’s throat.

The masked man instantly intervened, turning to the old man and enunciating each word: “If he is not dead, what then?”

The Grand Shaman’s eyes flashed, and he took two steps back, grinning wickedly.

“If he’s alive, all the better—I can refine more pills. Perhaps I could even make the Jade Ice Elixir and gain immortality.”

“And let me tell you, the so-called plague was no act of heaven, but my own doing. Everything was in my control. Hahahaha…”

Chenmin could bear no more; he struck the old man hard, blood spilling from his lips.

“For your own gain, you sacrificed one for the sake of many. Do you not know that he alone was worth more than all? Your deceit will bring you a bitter end!”

The Grand Shaman wiped the blood from his mouth, indifferent. “A bitter end? I care not.”

Some people are so unreasonable that your very existence is an obstacle to them. They would wager countless lives just to destroy you.

Perhaps it was that Gu Qiu was too brilliant and eclipsed the meager light of others.

At this, the masked man sneered and slowly removed his mask before the Grand Shaman.

In that instant, the old man’s gaze shifted from shock, to disbelief, to terror.

His eyes flooded with blood, his face contorted, his whole body convulsing as his voice trembled, muttering incessantly.

“No, impossible, I don’t believe it, impossible, it’s an illusion, must be an illu—”

He collapsed before the words had finished.