Hundred Flowers Villa

Between Luochuan Prefecture and the capital city of the Chen Kingdom, one must pass through a city called Liufeng. A hundred miles beyond Liufeng, there is a manor nestled in the hills called the Hundred Flowers Manor, where blossoms of all four seasons flourish.

In spring, peach blossoms glisten with dew-laden petals, while crabapple flowers, soft and blushing, seem to whisper secrets to those who understand. In summer, lotuses fill the air with fragrance, their delicate forms scattered across the deep, still ponds; crepe myrtle blooms beneath the blazing sun, vying in splendid radiance. Come autumn, osmanthus flowers scent the air with a purity that transcends the mundane, their sweetness lingering; night-blooming cereus, whose brilliance flashes at dawn yet endures within memory for a hundred days, appears only for an instant's glory. In winter, plum blossoms cling alone to a frigid corner, seldom graced by sun or moon; narcissus flowers, elegant in hue, gather the residue of all seasons' light.

Besides these, there are strange, peculiar flowers, perhaps known only to the master of the manor—no one else knows their origins or names. Yet in this singular manor, myriad rare blooms flourish side by side, never withering, the cycle of seasons only causing the flowers to take turns in exuberant display.

Some have claimed that, in a fleeting moment, they saw all the flowers in full bloom—a dreamlike fairyland shrouded in a gentle mist, imbued with enchanting fragrances. Yet, after that, such sights were never to be seen again.

A few miles beyond the Hundred Flowers Manor, a campfire blazed, with several bird eggs set nearby. A youth sat on a stone by the fire, watching the flames leap as he roasted the eggs. He wore an expression tinged with melancholy. Since leaving Luochuan Prefecture, three days had passed without encountering a single household—nor had he found anything edible along the road. Even these eggs he’d just plucked from a tree. He couldn’t help but sigh at his own deftness: his hands had grown all too practiced.

Why was he traveling with nothing but a bundle, carrying no provisions at all? The reason was simple: Zhang Ling had never seen so much money in his life. The slip of paper reading “For Zhang Ling” only deepened his puzzlement. How should he spend this money? More importantly, where had it come from? The handwriting wasn’t Zong Chentian’s, and he hadn’t thought to ask before leaving.

He only knew the money was left for him. Zhang Ling gave a bitter chuckle: “So easily swayed by gain.”

Staring off into the distance, he was snapped back to reality by the smell of burning—his eggs were charred. He reached for them, only to burn his hand and drop them, leaving each egg half-ruined. Another sigh escaped him.

A dawn breeze swept through the Hundred Flowers Manor, carrying the scent of blossoms far and wide, so that even Zhang Ling, miles away, could sense the fragrance. Lost in reverie, his mind seemed to drift. Suddenly, a shadow flashed by, yanking him from his daydream.

His campfire was in disarray, the eggs had rolled into the flames. As he fished them out, he found one missing. Searching for it, he heard a piercing cry overhead. Looking up, he saw an eagle circling above, the missing egg clenched in its beak. With a toss of its head, the eagle swallowed the egg whole.

Zhang Ling felt a surge of irritation. Was he not already miserable enough, to be toyed with by a mere bird? He reached for his sword, muttering, “You’ve come to add yourself to my meal—how considerate.”

No sooner had he drawn his short sword than another wave of floral fragrance swept over him. He glanced at the eagle, then inhaled deeply. After a few days of studying medicine with Zhang Jingqian, he could recognize the scents of many flowers. Concentrating, he realized the fragrance was a blend of several types—not something that would occur naturally, nor in such abundance. Clearly, someone had cultivated these flowers intentionally.

Where there are people, there are kitchens; and where there are kitchens, there is food. Zhang Ling brightened, sheathed his sword, and pointed at the eagle: “You’re lucky this time.”

Guided by the scent of flowers, he soon glimpsed the manor, growing ever closer. His pace quickened with anticipation. The grand sign reading “Hundred Flowers Manor” came into view above the gate. Zhang Ling pushed the door open and strode through the grounds, dazzled by the riot of blossoms, but too hungry to linger in admiration—after all, food takes precedence above all.

He walked briskly through the manor, passing houses but seeing no one. Soon, the sound of a zither reached his ears, and he followed it.

There, a man sat cross-legged, wearing an impassive mask. His long hair flowed, and before him lay a guqin, its strings plucked by deft fingers. The music was profound, so much so that Zhang Ling forgot his hunger, entranced as never before.

The melody built to a crescendo, reaching its peak. Zhang Ling stood a few feet away, listening intently as the man’s fingers moved faster, the music growing more intense, stirring Zhang Ling’s heart.

As the music abruptly ceased—though the piece was only halfway through—a sense of unfinished meaning lingered in the air. The man’s fingers stilled on the strings, and he rose, meeting Zhang Ling’s gaze. The two locked eyes, until the man approached, a faint smile on his lips. “What did you think of the piece, sir?”

Zhang Ling considered for a moment. “The music flowed like a spring, clear and unbroken. The sorrow in the melody touched the heart. However...”

He paused, remembering his purpose. After a moment’s silence, seeing the man waiting, Zhang Ling continued, “It’s a pity—the piece was left unfinished, like a life halted in its tracks.”

The man smiled. “So you, too, understand music. May I ask your name?”

“Zhang Ling,” he replied. “And you, sir?”

The man answered, “Qin Yi, master of this Hundred Flowers Manor.”

Bored, perhaps, Zhang Ling asked, “Which character for Yi?”

Qin Yi replied coolly, “The one that means ‘easy.’ Since you have some knowledge of music, would you care to play a piece?”

Zhang Ling laughed. “I don’t know how.”

“You don’t?” Qin Yi studied him, pausing as if to prolong the conversation. “Why not?”

Zhang Ling answered solemnly, “Because I have no money.”

Qin Yi was left speechless, at a loss for words. But, after a moment, he asked, “So, Zhang Ling, what brings you to my manor?”

Zhang Ling’s face lit up—at last, the question he’d been waiting for. “Food,” he blurted out.

Before Qin Yi could reply, Zhang Ling corrected himself. “I’ve no provisions for my journey and hoped you might spare some.”

Just then, a piercing cry sounded above. Zhang Ling looked up—it was the same eagle that had stolen his egg. Pointing angrily at the bird, he exclaimed, “You dare show your face after stealing my egg!”

“Gu Xue,” Qin Yi called, and the eagle swooped down to land on his shoulder. Stroking the bird, Qin Yi smiled apologetically at Zhang Ling. “Since Gu Xue ate your food, allow me to treat you to a meal as compensation.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Zhang Ling replied automatically, already making his way toward the house.