Chapter Seven: If One Does Not Fear the Living, Why Fear Ghosts and Spirits?

The three of them rode fine horses, and after passing through a bustling stretch of streets and alleys, they arrived before an enormous mansion.

It was the first time Qingsong had ever laid eyes on such a lavish and magnificent residence. Before him rose a wall of blue bricks, over ten feet tall, stretching from east to west across the most prosperous part of Jinhua Prefecture, enclosing nearly a hundred acres of land within its bounds. Looking in from the entrance, he saw rows upon rows of houses with blue bricks and emerald tiles, pavilions and towers arranged with exquisite taste, artificial hills and strange rocks, small bridges and flowing streams—all breathtaking in their beauty.

Following behind Zhang Niankang, Qingsong stepped onto a velvet carpet of crimson, unrolled by servants ahead of them for their passage. When he had followed his senior brother into town to have clothes made, he had seen this very kind of fabric in the cloth shops—a mere foot of it cost two large silver ingots, and only the daughters of wealthy families could afford several feet for themselves. Yet now, the red carpet underfoot stretched from the street all the way to the Zhang family’s main gate—how many hundreds of feet of cloth had that consumed?

Stepping upon it now, he could not help but feel uneasy.

Beside him, the woman named Xiyue frowned, her tone cold, “Senior Brother Zhang, isn’t such extravagance a little too ostentatious?”

As the daughter of the dean of Moonlight Academy in Gunzhou, she had certainly seen her share of grand occasions, yet never had she encountered so lavish a welcome.

Sensing the disapproval in his junior sister’s voice, Zhang Niankang’s heart skipped a beat, and he hurried to reassure her, “Sister, please don’t blame me—truly, I had no idea my family would make such arrangements!”

Before he could finish, a hearty laughter rang out from behind the painted and lacquered doors of the Zhang residence, followed by the steady voice of a middle-aged man, “Ha ha ha! This was all my idea! How could I possibly slight the beloved daughter of Master Liu from Moonlight Academy when she graces my humble abode?”

A man strode out, his hands clasped behind his back, clad in embroidered robes, with a high nose, hawkish features, and a flowing beard. He first regarded Liu Xiyue with a thoughtful gaze, then sighed, “Sixteen years pass in a flash—the infant who once babbled her first words has grown into a graceful young lady.”

Liu Xiyue started, then bowed deeply. “Xiyue greets the Prefect of Jinhua.”

At her words, the middle-aged man’s eyes shone with approval. “Truly as clever as ice and snow! With just a few words from me, you deduced who I am. Brother Zichu is truly blessed to have such a daughter.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Your father and I are old friends, and you are Niankang’s junior sister—there’s no need to be so formal. Just call me Uncle Zhang.”

Liu Xiyue hesitated a moment, then parted her lips gently. “Niece Xiyue greets Uncle Zhang.”

“Ha! Good! That’s how it should be,” the man nodded, clearly satisfied.

After some polite conversation, several servants led them into the Zhang residence.

Qingsong followed behind, curiosity drawing his gaze to this Prefect of Jinhua.

The stories of this prefect were legendary: in his youth, his poetic talent was unrivaled, he excelled in the imperial examinations, and his mastery of swordsmanship was formidable—he had once single-handedly toppled a mountain stronghold guarded by a martial grandmaster. Unfortunately, having offended the powerful, he was relegated to this remote corner of Jinzhou to serve as prefect.

In the Great Yu dynasty, officials were rarely appointed to the same post for more than a decade; few ever served consecutive terms. Yet this Prefect Zhang, for reasons unknown, had remained here for a full eighteen years. And in these eighteen years, the Zhang family had risen from obscurity to become the preeminent local clan.

…

They passed through gardens and courtyards, arriving beside a gently flowing stream.

All around were piled artificial hills and rare and exotic flowers, with an arched bridge at the center. Upon it stood a pavilion with crimson lacquered columns, bearing a plaque inscribed with the ancient characters for “Pavilion of Welcome.”

A sumptuous banquet was already set out within, awaiting their arrival.

Liu Xiyue looked at the delicacies spread before her and frowned. “Uncle Zhang, to prepare so lavish a feast for me alone—this is more than I can bear! Please, have it removed. I require but one dish, one soup, and a bowl of rice—it will suffice.”

Zhang Chengzong seemed unbothered, smiling as he replied, “This is but a simple family meal. If you ask me to dismiss it, would that not make a waste of all the cooks’ and servants’ efforts? One mustn’t throw out the meal for fear of choking—niece, don’t imitate your father’s stubborn ways!”

Gazing at the table laden with delicacies, Liu Xiyue felt that the Uncle Zhang before her was nothing like the young man her father had once described—one who petitioned for the people and lived simply.

She was silent a moment, then suddenly rose and bowed to Zhang Chengzong. “Uncle Zhang, I am suddenly feeling unwell and wish to retire to my room. I hope you will forgive me.”

With those words, she left.

“Junior sister, wait for me!” Zhang Niankang immediately jumped up and hurried after her.

The atmosphere froze.

Qingsong was left at the table with Zhang Chengzong, feeling more awkward than ever—standing or sitting, he could only fret internally.

Despite Liu Xiyue’s clear affront, Zhang Chengzong seemed unfazed. He turned a wine cup in his hand, his stern features reflected in the clear liquor. For a moment, he gazed absently into the cup, as if lost in memory.

After a while, he finished his drink in one gulp, then turned his gaze to Qingsong.

“You are a priest of Chisong Temple?” The question, tinged with authority, made Qingsong tense at once.

He instinctively straightened his back. “Yes, I am.”

Zhang Chengzong nodded. “How is your abbot, Jade Serenity? Is he well?”

Qingsong quickly replied, “Thank you for your concern, Prefect. The abbot is in good health.”

“Hmm, your Chisong Temple is truly a blessed place, to have produced a grandmaster like Master Pine Crane.” Zhang Chengzong nodded again, then, almost casually, asked, “Do you know when Master Pine Crane will return to Chisong Temple? I have some questions about martial arts I wish to consult him on.”

Qingsong grew more nervous at that, shaking his head. “The grand-uncle is still traveling in search of immortals and has not returned.”

“Seeking immortals? Ha! Seeking immortality… Such foolishness…” At those words, Zhang Chengzong narrowed his eyes, shaking his head with a mutter.

He did not pursue the matter, but continued, almost indifferently, “What brings you down from the mountain on this occasion?”

Qingsong dared not be negligent and repeated the explanation he had given Zhang Niankang earlier.

After listening, Zhang Chengzong’s gaze grew distant, his attitude noncommittal.

A long time later, he finally said, “Since Niankang has already promised you, you may stay in the residence for the night.”

With that, he waved his hand, and a servant led Qingsong off to his quarters.

Qingsong felt as if he had been pardoned from a great punishment. Grabbing his bundle, he hurried after the servant, eager to escape the suffocating pressure exerted by the Prefect of Jinhua.

Watching Qingsong’s figure recede, Zhang Chengzong remained seated, draining cup after cup of fine wine. His gaze drifted northward, toward the rolling mountains in the distance.

“Mister Jiang? Could he be an extraordinary man? The time left for me is running short—I hope he does not become an unforeseen complication. It seems I must test him tonight…”

He muttered to himself, then drank the last cup dry.

…

The moon had climbed to its zenith.

Silvery moonlight scattered across Chisong Mountain, shrouding the temple halls in a gauzy veil.

Inside the main hall, the dim glow of candles flickered.

Lin You, dressed in a simple Daoist robe, sat cross-legged on the floor. Before his knees rested an ancient pine-patterned sword, its blade shining frostily in the candlelight.

All was silent; even the insects of the mountain seemed to have vanished.

Only the imposing statue of a deity looked down upon the darkness beyond the doors with stern regard.

No one knew how much time passed before a song arose outside the hall—a voice weeping and plaintive, filled with sorrow, as if a woman in white lamented her misfortune.

There was something peculiar, almost magical, about the song; it seemed to pierce directly to the heart.

Lin You slowly opened his eyes and saw a woman drenched in blood, gazing at him with eyes full of grief.

“My heart is like water, but his is like iron! For the sake of glory and wealth, he abandoned me, betraying the debt of love…”

Her voice was mournful, as if Lin You himself were the heartless man she sang of.

The woman in white drifted forward, step by step, until she stood before him, her blood-streaked eyes staring straight into his.

Lin You’s expression was calm and gentle. He raised his head to meet her gaze, showing no trace of fear.

“Little Daoist, are you not afraid of me?” The ghostly woman sounded almost curious.

In the past, every young priest who saw her had been terrified out of their wits. Yet this man before her regarded her as nothing, leaving her a little frustrated.

Lin You looked her over and shook his head. “The hearts of men are more treacherous than ghosts or gods. If I do not fear the living, why should I fear spirits?”