A Thousand-Mile Exile, An Encounter with an Old Friend - Chapter 9

Immortals secretly cross the tribulations of Dragon Mountain, while chickens and dogs dwell in the hundred battlefields of the mortal realm.

Zhu Qinghou lay reclined on his rattan chair, reading the poetry Zhu Xueting had composed. When he reached this specific line, he paused for a moment. He looked up and asked Zhu Xueting with a smile, “In your eyes, am I an immortal, or am I just one of the common crowd—the ‘chickens and dogs’ of this world?”

Zhu Xueting was also taken aback. He considered the question seriously for a moment before extending a finger toward Zhu Qinghou. His lips moved silently, forming three distinct words: You are you.

Not a celestial being, nor a common beast. He was Zhu Qinghou himself, and nothing more.

Zhu Qinghou chuckled. “You’ve certainly gained some clarity.” He looked past the high walls of the estate toward the outside world, seeing only a narrow sliver of the sky. The life beyond those walls remained hidden from his sight.

Though he couldn’t see it, he could sense the gathering storms and the shifting winds of treachery.

Most of the officials dispatched by the Imperial Court carried two missions. The first was their official duty: to act as a check on the vassal kings and thwart them at every turn. The second was their personal ambition: to line their own pockets as quickly as possible so they could secure a transfer and flee this desolate, godforsaken place called Yongzhou.

As for those who came to Yongzhou with a pure heart to relieve poverty and save the masses? Such people weren’t non-existent, but they were incredibly rare.

Now that Li Zhen had loosened his iron grip on the administration, this pack of officials would surely use the seasonal tax collection as an excuse for ruthless extortion.

Zhu Qinghou gazed silently at the sky. His fingertips brushed the branded mark on his brow, which had long since scarred over. He thought back to that phrase: The son takes after his father.

He let out a sudden, low laugh, leaning back until his thin shoulders trembled slightly.

Long ago, before Zhu Qingping was branded a traitor to the nation, he held a very different title: the Pillar of the State.

The Zhu clan’s protégés once spanned the entire world; everyone had clamored to study under their banner. During the great embezzlement case last October, these students and former subordinates had either died, defected, been demoted, or fled into exile. Their traces were now hard to find.

What he needed to do now was to bring those people back.

“I want to attend the banquet tonight,” Zhu Qinghou said to Li Zhen, laying down the guest list.

Ever since he had consumed the “Two Hearts as One” parasite, many secrets of the Prince’s manor were no longer kept from him. Li Zhen even allowed him to browse through the non-essential scrolls and documents on his desk.

Li Zhen replied simply, “You shouldn’t go.”

It made sense. A criminal of low status had no place at a princely banquet. Zhu Qinghou felt Li Zhen’s refusal was reasonable, but that didn’t stop him from being difficult.

“Xianpu,” Zhu Qinghou said, leaning his hands on the desk and gazing at the man sitting before him. “I’ve been cooped up in this courtyard for so long; I’m bored to death.”

Li Zhen’s tone remained level. He countered, “Are you truly?”

Zhu Qinghou pouted and pulled his hands back, not daring to get too close. Since the soft approach failed, he tried a harder tactic, attempting to lure Li Zhen with logic. “If I am there, outsiders will think your recent strange behavior is only because you’ve been bewitched by me.” He spoke persuasively, “The commoners will only hate me more. They won’t hate you.”

Li Zhen’s lips curved into a slight, unreadable smile. With the white silk covering his eyes, it was impossible to tell if the expression held amusement or distaste. “That is a good point.”

“You think so too?” Zhu Qinghou moved closer with a smile. Even though Li Zhen was seated and he was standing, he felt as though the other man was inexplicably taller, radiating an invisible pressure and an indefinable danger that made his heart beat faster.

“Since you want to go, I will take you,” Li Zhen said, his voice flat and emotionless. Having gotten his way, Zhu Qinghou reached out and lightly flicked Li Zhen’s cheek before pulling back instantly.

Li Zhen visibly stiffened and pulled back, warning in a low voice, “Do not touch me again.”

So, Li Zhen could touch him, but he wasn’t allowed to touch Li Zhen?

Zhu Qinghou raised an eyebrow. Having achieved his goal, he stopped teasing the man and turned away with a laugh.

The lights and shadows flickered as the wind rattled the curtains of the pavilion.

High up on the terrace, a young man in purple silk leaned against a pillar. He paced downward, letting the wind toss his hair and ring the golden bells on his belt. From a distance, he looked down at the many figures gathered at the waterside pavilion below.

He cursed Li Zhen in his heart. The man had agreed to let him attend the banquet, but in the end, he was only allowed to stay on the balcony, forbidden from appearing before the guests.

Fortunately, it wasn’t too far. Leaning against the railing, Zhu Qinghou could faintly hear the clinking of golden cups and the sounds of toasts. The guests all wore smiling masks, chatting and laughing merrily.

He scanned the dimly lit areas of the gathering, his gaze searching until he finally spotted a few familiar faces.

Yingzhou was notoriously bad land, perfect for exile and demotion. Many of the Zhu clan’s former students had been banished here.

Before Zhu Qinghou could figure out how to contact them, a sharp, clear rebuke echoed from the waterside pavilion: “What’s this? You can’t even serve a cup of tea?”

The speaker was a local military officer from Yongzhou. He looked at the few awkward, low-ranking officials and laughed. “I heard that the nobles of Yejing were the most refined, experts in tea and scholarly talk. Was I wrong?”

“Oh, I forgot,” the officer continued. “What kind of nobles are you? You’re nothing but maggots clinging to a giant rat.”

The hall erupted into boisterous laughter.

They weren’t worried about Prince Su standing up for these exiled officials. After all, these men represented the fallen Zhu faction. The history of hatred between Prince Su and the Zhu faction could be talked about for three days and nights without end.

How much the Prince hated them and how much he hated that “little traitor” was evident the moment the boy arrived in Yongzhou and was dragged straight into the Prince’s manor.

“Do you gentlemen wish for tea?”

A soft, clear voice rang out from the terrace above. The gathered officials looked toward the sound and saw a figure like a reflection of the moon. The young man in purple leaned lazily against the railing.

Clad in purple with gold ornaments and a red mark between his brows, he gave a languid smile.

It was… Zhu Qinghou.

The crowd was stunned. They exchanged glances, each seeing a flash of astonishment in the other’s eyes.

The once-proud scion of a noble house, the peerless Zhu Qinghou, had been reduced to a prisoner and exiled nine thousand miles. Falling into the hands of his arch-enemy, one might expect him to be weeping or groveling in fear.

And yet, he appeared composed, smiling, and entirely at ease.

If one didn’t know better, they might think the Prince’s manor was his own home.

Despite the distance and the crowd, Zhu Qinghou could sense Li Zhen, sitting at the head of the table, slightly raising his head to “look” in his direction.

“Xianpu,” Zhu Qinghou said as he descended the spiral staircase, his tone casual. “You’re hosting guests today; why didn’t you call for me?”

The guards at the bottom of the stairs hesitated for a split second because of that intimate address, “Xianpu.” Zhu Qinghou smiled, brushed aside a sword hilt, and stepped out gracefully.

With every step he took, he drew dozens of shocked stares. The guests were baffled—what exactly was the relationship between Zhu Qinghou and Prince Su?

Reaching the pavilion, Zhu Qinghou glanced at the exiled officials, who were also wearing looks of shock. He called out each of their names correctly and added, “Why are you standing there? Sit down.”

The plainly dressed officials looked embarrassed; they wanted to sit but didn’t dare. Zhu Qinghou followed their gaze and saw that the chairs were occupied by sheathed swords and weapons the gear of the military officers.

Zhu Qinghou’s expression didn’t flicker. “Do you gentlemen not want tea?” He gathered his robes. “I shall brew it for you.”

The crowd’s reactions were mixed. Could this once-famed “young traitor” of Yejing really humble himself to perform such servant-like tasks?

Zhu Qinghou ordered the tea leaves to be brought. He poured the water and brewed the tea with unhurried grace. Even as he lowered his head to focus on the task, his movements were so poised that there wasn’t a hint of timidity in him.

The guests turned to look at Prince Su. He sat in the shadows, his features sharpened by the candlelight. The white silk over his eyes caught the light, but his mood remained unreadable.

They couldn’t tell what he thought of Zhu Qinghou’s presence.

The officers’ wariness faded slightly. The one who had spoken earlier sized Zhu Qinghou up and sneered, “Since a beauty is brewing tea for me, I suppose I must have a taste.” The disdain in his voice was blatant.

Zhu Qinghou didn’t mind. He poured the tea into a cup. The onlookers expected him to carry the cup over with both hands; they exchanged looks, waiting for him to look like a servant.

Instead.

Zhu Qinghou reached out and snatched a sword that was lying across a chair. The blade was made of fine iron and was as heavy as a stone. He held it steadily, flicking his wrist so the blade hissed as it cleared the scabbard.

The atmosphere in the pavilion froze. The black-clad Prince’s guards tightened their grip on their own weapons, staring at the sword in the young man’s hand.

Zhu Qinghou performed a graceful sword flourish. In the blink of an eye, a tea cup full of hot water was balanced perfectly on the tip of the blade, the steam rising as the light glinted off the steel.

With a casual thrust, the cup and its lid clattered together as they flew through the air. With a blur of silver and a sharp ring of metal on porcelain, the tea cup landed perfectly on the officer’s table.

The tip of the sword followed, pressing into the gap of the lid and carving a swift arc that sliced the top of the lid clean off. It looked as though he had traced a line right across the officer’s throat.

The fierce-looking officer couldn’t help but flinch back, clutching his table in shock.

“Please, enjoy,” Zhu Qinghou said, sheathing the sword with a smile.

Seeing that smile, the guests felt a sudden chill. Their necks felt cold, and the lingering image of the blade made them feel as if that sharp light had just passed over their own throats.

“You dare draw a sword before His Highness? Where is your respect?” someone shouted, trying to seize the initiative.

“And you gentlemen leave your swords on chairs so others cannot sit, embarrassing Xianpu’s guests to his face. What kind of logic is that?”

Zhu Qinghou smiled and tossed the sheathed sword onto the officer’s table with a loud thud.

The officer didn’t look at the sword. Instead, he looked at Zhu Qinghou and burst into loud laughter, clapping his hands. “Master Zhu’s martial skills are quite good. I should challenge you to a duel another day.” He shed his look of shock and turned to the flustered exiled officials. “Brothers, why aren’t you sitting?”

The tense, heavy atmosphere broke instantly with that laughter. The exiled officials sat down cautiously. In the past six months, they had endured nothing but cold shoulders and insults. This was the first time someone had stood up for them.

“It was just a bit of showy footwork; hardly worth a ‘challenge,'” Zhu Qinghou said easily. He had a silk stool brought over and sat down beside Prince Su. The Prince had remained silent the entire time, quietly listening to him cause a scene at the banquet.

“You are something else, too,” Zhu Qinghou whispered with a hint of complaint. “Why didn’t you say a word for me?” Under the table, he reached out and gave a playful tug to the end of Li Zhen’s white silk blindfold. Sensing the man’s attempt to pull away, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Are your hands shaking?” Li Zhen asked instead of answering. Zhu Qinghou froze. The sword just now had been heavy. His hands had once been subjected to the “finger-squeezing” torture (zanxing), and he had lost much of his strength. Performing that bit of swordplay had pushed him to his absolute limit.

“I was once put in the finger-screws,” Zhu Qinghou replied, his voice light as air.

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