Chapter Forty: Setting Out for Sichuan

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"It is ten to one that this Song Ci is a fraud. And what of Lu Xu, the miracle doctor? Perhaps even Fei Wuji, who knows of all this, has been bought off." While a multitude of mysteries swirled in Zhou Qian's mind, every person around him appeared more suspicious than the last. Helpless, Zhou Qian decided to tell Second Brother Li the whole truth. Second Brother Li was so stunned he could hardly close his mouth for a long while. "This is truly an earth-shaking matter!"

The two discussed the matter at length but could make no headway. Zhou Qian could only agree with Second Brother Li to split up; Second Brother Li would stay behind to keep watching Song Ci, while Zhou Qian would return to report everything to his own master, hoping that Zhou Xun would surely have a plan. But when Zhou Qian returned to the Hu family mansion, he learned from the servants that Zhou Xun and Steward Sun had gone out, apparently to meet with the Sea Dragon King, a formidable figure of the East Sea. They would not be back for more than a month. Zhou Qian was beside himself with anxiety. Even Prince Li Sansi had gone out to visit friends. Zhou Qian could well guess that all these actions were preparations for things to come, yet even knowing it was a conspiracy, he had no way to resolve it.

Fortunately, that afternoon, a young beggar came with a message, which made Zhou Qian slap his forehead—he had forgotten that he had an older brother, and the Beggars' Sect was famed for its intelligence network. Taking the note from the young beggar, Zhou Qian hastily wrote three letters: one to Zhou Xun, one to Wang Hu, and one to Li Sanshan, detailing the entire course of events, sealed with wax and sent with the beggar at top speed.

"This should surely go smoothly now," Zhou Qian consoled himself.

The next morning, as soon as he finished his early exercises and took the steaming towel that Zhaor handed him, a servant came to report that an officer had delivered a letter at the gate. Zhou Qian quickly took and opened it, breathing a sigh of relief. "Grandmaster Yi's green bamboo porridge is taken care of!"

He hurried to Jingxiang Tower, called Old Hei and Zhang Fu into a private room, and produced two letters. "The first is a registry compiled by the Chengdu authorities of those with the surname Kou, recording their ages, genders, and residences. The second is a list, gathered by the Beggars’ Sect, of the finest Sichuanese chefs with the surname Kou!"

Both men's eyes lit up. The three pored over the lists and identified three elderly women who best matched the description of Kou Jingxiang's younger sister. After some discussion, it was agreed that Zhang Fu and Zhou Qian would go in search of the Kou woman known as "Ma Po," while Old Hei would stay behind to keep Yi Shan in the dark.

Zhou Qian and Zhang Fu agreed to meet outside the city of Luodu at dawn the next day. Zhou Qian arrived first, Zhang Fu later. Though Zhang Fu still looked at Zhou Qian with disfavor, and Zhou Qian found Zhang Fu too arrogant, their shared purpose prevented any discord along the way.

Still, Zhou Qian’s journey was beset by challengers. By noon, after defeating a young man known in the martial world as "Little Qin Qiong," who wielded paired maces, Zhang Fu could no longer restrain his sarcasm: "Why is your character so poor, with so many enemies chasing you for a fight?"

Zhou Qian could only shake his head helplessly. Zhang Fu knew nothing of the martial world; even if he saw Zhou Qian dueling with someone, in his eyes it would hardly differ from a street performer breaking stones on his chest or swallowing swords.

"How can you blame me? If only you knew how to ride a horse! Because of you, we had to buy a carriage, which is so slow that it’s no wonder people can catch up to us," Zhou Qian retorted.

"I'm from the South, isn't it normal that I can't ride? Not everyone is a rough-and-ready fellow like you!" Zhang Fu scoffed.

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Yet their journey was not spent in endless bickering. Zhang Fu would often, almost unintentionally, share a secret cooking technique or point out a flaw in Zhou Qian’s own methods. Zhou Qian recognized this as Zhang Fu’s way of repaying him; though in his heart Zhang Fu might not truly respect him, he was, after all, a genius in the culinary arts, and what he taught was always unique. Zhou Qian was not ashamed to ask questions, and learned eagerly.

They traveled day and night for nearly twenty-eight days before they finally saw the towering mountains of Sichuan. The landscapes there are famed for their beauty, with Emei Mountain the finest—a place of high peaks, clear waters, and ever-changing vistas. Unfortunately, both had business to attend to, so there was no time for sightseeing. They headed straight for Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan.

Just reaching the border of Sichuan left them both exhausted. Even Zhou Qian, who had hurried along day after day, felt worn out, let alone Zhang Fu, who was used to a life of luxury. If not for his deep respect for his own master, which gave him the strength to persevere, he might have collapsed long ago. By now, Zhang Fu’s cheeks were tinged with green, dark circles ringed his eyes, and there was not a trace of color in his face. Zhou Qian, thinking of his own sister Zhaor’s tragic fate, advised Zhang Fu to rest for a day or two in Tiandu Prefecture, some distance away. Zhang Fu, at the end of his endurance, agreed. They hurried onward and finally reached Tiandu City, the gateway to Sichuan, before nightfall.

They found an inn and Zhang Fu fell onto the bed and slept at once, while Zhou Qian only managed his necessary exercises before resting himself. Early the next morning, Zhou Qian rose to practice his breathing technique. After assuming thirty-six postures, he sat cross-legged, eyes closed, and with each breath, a faint white mist could be seen, tinged with a delicate fragrance. This was a sign that his breathing technique had reached a new level: his organs were purified, as pure as a newborn’s, hence the Daoist saying "infant body, immortal breath." According to other schools, the explanation differed, but that is for another time.

Finishing his morning practice, Zhou Qian saw that Zhang Fu’s door was still tightly shut. Clearly, Zhang Fu would sleep until evening. Zhou Qian left a note, saying he had business to attend to and might not return until late or even the next day, telling Zhang Fu not to worry, and then set out.

He found a beggar on the street, exchanged the secret hand sign, and was led to the Beggars’ Sect branch in Tiandu Prefecture. The branch leader, Grassland Flower Python—Lu Feifei—turned out to be a tall, strapping woman with a booming voice. Were it not for her shabby dress, one would hardly recognize her as a woman.

When Zhou Qian explained his purpose, Lu Feifei frowned. "Young Hero Zhou, your master and our chief are sworn brothers. You’re half a Beggars’ Sect man yourself, so we’ll help if we can. But this is a tall order. Just over a decade ago, Sichuan suffered a great war. The dead were countless, and even now there are seventeen or eighteen mass graves outside Tiandu. That’s bad enough, but those with names and families have been interred in ancestral halls. The surname Ying is a large clan; there are many Ying villages and hamlets nearby. You can’t expect me to lead people to break into ancestral halls and dig up their ancestors’ corpses. That would be like desecrating their graves. Not even the imperial court could do that without arousing public fury!"

Zhou Qian could only force a bitter smile. He had underestimated the difficulty. There were hundreds of villages and hamlets around Tiandu. Searching for a single corpse was like finding a needle in a haystack, and who could say if Zhaor’s brother’s body hadn’t already been devoured by wolves or scavengers? Second Brother’s idea was noble, but in the end, it was a poor one.

A small beggar nearby piped up, "You could go see Immortal Zhao at the Ge Hong Temple. The old man can divine the future—he’ll surely be able to locate the corpse you seek, Brother Zhou."

Lu Feifei scolded, "Nonsense! Spirits and monsters! I’ve met that Zhao fellow myself—he’s barely twenty, with a shuffling gait and no martial skill at all. At best he knows a few parlor tricks, and you believe that?"

"But didn’t old lady Wang next door find her long-lost granddaughter thanks to Immortal Zhao?" the little beggar muttered.

"Pure coincidence!" Lu Feifei declared.

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Zhou Qian was still skeptical about spirits and the supernatural. Yet after what he’d seen at She Mountain and the ghost he’d encountered at the Governor’s Mansion, he was starting to believe there were indeed things in this world unseen by ordinary folk. Perhaps this Immortal Zhao had eaten some rare herb and gained strange powers. In any case, it was worth trying his luck.

After asking for directions to the Ge Hong Temple, he walked for half an hour and found a long line of visitors at the entrance. Noticing that the two young Daoist attendants were busy collecting incense money and paying no attention to their surroundings, Zhou Qian found a secluded spot and nimbly vaulted over the wall.

The temple looked dilapidated from the outside, but inside it was tranquil, with pavilions, stone gazebos, and green bamboo creating a true immortal’s retreat. As Zhou Qian was about to enter the hall with the Ge Hong statue, his ears caught a faint whistling, and a flash of white sped toward him. Instantly dropping to the ground, he drew his sword and slashed at the "white light."

With a crisp clang, the tip of his sword—sharp enough to slice iron—was cut clean off by the white streak. The strange white light, knocked aside, spun through the air and shot back at him with even greater speed. Zhou Qian had no choice but to use his Flowing Cloud Feather Step, darting between obstacles in the courtyard in a desperate attempt to evade.

Whatever it was, it bored through stone and wood as if nothing could halt it. Zhou Qian dared not let his sword touch it again. Fortunately, after piercing several stones and planks, the white light dimmed and slowed. Nevertheless, Zhou Qian still received several bloody gashes.

Knowing the wisdom of "shoot the horse to stop the rider, capture the bandit to catch the king," Zhou Qian deduced that the white light originated from inside the hall. Seizing his chance, he rushed in. There he saw a young man in Daoist robes pacing anxiously. At the sight of Zhou Qian, the youth was visibly startled.

He tried to speak, but Zhou Qian gave him no chance—who knew what trickery he might attempt? Grabbing him like a chicken, Zhou Qian hoisted him up just as the white light shot back. Zhou Qian thrust the youth in front of him, betting that the white light would never harm its own master.

Yet the young Daoist clearly lacked such faith, wailing, "Stop, my precious! Stop, my precious! Please, stop—" his voice tinged with tears.

At last, the white light seemed to heed its master’s call. It fell from the air, landing with a metallic clang an inch from the youth’s brow.

Looking closely, Zhou Qian saw that the white light was actually a small white sword, no longer than a finger.