Chapter Seventeen: The Little Dark Room

The masked woman was taken aback when she saw Yang Lian break into a smile, but she quickly understood the meaning behind it. He was already thinking of approaching the old Min army for his purposes—such quick wit surprised her. Yang Lian listened intently, picking up on the drunken man’s many grievances. Soon enough, the drunkard was led away by another young man, who looked far more refined, though his name remained unknown. Yang Lian pondered this silently. The masked woman said nothing either. By the time they finished their meal, Yang Lian had gleaned considerable information—at the very least, he now understood the general state of the imperial court. The Southern Tang, though the foremost among the southern kingdoms in territory and power, was not a monolith. If there was even the slightest crack, Yang Lian was confident he could chip away until it broke apart.

After their meal, the two left the tavern. The street bustled as ever, crowds streaming past—who would have thought that, decades later, the emperor of Southern Tang would lament from his palace, “The carved balustrades should still remain, though the rosy faces have faded”? Who could truly predict the tides of the world? Had not the Southern Wu left behind by Yang Xingmi fallen swiftly under Xu Wen’s control?

The two walked on in silence, leading their horses southward. Southern Tang claimed descent from the great Tang, but in truth, Li Bian had no connection to the Tang imperial clan. At first, the dynasty was named Qi, but later, in an effort to bolster its legitimacy, Li Bian falsely claimed descent from the Tang and changed the kingdom’s name accordingly. Yet legitimacy alone could not guarantee survival; before overwhelming strength, weak states were doomed to extinction.

The southern part of the city was home to common folk. Despite the wealth of Southern Tang, many families lived in poverty. Along their path, filth and refuse were everywhere, hardly what one would expect of Jinling, the capital of a kingdom. The masked woman frowned—why would her grandfather have arranged for Yang Lian to stay here?

Following her grandfather’s last instructions, the masked woman inquired around, and at last found a rather dilapidated house. The plot was small, with no courtyard, and looked especially shabby. The door collapsed with a groan at the slightest knock, stirring up a cloud of dust.

With a light tap of her foot, the masked woman nimbly avoided the dust, her white robes remaining spotless. Yang Lian, though quick to react, was still a moment slower, and ended up choking on a mouthful of dust, coughing in disappointment.

He had expected that the old servant’s arrangements would aid his future efforts to restore his homeland. But the house was clearly abandoned; any organization that had once operated here was surely long gone. Yang Lian shook his head—though disappointed, it was only for a moment. From the day he had decided to come to Jinling, he had prepared to fight alone. Disappointment was not despair.

The masked woman sighed softly. She had not imagined it would end this way. After a pause, she said, “This house has been deserted for a year or two at least, I think.”

Yang Lian clenched his fists. “You have brought me here and fulfilled your duty, miss. You may go as you please.”

The masked woman, surprised by the gravity of his words, wondered if he intended to stay here. Hesitating, she asked, “Where will you go next?”

“I’ll find an inn to stay at first,” Yang Lian replied calmly. Now that the dust had settled, he looked around—there were only a few rattan chairs and a couch, nothing of note. This place held no more value, nothing to linger for.

The masked woman nodded and seemed about to say something, but held back. She was deeply curious—would this man, with such a tangled past and unfathomable nature, truly embark on the path of restoration?

“Thank you for your help along the way, miss. I will repay this debt one day. For now, I wish to be alone and won’t see you out,” Yang Lian added.

The masked woman sighed again, unsettled by how suddenly solemn Yang Lian had become. She cupped her hands in farewell. “Take care, then.” With that, she stepped lightly from the house.

Yang Lian stood there blankly, unmoving, when suddenly her footsteps returned. She hurried back, took a book from her robe, and handed it to him. “My grandfather asked me to look after you, but I have no interest in the cause of restoration and cannot help you. Here is a book I acquired during my travels. I hope it proves useful.”

Yang Lian accepted it, replying, “A great favor needs no thanks. If you ever need help, come find me.”

The masked woman smiled faintly. In that dim, shabby room, the light seemed to shine brighter, and Yang Lian’s mood lifted as well.

“For those words alone, if you ever need me, come to the Fairy Temple in the old town of Jiangdu,” she replied after a moment’s thought.

“Thank you, miss. But may I ask your given name?” Yang Lian inquired.

The masked woman’s eyes widened in surprise. Yang Lian quickly explained, “If I don’t know your name, how would I find you?”

“Hmph.” She snorted softly and turned to leave. Just as she reached the door, her voice drifted back, “My name is Mi Shiwei.”

“A fine name! You have treated me kindly, miss. One day, I shall repay you with my hand and welcome you into my harem,” Yang Lian said with sudden cheer, now that he knew who she was and her family background.

Mi Shiwei was already at the doorway. She let out a cold snort, flicked her wrist, and a throwing dart sliced past Yang Lian. “Say another word and I’ll chop you up for dog food.” With that, she vanished, as if carried away by the wind.

Yang Lian stepped slowly outside, but Mi Shiwei was already gone. Leaning against the rotting doorframe, he narrowed his eyes in thought.

After Mi Shiwei—no, he should call her by name now—left, a black-clad figure appeared at the end of the alley. He stepped before her. “Sister, it really was him?”

“It should be,” Mi Shiwei replied with a nod.

Had Yang Lian seen this man, he would have been greatly surprised, for he had met him and Mi Shiwei before. That day, at the forest’s edge while fighting lake bandits, they were the two who had come to his aid.

The black-clad man frowned. “I never expected the person Grandfather sent you to find was him—what a coincidence!” He paused, then added curiously, “But I saw with my own eyes when he was buried, how can that be mistaken?”

Mi Shiwei frowned as well. “Grandfather disappeared back then—there must be a reason. Perhaps he went to rescue Yang Lian. Maybe this was all Grandfather’s plan. Maybe the one who died was a decoy—or perhaps, this one is a decoy.”

The black-clad man nodded silently. “A man may change his name, but not his face. This Yang Lian looks unfamiliar to me.”

Mi Shiwei thought for a moment. “I actually think the latter is more likely. His temperament is nothing like what we’ve heard.”

The black-clad man hesitated. “Sister, you seem to regard him differently.”

Mi Shiwei shook her head. “There’s nothing different. I’m just curious. He doesn’t strike me as a man content with obscurity. If he truly is Yang Lian, how will he attempt to restore his kingdom?”

The black-clad man laughed. “And that’s why you gave him a manual?”

“It’s hardly a secret manual—just some notes on training,” Mi Shiwei replied, waving her hand. “Come on, let’s go back to Jiangdu.”

Yang Lian waited a while longer, but Mi Shiwei did not return. At last, he took out the book she had given him. It was nothing extraordinary—just advice on strengthening the body. As for the lightness skills that had so astonished him, it turned out they were simply the result of long practice.

Even Zhao Feiyan, famed for her weightless grace, owed it all to years of training. Realizing this, Yang Lian felt relieved. He had half-suspected this world might be different from the ordinary, but now saw that it was not. He examined the lightness skill training method and could not help but laugh; it was merely a matter of strapping weighted bags to one’s legs and gradually increasing the load. Once accustomed, running would feel extraordinarily light.

At the end of the manual, Yang Lian found a letter. Opening it, he saw it was from the old servant. In it, the servant clarified Yang Lian’s identity and expressed his hope that his granddaughter, Mi Shiwei, would deliver Yang Lian to Jinling. The address was this very place, which had once been a secret gathering site for patriotic officers devoted to Southern Wu.

The reason the old servant had hidden Yang Lian in Suzhou was that, as part of Wuyue, it was relatively safe from Southern Tang’s reach. Furthermore, Suzhou was only two or three days’ ride from Jinling, so if anything changed in Jinling, Yang Lian could arrive quickly and take command.

Now Yang Lian understood why he had been in Suzhou.

He sighed. Even when Li Bian seized Southern Wu’s lands, there were still loyal ministers, but with time, such secret sites were either discovered by Southern Tang or fell into disuse for other reasons.

He wandered through the dust-choked house but found nothing of note. The thick dust and long years had buried everything. Just then, he heard soft footsteps outside.

Yang Lian reacted instantly, slipping out to hide nearby. Shortly, a black-clad man entered the house, stopping as soon as he came in, scrutinizing the floor. He had clearly spotted several footprints.

Who had come here? The black-clad man quickly left the house and looked around outside. “Who’s there? Show yourself!” he barked.

Yang Lian remained still. Until he knew the man’s identity, he would not reveal himself.

The house was pitch dark; the black-clad man dared not enter rashly. He called out twice, and when there was no response, he hesitated, then went inside. The house was deadly quiet. The man searched carefully, but the thick dust misled him—he thought the footprints were days old.

Perhaps a beggar had come by—that would explain the prints. After all, the place had been abandoned for over three years, and someone had even died here; it was believed to be unlucky.

The black-clad man paced slowly about, then let out a long sigh before leaving in silence.

The house sank once more into utter stillness. Only after the time it takes to burn a stick of incense did Yang Lian rise from the deepest shadows, his eyes sharp. Who was that black-clad man?