Chapter Nine: A Conversation at Cross Purposes

This greatly puzzled Wang Zhenling.

The Wang clan of Danling, while a prominent family in Danling County, should hardly be enough to intimidate someone like Cheng Tiandao, should it? There was something odd—very odd—about the whole affair.

The carriage rumbled forward in silence, soon delivering Wang Zhenling to his humble cottage on Little Plum Mountain. Even now, his body remained seated cross-legged atop the couch. Not until his spirit returned to its vessel did he slowly begin to move, reacquainting himself with the heaviness of flesh. When his soul had departed, he’d felt as light as air, wholly unaccustomed to the sensation. Now, returned to his body, it was as though he’d donned a suit of armor weighing a hundred catties—an almost unbearable weight. Only after some time did he readjust.

“The man from Cheng Tiandao I encountered today is utterly unfathomable. It seems I truly must move back to Jiaode Lane for the time being. That’s the wisest course—things outside are far too chaotic right now…”

With these thoughts in mind, the night passed without incident, and at the break of dawn, Wang Zhenling rose to pack his belongings, intending to return at once to Jiaode Lane.

He had not anticipated, however, that a guest would arrive so early. Opening the door, he found himself face to face with the very hemp-clad envoy of Cheng Tiandao he’d met the previous night.

Wang Zhenling’s pupils contracted ever so slightly. He had not expected, after that man’s abrupt departure last night, that he would come knocking this morning. Of course—he must have followed him home the night before. The man’s cultivation was simply too advanced; neither Wang Zhenling nor the two Hu family guards had sensed a thing.

The envoy spoke, and his very first words made Wang Zhenling’s heart tighten: “Who would have thought that a scion of the Wang clan, whose fame rests on Confucian learning, would secretly practice Daoist arts? Were it not for what I witnessed last night, I never would have guessed! And to think, too, that a Wang would collude with the likes of Cheng Tiandao’s heretics. Still, I suppose I ought to thank you for saving our comrade.”

His tone was thick with implication and threat. Though Wang Zhenling was startled, he betrayed nothing, responding with composed courtesy, “An honored guest graces my humble abode—do come in, please.”

The envoy chuckled slyly, confident in his own strength and wholly unafraid of any tricks Wang Zhenling might employ. He swaggered into the cottage.

Clearly, Zhenling thought, the matter of Zhen Yunzi had been traced back to him at last. It was hardly surprising; there were too many loose ends. Anyone diligent enough would have uncovered the truth sooner or later.

Yet knowing this, he felt a deep sense of discomfort at having his secrets seized by another’s hand. Outwardly, he remained calm, inviting the envoy to sit and offering him tea.

The envoy accepted shamelessly, sprawling in his seat. He took a sip of the fragrant tea but set the cup down at once, saying, “What is this? Far too bland…”

In this world, tea was still mostly steamed or pressed into cakes. People liked to add spices for a robust, almost soup-like flavor. The lightly roasted tea that Wang Zhenling preferred was unfamiliar fare.

Zhenling did not insist. Serving tea was merely a pretext to buy himself time to recover from the earlier shock and gather his thoughts. Now he felt collected—if not fully prepared with a countermeasure, at least he could hazard a guess as to the envoy’s motives.

With a gentle laugh, Zhenling replied, “I find most teas too strong for my taste. I prefer something milder—‘Chew on vegetable roots, and all things become possible,’ as they say.”

The envoy burst into raucous laughter. “Chewing on vegetable roots, eh? You aspire to the ancient sages’ simple joys, but tell me—why meddle in the affairs of Cheng Tiandao? That comrade of ours, the one the authorities wronged in Guangyang City, it was you who saved him, was it not?”

Zhenling sighed, “That’s true, though I never imagined he’d be arrested again and meet such a grim end…”

But inwardly he had already realized: this envoy knew nothing of Zhen Yunzi’s true origins, perhaps not even his name or Daoist title. This knowledge gave Zhenling greater composure.

“To be frank,” he said, “though my father was born to the Wang clan, he was obsessed with the pursuit of immortality. He left home early and wandered the world as a seeker of the Way. The little cultivation I possess comes from what he left behind, which I practice only on occasion. When I saw your companion in Guangyang, I acted out of simple compassion. After leaving the city, we parted ways. I thought he might escape his fate, but alas…”

As he spoke, Zhenling sighed once more.

The envoy’s gaze flickered—so that was the reason. No wonder Zhenling had suddenly intervened to save someone; he believed most of the explanation. As for Zhenling’s father, a few inquiries would confirm the story. There was no reason to suspect deceit.

Yet the envoy went on, smiling, “You’ve reached the stage where your qi is settled—hardly the mark of casual practice. I began cultivating as a child, and only after fifteen or sixteen years, when I was over thirty, could I project my true energy. If you’d achieved so much with mere dabbling, then what does that make me—a fool?”

He looked intently at Zhenling and continued, “Regardless, you saved one of our own from Cheng Tiandao. That makes you a brother in our eyes…”

Cheng Tiandao widely spread their teachings, claiming to relieve the poor. Those who joined their ranks called one another brother.

But at this, Zhenling grew wary. His rescue of Zhen Yunzi had been a matter of passing convenience; he had no wish to become entangled with the sect. Now, he met the envoy’s gaze and replied coolly, “As I said, I acted only because we are both cultivators, and in any case, I did not truly save him in the end. Your words flatter me undeservedly.”

The envoy clearly understood Zhenling’s intent to draw a line between them, and his eyes grew cold as he stared.

Zhenling met his gaze, unafraid. Though no match for the envoy, he could not allow himself to be drawn into Cheng Tiandao’s affairs. To the imperial court, Cheng Tiandao was a nest of heresy and sedition. Should Zhenling be implicated, it would endanger not just himself, but the entire Wang clan of Wanling—something he could never countenance.

Better to risk open enmity now than to be dragged unwittingly into their schemes.

The two men locked eyes, the tension between them so palpable it seemed the very air would ignite.

“Very well, very well!” the envoy suddenly laughed, though the laughter did not reach his eyes. He had seen that Wang Zhenling would rather break than bend—yet he laughed all the same.