Translator: Nyoi-Bo Studio Editor: Nyoi-Bo Studio
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Jing Jiu should have been able to prevent Shi Fengchen’s suicide, but he didn’t.
It wasn’t that preventing it was unnecessary. It was because Jing Jiu had seen the will dying in Shi Fengchen’s eyes when he said those last words.
Jing Jiu understood Shi Fengchen’s anger and hatred toward the Cultivation practitioners, though he wasn’t sympathetic toward him.
He didn’t want to ask about Shi Fengchen’s sufferings in the past.
Death was the greatest matter.
And Jing Jiu respected that.
Let the person who wanted to die attain the fatal result he desired.
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The small courtyard was quiet and without sound.
The sunlight was moving, and two skinny chickens pecked the shadows on the ground without much energy put into doing so.
The door of the courtyard was pushed open again.
“Master, I’m going to fry the bok choy with the preserved meat again today!”
Wang Xiaoming limped his way to the courtyard with his handicapped legs, and put the preserved meat on the top of the milling platform while kicking the two skinny chickens into the cage to prevent them from pecking the meat.
“Last time you said the bok choy was a bit dry, but this time it’s really fresh and tender.”
He happily brought the basket of bok choy to the room to let his master have a look.
Snap!!!
The bok choy dropped on the ground and spread in all directions, looking like a flower in bloom.
His legs started trembling uncontrollably.
“Ah…Ah…Master! Ah!”
A terribly sad cry rang out in the room.
His cry was appalling to the ears.
All the cries sounded terrible actually.
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Shi Fengchen’s funeral was simple and lonely.
At least at the beginning.
Wang Xiaoming knelt in front of the front hall and threw the paper money into a bucket, his moves mechanic, his expression numb.
His eyes were full of bloody lines due to either the smoke getting into his eyes or having cried for too long.
The neighbors came and left; Wang Xiaoming was the only one left kneeling in the small courtyard.
All of a sudden, scolding sounds and other commotions occurred outside the courtyard, and the wooden door was pushed open rudely by a group of people.
They were not here to make trouble. They were officials coming to offer their condolences to Shi Fengchen. The informed government servants came over hurriedly to keep order.
The highly raised white banner had the word “Libation” written in fresh ink.
The small courtyard had suddenly become different than before.
Wang Xiaoming didn’t pay attention to these activities, as he was still kneeling in front of the bronze bucket, burning the paper money numbly.
He couldn’t remember the titles and names of those officials appearing in the courtyard one after the other.
His house had fewer visitors when Shi Fengchen was alive, but the house was quite crowded after his death. Everybody knew the reason.
Wang Xiaoming also knew.
Nobody saw how Shi Fengchen died. The officials of the Pure Heaven Bureau determined his death was suicide after their brief investigation; but who coerced him to commit suicide?
All the blame was directed toward the Green Mountain Sect, or toward Jing Jiu more specifically.
They called it mourning, but no mourned expressions were shown on those officials’ faces.
In Wang Xiaoming’s eyes, the only sincere mourning came from Royal Concubine Hu, who was indirectly responsible for his master’s death.
In the dead of night, Royal Concubine Hu sent someone to bring a great amount of gold and silver to him.
Wang Xiaoming thanked the person she had sent.
Wang Xiaoming had left Zhaoge City after Shi Fengchen’s burial.
Nobody knew where he went.
His coworkers in the storage house of the Pure Heaven Bureau would talk about Wang Xiaoming once in a while.
One coworker named Qishi’er had the closest relationship with Wang Xiaoming, answering when being asked where he was. “He said he was going northwest, to where his hometown was.”
Qishi’er also felt odd. In the past two years, he had never heard that Wang Xiaoming had a hometown somewhere, and he had no idea of Wang Xiaoming’s connection to the northwest was.
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It was quiet in the backyard of Zhao Manor House.
The trees in the late spring were lush, pleasing to the eyes and hearts.
Yet, Zhao Layue’s mood wasn’t not so pleasing.
“Shi Fengchen had a foster son, named Wang Xiaoming. He has the potential for Cultivation. He has left Zhaoge City today, and nobody knows where he went.”
Jing Jiu glanced at her once, thinking that she intended to wipe out the roots after cutting the grass.
“I have said that I’m not a good person, and that I’m really vicious.”
Her face looked pale, due to the severe wound she had received Mingcui Valley the other day.
Jing Jiu said, “In fact Shi Fengchen wasn’t too far off. It’s also because I don’t know how to teach. Your killing intent is indeed a little bit excessive.”
“Do you care?” asked Zhao Layue while staring at him.
Jing Jiu shook his head, saying, “You haven’t thought it through yet, so you’re a bit angry.”
“No, I don’t understand why he had to kill me,” Zhao Layue said after a moment of silence. “Did I really do something wrong?” she asked.
Jing Jiu said, “Great power comes with great responsibility, and also great risk. Your impulses are not properly controlled, and you are also concerned with the well-beings of the people in the world. As such he thought you were dangerous. So he wanted to get rid of you when you were still not powerful enough.”
Zhao Layue still didn’t understand, asking, “Is it a better choice to hide in the hermit peaks practicing the unresponsive Dao and forget about the well-beings of others?”
Jing Jiu said, “In some sense, the Cultivation practitioners who don’t pay any attention to the world are much safer for the mortals.”
Zhao Layue fell silent. When she lived in Zhaoge City at a young age, all she could think of was cultivating, but she also read some other storybooks.
Those stories spoke of the talented scholars and pretty women, about the swordsmen seeking justice, and about the soldiers fighting for their country. When she went to the Green Mountain Sect, the sect rules also had the words about helping the world and aiding the poor. However, during their long travel and now, Jing Jiu’s attitude was that the Cultivation practitioners should stay away from the affairs of the mortal world. Why?
“The Cultivation practitioners and the mortals are in two different worlds. Once a person can cultivate, he has no more connection with the mortals. A poet in the previous imperial court wrote a poem called ‘Singing Farewell When Dream-Traveling through the Cold Mountain’, which the mortals like very much, but the Cultivation practitioners don’t have the same feeling about it. On the other hand, the Cultivation practitioners like his other poem ‘Three Thousand Feet of White Hair’ more. Why?”
Jing Jiu continued, “Because the second poem talked about the immense suffering of life and death, which the Cultivation practitioners have a hard time doing away with, so they have the same sentiment. The first poem wrote about the experience of the immortals. You and I are immortals, so we can see the sceneries mortals can’t and have feelings they can’t. As a result, how can we be moved by the sceneries and feelings imagined by the mortals?”
Zhao Layue said after a long moment of silence, “But the mortals can also pursue Dao.”
Jing Jiu said, “Yes, the mortals don’t have to accept their fate, and they can try their best to get on the path toward heaven; but not all mortals have such luck.”
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There was a Mountain-God Temple outside Zhaoge City. Hardly any offering visitors were here because it wasn’t the right season.
Wang Xiaoming walked to the back of the temple and climbed onto a tree with some difficulty. As he was sure that nobody was around, he took out an oily paper bag from inside his clothing.
The contents in the bag were immensely important for him.
They were the money drafts sent by Royal Concubine Hu and a thin book.
The three words “Purity Magic Method” were written on the book cover. This was the entry-level method for the Three-Purities Sect.
This was the remnant left by Shi Fengchen for him.
Wang Xiaoming opened the book to read it with a great deal of concentration, but he still couldn’t remember those worlds after a long while.
It was because he always thought of his master while reading. The tears blurred his eyes, and he couldn’t wipe them dry no matter how hard he tried.
