Xu Weixiong was not only an intimidating presence to the exiled princess Jiang Ni of the Western Chu Kingdom, but even Hongshu—a gentle and unambitious senior maid—felt a sense of irritation when she heard that the Second Miss Xu Weixiong was returning to the mansion. She masked her feelings well, however. In terms of acting skills, she who painted her lips with fresh human blood seemed more masterful than the young prince, Xufeng Nian.
The young prince had inherited the supreme cultivation method of Huangting, granting him an acquired sensitivity toward the ebb and flow of both Buddhist and Daoist energies. He also possessed a mysterious awareness described by his youthful martial uncle as “not even a feather can settle upon him, nor a fly alight unnoticed.” Yet he still failed to realize that Hongshu was not merely a plump koi fish needing constant feeding. The inner palace of the mansion was vast and filled with all sorts of strange and arcane practices; even the prince, who had lived on Qingliang Mountain since childhood, could not claim to have seen everything. At least the Listening-the-Tide Pavilion’s ninth floor and its two underground levels remained elusive—even back then, he and his second sister had scoured every corner, tapping walls and breaking through floors without success. Lord Xu Xiao took pleasure in watching his children busy themselves inside the house, keeping them from causing trouble outside the gates. His second daughter Xu Weixiong excelled at open intrigue, while his eldest son Xufeng Nian was full of clever tricks. When those two conspired together, even the Great Column General would shudder involuntarily.
Xufeng Nian planned to dine with the little girl Dongxi and the young monk Nanbei. On his way there, he continuously drew circular patterns in the air with both hands. The servants and attendants found it amusing, though they couldn’t discern any martial techniques, yet they lavishly praised the prince’s unmatched kung fu abilities. If he encountered a servant girl above average beauty and graceful figure, he would pinch or grope her playfully. Hongshu followed behind, unfazed. A mere maid showing jealousy would risk being beaten to death if caught by a temperamental mistress in a noble household.
Hongshu wasn’t foolish enough to grow conceited over favor, nor did she dare or wish to. To speak words too cruel to voice aloud, the seemingly affectionate young lord was truly emotionless. And this truth, not even Lvyi and others close handmaidens within the Paulownia Courtyard might have realized.
This didn’t mean Hongshu didn’t genuinely adore the young prince. Quite the opposite—it was precisely because he was such a master that Hongshu, proud and confident just like Qingniao, chose to give her heart and soul to him.
Unaware of Hongshu’s complicated thoughts, Xufeng Nian chuckled softly: “These one hundred and eight unnamed moves were something the cowherd must’ve fished out from some hidden corner. It becomes more intriguing the more you practice—requiring grounded waist movements, steps tracing the Nine Palaces, forms embodying yin and yang, with gestures and energy flows entirely natural. Each circular movement is meticulously designed, forming endless loops and cycles, evoking boundless changes, perfectly suited for cultivating internal strength. Unfortunately, these techniques don’t translate well into battlefield combat. Hongshu, if you like, I’ll teach you.”
Hongshu quickened her pace, her impressive bosom brushing against the young prince’s arm—she ranked first among the Paulownia Courtyard beauties—and gazed lovingly into his eyes, which shimmered like autumn mists: “Then my lord must teach me hand-in-hand.”
Without turning his head, Xufeng Nian slyly nudged a soft white dove beneath her clothes with his elbow. Her chest quivered slightly, sending ripples of charm cascading outward. Feeling the sensual reaction, the young prince teased, “I could certainly draw a hundred and eight circles on you.”
Naturally seductive, Hongshu replied with a tone tinged with longing: “But my lord only ever speaks sweetly.”
Xufeng Nian made no denial, instead asking casually, “What do you think Rantuo Mountain really wants?”
Hongshu pondered briefly before whispering, “It seems to me that dual cultivation is only pretense; their true aim is to pit the White and Yellow Sects against our Beiliang Iron Cavalry.”
Xufeng Nian nodded with a smile: “You’ve hit the nail on the head. The capital has long been wary of the unruly Tibetan sects in the west, but couldn’t find a proper reason to strike. If Red Sect monks served as insiders, there’s no doubt our Beiliang cavalry may once again be used as pawns. As for the so-called mutual cultivation path to enlightenment, I checked secret records—this gossip only surfaced recently and cannot be trusted. Especially after I came of age, rumors intensified, clearly indicating I am considered quite a prize, even attracting the desire of the female lama from the Tibetan sect. As for the emperor in the capital, the ruler who holds the largest chessboard under heaven, of the sixty-seven temple names and posthumous titles, he admires only two characters: ‘Gao’ (Exalted), meaning one whose virtue covers heaven and earth; and ‘Wu’ (Martial), referring to one who expanded the empire’s borders most gloriously. He dreams of being remembered forevermore as Emperor Gao Wu, imagining it so fervently he’s nearly gone mad.”
Hongshu paled slightly: “My lord, please lower your voice.”
Xufeng Nian laughed: “No worries—I dare say it, but aside from you, no one else dares to listen. Let’s change the subject. Hongshu, how’s the little girl coming along with eyebrow painting?”
Hongshu visibly relaxed: “So far I’ve taught her the small hill eyebrows and Luo Zi Dai (luó zǐ dài) style. She learns quickly.”
Xufeng Nian laughed heartily: “If she wants to learn, she picks things up fast. Old Huang taught her how to roast fish, meat, and sweet potatoes, and she learned even faster than me. But if she doesn’t want to learn—like weaving straw sandals or sitting quietly fishing—she won’t get it even after a hundred years.”
Hongshu looked at the unusually cheerful expression on the young prince’s face, entranced. Even living together day and night, she rarely saw this side of him.
Originally named Hongshe, she bit her thin lips slightly and smiled gently—an innately enchanting beauty.
General Xu Xiao once joked that this girl could enter the palace as a concubine and still dominate the competition.
After scraping off half a catty of powder, the little girl applied a subtle makeup using what Hongshu taught her. Compared to her usual barefaced appearance, she indeed looked much prettier. Yet in Xufeng Nian’s eyes, the old natural look was more endearing.
Meanwhile, the young monk kept glancing sideways while reciting sutras, smiling foolishly.
Xufeng Nian felt worried about the temple’s incense offerings.
Hongshu lacked the rank to dine at the table. Nor was Xufeng Nian the kind of master who defied convention just to pamper his maids. While enjoying simple yet delicious vegetarian dishes with the little girl and the monk, he asked: “Miss Li, when are you going home? New Year is approaching.”
The girl widened her eyes, hurt: “Xufeng Nian, are you trying to drive me away?!”
He chuckled awkwardly: “Where would I dare? I just thought your parents might worry.”
She retorted defiantly: “When we met, you said you’d rather starve than return home!”
Xufeng Nian laughed: “Just venting.”
The monk, who had been eating silently, raised his head and interjected: “Dongxi, we really should go back to the temple.”
The girl snapped: “Shut up.”
That phrase was copied directly from the prince.
The young monk hastily shoveled two big spoonfuls into his mouth, cheeks puffing out.
Blushing, the girl said: “Xufeng Nian, this afternoon, Hongshu taught me eyebrow drawing. It sounded more expensive than the tribute-grade green lipstick.”
Xufeng Nian feigned seriousness, suppressing a smile: “Fine. Indeed, the martial world has never heard of a heroine who defaults on debts.”
She loved hearing such flattery: “Exactly!”
The candid young monk leaned toward his lifelong crush with his bald head and worriedly added: “Dongxi, I seem to remember Teacher’s wife saying the Luo Dai (luó dài) pigment on your face costs a fortune. A poet even wrote, ‘Hundreds of gold coins exchanged for half an ounce of E’Lü (é lǜ).’ If you really pay back, Master’s begging bowl will surely be empty.”
The girl gasped in shock, instantly looking gloomy. Her appetite vanished.
Xufeng Nian watched quietly, offering no comfort.
Being of a temperament that turned rainy clouds into sunshine in moments, after dinner, the financial worries were already forgotten. She tugged Hongshu to continue learning makeup artistry indoors. At home, her parents were stingy, unwilling to buy her cosmetics. Big Stupid Nanbei (Big Benanbei) was willing, but broke—he’d even vowed that once enlightened and attained Buddhahood, producing relics would allow her to trade for endless cosmetics, earning himself a thorough beating instead. Unfamiliar with feminine sensibilities, Xufeng Nian refrained from entering the room. He saw the young monk removing his robe, fetching a bucket and board to wash it in the courtyard—a routine he must’ve perfected back at the temple. Watching the green robe adorned with a smooth ivory hook, Xufeng Nian smiled silently.
The young monk nervously said: “Your Highness, you can’t take my robe as payment for Dongxi’s cosmetics. Master would kill me.”
Xufeng Nian laughed: “Don’t worry, I don’t want your robe. It suits you well.”
Still cautious, the monk continued scrubbing.
Xufeng Nian asked: “I recall Fangzhang was originally a Daoist term—‘a square inch of human heart’ and ‘the abbot’s chamber.’ It was once the title of leadership in Daoist monasteries. How did it become associated with your Buddhist tradition?”
Busy washing the robe, the monk—who adhered stubbornly to logic—took Xufeng Nian’s question literally and earnestly answered: “Regarding the origin of ‘fangzhang,’ the Buddhist scripture *Vimalakirti Sutra* predates the Daoist text *Benming Pian* by a century. Besides, Master told me our temple’s great abbot lives in a tiny room measuring only one zhang square, yet contains ten thousand small worlds and lion forests. Listen to that! It surpasses Daoism’s notions of hearts and heavens easily. My master has never lost a debate—except, perhaps, to Mistress.”
Xufeng Nian fell silent: “Indeed, your Buddhist tradition is mighty; your master even mightier.”
As he saw Qingniao standing at the courtyard gate, Xufeng Nian rose and walked over.
Qingniao reported grimly: “News says the Second Princess has broken from the main group, riding alone. Two gangs of martial artists are stirring, preparing to leave the city.”
Xufeng Nian removed a jade pendant from his waist and tossed it to her, squinting: “Are they in such a rush to reincarnate? Take two hundred riders from Feng Zi Camp, don’t forget the crossbows. Kill them all.”
Qingniao turned and left.
Xufeng Nian stood at the doorway.
Outside lay ambushes and danger; inside reigned peace and harmony.
The young monk finished hanging the washed robe and glanced inside: “Another fine day. Lizi, Master says I lack insight; you call me stupid. Of the two meditations in our temple, I pursue neither. You are my meditation, your beauty worthy of contemplation.”
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