Chapter 9: The Hongmen Banquet Part 1

Good Junior Sister, feed me another green grape.

Memory had gathered dust.

When she recalled those bows and swords, the shadows of clouds and the gleam of blades, You Fusang felt it was all a past life, with no connection to who she was now.

She was powerful enough now to need no weapon at all. Listening to the rain as her cup settled, she need only lift her eyes to make the raindrops halt, the clear water becoming the sharpest of short blades under the command of her Devil Qi; when an army stood at her gates, a flick of her fingers could claim ten thousand lives.

Blood-red light blazed through Pagoda City’s night.

She was no longer the wretched youth who had once needed others to shield her.

But her Little Peacock… was no longer the carefree, dazzling figure of before, either.

If she were given a bow, a sword — would she get better?

Stepping out of the Pagoda Palace, a fine drizzle brushed You Fusang’s face. She looked toward the training platform, where the shadow of a long sword burned brighter than daylight, so bright it seemed to scorch the spring.

The simplest high ponytail, the plainest practice clothes — yet set against Yan Rushi’s red-lipped, white-toothed face, everything came alive.

Bright, stunning, enough to make one forget the mundane world at a glance. Just like her swordplay.

The Verdant Mountains of the Yan Sect, the Startled Swan Sword Art — Yan Qingjue had evidently passed down every last hidden technique of the Yan Sect to her daughter.

To become the most celebrated prodigy of the righteous sects, one needed birth, talent, and bitter effort all at once, and Yan Rushi was plainly the finest of them: every strike came without warning, and every recovery was steady and graceful.

Her sword was light, but the sharpest. When she leapt, the sword tip flashed a spot of snow-white, killing intent hidden in an unseen wind.

She could kill without form.

Geng Ying retreated step by step. Catching sight of You Fusang on the high pavilion from the corner of her eye, she dodged Yan Rushi’s strike and shouted upward, “The Venerable Lord is watching me make a fool of myself!”

“It is a joke indeed,” You Fusang said. Devil Qi swirled; the figure on the pavilion vanished, and she stood before the training platform. “Pagoda City’s finest warrior, beaten soundly inside her own city by an outsider. It truly is a joke.”

Geng Ying panicked. “I — I was only sparing her, out of respect for Your Lordship’s old friendship with her! Look, I’m not even holding a weapon!”

You Fusang said only: “Shameful.”

Geng Ying was on the verge of tears. “I am NOT shameful!!! The Venerable Lord bullies me!!!” Then, afraid You Fusang was truly angry, she looked back at Yan Rushi. “Hey! Young Sect Master of the Yan Sect, let’s have a proper rematch. Once I actually release my Gu, you won’t get within arm’s reach of me. To be fair, switch to a bow.”

You Fusang stood on the platform, thinking Geng Ying really was a fool: with a long sword that agile, Young Sect Master Yan’s archery could hardly be poor. But the next instant, Geng Ying produced long needles and Gu insects. The sky over Pagoda City went black as if covered by storm clouds, plunging into darkness.

— Geng Ying was banking on Yan Rushi’s night blindness, planning to steal her sight with darkness and strike her off guard!

In a flash of lightning, countless Silver Needles came hurtling through the dark, sweeping in from every direction—

Yan Rushi raised her longbow. From below the platform, Qingluan murmured in astonishment, “Isn’t Young Sect Master Yan night-blind…”

But the long arrow split the air, precisely fishing Geng Ying’s enchanted weapon out from among the needles, cleanly piercing the mist barrier, then grazing Geng Ying’s temple by a hair’s breadth.

“I don’t wish to hurt you,” Yan Rushi said, closing her eyes. “Just as the Venerable Lord said, I am only an outsider.”

In moments the mist barrier dissolved. Geng Ying stared, looking shaken to her core.

The match was decided.

Qingluan said sincerely, “The jianghu says Young Sect Master Yan never misses, even blindfolded… the rumors were no lie.”

Yan Rushi put away her bow and said nothing.

You Fusang said to Geng Ying: “Utterly shameful.”

Geng Ying really did cry, loudly. Devil Cultivators like them favored crooked paths — hiding knives in smiles, killing by stealth and surprise — and this kind of open, honorable contest was pure torment. Geng Ying felt genuinely humiliated, yet also kept sneaking glances to see whether You Fusang was truly angry.

Did the Venerable Lord want her to win, or Young Sect Master Yan?

Geng Ying had meant to magnanimously throw the match — never imagining that she herself would be the one left helpless on the platform.

While fake-crying, Geng Ying narrowed her eyes to follow You Fusang’s gaze, and glimpsed it lingering on Yan Rushi’s longbow and long sword. Fine, fine, Geng Ying thought. Anything that makes the Venerable Lord happy is good enough.

Half a month later, the Qingming rain fell in drizzles.

Solitary Mountain and Pagoda City were separated by a hundred thousand miles: one a land of misty rain in Jiangnan, the other a city of Gu poison in the western regions. When the palanquin reached Solitary Mountain in Lin’an, it jolted. You Fusang opened her eyes to see Yan Rushi sitting rigidly straight beneath the curtain, anxiously twisting her sleeves, a fine sweat on her brow and dark shadows under her eyes.

You Fusang was a little surprised. The words “Are you really this nervous?” stuck in her throat — a familiar tone would be inappropriate, but a stiff one might only make her more nervous. Just five simple words, and somehow she could not ask them no matter how she turned them over.

By the time she came back to herself, Qingluan was steadying people at the front of the palanquin, and Yan Rushi had already walked out into the misty, flourishing streets.

This was not their first time in Lin’an City. A hundred years ago, the martial sisters had toured the water towns of Lin’an together — Jiangnan girls gathering lotuses and singing, listening to the rain on painted boats. A lovely place, though not so prosperous as now. Today, towering buildings rose from the ground, Vermilion Gates mirrored in willows, a riot of color.

Qingluan led the way. The disguised group arrived at a fabric shop. “Venerable Lord, your invitation is from one of Qingchuan’s wealthy merchant families,” Qingluan said. “He’s a merchant with hardly any spiritual aptitude. His only merit is money — lots of money, and lots of enchanted artifacts, more artifacts than he knows how to use… ahem. In any case, he usually dresses utterly gaudy. Venerable Lord, perhaps you should match—”

“Understood,” You Fusang said lazily. “Dress vulgar, a bit crass. A rough-and-ready rich merchant, after all.”

“An invitation?” Yan Rushi had assumed that someone as ostentatious as Pagoda City would attend under their own name, never expecting them to borrow another’s invitation. She asked, “Why use someone else’s?”

Geng Ying was aghast. “Are you mad? Would Solitary Mountain ever dare send an invitation to Pagoda City?”

Yan Rushi choked, then asked, “Then… where’s the invitation’s original owner? What’s their name? Why aren’t they coming?”

You Fusang said flatly, “Does it matter? They’re dead, either way.”

Yan Rushi froze.

“We’re Devil Cultivators, you know,” Geng Ying said then, with a sinister giggle. “What kind intentions are you holding toward Devil Cultivators for? Grinding the donkey after the milling’s done — things like that happen plenty.”

A sense of powerlessness settled over Yan Rushi’s heart. So the divide between righteous and evil truly was this difficult to bridge.

But it was Qingluan who explained in a low voice: “Don’t listen to her nonsense, Young Sect Master Yan. The merchant is perfectly fine. A life isn’t worth taking over an invitation.” Then she turned and added, “Though killing him would be the most convenient…”

Yan Rushi gave a weak little laugh.

Before long, You Fusang had picked out several garments and tossed one to Yan Rushi. “Change into this.”

Silks and pearls, the finest material.

Geng Ying grumbled, “Why does she get to look so gorgeous while I’m this plain? Venerable Lord, you really play favorites!”

“Because she’s the merchant’s favored attendant, who’ll be feeding me wine at the banquet.”

“Favored attendant? I want that too! I could lie in your arms and feed you wine too!”

You Fusang said with disdain, “No.”

“But I want to!”

“Don’t be annoying.”

After a few rounds of bickering — Yan Rushi, meanwhile, moved quickly — she vanished into the back room of the dye workshop and emerged having bound herself into all that silk, as if she had simply resigned herself to it. Leaning against You Fusang, she asked lightly, “Won’t the Venerable Lord change as well?”

Something in You Fusang’s heart itched. Her gaze swept over Yan Rushi’s hair, arranged like pure snow around a hibiscus blossom. “Does it still fit?”

“It fits. It suits me.” Yan Rushi smiled meekly, though her eyes were tired. “The banquet opens at the first quarter of the xu hour. Hurry and change, Venerable Lord.”

Lin’an was prosperous even at Qingming. Fish-and-dragon dances, paper lanterns carrying tender longing — like the Lantern Festival.

A hundred years ago, the first stop of Senior Sister Fusang and Young Sect Master Yan’s travels through Lin’an had also been a fabric dye shop much like this one — except that had been the true Lantern Festival.

The Yan Rushi of those days had been rambunctious, chattering nonstop. “An ounce of gold for an ounce of gauze — I’ll tailor new clothes for Senior Sister~” She’d waved a soft measuring tape about. “What does Senior Sister like? Watered silk? White satin? Fragrant-cloud gauze?”

You Fusang hadn’t heard of a single one. “Anything is fine… I’ve never studied it.”

Back then, one had been green and one lively — unlike now, gilt and jade on the outside, a chasm within, closest of kin and most distant of strangers.

Jiangnan was too early for spring. Flying snow vexed the apricot blossoms; though it was Qingming by the calendar, the endless drizzle showed no sign of spring. And especially at night — at the first quarter of the xu hour, when the night curtain hung low, spring scenery was nowhere to be seen.

The four of them entered the Sea-Viewing Pavilion on Solitary Mountain unchallenged. Only when You Fusang took her seat did Fang Miaocheng, standing at the highest point, glance over from afar.

That Fang Miaocheng, master of Solitary Mountain, would pay attention to a small merchant household was indeed strange. You Fusang met the gaze indifferently, but Yan Rushi turned aside to avoid it. “She… she’s suspicious?”

“Are you that afraid of her?”

Yan Rushi said nothing, only burrowed into her arms, and only after a long while muttered, “Afraid. Scared to death.”

This Fang Miaocheng had stripped her father’s bones and flayed his skin, severed her mother’s spiritual veins and little finger — and now was putting on this show of reconciling with the Yan Sect. Yan Rushi feared her, and hated her.

You Fusang knew nothing of those causes and effects; in her eyes Fang Miaocheng posed no great threat. People loved to say that this Fang beauty of Solitary Mountain was like a fox — the gentle charm of Jiangnan’s water towns and the crystalline ice of the northern lands, beautiful beyond measure. You Fusang thought she was indeed a fox, but not because of her beauty — rather because she truly resembled a Demon wearing a Painted Skin Ghost, one who had crawled on all fours so long she’d forgotten how to be a “person.”

You Fusang had speculated whether this master of Solitary Mountain was a Demon, a Devil Cultivator, or even someone’s puppet, but had never uncovered anything. Fang Miaocheng’s martial arts were mediocre, but her mind was sharp: she knew how to govern a great clan and sect, smooth and seamless in every direction. There was good reason she held her position.

You Fusang’s mind was wandering when weight settled across her legs — Yan Rushi had hooked her arm and sat herself down, head still lowered, not daring to look at Fang Miaocheng.