Chapter 9: The Hongmen Banquet Part 2

You Fusang’s face darkened. “Why are you sitting on my lap?”

Yan Rushi justified herself with utter confidence: “There’s only one seat.”

Then, as if the seat were uncomfortable, she even wriggled a bit. “Didn’t the Venerable Lord say the favored attendant feeds you wine at the banquet?”

That was just to fool Geng Ying…

You Fusang sat frozen, unwilling to lose the contest of presence, and even less willing to blush and show weakness.

She asked coldly, “A favored attendant feeds wine mouth to mouth. Can you manage that, Young Sect Master Yan?”

Yan Rushi visibly froze, her ears flushing red. “F-fine, if you won’t let me sit, you won’t!” she stammered, and sat back down on the cold hard boards. Now look what had happened: before, she’d merely not dared to look at Fang Miaocheng; now she didn’t dare look at You Fusang either, her eyes darting about with nowhere to rest.

Seeing her flustered, You Fusang felt as if she’d won a round — yet something felt off.

It took her a long moment of thought to see the problem.

A hundred years ago, in their days together, Yan Rushi would unconsciously act intimate with her; touching skin to skin had felt natural. But once one came back to their senses, everything became awkward between them.

Just like now: Yan Rushi was pressed close against her, cheek against her shoulder, intimately near — yet her heart was utterly elsewhere, her soul unmoored.

“Mother still hasn’t come…”

Yan Qingjue.

Right — they had come to this banquet of daggers today so that the Little Peacock might lay eyes on Yan Qingjue.

Yet two quarter-hours past the banquet’s start, there was no sign of Yan Qingjue — not even the Verdant Mountain Sword. Some at the banquet found it strange: a reconciliation feast with one of the principals missing. Their objections were all smoothly turned aside by Fang Miaocheng.

“What do we do?” Yan Rushi couldn’t sit still. “Surely nothing’s happened to Mother?”

“Rest assured.”

You Fusang’s words had no confidence behind them either; she simply couldn’t be bothered to care about Yan Qingjue. Being begged by the person you love to go check whether your enemy lives or dies — the feeling truly was dreadful.

At some point Yan Rushi had leaned close and settled in again, listlessly staring at the entryway screen, not even noticing the wine spilling from her cup.

Clear wine soaked her clothes. Yan Rushi apologized over and over, leaning in to wipe You Fusang’s robes — but You Fusang caught her hand. “Don’t turn around.”

“Wh-what is it?”

“Perhaps Fang Miaocheng really is suspicious. She’s watching you right now. Young Sect Master Yan eats too little and fidgets too much — hard not to notice,” You Fusang teased her deliberately. “Or shall we drop the act entirely, grab her by the collar, and just ask her where Yan Qingjue is?”

“No! Wouldn’t that expose everything?”

“—Expose what?” You Fusang’s voice suddenly turned very cold. “Expose Devil Cultivators infiltrating the feast? Or expose… the Young Sect Master of the righteous Yan Sect, sitting on a Devil Cultivator’s lap, conspiring with Devil Cultivators?”

Word by measured word, her breath tightening, You Fusang was very close. Beneath the Disguise Art, those ink-black eyes seemed about to flare into burnished gold again. Yan Rushi couldn’t understand why she was suddenly picking a fight; she had just opened her mouth to protest when she felt something slip against her fingertips.

You Fusang opened her mouth and stole the grape Yan Rushi was holding. “Just teasing. I only wanted the grape in your hand,” she said, chewing. “There. Fang Miaocheng’s not looking at you anymore.”

Yan Rushi was still stunned, but her heart was already replying in a rush: No, that’s not it. Senior Sister is nothing like the other Devil Cultivators. She and I are close — how could there be any ‘conspiring’ about it?

You Fusang said lazily, “Good Junior Sister, feed me another.”

“Is it really that good?”

You Fusang bit down on the green grape, gave a small smile, and didn’t answer directly. She wrapped her arms around Yan Rushi from behind. “As my favored attendant, half an hour into the banquet you’ve served me nothing — too unwilling to feed me wine, and even two grapes need me to beg for them… Young Sect Master Yan, I’m getting a terrible deal out of this rich-merchant act.”

Sitting between her legs, Yan Rushi peeled three grapes at lightning speed and stuffed them over all at once. “Please eat, Venerable Lord!”

A hundred years into Devilhood, You Fusang had long lost all craving for food and drink. But now with the delicate Little Peacock sitting on her lap, even the grapes Solitary Mountain had prepared — flavorless things — tasted fresh and sweet.

Only, that sweetness turned to ash the moment she saw who was finally entering the banquet, fashionably late.

She had Yan Rushi turn her head: “The one you’ve been waiting for has come. Rejoice — no puppet, but the genuine Yan Qingjue herself.”

Yan Rushi had paused at the sound, and when her eyes met Yan Qingjue’s, she was rooted to the spot, utterly frozen. That was Yan Qingjue — Yan Qingjue, Sect Master of the Yan Sect, famous throughout the land — now dressed plainly, walking behind an attendant, a long sword on her back, an imperceptible tremor in her step.

In that fleeting glance, Yan Qingjue did not recognize her daughter. The gaze that passed over her was cold and strange.

“Yan Qingjue’s legs are ruined,” You Fusang said, voice low. “Also — the Disguise Art on you and me was cast by Qingluan, and she can’t see through it. Which means… Sect Master Yan’s cultivation is now beneath even one of my civil officials.” She added cruelly, “Truly pitiable.”

Yan Rushi didn’t answer.

Yan Qingjue’s arrival set the banquet abuzz. The Yan Sect, the Profound Mirror, Solitary Mountain — this matter had drawn no end of talk and doubt. The guests chattered endlessly; having questioned Fang Miaocheng, they still had to question Yan Qingjue, and Yan Qingjue, sincere in every word, repeated only what Fang Miaocheng had said: the Yan Sect stole the Profound Mirror and got its deserved punishment.

The crowd fell speechless.

“It’s all lies! Fang Miaocheng is forcing Mother to say it!” The most frantic was Yan Rushi, incoherent, not daring to speak too loudly, so anxious she was nearly crying. “How could Mother possibly care about that — that broken mirror! She’d — she’d never become a thief — it’s utter nonsense!”

Even You Fusang, who despised Yan Qingjue, had to admit: Yan Qingjue was no thief. Yan Qingjue was a rigid woman who treated the world’s code of right and wrong as scripture. To speak of stealing another sect’s Supreme Treasure — even driven to a dead end, locked in a life-or-death struggle, she would never harbor one crooked thought.

And even if one arose, she would suppress it in her heart and keep her conduct upright.

She was someone who insisted that every action have a righteous justification. Even in the past, hating You Fusang to the bone, with a million chances to erase her quietly, she had not taken a single one — insisting instead on letting nature take its course, waiting until You Fusang was wholly corroded by Devil Qi before showing that knowing, cold smile of “I always knew,” and casting her out of the Yan Sect.

Even knowing the conclusion in advance, she would wait quietly for it to happen.

Such a rigidly principled Teacher-Mother, so inflexible it would make one laugh out loud—

What could she possibly have seen in the Profound Mirror, to commit such a foolish act as theft and destruction?

You Fusang was beginning to grow curious, too.

Could it be something she dreaded to look upon? But what could the great Yan Qingjue possibly fear? You Fusang couldn’t imagine it for now. Her gaze drifted across the noisy crowd — and the space in front of her suddenly emptied. Yan Rushi had slipped free, hurrying after the crowd, trying to get closer to her mother.

Fortunately, the Disguise Art protected her; she melted into the crowd, and no one recognized her.

You Fusang still watched her uneasily. Qingluan understood at once: “Have no worry, Venerable Lord. We will guard Young Sect Master Yan.”

The surroundings were noisy. Geng Ying chattered on too: “But what does the Venerable Lord think of this Profound Mirror business? Did Yan Qingjue steal it or not?” She glanced around, then marveled, “Venerable Lord, it’s people from Qianji Tower! Shameless dogs to the bone — Yan Qingjue shows her face once and they come sniffing over, fawning!”

According to rumor, before the Profound Mirror affair erupted, the Yan Sect had been in league with Qianji Tower, planning to move against Pagoda City — against You Fusang.

“Now Sect Master Yan has fallen, and the Tower Master of Qianji Tower has vanished who knows where,” Geng Ying giggled. “Hee hee — anyone who means ill toward the Venerable Lord ends up collected by Divine Mother Amu first!”

Divine Mother Amu was the deity of their Pagoda City, representing the ‘god’ and ‘dao’ of heaven and earth. Geng Ying loved to chant about her.

The mortal world and the cultivation world shared the Nine Provinces. In the latter’s immortal map, with the Yan Sect at the center: Solitary Mountain in the east, Pagoda City in the west, the Imperial Path Sect in the north, and Qianji Tower in the south. Beyond these, countless small sects and schools dotted the land. You Fusang had once done her studies in the Yan Sect’s Scripture Pavilion, and back then had loved reading those little jianghu booklets introducing the sects and the strange mountains and scenic retreats.

Glancing at those deep-purple robes of the Qianji Tower party, You Fusang felt nothing. She had just risen to head outside when, at a side path, several cultivators inexplicably blocked her way.

You Fusang: “Something you need?”

She hadn’t spoken with these righteous types in a long time, and her manner was naturally poor. But she’d forgotten that beneath the Disguise Art she wore the face of some Qingchuan merchant — and to any observer, this was a farce beyond all reason: a mortal merchant, a commoner who supposedly knelt to cultivators, daring to speak so curtly and rudely to cultivators.

Stranger still, the male cultivator leading them only froze for an instant before pasting on a smile: “How could that be? We merely saw your fine fortune and wished to make your acquaintance…”

“Not interested.”

The male cultivator: “…”

Having struck an iron wall, the man dropped the pretense entirely and burst out: “A mere commoner, a nobody — how dare you speak to this cultivator like that!?” With so many people around, he ground the words through his teeth, but the contempt was plain. “A merchant with money stinking up both hands! Buy a few too many enchanted artifacts and you think you can stand shoulder to shoulder with cultivators? Know your place! I only came to say a few words because you and your maid have passable looks — otherwise what standing do you have to claim kinship with cultivators…”

But several light laughs, accompanied by the tinkle of Silver Bells, cut him off: “A mere piece of righteous-path trash — how dare you speak to this Devil Cultivator granny like that?”

Before the clamoring high pavilion, Geng Ying leapt up with a sweet laugh, stroked her hand over the male cultivator’s head, and then—

Crack.

The head hit the ground.

Smiling, she retreated back to You Fusang’s side, leaving that head, eyes open in death, to roll a full turn across the night, dripping blood.

The bystanders hadn’t yet grasped what happened, taking it for a squabble between cultivators — but when they saw the fallen head, and looked properly at Geng Ying’s pupils glowing red, even a fool understood—

“A Devil Cultivator! It’s a Devil Cultivator!!”

Cultivators familiar with Pagoda City took one look at that ink-black hair and those crimson pupils, at the silver bells, and realized at once: Pagoda City’s bloodthirsty darling — Geng Ying!!!

The smell of blood spread. The crowd began screaming, late to realize. Geng Ying fully withdrew her Disguise Art, laid her hand above the male cultivator’s corpse, and in moments devoured his cultivation to nothing. She kicked the head twice, sending it flying like a cuju ball; wherever it went the crowd scattered in chaos. A few cultivators finally gathered to respond, had barely formed ranks — and in a flash of lightning, Geng Ying became a black Crow and dissolved into the moonlit mist.