Chapter Sixty-Five: The Imperial Envoy Arrives (1)

Yang Qi’s departure went unnoticed by Kong Sheng. Immersed in calming his inner breath, Kong Sheng entered a tranquil state of unity between heaven and man. The technique imparted to him by Sima Chengzhen was an orthodox, supreme method of Shangqing Daoism. Through persistent practice, it not only promised health and longevity, but also greatly enhanced Kong Sheng’s ability to wield his innate brute strength. At the advanced stage, breathing could cut like a sword, plucking flowers or leaves could kill within ten steps, dividing swords at a hundred paces—all feats accomplished effortlessly.

Naturally, Kong Sheng, grounded in modern scientific skepticism, still harbored doubts. Yet, judging from his own experience cultivating internal energy, he sensed the accumulation of potent, explosive reserves within his body—a hidden treasury to be drawn upon in moments of mortal peril. At such times, this would surely be his lifeline.

Moreover, after sustained practice, he felt a marked increase in his strength and a more assured mastery over his physical power.

For Kong Sheng, these were his true assets for survival and self-preservation in a chaotic world—far more reliable than poetry or reputation.

He wondered if his heartfelt words would truly influence Yang Qi; but it was clear Yang Qi was no fool. In fact, his shrewdness, intellect, and political acumen were rare among high officials of the Tang. He would weigh the situation and act with deliberation, not rashly.

If so, Kong Sheng believed Yang Qi had already missed the best opportunity to seize power in Jiangnan amid the disorder. Once the Tang court subdued the An Lushan rebellion, no matter how bold Yang Qi was, he would not dare act.

Even now, any sign of unrest in Jiangnan would alarm the court; forces from Shannan and Jiannan would converge, and Jiangnan would fall without a fight. With Yang Qi’s troops, untested by true battle, they could hardly withstand the imperial army’s suppression.

Yang Qi returned to the Yang residence and shut himself in his study, drinking heavily. He was forced to admit that Kong Sheng’s analysis of the political landscape was incisive—unless the rebels utterly destroyed the Tang court and the land was fragmented, Jiangnan would have no chance for autonomous rule; otherwise, any attempt was suicidal.

Realizing this, Yang Qi’s mood was turbulent: anxious, disappointed, and restless.

Thus, when he emerged from his study the next morning, stepping into view of Yang Kuan and the servants, he had grown white-haired overnight—his once dark hair now streaked with gray, his expression drawn and haggard.

Yang Kuan was startled, unable to suppress a gasp.

The other servants exchanged bewildered glances, then quickly looked away, muttering inwardly about what could have brought their master to this state.

“Master!”

Yang Qi, unmoved, waved his hand, wrapped his cloak tightly, and strode forward, leaving behind an order: “Yang Kuan, ready the carriage and horses. Notify all local officials to accompany me out of the city to welcome the imperial envoy. Also, release Kong Sheng, send men to repair and clean the Kong ancestral home, and return it to him.”

Yang Kuan was momentarily stunned, but quickly replied in a low voice.

A short time later, the servants of the Yang household arrived en masse at the Kong ancestral home, bustling with activity—a spectacle that caught the attention of the city folk. Meanwhile, the prison door at the administrative office swung open, and Kong Sheng stepped out, refreshed and calm. Standing at the threshold, he gazed up at the vast azure sky; a cold wind swept past, sending a chill through his collar. He shivered, instinctively tightening his somewhat thin clothes.

He glanced toward the abandoned City God temple nearby, where atop the ruined eaves, Mu Changfeng stood as ever, clad in flowing white robes, sword slung at his waist, swaying in the wind, gazing down at him.

Kong Sheng mused that this fellow must be a master of theatrical entrances; every appearance was shrouded in mystery, his attire perfectly calculated for effect. It was early winter—though Jiangnan’s chill was not as biting as the north, the depths of winter were still cold. Wearing such eye-catching white robes inevitably drew attention wherever he went.

In truth, Kong Sheng misjudged Mu Changfeng. As a wandering swordsman, Mu lived by his own rules, disdaining convention; his habits were eccentric and free-spirited. To constrain him would be worse than death. His preference for white attire was unwavering, worn all year round, earning him the nickname “White-Robed Swordsman” in the martial world.

Kong Sheng waved, smiling, then turned away. Mu Changfeng noticed Kong Sheng was heading not to the Shunsheng Inn but to the Kong ancestral home, and was somewhat surprised.

Inside the Yang residence, Hongmian and Tian'er dashed into Yang Xueruo’s quarters, calling out loudly, “Miss, Miss!”

Yang Xueruo appeared at the hall door, wrapped in a thick cloak, her brows furrowed. “What are you two so flustered about?”

“Miss, something’s happened,” Hongmian gasped.

Yang Xueruo was startled, “What happened?”

“Miss, the master has sent servants to repair the Kong ancestral home, to return it to Kong Sheng. And Kong Sheng has been released! The master is now leading people out of the city to welcome some imperial envoy.”

Yang Xueruo was overjoyed. “Really? This is wonderful news. Hongmian, Tian'er, tidy up—we’re going to the Kong ancestral home to see Kong Lang!”

...

Outside the city, by the river.

Under the arrangements of the administrative office, a brightly colored canopy, over ten meters long and four or five meters wide, was erected on the wharf square. Inside stood an incense table, flanked by several grand chairs. Yang Qi, leading the local officials, gathered there, expressions varied, waiting.

The sun shone brightly, the cold wind wove through the air.

From the canopy to the bridge at the wharf, the official road—over a hundred meters—had been sprinkled clean and laid with a fresh red carpet. Armed soldiers stood in two rows along the sides, solemn and motionless as mountains, lending an air of authority.

On the river nearby, the waters were calm. With clear weather, visibility was high. In the distance, a carved, painted boat approached from the far bank, a flag flying high. The citizens of Jiangning, gathered at the riverside, could clearly see the flag on the boat.

A soldier entered the canopy, knelt before Yang Qi, and reported, “Master, the envoy’s boat is near, a hundred yards from the wharf!”

Yang Qi, who had been resting with his eyes closed, suddenly opened them, sharp light flashing. He stood swiftly and gestured: “Come, let us go to the wharf to welcome the imperial envoy!”

Dozens of officials followed Yang Qi to the wharf.

Most had no idea who this distinguished imperial envoy from Lingwu might be. Even Yang Qi had only heard that he was a favored eunuch supervisor named Li Fuguo; as for who Li Fuguo truly was, Yang Qi did not know.

Yang Qi had long received reports; this envoy and his retinue, numbering dozens, had traveled from Shannan, passing through Jiangling, Yuezhou, and Jiangzhou, with local officials everywhere extending elaborate welcomes and making a show of respect.