Chapter 22

Chapter 22: Teacher Tian

“I have a little Moto, and I never ride it…”

Shen Tang sat on Moto and refused to behave. She sang off-key, then plucked a leaf and flicked it like a dart, then sang again. The little bell on Moto’s harness jingled along in helpless accompaniment.

“One day on a whim, I rode it to the market…”

Qi Shan finally stopped, rubbed his brow, and looked at her like she’d committed a crime. “Young Master Shen. The ‘music’ in the gentleman’s Six Arts—who taught you?”

“Is it really that bad?” Shen Tang asked, utterly sincere.

Somewhere in her foggy memories, she’d been a microphone tyrant. The kind who could wipe out a whole room with a song.

She could sing. She could draw. A high-quality woman, through and through.

Her face was open and confident, like the problem was Qi Shan’s taste.

Qi Shan could only sigh. “There’s a word-spirit line that fits perfectly: ‘Are there no mountain songs and village flutes?’”

Shen Tang blinked. “What does that mean?”

Qi Shan’s lips twitched. “It means: ‘Harsh and jarring—hard to listen to.’”

Shen Tang’s smile vanished. Her fist tightened.

“Yuan Liang,” she said sweetly, “you’ve made it this far in life purely on luck, haven’t you?”

“Skill,” Qi Shan replied, unbothered.

Shen Tang’s face twisted in pure offense.

Qi Shan laughed out loud. “Don’t panic, Young Master Shen. You’re still young. If you learn slowly, there’s hope.”

About an hour later, Qi Shan glanced at the sun. It was the most brutal part of the day. Even standing still made sweat leak through your clothes.

“Should we move faster?” he asked.

“If we get too close, they’ll spot us,” Shen Tang said.

Qi Shan’s eyes narrowed toward the road. “With how lazy those soldiers are, do you think they’ll keep marching under this sun? They’ll find shade, rest, drink tea to cool off.”

He looked back at her. “Young Master Shen put enough into that tea. If we arrive late, we might miss the show.”

Shen Tang flicked her whip. “Fair point. I’ll go ahead, then. If you won’t ride the mule, keep walking on your own two legs.”

Moto squealed and bolted.

In moments she was only a dot in the distance.

Qi Shan just smiled, as if she hadn’t challenged him at all. Then he recited, “Wind-Chasing Shadow-Treading.”

His body swayed—and the next instant he was moving like a ghost on the wind. Each step carried him several zhang, leaving only a blur behind. His posture stayed easy, his expression calm, like he was out for a stroll.

Shen Tang gaped. “What the—?”

Qi Shan swept past her, a brief breeze in her face. By the time she blinked, he was already dozens of zhang ahead.

Shen Tang very nearly screamed at the sky. This was cheating. This was absolutely cheating.

In the end, she had to accept it: four legs didn’t matter if the other man was using word-spirit.

Under the blazing sun, the soldiers escorting the prison carts finally couldn’t take it. They shoved into a small grove with thick canopy and collapsed into the shade.

They gathered in groups, panting and wiping sweat. The prison carts, meanwhile, were left sitting out in the open, baking in the light.

The prisoners inside were in terrible shape. Some were already heatstruck—faces pale and bluish, bodies limp. Others were covered in whip marks, the wounds swollen and angry.

The vice censor was the worst of them.

Exhaustion, hunger, thirst—his throat felt like it was burning from the inside out. He could barely breathe. He could feel his life draining away.

The escort had been designed for cruelty. The carts were custom-built to the prisoners’ heights.

If you were too tall, you had to stand on your toes just to ease the strain on your neck and wrists.

If you were too short, you couldn’t stand upright or sit—you stayed half-squatting, trembling, unable to rest.

Days of that, and even without the whip, you’d lose half your life.

The vice censor’s cart was the tall kind. He rose onto his toes for one precious breath… then his heels dropped again, dragging the cuffs tighter.

Pain, thirst, hunger, fatigue—stacked together until his mind began to break. His cracked lips moved.

“Water… water…”

Just as he started to black out, someone kicked his cart. The jolt snapped his eyes open.

“Father—wake up!”

The vice censor dragged a thread of clarity back into himself. He turned toward the neighboring cart, where his son—his cart was shorter, with a bit of room to stretch—stared at him with wide eyes.

“Father,” his son whispered urgently, “look at them.”

Them?

The vice censor’s thoughts lagged.

He followed his son’s gaze—and saw the soldiers dropping one after another.

One clutched his head and rolled on the ground. Another convulsed, limbs jerking. Someone wheezed, gasping like he couldn’t pull air. One rolled his eyes and foamed at the mouth. Another clenched his teeth so hard his face spasmed. A few weren’t as severe, but they were on their knees clutching their bellies, retching. Some lost control of themselves, making obscene fools of their bodies.

The vice censor understood in an instant.

First thought: Poison.

Second thought: Someone is rescuing the prisoners.

Hope hit him like a punch. A fierce will to live surged up, forcing him to lift his head, to breathe, to endure.

The soldiers panicked.

“The water’s poisoned!”

“Poison—poisoned!”

“Form up! Stay alert! Enemy attack!”

Most of them had already drunk. Only a dozen or so, who hadn’t, managed to escape.

They drew blades and surrounded the prison carts, trembling, eyes darting like startled birds.

A few breaths passed.

The grove stayed still.

Then—

Ding-ling.

A sound. A warning. Every soldier felt it in his bones.

They stiffened.

But it was strange. They heard the bell and saw no one.

“Where is he?”

“Where—?”

A voice came from behind them, bright with mockery. “Filial sons, are you looking for me?”

They spun around.

The prison carts were empty.

In their place stood a single sword-bearing youth, face still boyish, frame slender, blade held loose at his side.

He swept the sword once.

A cold flash crossed their eyes.

Pain exploded—then warmth.

Blood ran down and turned their world red.

“Cleave the wanderer!”

Shen Tang’s expression was cold as frost as she leapt down, the Merciful Mother Sword in hand.

The prisoners’ feet suddenly hit open air; they tumbled hard onto the ground as their carts vanished—already flung dozens of zhang away.

The vice censor’s pupils shrank.

“Long time no see, Teacher Tian.”

He turned toward the voice—and saw a tall young man standing not far away, hands tucked into his sleeves. A breeze stirred his hair, giving him a soft, almost elegant air.

He smiled and nodded.

The smile was perfect. And utterly fake.

Teacher Tian?

The vice censor froze.

Qi Shan spoke again, mild as if they were meeting over tea. “A noble forgets easily, Teacher Tian.”

The vice censor’s son supported his father, wary. “Young lord… you know my father?”

And he called him “Teacher Tian.”

The vice censor was just as confused.

With his experience, he could tell what had happened. The rescue wasn’t brute force. It was word-spirit: “Stars strewn like a chessboard” to shape a battlefield, then “graft and swap”—or something similar—to switch the prisoners out.

Said aloud, it sounded simple.

But the distance involved meant “Stars strewn like a chessboard” had covered at least a hundred zhang in every direction. A scholar who could do that alone, without serving any feudal lord, wasn’t some nameless nobody.

If he’d met such a person, he would remember.

Yet he didn’t.

So who was this young man, really?