In the sixteenth year of the Lingwei era, during the sweltering heat of late June, three strange occurrences struck the territory of Huozhou in quick succession.
First, a wildfire broke out in Heimu County. It was said to have burned for three days and nights, the thick smoke blotting out the sun as if the world were ending. Such an anomaly had never happened before; June and July were typically the months of most abundant rainfall, where the wood was damp, the mountains slick, and the springs ran deep. While landslides were common, a wildfire was unheard of.
Some were certain it was celestial fire descending to the mortal realm. When the heavens showed such rare portents, a great calamity was sure to follow. But what was this calamity? Where would it strike? When would it befall them? Opinions were divided, and no conclusion could be reached.
However, the "Wildfire Calamity" theory had only been circulating for a few days before the "Water Bandit Menace" began to spread everywhere. It was said that the Shen family's vessels on the Hun River were acting with unbridled arrogance, harassing fishing boats and ferries alike, though no one knew what cargo they were plundering or whom they were seeking.
For nearly a century, the Shen family had been a local dragon coiled within Huozhou. Previously, they had mastered the art of keeping their scales tucked and their wings folded, content to dominate their corner of the world. Though they secretly controlled the waterways and owned more than half the shops in every city, they had never committed any overt transgressions that would give the imperial court leverage against them. For some reason, in these past few days, they had suddenly turned frantic.
On the third day since the Dafeng Ferry had ceased operations, Mu Erhe—who had been watching the excitement from across the river—never expected the chaos to find its way into his own city. Ever since the entire Zou household had vanished overnight six months ago, the manor they had occupied for decades had become a highly sought-after piece of real estate. Everyone knew it was a rare ancient residence; any single rockery or landscaping feature within was enough to keep a craftsman from Minzhou occupied for months, to say nothing of the countless treasures that might be hidden beneath its carved eaves and painted rafters.
The city's property brokers had joined forces, first inviting wave after wave of masters and high monks to perform rituals to dispel the suspicions surrounding the Zou family's abrupt departure. Then, they bribed the storytellers in every tavern and teahouse to describe the Zou Manor as a divine place that belonged in the heavens, claiming even the swallows under the eaves laid golden eggs.
At the height of the bidding, a buyer had to pay dozens of taels in "inspection fees" just to take a single lap through the side gate. But no one expected that the inspections would suddenly go awry. Because there were too many people wanting to see the house, the daytime slots were full, pushing the viewings into the night. As it turned out, a night tour was all it took to encounter a ghost.
It was first seen by the nephew of Old Yuan from Hengfu Hall. He claimed the ghost haunted the area near the kitchens in the back courtyard—a tall figure, swift as a shadow, who could swallow five or six sweet potatoes in a single breath when it opened its bloody maw. Those who heard this were skeptical; weren't ghosts supposed to be soul-reaping spirits? Why was this one so uncouth as to be munching on tubers? But soon after, Scarface Wang from the southern gambling den also claimed to have seen the ghost. Furthermore, he asserted that after his cries for help went unanswered, he was struck down by a mysterious force and woke up outside the manor walls.
In a small temple, the winds of mischief blow hard; in shallow waters, many a scoundrel surfaces.
The tiny border city of Mu Erhe had not seen such excitement in a long time. What began as a mere ghost story soon became intertwined with the recent "natural and man-made disasters." As the rumors spread, the tale transformed into a vengeful spirit appearing to reveal the secrets of heaven. "Hidden masters" emerged everywhere to offer their interpretations, each refusing to yield to the other. As for what secret was actually revealed, or how it connected the wildfire to the Shen family, no one could say for sure. The original account of the "gluttonous ghost eating sweet potatoes" had long since been forgotten.
While everyone in the southern city delighted in discussing the matter as a way to pass the summer heat, the old district north of the stone bridge remained quiet. For those struggling to make a living in the red dust of the mundane world, a life of working from dawn to dusk was enough to grind away any excessive curiosity. They cared far more about the price of rice tomorrow than what was happening inside the Zou Manor.
Of course, while few talked about it, it wasn't that no one spoke of it at all.
"I heard the officials went over this morning and put seals on the main gate. It's a pity for all those paintings and curios; I wonder if they were looted clean long ago, or if that old thief Zou burned them all himself."
An old scholar shook his head, his white beard brushing against the grimy tabletop before he carefully lifted it and tucked it into his faded collar.
Another tea-drinker in a green robe leaned in closer. "Even so, the rockeries, pavilions, and water features in that courtyard couldn't have been entirely destroyed. In my view, the fact that no one dares to ask the price now might not be a bad thing."
As soon as he spoke, several other destitute scholars who had been listening with craned necks nodded in agreement.
"Exactly! Back then, Zou Sifang tore down so many pavilions just to build four gaudy gardens for his concubines. He even cut down several century-old flowering pears just because they had white blossoms, claiming they looked unlucky."
A chorus of sighs and lamentations rose as they all called for another round of tea.
The belly of the teapot was soon emptied. The white-bearded scholar was about to get up to fetch the copper kettle resting in the corner when a hand suddenly reached out from the side and slammed the kettle back onto the charcoal fire with a *thwack*.
"It's been nearly four hours. Are you gentlemen refilling or not? If not, there's a pavilion if you turn left at the door. You can stay there as long as you like."
The speaker was a middle-aged man with a thick beard that met his sideburns. His belt was a length of coarse hemp rope, and his hair was pinned with half a broken tea ladle. When he spoke, a gust of wine-scented breath hit the scholars, making them recoil.
The green-robed scholar covered his face with a cloth, his brow furrowed. "We haven't finished the tea yet. Why should we refill?"
"Three copper coins a pot. How many pots have you lot drunk already?"
Men of letters hated nothing more than having their poverty used to humiliate them. In the past, they might have let it slide elsewhere, but today it felt especially insulting to be shamed on their "own turf."
The faces of the other scholars in plain clothes turned red and white in an instant. They rolled up their sleeves, revealing thin, bony arms, and began to argue with hands on their hips.
"We agreed on three coins for a pot of tea! The tea isn't finished, so why are you driving us away?"
"Exactly! Besides, we are regulars here. We've been drinking tea here for at least three or five years. When have we ever encountered an unreasonable, foul-mouthed shopkeeper like you?"
The drunken man gave three cold laughs, followed by a wine-induced hiccup.
"Regulars? Only those who pay are guests. Your backsides are sitting on my shop's chairs, and the water in that pot was boiled by my shop's fire. Have you given me a single copper?"
The bearded man pushed aside his waiter's apron, revealing a bamboo tube at his waist. The tube was yellowed with age and polished by use; a bean-eyed old turtle was carved near the opening, and a red string—now turned blackish—was tied to the bottom.
"It was one thing when I, the owner, wasn't here and no one was looking after the place. But now that I'm back, it's fine if you bring your own tea leaves, but you at least have to pay for the charcoal used to boil the water, don't you?"
The scholars had stood up ready for a battle of wits, but knowing they had indeed taken advantage of the situation, their momentum instantly withered. They all sank back into their seats.
The atmosphere was awkward until a voice suddenly rang out.
"Is it just charcoal money? Is this enough?"
*Clack.* A bead rolled onto the battered wooden table.
It was truly no ordinary bead. It was perfectly round without a single flaw, its luster shimmering intermittently with dreamlike patterns. This was likely not something produced in an ordinary river; it was more like a treasure fished from the Southern Seas. Though no one there had actually seen a Southern Sea pearl, they knew that not a single jewelry shop in all of Huozhou could produce a second bead like it.
Truly beautiful things have a way of instantly unifying everyone's aesthetic sense. Now, the circle of people around the table, including the bearded man, had their eyes glued to the bead, unable to look away.
The hand that had placed the bead pressed down on the tabletop, and the bead rolled toward one end. Everyone's eyes followed it.
The bearded man tracked the bead until a hand with calluses on the thumb and forefinger flipped over to trap it. The owner of the hand was a woman with her long hair tied high.
Xiao Nanhui raised an eyebrow as she looked at the man before her. She had met many people reeking of alcohol, but why was the scent of wine so strong even in a tea room?
"It's just a pot of tea; there's no need to lose our tempers. However, I hadn't heard that Lengzhai had an owner. Gentlemen, wouldn't you agree?"
The scholars instinctively felt they had found a backer, and their deflated spirits surged once more. Their voices rose in a wave of agreement.
"Yes, exactly! Don't go bullying us men of learning..."
"We've been here for years. Who knows what weed patch you crawled out of?"
"He probably came from the same place as those thugs in the West Market a few days ago. He thinks just because his voice is loud, he's the boss..."
A loud *clatter* interrupted the scholars' indignant words.
The bearded man unfastened the object from his waist and stood it on the table, snorting with disdain. "What is this?"
The scholars looked at each other and then stared at the dull, dark bamboo tube.
Xiao Nanhui also observed it quietly.
One of the old scholars cleared his throat and ventured boldly, "This... isn't this just a bamboo tube for steaming rice? Do you think we're so ignorant we wouldn't recognize that?"
"You only know this place is a teahouse, but you don't even know what this tube is for, let alone why this place is called Lengzhai." The bearded man made no effort to hide the contempt in his eyes. As he spoke, his drunken haze seemed to lessen, replaced by a touch of arrogance. "Lengzhai has a shop in the front and quarters in the back. The reason it became the most famous teahouse in Huozhou was thanks to a cold spring in the rear quarters. That spring is quite strange; it formed within the rock, and though the opening is no wider than a bowl, it is bottomless. Thus, the first master of the studio crafted this tube as a tool to draw the spring water, passing it down through the generations to this day. If anyone disbelieves me, go to the back courtyard and see for yourselves."
At these words, the entire teahouse fell silent.
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Unarmored | Chapter 160 | The Master of Lengzhai | Novela.app | Novela.app
