Not long after the messenger went inside, the mountain gate of Baiyun Temple swung wide open.
Pei Cijing stood at the foot of the stone steps, squinting slightly as he watched the heavy wooden door creak open, pushing slowly to both sides. Beyond it stretched a long bluestone path, flanked by towering ancient trees whose dense branches and leaves filtered the afternoon sunlight into scattered fragments of dappled light.
At the end of the path, a figure was striding out quickly, followed by a crowd of people.
Leading the way was an elderly Daoist priest—robed in a blue Daoist garment, draped in a crane-feather cloak, wearing a hunyuan headpiece, and holding a horsetail whisk. His steps were brisk in a way that belied his age.
Behind him followed a dozen or so disciples and acolytes, young and old, all dressed in neat Daoist robes. They filed out along the bluestone path in an orderly fashion and lined up in two rows before the mountain gate, their movements perfectly synchronized—clearly not their first time doing this.
Pei Cijing watched the spectacle and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly upward.
The name of the Sixth Prince.
Effective indeed.
Though the prince himself hadn't come, only a messenger party, Baiyun Temple didn't dare take it lightly.
As the only surviving legitimate son of the old emperor, his standing after the Crown Prince's death needed no elaboration.
If the Abbot of Baiyun Temple had been tactless enough to hold himself aloof and refuse to come out and greet them, then the rest would have been easy—if you dare to slight the Sixth Prince's people, what more needs to be said?
He could have used that as grounds to take the entire party of Baiyun Temple into custody on the spot.
With them in his hands,
whether for investigation or interrogation, things would have been far more straightforward, without having to worry about so many complications or go through so many roundabout channels.
But clearly, this abbot was no fool.
Not only was he not foolish—
he was exceedingly shrewd.
Pei Cijing's gaze settled on that blue-robed figure, watching as he drew nearer and nearer, growing clearer with each step.
The Abbot of Baiyun Temple came to a stop before Pei Cijing.
Both hands tucked into his sleeves.
He offered a proper, formal bow.
His posture was humble, his voice clear and crisp, carrying the detached air peculiar to those in religious life: "This poor priest, Xuan Qingzi, abbot of Baiyun Temple, greets Lord Pei. Had I known the Sixth Prince was sending an envoy, I would have come to welcome you from afar. Please forgive my oversight."
The throng of disciples and acolytes behind him also bowed in unison. For a moment, crane-feather cloaks fluttered and whiskers drooped low—quite the sight to behold.
Pei Cijing didn't stand on ceremony.
He remained where he was and received the bow.
This was protocol.
He represented the Sixth Prince, the face of the imperial household. If he'd dodged and demurred, he'd have lost his authority and invited contempt.
He stood there, back straight, eyes fixed on Xuan Qingzi, sizing up this Daoist master whose reputation loomed large across the whole of Beihe.
White hair and beard, gaunt yet clear-featured features, but skin that was ruddy and fine, with hardly a wrinkle to be seen. According to the intelligence he'd gathered before coming, this Xuan Qingzi was said to be past seventy, yet the man before him looked at most in his early fifties.
Hair white as a crane, face young as a child's.
Those four words—in his case, they weren't mere lip service.
Add to that his lean frame, billowing cloak, and the white-jade-handled whisk in his hand, and standing on the stone steps before the mountain gate, bathed in the afternoon sunlight, he truly cut the figure of an immortal sage.
Pei Cijing gave a silent nod of acknowledgment.
Decent packaging.
This exterior could fool a good many people. The wives and daughters of officials who came to visit would surely be filled with reverence, taking him for a man of true cultivation.
But—
Pei Cijing withdrew his gaze, his face betraying nothing, though inwardly he shook his head.
Appearance is appearance. Character is character. Two different things.
He had met a true master of Dao before.
At Qingyun Temple. Master Qingyun.
That master had been unremarkable to look at, plain and ordinary—but his eyes seemed capable of seeing through every illusion in the world.
Standing before Master Qingyun, Pei Cijing had felt as though he was seen through to the very core, as if his intentions and his origins couldn't be hidden from those eyes at all.
But this Xuan Qingzi before him—after standing here studying him for so long—aside from that well-preserved face and that carefully cultivated aura of immortality, Pei Cijing couldn't pick out much else.
There was something missing. A quality that came from within.
And there was something extra… how to put it?
Artifice.
Pei Cijing filed a silent question mark against this Abbot of Baiyun Temple in his mind, while on the surface he put on a look of respectful gratitude and launched into a stream of heartfelt-sounding nonsense.
He stepped forward half a pace, clasped his hands in salute, and returned the bow. His tone, when he spoke, was so sincere it might have come straight from his gut: "Your Reverence is a man of great virtue. I am but a humble low-ranking official—how could I possibly bear such courtesy from you?"
The words were polite.
Polite but measured.
Neither losing ground for the Sixth Prince nor putting on airs.
Xuan Qingzi hurried forward, extending a hand to gently support Pei Cijing's arm, stopping his half-completed bow mid-way.
"Lord Pei, whatever do you mean?" Xuan Qingzi's tone was even more earnest than his, his smile as warm as the March breeze. "You come on behalf of the Sixth Prince—you represent His Highness's honor. I am but a man of the cloth, outside worldly affairs. How could I possibly merit such a bow from you?"
The words were airtight—flattering the Sixth Prince, elevating Pei Cijing, and positioning himself as humble and unassuming all at once.
Pei Cijing straightened up naturally, his gaze landing on Xuan Qingzi's face, his smile gaining a hint of genuine warmth: "You merit it, Your Reverence. Of course you merit it."
He paused, then let his voice grow heavier, carrying a depth of respect that seemed to come from the heart: "I come on His Highness's behalf to express his gratitude for all that you've done for the disaster-stricken people. Had you not been the first to donate money and supplies, rallying so many to lend a helping hand, many more common folk would have perished."
He drew a deep breath, clasped his hands, and offered another bow: "Your Reverence's merit knows no bounds!"
The words rang out with weight and conviction, so heartfelt that even Pei Cijing himself felt a flicker of emotion—and right alongside it, an uncontrollable wave of nausea.
Merit knows no bounds.
Those four words carried no small weight.
Did this man deserve them?
Xuan Qingzi listened, his humble demeanor deepening. He waved his hands repeatedly, murmuring "I'm unworthy, unworthy," yet the corners of his mouth couldn't help but curl upward—a small arc, but one that betrayed all too clearly how much he was enjoying this.
He'd heard plenty of sweet words in his time.
In this corner of Beihe, there was no shortage of people singing his praises—some lauding his deep cultivation, others his compassion and mercy, still others his charity and generosity.
Those words, heard enough times, became nothing special.
But today's words were different.
Because the man praising him
represented the Sixth Prince!
The only remaining legitimate son of the old emperor, one of the strongest contenders for the position of heir, a man who might one day ascend to that ultimate seat of power.
For an envoy sent by such a man to praise him with "merit knows no bounds" in front of all his disciples—how could that compare to anything else?
That feather of pride inside Xuan Qingzi caught the wind, floating ever higher on an airy gust.
He certainly understood.
He understood exactly why the other party was saying these things.
The Sixth Prince was engaged in disaster relief, saving lives, trying to comfort the refugees. He carried grave responsibilities and naturally had to remain at the front lines of the relief effort. Coming in person to a temple to burn incense and pray would hardly be appropriate, so he'd sent his man instead.
He said it was out of gratitude for everything White Cloud Temple had done for the refugees.
But really —
Wasn't it just to win him over?
Wasn't it just to use White Cloud Temple's reputation in Beihe to win the people's hearts?
He'd seen plenty of these tricks from the court. All those twisted, roundabout schemes.
But then —
That little flicker of pride in Xuan Qingzi's chest suddenly sank. The smile that hadn't quite bloomed at the corner of his mouth quietly dimmed in an unnoticed corner.
Too bad. He was tied too deeply to the Eighth Prince.
Not because he wanted to be tied.
But because he had no choice.
Sun Youde was the Eighth Prince's maternal grandfather, the Provincial Administrator of Beihe, and the biggest backer behind White Cloud Temple. All these years, White Cloud Temple's thriving success in Beihe wasn't just due to Xuan Qingzi's own skill — it was Sun Youde propping him up from behind.
Without Sun Youde, would White Cloud Temple have reached where it was today?
Impossible.
So he had no choice at all.
No matter how impressive the Sixth Prince was, no matter how sincere his overtures, Xuan Qingzi couldn't switch sides. It was a matter of position, a matter of foundation — not something a few pretty words could change.
These thoughts churned through Xuan Qingzi's mind in the space of a lightning flash, yet on the surface he maintained that humble, gentle smile.
Shen Ninghuan stood quietly at Pei Cijing's side, poised and calm, her gaze serene, as if none of what was happening before the temple gate had anything to do with her.
She reached out ever so subtly, her fingertips brushing lightly against Pei Cijing's sleeve.
The gesture was so gentle, so quick, that no one would have noticed. Quick as a butterfly flitting past a flower, gone in an instant.
Pei Cijing's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
He understood.
His wife's signal meant — time to probe.
No need to keep spewing that sickening flattery any longer. If he went on, she was afraid he'd disgust himself to death.
Besides, Xuan Qingzi had let his guard down, losing his wariness. It was time to steer the conversation toward the embezzlement and find out whether the man was human or ghost.
On the surface, Pei Cijing still wore that respectful, grateful expression. But in that instant, his words took an imperceptible turn.
He stepped half a pace forward, closing the distance to Xuan Qingzi. His gaze settled on the man's gaunt, refined face, and his tone dropped lower than before, carrying a grave, solemn weight — the heaviness of one who sorrows for the country and its people.
"Master, a man of such great virtue and merit as yourself — how could my few words not be worthy of you?"
He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. The smile on his face slowly faded, replaced by a deep, suppressed anger.
"It's just heartbreaking for those poor people — to suffer such unforeseen calamity. Homes destroyed, families torn apart, no food to eat, no clothes to wear — and all because the funds for the Yunyang River levee project were embezzled, and that shoddy, crumbling dam was built!"
Pei Cijing voice rose slightly, his chest heaving as if he were barely containing his fury.
"The one who embezzled those funds deserves to die a thousand deaths!" he ground out, word by word, as if the words were being squeezed through his teeth. "A man like that — ten thousand deaths wouldn't be enough to atone for his sins!"
Xuan Qingzi smile froze for just a fraction of a second.
The stiffness was so slight, so swift — like a drop of water falling into boiling oil, quashed before it could even pop.
He remained that gentle, composed figure, yet the curve of his lips had lost just a little of its fullness.
Pei Cijing did not look at him.
He was still caught up in his righteous indignation — like a good official enraged by corrupt ministers, full of righteous anger with no outlet, so he unburdened himself here at the temple gate to a man of the cloth.
"Men like that — if they have sons, may they have no...; if they have daughters, may they have no...; if they have something in between, may it be neither one nor the other, both useful and useless...!"
"May they choke on every meal, may they choke on every drink of water, may a carriage run them over as they walk, may they be thrown from their horse as they ride, may they drown in their boat, may a ghost sit on their chest while they sleep, may their nightmares plunge them into a cauldron of boiling oil!"
"And after death, King Yama will throw them into the eighteenth level of hell — climb the mountain of knives, cross the sea of fire, be boiled in oil — fried until golden brown on both sides — no, fried until charred black on both sides, then pulled out and fried all over again!"
"Then thrown into the realm of beasts — reborn as a pig, a dog, a rat, a maggot — anything at all, just not human. They don't deserve it!"
"Let them cycle through countless rebirths as beasts for a thousand or eight hundred lifetimes, then dragged out and cast into the Nine Abysses of Karmic Fire to burn for ten million years! Burned to ash, soaked in water, kneaded into mud, shaped into a human, and burned all over again!"
Pei Cijing let out a whole tirade without stopping for breath. The pace, the momentum, the expression — he was the spitting image of a righteous official driven mad by corruption.
Xuan Qingzi stood across from him, that gentle smile still on his face — but beneath it, the corner of his mouth had begun to twitch.
He was a cultured man.
Not just cultured — well-read. The Four Books, the Five Classics, the Hundred Schools of Thought, poetry and prose — he was familiar with them all. How else could he keep company with the official class?
So every word Pei Cijing spoke, he understood.
And understanding them — he knew just how filthy they were.
Over the years, he'd heard plenty of people curse corrupt officials. There were those who said "should be killed," those who said "should be sliced apart," those who said "may their line end forever." But a man like this official Pei — cursing with such specificity, such vividness, such imagination —
This was a first.
"If they have sons, may they have no...; if they have daughters, may they have no...; if they have something in between, may it be neither one nor the other, both useful and useless..."
Xuan Qingzi felt his smile barely holding on.
Not because he felt guilty.
Because it was filthy.
Too filthy.
In his whole life, he'd never heard such words, let alone spoken them. And now, in one go, he'd heard them all — spoken directly to his face by a court official sent from the capital on behalf of the Sixth Prince.
He couldn't very well cover his ears, could he?
Xuan Qingzi took a deep breath, pushing down that indescribable feeling in his chest, then recomposed that gentle smile on his face. He stepped half a pace forward, reached out, and gently patted Pei Cijing on the arm.
"Sir, sir—" his voice was warm and urgent, like one soothing an overemotional junior. "Don't be so angry, don't be so angry. Anger harms the body, sir!"
Pei Cijing, startled by the pat, seemed to snap back to himself. The heaving of his chest gradually steadied. He took a deep breath, then let it out in a long sigh.
He raised a hand and rubbed his temples, a wry smile crossing his face: "I apologize for the spectacle, Master. It's just that the moment I think of those people's misery, I can't help but—"
He shook his head, his tone carrying a note of self-deprecation: "A loss of composure. I lost my composure."
Xuan Qingzi waved his hand dismissively, his smile turning a touch more genuine: "Sir cares for the people as if they were his own children, his heart tied to the common folk. That is a blessing for the Great Qian, a blessing for the people. I could only admire you — how could I ever laugh at you for it?"
But in his heart, he was quietly breathing a sigh of relief.
Good. Good.
This official Pei was cursing whoever embezzled the levee funds, not Xuan Qingzi himself. The words were dirty, true, enough to make one uneasy just to hear them — but surely they couldn't land on his own head.
The construction funds. Chen Qiming was the one who took them.
Of the hundred thousand taels of silver, Chen Qiming had gradually handed over more than seventy percent, and of that, over ten percent had been distributed to the people below who handled the transactions, while sixty percent ended up in his own hands—but he had never forced Chen Qiming to embezzle anything.
The other party insisted on buying the elixirs.
They came to him on their own, weeping and begging, even kneeling on the ground to make the purchase.
Saying things like “Daoist Master, save me,” “I’m going mad,” “Only your elixir can calm me down.”
He was a compassionate man and couldn’t bear to watch others suffer.
So he had no choice but to sell.
Retribution?
No matter how you calculated it, that kind of retribution couldn’t possibly land on his head, could it?
Xuan Qingzi turned these thoughts over in his mind, yet the smile on his face remained gentle and composed, betraying not the slightest crack.
But that line from Pei Cijing—about being reborn into the animal realm and burned by the fires of the nine abysses for ten thousand years—stuck in his heart like a thorn that he couldn’t pull out.
And yet, for some reason, a sudden unease began to stir within him...
