She sensed something slightly off about the situation and moved to bring this unexpected exchange to a close: “Master Zhongli is surely a person of refined station — a place like that would be beneath you.”
“My surname is Zhongli, given name Jing.”
She hadn’t anticipated such a direct response to her deflection and could only manage a perfunctory reply: “I see, so it’s Master Zhongli Jing — a pleasure to meet you.”
“A meeting of a thousand li is a fortunate thing indeed. Might I ask what brings Master Yao to Huozhou?”
Here it comes. I knew you had no good intentions.
Xiao Nanhui fumed inwardly, but had no choice but to play along: “I heard the fifth day of the fifth month will soon be the Zhuming Festival — I’ve come to take in the festivities.”
The Zhuming Festival was one of the four great ceremonial observances — Qingyang, Zhuming, Baicang, and Xuanying — and was traditionally held in Huozhou. Chizhou had long maintained the custom of offering sacrifices to the divine. Among these, the Baicang and Xuanying rites were closely guarded imperial affairs, known to few outsiders. Following the fall of the Qiu dynasty, they had gradually faded from public awareness. But the Qingyang Festival — which had originated in Wancheng — and the Zhuming Festival in Huozhou had been preserved and remained widely observed to the present day.
“Oh? There’s such a celebration?” Before Zhongli Jing could speak, Hao Bai’s interest was already piqued. “In any case, I’ve nothing pressing to do — why don’t we all go and take a look?”
She gave him a sideways look: “Didn’t Master Hao have an urgent patient to attend to?”
“It’s only the fifth day today — three days is plenty of time. And if three days pass and the patient still hasn’t recovered, then it is the King of Hell who intends to keep him, and there’s nothing more I can do.”
Well, quite the confident claim.
Xiao Nanhui took it for empty boasting and paid it no mind. At that very moment, the boatman suddenly bellowed: “Drifting ice — hold on!”
Before the words had fully faded, a massive impact struck. The ferry pitched violently and lurched sideways. A wave half a person’s height crashed over and soaked half the boat in an instant. Everyone on board cried out in alarm. Jixiang and Huaqiu on the stern deck began to slide and scramble for footing.
Her heart lurched. She seized the gunwale and peered out at the water. Perpendicular to the hull, the river was surging with chunks of drifting ice, growing visibly larger — it had to be a massive block of ice from upstream that had thawed and broken loose after the rain stopped, now rushing downstream in a cascade.
Xiao Nanhui was a martial artist by training, and excellent in most respects — but swimming was not among her strengths.
To say nothing of navigating a powerful, ice-cold current; even a calm little pond without a single ripple could be the end of her. If this boat went down, she would die without ever having accomplished what she had set out to do.
Instinctively she reached for the cloth bundle strapped to her back — it was only the length of a short sword, and its contents could not be determined from the outside. But her hand had barely touched it before she let it fall again.
There were not many people on this boat, yet who could guarantee that none among them were enemies? Her weapon was far too distinctive — she could not afford to reveal it carelessly.
Her mind raced. Xiao Nanhui fixed her gaze on the bow.
She leaped to the bow, snatched the iron pole from the boatman’s hands, poured all ten parts of her strength through her core, spun her body, and drove the pole into the rapidly approaching sheet of ice. It shattered on impact, breaking into small chips that vanished into the turbid water.
After that first decisive strike she did not pause. One hand gripped the far end of the pole, the other gripped it three feet up — channeling her qi into fluid, controlled movement. The heavy, clumsy iron pole transformed in an instant into something swift and supple as a serpent, plunging into the water again and again to shatter the drifting ice.
All of this had taken no more than the span of a single blink. Most of the passengers had not yet had a chance to process what was happening. But Ding Weixiang had seen every detail with perfect clarity, and a flicker of astonishment crossed his face. Bolao was no longer where she had been sitting — light on her feet, she had flipped herself up onto the top of the cabin with a single roll, narrowed her eyes and looked ahead, only to see a continued surge of large ice chunks bearing down, with no sign of the far shore.
“Boatman — how long before we reach the bank?”
The boatman was straining to keep hold of the mooring rope, fighting to steady the vessel: “At the very least, half a quarter-hour!”
From her end, Xiao Nanhui shouted back at Bolao: “Go take hold of Jixiang and Huaqiu — don’t let them tip the boat!”
Jixiang was a warhorse, and no matter how dire the situation, remained relatively composed. Huaqiu, however, was in a mild panic, hooves scrabbling helplessly on the deck. Bolao grabbed both reins and corralled the two horses into a fixed position, ensuring neither would fall.
The ferry continued to press forward through the churning current with great difficulty. She was just barely holding the vessel’s balance through her own efforts alone, but stray chunks of ice kept slipping through and slamming against the hull. Some passengers had already curled themselves into tight balls, eyes shut, waiting for the end.
Bolao shot a fierce look at Ding Weixiang, who was sitting there as though none of this had anything to do with him. Other than her and Xiao Nanhui, this man had to have the highest level of martial skill on the boat.
“What use are you just standing guard over him?! If the boat sinks, we all go down together!”
Ding Weixiang glanced at Zhongli Jing. Zhongli Jing’s gaze had come to rest on the family huddled together in a frightened clump nearby. After a moment, he gave a small, quiet nod.
Only then did Ding Weixiang rise. He swept past an indignant Bolao in a flash and vaulted to the stern deck. Sitting on the deck was a woven hemp basket containing fist-sized stone ballast — the anchor stones used to moor the boat at dock.
He drew his sword and struck the rope. The hemp snapped and the stones scattered. He spread five fingers wide and scooped up three stones in one hand, flicked his wrist, and sent them flying toward the drifting ice — fast and accurate, their speed in no way inferior to the iron pole in Xiao Nanhui’s hands.
She heard the sound and looked back, letting her gaze rest briefly on his wrist before returning her full attention to the ice in the river.
With another hand working alongside her, the crisis was at last brought under control. The boat gradually steadied. A moment later, the surge of drifting ice seemed to have passed entirely — only scattered fragments remained in the water, no longer a real threat.
After that harrowing ordeal, no one on board was in the mood for conversation. They continued in silence all the way to the far shore.
When they disembarked, most of the passengers had cold river water soaking their clothes, and a biting wind made them shiver — whether from the cold or from the lingering shock of a brush with death. Zhongli Jing, however, was not touched by so much as a single drop. Whatever his fur coat was made of, it had repelled the water completely.
Xiao Nanhui led Jixiang off the boat, with Hao Bai trailing behind her, chattering his teeth. She gave a brief bow in his direction, and his expression was sincere: “Today I owe my life to Brother Yao’s intervention — I ought to offer a proper word of thanks. But I do have an urgent matter pressing on me that I cannot delay. If fate wills it, we shall meet again at the Zhuming Festival in a few days.”
As he spoke, he reached inside his layered garments and produced a tattered oil-paper packet. He unwrapped it to reveal a small white pill. Her eyes, however, paused on the oil paper — it looked oddly familiar, rather like the oil paper she had seen being used to wrap steamed buns at the inn the previous night.
“This is a pill to replenish one’s energy and blood — please accept it as a token of my gratitude. I ask Brother Yao not to refuse.”
And without waiting for Xiao Nanhui’s reaction, he pressed the pill into her palm and immediately strode off in a hurry.
She looked down at the small white pill sitting in her hand with a mixture of amusement and puzzlement. After a moment’s consideration, she pocketed it.
She had barely finished putting herself back in order when, from the corner of her eye, she saw Ding Weixiang walking past. He paused beside her and spoke in a low voice: “Was it you who knocked on our window with a pebble early this morning?”
Ding Weixiang knew she had noticed his stone-throwing technique on the boat. He neither confirmed nor denied it — as though he simply could not be bothered to answer.
She pressed further: “Why?”
Only then did Ding Weixiang turn and look back at her. He pointed toward Zhongli Jing, who was standing some distance away, tall and still: “The master says — it takes a hundred lifetimes of shared fate to cross a river in the same boat. The young sir ought to treasure this bond. As for any words of thanks, they are unnecessary.”
With that, he said nothing more, and walked away quickly, leaving Xiao Nanhui standing there alone, in a daze.
A hundred lifetimes of shared fate to cross a river in the same boat? What absolute nonsense!
If you don’t want to say, then don’t — just you wait and see!
---