Metaphysics’ Public Enemy 81

Chapter 81:

Returning Home – Chen Henian Asked, “How Does It Taste…?”

Night had fallen, the colors of blood and sunset fading into the vast darkness, the villagers’ anger and frustration replaced by a quiet resignation.

The weary figures walked slowly, the injured supported by their comrades, their hands clasped, their laughter a fragile sound, the promise of dawn, of warmth, a beacon in the darkness.

Nothing bad had happened.

Jiang Wan recovered in a small room in the temple, Zuo He’s senior sister tending to her wounds, their shared stories a bond, her courage admired, her pain understood, the best medicine a gift, her past a closed door, her future a blank page.

Chen Henian sometimes watched the disciples training, observing their rituals, but he preferred the quiet solitude of the pond behind the dining hall, the three of them, plus an emperor, sitting by the water, fishing rods in hand.

Only Chen Henian was a serious fisherman, the fish biting readily, their eagerness suspicious, almost as if the ghost was helping him, its presence a subtle influence, the fish less eager when he glanced at Yu Lin.

The pond belonged to the temple cook, and the fish they caught weren’t for eating, but for a strange game, each fish caught, a single scale removed before being released, a cycle of capture and release, some fish almost completely scaleless, their memory short, their foolishness a constant source of amusement.

Chen Henian didn’t know how many fish he had caught, his clothes miraculously free from the smell of fish, his hands clean, the ghost removing the hooks, a convenient trick.

Can a fish survive without scales?

He had asked the question, his voice like a King of Hell’s, not out of genuine concern, but a morbid curiosity, then the cook, Fan Shifu, had arrived, his voice a mixture of anger and concern. “What are you doing?! Disciple Zuo, how can you let your friends destroy my fish pond?!” He brandished a spatula, a cook, but also a senior disciple of the Southern sect, second only to Yongjian in culinary skill.

“I wasn’t involved,” Zuo He replied, holding up his empty hands, no fishing rod in sight. “I was just watching them, making sure they didn’t fall in.”

“A training disciple, what are you doing here on the mountain?!” Fan Shifu roared.

“I have a special assignment, Master, attending to distinguished guests,” Zuo He said, his gaze turning to Yu Lin.

The umbrella, its black mist swirling, appeared before Fan Shifu, its presence chilling the air.

Only with Yu Lin’s permission could others see him.

The cook’s anger vanished, replaced by awe, his voice trembling, his face pale. No wonder it was so cold here.

He looked at the bucket at Chen Henian’s feet, his face breaking into a wide smile. “That’s a fine fish! I’ll make soup for you, wait here, I’ll be right back.”

He hurried away, returning with a bowl of fish soup, his demeanor obsequious, almost bowing to Yu Lin, claiming a distant kinship to one of his officials, addressing him as “Your Majesty,” his flattery a plea for mercy, his small crucian carp unworthy of an emperor’s attention, suggesting they should catch tuna in the ocean instead.

Chen Henian, pleased, accepted the soup, returning to their room.

Zuo He had mentioned Fan Shifu’s specialty, tofu and crucian carp soup, the winter fish the most flavorful, a dish he only made once a year, on the first day of winter, a rare treat.

Chen Henian had been intrigued, wanting to taste it, his fishing a calculated ploy, a subtle manipulation. Who would spend three days fishing for no reason?

Back in their room, Yu Lin filled a bowl with soup, offering it to Chen Henian.

He stopped after one bowl, and Chen Henian asked, “Are we sharing?”

Yu Lin looked at him, his expression not one of amusement, but a quiet intimacy, a simple question.

“Can we?” he asked, his voice hesitant, the steam from the soup rising, obscuring his face.

There was enough for three bowls.

“Let’s share,” Chen Henian said, drinking half the bowl, then offering it to Yu Lin.

Yu Lin took the bowl, his hand shielding his face as he drank, his movements elegant and refined, the wide sleeves of his robe concealing his actions, turning the bowl slightly before drinking from the opposite side.

He finished the soup in silence.

“How does it taste?” Chen Henian asked.

“Acceptable,” Yu Lin replied, seemingly pleased.

Chen Henian smiled. “The Southern sect’s cook is worthy of the imperial kitchen. Tell Fan Shifu, he’ll be pleased.”

They all laughed, the sound interrupted by a knock on the door.

Chen Henian turned towards the door. “Who is it?”

A deep chuckle, familiar and slightly mischievous, came from outside. “My dear disciple, are you bored yet?”

Chen Henian paused. “The door wasn’t locked,” he said. “I thought you had forgotten about me.”

He had been on the mountain for a week, exploring every corner, but hadn’t seen Zhou Xianzhi, hadn’t spoken to him. His master’s appearance was a rare and welcome sight.

Zhou Xianzhi opened the door, stroking his beard, a smile on his face. “How could I forget about you? I was worried you wouldn’t recognize your master.”

“Can we leave now?” Chen Henian asked.

Zhou Xianzhi chuckled, pointing at him. “My dear disciple, when did you learn divination?”

Chen Henian didn’t reply, his silence an answer, but he stood up, walking towards his master, and embraced him, his arms tight around him.

“You’ve grown taller. What’s wrong? Are you tired?” Zhou Xianzhi didn’t tease him, his smaller frame barely reaching Chen Henian’s shoulders, his hand gently stroking his hair. “I know you’ve worked hard, but your hair is perfect, don’t cut it.”

“Mm,” Chen Henian murmured, his voice low.

Zhou Xianzhi, his master, his only family, the man who had raised him for over a decade, and only yesterday, he had realized how little he knew about him.

It was a secret, a shameful secret, hidden within the Southern sect’s history.

Zhou Xianzhi, his master, had once been a Tai Yin body.

Once.

He wasn’t anymore.

His bones had been broken, his organs damaged, his constitution altered during his recovery.

He was the victim of the Tai Yin Hunt.

Xianzhi, only two people had called him that, his master and his senior brother.

He had been five years old when Grandmaster Wangzhen of the Southern sect had found him, taking him to the mountain, where he had cultivated for ten years, his special constitution earning him special treatment, until the secret leaked, the other sects, their desire for a Tai Yin body insatiable, demanding his surrender.

Grandmaster Wangzhen had retreated into seclusion, leaving the young Yongjian in charge. The other sects had targeted the Southern Daoists, their demands escalating, their greed overwhelming their sense of decency, their siege of the mountain relentless. Yongjian had knelt before Wangzhen’s cave, begging him to intervene, to protect his junior brother, to save their sect, but his pleas had gone unanswered, and Zhou Xianzhi had been expelled, cast out into the world.

He had been hunted for three years, his life constantly in danger, until a Chinan woman had saved him, offering him shelter and a chance to recover, then, shortly after, the Tai Yin Hunt had begun.

The Daoist sects, united, had hunted down the Tai Yin body, the Southern sect, though not participating, powerless to intervene.

Zhou Xianzhi, surrounded, had faked his death, spending three years searching for the flesh of a Tai Sui, a mythical creature, to create a new body for himself, a perfect disguise, his survival a secret, his injuries severe, his life forever changed.

He was no longer a complete Tai Yin body, but he was free.

The Southern sect, burdened by guilt, had mourned his death, the news of his demise the only information they had received in over a decade.

After the Tai Yin Hunt, Yongjian had stood before Wangzhen’s cave, his voice filled with grief and rage, announcing Zhou Xianzhi’s death, and that night, his grief had ignited his sword intent, his power solidifying, his mastery achieved.

Grandmaster Wangzhen had emerged from seclusion shortly after, his appearance shaking the Daoist community. He had divined Zhou Xianzhi’s fate, knowing he still lived, his identity changed, but his essence the same.

But the Southern sect’s little junior brother was truly dead, only the infamous Three Yin Hand remained.

The Three Yin Hand technique, his own creation, a dark and powerful art, only a Tai Yin body capable of mastering it, and that’s why he had taken Chen Henian as his disciple.

The technique was both yin and poisonous, and those who had questioned his methods, those who had posed a threat, had been dealt with quietly, the Southern sect covering his tracks. For decades, he had avoided Mount Jielü.

His return was for his disciple.

“I spoke to Master,” Zuo He said, sharing what he had learned. “King Jiang, despite his past merits, his powerful aura, is considered a threat. The Daoist sects want Grandmaster Wangzhen to keep him on the mountain, but Uncle-Master Zhou offered his own life as a guarantee, demanding your freedom.”

“They refused, of course, but Grandmaster Wangzhen insisted. If King Jiang ever caused harm, he would personally destroy him, forsaking his own cultivation, his own chance at immortality.”

“He silenced them, and when they left, he only asked one thing of Uncle-Master Zhou.”

“What?” Chen Henian asked.

“Just to stay with him for seven days,” Zuo He said. “A master always misses his disciple, doesn’t he?”

Chen Henian paused. “A disciple also misses his master,” he said, his voice low.

Only Zhou Xianzhi knew if he still resented the Southern sect.

But seeing him now, Chen Henian felt a surge of affection, a longing he hadn’t realized he had been suppressing.

He released his master, his voice calm. “When are we leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” Zhou Xianzhi replied. “We’ll take a plane, it’ll be faster.”

He peered into the ceramic pot, his voice filled with mock disappointment. “I heard Fan Shifu made fish soup? But it’s all gone!” He clutched his chest dramatically. “Your master is tired too! Save some for me next time, alright?”

“Alright,” Chen Henian replied.

“What?” Zhou Xianzhi’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Are you really my disciple?” He looked at Chen Henian, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you sure you’re not a ghost in disguise?”

He reached out, as if to pinch his cheek.

Chen Henian swatted his hand away.

“Get lost,” he said, his voice still cold and indifferent.