Chapter Twelve: Relics

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Waterside pavilions in Huaxi, winding bridges, warm towers, and sprawling lakes framed by verdant hills—though the Chen family estate was sumptuous and exquisitely refined, with servants and maids standing every few steps, bearing tea and wine, the people gathered in the great hall had no mind for such pleasures. Their brows were tightly knit, faces darkened with anger and humiliation.

“Using Ah Heng’s father’s belongings? Absolutely not!”

At the patriarch Chen Kuang’s questioning, the already stooped Chen Zhan leaned heavily on his staff, a look of indignation on his aged face.

“In those years, we already failed in righteousness by standing by while he was taken up the mountain by the Xuanzhen Sect. Now, how can we, without so much as asking, take his father’s relics to fend off our enemies? It is unfilial—utterly unfilial!”

As Chen Zhan spoke out first, several elders who were friendly with him also protested, each voicing their own opinions. The previously stifling hall became suddenly noisy.

“Enough! Silence!”

Chen Kuang’s brow throbbed with rage. He shouted, and, for a moment, his aged body surged with a fierce vitality that quelled the clamor.

“Unfilial? Ridiculous! Has the clan not provided for him, clothed and fed him? We aren’t asking him to sacrifice his life, merely to borrow a few relics of his father’s. Chen Zhan, you make endless objections—what is your intention?”

His old eyes sharp and cold, Chen Kuang fixed Chen Zhan with a steely gaze.

“Back then, the clan only entrusted you with raising Chen Heng; he was never formally adopted as your son! Why are you rushing to take the lead here?”

He turned to the other elders.

“Since Chen Heng joined the Xuanzhen Sect, not a single letter has come in three years. Such a cold and ungrateful soul—do you still speak for him, treat him as a son of the Chen clan? As for him, he has likely long since disowned our name!”

“It’s true that we wronged him back then. Even if he resents us, it is understandable,” another elder tried to mediate. “For a noble son to end up as someone’s kept man—that is where the clan failed him.”

“The clan did not fail him! Without our support, how could he have ever been a noble son? I—”

Chen Kuang was cut off as Chen Zhan struck his staff hard against the floor.

“The clan did raise him, but that debt was repaid the day he ascended the mountain—more than repaid.”

Chen Zhan stepped forward. “Do you dare claim, after he left, that you never used the Xuanzhen Sect’s name for your own gain? Those properties in the west city and fertile lands outside the walls—were they not acquired in Heng’s name?”

“And when Xi’er drew the eye of that Daoist from Yang Mountain, wasn’t it your arrogance that led to trouble? You beat the Daoist’s attendant, threatened to have the Xuanzhen Sect send Daoist soldiers to raze his ritual grounds—who is to blame for that?!”

Chen Kuang fell silent, his face turning away in shame and anger.

Who could have imagined Yan Zhen would die so suddenly? The Chen clan’s greatest pillar and protector had collapsed overnight.

That day, drunk on wine, Chen Kuang had seized the chance to humiliate the Yang Mountain Daoist, finally venting the resentment he had long harbored. Watching the Daoist’s furious but helpless face had been deeply satisfying.

But fate is ever fickle.

Not long after, news of Yan Zhen’s death and Chen Heng’s censure finally reached Rongguo. The whole Chen clan was struck dumb with shock. The Yang Mountain Daoist celebrated with wine for a whole day and night, indulging in pleasures.

After that, the Daoist demanded not only ten thousand taels of silver and ten chests of pearls and yellow jade from the Chen clan, but also that Chen Kuang’s youngest daughter, Chen Xi, be given to him as a concubine.

Without the Xuanzhen Sect’s protection, the Chen clan was utterly powerless to resist, teetering on the brink of disaster…

“Xi’er, come in.”

Surrounded by disgruntled elders, Chen Kuang let out a heavy sigh and beckoned with a trembling hand.

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With barely audible footsteps, a young girl of thirteen or fourteen in a pink dress entered from outside. Her skin was as fair as porcelain, her face delicate and lovely, her expression radiating a helpless sorrow that instantly invoked pity.

Summoned by her father, Chen Xi entered with tears in her eyes, offering a respectful bow to the elders before standing timidly in the center of the hall.

“Brothers of the clan, Xi’er is my youngest daughter—how can I possibly bear to part with her?”

Tears welled in Chen Kuang’s eyes as he gestured to Chen Xi, fragile as a willow in the wind. “Look at how young and innocent she is. If she is sent to that Yang Mountain Daoist, how could she possibly survive?”

“Thirteenth Brother, I know you dislike me—because of my son’s foolish scheme, which trapped Heng in Yan Zhen’s hands, you have resented me all this time.”

He glanced at Chen Zhan, then suddenly knelt to the ground. “But Xi’er is your niece, the child you watched grow up. Third Brother begs you—save her!”

Tears streamed down the old man’s face. Chen Zhan’s expression darkened, shifting between indecision and anger.

Yet before Chen Zhan could reply, a youth’s arrogant laughter echoed through the vast Chen estate.

“Save her? How? Do you have any other tricks left?”

The youth’s voice drifted eerily, ghostlike. “My father has set his sights on this girl—who dares defy him? If he wins her, maybe I’ll even get a taste myself!”

“Not good!” Chen Kuang’s face changed dramatically.

The laughter was so loud, yet the household guards and servants gave no response—they had been silently subdued, unable even to sound the alarm.

“Thirteenth Brother, quickly! Third Brother begs you!”

Shouting, he leapt from the dais, hoisted his daughter onto his back, and rushed for the exit.

But before he could escape, a group of men in yellow blocked the way. At their head, a burly, bearded man struck Chen Kuang with a single blow, sending him flying and spitting blood.

“Damn it… Xiao Ding, fetch the wooden box from my secret chamber!” Chen Zhan, seeing the situation turn dire, barked the order.

A pale, beardless man in his thirties behind him nodded, and with a single movement, darted from the hall—so swift that even the bearded man couldn’t stop him.

“Good! Well done!”

Seeing such skill from Chen Zhan’s protector, Chen Kuang laughed even as he coughed blood. He gently set Chen Xi down, rallied his strength, and threw himself at the bearded man.

“Go! All together! Hold them off until Xiao Ding returns!”

The other old Chen elders roared and charged, joining the fray against the yellow-clad assailants.

For a moment, their momentum held, but age and frailty soon took their toll. The relentless yellow-clad men pressed their advantage.

“What’s this—?”

Chen Kuang, having smashed a yellow-clad attacker’s skull, suddenly felt his body go weak. Shock and disbelief filled his eyes. “Poison? Such potent poison.”

“Precisely. Without it, it would’ve been impossible for us to stroll in so easily,” the arrogant youth’s voice sounded again.

“Despicable! Shameless scoundrel!”

“Old man, are you stalling, waiting for that so-called Xiao Ding to come rescue you?”

The youth laughed again.

A grim premonition struck Chen Kuang. He looked up, and not far from the hall saw, to his horror, a flayed corpse lying on the ground. The body’s features were unrecognizable, but its arms still cradled a wooden box.

Inside the box lay an ancient book and several strange talismans.

“Xiao Ding!” Chen Zhan’s eyes nearly burst with grief.

Chen Kuang’s mind clouded and his movements slowed. The bearded man shattered his arm with a kick, sending him sprawling, unable to rise again.

“Hey, cousin, this little girl is quite a morsel.”

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The bearded man waved his hand again, sending another elder flying, his body splattering against the wall in a bloody mess.

He reached out a massive hand and seized Chen Xi.

“How about, after you and uncle are done, you let me have a turn too?”

“You brute, only good for eating people—who’d dare let you touch her? Not a chance!” The youth cackled, his voice flitting about so that frantic Chen Zhan could not locate the source.

“You grow more unpleasant by the day,” the bearded man grumbled, eyeing the wooden box and talismans clutched by the corpse. “What’s that? If I bring it to uncle, will it please him?”

“Just some petty tricks left behind by Chen Heng’s father—worthless!”

“Oh.” The bearded man’s response was one of disappointment.

By now, the fight was all but decided—a one-sided slaughter. Only a few elders like Chen Zhan still struggled to hold out.

“Guh… guh…”

Bored, the bearded man glanced around and looked down at the girl in his grasp. Her scent drifted toward him in delicate wisps, stirring his appetite.

“Petty tricks left by my father?”

Suddenly, a gentle, jade-like voice rang out.

Both sides froze in shock. At the distant gate of the estate, two white horses could be seen, with riders upon them.

“I never heard that my father left behind any relics,” the voice continued.

The bearded man’s face darkened. Realizing something, he reached for his broadsword, ready to throw it.

But before he could raise his arm halfway, a feathered arrow whistled through the air and struck his head, piercing it clean through.

Blood burst like a shattered melon, splattering Chen Xi’s face and hair. She stared, wide-eyed and mute, unable even to cry.

Arrows flew in a storm, swift and dazzling. The yellow-clad men scattering in panic were picked off effortlessly, each head exploding and painting the ground with gore.

This scene—so languidly drawn, yet so gruesomely vivid—left Chen Zhan speechless, his trembling hands clutching at the sight of the distant gate.

“Chen Heng? Are you mad? How dare you kill my cousin like this!” The arrogant youth’s voice sounded again, now edged with panic rather than cat-and-mouse confidence.

At the gate, Chen Heng glanced back. The woman in fox-fur who had accompanied him all the way quickly presented him with an arrow, bowing respectfully.

“Your hiding place was too poor.”

His hands, long and elegant from years of playing the zither, drew the six-stone bow to its full curve with effortless grace, steady as a still, ancient pond.

Heavenly archer’s bow.

Arrows flashed like lightning.

With a single snap of the bowstring, a figure tumbled from the roof of the waterside pavilion, felled by a cry of pain.