Chapter 335: The Whole Story of Qingcheng

Chapter 335: The Beginnings and Ends of Qingcheng

Ma Wangye’s wounds were not grave, though his form had been nearly shattered by the long spear of the desolate era’s summer tiger. Yet, the ink armor’s core remained unscathed.

After claiming a fresh set of external gear from Qianhu Suo, Ma Wangye declined the aid of the ink-sequence artisans within, hoisting himself into a hidden chamber where he toiled in secret for half a day.

When he emerged, his frame had grown gaunt, a shadow of its former self.

His crimson eye recoiled into the darkness of his hood, its glow dulled, no longer the proud beacon of old.

He hunched his shoulders, weaving a deliberate circuit before Li Jun, until at last he drew the reply he sought.

Li Jun pledged to Ma Wangye that once the Ministry’s quota was fulfilled, he would craft a full set of six-grade equipment befitting his present stature and might.

Sated, Ma Wangye scrawled a list upon parchment for Xie Bi’an.

By contrast, Chen Qisheng’s injuries ran far deeper.

As the medical officers of Qianhu Suo declared, had he arrived moments later, no salve would have sufficed—only incense for the departed.

Not until the twenty-seventh day of the first month in the twelfth year of Jiaqi, five days after the Jin Yiwei deliberations had concluded, could Chen Qisheng barely stagger upright.

To celebrate his reprieve from military service, Chen Qisheng took it upon himself to host the gathering.

Daoist cultivation, as the saying goes, hinges on four tenets: wealth, law, companion, and land. The first, “wealth,” proves these Daoists sit atop golden mountains.

Fan Wujiu and Ma Wangye, naturally, would not miss such an opportunity to feast upon a wealthy patron, bypassing the meal entirely to stride straight into the famed kabuki quarter of Jiangye City.

Beyond the doors, snow blanketed the heavens; within, neon lights dazzled the eyes.

“Gazing back upon yesterday’s doorway in a foreign land, the poignant sighs of years pile high, yet sunrise and sunset endure, unchanged by the passage of time.”

Ma Wangye and Fan Wujiu leaned shoulder to shoulder in the chamber’s heart, swaying to the accompaniment, their voices rising in a cacophony of ghostly wails and wolfish howls.

Four comely kimono-clad attendants hovered cautiously, arms outstretched, ready to catch their collapsing forms with bodies scented by perfume.

“This song is for the old ghost—may his head soon find its way back to his shoulders.”

Fan Wujiu, already inebriated, clutched Ma Wangye’s shoulder with desperate fervor, his voice cracking with emotion: “Old Ma, I truly miss him.”

Ma Wangye patted his companion, his lone eye’s voice swelling beyond the bounds of speech.

“It matters not—the head, if it cannot return, let it be severed! Let it ascend into the Ming Gui Realm, to keep me company. Awake, I command the bed’s machinery; drunk, I recline upon the flowing waters—what joy!”

“Old Ma, what drunken nonsense spills from your lips? The old ghost is a martial artist, not of our ink-sequence—how could he be a Ming Gui?”

Fan Wujiu shoved Ma Wangye, his eyes glazed with intoxication, chuckling: “You’re drunk.”

The chamber housed a circle of costly sofas from the Western Barbarians. Li Jun sat amid a dizzying fragrance, his arm encircling a supple shoulder, the other gripping a glass.

A flick of his wrist sent ice cubes clinking against the golden liquor within.

“I fail to grasp it—these two masters, one a mechanist, the other an armored warrior, how do they grow so intoxicated?”

Li Jun, eyeing the rapturous pair, furrowed his brow: “Perhaps Fan Wujiu retains a digestive system, allowing him to drink. But what compels Old Ma to drown himself thus?”

Chen Qisheng, at Li Jun’s side, slowly raised his bandaged arm, pointing to two dismantled pink boxes atop a low table.

“A farm’s ‘Zhou Youwang’ series stimulant—fifty thousand taels per dose. Injected into the brain, it mimics drunkenness; even a corpse might rise to dance.”

Chen Qisheng grimaced, “Such treasures I’ve never dared sample—yet they’ve each taken one. Truly ruthless.”

“I advise you, Daoist, to scrutinize the bill when settling.”

Xie Bi’an’s upper body emerged from a dazzling array of long legs, his gaze earnest as he faced Chen Qisheng.

“What do you mean?” Chen Qisheng arched a brow.

“Knowing these two scoundrels, whenever guests are entertained, they feast first, then tally—never the reverse.”

“Daoist, I’ll strike you with lightning.”

Chen Qisheng’s rage surged, his curses nearly spilling forth before he seized a delicate hand, stroking his chest: “No ill words, no ill words.”

“Honored guest, you are amusing.” The silken voice teased.

Chen Qisheng’s expression hardened: “No guest—I am Daoist! Moreover, in my years of wandering, I’ve always embraced local customs. Speak in the tongue of the barbarians, not plain speech.”

“Hai.”

Words of allure spilled from crimson lips, the tone winding and languid, stirring the soul.

“Indeed, that’s the flavor of authenticity!”

Li Jun, observing the smoke-and-fire spirit of the Daoist, shook his head in bemusement.

“Speaking of which, the matter you tasked me with has yielded clues.”

Xie Bi’an leaned closer, whispering: “How so?”

Li Jun sipped his wine: “Elaborate.”

Xie Bi’an delayed, snapping his fingers.

The attendants, understanding, seized the neural cables dangling from the ceiling, entering the Huangliang Dream.

“Yu Canghai was reassigned to Osaka in the barbarian lands on New Year’s Day. I paid handsomely in the penal realm, learning from imperial guards the true cause of his transfer.”

“Internal strife?”

Li Jun offered his conjecture.

At the Jin Yiwei deliberations, Qian Fengting had casually mentioned Yu Canghai’s expulsion from Qingcheng Group, hinting at the answer.

“Precisely.”

Xie Bi’an nodded: “Yu Canghai leveraged Qingcheng Group’s channels to smuggle for the An Nan criminals. The then-leader of An Nan, Yin Wang Ding Huan, even ascended Qingcheng Mountain to meet him.”

“Yet shortly after Ding Huan perished in Chongqing’s Golden Lou, Yu Canghai’s schemes were laid bare.”

Li Jun mused: “The interval between Ding Huan’s death and the exposure was brief.”

“Too coincidental—it seemed Qingcheng Group uncovered his misdeeds the moment Ding Huan died.”

Xie Bi’an sneered: “Thus, I believe Yu Canghai was ensnared by another’s trap.”

“You suggest Qingcheng’s higher-ups deliberately allowed the criminals to approach him?” Li Jun exclaimed in surprise: “They were so certain Yu would fall prey? The man is no fool.”

Li Jun’s words were not unfounded; Yu Canghai’s performance at the deliberations had been anything but foolish—decisive, even unnervingly so.

As the saying goes, old grudges burn fiercer when faces meet.

Given the depth of enmity between Li Jun and Yu Canghai, any ordinary soul would have drawn blades on the spot, or at least burned with rage.

Yet Yu Canghai had only briefly flinched at their first encounter, then remained impassive throughout Li Jun and Ming Wang’s disputes, his gaze cold and detached.

When he realized the tides had turned, that he stood alone and vulnerable, he swiftly aligned with Ming Wang’s faction.

Even risking the wrath of Qianhu Su Cai, he sought a sanctuary.

Such resolve and restraint surpassed common men.