Chapter 482: The Curtain Rises

Chapter 482: The Curtain Rises

The sudden appearance of Pei Xianjie brought the imminent battle to an abrupt halt.

With just a few words, he forced every member of the Confucian aristocracy present to kneel, leaving them powerless to resist.

The onlookers before the household office stared in stunned silence; Chen Qisheng's expression grew solemn as he clenched his teeth and whispered, 'What an overbearing Confucian Three, Minister of Heavenly Officials!'

‘Master, why have you suddenly come to the Wa region?’

Yang Baize, astonished by his teacher's prowess, was also bewildered by Pei Xianjie's unexpected arrival.

Knowing his teacher's temperament, he understood that unless an elder of the Confucian order disregarded propriety and stepped onto the field himself, he would never lower his status to enter the Wa region and join the youths' quarrel.

‘I am old; I cannot bear to see white-haired parents bury black-haired children. Moreover, I have only you as my student—if you were slain, who would support me in my old age?’

Pei Xianjie rolled his eyes and rubbed the corner of his eye.

This gesture, paired with his dust‑stained long robe, bore no trace of a Confucian sage’s bearing; were it not for the crowd kneeling around him, he would simply be a grumpy, down‑on‑his‑luck old man.

‘How could this be.’

Yang Baize, stepping closer, wore an embarrassed grin, chuckling nervously.

‘It seems you still haven’t grasped the magnitude of the storm you’re caught in.’

Pei Xianjie gave a cold snort, no longer looking at his dazed disciple, and waved toward the household office.

‘Young friend, may I borrow your gun for a moment?’

‘Of course, sir—catch!’

Fan Wujou shouted back, heaved his arm, and flung the ‘Tiger‑Guard’ spear he held.

Without a visible motion, Pei Xianjie snatched the whirling spear from the air and thrust it into the bewildered Yang Baize’s chest.

‘Do you remember the marksmanship I taught you? Aim for his head and fire.’

Pei Xianjie pointed with his chin at the kneeling Wang Changting, his tone flat: ‘The Confucian order lacks the myriad strange life‑saving tricks of other sequences; one life equals ten thousand. Our weakness lies in the head—if the skull is shattered, no matter the sequence, death is inevitable.’

Yang Baize, who had resolved to fight to the death, now gazed at the defenseless Wang Changting at his feet, a hesitant look crossing his face: ‘Master, if we keep him alive a little longer, wouldn’t he be more useful?’

‘The living have their uses, the dead theirs as well; you must learn to weigh what is light and what is heavy.’

Pei Xianjie stood behind Yang Baize, his voice icy: ‘Many eyes are watching you now. This shot must be fired, and it must be you who fires it.’

Yang Baize, lost in thought, slowly curled his finger around the trigger.

‘Lord Pei!’

A shrill wail escaped Wang Changting’s lips.

Under the threat of death, he wrested back a fragment of bodily control from the ‘servitude’ genes, his neck bones cracking as he tremulously lifted his head.

‘Lord Pei, you have broken the rules. If you kill me today, tomorrow the Wang clan of Langya will slay Yang Baize in the same fashion!’

‘Again, it’s your aristocratic clan’s petty tit‑for‑tat, old‑for‑old nonsense.’

Pei Xianjie snorted derisively: ‘Your Wang house boasts thousands of direct descendants, while my disciple and I have only two lives. Would they dare move against Yang Baize? No—they fear that if I rage and resign my post, I will unleash myself upon the Wang clan.’

‘The rules of the Confucian order flow from top to bottom, never from bottom to top. Those weaker than I, who fear my retribution, must obey the rules—for that is how they preserve themselves. I, however, need not.’

Pei Xianjie lowered his gaze to lock eyes with Wang Changting; his dark pupils devoured the other's reluctance and hatred.

‘In consideration of the little courage you still have to raise the rules with me, I will let you die with understanding today. Blame this on the old fogeys of the New Donglin faction; had they not changed their minds mid‑course and sought to blow things up, I would at most have saved Yang Baize’s life at the last moment—but I would not have spared you.’

Bang!

A sudden burst of gunfire flared in Wang Changting’s vision; a bullet spat flame, enlarging incessantly before his eyes.

Shattered flesh and blood sprayed in a fan across the ground; the mangled corpse, caught in kinetic force, tumbled away.

At the same moment, those around bearing the Wang clan’s Confucian seal collapsed one after another, including the gaunt Farm Sequence Four laborer. A foul, putrid stench rose from their twitching bodies.

The only one still kneeling was the military marquis of the Soldier Sequence Four belonging to the Liu household.

‘The Confucian seal belongs to one of the Six Arts, “Control”—a vile technique that brainwashes and rewrites another’s thoughts, imprinting an irreversible steel mark of absolute loyalty to the Confucian order. Its application is wide, its corrosiveness extreme. One who bears the seal has his genes contaminated; he can never raise his sequence rank, and his offspring stand a high chance of inheriting the mark. Even if he escapes by luck, the imprint will seep in from his parents’ upbringing, marking him forever as a slave to the seal’s master.’

Pei Xianjie, now lecturing Yang Baize with patient clarity, continued: ‘The flaw of this art is plain: a slave and his seal‑master die together, yet are not reborn alike. With Wang Changting dead, his followers cannot survive. Moreover, the Confucian seal cannot be shed by its bearer alone, but it may be rewritten by those of the Zongheng or Yin‑Yang sequences, turning the bearer into a pawn in another’s hand.’

Yang Baize, following Pei Xianjie’s gaze, aimed the gun barrel at the military marquis’s chest.

‘For such wretched souls, death is a release.’

Pei Xianjie crouched, patted the soldier’s shoulder, and whispered, ‘Give up resistance; I will grant you a swift passage.’

There was no reply, yet the man’s upper body, knotted with sinew, suddenly unraveled strand by strand, snapping back into the mechanical core.

The exposed mechanical heart lay bare; Yang Baize even felt the faint lift of the man’s chest, drawing his own heart ever closer to the muzzle.

‘Steady your hand—don’t let him suffer any longer.’

Pei Xianjie braced his knees, rose, and gazed upon the dimly lit Confucian Temple, letting out a slow sigh.

Bang!

‘Sir, what did you mean by what you just said?’

Xie Bianan rushed forward, clasped his fists, and urged, ‘What do you mean by the New Donglin faction wanting to blow things up?’

‘You must be Xie Bianan—a clever fellow.’

Pei Xianjie gave a faint nod of approval, then said slowly: ‘You risked your lives to aid Baize, so I will not be stingy today. Zhang Fengyue’s reform originally aimed to gather the scattered sin‑districts beyond the imperial heartland, merge them into provinces, and expand the realm. Now he wishes to add one more deed: to raise the banner.’

Xie Bianan staggered as if struck by lightning, blurting, ‘A thousand households?!’

‘That banner of the martial sequence, planted in the empire’s largest—and most restless—sin‑district, awes all quarters. Though we walk different paths, I, Pei Xianjie, admire Su Ce.’

Pei Xianjie’s expression grew wistful: ‘But if the sin‑district disappears, the banner will no longer be needed.’

‘Everyone, gather! We march for Edo Castle!’

Xie Bianan whirled about, sprinted toward the household office, and shouted in fury.

‘All of the Pacification Office’

‘You stay in Qian Shan City!’

Yang Baize’s face flushed red; he stared fixedly at his teacher’s back, his voice hoarse: ‘Why?’

‘The affair at Edo Castle is none of your concern—going there would only be a pointless death.’

Pei Xianjie’s tone turned hard, leaving no room for doubt: ‘My presence here today has already repaid the debt you owe Qian Shan City; Li Jun will hold no grudge against you.’

‘Can it really be counted that way? Can it truly be repaid thus?’

Yang Baize’s voice rose sharply, fierce: ‘Master, you never taught me this. Even if you block me today, I will still go!’

‘Xu Zhun!’

The silent old clerk appeared behind Yang Baize and gave a light tap to the neural implant at the base of his skull.

Yang Baize felt his vision darken, his body going limp as he slumped into Xu Zhun’s arms.

At that moment, footsteps thundered within the Qian Shan City hundred‑household office, and a fleet of black steeds let out low growls.

Pei Xianjie, who had chosen to stand apart, watched all this with a cold eye.

‘Old sir, please return our household office’s guns to us.’

The translation unfolds in a tapestry woven with ink and whispers, where shadows dance upon the page, each word a brushstroke upon the canvas, guiding the reader through a labyrinth of meaning, where silence breathes and light trembles, a dance both ancient and new, binding past to present in a singular thread, each line a note in the symphony of the unspoken, a testament to craftsmanship etched in deliberate strokes, where form and essence intertwine, leaving traces only the eye can discern, a silent dialogue between creator and observer, eternal in its quiet pursuit, a testament to the artistry that transcends mere words, yet remains anchored in the tangible, a bridge spanning realms unseen yet deeply felt.