Chapter 659: No Way Forward

Chapter 659: No Way Forward

“This time, both Mou An and Huo E were ensnared because the Eastern Palace was unaware that Zhang family had granted us the authority of the Confucian Order, leaving them unprepared.”

“Once everyone becomes aware, the element of surprise will be lost. So this opportunity is rare; even if we can’t fill our bellies and baskets, I must at least have a full stomach. Otherwise, we’d be heading straight to our auntie’s house.”

Zou Si Ji gazed at the distant battlefield, which was as chaotic as the streets where street fighters brawled. The sand soldiers played by the Eastern Court’s Mou Xue were beaten black and blue, obediently covering their heads and kneeling on the ground.

The restless ghost aristocrats wore grotesque smiles, having already encircled Mou An and Huo E tightly.

“But we must act swiftly, or else I fear the Eastern Palace might come to seize [the opportunity].”

Zou Si Ji’s tone was low, his eyes flashing cold light.

“Seize what? People or rules?” Ma Wang Ye asked.

“For individuals, life is more important than rules. But for a faction, rules are clearly worth more than people.”

Zou Si Ji’s face, rarely seen in such solemnity, slightly furrowed, before he suddenly inquired, “Ma Lord, have you noticed that the dream master rules of these people are somewhat odd? They don’t seem to be designed to oppose enemies, but rather to construct a house’s beams and pillars.”

“You’ve confused me a bit.”

Ma Wang Ye carefully pondered Zou Si Ji’s words: “Do you mean their dream master rules were set according to someone’s will, or a shared goal?”

“Exactly.”

Zou Si Ji nodded, his words shifting again: “But I feel it’s more likely that these dream master rules were dismantled from another’s hands and lent to them, allowing them to temporarily wield powers comparable to a dream master’s.”

“Impossible. What kind of dream master rule could cater to so many aspects?”

Ma Wang Ye exclaimed, “Moreover, the Yellow Lord’s true form would never permit anyone to set such outrageous dream master rules.”

Though a ghost aristocrat, Ma Wang Ye had long roamed the ghost aristocrat realms, facing countless battles in the Yin-Yang Order, far more than Zou Si Ji. Naturally, he understood this sequence intimately.

In truth, Zou Si Ji also deemed his theory too absurd. If it were possible, it would mean the Yellow Lord might be within reach of being replaced.

“Another possibility is that these individuals are using the rules of deceased dream masters—perhaps they are merely inheritors of the rules, not true Yin-Yang Order dream masters.”

Zou Si Ji crossed his arms, watching the two Eastern Palace junior officials being submerged by the ghost aristocrats.

“They are too weak. Without the dream master rules, they have no resistance. Here is the Yellow Lord, the dream realm; even the weakest dream master wouldn’t fall to such a state. Compared to Old Zhao, their strength is vastly inferior, not to mention the makeshift fakes from the Sheji Shu Temple.”

Zou Si Ji’s tone grew increasingly certain: “The few junior officials who stepped forward are probably all unqualified substitutes. Thus, the Eastern Palace doesn’t care about them, even if they die—it wouldn’t matter as long as the ‘Jun Wang’ title remains, for they can conjure more!”

“So you asked me to find a way to extract their dream master rules?”

Ma Wang Ye finally grasped Zou Si Ji’s intent, his expression lighting up.

“The position of the ghost aristocrat realm within the Yellow Lord is unique, plus I have the authority in hand—the Eastern Palace won’t easily find them.”

Ma Wang Ye straightened: “Understood, I’ll do my utmost.”

At this moment, the battle in the dream realm had ended completely. Under Zou Si Ji’s [Tian Di Tong Yu] and his authority’s suppression, Mou An and Huo E, devoid of resistance, were rendered unconscious and bound tightly.

“Take them back first; let’s tend to our guests properly to warm them up!”

Ma Wang Ye’s command was echoed as the participating ghost aristocrats returned along the same path. The Eastern Court’s Mou Xue also left the dream realm, feeling as though he had endured a nightmare, beaten soundly by the surrounding ghosts.

A moment later, only Zou Si Ji and Ma Wang Ye remained in Mou An’s dream realm.

“I heard Old Li went to Northern Zhidai?”

“Yes, he went to the Spring and Autumn Association.”

“Any hard-core opposition?”

“Not yet encountered. What comes next is unpredictable, for there are many who wish to block the road and others who want to push Old Li aside.”

Zou Si Ji smiled: “When will you emerge?”

“Soon. The people of the Eastern Court are sincere. To repair my ink corpse, they’ve emptied their family treasury, bringing abundant updates. Thus, it’s taking longer than expected.”

“Then we must hurry. If we later ascend Dragon Tiger Mountain without your emergence to play melodies, we’ll lose much flavor.”

“Brat, are you treating me as a jukebox?”

Ma Wang Ye lifted his hand, and the beauty in his arms immediately smiled, her gestures erratic.

“Come, tell your nephew goodbye.”

Upon hearing this, Zou Si Ji’s face twisted in distress, his mouth twitching constantly. Though he felt humiliated, his curiosity compelled him to shout after Ma Wang Ye’s back: “Ma Lord, these two aunts are both…”

“Is it not obvious?”

Ma Wang Ye turned, his expression proud: “On my left is the scorching Molten Furnace, on my right the icy Healing Chamber—one hot, one cold—this is the realm of paradise!”

“How could you introduce us like this to juniors? Truly, you’re not shy!”

Laughing around her ears, her slender hands pounding her chest.

Zou Si Ji stared, dumbfounded, then, overcome with admiration, took a deep breath and bowed deeply.

“Ma Lord, go slowly, aunts, go slowly!”

“Enough, don’t follow.”

The three, almost pressed together, crossed the portal connecting the ghost aristocrat realm and the Yellow Land realm. The rift closed, and the night withdrew from the sky. Under the reinvigorated blazing sun, the dream realm was emptied, leaving only the dried-up husk.

On the outskirts of the capital, a black steed galloped swiftly along the straight imperial highway. Zhou Changji slowly lifted his eyelids, still feigning sleep, and peered through the window to see the distant, towering, majestic palace—ninety-nine stories of terraced eaves like a glorious pagoda descended to earth.

“Li Jing, what do you mean? Are you merely making threats, or are you truly intent on killing me here?”

The darkness lingered, as dark as Zhou Changji’s eyes. Given his knowledge of Li Jing’s past deeds, boldly wrapping courage in talent would not be an overstatement. A native of Western Sichuan, he had been nurtured by the Tao Order of Qingcheng Mountain, yet still broke free through sheer fists, carving a bloody trail through the empire, his brutality unmatched in recent centuries.

Would Li Jing dare to ambush him? Zhou Changji doubted not the other’s courage. Yet he was equally certain Li Jing was no fool with power alone; otherwise, he wouldn’t have survived this long.

After Zhang Fengyue withdrew from Northern Zhidai, the capital fell under the Zhu family’s protection and boundary. If Li Jing killed Zhou Changji here, it would be tantamount to a public slap to the Zhu family. For the earnest Emperor Jiaxing, this was unacceptable.

Moreover, Zhou Changji had already entered the capital’s perimeter; even if Li Jing were a top-tier sequence three, he might not prevail against the Zhu family here.

He should clearly see the crux and discern the priorities. Thinking thus, Zhou Changji glanced at the distant, towering, majestic palace, redirecting his thoughts elsewhere.

“Sir Shen Dongqing, what provoked you so? What drove you to stake everything, pushing yourself to the brink of a cliff for a single chance at salvation?”

Zhou Changji’s slender fingers lightly tapped the car door, muttering softly.

‘The Chief of the Spring‑Autumn Society’—what did those four words mean, and he understood them in his heart.

What towering power, merely an appendage, its true worth lying in the chance to ascend to the second rank of the Confucian order.

This was precisely why Yan Dongqing would gladly sell his life to the Zhu family.

If he lost the Spring‑Autumn Society, not only would years of his spirit evaporate like mist, but he would also forfeit any hope of breaking into the sequence.

From Zhou Changji’s intimate knowledge of Yan Dongqing, the man was a master of deep scheming; he would not simply snap after tolerating servitude to the Zhu house, but would erupt in a single, decisive moment.

Surely there were secrets hidden within, things he did not yet comprehend.

And it was inevitably tied to the advancement of the second rank of the Confucian order.

Zhou Changji unraveled the mystery before him, step by step probing the cause of Yan Dongqing’s sudden rebellion.

Yan Dongqing’s lineage was modest, even inferior to that of Zhou Changji, born of a humble scholar’s gate.

He emerged from a Confucian temple in a county of North Zhili, climbing the ladder of the order entirely by his own merit.

Beyond that, every detail of Yan Dongqing—parents, upbringing, history—remained a sealed enigma, known to no one.

Their first encounter coincided with the decisive clash within Zhou Changji’s own clan.

Within the Confucian order, great houses are said to be as deep as the sea, yet even small families bear no warmth, for only the former clan head holds a half‑official post.

From a certain angle, an official post is a seat of power, and also a rung in the hierarchical order.

In the imperial court ruled by gatekeepers, inheriting a predecessor’s office is the only swift path; to rise on one’s own is as hard as scaling heaven.

If later descendants do not strive, they are likely to remain forever outside the civil service.

Without entering the service, one knows not the currents of the bureaucratic sea, and thus cannot master the art of governing hearts.

Without the robe of office, no one respects or fears you, and the rites remain unformed.

Without disciples, you command no one, and martial music falters.

Without a forged will, your bow and crossbow grow weak, and archery fails.

Without renown, your calligraphy and painting attract no attention, and the literary arts wither.

Without heavy authority, you cannot steer the times, and the art of strategy remains undeveloped.

When the Six Arts are incomplete, the Confucian order bears no distinction from ordinary mortals.

Thus Zhou Changji must contend with his own blood‑brother, a fight to the death, you or I.

Alas, at that time Zhou Changji was too weak, his elders favored others, and he was left with little resistance, driven to the brink.

It was Yan Dongqing who rescued him, pulling him into the flourishing Spring‑Autumn Society and elevating him to the rank of the ‘Four Scholars of Spring and Autumn.’

Zhou Changji once asked Yan Dongqing why he would aid a man who, to him, was no more than an ant beneath his feet.

"Ambition and disgust," he replied. "I see in you the same hunger, and the same revulsion for the Confucian order’s servitude to the throne."

Yan Dongqing’s answer lodged itself in Zhou Changji’s memory, indelibly etched to this day.

Therefore, Zhou Changji was not surprised by Yan Dongqing’s betrayal of the Zhu Ming imperial house.

Even the Zhu family likely anticipated this, for Emperor Jiaqi was no fool and could not afford to be unprepared for the Society’s members.

Otherwise, once freed from control, the Society might become another Donglin faction—a tragic joke of blood‑soaked scheming nurtured like a tiger that turns on its master.

Consequently, the Zhu family had been watching Yan Dongqing closely, though they underestimated his decisiveness.

As his thoughts deepened, Zhou Changji saw that Yan Dongqing’s moment of rebellion, though appearing rash, was in fact most cunning.

On the grand scale, the ‘New Three Teachings’—Confucianism, Daoism, and Yin‑Yang—stood locked in a tense standoff.

No one wished to strike first; all waited for a chance to shatter the balance.

Subtly, within the Confucian order, Zhang Fengyue made the first move, the Zhu family retreated, and the Society’s spirit waned as factional strife erupted.

At that juncture, Yan Dongqing displayed the vigor of a chief, unyielding in avenging Xu Haichao, thereby winning renown among the wavering Confucian ranks.

Indeed, events unfolded precisely along that line.

Moreover, as turmoil intensified, the Zhu family’s strength would inevitably grow.

For the Zhu family’s foundation remained in the chaotic realm where they wielded formidable power.

If Yan Dongqing rebelled then, he might stir no splash at all, sinking to the river’s depths.

Thus it showed that Yan Dongqing, though still gambling, was not acting on hot blood but with deliberate aim.

"Chief, you still, as before, are willing to sacrifice everything for a rank," he asked. "Is surpassing Zhang Fengyue truly that paramount to you?"

Zhou Changji’s lips curled into a faint smile.

He understood Yan Dongqing, knowing the man’s lifelong ambition was to eclipse the empire’s chief minister, Zhang Fengyue.

Hence he would stop at nothing to become the second‑rank party chief, steadfast in building a Confucian realm that outshone the gatekeepers.

"You have loosened your grip, then what of me?"

The smile faded from his mouth as Zhou Changji asked himself inwardly.

Having taken the helm of the Spring‑Autumn Society, he had, for the moment, saved his life—yet what path lay ahead for him?

Zhou Changji’s gaze passed through the carriage window, returning to the towering palace, where an indescribable, ineffable glimmer flickered in his eyes.

Suddenly, he recalled a verse from years past, when he and Wei Sheng and others, hidden in the shadow of the New Donglin Party, had used it to buoy each other.

"If one’s resolve does not move mountains, the heavens may yet rewrite history—why fear that the annals will not record one’s deeds?"

"!"

A sudden, thunderous detonation ripped through the air above the carriage, shattering the weight that had pressed the window.

The speeding carriage screeched against the road, halting amid a rolling plume of acrid white smoke.

Two pallid lanterns illuminated a figure that seemed to fall from the heavens.

A black‑red lightning veil vanished, revealing Li Jun’s cold, sharp eyes.

"You are too slow, Zhou Changji."

In the heart of the capital, a warrior drenched in killing intent stood bare‑fisted, stepping over the road ahead.