Chapter 248: Can You Drink A Cup

Chapter 248: Can You Drink a Cup?

In Tang Wanzhuang’s home.

Baoqin stood guard outside the guest quarters, her face flushed with embarrassment.

What kind of business was this—bringing a man back to bathe, then vanishing in a flash, leaving poor Baoqin to attend to him?

Luckily, he looked disgusted and shooed her out like a pig; otherwise, would she have had to serve him inside the bath?

No, wait—what right did you, a stinking bear, have to disdain Baoqin? You haven’t even paid for those broken zither strings yet!

Tang Wanzhuang appeared before her: “What are you standing here for?”

Baoqin stammered: “Didn’t you tell me to serve him?”

Tang Wanzhuang rubbed her forehead in exasperation: “I told you to arrange for someone to fetch water. Once that was done, you should have gone about your own business. What were you thinking? It’s been nearly an hour—do you think he’s pickled vegetables, soaking this long?”

Baoqin: “...I could soak that long.”

“You’re nothing but a pickled vegetable!” Tang Wanzhuang glanced at the door and lowered her voice with some anticipation: “Standing out here all this time, did you hear any zither music from inside?”

“No,” Baoqin lectured. “Miss, he’s just a stinking bear.”

Tang Wanzhuang made excuses for him: “It’s already the hour of the ox. No one plays the zither at this hour.”

Baoqin eyed her sidelong without a word.

Tang Wanzhuang coughed dryly and knocked lightly on the door.

From inside came Zhao Changhe’s voice: “Come in.”

Tang Wanzhuang pushed the door open and saw at once Zhao Changhe, draped in a robe, sitting by the window with a brush in hand, writing something.

Rain pattered outside the window; a green lamp flickered on the table.

A man in a robe, brush in hand, bent over his desk in the dead of night.

Tang Wanzhuang’s heart skipped a beat involuntarily. She felt as if this scene were something from her dreams—more stirring than the imagined image of him playing the zither.

Pity she wasn’t bringing him a bowl of hot soup, but instead asking when he would leave.

“What are you writing?” She strolled over slowly, peeking discreetly.

It was a martial arts manual.

“From my earlier agreement with Sisi, I’m supposed to supply her with Sword Emperor manuals on a long-term basis. The last set wasn’t extensive, and it only reached the Secret Vault level before I ran out. I doubt it’s enough for them, so it’s time for something new.” Zhao Changhe wrote as he spoke. “It was a promise after all. On ordinary days, I’m always in a hurry and never have the chance to write. But here at your place, seeing paper and brush reminded me.”

Tang Wanzhuang blurted out: “It’s because it’s Sisi, isn’t it? If it were a man?”

Zhao Changhe turned his head and gave her a strange look: “When I made a pact with Han Wubing, I braved thorns and traveled a thousand miles to meet him—and he wasn’t a woman. A man’s vow has nothing to do with that.”

Tang Wanzhuang realized she had lost her composure and hid her feelings by looking down at his writing: “Just a passing remark. Hmm... has this set of yours broken through the Secret Vault level?”

“No, it’s just another compilation. Besides high-end techniques, they also need quantity—after all, they’re a whole clan.”

“Mm...” Seeing that he had steered the conversation away from the topic of men and women, Tang Wanzhuang breathed a sigh of relief.

Zhao Changhe had no mind for idle chatter; he was rushing to finish the manuscript, ready to leave. Lingering until dawn would be bad.

Tang Wanzhuang stood quietly beside him, just as she had in Suzhou, habitually reaching out to grind ink for him.

The lamplight flickered, and the rain-soaked room grew even quieter.

His handwriting was getting better and better. Though he never practiced deliberately, the wild, untamed sharpness was increasingly restrained, replaced by a dignified grandeur. Yet, upon closer inspection, the strokes concealed a hidden edge, as if ready to burst through the paper at any moment.

The writing mirrored the man. This was what he was like now.

After who knows how long, Baoqin’s voice came from outside the door: “Miss, Yang Yaowu and the others just reported that everything is ready. There are at least eighteen Zhao Changhes fully prepared to depart. Sir Zhao’s horse is also in the back courtyard, ready to go at any moment.”

The quiet night was abruptly shattered. Zhao Changhe stopped writing; Tang Wanzhuang snapped back to reality.

They exchanged a glance and smiled faintly.

“All done.” Zhao Changhe handed over the manuscript. “I should take my leave.”

Tang Wanzhuang felt a pang of regret and said softly: “Next time, don’t be so rash. In the end, the timing isn’t right.”

“Mm. If I had your strength, I’d have turned the capital upside down. All these scruples are a nuisance.” Zhao Changhe stood up, stretched, and suddenly smiled: “Coming to the capital, dashing around all night to several places—I don’t even know what I’ve been doing. In the end, I find that being by your side is the most relaxing. I don’t have to think about anything.”

Tang Wanzhuang pouted: “Aren’t you still racking your brains over the manual?”

“Compared to everything else, this is practically leisure.” Zhao Changhe picked up his saber, leaning against the table. “But honestly, I don’t really want it to be like this.”

Tang Wanzhuang was taken aback: “Huh?”

Zhao Changhe turned and walked out the door: “Next time, I hope that with me around, you won’t have to think about anything.”

Tang Wanzhuang stared fixedly at his retreating back. She did not see him off, nor did she speak.

He had always been putting this into practice, all so that someone might cough a few times less.

...

As if by fate, just as Zhao Changhe spurred his horse away from Tang Wanzhuang’s home, the torrential rain suddenly stopped, leaving only a fine drizzle, as if to see him off.

At the same time, the clatter of hooves rose. Eighteen “Zhao Changhes” scattered in all directions—eighteen horses that looked roughly alike, eighteen sabers that looked roughly alike—and they left the capital through its four gates almost simultaneously, then fanned out in various directions.

Tang Wanzhuang resisted the urge to climb to a high place to watch him go. She feared her gaze might reveal the real Zhao Changhe.

Huangfu Qing stood on a height with keen interest, her eyes sweeping over the scattered “Zhao Changhes,” as if testing whether she could pick out the real one.

Her gaze finally settled on the figure heading south. It was actually quite easy to recognize. After all, where could one find so many Snow-stepping Dark Stallions in a short time? Most of the horses’ hooves had been painted white, and the faces couldn’t all be disguised to look exactly like Zhao Changhe. But at a quick glance, they were hard to tell apart—though not for her, who had been prepared.

This fellow deliberately went south. To reach Yanmen, he could have taken the west or north gates. Going south meant a long detour. Huangfu Qing was used to his roundabout ways.

She watched the figure fade into the distance and sighed softly.

This time, letting him come to the capital had thrown the entire situation off course. Her original plan was for him to slip in quietly, known to no one but herself. She would arrange matters in the palace, make a show of visiting her brother, then drag him out of the capital and head to the grasslands together.

But he had been called out at the city gate, stirring up a storm. He couldn’t hide, and he didn’t want to. So everywhere he went, it was like rushing from one scene to another, unable to accomplish anything. Leaving the capital on such a night, she couldn’t very well follow—she had only just returned, with a mountain of unfinished business. Her hidden position in the palace couldn’t be wasted.

She knew his choice was right, and that it was also right not to let her follow. Yet Huangfu Qing still felt a twinge of regret.

Luring him to the capital had been a mistake. It was too early. Perhaps the carefree laughter and playful banter of the Sword Lake Mist and Rain, with the pig-face mask on, as they journeyed north—that easy, unbridled joy—would never come again.

His figure left the city, vanishing from sight. Huangfu Qing pulled out the pig-face mask, her slender hand tightening as if to crush it.

But her hand froze in midair, and after a long moment, she tucked it back into her bosom.

A trusted aide nearby whispered: “Your Grace, a message from the grasslands.”

“Oh?”

“The Black Tortoise Venerable said he understands. If he goes to the grasslands, the Venerable will make contact.”

“Good.” Huangfu Qing stretched out her hand to catch the fine drizzle and murmured softly: “He’s still not strong enough... His boldness is his spirit, but inwardly he’s fragile, unable to withstand the storm. I wonder, when he breaks through the barrier and enters the Secret Vault, then returns to the capital—what will the wind and rain be like?”

Zhao Changhe reached the southern outskirts of the capital, ten li away, in the fine rain.

The sky was just beginning to lighten. Ten li away stood a pavilion, beside it a post station, and outside the station, a breakfast stall where a few scattered people were drinking congee and eating steamed buns.

Zhao Changhe dismounted, planning to have some breakfast before continuing.

As he stepped into the stall, his gaze was drawn to a gaunt, elderly man.

The man was drinking wine. At this early hour, while others drank congee, he sipped wine, one peanut per sip, looking utterly content.

His robes were embroidered, his bearing refined—he seemed like a cultured high official. Yet no attendants accompanied him; he sat alone, drinking by himself.

Zhao Changhe's gaze seemed to stir something in the other. The old man turned his head to look at him, smiled slightly, and said, "Young brother, this wine gourd of yours is not bad... it seems we share the same taste. At this clear autumn season, after the sudden rain has just ceased, in the faint dawn of the long pavilion, can you share a cup with me?"