Chapter 83: The Wind Rises By The Lakeside

Chapter 83: Wind Rises by the Lake

Zhao Changhe enjoyed three days of leisure.

By night, he read by lamplight, immersed in history. By day, he learned horsemanship, and when tired, he would hold Little White Rabbit under the willows by the riverbank, hiding from the distant riders, stealing kisses behind the trees.

The Snow-Treading Black Steed and the Black Peony wandered nearby, watching the couple... who knew if they sparked anything between them, sneaking off to mate on their own. In any case, the man and woman under the tree were lost in passion, too preoccupied to mind what their horses were up to.

Little White Rabbit had initially been displeased about her beloved horse mating, but since it was Brother Zhao's horse, it seemed fine...

After all, it was meant to happen—from humans to horses.

The Snow-Treading Black Steed had also grown docile now; jumping around would earn it a beating, but behaving meant a mare's company—even a horse knew what to do.

Besides, this master was truly formidable. In just three days, he had evolved from a complete novice who couldn't ride at all to performing advanced moves like hiding in the stirrups, like a man who had spent years on horseback, showing no sign of being a beginner.

Cui Yuanyang also noticed that Brother Zhao learned anything athletic exceptionally fast. In contrast, whenever he went to the study to read, his eyes would glaze over, and he'd grow drowsy.

When he talked about studying the history of the epochs, he was full of enthusiasm, but once seated, his eyes went blurry. After three days, she had no idea how much he had actually read or how many words he had retained.

Hmm, just like when Yuanyang used to be forced to memorize inner cultivation techniques—truly a match made in heaven.

He was right; someone like him shouldn't bother with court affairs. He was born to roam the martial world in fine clothes and a spirited horse, commanding the winds and clouds.

But Yuanyang grew more reluctant by the day.

In truth, the Great Xia Dragon Sparrow had been dealt with the day before yesterday; Zhao Changhe could have left then. Learning horsemanship and history were good excuses to stay two more days. But reading was endless, and horsemanship had a standard—once learned, it meant he could leave at any time...

Cui Yuanyang even felt that Brother Zhao's kisses weren't as passionate as two days ago, though she wasn't sure if it was just her imagination.

Of course, it was her imagination. Zhao Changhe hadn't even dared to kiss the girl's lips properly; a peck on the cheek had nothing to do with passion... His feelings for Yuanyang had always been more about affection than desire, and he didn't know if that would change when they met again.

"Brother Zhao..." The wind rustled the willows, and the girl leaned into her lover's shoulder, tracing circles, her eyes dreamy as she murmured.

"Hmm?" Zhao Changhe reached out to tease her chin. "What's wrong?"

"Tomorrow is Qingming. Our whole family will be performing ancestral rites. What happened with Second Uncle and the others—we need to report it to the ancestors and execute them before the spirit tablets."

"Hmm, I haven't seen your father these past two days. I suppose the aftermath of that matter is quite troublesome. Your Second Uncle had such a large influence; handling it must be a tangled mess. It wasn't easy for him to find time to chat with me that night."

"In front of outsiders, he always has to appear calm and composed." Cui Yuanyang said softly. "I've always felt that Father lives a very tiring life. Ranked ninth on the Heavenly List, from a prestigious family—everyone looks up to him. But I think he's not as free and easy as Brother Zhao, who roams the martial world with just a blade."

"So that's why the little fool envied the storms of the martial world and got tricked by mountain bandits."

"Hmph..." Cui Yuanyang didn't say that it was fortunate she had met Brother Zhao; they had said enough sweet nothings over the past two days. What she wanted to say was that, precisely because of this, Yuanyang didn't want to be a burden, dragging Brother Zhao down and making him cautious, turning him into a second Cui Wenjing.

In a way, letting the martial world think that Zhao Changhe had been driven away by the Cui family was a good thing. He would remain unencumbered, striding forward boldly.

But the girl ultimately didn't say that. She mentioned that everyone would be performing ancestral rites tomorrow, and the meaning was clear.

She didn't want to face a farewell, crying and sobbing, with a month of lingering sorrow; Zhao Changhe probably didn't like clinging and lingering either. Leaving while they were occupied with the rites was ideal.

So she provided the timing, and they understood each other without words.

Yuanyang had always known her limits.

...

April 5th, Qingming Festival.

There had been a light rain during the night, which stopped at dawn. Now, mist hung heavy, the sky dim, with a waning moon still slanting at the horizon, faintly visible.

In the inn, Zhao Changhe gently stroked the Great Xia Dragon Sparrow, which had been painted to look like an ancient, rusted blade. "Mid-tier blade, don't be impatient. Big Brother will take you out to kill people."

The blade hummed, a mix of dissatisfaction and joy.

Zhao Changhe slowly hung it on his back and looked at himself in the bronze mirror.

A towering man over eight feet tall, with a four-foot broadsword strapped to his back, the long hilt protruding diagonally from his shoulder—an imposing sight from afar. Zhao Changhe was increasingly pleased with the blade; he could almost be woken by his own handsomeness.

His scholar's brocade robe had been replaced by a warrior's tight-fitting outfit, no longer crimson or purple, but a low-key gray-brown. A worn wine gourd hung askew at his waist, and with the stubble he had deliberately left unshaven for two days, the unruly, arrogant air of a rogue outlaw was reflected in the mirror once more.

"Dong!" A bell tolled from a distant hill—the Cui family's summons for the ancestral rites.

Zhao Changhe turned to look into the distance. Amid the mist, the mountain was indistinct.

But he knew there was a young girl walking along the mountain path, turning her head again and again to look back at the inn.

He stared for a long moment, then packed his bags, strode out the door, and mounted the Snow-Treading Black Steed.

The fine horse neighed, and in the morning mist, its hooves echoed through the silent streets of Qinghe Commandery, heading straight for the river beyond.

On the hilltop, Cui Yuanyang had just reached the summit when she seemed to sense something and turned to look into the distance.

The thin mist gradually cleared, but she still couldn't see any figure. Yet she could vaguely make out the willow bank by the river, the dawn breeze, and the waning moon.

The girl, who had never been one for deep reading, suddenly recalled fragments of verses passed down from the previous epoch.

"From now on, for years to come, fine times and lovely scenes will be set in vain."

"Even if there are a thousand kinds of feelings, to whom can they be told?"

These were famous lines that had survived across epochs, for upon reading them again, one knew they were already in the poem.

"Father." She suddenly tugged at Cui Wenjing's sleeve ahead of her. "After the rites, Yuanyang requests to be confined in meditation. Please teach me the Qinghe Purple Qi."

Cui Wenjing was greatly relieved and stroked his beard. "Very good."

Cui Yuanyang looked once more toward the river beyond the commandery and murmured to herself, "You must wait for me... In three years, don't forget Yuanyang."

...

A thousand li southeast, Ancient Sword Lake.

By the lake stood a bamboo grove, within which was a thatched hut, and beside the hut, a grave.

Han Wubing sat quietly beside the grave, his long sword laid horizontally before the tombstone. He opened a flask of warm wine and slowly poured it over the blade, occasionally taking a sip himself, as if drinking with the sword, or perhaps performing some kind of ritual.

After an unknown time, in the thin mist, the bamboo grove stirred in the wind.

The gourd was empty.

Han Wubing placed the empty gourd squarely before the tombstone and picked up the sword, now drenched in wine.

"Han Wubing, I knew you would come."

Figures loomed all around, a siege already in place.

Han Wubing did not turn his head, still gazing at the grave. "I also knew you would come."

"Then why come to die? Losing your life for a visit to a grave—what's the point?"

"Because I felt the visit was missing something. Wine alone wasn't enough."

"Oh? Missing your bounty? Ha... haha..."

"Wine without blood—I was missing the heads of my enemies. You've come just in time."

"Clang!" A dragon's cry arose, sword light cold as frost, the bamboo grove's mist scattered by the fierce killing intent.

Zhao Changhe, midway on his horse, suddenly reined in and looked up at the sky.

"April, Qingming. Han Wubing comprehends the sword at his friend's grave, breaks through to the fifth level of the Profound Gate. Within one incense stick's time, he slays all thirty-two enemies from the Sword Hut, blood-sacrificing his close friend. Among them, one opponent of equal rank; those below fell in a single move. His killing aura pierces the nine heavens."

"Changes on the Hidden Dragon List."

"Hidden Dragon Sixty-Six: Han Wubing."

"His own affliction, his enemy's doom."

Zhao Changhe watched for a long while, then suddenly smiled: "These past months, the profiteering book compilers have been grinning from ear to ear. I've heard that in the old days, the Book of Chaos didn't change so frequently. Is this a sign that storms are brewing and heroes are emerging?"

He patted the horse's head and laughed: "Wuzhui, do you feel impatient?"

Snow-treading Wuzhui: "..."

I'm just a horse, what are you saying...

"Let's go." Zhao Changhe spurred his horse and galloped away: "My opponent is waiting ahead, how can I fall behind!"