Chapter 111: Fairy Tingyun

Chapter 111 The Celestial Maiden of Stopping Clouds

The night draped itself over Chengdu like a silk robe embroidered with stars. Especially in the bustling West Market, where lanterns swayed like fireflies in the cool air. As the clouds parted, a full moon rose, its silver light mingling with the scattered starlight, painting the streets in hues of gold and shadow. Wooden buildings with upturned eaves lined both sides of the thoroughfare, their rooftops gleaming like the scales of two ancient dragons coiled through the night. Beneath the eaves, red lanterns cast a warm glow, their flickering flames painting the faces of passersby in shifting light. The street thrived with life—scholars in flowing robes, merchants with round bellies, and wandering warriors clad in short tunics, their weapons sheathed at their sides. Yet none paid heed to the subtle details lurking in the shadows.

Instead, Chen Yi sat cross-legged on a high balcony, sipping tea as he observed the street below. To him, unaided by the Xuanwu Subduing Technique, his eyes could still discern the movements of those lurking near the Bao Grass House. Like the elderly herb-seller nearest to it, his face weathered by time but his eyes sharp as a hawk’s, unmistakably alert despite his frail appearance. Or the small vendor at the corner, whose gaze darted restlessly, his body taut as a bowstring, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Then there were the two figures crouched in the shadows—a short, stout man and a tall, gaunt one, dressed like beggars, their gestures and words indistinguishable from the real thing. Yet their pairing raised suspicions. Especially the stout man, whose flushed cheeks and healthy complexion defied the look of a destitute wanderer.

Chen Yi frowned, yet saw no trace of the Phantom Melody Sect’s dark disciples. Not the one from the Tianshan Sect—Xie Pingyun—nor the investigator from the Xiao family. As the hour neared its end, his attention turned to the shops near Bao Grass House: a tailoring shop, a grain store, an inn, and a sign reading “Fang Family Maritime Trade Office.” Closer inspection revealed oddities, particularly the carriages entering and exiting the trade office, their rhythmic breathing audible even from a distance. The inn, too, held secrets, though he could not yet discern if the patrons were mere travelers or something far more sinister.

Then, low voices drifted from the corner. The stout man spoke, his voice tinged with unease: “Brother Ning, tonight feels off.” The thin man glanced up, his expression blank. “What’s wrong?” “Look at them—every one of them carries meat. But the smell… it’s wrong.” “Get out of my way. If you want to eat, go ahead.” “Wait—the scent… it’s laced with medicinal herbs.”

At the words, Chen Yi’s breath hitched. He pressed a damp cloth to his face, pinching his nose, then leaned back as a hush fell over the street. From the oil-paper packages carried by the crowd, white smoke began to rise—hundreds of them, billowing into the air like a ghostly veil. The smoke spread in an instant, choking the street with its acrid fog. Pedestrians collapsed, their screams muffled beneath the choking haze. Even the tavern where Chen Yi lounged echoed with the sharp clatter of dishes and bowls hitting the floor. Somewhere below, a voice shouted in frustration: “Dammit, why didn’t you say something sooner?” “Quick—blow the whistle!” “Shhh—”

A piercing whistle sliced through the air. Chen Yi slipped a cotton plug into his ear, then feigned a fainting spell, leaning against the window with half-closed eyes. He watched the chaos unfold, certain the cultists were too crude to plan such a trap. Yet their cleverness earned a grudging respect from the city’s law enforcement and guards, who now hesitated to act.

Then, a haunting melody began—a strange, ethereal tune that seemed to weep and wail like spirits in torment. Chen Yi pressed deeper into his mind, sealing his ears with spiritual energy, blocking out the sound. He’d heard such music before from the Phantom Melody Sect—how they twisted melodies into weapons.

From the shadows, four figures emerged, their bodies shrouded in black robes. They moved with impossible speed, faster than Chen Yi’s own Star-Butterfly Step, their martial prowess unmistakable. In moments, they stood before Bao Grass House. Each held a different instrument: a lute, a pipa, a flute, and a gong. Their purpose was clear—the lute’s eerie notes laced with a soporific herb, its melody lulling listeners into a deathly trance.

Chen Yi watched, heart pounding, as they strode into the courtyard with arrogant ease, sweat beading on his brow. His duty was done; whether he lived or died now hinged on Xie Pingyun’s strength.

A deep voice boomed from within the courtyard: “Who dares enter?” Then, a woman’s voice rang out: “It is Xie Pingyun of the Tianshan Sect.” Chen Yi’s pulse quickened—she had arrived long before this.

Inside, the air erupted with a cacophony of sounds. The lute’s mournful tune clashed with the flute’s sharp notes, the gong’s thunderous beats, and the pipa’s frantic strings. “Fools of the Phantom Melody Sect—don’t think you can toy with ghostly melodies!” one of them roared. “Try me again, and I’ll slice your skulls and carry you off!”

As soon as his words faded, Chen Yì saw the four hooded figures who had rushed into the Bai Caotang fleeing in panic.

A spectral blade followed closely behind, *shing*—two sharp slashes cleaved through a hooded figure, severing his leg.

Fresh blood spilled onto the ground, and the stone slabs beneath were neatly split apart.

Chen Yì’s eyelids twitched, his gaze lingering on the blade’s power. *Is this what martial arts masters are like? Sword qi?*

He’d waited so long to come to the Dali Kingdom to witness the legendary masters of the Jianghu.

Before he could ponder further, a figure in a white gown emerged—Xie Tingyun, her long sword sheathed at her side.

Her feet barely brushed the earth as she glided forward, her blade painting two elegant arcs in the air.

Dozens of sword qi streaked across the night, their forms unmistakable even in the darkness.

With each *shing* of steel, the blade’s path left nothing unscathed within ten zhang—trees, stones, grass, all severed as if sliced by wind.

“Chief disciple of the Tianshan Sect, Xie Tingyun—retreat!”

“Don’t run! I’ve got questions for you.”

“Have you heard from the Huan Yin Sect’s elder, Daolao Jia, in Shu Zhou? I’ve got matters to settle with him!”

The Huan Yin Sect disciples said nothing, retreating swiftly while fighting their way backward, drawing Xie Tingyun further away.

Chen Yì watched this spectacle and felt a chill. Had they really been so easily lured away by a simple ploy?

The man behind them had clearly prepared a thick veil of smoke, anticipating their arrival.

Beyond the four Huan Yin Sect disciples, Chen Yì suspected others were waiting to ambush the Bai Caotang.

Indeed, not long after, another group appeared on the street—travelers from a nearby inn, all sturdy-built figures.

They weren’t weaklings; Chen Yì hadn’t heard their labored breaths earlier.

After gathering at the corner, they surged into the Bai Caotang again.

Soon, a contingent from the escort bureau emerged as well.

“Take them all!”

Chen Yì glanced at the speaker and paused—none other than his uncle, Xiao Xuanhuang.

Behind him stood familiar faces among the armored guards: Liu Sier, Wang Lixing, and others.

Hearing the command, the earlier travelers tensed. “Careful—there’s an ambush!”

Then he saw Xiao Xuanhuang’s group clash with the strangers.

Yet the travelers weren’t a match for them.

In less than ten breaths, someone fell wounded to the ground.

“Fool!”

A voice rang out as Xiao Xuanhuang slapped his wheelchair, launching himself skyward. His other hand already drew a long sword, thrusting forward with deadly intent.

The clash of steel rang out, their sword qi extending three zhang.

With Wang Lixing and the others, Xiao Xuanhuang and the travelers clashed in turn, neither gaining clear advantage.

Chen Yì watched with keen interest, his earlobe twitching. Then, in a blink, he shut his eyes—only to realize two figures had materialized behind him.

Their breaths were neither long nor faint; one carried a heavy, restrained strength.

Their steps were evenly spaced, clearly cultivated martial artists.

As footsteps neared, Chen Yì clenched his Immortal Drunk wine tighter.

Watching from afar was reckless enough. If the one behind him were as formidable as Xie Tingyun, this could end badly.

“My lord, haven’t expected the Tianshan Sect’s Xie Tingyun to show up,”

“It seems your intervention isn’t needed—the Bai Caotang should be safe now.”

Chen Yì’s heart stirred slightly. That voice…

Springying?

My lord isn’t…

Indeed, Chen Yunfan spoke with clear irritation: “These are just common riff-raff. I’m disappointed.”

He glanced at the figure slumped by the window, then settled into a chair to pour tea.

“A single guest, a single pot of Spring Mist tea from the Jiangnan Manor—this fellow knows how to enjoy life.”

“…”

Chen Yì mentally tallied the debt—he’d owe this one both principal and interest.

Yet as the two conversed, Chen Yì found himself puzzled.

Had Chen Yunfan come all this way just to rescue the Bai Caotang?

For what reason?

(Chapter Complete)