The Seventh Year of Shenchu
Remember
The performers of the Liaoyuan Troupe were still diligently performing 《Prince of Lan Ling》 on stage, but the lively and vivid singing failed to reach Zhen Wenjun’s ears.
“Not just men, even I can’t help but keep looking at her as if I’ve lost my soul…”
Yueniang’s words now echoed in Zhen Wenjun’s mind as her own voice. She hadn’t come down from the bamboo pole, vaguely hoping that the firelight would once again flash through the box, allowing her to see the lady’s appearance again.
Unfortunately, her wishful thinking never came true. Even though her exposed ears were almost frozen off, she never got another chance. Zhen Wenjun had already memorized the lady’s features and was about to come down when Young Master Liao leaned forward, pointing at Yueniang on the stage, whispering something to his confidante, laughing with his neck stretched out, and stroking his smooth chin with his slender fingers.
Zhen Wenjun’s breath caught, and her descent halted.
Although men of Da Yu did not necessarily need to grow beards upon reaching adulthood, they could choose to grow beautiful beards or keep a clean shave. After all, during Shenchu, both men and women praised androgynous beauty. The aesthetic trend blowing from the noble scholars had been prevalent for a long time. It was most fashionable for men to cover themselves in powder and rouge. Even when selecting high-ranking officials, if family backgrounds were similar, the more beautiful one would be favored.
Under such societal trends, Young Master Liao’s beauty was understandable. However, beauty was one thing, but the smooth neck without an Adam’s apple was another.
Zhen Wenjun almost strained her eyes, unable to find the Adam’s apple that a grown man should have. Perhaps the distance was too great to see clearly, or the Adam’s apple wasn’t prominent enough to notice. These explanations were reasonable, but his pair of white and delicate hands were not the size of a man’s hands at all. They looked like a young lady’s hands.
Recalling the details of Young Master Liao, his narrow shoulders and indistinguishable voice… all clues led to one conclusion—Young Master Liao was a woman.
She was a woman disguised as a man.
By the time Zhen Wenjun returned to the ground, her hands had been cracked by the wind, and her face stung, but she couldn’t care less, her mind repeatedly connecting a few key words—
Woman, disguise, Wei Zizhuo, Young Master Liao, Longyan Wood (LP: Changed “Dragon Flame” to “Longyan”)…
So she was wrong; Young Master Liao was not Wei Zizhuo? She just happened to have some connection with Wei Zizhuo. No, perhaps there was no connection at all. Young Master Liao merely disguised herself to flirt and deceive, coincidentally from the prominent family of Pingcang, causing everyone to misunderstand, and the Xie family thought she was Wei Zizhuo.
After Yueniang finished singing and stepped off the stage, Zhen Wenjun asked her:
“How did you and Young Master Liao have intercourse?”
Yueniang was taken aback.
“Can a woman and another woman engage in such intimate relations?”
Yueniang chuckled, her words confirming Zhen Wenjun’s suspicions: “Little lady, you are easily startled by things you don’t know. Young Master Liao is not the first woman I’ve served. I’ve seen too many cases where noble families engage in gender confusion to continue their lineage or expand their clan. What’s the big deal about women? I’ll follow her and be her maid, even if she keeps her current disguise and takes multiple wives, I don’t mind. I know what I want, and I’ll go with whoever can give it to me.” After speaking, Yueniang lightly tapped Zhen Wenjun’s forehead with her fingertip, her smile seductive, “The joy of women sharing the pleasures of Mount Wu (an ancient Chinese idiom referring to romantic or intimate relations), you wouldn’t understand.”
Zhen Wenjun’s thoughts were in disarray, feeling as if she had been led astray, her mind lost and in agony.
As she struggled to find the right path, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted her thoughts. Zhen Wenjun looked up irritably to see the performers being pushed together, the cramped backstage area becoming chaotic and disorderly with constant shoving.
What was happening?
Zhen Wenjun was puzzled, trying to locate the source of the chaos when suddenly a man’s loud command ordered them to kneel. The flash of a cold blade shone, and everyone gasped in unison, dropping to their knees in terror.
Zhen Wenjun quickly followed the crowd, bowing her head and kneeling at the back. Heavy and swift footsteps poured in from the entrance, indicating that many people had come.
The footsteps finally halted, followed by a strange rolling and squeezing sound coming closer, stopping in front of the bowed performers.
What was that sound? Zhen Wenjun couldn’t make sense of it and didn’t dare to look up. The stern voice of the man who had shouted earlier pressed down from above:
“Who was it that waved the torch towards the box just now?”
No one answered.
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“Who was it?” the man asked again, still no response.
The small room was as quiet as a graveyard at midnight, but Zhen Wenjun’s heart was raging like a storm.
Torch waved towards the box? Just now, she had climbed high to see the lady’s face clearly, and as soon as the thought crossed her mind, the firelight followed her will. If it wasn’t A Jiao helping her from the shadows, who else could it be? Now these people had come to question them; could it be that they had been exposed? But Young Master Liao, who was disguised as a man, was not Wei Zizhuo.
Third Lady Du, kneeling at the front, suddenly let out a fawning laugh. She straightened up and spoke with a flattering smile: “Young Master Liao, please calm your anger. Anu (a humble self-reference often used by servants or those of lower status) had no intention of offending you. It’s just that in the evening, we set up the stage and sang songs so that Young Master could watch comfortably. Naturally, the position of the torch had to be adjusted according to the scene. I didn’t expect it to accidentally flash in Young Master’s eyes. It’s truly my fault. Anu here offers an apology to Young Master, hoping that Young Master…”
Before Third Lady Du could finish her sentence, a sudden scream pierced the air. The people around her screamed and fell back to either side. Amid the commotion, Zhen Wenjun saw a steel knife plunged into Third Lady Du’s chest. Her eyes widened in disbelief, and bright red blood quickly pooled on the ground.
Uncle Li, seeing Third Lady Du killed, flew into a rage and grabbed the table next to him to smash it. A white blade pierced through his throat, and his body spun awkwardly like a puppet, his face turning purple-red. He fell to the ground with the table, soon lying motionless.
In the blink of an eye, both the troupe leader and Third Lady Du were killed, the attackers ruthlessly unreasonable. Several young performers immediately kowtowed, crying for mercy. Heads were swiftly cut off, rolling all over the floor. Those who tried to escape were dragged back and cut in half at the waist, their upper bodies writhing desperately on the ground, leaving ghastly trails of blood.
The remaining people didn’t dare to breathe loudly, nor did they dare to cry. They all knelt on the ground, trembling like chaff.
Among those sold into the troupe with her, the girl who had once saved up to give her steamed cakes in gratitude had her head roll to Zhen Wenjun’s feet, her eyes already white, lips twitching as if still begging for mercy.
“Who is it?”
The man’s voice, still calm, sounded like a thunderclap, scaring the girl next to Zhen Wenjun into a violent shiver, filling the room with a strong smell of urine.
No one dared to speak.
Seeing the horror before her, Zhen Wenjun knew they might have been implicated because of her. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts: Should she advance or retreat? If she didn’t retreat, more people might be implicated, and eventually, they would come after her. But if she retreated, how could she do it? And what about her mother?
As Zhen Wenjun’s anxiety reached its peak, the attacker raised his knife and brought it down, killing the person nearest to him with a scream.
The sounds of crying, urine hitting the floor, and teeth chattering blended together. Yueniang couldn’t take it anymore and stood up suddenly, saying: “Who is it! Step forward! One person should be responsible for their actions and not implicate the whole troupe!”
Yueniang’s outburst was immediately echoed by others, hoping the person who caused the trouble would step forward quickly to spare the rest.
Zhen Wenjun secretly glanced up. More than half of the troupe members were dead, the room filled with corpses. This sudden disaster was impossible to guard against.
The man asking the questions had a robust build and eyes like copper bells, his mutton-chop whiskers connecting to his sideburns. His strong body, as if cast from bronze and iron, nearly burst out of his black nightwear. The long knife in his hand was still dripping blood. Behind him stood dozens of similarly dressed men, each holding a weapon, surrounding the troupe while protecting two people in the center.
These butchers, each robust and strong, wore no identifiable markings. It was impossible to discern their affiliations from their attire. One glance revealed they were shadow guards, unseen in daily life but appearing from nowhere whenever their master was in danger.
Among the two people standing in the middle, one was naturally Young Master Liao, while the other was a lady seated in a delicate four-wheeled cart. She was Young Master Liao’s matchless beauty confidante. The strange rumbling sound heard earlier came from this four-wheeled cart.
Zhen Wenjun quickly lowered her head. She knew these butchers in nightwear did not seem to be servants or retainers of Young Master Liao, but likely belonged to the lady. Could it be that she was slaughtering the performing troupe out of jealousy? That seemed too childish. After thinking it over, the only plausible reason was that she had been discovered.
Despite Yueniang’s questioning, no one stepped forward, so she approached Young Master Liao to plead for mercy. Before she got close, two blood-stained large knives were placed against her neck. Feeling the chill of the blades, Yueniang’s legs went weak, and she almost fainted. She barely managed to stand, looking at Young Master Liao in terror. Young Master Liao didn’t even glance at her, his once indulgent and affectionate eyes now indifferent.
This was not the Young Master Liao she knew.
Zhen Wenjun’s heart sank. Since death was inevitable, she might as well stand up and accept it gracefully rather than let the entire troupe suffer for her. Her mother would forgive her.
Just as she was about to stand up, the lady sitting in the four-wheeled cart, who had not spoken until now, looked at the blood-soaked scene before her and said wearily:
“The Xie family’s tactics are becoming increasingly dull.”
This casual remark hit Zhen Wenjun like a thunderbolt, rendering her dumbstruck.
The Xie family!
Zhen Wenjun hadn’t expected that merely spying would expose the entire matter concerning the Xie family. Who was this lady? Could she be Wei Zizhuo’s confidante?
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In this critical moment, a sudden gust of wind surged from behind, and someone leapt into the air, heading straight for the lady!
“Scoundrel! Prepare to die!”
It was clearly a woman’s voice, yet the one flying towards the lady was a middle-aged man in gray cloth attire! Zhen Wenjun recognized this voice. It was Yue Shi A Jiao, who had been hiding for a long time and was extremely difficult to find!
A Jiao held a short knife aimed at the lady’s chest. The lady didn’t even flinch. The guard beside her stepped forward with a knife, a flurry of blades forcing the fierce A Jiao into a retreat. A Jiao rolled on the ground and quickly got up. Zhen Wenjun saw her face clearly. Even knowing her identity, upon closer inspection, she still couldn’t recognize her original appearance. Even the shape of her ears had changed naturally, making her look entirely like a middle-aged man. Zhen Wenjun remembered that this was Uncle He, who Third Lady Du had hired to carry clothes! His voice was usually hoarse and somewhat unpleasant, but it never aroused suspicion of disguise. A Jiao’s art of disguise had reached an extraordinary level.
No matter how skillful her disguise, A Jiao was now trapped by the lady’s henchmen. Several times she tried to break through their encirclement but was beaten back. Desperately watching her prey so close yet unable to reach, she felt a deep sense of desolation. A knife suddenly pierced through her abdomen, and as it was withdrawn, A Jiao, unable to support herself, knelt on one knee, unable to move further.
Half-dead, A Jiao let out a sharp laugh, as if she had a contingency plan.
Sure enough, a pair of twin blades stabbed out from behind the lady’s four-wheeled cart. The blades closed in on her neck from both sides, about to sever her slender throat. Suddenly, a pair of rough hands appeared and halted the blades’ momentum, pushing them in the opposite direction. The assassin holding the blades felt a sharp pain in their tiger’s mouth (the webbed area between the thumb and index finger), causing them to drop the blades, which flew through the air, spinning rapidly. The blades grazed the heads of the troupe’s members, cutting off their topknots amid their startled cries, before embedding themselves over an inch deep in the walls on either side. The blades only lightly brushed the lady’s neck, leaving a cut that soon began to bleed, demonstrating both the sharpness of the blades and the unmatched bravery of the one who blocked them. The person’s hands were covered in scars of varying depths, the recent maneuver merely adding another to the myriad.
The person who blocked the blades had been standing by the lady’s side all along. Over eight feet tall, with a tiger-backed and wolf-waisted build, a face full of horizontal muscles, small eyes, a broad nose, and thick lips—her appearance was extremely fierce, yet she was a woman. Her long, dry yellow hair was carelessly piled on top of her head. She wore soft armor, was barehanded, and breathed heavily like an ox. Blood dripped from her thick fingers. She shielded the lady, blocking any view of her.
The assassin, now empty-handed, quickly retreated and changed angles. With a flick of the arm, a small hidden weapon the size of a coin shot straight at the lady’s face. The woman in soft armor again caught the hidden weapon with her bare hands. Despite her massive build, like a small mountain, her reflexes were astonishingly fast, as if she had anticipated the attack route. She reached out and caught the weapon effortlessly.
The person who launched the hidden weapon was momentarily stunned, not expecting that two seemingly assured sneak attacks would be so easily thwarted. The martial prowess of the lady’s bodyguards had reached an extraordinary level.
Zhen Wenjun had no idea where Jiang Daochang had been hiding. He suddenly appeared, and by the time she could piece together the sequence of the dazzling fight, it was over. Jiang Daochang was kicked hard in the abdomen and fell to the ground. As a long knife was about to strike his head, A Jiao, disregarding her own safety, blocked it for him.
A Jiao was nearly split in two from the back of her head down to her back. Jiang Daochang, who never received a kind look from A Jiao in daily life, was shocked that she would die for him at such a critical moment.
Holding A Jiao, Jiang Daochang wailed in grief. His face turned from red to purple in his extreme sorrow, with veins bulging on his forehead, making him look like a hot air lantern, ready to explode at any moment.
One of the men in black clothes raised his knife to finish Jiang Daochang off, but the lady stopped him:
“This person cannot be killed. Not only must he not be killed, but he must also be well protected and not allowed to suffer any injury. This person has mastered the art of the Poison Corpse Technique. Even a minor skin wound can cause his toxic blood to splatter everywhere, and anyone who comes into contact with or inhales it will be poisoned and die. The Poison Corpse Technique involves using the venom of five poisonous creatures—scorpions, centipedes, toads, geckos, and snakes—mixed with alcohol, along with the blood of a zhen bird (a mythical poisonous bird in Chinese folklore). It takes ten years to master. This poison has no antidote; those poisoned will turn into a pool of corpse water within three days. If not dealt with, the toxin will spread further through the corpse water after five days. The Poison Corpse Technique was originally created by Chen Daozi of the previous dynasty. Chen Daozi meticulously planned to assassinate Prime Minister Jiang of the previous dynasty, going so far as to develop this malevolent technique. It is said that Chen Daozi failed in his assassination attempt, had his arms cut off by Prime Minister Jiang, and was then castrated, left to die among the common folk. Chen Daozi somehow survived, took in a few beggars as students, and passed down the Poison Corpse Technique. By my calculations, Jiang should be the fifteenth-generation successor.”
Not only was Jiang Daochang’s surname pointed out, but even his master ancestor was exposed. His purple-red, already deformed face twisted into a smile as he looked up and laughed heartily:
“That’s right! Since our Patriarch established the Zhuning Sect, we have gone through fifteen generations over more than two hundred years. We have no lofty ambitions, only the single-minded desire to eliminate treacherous factions and cleanse the Emperor’s side! Anyone like the traitor Jiang who colludes with others to harm the country is a target for our Zhuning Sect’s assassination! Now that I’m in your hands, what more is there to say? This rotten life of mine would be worth it if I could drag you traitors who harm the country and its people into hell with me!”
The lady found it somewhat amusing. “Although the poison of the Poison Corpse Technique has no cure, it is not without defense. Bury this poisonous toad in the ground, and it will die within a day, with its poison dispersing within a year, leaving the world clean.”
With that, the lady’s black-clad shadow guards swiftly stepped forward to bind Jiang Daochang. These individuals were highly skilled; they twisted his limbs so he couldn’t exert any strength, yet they did not break his skin, preventing the poison from spreading. Jiang Daochang, himself unaware that there was a way to neutralize the Poison Corpse Technique, realized as he was dragged away that his plan had completely failed, and he couldn’t help but curse loudly. The lady paid him no mind, her eyes drooping slightly as if she were somewhat tired.
The lady’s eyes shifted slightly. She had just lowered them but quickly raised them again, her piercing gaze cutting through the crowd and unexpectedly meeting Zhen Wenjun’s eyes.
Only then did Zhen Wenjun realize that in the chaos, she had unknowingly looked up for a long time and was now caught in the act.
She hurriedly lowered her head, her heart pounding wildly.
The sound of the four-wheeled cart rolling slowly approached her. She found that her arms, supporting her on the ground, were uncontrollably trembling, her whole body icy cold.
This person’s fearsome presence far surpassed that of Xie Taihang and Lord Yunmeng. To her, A Jiao and Jiang Daochang were top-notch martial artists, yet they were killed in the blink of an eye.
“Raise your head.”
The lady was pushed in front of her and spoke softly.
Zhen Wenjun didn’t dare move, her mind a complete mess.
“Come on, raise it.”
This was not a negotiation, but a command.
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A feather fan was placed under Zhen Wenjun’s chin.
The fan emitted a woody fragrance, a scent Zhen Wenjun felt she had smelled somewhere before.
Amidst the chaos, confusion, and deep fear, she couldn’t resist the lady’s command. Her face was lifted by the lady’s feather fan.
The lady gazed at her, still astonishingly beautiful. As Zhen Wenjun looked up at her, the lady’s cold, frost-like face gradually broke into a smile, like the moon emerging from behind dispersed clouds.
“Do you remember me?”‘
Completely unexpected, the lady shed her earlier violent aura. Her smile was gentle and cautious, as if she were asking an old friend.
This gentle question struck Zhen Wenjun like a bolt from the blue, her eyes widened.
Disguise, Young Master Liao, intimate confidante, Longyan wood, feather fan, Wei Zizhuo.
These chaotic keywords reassembled in Zhen Wenjun’s mind, finally coming to a completely unexpected conclusion.
She is Wei Zizhuo.
She is the real Wei Zizhuo.
