Roaring Dragon-Chapter 113: Night Banquet at Qian Palace (2)

The young elites ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) surrounding them had all assumed Xie Jinhuan was nothing more than a martial brute. Upon hearing that claim, every pair of eyes turned to the calligraphy in the notebook.

Fan Li himself had thought Xie Jinhuan’s praise was just flattery—until he saw the characters. Each stroke was iron-clad and silver-hooked, bursting with strength, penetrating the page. His eyes narrowed slightly, his demeanor shifted to seriousness as he took the booklet to examine it more closely.

“Hmm... This handwriting is indeed rooted in my master’s style. But calling it ‘Fan muscle and Ye bone’ might be overselling it. There’s quite a bit of individuality here. Honestly, it looks more authentic than what Huaiyu writes...”

The others were stunned by such a high evaluation.

Zhang Huaiyu, Fan Li’s direct disciple, had practiced calligraphy since the age of six. Seeing that Xie Jinhuan’s style looked more like an inner disciple’s than his own, his gaze grew strange.

“Uh... Brother Xie’s writing like this couldn’t have come from anything less than ten years of practice. Not that I doubt you, Brother Xie, but... well...”

Wei Lu, thinking he and Xie Jinhuan were both martial types, now felt blindsided. He cut in:

“Brother Xie, with such terrifying martial skill, you still found time to practice calligraphy? They say calligraphy and swordsmanship are alike, but... that’s just talk, no?”

Xie Jinhuan had known since age three that a man’s handwriting was his calling card. Determined to outdo the local brats, he’d put in the work. He replied calmly:

“Since age three, I’ve copied a thousand characters a day. I kept it up until I was sixteen. My martial skills were learned in the mountains over the last three years. Honestly, I’ve spent more time with brush and ink than with fists and blades.”

“?”

A moment of stunned silence spread through the crowd. Doubt was written all over their faces.

Even Fan Li raised an eyebrow.

“You mean to say,” he asked, “that you weren’t a martial artist before—that you only started training three years ago?”

The truth was, Xie Jinhuan had stretched himself too thin in his youth, dabbling in everything and mastering nothing. He only entered the eighth rank of martial cultivation at sixteen—basically a rookie.

He didn’t want to come off as too monstrous, so he answered modestly:

“I wouldn’t say I started from scratch. I’ve practiced martial arts since childhood, but growing up in the capital, I focused more on academics. Only in the past three years, under my master’s guidance, have I fully committed to martial arts. My progress has just been... quick.”

Quick?

You little bastard—you’re not even twenty and you’re already third rank!

Wei Lu, heir of Snow Eagle Ridge, had been training since he could walk. And even now, he hadn’t reached Jinhuan’s level. Hearing this, he couldn't help but wonder—What kind of divine sect is this Fengling Valley, anyway?

Fan Li knew Jinhuan was exceptionally talented, but mastering both calligraphy and martial arts before twenty was bordering on impossible. He handed the notebook back:

“Would you mind writing a couple of words for me, Nephew Xie? Let this old man see for himself.”

With everyone watching, even a few curious ministers approaching to spectate, Xie Jinhuan didn’t refuse. He took the notebook and pulled out a nearby stiff-bristle pen. With a few quick strokes:

Those who war with their kin, what are they thinking?

Gold-orchid friendship, its bond runs deep...

The characters flowed like a dragon descending from the clouds, full of spirit and force. Since he was putting effort into it, the writing looked even better than what was in the notebook.

The moment the first few strokes landed, everyone could tell—this was the product of over a decade of diligent training. Not something that could be faked.

But... the content was a bit... hmm.

Linghu Qingmo and the others hadn’t yet grasped what Jinhuan had written. But Fan Li—normally composed and refined—froze for a moment, then gently pressed his palm on the page to stop him from writing further.

“Eh?” Wei Lu blinked. “But he’s not finished. Master Fan?”

Fan Li gave Jinhuan a strange look. After a pause, he asked:

“Nephew Xie... are you also a man of our persuasion?”

The poem Jinhuan wrote was the theme verse of the infamous “mirror-polishing” chapter in Chronicles of Kindred Souls. Seeing Fan Li recognize it, Jinhuan naturally paused:

“I’ve always had a fondness for such works. I came to seek you out precisely to ask some questions.”

Fan Li, known as the literary half of the “Twin Saints of Sword and Ink,” had a private passion for writing quasi-fictional works like The Lustful Chronicles of Wei Wuyi and Roguish Tales of Lu Wuzhen.

To avoid getting lynched by outraged Daoist peers, he’d published them anonymously—limited circulation, discreetly distributed among academies.

Seeing this junior, not only a fan of his calligraphy but clearly a fellow enthusiast of his secret writings, made Fan Li feel like he’d found kin.

Still, discussing such things openly was a bit much. He stroked his beard with a dignified smile and gestured for Jinhuan to follow him to a quieter spot.

The other young scholars exchanged confused glances.

“What’s that about?”

“Maybe he realized Brother Xie’s question wasn’t ordinary—needs to be passed down in private.”

“Really?! What kind of profound knowledge could only be shared in secret by a Confucian master?”

“Could it be... the mystery of immortality?”

“Very possible...”

“How enviable...”

—

Jinhuan ignored the whispers behind him. Once alone with Fan Li, he asked:

“Sir, I came across Chronicles of Kindred Souls in Danyang the other day. Some of the stories don’t seem to match historical accounts...”

Fan Li glanced around to make sure no one was listening before answering softly:

“The book was written by my teacher, Ye Ci, as a hobby. Just a novel—obviously not historically accurate.”

“But is everything in it fiction?” Jinhuan pressed. “From what I’ve learned, Master Qixia disappeared from public view after the Wuist Rebellion. She was still young at the time, yet...”

Seeing Jinhuan’s earnest curiosity, Fan Li considered his words carefully.

“Master Qixia was injured during the Wuist Rebellion. Her temperament became unstable. She even struck my teacher once. She closed her life-and-death gate before reaching forty—that’s likely the reason why.

“As for details, my teacher never elaborated. I won’t presume to guess. But the book might contain symbolic hints—coded messages.”

“If you truly want to know more,” Fan Li continued, “you should ask Nangong Sect Master. She never met Qixia personally, but as the current head, she surely knows the sect’s secrets.”

Jinhuan did want to ask his dream wife about this—but how was he supposed to bring up the unofficial lore of her master?

Besides, who knew when she’d even return...

Still, Fan Li’s implication was clear: Chronicles might be half-fiction, half-truth. It used yuri-like storytelling to obscure Qixia’s real predicament.

Qixia had met a demoness, and their fates had become entangled. At best, it was a great opportunity she couldn’t fully control. At worst—it was schizophrenia, a literal heart-devil.

Her letting the demoness take over the spiritual realm might suggest she had already lost control of herself.

None of this boded well.

If Ah Piao was Qixia’s “heart-devil,” then the body sealed in the Demon-Suppressing Tomb was Qixia’s true self. And since Ah Piao wasn’t dead yet, if that tomb was cracked open, what emerged would be a deranged, split-souled madwoman.

And if Ah Piao was a “sealed horror” Qixia couldn’t control, then the outcome would be even worse.

If not even a sect master could suppress it—how the hell could he?

Even if the ghost wife meant no harm, digging up that tomb would make him public enemy number one.

The pressure mounted like a mountain. Seeing that Fan Li didn’t know more, Jinhuan decided not to press further. He offered a few polite words and made an excuse to leave.

Linghu Qingmo, holding Meiqiu in her arms, hadn’t dared to eavesdrop. Once Jinhuan returned, she caught up with him, curious:

“What were you asking about just now?”

Jinhuan, of course, couldn’t tell her the truth. He casually said:

“Just some court gossip. Nothing suitable for public ears. Where to next?”

“Oh~”

Seeing he seemed weighed down, Qingmo didn’t press. She looked up toward the main hall.

“The banquet’s about to start. Let’s take our seats. His Majesty and Her Highness should appear soon.”

“Let’s go.”

—

Night fell.

Inside Linde Hall, lights blazed and music filled the air.

On the grand dais beneath golden dragons and radiant murals sat the Qian Emperor and the Empress, with Crown Prince Zhao Jinghuan at their side. Cao Fo’er stood quietly in the corner, arms crossed, feather duster in hand.

On the right sat Princess Changning and Heir Apparent Zhao De among other imperial kin. On the left sat Grand Preceptor He Xiu, Li Gongpu, and other senior ministers.

As the princess’s personal guard, Xie Jinhuan had the rare privilege of joining the banquet. His seat was basically at the kids’ table.

Still, with Wei Lu and Zhang Huaiyu nearby, and further up various ministers, envoys, and titled ladies, it didn’t feel too dismissive.

At the moment, a dozen court dancers were performing in graceful harmony. The show was lovely, but Jinhuan wasn’t in the mood.

Ever since entering the hall, he’d been distracted—pondering just what the ghost wife really was. At the same time, through her possession, he’d been silently observing every noble and official in attendance.

He had two goals tonight: trap Li Gongpu and identify any hidden members of the Dark God Cult.

Normally, if Ah Piao got close enough, she could identify someone’s faction and cultivation lineage with ease.

But just as Jinhuan suspected, the imperial palace—the heart of the Qian Empire—had been built with the combined power of all major sects. After the Wuist Rebellion, heroic forefathers had laced the palace with all manner of wards and seals.

There was even a Tower of Eightfold Clarity beside the palace—home to two supreme-rank cultivators.

If a demon cultist had made it into Linde Hall undetected, they had to be hiding under layers of concealment. Even the ghost wife couldn’t pick them out.

According to her, there were hundreds in the hall, with cultivation ranging from mortals to supreme experts. Cultivation styles varied wildly, and even representatives of the Wuist cult from the Northern Zhou region were present.

But she hadn’t found a single trace of demonic cultivation.

Moreover, the emperor, empress, and crown prince seated atop the dragon dais were completely unreadable.

Naturally so. The emperor, as the Son of Heaven, was protected by defensive arrays beneath his seat. Not only were his qi channels shielded, but all divinations and magical scans were rendered useless.

Still, from his complexion alone, the emperor didn’t look too healthy—his skin was dull, and he coughed softly now and then.

Jinhuan scanned the room again.

He was nearly certain the Dark God Cult had infiltrated the court—but no obvious target stood out.

Which meant... time to focus on laying a trap for Li Gongpu.