Chapter Seventy-Six: Departure
Night.
Qin Yi sat at his desk, reading the map before him by the light of a lamp.
“Quanzhen Daoist Temple is in Lingcheng County, Jiangbei Prefecture. Lingcheng County isn’t too far from the capital of Xiangzhou—just over a hundred li. But you have to reach Xiangzhou’s capital first, and then continue to Jiangbei Prefecture.”
His eyes burned as he looked at the markings on the map. “Growing stronger is right before me!”
…
The next morning, after hastily eating breakfast at the temple, Qin Yi and his father set off down the mountain.
Once they descended, they took to the official road toward the capital of Xiangzhou. As they left Huangsha Town, they drew closer to Jiangning Prefecture’s capital city.
The official road to Xiangzhou’s capital skirted the outskirts of Jiangning Prefecture’s capital. From afar, Qin Yi was startled to see thick columns of smoke rising from several places within the city, soaring up to the heavens. The number of travelers on the road grew ever greater, all with the look of refugees.
“What’s happening inside the city?” Qin Zumin asked, confused as he stared at the plumes of smoke.
“Did a fire break out?” Qin Yi stroked his chin.
He stepped forward and stopped a middle-aged man who was hurrying by.
“Uncle, what’s happened in the capital? Why is there so much smoke?” Qin Yi inquired.
The man, who looked to be in his forties, glanced at Qin Yi’s sturdy frame. Though initially impatient at being stopped, he replied bitterly, “I heard there are rebel troops inside the city. It seems the whole capital has been taken!”
“What? Rebel troops!” Qin Yi and his father exchanged shocked glances.
This news struck them like a bolt from the blue. Just yesterday, Jiangning Prefecture’s capital had been peaceful; today, it had fallen to the rebels.
“We’ll take a side road and avoid the main road,” Qin Yi said, pulling his father along.
No one knew whether the rebels would come out of the city. Traveling the main road was still dangerous.
Half a day later, Qin Yi and his father had left Jiangning Prefecture’s capital far behind, entering the area around a county called Zhibei.
Travelers crowded the roads, many with their families in tow—refugees from the towns and villages near Jiangning Prefecture’s capital.
They were all fleeing for their lives.
The appearance of rebel troops in Jiangning had terrified many; those who could escape would never stay at home.
“I never imagined even Jiangning Prefecture’s capital would fall to the rebels. Who knows when this will end,” Qin Zumin sighed.
“Don’t worry, Father. As long as we stay away from where the rebels are, we’ll be fine,” Qin Yi reassured him.
…
Ten days passed without incident, and father and son finally reached the outskirts of Xiangzhou’s capital.
The massive city before them was even more imposing than Jiangning’s capital, instilling a sense of safety. Just the city walls alone stood fifteen meters high!
It was the first time Qin Yi had seen walls so tall.
It was already midday, but long lines still stretched before the city gates—crowds waiting to enter.
“Father, let’s get in line,” Qin Yi said.
“Alright.” Seeing the grand city before him, Qin Zumin’s mood seemed to improve.
They waited for more than an hour before it was their turn.
A soldier in shining armor eyed the two of them, his tone cold. “Travel passes.”
Qin Yi handed over their passes.
The soldier examined them, then, seeing they were from Jiangning Prefecture’s capital, a strange smile appeared on his face. “Entrance fee: one hundred copper coins each!”
“One hundred?” Qin Yi frowned. The man ahead had only paid ten coins—was this discrimination?
Still, he handed over two hundred copper notes, and the soldier let them in without fuss.
Once inside, father and son found an inn and settled in—two hundred copper coins a night, including food and board.
After eating in their room, Qin Yi looked at his exhausted father. “Father, you rest for a while. I’ll go out for a bit.”
“Alright.” Qin Zumin fell asleep as soon as he lay down.
Qin Yi changed his clothes and left the inn.
He intended to explore the city, see if any martial arts halls offered sixth-rank techniques, and perhaps buy a few sets of clothes.
“No wonder this is the capital—the city is bustling,” Qin Yi thought, taking in the crowds, the myriad shops, and street vendors. One would never guess the world was in chaos.
From time to time, patrols of armored soldiers passed by on the street.
After an hour of wandering, dusk approached.
Qin Yi had discovered five or six martial arts halls that taught sixth-rank techniques.
“But still no first-rate techniques of rank seven or above,” he thought with slight disappointment.
First-rate techniques were indeed rare resources. Ninth-rank techniques were tightly controlled by the imperial court and the Liuli Sect, the state religion.
As Qin Yi passed by a shop selling calligraphy, paintings, and antiques, he suddenly stopped.
He remembered the fragment of the Daoist painting inside the iron box he carried.
“I’ll take a look inside!” He had not forgotten his quest to find the missing fifth of that Daoist painting.
The shop was spacious; the walls of the main hall hung with many paintings and calligraphy scrolls, and wooden shelves displayed various antiques and jade objects.
“Young master, is there anything in particular you wish to see?” An elderly shopkeeper greeted him with a smile.
“I’ll just browse for now,” Qin Yi replied.
“Of course, please feel free.” The shopkeeper gestured politely.
Qin Yi strolled leisurely through the hall.
Most of the paintings on the walls were landscapes or calligraphy and poetry.
He made a circuit but saw nothing related to the Daoist schools.
“Shopkeeper, do you have any Daoist-themed paintings or calligraphy?” he asked.
“Daoist-themed?” The old man was taken aback. Such items rarely sold, unless to devout Daoist believers or collectors of Daoist texts.
“We do have some, but very few. I’ll look for you,” the shopkeeper said.
“Thank you. The older, the better—even incomplete ones are fine,” Qin Yi added.
About fifteen minutes later, after rummaging through boxes, the old man produced three scrolls.
Two were Daoist paintings; one was a calligraphy scroll containing a Daoist scripture.
Qin Yi examined them—the two paintings depicted a Daoist priest against backgrounds of mountains and rivers. The figure, however, was not the blue-robed elder he sought, and the paintings seemed quite ordinary.
After looking them over, he was a bit disappointed.
“Young master, these two Daoist paintings are the work of famous artists from this province…” The shopkeeper launched into an enthusiastic introduction.
After a lengthy explanation, the shopkeeper asked, “So, young master, which one would you like to buy?”
“These aren’t quite what I’m looking for, so I’ll pass for now. Thank you for your trouble. If you get anything new, I’ll come back and have a look,” Qin Yi declined.