Chapter Ninety-Three: A Pleasant Scenery

Zhou Qian and Ying Zhaor embraced each other tightly, leaving no space between them. After a long while, their lips parted, a thin strand of saliva stretched and snapped. Their eyes never left one another. Ying Zhaor gently rested her head on Zhou Qian’s shoulder. Unconsciously, Zhou Qian had grown half a head taller than her.

“When you weren’t around, I kept praying to the Bodhisattva to protect you, praying and praying, and in the end, I finally got you back!”

“Then I owe you my thanks!”

“Is thanks even necessary?”

Zhou Qian was silent for a moment. “Of course not.”

“How long are you planning to stay this time?” Ying Zhaor asked with a hint of sadness.

“I’m not leaving anymore. Not at all. I’ll stay until you’re tired of me!”

“Really?”

“Absolutely!”

A genuine smile blossomed from Ying Zhaor’s heart, sweet and bright: “I’ll never get tired, never ever!”

Ying Zhaor slipped her arm through Zhou Qian’s and pulled him inside, chatting like a little girl, recounting all the amusing happenings at home since Zhou Qian’s departure, just as she always did when he returned. Zhou Qian rarely spoke of his adventures in the martial world; no matter how exciting, they were dangerous, and danger only made her worry.

“Third Young Master, Sister Zhao, dinner is served!” Xiao Yun and two maids brought dishes to the table. It was a famous banquet called “Five Treasures and Twelve Delicacies,” featuring bird's nest chicken soup, seafood stew with tendons, fresh radish soup, kelp and pork tripe soup, abalone with pearl vegetables, mussels with shrimp roe soup, shark fin crab soup, mushroom stewed chicken, and more.

Zhou Qian immediately perked up, commenting on each dish’s flavor, the saltiness of the soups, and how he would have prepared them differently if he were the chef. Ying Zhaor smiled quietly, amused by his childlike enthusiasm.

They ate while talking, but neither moved much on their plates. At some point, Zhou Qian stopped and carefully admired Ying Zhaor’s face. Suddenly he said, “Sister Zhao, you look particularly beautiful today.”

Ying Zhaor seemed to have groomed her eyebrows, applied light makeup, and touched her lips with rouge. Like a poem’s description—rosy and fair, with delicate black accents on the eyes, lips fragrant and moist—though not strikingly beautiful, her makeup made her alluring, with a subtle, intangible charm.

Ying Zhaor covered the strange hand that had crept inside her clothes to touch the jade bowl she held. Her eyes dripped with coquettishness. “What are you doing, you brat?”

“I’m not a kid anymore!” His fingers danced rapidly. Both were barely able to contain themselves.

“Hmm?” Ying Zhaor gasped, leaning against Zhou Qian’s chest.

“Then it’s time to do what a man should do!”

Zhou Qian wrapped his arms around Ying Zhaor’s waist and carried her upstairs.

One by one, her outer garments fell to the floor—coat, skirt, underwear, and bodice—followed by sounds like elegant music, rhythmic and melodious, punctuated by the steady ‘clap clap’ of their bare skin.

After about an afternoon, as dusk settled, the sounds from Zhou Qian’s room became audible.

“Sister Zhao, shall we visit the night market on Scholar’s Street later? I heard there’s a Lantern Festival tonight, with a hundred-person lion dance—very lively!”

“I’m so tired, it’s all your fault. Let me rest a moment, just a little while,” her voice soft and weak but filled with happiness.

An hour later, the happy young couple quietly opened the back door of the mansion, hand in hand, entwined as they stepped out.

At the same moment, a green glow transformed into a shadow that quietly approached the Hu’er Mansion, slowly making its way to the meditation chamber. Although Zhou Xun’s martial skills were extraordinary, Old Sun had arranged seven or eight skilled fighters nearby, yet none could detect the intruder. The shadow passed by them as if invisible and entered the meditation room directly.

Inside, Zhou Qian sat cross-legged on a meditation cushion. A faint mist of blood hovered about a foot around him, expanding and contracting with his breath. Finally, he inhaled deeply, swallowing the blood mist. His body became as smooth and hard as jade or stone, giving off an eerie aura.

He opened his eyes and launched a punch, white energy as thick as a forearm surging forward. The stranger simply tapped with a finger, dispersing the mist instantly.

“How dare you treat a Taoist priest like this?” A disheveled old Taoist with messy hair and a scruffy beard chuckled, his nose red from drink. Zhou Qian would have been shocked to see it was the mysterious Drunken Taoist.

“Ah, it’s you. It’s been three years,” Zhou Xun raised his white eyebrows and lit an oil lamp, brightening the cramped room.

“I went to hunt down a powerful enemy from another sect. After several battles, three years passed without realizing,” the Drunken Taoist said indifferently.

“A sword immortal is a sword immortal—treating time like flowing water,” Zhou Xun remarked with a mixture of sarcasm and admiration.

“In a few days, I must take your disciple away. The day to break the formation is near.”

Suddenly, a murderous aura erupted from Zhou Xun. The temperature in the room plummeted as he spoke deliberately, “If you want my disciple, you’ll have to kill me first.”

The Drunken Taoist laughed helplessly. “This concerns the survival of the Seven Great Sects. Whether I come or not, someone will. The Emei Sword Sect is arrogant and unyielding—not like me, easy to negotiate with. Besides, if the demon sect finds your disciple, death is certain. What can a mere mortal like you do?”

“That’s not entirely bad,” the Drunken Taoist reasoned. “You lack immortal roots and cannot cultivate immortality, but your disciple is different. I can arrange for him to join the Qingcheng Sect. What do you think?”

Zhou Xun’s expression wavered, thoughtful for a long moment. Then he asked suddenly, “You refused before, why agree now?”

“Back then, the Seven Great Sects sealed their schools and forbade taking disciples without permission. Now that the sword immortals have entered the mortal world, recruiting disciples is permitted. Not just me—others in our circles have begun selecting talented individuals as well.”

“Why must my disciple join your Qingcheng Sect?” Zhou Xun countered.

“You’re so arrogant, old man. For ordinary mortals, encountering an immortal fate is a blessing earned over countless lifetimes. Yet you’re picky—truly...” He shook his head in disbelief.

“The Five Demon Sects and the Seven Taoist Sects are immortal realms passed down through ages. Their methods are straightforward, offering a real chance at immortality. Though other sects have great masters, few common immortals succeed, often because their methods are flawed or they stray from the path, achieving enlightenment only by chance. Now your disciple is the key to breaking the formation. The demon sect wants to kill him desperately and won’t accept him. The Seven Taoist Sects all have their merits; none are far behind.”

“Your disciple is talented but not extraordinary. Having broken the child’s body, even if he joins an immortal sect, few enlightened masters would accept him or teach him true methods. It depends on his fate and effort. Joining Qingcheng at least means I can watch over him, preventing him from suffering. It’s a better place.”

Zhou Xun frowned, pondering. The Drunken Taoist said nothing in impatience, waiting until the lamp burned out and darkness fell before speaking slowly: “If I can break through, forget this matter. But if I die, I hope you will accept him as your disciple and pass on the legacy.”

Meanwhile, at the Northern Market’s Lantern Festival, colorful pavilions, lanterns, floating lantern boats, and lantern mountains stretched for miles. Every shop was festooned with lights and decorations, the atmosphere joyous and festive. Pedestrians, tourists, ladies, and heroes thronged the streets, fireworks and firecrackers echoed into the night sky.

The two wandered for a long time, buying many snacks and sweets, watching various street performances, guessing lantern riddles, matching couplets, playing until night fell before stopping.

Finally, they bought two Kongming lanterns, wrote their wishes in ink, and released them into the sky.

“Sister Zhao, what did you write?” Zhou Qian turned to look, his lips still sticky with food and a turtle drawn on his right cheek—Ying Zhaor’s playful punishment for his wrong guess.

“Not telling you!” Ying Zhaor blushed, covering the paper.

“Hehe!” Zhou Qian chuckled, “Sister Zhao, who do you want to have children with? Why be so shy?”

Angry, Ying Zhaor chased him, hitting him until she ran off alone to the riverbank to release the lanterns.

Zhou Qian pondered quietly what he should wish for.

First, that his master might attain immortality and live as long as heaven and earth.

Second, that his three sworn brothers each achieve success, their bonds unbroken.

Third, that Sister Zhao be happy and safe—and if she wishes, that they grow old together.

The Kongming lanterns ascended slowly into the sky, their flames growing faint. Zhou Qian stared, sighed deeply, and murmured to himself, “May it be so...”