Chapter 49 -43 The Old Drunkard’s Intent_2
Master Qingxi was overjoyed, having completely forgotten that although he had not spoken, he too had stood by with a haughty expression, nodding in agreement.
Just then, he spotted the fat Daoist who claimed he would press Lin Wenruo’s head himself stealthily escaping. At first, his steps were even and steady, but they quickened as he went, and finally, he ran down the hill as if fleeing…
The elder holding a horsetail whisk imitated the Daoist, creeping away lightly on his feet, pretending not to recognize his companion and slipping away as if greased.
Li Shiqian, hearing a slight noise behind him, turned his pale face to see the others had already made their escape. Standing there, dumbfounded, he hesitated for a few seconds before hurrying to catch up.
The elder, seeing his companion following, was scared out of his wits, fearing that he would be dragged down with him, so he took to his heels, and the two stumbled down the mountain, tumbling along the way.
No sooner had they left when a black-clothed warrior strode up from the direction they had gone.
...
The black-clothed warrior stopped in front of the pavilion, bowed to those inside, then glanced at Liu Sanbian and stood guard at the door, motionless.
Zhao Rong’s gaze returned from outside the pavilion.
“Brother Ziyu need not mind them,” Lin Wenruo said, his smile unchanged.
“A fortune can be easily found, but a true connoisseur is hard to come by. Please listen to Qingchi play another piece.”
With that, Lin Wenruo reached out and, through the sleeve of his robe, gently grasped Zhao Rong’s wrist, then turned and pulled him towards the ancient zither.
“This piece was learned from an old fisherman. That year, Qingchi and classmates from the Academy went on a journey to a small country in the east, passing by an unnamed ancient crossing. While boating on the river, amid the setting sun and solitary wild ducks, we saw the fisherman drunkenly singing. We then composed this piece together, naming it ‘Drunken Fisherman’s Song.’ It’s just unfortunate that the dear classmate who helped pen it can no longer be here…”
“But today, fortunately, I’ve met Brother Ziyu.”
Zhao Rong’s expression changed abruptly, never expecting to be grabbed by the hand. While he knew that some Confucian scholars had the habit of clasping hands with good friends, he never thought he would encounter one so suddenly and unprepared.
Zhao Rong secretly struggled with all his might, but to his surprise, he found that Lin Wenruo didn’t seem to have a strong grip—he felt no pain at all, yet he couldn’t break free no matter what.
While struggling, Zhao Rong turned around to see Su Xiaoxiao with her small mouth slightly open, looking at his “led” hand with an astonished face before her expression turned into one of sudden realization, as if she had opened the door to a new world.
Hey, what’s with that look?
Meanwhile, Liu Sanbian watched him with an inquisitive gaze.
Zhao Rong hesitated for a moment before shaking his head, then turning back he said, “Brother Wenruo, I am slow-witted and do not understand zither music, so let’s forget about it.”
“Brother Ziyu, you’re being too modest. How could a Confucian scholar not understand zither music? If it is because you are not very skilled, then all the more reason to listen to more music.”
“Then could Brother Wenruo firstly release my hand?”
“So that’s what was bothering Brother Ziyu. It was Qingchi who was being thoughtless,” Lin Wenruo said, suddenly realizing and immediately letting go, his tone apologetic.
“No problem,” Zhao Rong withdrew his hand, his gaze lingering on his face for a moment before turning to look outside Zuiweng Pavilion, his expression calm.
He spoke casually, “Brother Wenruo came here specifically to look for me, didn’t you?”
Zuiweng Pavilion was situated atop a rather tall mountain. At this time, the sky was covered with white clouds, and the mountain breeze, like wild horses breaking through their reins, charged in from all directions, struggling within the pavilion.
Zhao Rong’s sleeves were filled with mountain wind, his sash flying about.
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Lin Wenruo, with his back to Zhao Rong, remarkably did not have a single sleeve fluttering.
Upon hearing those words, he paused briefly, then continued walking toward the zither and reached out his right hand to caress the zither’s paulownia wood body, which exuded a faint fragrance.
His smooth voice carried over the breeze.
“Indeed, I’ve come to apologize to Brother Ziyu.”
“But why apologize?”
The tall man beside the zither turned around, facing Zhao Rong and sighed slightly.
“For not being strict with my younger brother.”
He extended a finger and gently hooked it, plucking a string and producing a note.
The black-clothed warrior standing guard outside the pavilion stepped away and soon returned with two people.
In the front was a young man in a purple robe.
Behind him followed an elder in grey clothing.
As they approached, Zhao Rong’s gaze sharpened.
The black-clothed warrior remained outside, while the newcomers stepped into the pavilion.
“Master.” The old man in gray bowed his head in respect.
Lin Wenruo nodded slightly, then turned his gaze to the purple-robed man who had kept his head down in silence since entering.
Lin Qingxuan fell silent for a moment before squeezing out a word.
“Brother.”
Lin Wenruo turned his head away, not wanting to look at him any longer, his expression cold and detached.
“Brother Ziyu, I never would have expected that this beast, after I left for the Academy, committed so many acts worse than animals. The moment I returned, this beast sneaked out again, and unforgivably offended you at Longquan Crossing,” Lin Wenruo said, raising his voice suddenly.
“Beast, speak!”
The purple-robed man trembled upon hearing this, his voice quivering lowly. “Young Master Zhao, I am sorry.”
“And?”
The purple-robed man clenched his fist, lowering his head even further. “I was blind and offended the young master, please forgive me.”
“Louder.”
The purple-robed man fell silent for a while, his fist trembling, his voice hoarse, as he repeated loudly, “I was blind and offended…”
“Kneel!”
The air shattered like a silver mirror struck by force.
The words were suddenly interrupted by a shout.
The man with the bowed head stopped abruptly.
His fist unfurled as he suddenly threw his head back, his nostrils flaring, his eyes wide, firmly fixed on the tall and slender man standing by the zither who was eight feet tall. “I won’t kneel! Lin Qingchi, what right do you have to make me kneel?”
“You are a madman! Gambling away the entire Lin family of Lanxi as if it was nothing but a pawn! All for that laughable delusion of yours, just like your dead father’s?”
Teardrops fell from his chin, his screams hysterical.
“You’re not worthy of the Lin name, you’re not worthy of Sister Yuqing, you’re not worthy of making me kneel! You’re not worthy! You’re not worthy! You’re not worthy!”
“You’re not worthy!”
With every “you’re not worthy,” his throat tore more, the words bursting forth from his mouth like plants breaking through soil.
The tall man beside the Seven-stringed Zither stiffened, his right shoulder drooping ever so slightly, his long fingers clawing at the zither strings, veins on the backs of his pale hands rising, twisting, and coiling.
The next moment.
Inside the pavilion, the mountain wind came to an abrupt halt, and not even a whisper of wind reached from outside. The raging winds of the mountain seemed to have been gathered into the sleeves of the Immortal with broad sleeves, stabilizing heaven and earth!
“Zeng!” A sound of a string snapping echoed.
The throat of the purple-robed man, still roaring, was suddenly grasped by something, five finger marks etched around his neck, emitting only sporadic, sputtering sounds like an old, hand-cranked fan. His hands tried to prise open the grip on his neck to reclaim the right to speak but to no effect.
“Zeng! Zeng!” Two more snapping sounds of breaking strings followed.
“Bang! Bang!” The well-kept body of the purple-robed man stumbled to the left and then to the right, his knees hitting the ground.
“Zeng! Zeng! Zeng!” Three more strings snapped in quick succession.
“Slap! Slap! Slap!” Sharp sounds of slapping rang out in succession, and the purple-robed man’s face shifted colors between purple, red, and white, swollen beyond recognition.
Yet, still, a pair of bloodshot eyes glared unwaveringly at the tall and slender man who stood with his back to him by the zither in the pavilion.
“Keep glaring.”
It was a very calm voice, as soft and gentle as when Zhao Rong first heard him speak.
On the last string, a fingertip dripped with a bead of red.
“Zeng!”
The string snapped.
The purple-robed figure in the center of the pavilion collapsed headfirst.
The rage in his eyes subsided.