Four days later, Yuelai Inn.
As the start of winter approached, the sun became a precious commodity, and in the afternoon, brilliant sunshine reflecting the Tyndall effect was just spilling in front of Yuelai Inn.
Yang Ge was comfortably lying on the rocking chair in front of his inn, holding a misshapen teapot in one hand and a copy of "Zhuangzi" annotated by Wang Jiangling himself in the other, focused on reciting each word, his mind seemingly traveling through time once again, to join the renowned layabout of the hundred schools of thought from over a thousand years ago, with tattered clothes as his pillow and a rock as his bed, he lounged by a stream with his legs crossed, leisurely shaking his legs and exclaiming in high spirit: ’There’s a fish in the North Sea called the Kun, so big it can’t be stewed in one pot, and when it transforms into a bird, it’s called the Peng, so large it needs two grills...’
Perhaps resonating with the salty fish, he had breezed through the works of the hundred schools of thought in recent months, managing to understand most but dared not agree, a few were beyond his comprehension yet profoundly shocking.
However, the "Zhuangzi" was different; once he started, he couldn’t put it down. Yang Ge saw many of Zhuangzi’s propositions and views as if looking into a mirror. Many of his previously convoluted and entangled views and emotions suddenly straightened out while reading the book, often feeling enlightened with an ’Ah, so that’s what I’m about!’ sensation.
He felt that his personality was very close to Zhuangzi’s, but he lacked Zhuangzi’s clarity and detachment.
The Zhuangzi he came to know through the book was someone who had awakened from sentimentality to an almost unfeeling existence. In most of Zhuangzi’s viewpoints, there radiated a cold indifference suggesting ’The world is drunk, and I am alone sober...’
To put it vividly, in Zhuangzi’s perception, the whole world was like a grand stage play. Other people could only see the dazzlingly beautiful set, while Zhuangzi could see the ropes and wires, the lighting and props behind it. Although he, too, often struggled to distinguish what was real and what was not, it didn’t stop him from seeing through the essence of this grand play.
Thus, he came to regard life and death, sentiment and loyalty, with a sober realization close to heartlessness... For instance, when a friend of Zhuangzi’s passed away, while the deceased’s relatives and friends wept bitterly and wailed in sorrow, Zhuangzi was able to congratulate them with the detached joy of an actor who has finished his role in the play.
Zhuangzi believed that aging, sickness, and death were natural laws, "The Way," and since these were natural laws, they represented something right. Being right, one shouldn’t feel sorrow but joy instead...
Yang Ge felt he could never reach that kind of detached realm in this lifetime, nor did he want to; after all, that was Zhuang Zhou, and he was Yang Ge.
Yang Ge was someone who longed for the freedom of wandering the world, savored the mortal world’s joys, yearned for the solitude of an orchid in a deserted valley, and thirsted for camaraderie over wine and meat, boasting with few close friends. He bore the face of a man in his twenties but housed a weathered soul aged over forty, living in the centralized dynasty of Wei, yet filled with modern thoughts—a contorted, older man.
Without any single part of that, he wouldn’t be Yang Ge...
"Second Master."
As Yang Ge was engrossed in the book, Flea appeared timidly by his side, calling out softly.
"Eh?"
Yang Ge looked up in confusion, and upon recognizing Flea, he asked indifferently, "What is it, Flea? What’s the matter?"
After hesitating for a while, Flea finally whispered, "There’s news from Jiangxi... Wei Heng, the Director of the Western Factory, was traveling by boat to Jianghuai, and he was assassinated, perished... perished in the Yangtze River."
"Who did you say?"
Yang Ge’s pupils suddenly constricted; a cold, biting air assaulted him, causing Flea to shudder violently and tense up.
Yang Ge slowly closed the book and repeated in a low voice, "Who did you just say is gone?"
Flea hastened to repeat, "Reporting to Second Master, Wei Heng, the Director of the Western Factory, was traveling by boat to Jianghuai. He encountered an assassination attempt and his soul has returned to the netherworld..."
Yang Ge shut his eyes and asked, "Are you certain?"
Flea replied softly, "Wei’s body is already on its way back to the capital. It will pass through Lu Ting soon... Our Lou Wai Lou received the news just a step ahead of the Western Factory."
After a long silence, Yang Ge softly inquired, "Do you know who did it?"
Flea pondered carefully before answering, "Reporting to Second Master, there is no conclusive evidence yet."
Yang Ge looked up at him and asked, "Not even a suspect?"
Flea nodded quickly and said, "There are indeed suspects, but with matters like these, if there’s no solid proof, how dare I speak recklessly..."
’Don’t you know yourself what kind of person you are?’
That’s what he thought to himself.
"Very well!"
Yang Ge took a deep breath, struggling to suppress the sadness and anger boiling within, and softly said, "Keep me updated immediately when you have any results."
After speaking, he forced himself to pick up the book from his lap and turn the pages again, but Flea, who stood by his side, hesitated, seemingly reluctant to leave.
This chapter is updat𝙚d by freeweɓnovel.cøm.
Yang Ge turned to look at him, "What’s the matter? Is there something else?"
Flea swallowed nervously and hesitantly said, "There’s another matter, Second Master... I don’t know if I should speak of it..."
Yang Ge forced a smile and said, "Just say it. Do I seem like the kind of person who vents anger on others without reason?"
After another glance at him, Flea swallowed once more and whispered softly, "The agents from the Western Factory found only Wei’s body, not... not his head."
"Crack."
The armrest of the rocking chair was crushed by Yang Ge, but he laughed out loud, "Very well, Wei spent his life warily mixing in, even conducting good deeds with cautious glances around, worrying about this and that. In the end, he couldn’t even protect his little head, nor his big head... Very good, splendid indeed!"