Chapter Forty-Seven: A Paragon of Love

After the Qixi Festival, Yang Yaozong and Li Yijun returned to the mountains with their custom-made belts and newly forged weapons, resuming their rigorous yet stimulating training. Yang Yaozong demonstrated the use of the belts to the soldiers. Each was equipped with two: one at the waist, the other slung diagonally across the body. The belts were studded with small leather loops, pouches, and hooks. Yang Yaozong, indifferent to whether Li Yijun was watching, bared his torso and showed how to fasten the two belts on himself. He then slid the knives into the loops on the belt at his waist, explaining the functions of the loops, pouches, and hooks. He demonstrated the use and purpose of the three knives—short, medium, and long—wielding them with a practiced hand, even though his skills were not quite what they had been in his past life. Thanks to his prior warm-up with the weapons, he handled the trio with impressive authenticity. Even Qin Haizhou was astonished by his abilities. He had never imagined Yang Yaozong possessed such skill. This brother Yang seemed more mysterious and profound with each passing day, and Qin Haizhou found his respect for him deepening steadily.

As Yang Yaozong’s physical abilities improved, he resumed practicing martial arts and Wing Chun. In his previous life, ever since he had watched films about Wing Chun, he developed a passionate attachment to the discipline. When he began to establish the Secret Investigation Bureau, he had secretly resolved to train in Wing Chun once again. Of course, he did not intend to teach Wing Chun to others—it remained a personal hobby. In contrast, he regarded martial arts as a compulsory subject for the soldiers under his instruction. To facilitate his study of Wing Chun, he set up a wooden dummy in his tent and practiced with sharp, rhythmic movements every day. Qin Haizhou, curious, once asked Yang Yaozong about it, to which Yang Yaozong simply replied that it was for physical training.

Besides weapon handling, Yang Yaozong began teaching the soldiers teamwork, coordinated tactics, and hand signals for battlefield communication. Whenever he introduced a new training method, tactical concept, or combat technique, the soldiers would look to him with eyes full of awe and reverence, as if gazing upon a living legend.

Li Yijun, too, grew increasingly unwilling to underestimate the training regimens and tactical combat drills Yang Yaozong devised for the soldiers. Watching them train under his guidance, she witnessed the men’s constant growth and strengthening. Day after day, she found herself quietly accompanying Yang Yaozong, and even she did not realize that her complex gaze toward him now contained a subtle and intriguing emotion.

While Yang Yaozong was hidden away in the mountains with his troops, news of the Qixi Poetry Gathering at the Heir Apparent’s residence spread throughout Tianjing City the very next day. The stories were not only recounted in every alley but circulated most widely in the pleasure quarters and among the painted barges. The song “Immortal on the Magpie Bridge: Light Clouds Weaving Their Art” became popular in these circles, as did the tale of Yang Yaozong and Nangong Qingyi’s transcendent love, which was hailed as the epitome of romance in the Zhou Dynasty. Within just seven days, their story had reached even the far-off border of Yanmen Pass.

The fifteenth day of the seventh month—Zhongyuan, the Ghost Festival, also known in Buddhism as the Ullambana Festival—arrived. Folklore held that, at the start of the seventh month, ancestors who had passed away were released by the King of the Underworld for half a month, hence the customs of welcoming ancestors at the month’s start and bidding them farewell at the half-month mark. According to Buddhist practice, on the fifteenth day, believers held the Ullambana Assembly to honor the Buddha and monks, to alleviate suffering in the six realms, and to express gratitude to parents for their nurturing love. Rich and poor alike would prepare wine, food, and paper money as offerings to their deceased, demonstrating their remembrance.

That evening, during a council of war in the Grand Marshal’s tent, Nangong Qingyi noticed several generals casting peculiar glances her way, though she thought little of it. After the meeting, she made her customary rounds in the camp. Usually, soldiers who were not required to salute her would pass by without a word, but today they all stopped to greet her with, “Strategist, well met! Thank you for your hard work!” She continued on her inspection, heading back to her tent, puzzled by their behavior. Suddenly, she remembered it was the Ghost Festival and recalled the looks of admiration and even envy from a few generals during the meeting. While she sensed no danger, she could not shake the feeling that something was amiss; the more she thought about it, the more uneasy she felt, a chill running down her back. Quickening her pace, she hurried to her tent, where she found her three maids gazing at her with bright, laughing eyes. Wary, she frowned and took a step back.

“You…?” Nangong Qingyi asked, confused.

Xiaoqin and Xiaoqi beamed at her with sweet delight.

Xiaoshu, excited, blurted out, “Miss, didn’t you hear?”

Xiaoqi shot Xiaoshu a glance and said, “Hmph, how could Miss not have heard? As if she’d jump up and down like you did!”

Xiaoshu pouted and shot back, “You jumped up too! Hmph! And you call me out?”

Seeing Nangong Qingyi’s growing confusion, Xiaoqin composed herself and said calmly, “Miss, could it be you really don’t know?”

Nangong Qingyi knitted her brows. “What should I know? Why are you all acting so strangely today, staring at me like that?” She suddenly wondered if something was amiss with her appearance and quickly examined herself from head to toe, even spinning around for Xiaoqin to check. “Is there something on me, Xiaoqin?”

Xiaoqi and Xiaoshu giggled. “Nothing special on you, Miss.”

Xiaoqin, sensing that her mistress truly had no idea, ventured, “Miss, you know a few days ago was Qixi, right?”

Nangong Qingyi nodded, puzzled. “Yes, I know.” She wondered what relevance Qixi had to today.

Xiaoqin, now certain her mistress hadn’t heard the news, turned to the two maids who were gazing at Nangong Qingyi as if she were a fish and they were hungry cats. “You two, stop staring at her like that. Miss doesn’t know yet.”

Xiaoqi and Xiaoshu widened their eyes at Xiaoqin, then at Nangong Qingyi, then at each other. Unable to contain themselves, they rushed to her side, taking her by the arms and leading her to sit by the low table.

“What are you two doing?” Nangong Qingyi asked, nervous.

“Miss, please sit,” Xiaoqi said. “Let me tell you in detail.”

Xiaoshu eagerly added, “Yes, let me tell you too!”

Xiaoqi glared at Xiaoshu. “I’ll tell it!”

“I’ll tell it!” Xiaoshu retorted, undaunted.

By now, Nangong Qingyi had been pressed down onto a cushion by the low table. Watching the two little maids squabble, she said, “Enough, both of you. Sit down. Xiaoqin, you tell me! What on earth has happened?”

The two maids slumped down, pouting. Xiaoqin, amused by their antics, poured Nangong Qingyi a cup of tea and said, “Miss, may I recite two Qixi poems for you first?”

Nangong Qingyi, perplexed, regarded Xiaoqin. She knew the girl was always steady and thoughtful, so there must be a reason for this. She took a sip of tea. “Very well. I didn’t spend Qixi with you all, so we can make up for it today. Even if it’s not an auspicious festival, I haven’t sat and chatted with you in a long time. Go ahead, Xiaoqin. Let’s see how you do.” In truth, her nerves were still on edge and she wanted the girls’ company.

Xiaoqi and Xiaoshu nodded vigorously at Xiaoqin, encouraging her.

Xiaoqin cleared her throat. “The first poem:”

“From afar, the Cowherd Star,
The Weaver Maid so bright.
Slender hands weave silver threads,
Weaving day and night.
All day the work remains undone,
Her tears fall like rain.
The river clear and shallow lies,
How far apart remain?
Across the water, gaze meets gaze,
But words cannot be spoken.”

Nangong Qingyi smiled and nodded approvingly. “Yes. This poem fits the theme of Qixi, inspired by the myth of the Cowherd and Weaver Maid, expressing the sorrow and pain of love’s hardship. The language is honest and unadorned, fresh and natural, and it captures their feelings well. A fine piece indeed.”

Xiaoqin grinned, a gleam in her eye. “Then shall I recite the second one, Miss?”

Xiaoqi and Xiaoshu looked at her intently, nodding in unison.

Nangong Qingyi sensed something odd but kept her tone calm. “Go ahead.”

Xiaoqin cleared her throat again, stepped forward, and recited:

“Immortal on the Magpie Bridge: Light Clouds Weaving Their Art.

Light clouds weave their art, shooting stars bear their grief,
The Silver River flows quietly and far.
When gold winds and jade dew meet just once,
It surpasses all encounters in the mortal world.

Tenderness flows like water,
The cherished meeting a dream,
How could one bear to look back on the path from the Magpie Bridge?
If love between two hearts can last for long,
Does it matter they cannot meet every dawn and dusk?”

As Xiaoqin finished, Nangong Qingyi stared at her in astonishment. “Where did you get this poem?”

Xiaoqin teased, “First, tell me what you think of it.”

Nangong Qingyi shot her a look, half laughing in exasperation. “Only someone of great talent could compose this. Compared to the previous poem, this one not only fits Qixi’s theme but tells the myth with greater elegance and subtlety. Especially the last two lines—if love between two hearts can last for long, does it matter they cannot meet every dawn and dusk? It transforms the sorrowful legend into a celebration of steadfast love, elevating the poem to a new height. This is the finest Qixi poem I have ever known. You little rascal, tell me now—where did you get it?”

Xiaoqin maintained her air of mystery. “Miss, you want to know where I got it? First, guess who wrote these two poems. You know the author.”

Nangong Qingyi furrowed her brows. “Both poems by one person? Someone I know?” She pondered. “Was it Master Dai Yuan?” Seeing Xiaoqin shake her head, she guessed again, “Master Xu Baichuan?” Another shake.

Xiaoqi and Xiaoshu could hold back no longer and blurted out together, “It was—was the young master!”

Nangong Qingyi froze in shock, staring at Xiaoqin. Xiaoqin nodded with a smile. “Miss, both Qixi poems were composed by the young master. What’s more, at the poetry gathering, after he wrote these two, no one dared try another Qixi poem. Instead, everyone praised him, saying that ‘Immortal on the Magpie Bridge’ was inspired by his longing for you. People are calling your love with him the model for all under heaven. You two are now the romantic ideal of the entire Zhou Dynasty!”

Nangong Qingyi was even more taken aback. Though her brows knitted, her cheeks flushed red. She shook her head, thinking, “Immortal on the Magpie Bridge? Yang Yaozong and I, a model of love?”

She could barely remember what Yang Yaozong looked like now, but lately, stories about him reached her again and again: winning the favor of the courtesan queen, becoming the Grand Tutor to the Heir Apparent, and now composing these Qixi poems—especially “Immortal on the Magpie Bridge,” a work she herself could never have written. Because of it, she and Yang Yaozong had become the subjects of countless stories as paragons of love.

If these poems were written for someone, it could not be for her, she thought. Then for whom? Yin Ruxin? The name surfaced in her mind, and as she considered and analyzed, her feelings grew more complicated.

The three little maids saw their mistress deep in thought and seemingly downcast, so they sensibly withdrew.

Nangong Qingyi picked up her brush, copied down the two poems Xiaoqin had recited, and studied them closely, her mind blank of everything else, simply lost in contemplation.