Chapter Forty-Nine: Master Hongdao

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, only casting its light across the sky, Yang Yaozong had already returned to the Nangong residence.

As Yang Yaozong stepped into the rear courtyard, he saw Xiaohua stumbling out of her room, rubbing her eyes and yawning sleepily. Sensing someone watching her, she turned her head to find it was Yang Yaozong. Instantly, she perked up, her eyes wide and shining, and ran over to him excitedly. “Master, master! You’re back so early!”

Yang Yaozong smiled at her endearing appearance. “Yes, I came back to wash up, but I’ll have to head out again soon. Still, I’ll be coming home to rest more often these days.”

Xiaohua nodded, her spirits high. “Master, on the night of the Qixi Festival, you went to the Prince of Qin’s manor for the poetry gathering! And you were so amazing! The whole capital is talking about you. ‘If love between two hearts can last for ages, does it matter if they’re apart day and night?’ Wow! Master, you’re so talented! You and the young lady have become the model of love in our country. Master, you’re incredible…”

Xiaohua chattered on energetically as soon as she saw Yang Yaozong.

Later, Yang Yaozong reclined in the bathing tub, a towel draped over his eyes, his head resting on the edge, arms spread languidly, dozing lightly.

Xiaohua sat just outside the bath, relaying the latest happenings both at the residence and in the city.

“Now, whenever the other maids see me, they always ask about you, Master—when you’ll be home and such. They all admire you so much now!”

She continued, “Lately, besides hearing about your feats on Qixi, people are also talking about Master Hongdao from Dao’en Temple. Have you heard, Master? He’s very famous, probably over a hundred years old now. Whenever he presided over gatherings, crowds of Buddhists and devotees would attend—quite a sight. But a few days ago, word spread that Master Hongdao is about to enter final meditation. Many believers and monks have flocked to Dao’en Temple, some coming from distant places. I’ve even heard that Master Hongdao has been fasting and meditating in the Grand Hall for days, his body withering away, yet he still hasn’t passed on. They say he’s waiting for a destined person to guide him to transcendence. And whoever can do so will become a pillar of the Da Zhou nation.”

Soaking in the tub, Yang Yaozong listened to Xiaohua’s account and recalled that the reports collected by his team the previous day had also mentioned the news of Master Hongdao’s impending passing.

Yang Yaozong had some understanding of Master Hongdao. The current Da Zhou dynasty was a devoutly Buddhist realm, and Master Hongdao had even been granted the title of National Preceptor by the Emperor. This was not merely due to his mastery of Buddhist teachings, but also for the many good deeds he had performed for the people—saving countless lives and aiding those in suffering.

In his youth, Master Hongdao had been a traveling monk, journeying through renowned mountains and rivers, braving hardship and foreign lands. He survived on alms, sleeping in the open, seeking out masters, cultivating himself, and also helping and enlightening others along the way. Whenever catastrophe or plague struck Da Zhou, he would personally travel to the scene, assisting the authorities in distributing food and medicine. In times of epidemic, he braved danger to prepare remedies and care for the sick.

It wasn’t until he was in his nineties that the Emperor invited Master Hongdao to the capital. The Emperor wished to build him a new temple, but Master Hongdao, unwilling to tax the people, declined this honor and took up residence in a secluded, dilapidated temple on Mount Qixia. The Emperor had the temple renovated and named it Dao’en Temple. Since Master Hongdao became its abbot, the temple’s incense offerings had flourished, and many devotees contributed to its expansion. From a humble ruin, it had become the grandest temple in the land.

Though Yang Yaozong had never met Master Hongdao, the stories he’d heard filled him with admiration. Were it not for his recent busyness, he would surely have gone to Dao’en Temple himself—even if only to witness the devotion of the faithful.

After breakfast, Yang Yaozong returned to the general store. Jing Yijun was already there, calmly reading on a low couch.

Yang Yaozong smiled at her. “You’re quite diligent.”

Jing Yijun didn’t respond to his greeting, but instead asked, “About those promotional strategies you used at the restaurant—by today, I expect other places will have copied them. The only thing they can’t imitate is the story you tell. But what will you do when the tale of the Eight Dragons is finished?”

Leaning against the bookshelf, Yang Yaozong replied, “Well… there’s no need to tell stories every night. Sometimes we can have opera performances instead—always reciting stories would get dull. And who says that once the Eight Dragons is finished, there won’t be another tale?”

Jing Yijun, who loved listening to Yang Yaozong’s stories, put down her book and looked at him with curiosity. “Oh? What other stories do you know?”

Yang Yaozong considered for a moment, his eyes gleaming mischievously. “The story of the Divine Eagle and His Companion.”

Jing Yijun’s eyes lit up, and she leaned forward eagerly, then, feeling her forwardness, settled back on the couch, hesitating. “What is it about?”

Yang Yaozong saw her impatience for a spoiler—like a fairy who, descending to the mortal world, had shed some of her aloofness for a hint of girlish charm. He couldn’t help but chuckle, then coughed and sat at the desk, sorting through the morning’s intelligence reports. He thought to himself, “Before telling the Divine Eagle story, I should really start with the Legend of the Archery Heroes.” Nodding and arching his brow, he said aloud, “Hmm… The story of the Divine Eagle? It’s about Yang Guo and his aunt.”

Jing Yijun frowned at him, puzzled. “Yang Guo? Aunt?” She thought to herself, “What story could there be in that?”

Yang Yaozong, opening a report, replied absentmindedly, “Yes, the story of Yang Guo and Xiaolongnü.”

Jing Yijun’s frown deepened as she stared at his back, her cheeks flushing as she muttered, “The story of Yang Guo and Xiaolongnü! What kind of story could that be?” She mused that since Yang Yaozong had taken the name Yang Guo, a name bestowed by her father the Emperor, and had once called her ‘aunt,’ while she herself, a daughter of heaven, could be likened to Xiaolongnü. The thought made her blush and her heart race, and she found herself gazing at Yang Yaozong’s back in a daze, her mind in turmoil. “What story could there be between us?”

The report Yang Yaozong was reading concerned Master Hongdao: in front of the Grand Hall and at the gates of Dao’en Temple, crowds of devout believers and monks had gathered, including many eminent monks, all praying for Master Hongdao to find peace and transcendence. More arrived each day. Yang Yaozong frowned deeply. Hearing Jing Yijun’s murmured question, he replied without thinking, “What kind of story? The story of a man and a woman, of course!”

Jing Yijun, hearing his casual answer, immediately blushed, half embarrassed and half annoyed. Sitting up straight, a faint blue glow flickered in her hand as she drew moisture from the air into ice crystals, ready to flick them at Yang Yaozong as a playful rebuke.

But Yang Yaozong turned first, handing her the report, still frowning, his tone grave. “Doesn’t the Emperor know about this?”

Seeing his seriousness, Jing Yijun dismissed her spell, calmed herself, and took the intelligence slip, reading it carefully. Her brows knitted. “Father knows. The National Preceptor informed him before his final meditation, asking the Emperor to visit Dao’en Temple on the first of the eighth month. He will pass on that day.”

Yang Yaozong looked at her, still frowning. “Do you know why Master Hongdao hasn’t passed on yet?”

Jing Yijun shook her head, thinking hard. “Only that the National Preceptor is waiting for a destined person, someone who can deliver him. As for how or who this person is, nothing has been said—only that all will be revealed on the first of the eighth month. And lately, Father’s health has been poor. After morning court, he’s completely exhausted. Even when I channel energy to stimulate his body’s functions, there’s little improvement.” She didn’t know why she was confiding the Emperor’s secrets to Yang Yaozong—perhaps she simply trusted him.

Yang Yaozong was shocked; he hadn’t expected the Emperor’s health to be so frail. He suddenly felt a headache coming on, pressing his knuckles to his forehead as he spoke. “There are already so many monks and devotees gathering at Dao’en Temple. By the first of the eighth month, who knows how many will be there? And lately, people have been saying that whoever delivers Master Hongdao will become the pillar of Da Zhou. I wonder where this rumor started and what its purpose is.”

Jing Yijun, seeing his troubled expression, said softly, “It isn’t a rumor. Master Hongdao himself spread the word. As for his purpose… I can’t guess.”

“The Emperor’s health isn’t good. You shouldn’t keep coming here. Stay with him,” Yang Yaozong advised.

Jing Yijun smiled wryly. “I’d like to stay with Father too, but he asked me to come here every day to help you. The secret service has only just started operating—if there’s an emergency, or anything you need to discuss, I can help.”

Yang Yaozong nodded and returned to his desk to continue sorting through the reports.

Meanwhile, in the command tent at Yanmen Pass, Nangong Qingyi sat smiling with her brush poised, preparing to write. Beside her lay the first letter she had received from Yang Yaozong, written in his own hand.

When she had first received it, Nangong Qingyi had been surprised; she hadn’t expected Yang Yaozong to reply. With a hint of anticipation, she opened it to find his neat, pleasing handwriting. She smiled to herself. Though the letter was written in plain, everyday language, its sincerity shone through. Perhaps, she thought, Yang Yaozong simply wanted to show his warmth and approachability—after all, there was no need for formality between husband and wife. She mused silently, “What kind of person is Yang Yaozong, truly?”

Though married, they knew little of each other. Suddenly, Nangong Qingyi felt an urge to get to know this man who was now her husband. She smiled mischievously, dipped her brush, and wrote:

“My husband Yaozong, receiving your letter once again brings me great joy. But if a letter is a reflection of its sender, I still cannot picture what you are like. Your recent fame has reached even Yanmen Pass, and I feel honored by association. You are a man of great talent—do not hide your brilliance. As Grand Tutor to the Crown Prince and newly entered into officialdom, you are highly placed; your words and actions will be closely watched. If you encounter difficulties, seek out Minister Qin of the Ministry of Revenue—he is my father’s close friend and will surely help you. Father and I are well here at Yanmen Pass; you needn’t worry. Household affairs rest with you, and for this I am deeply sorry. Please be understanding. Your wife, Qingyi.”

Simple words, but more than she had ever written before. Once the letter was sent off with Xiao Qi, Nangong Qingyi stepped outside her tent, gazing up at the blue sky, thinking to herself: “The next letter I receive from Yang Yaozong will be at the end of the month, I suppose.” Her heart brimmed with a quiet anticipation.