Chapter Fifty-Seven: Yan Qing (1)

Wei Zhuang carried her all the way back to the Ye residence. The steward, upon seeing them, finally breathed a sigh of relief, dispatched a servant to report their return, and hurried after them. “Miss, you’re finally home. You nearly scared us to death—truly, heaven has shown mercy.”

Ye Qianran smiled softly. “Steward, I’m perfectly fine, see how anxious you were.”

The steward wiped his brow. “Yes, thank goodness you’re back. Master and Madam have been up all night with worry; everyone in the household who could be spared was sent out to look for you. If you hadn’t come back, the whole house would have been turned upside down.”

Wei Zhuang laughed. “I heard that last time she was injured, your household was in an uproar as well. It seems the sky over the Ye residence is easily overturned.”

The steward forced a laugh. “Sir jests.”

Ye Qianran eyed him warily. “How did you know I’d been injured? Weren’t you in Jiangnan at the time?” Wei Zhuang smiled. “It was Master Ye who told me.” As he spoke, a crowd of maids and old servants surrounded Ye Yuandao and Wen Qiumei as they hurried over. Juanbi rushed forward, nearly tripping in her haste. “Miss—!”

Wei Zhuang smiled. “Juanbi, didn’t I promise I’d bring your young lady home? See, I kept my word, didn’t I?”

Juanbi nodded through her tears. “Sir, you truly are a good man.”

Ye Qianran was half-amused, half-exasperated. “Juanbi, it’s a good thing I’m back. Why are you crying?”

Juanbi quickly wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m just so happy, that’s all.”

By then, Ye Yuandao and Wen Qiumei had reached them. Wen Qiumei’s face was drawn with anxiety. “What happened? How did things come to this?”

Wei Zhuang carried Ye Qianran into the room; the maids and old servants made way. He explained, “Her leg is injured.” He gently settled her into a chair. Wen Qiumei, even more distressed at this, called out, “Quick, fetch the physician, hurry!” The maids and old servants scurried away.

Ye Qianran reassured her, smiling, “Mother, don’t worry, I’m all right.”

Ye Yuandao turned to Wei Zhuang, apology written all over his face. “We’ve troubled you again, sir.”

Wei Zhuang brushed his brow with a relaxed, casual gesture. “It was nothing.”

Ye Qianran suddenly remembered something. “Father, Mr. Wei’s shoulder was wounded by a wild beast. When the doctor arrives, let him examine Mr. Wei first.”

Ye Yuandao’s look grew even more apologetic. “Is it serious? What kind of beast was it?”

Wei Zhuang seemed indifferent, as if the injury weren’t his own. “It was just a careless moment—a snow leopard scratched me. It’s nothing serious.”

He glanced at Ye Qianran, smiling to reassure her. “Miss Ye’s leg is a bit more serious, but it’s nothing grave. She’ll recover quickly. Master Ye, Madam, please don’t worry.”

Ye Yuandao nodded. “Sir, you’re injured yet still thinking only of us. I truly don’t know how to thank you.”

Wei Zhuang smiled. “If you say such things, Master Ye, I’ll hardly dare to come again. I think of Qianran as my own sister—how could I, as a brother, not act when she’s in trouble?” His words were perfectly measured, noble and irreproachable, leaving not a single seam for reproach. Hearing this, Ye Qianran could only sigh inwardly; he truly was skilled in such matters.

Ye Yuandao was indeed pleased. “Then I’ll say no more in the way of thanks. Since you regard Qianran as a sister, our home is yours as well. You must come often.”

This was precisely what Wei Zhuang wanted to hear—a faint smile of satisfaction flickered at the corners of his mouth. “Now that I’ve seen her safely home, I should take my leave. Master Ye, I bid you farewell.”

“What, you’re leaving already?” Ye Yuandao was surprised. “At least stay for a meal.”

But Ye Qianran understood why he wanted to go—wounded as he was, he surely didn’t wish to linger. “Father, I’m sure Mr. Wei is exhausted. Let him go for now; there will be plenty of opportunities for him to dine with us in the future.”

Wei Zhuang lowered his head, amused by her thoughtfulness. “Then I’ll take my leave. Once Miss Ye has recovered, I’ll return to visit.”

Ye Yuandao did not insist, escorting him to the gate and urging him to come often. Wei Zhuang agreed with a smile before finally turning to leave.

The physician arrived soon after, examined the injury, and declared it no cause for alarm. He wrote a prescription and advised plenty of rest. Wen Qiumei, however, was as vigilant as a general on the eve of battle—she forbade Ye Qianran from so much as leaving her bed, insisting she lie quietly. No matter how many times Qianran assured her she was fine, Wen Qiumei would not be reassured. She pressed her daughter to recount what had happened, and Qianran only selected the least alarming parts. She feared telling the whole story would frighten her mother. She minimized Wu Ling’s bullying, saying only that, because her father had refused Wu Ling’s proposal, Wu Ling had frightened her out of spite.

She was well aware of the Wu family’s power. Her father, renowned as the wealthiest merchant, was rich but not noble. In the capital, wealth alone meant little; power was everything. Her father’s success was due to his connections with those in power. She did not want him to make enemies on her behalf.

As long as nothing truly bad had happened, all would be well.

Despite her assurances, Ye Yuandao was still furious. He laughed coldly. “The Wu family may wield tremendous power in the capital, but I am no easy prey. I’ve always believed in leaving others alone unless they provoke me. If he’s not afraid to offend me, why should I fear him? If I cannot seek justice for my daughter’s suffering, what use is all my wealth?”

Ye Qianran wanted to say more, but Ye Yuandao stopped her. “You focus on your recovery. Leave the rest to me. Don’t worry about anything else.”

Seeing her father so resolved, Ye Qianran said nothing more.

When Wei Zhuang returned to the warm study, Gu Qingcheng had already called for a physician to wait in her small courtyard. As the doctor dressed his wounds, Gu Qingcheng watched, heart pounding—such deep gashes, four in all, and he had endured them from the night before until now, all the while pretending it was nothing. She frowned at him, thoughts swirling—once again, it was for that girl.

After the doctor left, Gu Qingcheng brought out the clothes she had prepared for him. Wei Zhuang reached out, pinching her cheek. “You always know me best.”

But in truth, she did not understand him at all.

For instance, she had always thought his interest in Ye Qianran was fleeting, as had been the case with other women in the past. He had once said he liked beautiful things, women included. No matter how accomplished a woman was, if she lacked beauty, he would not be interested. He admitted that he liked her because she was beautiful, but also said that a woman’s appearance determined his initial interest, while her character decided how long that interest would last.

All the women he’d known before were ladies of distinguished families, each outstanding in her own right, yet he’d never shown much patience with any of them. In these three years, only she had remained by his side. She believed she was the exception in his life. Though she knew he did not love her, she did not mind. He had never loved anyone, not truly—not even affection seemed within his reach. Things as they were suited her well enough.

But toward that Ye Qianran, he showed unprecedented patience.

She could not deny the girl’s beauty, talent, and distinguished family, but what did that matter? They were not the same kind of people. The hardships he’d endured, the pain he’d suffered—how could a privileged young lady possibly understand? Only she, Gu Qingcheng, knew those soul-deep wounds.

When Wei Zhuang emerged in fresh clothes, Gu Qingcheng was staring blankly out the door. Even as he approached, she did not notice. He lifted her chin and asked with a gentle laugh, “What has you so lost in thought?” It was an intimate gesture, yet he performed it casually.

Gu Qingcheng smiled and stood, tidying his clothes—a habit, though there was nothing that needed arranging. “You are very attentive to the eldest Miss Ye.”

Wei Zhuang smoothly removed her hand from his chest as he walked out. “Just a diversion—nothing worth taking seriously.” His tone was light, almost dismissive. Though she knew the words were false, Gu Qingcheng still felt relieved. “Where are you going, sir?”

He did not look back. “I’m off to see Zimu. I’ll come find you tonight.” The words drifted away on the spring breeze, betraying nothing of his mood.

When Wei Zhuang found Yan Qing, the latter was sitting beneath the bodhi tree outside the abbot’s quarters at Shuanglin Temple, playing chess with the abbot. The peach blossoms were in full bloom along the veranda, dense clusters of rouge-pink petals gilded with gold by the slanting rays of sunset. Peach blossoms, more than any flower, inspire reverie—they can cover mountains and valleys in wild, dazzling splendor, or rest demurely by a courtyard, their beauty in harmony with sunlight and drifting clouds, both pure and radiant.

The wind stirred the hems of their robes, the blossoms and green shade forming a backdrop. In this tranquil spot, Yan Qing showed no sign of rising at Wei Zhuang’s approach. It was the abbot who greeted him. “A benefactor has arrived.” Wei Zhuang nodded with a smile, his gaze never leaving the chessboard.

Yan Qing, holding a white stone, pondered his next move. “Judging by your look, I’d wager you’ve found her.”

Wei Zhuang lowered his head, smiling. “One cannot serve two masters. Watch out, or you’ll lose this game.”

Yan Qing placed a stone with a flourish. “Losing doesn’t matter—after all, it’s you who’ll pay the price.”

Wei Zhuang smiled. “And what do you mean by that?”

Yan Qing replied with conviction. “I made a bet with the abbot just now. If I lose, you have to add a hundred thousand taels to your usual temple donation this year.”

“You…” Wei Zhuang could only laugh in disbelief. “So you came to the capital just to bleed me dry?”

Yan Qing placed another stone, speaking slowly and with satisfaction, “Who—says—that—isn’t—so.” He glanced at the chessboard, pleased. “I win. You’ve saved yourself a hundred thousand taels.”

Wei Zhuang looked down again—the game was indeed decided. Yan Qing rose and bowed to the abbot. “Thank you for the game.”

The abbot, prayer beads in his right hand and his left palm at his chest, moved with monastic serenity. “Amitabha. Benefactor’s chess skills have improved again.” He paused. “Since you two have matters to discuss, I’ll leave you to it.” Wei Zhuang nodded in polite acknowledgement.

The two of them walked into the meditation room. It was sparsely furnished: a simple bed, a Buddha statue, a square table, two chairs, and a kneeling cushion—nothing more.

Wei Zhuang took a seat and poured himself a cup of cool tea. The golden rays of sunset streamed through the lattice windows, bathing the room in light. Yan Qing knelt and bowed three times, then sat across from him. Wei Zhuang regarded him with mild curiosity. “Weren’t you a Daoist? When did you convert to Buddhism?”

Yan Qing poured himself tea. “Who says a Daoist can’t also be Buddhist? The more faiths, the better. If everyone were like you, with nothing to believe in, what would they rely on in times of trouble? How pitiful that would be.”

Wei Zhuang sipped his tea. “I’ve always believed self-reliance is better than relying on others.”

“I know that in true peril, faith may not save you. But life needs belief—otherwise, what’s the point?”

Wei Zhuang shook his head with a wry smile. “Enough, we’ll never agree on this, so let’s not discuss it.”

Yan Qing set down his cup. “I couldn’t agree more.”