Recognizing a Master

Han Juncheng sat beneath the eaves, a pair of black-rimmed spectacles resting on his flat face, gazing silently at the fortune teller before him. The fortune teller offered a humble smile. "Mr. Han, I've laid out the situation for you. Do you think tonight is suitable for us to make our move?" Han Juncheng sneered. "Back when my father was still Garrison Commissioner, someone of your station wouldn't even be worth a second glance from me." The fortune teller nodded repeatedly. "Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Young Master Han. You're doing our master a great honor." Han Juncheng scoffed. "Master? Who is this master of yours? He Jiaqing? You haven't the faintest idea what status my father held. In those days, a merchant's son like He Jiaqing couldn't dream of securing an audience with me so easily." The fortune teller maintained his smile. Han Juncheng was indeed proud, but it was far from noble aloofness. "You intend to strike tonight, yet you only inform me now?" Han Juncheng was thoroughly displeased. The fortune teller explained, "An urgent turn of events forced our hand. The master originally intended to wait for a better opportunity..." "Spare me the chatter. What's the point of all this whining?" Han Juncheng cut him off impatiently. "Go make whatever preparations are necessary. We move at midnight. I utterly despise that place called Tiemenbao—a horde of paupers who can't scrounge together a few coppers, who've never seen the wider world, knowing nothing of manners or propriety. Once the deed is done, have He Jiaqing find an opportunity to wipe them out. Just looking at them sickens me." As a Dwelling Cultivator, Han Juncheng had stayed in Tiemenbao once before. Back then, he had claimed to be a tier-three Dwelling Cultivator, though in truth he had already attained tier six. At first, he had managed to keep it concealed. Yet before half a month had passed, he savagely beat an old vegetable-selling woman over a trivial dispute. He had struck with brutal force, leaving the old woman critically wounded. From the techniques he displayed, Zhou Anju recognized that Han Juncheng had already surpassed tier five, and cast him out of the fort that very night. Han Juncheng still nursed that grudge to this day, harboring an abiding desire to see Tiemenbao annihilated. With the time decided, the fortune teller departed to make preparations, while Han Juncheng consulted his dwelling spirit. He already possessed a dwelling spirit, yet intended to claim another tonight. Was such an act permitted? It was. The prerequisite was obtaining his current dwelling spirit's consent. Han Juncheng's dwelling spirit was a woman. For reasons unknown, she was utterly devoted to him, yielding to his every whim; whatever Han Juncheng proposed, she would naturally agree. "Juncheng, you must be exceptionally careful. There are quite a few experts in Tiemenbao." By "experts," she meant dwelling spirits. Han Juncheng offered a contemptuous chuckle. "What if there are experts? Dwelling spirits are merely servants to Dwelling Cultivators." The dwelling spirit said no more. Han Juncheng sat beneath the eaves, staring cold and detached at the sky. *** The fortune teller entered Tiemenbao. As it turned out, his trade found an eager market here. Dwelling Cultivators were deeply superstitious, possessing an obsession with fortune-telling, character divination, and palmistry. The fortune teller wandered the fort, performing readings for over thirty households in a single day. Everyone who sought his services praised his uncanny accuracy. Yet upon returning home thoroughly satisfied, each of them was overcome by an intense drowsiness. When sleep came, they simply slept; Dwelling Cultivators were refreshingly carefree in that regard. Yet this slumber proved profoundly heavy, keeping them fast asleep deep into the night, unable to rise. Such was the handiwork of a tier-seven Disease Cultivator. This physiognomist was none other than Wan Jinxian. He had afflicted every Dwelling Cultivator whose fortune he had told with hypersomnia—just for this single night, to be completely cured upon waking the next day. In truth, Wan Jinxian could have inflicted far more severe ailments; he could have even brought a plague upon Tiemenbao. Yet orchestrating such a thing without alerting anyone was no simple feat. His cultivation was high and his techniques formidable, but Dwelling Cultivators did not die easily. The moment they retreated into their dwellings, they could recover rapidly. Were one Dwelling Cultivator to fall gravely ill, the others would immediately heighten their vigilance. Wan Jinxian was a cautious man; he would not take any superfluous action at such a critical juncture. To a Dwelling Cultivator, sleeping was hardly an illness. Even if they slept a bit longer than usual, ordinary cultivators would think nothing of it, considering it a boon instead. Once night fell, the gates of Tiemenbao were barred, and silence enveloped the fort. Using a magical treasure, Wan Jinxian escorted Han Juncheng directly into the fort from the outside, following a predetermined route toward the fort lord's grand residence. Along the way, they passed numerous homes, yet not a single Dwelling Cultivator detected their passage, for every resident along the path lay fast asleep. The grand residence was forbidden ground. By Li Banfeng's decree, no one was permitted within a hundred meters of the estate, and two Dwelling Cultivators were stationed specifically to stand guard. Watching the guards from a distance, Wan Jinxian yawned in their direction. The guards never saw Wan Jinxian, but the yawn carried airborne pathogens drifting directly toward them. Before long, the two cultivators began yawning in succession; weariness overtook them. Dwelling Cultivators took their duties seriously; falling asleep on watch was strictly forbidden. They fought desperately against the fatigue. Tears welled in their eyes first, followed by running noses. By the time saliva drooled from the corners of their mouths, neither could resist any longer, and both collapsed by the roadside into slumber. Wan Jinxian led Han Juncheng into the estate and pointed toward the eastern auxiliary wing. "Mr. Han, the dwelling spirit we seek resides in that building. Exercise extreme caution once inside. I shall wait for you here." Han Juncheng did not deign to reply. Speaking with such an inferior creature was a trial in itself. The only detail he needed to confirm was the dwelling spirit's name: Zhao Xiaowan. Stepping into the auxiliary building, a chilling, grim aura rushed over him. Han Juncheng caught the scent of a deceased soul in the air. Without sparing a thought for the layout or conditions within, he followed the scent straight up to the second floor. Wan Jinxian frowned faintly. Han Juncheng's conduct was rather reckless. He Jiaqing had remarked that Han Juncheng possessed high cultivation but lacked experience. Wan Jinxian had assumed a tier-six Dwelling Cultivator would have weathered some trials. He had indeed weathered events—his father's arrest, for instance, had dealt him a heavy blow. Yet that had nothing to do with combat experience. His cultivation had been nurtured entirely by his devoted dwelling spirit. Finding a spirit so unwaveringly loyal was extraordinary fortune, but she could no longer elevate his cultivation any further. That was precisely why Han Juncheng had accepted this assignment; he desperately wanted to exchange her for another. He had heard of Zhao Xiaowan's renown. In his eyes, a legendary general and woman of myth was barely worthy of his standing. As for how to dispose of his previous dwelling spirit, he had yet to make up his mind. He could keep her as a servant, or offer her to Zhao Xiaowan as bait and sustenance. Han Juncheng leaned toward the latter; Zhao Xiaowan deserved such a prize. For a dwelling spirit of such power and stature, a generous gift would surely win her heart, rendering her completely compliant thereafter. The auxiliary building was substantial, its second floor boasting seven rooms. Han Juncheng paced past each doorway twice before coming to a halt before the chamber at the end of the corridor. He nudged the door open. Inside stood no furnishings aside from a single weapon rack. Upon the rack rested a solitary spear, devoid of any accompaniment. The spear was twelve chi long, its tip seven cun and seven fen, matching the popular tales to the letter. The only discrepancy was the absence of a red tassel. Could a spear lacking a red tassel truly be Zhao Xiaowan? Had he found the wrong place? No, it was impossible. Han Juncheng sensed an immensely formidable might emanating from the weapon. This was the aura of the Flying General! Han Juncheng stood before the spear and called out, "Zhao Xiaowan!" He waited for over a minute. The spear displayed not the slightest hint of resistance. Calling a dwelling spirit's name to its face without meeting defiance was proof that the spirit accepted the cultivator. This process was known as recognizing a master. Seeing that the spirit offered no resistance, Han Juncheng felt little surprise. In his view, neither his cultivation nor his background gave Zhao Xiaowan any reason to refuse him. He reached out toward the spear on the rack, a smug, contented smile spreading across his face. From the moment he claimed this spear, Han Juncheng was convinced his destiny would return to its proper course. He had always believed the heavens were profoundly unfair to him. He was entitled to everything, so why had it all been stripped away? Once he took this spear and walked out of the building, he would kill that Disease Cultivator first. He despised Wan Jinxian. A servant had no right to wear that insufferable expression, acting as though he knew everything! After slaying the Disease Cultivator, he would execute the fort lord, after which Han Juncheng believed he could naturally seize Tiemenbao for himself. Starting from Tiemenbao, he would amass wealth before returning to Lüshui City. In Lüshui City, he would trample the great families underfoot, then return to the Outer States. Once back in the Outer States, He Jiaqing had to die. He had long since run out of patience for He Jiaqing's condescending lectures over the years. When that day came, all those who looked down on him, all those who declared him guilty, would die! Han Juncheng would make everyone who had ever wronged him kneel and beg for mercy, make them repent for everything they had done, make them... Amidst his racing thoughts, Han Juncheng realized his hand had never touched the spear. Because his hand had fallen to the floor. The spear had remained resting on the rack without moving—at least, so it had appeared. Yet his hand had been severed cleanly at the wrist, as though sliced through by a razor-sharp blade. A single drop of blood slid down the spearhead. Could it be...? He had seen the spear remain perfectly still. Had she moved too fast to perceive...? She hadn't recognized him as master? He had clearly called her name, so why hadn't she submitted? Only then did the searing agony at his wrist register in Han Juncheng's mind. Clutching his forearm, he spun around to flee, only to stumble violently to the ground. His left leg, from the knee down, remained behind on the floor. Fresh blood stained the spear anew. Han Juncheng shrieked in agony as the spear shuddered faintly. Wailing on the floor, Han Juncheng thought he caught a flicker of an afterimage. Another limb vanished. His right leg was gone, severed entirely from the hip down. Han Juncheng nearly blacked out from the sheer pain. Of his limbs, only his left arm remained intact on his torso. A woman's voice drifted into his ear: "Crawl!" The tone was gentle, yet carried an irresistible, commanding authority. Using his sole remaining arm, Han Juncheng clawed desperately out of the room, down the corridor, and down the staircase. Just as he was about to reach the threshold, the spear materialized, plunging straight through his shoulder to pin him firmly to the floor. This was a public display. On the battlefield, it was a common tactic used to terrify enemy troops. Han Juncheng was exceptionally well-suited for such a display, for his wails were loud enough. "Save me, save me..." Han Juncheng sobbed, his vision blurred. Looking at Wan Jinxian standing by the doorway, he thought he was seeing his own father. "Dad, save me! Dad, it hurts, save me... Send someone to find my dwelling spirit, Dad, she can definitely save me! Dad, pull this spear out! Dad, it hurts so much..." "Child, you've mistaken me for someone else. In your next life, don't be so reckless." Wan Jinxian turned on his heel and departed. If he lingered any longer, he might never leave.