Chapter 047: A Decade to Forge a Blade

Li Linfu had six daughters, and it was said that each inherited his genes, all as beautiful as flowers. Though Li Linfu was a cunning man, he was a good father. His method of choosing husbands for his daughters was rather unique; he did not treat his daughters as tools of political exchange. Instead, he hung a curtain in his office, had his daughters stand behind it, and let them observe those who came to report official matters. If any of them fancied someone, he would have someone inquire about the man’s background, and if suitable, he would propose marriage, offering his daughter’s hand.

This was not merely affection, but indulgence. The Tang dynasty was open-minded and did not rigidly adhere to the matchmaking rites that later generations obsessed over; nevertheless, social status and family background remained important, often critical. It was rare for someone like Li Linfu to give his daughters full freedom in such matters. He was not only open-minded but almost enlightened, with a trace of advocacy for free love.

Of his six daughters, five were already married. The youngest, Li Tengkong, was the most cherished among all his children. She had chosen to become a Taoist priestess, the abbess of Jiayou Abbey, to perform rituals for her father in hopes of averting disasters, which naturally made Li Linfu feel guilty. Li Zaixing believed that Li Linfu likely visited Jiayou Abbey, particularly when troubled by uneasy matters.

It is when a person is lost and helpless that he is most inclined to trust in the immortals, entrusting his fate to them and praying for their aid. The more guilty a man’s conscience, the more prone he is to this; even self-proclaimed atheists among later public servants are no exception, let alone a superstitious man of the Tang dynasty.

Li Zaixing knew that Xie Guanglong was still atop the bell tower. Although he didn’t know where Xie’s attention lay, he had no wish to let his movements be discovered. Skirting the south wall of Bodhi Monastery, he moved east and slipped into the main courtyard of the Li residence. Walking beneath the wall, he could hear the frequent footsteps of patrolling guards on the street outside—far more numerous and frequent than the previous night. Clearly, the disappearance of the Insect Lady had made the situation tense.

When on the bell tower, Li Zaixing had memorized the main layout of the Li residence. Now, moving through the darkness, he navigated effortlessly despite the many servants passing to and fro, as if he were strolling through his own home.

This ease was thanks to two particular features of the Li household: first, the abundance of rockeries and flowering trees, with corridors winding in all directions and countless places to hide; second, though Li Linfu was the chancellor, there were no stationed guards in the front courtyard—only a few family servants patrolled, and they were clearly not professionals.

No wonder Li Linfu remained uneasy, even after forcing Bodhi Monastery to relocate its bell tower to the west courtyard. According to Li Bi, there were more than three hundred rooms in the Li residence, and Li Linfu never slept in the same place two nights in a row, sometimes changing rooms several times in one night, such that even his family never knew where he slept.

At the time, Li Zaixing found this rather absurd. If a man must live so, what meaning is left, living merely for the sake of survival? However, after chatting idly with Wei Yingwu that morning, he learned things Li Bi had not mentioned.

According to Tang custom, except for the imperial entourage, no matter how high a minister’s rank, even a chancellor had no right to be guarded by soldiers. When the chancellor went out, there was no clearing of the road, and his retinue was only three to five men, at most a dozen or so, mingling with the crowd with no special distinction. The chancellor did not consider this beneath his dignity, nor did the people regard him as particularly approachable because of it. Li Linfu, however, conscious of his many enemies and fearing assassination, would mobilize more than a hundred guards when out, positioning them a hundred paces before and behind—a bowshot’s distance—to guard against arrows and long-range attacks.

Such a display was possible on the street, but not at home. Even with his power, Li Linfu could only arrange for a few Southern Palace guards at the gate; within the residence, security depended on family servants. Knowing their limitations, he settled for constantly changing his lodging, making himself a moving target for any would-be assassin.

In truth, this was all rather pitiful. In later ages, a man of his status would have an elite guard of a hundred or more, and no one would object—an entirely reasonable arrangement.

Sighing to himself, Li Zaixing passed through halls and courtyards, eventually reaching Jiayou Abbey and soon found the abbess Li Tengkong’s chamber.

Li Tengkong was still awake, sitting upright at her desk. By lamplight, her face glowed with a gentle radiance, like flawless white jade. Her brows were finely arched, her face without cosmetics, her eyebrows unadorned. Her eyes were half closed, their size indiscernible, her nose straight, her lips full and well-shaped, the lines of her face somewhat sharp.

At this moment, she bent her head, her lips moving softly, with a censer burning on the desk and a scripture scroll before her—clearly, she was chanting scripture.

From the beam above, Li Zaixing looked down and read the title of the scroll: "Laozi’s Scripture for Dispelling Calamity." He gave a silent, cold smile. Li Tengkong recited fluently; it was clear she had read it often. Likely, she too knew the depth of Li Linfu’s crimes and so frequently chanted this scripture, hoping to ward off disaster for him.

Alas, the gods and immortals are too occupied to meddle in human affairs. Even if Laozi’s spirit were real, he would hardly bless a treacherous minister who brought harm to the nation, especially one whose family name, Li, was revered in Tang, whose ancestor was Laozi, and whose state religion was Daoism—yet who bore inescapable blame for the An Shi Rebellion. If Laozi’s spirit existed, could he forgive him?

Suddenly, Li Tengkong was seized by a sense of dread, her heart pounding violently. She pressed her hand to the scripture, trying to keep from trembling. It was as if an invisible mountain pressed upon her head, making it hard to endure.

In an instant, sweat beaded across her skin, soaking her undergarments, clinging to her body.

Yet she dared not move.

She recognized this feeling—a warning that a highly skilled assassin was watching from the shadows. As Li Linfu’s daughter, she had encountered many martial artists, even assassins targeting her father; this feeling was all too familiar.

Remembering her father’s frightened expression in the moonlit hall earlier, Li Tengkong was overcome by helplessness. She had returned to the abbey, lit incense, and chanted scripture to dispel disaster for him, only to be enveloped now by a murderous aura. She could not help but worry for his fate.

Was it truly inescapable? Was all her chanting in vain?

Li Zaixing sensed her tension and grew even more cautious. Li Tengkong was too sensitive—more so than most trained martial artists. This was not good. If he were discovered during his first infiltration, his entire plan would be ruined.

He slowed his breathing, calmed his thoughts, and even withdrew his presence from Li Tengkong.

Still, her body remained taut, not relaxing in the slightest.

Li Zaixing frowned; her intuition surpassed his expectations, nearly matching his own, honed over two lifetimes and more than ten years of training. After a moment’s thought, he abandoned the idea of continued concealment. With a soft sigh, he flipped from the beam and exited the chamber.

At the sound of that sigh and the footsteps behind her, Li Tengkong nearly broke down. Trembling uncontrollably, she still lacked the courage to look back, afraid to see a gleaming blade. Only when she heard the door open, then footsteps fading away, did she gradually relax, exhaling a long breath.

A cold sweat drenched her.

Li Zaixing left Li Tengkong’s room but did not depart. He wandered through Jiayou Abbey, roughly surveying the terrain, then slipped into the west side of the main Li residence. He did not waste time searching for Li Linfu—he knew he lacked the time. Instead, he made straight for the legendary Moon Hall.

Even with the bell tower moved, Li Zaixing could discern the main layout of the Li residence. The main building, the Moon Hall, was easy to find. As legend had it, the hall’s steps curved like a crescent moon, extending to the sides and connecting with the corridor.

Li Zaixing ascended the Moon Hall and settled onto the seat.

The seat still held a trace of warmth. A faint fragrance lingered in the air—Li Linfu must have just been sitting here, though whether plotting harm or repenting his life was unknown.

Had he come a little earlier, they might have met face-to-face.

Li Zaixing felt a pang of regret. He sat quietly for a moment, then drew his dagger and carved a line into the screen behind him:

Ten years to hone a sword, its return rings out against injustice.
A single flower gives five petals; each falls for a reason.

When he finished, he stepped back, appreciating his handiwork in the moonlight with a faint smile. Hearing footsteps approaching down the corridor, he vaulted onto the wall and vanished into the night.

Behind him, the Li estate suddenly blazed with light as more and more torches gathered at the Moon Hall, yet all were silent as death. The hurried servants who arrived stared at the ten characters carved into the screen, struck dumb with fear, not daring to breathe.

It was not that the poem was especially fine, nor the calligraphy, but the killing intent that pervaded it. “Ten years to hone a sword, its return rings out against injustice”—clearly, someone had come for vengeance, bearing a grudge ten years in the making. Whoever dared leave such words here surely had no fear. Who could say if the avenger was still lurking, waiting for Li Linfu himself?

After a thorough search, Li Linfu finally stood in the Moon Hall. Gazing at the poem deeply etched into the screen, his brows knitted, his face pale.

Ten years to hone a sword? Ten years was surely a figure of speech—perhaps more, perhaps less. In all that time, what had he done? What seeds of enmity had he sown, that someone would nurse hatred for a decade and now return for revenge? “A single flower gives five petals; each falls for a reason.” Could it mean five enemies, each connected to the same event?

Memories came flooding back. Suddenly, cold sweat drenched Li Linfu, and he began to tremble uncontrollably.