Chapter Forty: Awakening Words and the Judge’s Gavel

At the very beginning, Mr. Guo began his tale: “To speak of the Wu family’s tragic deaths in the city a month ago, we must mention one person. And who is this person? He is a youth from our neighboring village, named Zhong Ming. This boy…”

Those few words alone made Zhong Ming break out in a cold sweat.

The events he’d experienced since childhood, his mother’s family background, the origins of his father—all of it, Mr. Guo recounted with uncanny accuracy.

There were exclamations of surprise from the audience below, and Zhong Ming’s heart was pounding so fiercely it felt as if it would leap from his throat.

In front of Mr. Guo, he had no secrets at all; the man even knew of his reunion with Yang Yanlang in the ruined temple.

Fortunately, Mr. Guo did not reveal that his soul hailed from another time. If he had, Zhong Ming would not have hesitated for a moment to snatch the broadsword from Liang Hei’s waist and cut down the storyteller then and there.

Liang Yu, seated beside him, listened with great amusement. Carefree as ever, he sipped his tea, nibbled cakes, and shared in the merriment.

Halfway through the tale, Liang Yu turned to Zhong Ming and said, “Brother Ming, Mr. Guo is quite skilled—he’s gotten all your details spot on.”

“He is indeed,” Zhong Ming replied quietly, his eyes narrowed as he studied Mr. Guo on stage. The man’s ever-present smile betrayed nothing of his true intentions.

How could a few months of acquaintance and some idle inquiries yield such familiarity with his life?

Zhong Ming did not believe it for a moment.

This man was unfathomable, his origins unclear—certainly not a mere wandering storyteller.

Zhong Ming kept his guard up, quietly resolving to be wary of Mr. Guo.

The tale continued, now delving into Liu Chengyin’s background, with a clarity that surpassed even what Liu had told Zhong Ming himself.

Now restless and impatient, Zhong Ming had no desire to listen further and nudged Liang Yu, saying, “Hei, let’s go. This story is getting dull.”

“But it’s so interesting, Brother Ming! If Mr. Guo hadn’t told it, I’d never have known your adventure that night was so thrilling.”

Liang Yu seemed rooted to his bench, refusing to budge, having already polished off a plate of pastries and now summoning another.

Zhong Ming thought to himself that Liang Hei was ever the nosy type—once hooked on a story, nothing would make him leave.

So Zhong Ming settled in as well, paying little attention to Mr. Guo’s tale, instead pondering how he might uncover the man’s true nature.

This cheerful, lewd-joke-telling fellow had become Zhong Ming’s gravest concern.

The youth thought long and hard, but no solution came to mind. Just as he sighed, a scolding voice rose up behind him.

The story itself held no allure for Zhong Ming, so he turned to see what was happening.

At the entrance stood two shabby figures. Leading was a scruffy old man, apparently in his sixties, his hair and beard all white, with hollow sockets where his eyes should have been—a chilling sight.

His eyes had evidently been gouged out, leaving only empty hollows.

He wore a gray Daoist robe and leaned on a staff with a yellow banner that read: “Character reading and fortune-telling, exorcism and demon-hunting, pulse diagnosis, and geomancy.”

A bold claim indeed—anything associated with Daoism, he claimed as his domain.

Most Daoist priests excelled in one specialty—some in exorcism, some in geomancy, others in talismans and medicine for strange illnesses—but this old man covered them all.

He seemed the very picture of an itinerant charlatan, for only frauds boasted of so many talents, hoping for just enough to get by.

From what he saw, Zhong Ming took no liking to the old Daoist.

But the young Daoist following him left Zhong Ming with a different impression. The youth wore a patched but spotless white robe and carried a well-kept rattan chest on his back—clearly a tidy individual.

Most striking, though, was his handsome appearance—not the rugged kind like Zhong Ming, but with features bordering on delicate, even alluring. In the three years since his arrival, Zhong Ming had not seen a man more attractive.

Perhaps from frequent hunger, the young Daoist was also thin and frail. At first, Zhong Ming suspected he might be a girl in disguise, but upon closer inspection, he dismissed the notion.

This youth was about the same age as Zhong Ming—seventeen or eighteen—with a pronounced Adam’s apple, confirming his masculinity.

A man with feminine features?

The elders often said: “A man with a woman’s face is destined for wealth or nobility.”

Such a face was said to promise fortune, but omens could be deceiving. Hadn’t Fei Dacheng been called destined for riches, yet now he toiled with a hoe in the eastern fields?

Intrigued by the young Daoist, Zhong Ming listened in on their argument.

He heard the attendant bar their way, scolding, “If you have no money, what business have you listening to stories? Be off! We don’t serve beggars here.”

The old Daoist protested, opening his yellow-toothed mouth to shout, “Who says we have no money? Disciple, pay him.”

The youth hesitated, then dug out a silk pouch and poured out a few coins—just five coppers in all.

He counted out four coins and offered them to the attendant, asking timidly, “Are four coins enough?”

The attendant sneered, pushing the youth’s hand back. “This teahouse isn’t for pauper priests like you. Look around—every guest here could drop several silver taels. Take your coins and buy yourselves two bowls of hot noodles instead.”

The young Daoist blushed deeply and tugged at his master’s sleeve, whispering, “Master, we don’t have enough. Let’s come back after we’ve earned some money.”

The old Daoist paid no mind to his disciple’s quarrel with the attendant, listening intently to the story.

When his disciple pleaded, he simply waved his hand. “No, this story is important—we must hear it today.”

With no other option, the youth gritted his teeth, handed all five coins to the attendant, and pleaded, “Kind sir, please show mercy. My master truly wishes to listen. Here are all our coins—we won’t take tea or seats, just stand at the door and listen for a while—will that be allowed?”

The youth’s appearance was so pitiable it stirred sympathy beyond that of any maiden.

Perhaps the attendant was moved, for his tone softened, though he still looked troubled. “It’s not that I don’t want to let you listen, but it’s against the rules. The manager would scold me.”

Seeing this, Zhong Ming was moved to compassion and called out, “Let them in, and bring me a pot of Longjing tea and a plate of pastries. I’ll pay for their story fee.”

For ordinary folk, tea and storytelling were expensive luxuries, but now that Zhong Ming relied on Yang Yanlang, he was a young master himself and paid little mind to a few taels of silver.

It was rare to encounter such determined people; he might as well do a good deed and help them.

His words resolved the impasse. The attendant quickly called for tea and pastries for Zhong Ming’s table, and the two Daoists were allowed in as they wished.

The young Daoist bowed deeply and thanked him, “Thank you for your kindness, benefactor. Thank you.”

Zhong Ming waved it off, studying the youth. Aside from his handsome, bashful demeanor, there was nothing especially noteworthy—unlike the odd old Daoist, who from start to finish listened to the tale with unwavering focus.

Even when Zhong Ming offered help, the old priest gave no word of thanks—he simply stood, ears pricked, as though Mr. Guo was not telling a story, but divulging the secret teachings of immortals.

The old Daoist’s oddness did not offend Zhong Ming; he merely assumed the man was addled in the head.

Shaking his head, Zhong Ming gestured to the bench. “Don’t stand—sit and listen.”

The youth thanked him again and led his master to sit across from Zhong Ming and Liang Hei. He made a point of edging away, clearly afraid of being a bother.

Zhong Ming just smiled and said nothing.

He knew that people like this young Daoist tended to be self-conscious; the more you fussed over them, the less at ease they felt. Best to let him be, without adding to his anxiety.

Zhong Ming turned away, pretending to listen to the tale.

But soon another commotion arose.

When the attendant brought tea and pastries, Zhong Ming poured for the two and gestured for them to relax.

The young Daoist, eyes fixed on the pastries, shook his head to refuse, but his stomach betrayed him with a loud rumble.

Liang Yu burst out laughing. “How many days since you ate, little Daoist? Your belly’s louder than the storyteller!”

The youth blushed even deeper, and Liang Yu teased, “You even know how to blush—you’re as shy as a girl!”

The young Daoist, mortified, clasped his sleeves and lowered his head in silence.

Zhong Ming smacked Liang Yu on the back of the head. “Hei, leave him be.”

Realizing his mistake, Liang Yu scratched his head with an embarrassed grin, muttering, “Can’t I just listen to the story?”

Zhong Ming then picked up a pastry and handed it to the young Daoist. “Eat. I ordered these for you.”

The youth hurriedly accepted it and bowed in thanks. Zhong Ming smiled and turned to listen to the tale, quietly nudging the pastry plate toward the youth.

But instead of eating, the young Daoist first offered it to the old priest. “Master, are you hungry? Have a pastry?”

The old Daoist pushed it away and kept listening.

Only then did the youth begin to eat, sipping tea and quickly polishing off four pastries—half the plate. Sated at last, he dared not take more.

Afterward, he produced a handkerchief to wipe his hands, and seeing Zhong Ming pouring tea, said, “Thank you for your kindness, benefactor. I have nothing to repay you with—may I read your fortune in return?”

The mention of fortune-telling reminded Zhong Ming of the blind soothsayer under the bridge in his previous life, and he grew nostalgic.

He smiled. “You know how to read fortunes? Are you any good?”

The youth nodded. “I’ve learned seven or eight-tenths of my master’s art. I should be able to manage.”

So, a half-trained apprentice. But his offer was genuine, so Zhong Ming replied, “Very well, read mine.”

The youth asked, “Would you like a character reading, face reading, or a divination stick?”

There were so many methods, Zhong Ming never had them all straight. “A character reading, keep it simple.”

With that, he dipped his finger in tea and wrote the character for “Ming” at the center of the table.

The youth stood up, studying it for a long while. Then he sat and scratched his neck. “Judging by the bold strokes, you’re a decisive person. But the character also has a certain grace, suggesting a free-spirited nature, perhaps lacking great ambition.”

He tilted his head, examining the character again. “Strictly speaking, you should not have written ‘Ming,’ for ‘Ming’ means to resound in the world. I suspect this is your name, yes?”

Zhong Ming was startled by his accuracy and nodded. The youth had guessed right.

But his next words were even more surprising. The youth smiled. “Of all the surnames, only a handful fit. With your name, I would guess the surname Xu matches best.”

Xu Ming? Did the youth guess wrong?

No, he was right. Zhong Ming had taken his mother’s surname, but his father was Xu Qiandao—being called Xu Ming would not be amiss.

But before Zhong Ming could speak, Liang Yu burst out laughing. “You guessed wrong, little Daoist. My Brother Ming’s surname is Zhong—his name is Zhong Ming!”

The youth frowned, his cheeks reddening as he scratched his head. “Then my learning is still lacking. I did wonder how the surname Zhong fit, but I must have misread it.”

Then, as realization dawned, his face changed, and he exclaimed, “You’re Zhong Ming?”

His shout echoed through the teahouse. Instantly, silence fell. Even Mr. Guo broke off mid-sentence, and every gaze in the room turned to Zhong Ming.