Chapter Forty-One: A Lifetime Adrift Like Rootless Duckweed

Just now, Mr. Guo’s story had reached this point:

Zhong Ming raised his blade and brought it down, severing Madam Wu’s head, then burst out laughing. “This is how a true man should live—freely repaying kindness and vengeance alike, the mark of a real hero in the world!”

Liu Chengyin, maddened, joined in the laughter, their voices shaking the small frontier town.

Stories are born of life, yet always rise above it.

In Mr. Guo’s book, many details diverged from the events of that night; without a doubt, he portrayed Zhong Ming as a ruthless killer, a bloodthirsty young devil not unlike Liu Chengyin, the two of them wreaking havoc side by side. The audience at the teahouse listened, trembling, and their impression of the once-famed Mr. Zhong was transformed.

In past days, the young man had been known for his fine calligraphy—“Zhong Ming, whose strokes bring spirits to life.” Now, all believed him to be “Zhong the Demon, addicted to killing.”

It was, in truth, a fabrication spun by the storyteller. Zhong Ming knew his own innocence, and saw no need to argue; he would not deprive another man of his livelihood.

But while the teller meant nothing by it, the listeners took it to heart. When they realized Zhong Ming himself was seated in the teahouse, they rose in panic and stared at him in terror, as if facing a murderer.

Thankfully, Zhong Ming had not brought along his infamous Yanluo Blade today, or someone might have wet themselves in fright on the spot.

Thus, most of the idlers in the teahouse lost their nerve, hurriedly tossed down their coins, and rushed out the door.

In a matter of moments, the teahouse was deserted. Only Zhong Ming, sitting frowning, Liang Yu glancing about in confusion, the young Daoist with a troubled expression, the old Daoist whose empty sockets were fixed on Zhong Ming, and Mr. Guo, watching with great interest, remained.

The servant and the proprietor huddled behind the counter, shivering. The air in the teahouse was thick with tension, as if the clash of blades might erupt at any moment.

Zhong Ming turned to look at the half-smiling Mr. Guo and cupped his hands. “Mr. Guo, what eloquence you possess. I never realized I was a bloodthirsty fiend like Liu Chengyin—this is news even to me.”

Mr. Guo was unruffled. With a laugh, he replied, “Mr. Zhong, I am but an old fellow making a living. Why trouble yourself with what’s true or false in a story?”

Zhong Ming smiled faintly. “A man must guard his tongue, else he’s likely to meet a bad end.”

“A storyteller lives by his tongue. If you put a muzzle on it, he’s no better than a dumb mule—how then could he earn a living?”

Mr. Guo still smiled, his expression unreadable to Zhong Ming.

The most difficult people in the world are not the talented scholars, nor the fierce warriors, but those whose depths cannot be fathomed. Mr. Guo was such a man, and Zhong Ming thought to himself: This Mr. Guo is unfathomable—best not to tangle with him.

He cupped his hands again, intent on leaving the conversation there. Taking out some silver, he set it down and turned to go.

But the old Daoist reached out and grabbed Zhong Ming’s sleeve. “Don’t leave just yet, Master Zhong. My disciple’s reading was off—let me try again for you.”

Zhong Ming’s frown deepened. “No need.”

He tried to wrench his sleeve free, but the old Daoist’s grip was strong, refusing to let go. With his other hand, he seized Zhong Ming’s palm, running his fingers over it.

This made Zhong Ming’s skin crawl. If it had been a young woman, he might not have minded, but to have an old Daoist pawing his hand was too much.

Unable to bear the intrusion, Zhong Ming reflexively summoned internal strength, intent on shoving the old Daoist away.

But the old Daoist seemed prepared; he shifted his stance with a light step, dodging the shove and releasing Zhong Ming’s hand in the process.

His empty gaze fell on Zhong Ming, unsettling to behold. With a slight furrow of his white brows, he murmured, “How strange. In all my days, I have never seen palm lines like yours. The first half of your life is bold and clear—destined for wealth and peace. But midway, an outside force severs the lines, and from there, all is chaos.”

“Nonsense!”

Zhong Ming could not decide whether this old Daoist possessed true skill or was simply after his silver.

In any case, the day’s events had become too bizarre for him. The young man wished only to leave, and waved to Liang Yu, “Hei-zi, let’s go!”

Liang Yu, clutching his broadsword, followed Zhong Ming out. He was still a little dazed—when had the teahouse become so tense, and since when had Ming-ge’s reputation grown so fearsome?

The old Daoist stood at a distance, fingers forming a sign as he cast a divination. Only as the youths reached the door did he call out, “Master Zhong, if I am not mistaken, you suffered a great change three years ago—someone defied fate and forcibly altered your destiny!”

Zhong Ming halted for a moment, heart pounding. Three years ago was precisely when he had arrived in this world.

The more unsettled he felt, the more he could not bear to stay in the teahouse. Whether it be Mr. Guo or the two Daoists, all seemed too uncanny. If he lingered, he feared his deepest secret might be discovered.

Quickening his pace, Zhong Ming hurried out.

Once the two young men had mounted their horses, the old Daoist’s voice drifted after them: “A rootless duckweed, tossed on the wind—Master Zhong, your latter days will be spent wandering. If I am right, come seek me at the Daoist temple west of town. I shall remain there for some days.”

Zhong Ming never paused, galloping away without looking back.

The two youths soon vanished from sight. Yet within the teahouse, the three remaining men did not move.

The young Daoist whispered, “Master, Master Zhong is gone.”

The old Daoist nodded, “My child, Master Zhong is a man without fate, yet luck clings to him. In all my years, I’ve never seen such a fate as his. His destiny is the perfect counter to yours. After so many years, I’ve finally found the one who can help you!”

The young Daoist fell silent, struggling before finally murmuring, “Master, I do not wish—”

But he could not bring himself to finish. Head bowed, he supported the old man, “Master, let us return for now. We have rites to prepare in a few days.”

The old Daoist sighed, as if he understood what his disciple wished to say. He muttered, “Three years ago, the sky was torn for a month, and the world’s fate was thrown into chaos. Even though I can see a little of what is to come, how can I hope to change destiny?”

At that, Mr. Guo spoke up, smiling. “There’s no need to worry, Master Zhang. Do what you can, and let fate decide.”

“What fate is there to speak of? The heavens have long since died!”

The old Daoist sighed once more. As he walked out, he added, “Mr. Guo, while I had a moment, I cast a hexagram for you as well. Lately, the star of calamity hangs over your head—its light outshining the moon. Beware, or disaster may befall you.”

Mr. Guo cupped his hands in thanks. “Thank you for the warning, Master.”

The old Daoist and his disciple left the teahouse, disappearing around the corner.

Inside, Mr. Guo tidied his storytelling paraphernalia, wrapped them up, and slung the bundle over his shoulder. Then he bowed to the proprietor. “My apologies. I fear I have nothing left to tell in this town. I won’t take today’s fee—consider it compensation for disrupting your business.”

The proprietor bowed hurriedly, still looking flustered. “How could I accept that?”

Mr. Guo merely smiled, then took his leave. Outside, he looked up at the sky.

The breeze was gentle, clouds light, the sun beginning to sink—the fine weather of a late April day.

Hands behind his back, Mr. Guo murmured, “Clear today, rain tomorrow—the weather here is about to change. Immortals and spirits, why must you leave your heavenly palaces to stir up trouble on earth?”

…

At the entrance to Muddy Village, the old locust tree was thick with green leaves. Beneath it, three or four men leaned on their hoes, chatting and laughing.

Two fine horses raced past. One of the men glanced up and said, “Isn’t that Mr. Zhong and Black Liang?”

“Looks like it. Strange day—Mr. Zhong’s in such a hurry, didn’t even stop to say hello.”

The others chimed in, “How odd, how odd!”

By then, the two young men had reached home and dismounted. Liang Yu asked, puzzled, “Ming-ge, why are we in such a rush? If those men keep talking nonsense, I’ll cut them down myself.”

Zhong Ming shook his head, giving no reply.

His mind was in turmoil. Both Mr. Guo and the old Daoist carried an aura of mystery, as if they saw straight into his past—especially the old Daoist, who had touched upon Zhong Ming’s deepest secret.

Rarely was Zhong Ming so flustered. His heart pounded in his chest, and the faces of the old Daoist and Mr. Guo kept echoing in his mind.

For a long while, he stood in the fenced yard, dazed. Only after Liang Yu had finished tying up the horses did Zhong Ming rouse himself. “Hei-zi, go on ahead. I’d like some time alone.”

Knowing Ming-ge was in low spirits, Liang Yu said nothing more. He left the deed to the house in Zhong Ming’s room and said, “Ming-ge, I’ve put the deed in your room. I’ll head off now.”

Zhong Ming nodded, and Liang Yu left.

But Liang Yu did not take his horse home. Instead, he stood a moment, head lowered in thought, his expression darkening as anger slowly crept onto his face.

Glancing back to make sure Zhong Ming had gone inside, Liang Yu mounted his black steed once more, muttering, “That blabbermouth Guo—I’ll teach him a lesson today!”

He spurred his horse and galloped back toward town.

As for Zhong Ming, once inside, he had no mind for the house deed or for the upcoming rituals, whether the Qingming sacrifices or the Wu family’s memorial. None of it concerned him now.

He threw himself onto the bed, arms behind his head, pondering his future.

Ever since crossing into this world, Zhong Ming had been clear: he did not wish to stay here. He wanted to go home, back to the place where he could drink by his father’s grave.

Yet, no matter how he tried, he could not return. So he focused on survival, finding food, struggling to stay alive.

Now, he had survived, and hunger was no longer a problem. The yearning to return home had faded—perhaps disappeared altogether.

It would be a lie to say he felt no attachment to the world he left behind. But here, attachments had grown stronger: Uncle Yang, traveling a thousand miles in search of kin; Sun Luolian, who brought him an embroidered handkerchief; Black Liang, his brother-in-arms; Old Man Sun, who had taught him true qi with three fingers…

The ties to his old world had lessened, while those here had multiplied. He no longer wished to go back; instead, he wanted to live well in this world, not failing those who cared for him and whom he cared for.

Now that he was alive in the present, how could he make the most of the future?

He drew the rosewood folding knife from his breast and gazed at it, lost in thought.

In a haze, the young man drifted off to sleep.

In his dreams, he saw a fantastic vision: strapped with the Yanluo Blade, he stood atop an airplane, splitting it in two with a single stroke as it roared, tumbling down with the wreckage.

The world spun. Someone was calling his name. Zhong Ming jolted awake.

At that very moment, a cry rang out in the yard: “Ming-ge, something’s wrong! Something’s happened!”