Little Pink Starfish

Does Cloth Equal Silver, Your Majesty?

“Mowen,” Chengguan said softly.

“What about the abbot?” Xianzong asked immediately.

Chengguan looked at the emperor, his voice low. “What I meant was… it’s best if Your Majesty refrains from involving yourself in Yongsheng Temple’s affairs.”

Xianzong scoffed, “At this point, do I have a choice? You think Wuhuan came to Fengtian for sightseeing?”

Chengguan silently began tidying up the chessboard.

Xianzong pressed down on his hand, halting him. “Master Chengguan, I’ve heard that you and Wuhuan had disagreements back at Yongsheng Temple. Is that true?”

“Yongsheng Temple…” Chengguan gave a bitter smile. “Did the Princess really kill Chenqi and Chenmie?”

Xianzong shook his head. “Linglong wouldn’t kill anyone. Those two monks are still alive, just currently in Wuhuan’s hands.”

“What else did the Princess tell Your Majesty?”

“What else can she say?” Xianzong huffed. “She told me not to worry about Yongsheng Temple. But now that the abbot’s disciples are here in Fengtian, how can I not worry?”

Chengguan chuckled softly. “Whether a blessing or disaster, if it can’t be avoided… accept it.”

Xianzong rolled his eyes. Talking to these monks is maddening—so many words, yet nothing said. “What exactly do you want me to ‘accept’?”

“Just watch the show.” Chengguan looked at the emperor. “What does Yongsheng Temple’s inner drama have to do with Your Majesty?”

“Huh?” Xianzong exclaimed. “What about Linglong poisoning Wen Fenglin? And injuring his men? That has nothing to do with me?”

“If Wuhuan and Wen Fenglin are in the same city,” Chengguan said quietly, “the abbot will be more inclined to believe Wen Fenglin was poisoned by Wuhuan.”

Xianzong laughed—finally, something not his problem.

But Chengguan’s frown deepened.

Xianzong stood up. “Well then, Master Chengguan, enjoy your chess. I’m off to rest.”

Before Chengguan could even rise to see him out, the emperor had already strode out the door. By the time the monk reached the threshold, Xianzong was seated in his palanquin, destination unknown.

“Dismiss the ministers waiting in the imperial study,” Xianzong ordered. “We’ll continue this at tomorrow’s court session.”

A eunuch bowed and rushed off.

The emperor’s procession turned toward Huafei’s Xiangyun Hall.

Meanwhile, Huafei, having heard the emperor was headed her way, was hastily dressing and painting her face under her servants’ anxious help. She stood outside with her retinue, ready to welcome him.

Xianzong saw her from a distance… and then changed his mind.

“To the study,” he said to the eunuchs carrying him.

Huafei watched, dumbstruck, as the palanquin passed her by without a word. Her heart burned with rage and humiliation—never had the emperor treated her so coldly!

But Xianzong had no time to worry about any consort’s pride. On the way, he ordered a chest of silver ingots be brought from his private treasury. Once back at the study, he sent someone to fetch Princess Linglong.

When Linglong saw the box of shining silver, her eyes lit up. “Is this for me?”

Xianzong snapped, “You’re married. Still expect me to pay your bills? That’s for the new friend you made tonight.”

Linglong didn’t move. She didn’t even know where Wuhuan lived.

“Broke someone’s property—you replace it,” Xianzong lectured. “You understand?”

“I gave him a mask cloth,” Linglong pouted. “It’s breathable.”

Xianzong slapped the armrest of his palanquin. “Cloth and silver—same thing to you?! Get going!”

—

Meanwhile, in a modest courtyard in Fengtian’s north district, a monk entered a room with a kettle and poured fresh hot water into a teapot.

“Master, the water’s ready,” the monk said.

“Is Jingmo staying at Deyi Wine Manor?” Wuhuan asked.

“Yes. It’s said the Crown Prince keeps postponing his return to Zhuri, for reasons unknown.”

“He chose a prince to be hostage, didn’t he? The seventh prince?”

“No. It’s the sixth prince, Yu Ziming.”

Wuhuan grunted. So Princess Linglong hadn’t approached him to influence hostage selection. Then her friendliness… wasn’t about that. “Understood. Leave me.”

The monk hesitated, glancing at the still-full cup of tea, then quietly exited.

Wuhuan sat, staring into the flickering flame of a candle for a while before rising and heading to the rear courtyard.

—

In the stone chamber, Chenqi and Chenmie finally woke from their unconsciousness to find themselves lying on cold, damp stone. Water dripped continuously from above, mimicking rain, and casting the entire chamber in a chilling, suffocating gloom.

They couldn’t move or speak—only watch the dim light of a single candle on the wall.

After a long while, the heavy stone door creaked open.

A man entered, face obscured by a wooden mask—Wuhuan.

He glanced at the two monks, discarded like sacks on the floor, and flicked his sleeve.

A gust of wind struck them, unlocking their mute acupoints. They coughed violently before finally speaking.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Chenqi said.

“Why did Wen Fenglin come to Fengtian?” Wuhuan asked.

“Only he knows,” Chenmie replied.

“Was it Mowen who sent him, or did he come on his own?”

“The abbot ordered him.”

“He doesn’t know he’ll die the moment he leaves Yongsheng Temple?” Wuhuan’s voice was ice.

“Wuhuan…” Chenmie leaned against the wall. “If Wen Fenglin dies, will the abbot spare you? You couldn’t become the next junior master, so you became Zhuri’s national advisor. The abbot hasn’t wronged you. Why harbor such hatred? You were raised by him himself. Don’t you know gratitude?”

Behind the wooden mask came a dry, hoarse chuckle.

“Gratitude?” Wuhuan said bitterly. “Looking like this, half-dead, not human nor ghost—who should I be grateful to?”

The two monks looked at the man in black robes before them, remembering the once brilliant young junior master. Now, cast in flickering shadows, he was a twisted silhouette of rage and grief.

“You’re going to turn on Yongsheng Temple?” Chenqi turned away, unable to bear the sight. “Kill Wen Fenglin, and the abbot will just choose a new disciple. The temple will still stand. Did you become stupid after leaving?”

With a roar, Wuhuan kicked Chenqi in the chest.

“Wuhuan!” Chenmie cried.

A sickening crunch echoed—Chenqi’s chest burst open, his still-beating heart flopping onto the stone floor. It twitched… and then stilled.

“You—!” Chenmie shouted, fury blazing.

Wuhuan stepped on his chest, mask casting shadows over the fury burning in his eyes.