Chapter Thirty-Five: The Mysterious Stranger

Capital City, the Imperial Palace.

Upon returning to the palace, something happened that utterly infuriated Zhu Yu. As soon as news of his return reached the palace, the Empress Dowager immediately requested an audience. She recounted the matter of the diplomatic letter from the State of Chuyun, and revealed something Zhu Yu had not known. She had already agreed to the marriage alliance with Chuyun, and the official reply from Jingguo had been dispatched—two copies: one had already reached the Chuyun envoy, Wuwan, while the other was en route to Chuyun itself.

The moment Zhu Yu heard this, his mind exploded—not because of the alliance itself, but because the Empress Dowager had acted entirely on her own. Zhu Yu wanted to ask her, how did you become so formidable? Why don’t you ascend to the heavens? Are you aiming to be another Empress Wu? She had cunning and skill, but did the Empress Dowager possess any of that? And anyway, this was a martial world—if she were a grandmaster, he’d abdicate on the spot, but she was nothing of the sort, so what was she trying to do?

Of course, Zhu Yu only dared think such words in his heart. After all, Jingguo held filial piety in high regard—otherwise, even in his anger, he would never have needed to maneuver Liu Xi into dealing with the Empress Dowager.

In fact, after his talk with Liu Xi, Zhu Yu had regretted it a little. The current Empress Dowager had no outside support; she was merely a blustering old woman. He’d already decided not to stoop to her level. Yet now, she had managed to provoke his anger once more.

Although the diplomatic letter had been sent, Zhu Yu was still furious and could not help but complain. The Empress Dowager, for her part, had only one response, repeated endlessly: “It’s for your own good, and for the good of Jingguo.”

Hearing this only stoked Zhu Yu’s anger further. He left the Empress Dowager alone in her quarters and went out to calm himself.

As for the marriage alliance, since the Empress Dowager had already sent the royal reply on his behalf, to outsiders it seemed the decision was his own. How could a sovereign go back on his word?

But the State of Chuyun? In all his knowledge of history and martial tales from his previous life, Zhu Yu had never heard of such a country. Yet the name seemed oddly familiar.

The next day, in the imperial study.

Zhu Yu had adjusted his mindset. The envoys and marriage alliance party from Chuyun would not reach the capital for over two months. As for the aftermath, he would deal with it when they arrived; he had no intention of worrying about it every day from now until then.

Now that all his pressing affairs were settled, it was finally time to visit the place he had been longing for since his return to the palace.

The Wenyan Pavilion!

This was Jingguo’s grand repository of books, famed throughout the land for the breadth and depth of its collection.

Within lay Daoist scriptures, Buddhist texts, military treatises, histories, and, of course, the martial arts of the world. While the secret techniques of every sect were not all present, countless lost arts of the martial world could be found here—nearly all of those thought lost to history. This was the confidence that had made Zhu Yu hesitate to learn the Lingbo Microstep in the first place!

Now, Zhu Yu was determined to tackle the daunting challenge of the Northern Sea Divine Art. In the future, whenever he encountered someone disagreeable, he could simply absorb their power without a second thought. Since ascending the throne, he had been forced to rely on cunning and calculation because he lacked martial skills, costing him many brain cells.

Full of anticipation, Zhu Yu arrived at Wenyan Pavilion, but as he stood at the threshold, he immediately regretted it.

The place was simply too vast! From the entrance, there was no end in sight. Colossal shelves lined both sides, towering so high that even craning his neck, he could barely glimpse their tops. Perhaps it was the sheer size of the room or the dim light, but the sight was enough to leave him dumbfounded.

Now he began to regret—among so many books, how many Daoist scriptures were there? Could he ever finish reading them all in his lifetime?

The steward of Wenyan Pavilion saw the emperor standing dazed at the doorway and approached cautiously, bowing as he spoke.

“Your Majesty, is there a particular book you seek? I shall fetch it for you.”

“Where are the Daoist scriptures kept? How many are there?” Zhu Yu’s eyes held a glimmer of hope, praying the steward would give him a good answer.

After considering for a moment, the steward replied, “From the entrance, between the thirteenth and fifteenth rows—four entire shelves, all filled with Daoist scriptures.”

Hearing this, Zhu Yu felt dizzy. He waved weakly, saying, “I understand. Go about your duties; I’ll find some scriptures to read myself.”

So Zhu Yu began counting the rows as he walked inside.

Why didn’t Zhu Yu ask someone else to translate the Northern Sea Divine Art?

The answer was simple: he did not trust anyone.

To Zhu Yu, the Northern Sea Divine Art was a veritable cheat—mastery meant invincibility! The copy he currently possessed was transcribed by his own hand. Sometimes, he regretted his impulsive decision to leave the original to that fool Duan Yu. But there was no changing it now; if he sent someone to retrieve it, who knew whose hands that supreme martial art would end up in? At least with Duan Yu, Zhu Yu knew the plot.

Yet Zhu Yu had never considered why, for all its power, so few people had ever mastered the Northern Sea Divine Art.

Within Wenyan Pavilion, beginning with the ninth row, the light grew dimmer and dimmer. Sitting cross-legged without a care for appearance, Zhu Yu held an oil lamp in his left hand and a Daoist scripture in his right, reading word by word. He could recognize every character, and even read them aloud, but their meaning eluded him.

Still, Zhu Yu persisted. If there hadn’t been so many scriptures, he might have tried to memorize them all.

Sometimes, weary from reading, Zhu Yu would reflect: if he’d applied this much diligence in his school days, places like Tsinghua or Peking University would not have been a dream.

Just as Zhu Yu was immersed in reading, he failed to notice a middle-aged man in Daoist robes silently appear behind him.

The man watched as Zhu Yu read two lines before moving on, without a moment’s pause for thought. After glancing at both the scripture and Zhu Yu, he could not help but ask, “Your Majesty, you read so quickly—do you understand the meaning of these texts?”

The sudden question startled Zhu Yu so badly that his hair stood on end; his hand jerked, and the oil lamp spilled onto the shelf, the flames leaping up—a fire seemed inevitable!

The middle-aged man, however, showed no sign of alarm. With a casual wave of his sleeve, the burning oil seemed to transform into water, and in the blink of an eye, the fire was extinguished.

As the light vanished, darkness closed in. At some point, the man produced an oil lamp of his own; without any visible act of lighting it, the lamp flared to life, its glow illuminating the surroundings—while casting Zhu Yu’s heart into shadow.