By the time Qu Yunmie walked out, Xiao Rong’s figure had already disappeared.

Standing in the corridor of the Xianbei palace, Qu Yunmie felt very uneasy. He didn’t know what Xiao Rong intended to do, nor whether he had handled the matter properly. Would Xiao Rong be disappointed in him again?

This unease persisted until he returned to the others. First he ordered someone to burn down that pleasure room, then asked, “Did Mister Xiao go to see the prisoner?”

The guards blinked and said in unison, “No, Mister Xiao went to sleep.”

Qu Yunmie: “…”

*

The one who was anxious was Qu Yunmie, not Xiao Rong. After all, Murong Qi had been locked up, and that divine herb remained in one place. It wouldn’t suddenly grow legs and run away.

Indeed, learning that Qu Yunmie did all this for him warmed Xiao Rong a little, but he didn’t intend to immediately complete the matter. He hadn’t slept for a full day and night. If he stayed awake any longer, he feared he might suddenly die in a foreign land.

Hmm, right. From now on, he shouldn’t call this a foreign land.

Two hours later, Xiao Rong yawned and sat up from a bed—he was not sure which concubine’s—but he still felt drowsy. He carefully touched the fabric beneath him.

It was really soft. Even among silks, there were differences. This palace concubine had clearly used the finest silk.

After touching it a couple more times, Xiao Rong suddenly gave a mysterious smile at the bed.

The regrets in Jinling could finally be made up this time. He intended to take all the good things from the Xianbei palace. Not just the sheets, but even the bed itself—he would find a way to dismantle it and bring it back to Chenliu. Even if he couldn’t use it, it would be useful for his grandmother, who wouldn’t care what had happened on the bed before.

…

After leaving the palace room, Xiao Rong squinted to look for someone, and Dongfang Jin quickly approached him. “Mister Xiao.”

Xiao Rong was surprised. “General Dongfang, why are you here?”

He remembered Dongfang Jin had been promoted. Even if he remembered incorrectly, it was safe to call someone with potential a general.

Dongfang Jin didn’t pay attention to how Xiao Rong addressed him. He only obediently repeated Qu Yunmie’s words: “The King ordered me to follow Mister Xiao. The city isn’t completely stable yet. If Mister Xiao wishes to go anywhere, I am willing to accompany you.”

Xiao Rong said, “Alright, do you know where the Child of the Buddha is?”

Dongfang Jin looked at him.

The first thing he asked after waking wasn’t about the king, but about the Buddha’s son … hmm.

Dongfang Jin smiled humbly. “I know. Mister Xiao, follow me.”

…

Mijing was busy all day without a moment’s rest. He performed rituals not only for the Northern Army but also for the Xianbei people. The Xianbei had a complex faith: some followed Buddhism, some Shamanism, and some, influenced by Central Plains culture, studied Daoism. Considering the Qingfeng Sect had contacted the Xianbei multiple times, some of them were likely followers of Qingfeng.

This complex religious environment meant not everyone accepted Mijing’s rites. Some remained silent, while others spat at him and hurled abuse as he sat on the ground performing rituals for the deceased.

The Northern Army couldn’t understand the Xianbei language, but Mijing could.

They called Mijing hypocritical, pretending to be good when he was clearly like the Northern Army—demons themselves.

Mijing was mentally strong, but not strong enough to escape human emotions. Facing such obvious hostility, he felt some unpleasantness.

Still, no matter how others treated him, he continued his work. If Xiao Rong hadn’t arrived, he might not have returned to rest until nightfall.

For some reason, Mijing didn’t want Xiao Rong to see him insulted. Xiao Rong was smart, even if he didn’t understand the words, he could understand the intent.

After reciting the last scripture, Mijing quickly stood, brushed off the dust, and went to meet Xiao Rong.

It was already the Shen hour. The weather was cool rather than hot. Xiao Rong put his hands into his gauntlets, wearing a gray bear-skin cloak, looted from the Xianbei palace. Although the spoils hadn’t been officially divided, Xiao Rong had already claimed it.

Sitting opposite the Buddha’s son, Xiao Rong was direct. “Have you heard of the Xianbei’s sacred objects?”

Xiao Rong looked like a ball on the opposite side, and Mijing, wearing only two thin layers, seemed to come from a different season across the table.

Mijing paused. “Which one do you mean, the Angu Mask, the Flying Dragon Scepter, or the Divine Herb?”

Xiao Rong: “…”

He looked at Mijing with a complex expression and muttered, “Xianbei sacred objects all sound like game items.”

Mijing asked, “What did you say?”

Xiao Rong quickly shook his head. “Nothing. I only heard about the Divine Herb, not the mask and scepter.”

Mijing nodded. “They were taken from the Yuwen clan by the Murong clan. The Xianbei used them for rituals. Since the tribal era, they symbolized power. The one wearing the mask could communicate with the gods, and the one holding the scepter could command all Xianbei tribes.”

Xiao Rong said “Ah-ha.” Every country had symbols like that. He was more concerned about another matter. “Are they valuable?”

Mijing: “…”

This time he paused a little longer but answered properly, “They are made entirely of pure gold and set with many gems.”

Xiao Rong frowned slightly. That meant they weren’t particularly valuable. He had plenty of gold. Even if the mask weighed several jin, to him, it was just so-so.

The Xianbei heirlooms couldn’t be melted casually, but leaving them behind might draw attention. Since they symbolized power, the Xianbei might try to reclaim them—likely their last hope.

Fine, he would place them with the crown of the King of Yutian and see if he could collect a few more for display, or to sell tickets.

…

After deciding, Xiao Rong looked at Mijing. “It seems you have seen these two things before.”

Mijing said, “Indeed. When I visited Shengle, I saw the Xianbei Emperor holding the scepter and presiding over rituals.”

Hearing this, Xiao Rong leaned forward. “Have you seen the Divine Herb?”

Mijing: “…”

In fact, he had.

Mijing had been famous for years. Nine years ago, he was already a nationally renowned monk. The Xianbei Emperor had half-invited, half-threatened him to come to Shengle so he could persuade the stubborn populace as a Buddhist, aiding the Emperor’s plan to enter the Central Plains.

The process was perilous. The Xianbei Emperor tried to kill Mijing multiple times but didn’t succeed. Eventually, Mijing was allowed to leave. He worried about the Zunshan Temple and rushed back, but halfway there, he received terrible news: the Zunshan Temple had been destroyed.

Almost everyone who knew Mijing had died in the massacre. Outsiders didn’t know he had been in Shengle or that he had survived untouched. They wondered if he had divine powers, as he alone survived.

Mijing didn’t mention this on his way back to Changan. It remained his eternal nightmare. He couldn’t know if the Emperor had acted because he refused him, thus prompting the massacre.

Everywhere had survivors, but Zunshan Temple had none. Mijing didn’t dare confirm this then and couldn’t now.

…

During the Emperor’s attempts to co-opt him, he used every means, offering money and even women.

None of this moved Mijing. He performed rituals and brought out the Divine Herb, telling the story of how the Murong clan was chosen by Heaven.

Mijing didn’t reveal his emotions. Xiao Rong only cared about the herb’s appearance. According to Mijing, it was gray-blue, leaves still soft after a hundred years but drooped. Leaves were serrated, half the size of a human palm, about ten per plant.

Xiao Rong asked while taking notes, “What container?”

Mijing replied, “A wooden box lined with white silk, roughly this long and wide.”

He gestured. Xiao Rong nodded. “What kind of wood?”

 

Edited by: Antiope

 

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