Chapter 41: She Can, So Can I
The wind inside and outside the Mausoleum of Books suddenly stopped, and the sounds vanished as well.
The entire world seemed to freeze, both time and space.
The two sides locked in confrontation had reached a stalemate, or rather, a deadlock.
This temporary balance was extremely fragile; any variable, whether a wisp of wind or a single sound, could trigger countless brutal killings, turning the capital into a sea of blood and fire, reducing all splendor and ambition to ashes.
Few dared to make decisions at the critical junctures of history.
Xu Yourong proved she could—whether facing a flood or an abyss, it would not make her eyelashes flutter.
And everyone knew she would not wait in silence forever.
The court’s Black Armored Heavy Cavalry was racing back to the capital.
If Shang Xingzhou refused her demands, she would definitely launch an attack ahead of schedule.
At such a pivotal moment, another major figure seemed to have fallen asleep.
The Prince of Zhongshan looked in that direction, raising an eyebrow slightly.
No one wanted Xu Yourong’s negotiations with Shang Xingzhou to fail—except for his elder brother.
The Prince of Xiang was a sacred-domain powerhouse, deeply entrenched in the court, and held immense strength in the military.
If the court and the national religion were both crippled, if the experts from the north and south fought bloody battles, who would stop him from seizing the throne?
Xu Yourong and Shang Xingzhou should both understand this, but they would not mention it.
Because this, too, was a bargaining chip in their negotiations.
Ultimately, the key to whether this negotiation succeeded lay in that demand.
The problem was that such a harsh and ruthless demand—even for someone with no interest in life, who had spent the first half of their existence in mediocrity, boredom, and even hardship as a new white-dough apprentice in the back kitchen of a tavern in Xijing—would be impossible to accept, let alone for Shang Xingzhou.
……
……
Without wind, the hem of the white ceremonial robe drifted gently, like a paper flower.
Compared to a real flower, a paper flower was cleaner, more plain, and carried a greater sense of sorrow.
Xu Yourong stood on the sacred path, her hands behind her back, gazing at the capital.
Her expression was calm, yet her delicate brows held a sense of grandeur.
As if facing a vast ocean, as if surveying the world.
Shang Xingzhou suddenly felt as if he were seeing Tianhai.
Many years ago, the young Tianhai.
During the reign of Emperor Taizong, he first saw that little girl in the imperial palace.
Back then, he did not hate her; instead, he admired her—otherwise, he would not have later chosen to help her rise to power.
In those days, Tianhai was also extraordinarily beautiful, but whether looking at that horse or at Emperor Taizong, her expression was always indifferent.
This was precisely why Shang Xingzhou admired her.
If heaven had feelings, heaven would grow old; only the heartless could achieve great things.
Shang Xingzhou also admired Xu Yourong.
Every word she spoke today—from her analysis of the overall situation, to the killing game aimed at Prince Chenliu, to her final description of the chaos—was an attack on his most cherished yet weakest psychological vulnerability. At the same time, she was doing another important thing.
She was proving herself to Shang Xingzhou.
Overthrowing the rule of the Saintess Tianhai, returning all court affairs to the Chen imperial clan, and becoming the foremost person under heaven.
Shang Xingzhou’s life was already perfect; he had no other pursuits, except for that one thing.
Xu Yourong wanted him to choose to give up and withdraw at this moment, so she had to prove she could accomplish that thing.
Chen Changsheng might not be able to, and even Yu Ren might fail to fulfill Emperor Taizong’s will, because they were good people.
But she could.
Because she was not a good person—today’s events were proof.
You want to destroy the demon race? I can. You want humanity to unify the world? I still can.
And when that time comes, the Pope will still be surnamed Chen, the Emperor will still be surnamed Chen, and the human dynasty in the history books will ultimately be surnamed Chen.
So, what dissatisfaction do you have? What reluctance remains?
If her threats to Shang Xingzhou’s ideals and those ruthless methods were towering waves, then these accompanying proofs were the calm depths beneath. Combined, they formed countless surges, wave after wave, until they rose to the heavens, crushing all will to resist.
“The situation you’ve created today is nearly perfect—grand as if consuming the world, subtle as piercing the human heart. It is indeed hard to break.”
Shang Xingzhou looked at Xu Yourong with a mix of admiration and regret. “Because those who can threaten you are not your enemies.”
The meaning of this last sentence was complex and somewhat convoluted, understandable only to them.
“Chen Changsheng trusts me, so he remains silent. Unfortunately, he is wrong.”
Xu Yourong said. “Of course, I know he must have prepared something, so I have prepared as well.”
Shang Xingzhou sighed with emotion. “I didn’t expect you wouldn’t spare him either.”
Xu Yourong said, “Since I want to defeat you, I must first defeat your two students.”
Hence the late-night conversation in the palace and the talk by the ox-bone pot on Fushun Road?
Shang Xingzhou gazed at her quietly, then suddenly said, “If I hadn’t convinced him, you might have truly won today.”
With these words, wind suddenly stirred again within the Mausoleum of Books, brushing the stone chips and grass stems on the sacred path.
The wind rose because of a cloud falling.
A cloud fell from the sky onto the southern outskirts of the capital, then drifted toward the Mausoleum of Books.
The restrictions within the mausoleum seemed ineffective against this cloud. Soon, it floated down to the base of the sacred path.
The “him” Shang Xingzhou mentioned was on that cloud—a scholar dressed in plain cloth.
Inside and outside the Mausoleum of Books, thousands upon thousands saw this scholar arriving on a cloud. Shock, speculation, and then joy—even ecstasy—swept through them.
Xu Yourong looked at the middle-aged scholar, her expression still calm, but a faint weariness arose within her—a mental fatigue.
Then, she felt a trace of self-mockery, also mental.
……
……
Looking at the dense crowd in the square, Hu Sanshier’s expression turned grim.
Back in the ox-bone shop on Fushun Road, when Chen Changsheng said he believed Xu Yourong wouldn’t do that, he had been worried.
Today’s events proved his worry was justified.
An Hua led hundreds of believers, kneeling in the square, holding bright and sharp religious blades in their hands.
Their demand was simple: they knelt, begging the Pope not to leave the Li Palace today, not to interfere with what was happening at the Mausoleum of Books.
If Chen Changsheng refused their request, they would kill themselves before his eyes.
They were his most fervent followers; for the eternal glory of Chen Changsheng and the national religion, they were absolutely capable of such an act.
Hu Sanshier glanced back at that quiet side hall, his worry deepening, but clearly for a different issue.
Hearing the voices from outside the hall, Chen Changsheng said nothing.
The gray-robed old man holding the brush, his face full of impatience, said, “Hurry up and shut those foolish men and women up!”
Few in the world dared to be so rude to the Pope.
Back when they first met on Hanshan, this old man had treated Chen Changsheng with contempt.
At that time, the Demon Lord wanted to eat Chen Changsheng, and the old man appeared alongside that wandering scholar.
The old man appeared in the stone chamber of the Li Palace and watched Chen Changsheng for so many days, naturally representing that scholar’s intent.
Chen Changsheng was the Pope, yet he seemed unable to refuse that scholar’s intent.
And in many people’s eyes, that scholar meant well.
Now, Chen Changsheng naturally knew this old man’s identity.
He was Wu Daozi, the Sage of Painting renowned throughout the land during Emperor Taizong’s reign.
The portraits on Lingyan Pavilion were all painted by him.
That day, watching Wu Daozi step down from the gray wall, Chen Changsheng knew Xu Yourong had lost.
She had ultimately underestimated his master, or rather, underestimated these old men.
These were the old men he had thought of on that deserted street in Wenshui.
Those old men who had endured countless bloody wars and witnessed true changes in the world.
Chen Changsheng and Wu Daozi walked outside the hall.
Hu Sanshier looked at the gray-clad old man, his expression slightly strange, but he dared not ask. He stepped forward and whispered a few words of advice in Chen Changsheng’s ear.
Wu Daozi grew even more impatient.
Chen Changsheng looked at the gray sky and suddenly said, “Act now.”
Cavalry charged from the direction of the Caoyue Guild Hall, launching an assault, raising great clouds of dust.
Hu Sanshier’s expression changed drastically. He wanted to kneel and plead, but Chen Changsheng sidestepped him.
His body tilted forward, lunging toward Wu Daozi.
At some point, an extremely dark short blade had appeared in his hand.
His face still bore pain and conflict, but his eyes were calm to the extreme.
Like that dark blade light cutting through the air, it drew no one’s attention.
Wu Daozi’s expression changed abruptly. A sharp howl burst from his lips, and an unimaginably vast power descended with the brushstroke.
With a soft crack, a dark willow branch shot through the air, wrapping around the brush.
A Falling Star Stone appeared in the square like an abyssal chasm, drawing countless eyes and forming a barrier.
With a *puchi* sound, the short blade stabbed into Wu Daozi’s foot, blood spurting.
Hu Sanshier lowered his head, half-crouching before him, expressionlessly pulling out the blade and thrusting it toward his abdomen.