Chapter 203: Trampling Snow, Xun Mei
The power surging through Zheshe’s meridians was immense, like a flood bursting through a pile of rocks blocking a river, roaring down and gushing forth. Chen Changsheng could imagine the damage and pain this force would inflict on Zheshe. Yet Zheshe’s expression remained unchanged, indicating that he had endured this pain for years—perhaps even constantly—to the point of numbness. However, his eyes had grown dim, showing that even with familiarity, he could not completely ignore this torment. The pain was truly terrifying.
Chen Changsheng was silent for a moment, then placed his fingers on Zheshe’s pulse again. This time, he slowly channeled a thread of true essence into him. He was uncertain of his diagnosis—whether Zheshe’s meridians were truly this severely damaged—because he couldn’t imagine how anyone could bear such agony and still live for so many years.
The thatched hut was utterly silent under the night sky. The oil lamp was unlit. He focused intently on Zheshe’s complexion, seeing only those eyes filled with stubborn endurance. He waited earnestly, not missing a single change in the pulse. Yet when that moment arrived, it still caught him off guard.
With a soft crack, Chen Changsheng’s fingers were jolted into the air again.
This time, under the dual perception of true essence and spiritual sense, he gained a clearer understanding of the anomaly in Zheshe’s meridians. Vague images formed in his mind, and his mood grew heavier. His brows unconsciously knitted tightly. What exactly was that surging, tidal vibration?
He withdrew his right hand and looked at Zheshe, unsure what to say.
Zheshe’s face remained as calm as ever, but up close, faint traces of sweat could be seen glistening among his hair, reflecting the starlight outside the hut. In the early spring chill, a youth with such strong will—who wouldn’t flinch even if the Mausoleum of Books crumbled before him—was sweating this profusely. It was easy to imagine how unbearable that pain must be.
Zheshe spoke then, looking at Chen Changsheng. “I didn’t expect your true essence to be so weak.”
Chen Changsheng was completely taken aback. At a time like this, the thing Zheshe cared about most wasn’t his own illness, but this.
“Yes, too weak.”
A voice came from beside the table, from the man Chen Changsheng and Zheshe had nearly forgotten.
The man tucked his disheveled hair behind his ears, shifting his gaze from Chen Changsheng to Zheshe. “A sudden surge of bloodline power, and you’re still not dead?”
Chen Changsheng remained silent. He knew those four words recorded in the Daoist scriptures—that was Zheshe’s problem.
Zheshe’s expression didn’t change either. Four years ago, when the Heavenly Mechanism Elder had examined him, he had said the same thing.
“I won’t die,” he said, looking at the middle-aged man.
The youth’s slow voice was unusually forceful, like stones grinding together or a sword blade cutting through bone—utterly certain.
The man shook his head, paid no more attention, stood up from the table, walked to the bed, and collapsed onto it.
Chen Changsheng had intended to ask about lodging, but before he could speak, snoring filled the room. He naturally couldn’t bring it up now.
Thunderous snores echoed through the thatched hut. He wondered what the man had done during the day to be so exhausted. He gestured for Zheshe to follow him outside. They stepped into the small yard enclosed by a sparse bamboo fence. Under the starlight, he looked at Zheshe, wanting to speak but hesitating.
“The Heavenly Mechanism Pavilion couldn’t cure me, but you might be able to.”
Zheshe spoke slowly, his tone not rude, but the content was quite presumptuous.
The words Chen Changsheng had wanted to say were all blocked by this statement. He fell silent, gazing at the distant Mausoleum of Books, which loomed like a black mountain, and murmured softly, “Fate truly is unfair.”
Zheshe said, “Fate gave me a powerful bloodline talent, along with unbearable pain and a bleak future. To me, that’s fair.”
Chen Changsheng replied, “But you couldn’t choose—you couldn’t refuse the powerful bloodline while avoiding the pain. So I still think it’s unfair.”
Zheshe was silent for a moment, then said, “Yes, there has never been fairness.”
Perhaps because they shared strikingly similar circumstances—a mutual sympathy for each other’s suffering—Chen Changsheng’s perception of Zheshe had shifted greatly. He knew that beneath this wolf-tribe youth’s seemingly cold exterior lay much pain and resentment. He didn’t want Zheshe’s heart to remain so frozen. “But there can be relative fairness,” he said. “For example, when we enter the Mausoleum of Books to study the steles, what we comprehend depends entirely on ourselves.”
“The Mausoleum of Books is the most unfair thing of all.”
Zheshe looked at the starlit Mausoleum of Books, his expression blank. “Why do humans get to decide the rules for entering the Mausoleum of Books? Why can’t the demon race see the steles?”
Chen Changsheng was stunned. He hadn’t expected that this youth, who had killed countless demons, would speak up for them.
“I’m not speaking up for the demons; I’m just stating facts,” Zheshe said. “These steles in the Mausoleum of Books are no different from a gnawed deer leg on the snowfield. They’re all meat. Everyone wants to eat this meat; everyone has greed. But only the strong have the right to distribute it.”
Chen Changsheng asked, “So you want to become stronger.”
Zheshe said, “No, I want to become strong, not to distribute the meat—I just want to eat it.”
Chen Changsheng thought for a moment, about to say something, when suddenly a voice rang out from the distant night, growing louder with each call.
“Where are you? Chen Changsheng, where the hell are you?”
Hearing that voice, Chen Changsheng couldn’t help but sigh. Even Zheshe’s expression shifted slightly—the owner of that voice had left a deep impression on him during the Grand Examination.
“I’m here, Thirty-Six, I’m right here,” Chen Changsheng shouted toward the night forest.
The Mausoleum of Books was a sacred place, solemn and dignified. People walking through it usually instinctively lowered their voices. The cemetery was usually very quiet at night, but tonight it was filled with the shouts of two youths. After shouting, Chen Changsheng came to his senses and felt terribly embarrassed.
With the rustling of clothes brushing against grass and branches, Tang Thirty-Six found his way over. He pushed down a six- or seven-foot-wide section of the old bamboo fence, came up to Chen Changsheng, and heavily patted his shoulder. Still shaken, he said, “I was really worried your brain problem hadn’t been solved and you’d just leave the Mausoleum of Books. Good thing you didn’t.”
Chen Changsheng said helplessly, “Can you not shout so loudly? That ‘fisherman’s song in reply’ is a sword technique from the Li Mountain Sword Sect.”
Tang Thirty-Six said matter-of-factly, “This place is huge, and the court didn’t set up a sound transmission array. Those stele attendants aren’t servants—they’re not easy to order around. Besides shouting, how else am I supposed to find someone?”
That made sense. Chen Changsheng had no rebuttal.
Just then, Zheshe said expressionlessly, “When everyone enters the Mausoleum of Books, they only think about studying the steles and comprehending the Dao. Who else would waste time calling for friends?”
“Eh, it’s you?”
Tang Thirty-Six only then noticed Zheshe. After a brief pause, he enthusiastically stepped forward, grabbing Zheshe’s arm. “You finally came. Here to collect a debt?”
Zheshe was uncomfortable with such closeness. He stepped back, dodging Tang Thirty-Six’s hand.
Tang Thirty-Six withdrew his hand naturally and heavily patted Chen Changsheng’s shoulder again. “If you can solve it, solve it quickly.”
Chen Changsheng rubbed his shoulder, thinking that if he hadn’t mysteriously undergone a perfect marrow cleansing at the bottom of Black Dragon Pool, he’d really be bruised today. “I’ll try, but I’m not confident.”
Just then, the man walked out of the thatched hut, his messy hair covering the fatigue on his face.
Chen Changsheng bowed and asked, “Senior, won’t you rest a bit more?”
The man looked at Tang Thirty-Six and said, “Too noisy.”
“Sorry, my friend came looking for me. He’s a bit excited,” Chen Changsheng apologized. Then he introduced to Tang Thirty-Six, “This senior is the owner of this thatched hut. I thought since we’ll be staying at the Mausoleum of Books for a month, we can’t just sleep in the open—that would be bad for our health—so I wanted to ask for lodging…”
He was rambling on when he suddenly noticed that Tang Thirty-Six wasn’t listening at all. He was staring blankly at the man.
The man tied his messy hair back, revealing his face. This was the first time Chen Changsheng and Zheshe had seen his true appearance. He had a handsome, refined face, with a hint of coldness between his brows, yet it didn’t feel harsh—instead, it gave a clean impression, even though he wasn’t particularly clean.
Tang Thirty-Six stared at the man’s face, his expression shifting slightly, showing confusion. Then, as if remembering something, his eyes suddenly brightened. Shocked, he said, “You… you are… you are Xun Mei!”
The man was momentarily startled. He looked at Tang Thirty-Six for a long time, then said calmly, “Yes, I am Xun Mei. I didn’t expect anyone still remembered me.”
Hearing the name Xun Mei, Zheshe raised an eyebrow slightly, clearly recognizing the man’s identity. Only Chen Changsheng remained in the dark.
“How could anyone forget Senior, the one who ‘tramples snow, Xun Mei’?” Tang Thirty-Six exclaimed, looking at this middle-aged man named Xun Mei. “Legends say that since the Grand Examination that year, Senior has been in the Mausoleum of Books studying the steles and comprehending the Dao. I never thought it was true.”
Xun Mei gazed at the faintly visible lights in the Mausoleum of Books, a trace of bewilderment in his eyes. “So this year’s Grand Examination has already ended. No wonder there are so many more people today.”
“Yes, Senior. Today is the first day for this year’s top three in the Grand Examination to enter the Mausoleum of Books.”
Tang Thirty-Six remembered something and pulled Chen Changsheng forward, saying proudly, “He’s my friend, Chen Changsheng. Like you back then, Senior, he took first place in the Grand Examination.”
“Oh? Which academy are you from?” Xun Mei asked.
Tang Thirty-Six said, “The National Academy.”
Xun Mei nodded. “Talents come from under the banyan tree. That’s normal.”
Chen Changsheng was momentarily puzzled. He thought most people would be surprised to hear about the revival of the National Academy. But then it dawned on him—this senior had no idea about the great disaster that had struck the National Academy over a decade ago. That meant he had been studying the steles in the Mausoleum of Books for at least ten years without ever leaving.
Tang Thirty-Six said to him, “Senior Xun Mei was the top scholar of the Grand Examination thirty-seven years ago.”
Chen Changsheng was astonished. That meant this senior had been in the Mausoleum of Books for thirty-seven years?