Chapter 454: The Heavenly Way Flows Westward
Zhou Tong wondered if he had glimpsed that stretch of time in Chen Changsheng’s person. At this moment, he was examining the Scroll of Time in his hands.
The Scroll of Time, also known as the Western Flow Canon, was the most important and simultaneously the most profound and elusive classic among the National Church’s scriptures. Its title evoked the irreversible westward flow of rivers, expounding the Daoist mysteries concerning time. Before his death, Meri hadn’t forgotten to peruse this scripture—what did that signify?
Zhou Tong silently pondered the abstruse and obscure text of the Western Flow Canon.
Priest Xin continued recounting what had transpired in that room filled with plum blossoms: “He said Dean Shang was a remarkable man.”
Zhou Tong’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze abruptly turning cold and sharp. A dying man’s words carry weight. For a remarkable priest like Meri, who had long seen through life and death, why would he turn to this scripture at his final moment? Why would he suddenly mention a figure who had vanished into obscurity years ago?
Priest Xin paused, recalling the Archbishop’s final sigh: “He said he was curious how the future scriptures would record the life of the next Pope.”
Zhou Tong’s brows shot up. Though no wind stirred in the quiet room, his red official robe began to ripple faintly, as if a sea of blood had descended upon the mortal realm.
The external scene mirrored his inner state—this showed the spiritual impact of Priest Xin’s words. Because from this passage and this book, he had vaguely grasped a thread.
The next Pope? The entire continent knew that, barring extraordinary circumstances, the next Pope of the National Church would be Chen Changsheng. As the staunchest advocate of this matter, Meri could have no other intention. So why was he curious about the record of Chen Changsheng’s life? Why did he find it so intriguing? Or did he believe that future histories would hold a different view of this matter than the present? What exactly was this matter? What was most important in a life—great achievements and merits, or moral cultivation?
Zhou Tong’s official robe fluttered more violently. The room filled with the scent of blood, and within that sea of blood, countless towering waves surged, mirroring the turmoil in his heart.
Priest Xin’s face turned deathly pale. He could barely withstand such terrifying pressure, yet he dared not retreat.
Suddenly, all the pressure vanished. Zhou Tong’s raised brows slowly smoothed, his gaze lost its sharpness, his robe settled against his body, and a faint, elusive smile appeared on his face.
“Do you know what is most important in a person’s life?”
“Most important?” Priest Xin couldn’t fathom why the adult would suddenly pose such a question.
Zhou Tong’s smile grew more genuine, like a blooming flower, but paired with his sinister aura, it became increasingly eerie.
“The most important thing in a person’s life is not their cultivation realm or power, nor their authority or territory, but… their birth and death dates.” He walked to the door, gazing at the two crabapple trees, listening to the distant rumble of cartwheels in the alley beyond. “Whether in National Church scriptures or historical records, to document a person’s life, the first thing to confirm—and the first thing that must be clearly written—is the year, month, and place of your birth. Only by establishing this information can you determine exactly who that person is.”
Priest Xin stepped behind him, unsure how to respond. He vaguely sensed that, despite Zhou Tong’s apparent calm, his inner emotions were extremely tense.
What matter—or discovery—could make a fearsome figure like Zhou Tong so tense?
“The crabapple blossoms are fading; the great prison exudes its own divine might. He stands amidst it all, unmoving like a lake.”
Zhou Tong’s eyes narrowed again, but this time not with sharpness like a sword, but with confusion and a certain unease he himself hadn’t noticed.
Priest Xin was also eager to know: after setting up such a grand spectacle, aside from discerning the intentions of certain important figures, had the adult achieved his primary goal? Zhou Tong wanted to see what kind of person Chen Changsheng was—or rather, he wanted to see… who Chen Changsheng was. But people usually said “unmoving like a mountain.” Why did he use “unmoving like a lake” to describe Chen Changsheng?
“He resembles someone,” Zhou Tong said, a flicker of fear suddenly crossing his face. “He resembles Chen Xuanba as recorded in the palace’s secret archives.”
Priest Xin was puzzled. In historical records and folklore, Chen Xuanba, as the strongest member of the Chen imperial clan in a millennium, was often compared to Emperor Taizong. He was known for his violent and boorish nature—how was he at all similar to Chen Changsheng? And why specify “as recorded in the palace’s secret archives”? The adult naturally had access to those top-secret archives. Perhaps the Chen Xuanba recorded there differed from the one in popular legend?
“Our great Emperor Taizong revised every history book and scripture he could modify,” Zhou Tong said with a mocking tone. “So naturally, Chen Xuanba became a crude, reckless brute who didn’t understand the bigger picture or proper conduct. Who would have thought the real Chen Xuanba was actually a very quiet person?”
Priest Xin felt that the two assessments—“didn’t understand the bigger picture” and “didn’t understand proper conduct”—sounded familiar. Then he recalled that these were precisely the evaluations the adult had made of Chen Changsheng not long ago.
Zhou Tong was silent for a moment, then said, “Chen Changsheng is also a very quiet person.”
Here, “quiet” carried many meanings: not speaking when speech was unnecessary, clumsy with words but sharp in action, yet tranquil in heart; possessing calm composure in the face of great events.
The small courtyard fell silent for a long time.
Finally, Zhou Tong said, “And besides, his surname is Chen.”
Priest Xin left, carrying immense psychological pressure and unease, exiting the North Military Command Alley. This pressure had nothing to do with his dual identity but stemmed from the information subtly revealed in Zhou Tong’s words. Could Chen Changsheng truly be a descendant of the imperial clan?
He dared not think about it, let alone delve deeper, because it was clear that even Adult Zhou had become tense over this matter.
Zhou Tong was indeed tense. He knew far more than Priest Xin, and given his status and position, he had to think about these matters—and think them through clearly.
He stood on the stone steps of the small courtyard, gazing at the two crabapple trees whose blossoms were nearly gone, lost in silent thought for a long time, paying no heed to the commotion outside the courtyard.
Before his death, Meri had said that the traitor Shang was a remarkable man.
Before his death, Meri had been reading the Western Flow Canon, contemplating time flowing like water.
Yes, if the traitor Shang could help Her Majesty defy fate and stop an infant’s growth for four years, what else was beyond him?
Or perhaps Chen Changsheng was merely mature beyond his years? But so dull and tedious, so prematurely aged—could he truly be a sixteen-year-old youth?
The apprentice Shang had taken from Xining Town matched the age, and he was said to be deaf and mute, which also fit the rumors.
But that was too conspicuous, too clear, and thus too unreliable.
Or was that apprentice a means to deceive the Heavenly Way?
Had the real one already had his lifespan altered by Shang using the Western Flow Canon?
Zhou Tong felt his body growing colder and colder.
He knew that the eunuch leader most trusted by Her Majesty in the palace had spent the past few months investigating an old case from years ago.
Her Majesty hadn’t ordered him to investigate—that didn’t mean she no longer trusted him, but rather that she didn’t want anyone to know about this matter.
—Crown Prince Zhaoming might truly still be alive.
If Her Majesty had truly defied fate, and if, as the rumors said, she had paid an unimaginably cruel price to do so…
She was destined to be without descendants, her bloodline severed, so that she could become a true solitary sovereign.
If Crown Prince Zhaoming were still alive, that meant Her Majesty’s defiance of fate was not yet truly complete!
At the very least, it meant her defiance of fate still had a weakness!
If all of this were true…
Then wouldn’t it be necessary to erase the existence of Crown Prince Zhaoming to restore peace?
Zhou Tong felt the temperature in the courtyard dropping lower and lower. Though it was early summer, it seemed as if a harsh winter was approaching.
Even he, considered the most cold-blooded and fearsome man in the world, found it too cruel when he thought of those old stories and what might now unfold.
But why had those people sent Chen Changsheng to the capital? Did they think they could keep hiding him from Her Majesty? From me?
Zhou Tong’s expression turned extremely grim. He realized that this puzzle still had many elements that couldn’t be explained clearly.
…
…
Her Majesty the Saintess gazed at the sky from the Sweet Dew Terrace.
In the morning, the sky had been azure. Later, a fight broke out at the National Teaching Academy, a carriage went to the Qingli Department, and a cloud drifted in from somewhere, turning the sky a hazy gray. The gray sky seemed to want to obscure all truths, but how could it hide anything from her eyes?
Most people in the world couldn’t see stars during the day, but she could. However, she didn’t like looking at them in daylight, because it reminded her of the late Emperor, of Emperor Taizong, and of many people surnamed Chen. Now, as she gazed at the sky, it was precisely because of a certain… youth surnamed Chen.
She knew Zhou Tong had guessed something, discovered something, and begun to suspect—hence today’s commotion in the capital.
She didn’t care about this, nor was she angered, because there were many things she herself hadn’t confirmed.
The stars of the day hid behind the sun’s radiance, but their positions hadn’t changed compared to the night sky.
She quietly gazed at her own destiny star—the brightest star in the sky—silently recalling how, centuries ago, with unimaginable power, she had altered that star’s position and brightness. Naturally, countless stars around it had shifted as well.
A person’s fate changing would ultimately affect countless others, even the fate of the entire world.
A butterfly flapping its wings could stir a storm in the Western Continent, let alone her standing proudly above the clouds.
But what force determined the convergence of all these fates? Was it the Heavenly Way?
If Zhaoming truly still lived, what karmic retribution from the Heavenly Way would she face?
If Zhaoming had died back then, what karmic retribution from the Heavenly Way would she face?
Centuries ago, when she made her sacrifice to the starry sky, she had hurled furious and defiant shouts at the Heavenly Academy. At that time, she was furious, despairing, heartbroken, and indifferent to love or hate in this world—so powerful that even the Heavenly Way dared not meet her eyes.
But she never expected that Zhaoming would actually be born.
From that moment, she knew she would have to face the Heavenly Way. But before she could do anything, the Heavenly Way had silently retreated behind the veil of night.
Until last year, when a beam of starlight fell upon the National Teaching Academy, and someone lit a destiny star.
The Heavenly Way seemed to have come for her.
A destiny star—perhaps it truly was the star of one’s nemesis.
…
…
(Breaking through the puzzle.)