Volume One: The Hidden Dragon in the Abyss Chapter Eight: Zeng An

“Three thousand miles from my homeland.”
“Twenty years within the deep palace.”
“One song of He Manzi,”
“Twin tears fall before Your Majesty.”

“I’ve long said this so-called dim-witted Prince is only pretending!”
...
Night draped softly over the city, yet inspiration and spirits had already faded.
In the streets and alleys, countless common folk still gossiped idly after dinner, whether in taverns or on warm brick beds at home.
The one surrounded by the crowd tended to have a touch of learning, earning the half-bewildered admiration of those mostly illiterate, who simply sensed something profound.
News and tales from the court left listeners stirred and fervent, as if transported into those very halls themselves.

“Wang Chuan’s talent is unmatched, composing poetry in seven steps. The Lord of Wei, with his double meaning, is no different—while seeming to lament the palace maid’s tragic fate, he is in fact voicing his own injustice.”
“Whether it’s three thousand miles or twenty years, either opening line is heartbreaking. Wang Chuan, coming to the capital of Wei, is separated from home and kin by thousands of miles—how cruel a fate already, let alone twenty years of isolation. Like that palace maid, who spent her youth and best years worn away behind those cold, high walls.”
“Life is already a tragedy—singing a sorrowful song only deepens the pain.”
“Just like that maid, to suffer guilt without cause—such an ordeal fills him with rage, and tears are a silent protest.”
“In this contest, Wang Chuan has won. This poem, soundless yet thunderous, each character a dagger to the heart!”
...
Those present later recalled that upright figure on the grand hall’s floor...
“No one saw this poem when it was first recited in the palace, so how did it suddenly spread throughout the capital? Only His Majesty and... Wang Chuan—he’s truly reckless, daring to challenge the emperor!”
“No, someone is being too clever...”

Wang Chuan tightened his cloak, shrinking into his bed. “Someone is being too clever...”
“It wasn’t His Majesty who spread it; he disdains such means. He walks the path of kingship, not scheming and trickery.”
“Nor was it I, instigating rebellion—I no longer have the ability to spread it so quickly across Luo City.”
“But what does it matter? They will frame me anyway, point at my nose and say I’m defying the emperor! There’s no way to clear my name...”

Wang Chuan pondered for only three seconds.
“I know who it is now—the only one who knew the poem’s content and could spread it so swiftly in Luo City!”
He took up the brush and wrote down a name.
His hand trembled so that even old Zhong, his loyal retainer, was alarmed.
Was His Highness’s acting not too convincing?
Then he saw the name and his eyes widened in shock.
“Swear to kill that old dog!” Wang Chuan crushed the paper and tossed it into the fire. “Even a fallen tiger shouldn’t be bullied by a pack of mangy dogs...”
...
The emperor listened calmly to the eunuch’s report, considered for a moment, and then sneered. “Too clever for their own good.”
Tonight, the cold was seeping in, and the grand hall seemed to drop several degrees.
The candle flames shivered without wind...
...
Wang Chuan felt an inexplicable sense of foreboding.
He had set all his plans in motion—what change could now be coming?
His cultivation was profound, and he had always possessed a faint, spiritual premonition regarding his fate, especially when someone intended harm.
Something was indeed amiss—everyone was sharpening their knives, eager to be the blade for the Lord of Wei, hungry to show their worth.
But Wang Chuan cared little for that.
Qi Hao wouldn’t stay long; instead, his own time was running out.

“Your Highness.” Old Zhong came to report again. “That Yang Hao is still waiting in the main hall.”
Uh...
He had truly forgotten about that man.
He had meant to see him earlier, but was summoned to the palace instead.
“How long has he been waiting?” Wang Chuan asked.
“More than an hour,” Old Zhong replied.
“Let him wait a bit more. Tell him I haven’t returned yet.” Wang Chuan said.
After a moment’s thought, he quietly slipped out.
Later, for reasons unknown, he found himself at the foreign envoys’ residence—Qi Hao was inside.
It really seemed Qi Hao didn’t want to see him. Wang Chuan had no desire to force a meeting.

“Hah! Isn’t this the Prince who famously asked ‘Why not eat minced meat?’”
At that moment, a man strode out from within.
His voice was thunderous, making ears ring—a testament to his extraordinary cultivation.
Wang Chuan looked up. The young man was tall and powerfully built, striding with the bearing of a dragon, an air of formidable vigor rolling off him like mountains. His features were fierce and predatory, exuding a stormy presence.
Wang Chuan thought he had seen him before at the academy—what was his name?

“Cousin, I hear you’ve become diligent lately—your poetry has even won over my royal father.”
The man approached with a domineering aura that seemed to clear obstacles from his path.
“Sixth Prince,” Wang Chuan recalled at last, hearing him announce himself. “You flatter me. It was a mere trifle.”
“Cousin, it’s been too long since we went to the Blossom Pavilion. Come, let me host you for a gathering.”
The Sixth Prince’s presence was so overwhelming that those nearby melted away. Even seasoned experts were unsettled by his cultivation; rumor had it he was undefeated in the army, able to stand against a thousand.
He stretched out a massive hand, aiming to clap Wang Chuan on the shoulder as he used to.

But the force of his gesture was fierce, the wind from it howling.
If that hand landed, Wang Chuan might be flattened like dough.
Yet Wang Chuan stood firm, not retreating an inch.
The man’s aura left him unmoved.
The young nobles around assumed Wang Chuan would surely be startled into stepping back, perhaps even losing his footing and landing on the ground.
In the past, no one would have dared treat him this way.
But times had changed.
Hidden talent?
No matter how deeply you hide, I’ll drag you into the light!
The Sixth Prince’s brow furrowed as his hand came down, a faint scent of blood and the wailing of ghosts on the air.
Wang Chuan’s shoulders shifted minutely, as if to meet the blow.
Bang!
Their arms collided.
The Sixth Prince was forced back several paces, heavy footprints marking the ground, while the burst of force sent dust billowing and eyes stinging.
Wang Chuan, meanwhile, did not budge.
“What?”
The onlookers nearly had their eyes pop out of their heads.
“What’s going on? He didn’t yield... The Sixth Prince is famed for his strength and martial prowess, a veteran of countless battles. Even if he held back, how could he not overpower Wang Chuan, that good-for-nothing?”
“Was that the Mountain Shifting Art?”
The faces of the Wang clan’s young men grew grave. There were few true wastrels among them; most were born to excellence, gifted by both birth and nature.

“Damn it!”
The Sixth Prince’s arm tingled and went numb. In his wildest dreams, he’d never imagined this supposed fool could withstand his strike.
“I’ve dominated the battlefield, slain hundreds—how can I not best this useless wretch? Where’s my dignity?”
Fury burned within him, his entire being radiating suppressed thunder.

“Your Highness, there are more important matters,” someone nearby quickly interjected, seeing the situation escalate.
The Sixth Prince nodded, saying to Wang Chuan, “Cousin, let’s go—to the Blossom Pavilion.”

This time, he dared not come too close.
Wang Chuan inclined his head. “After you, cousin.”
As they walked, the Sixth Prince wore a cold sneer, his eyes glinting with malice.
How pathetic—just how much has this ‘waste’ concealed? Brilliant in poetry, profound in martial arts. Is this really the same prince known only for that infamous question?
But the more remarkable Wang Chuan became, the more his father would fear him—there was no chance of his returning home.
After hiding in Wei for so many years, and now with the Lord of Jin taking advantage to snatch away Yan Prefecture, what were their true intentions?

Blossom Pavilion—a sea of painted faces and heavy fragrance.
Wang Chuan followed them up to the topmost private room. The night breeze felt chill as he tightened his fox-fur cloak.
His face remained deathly pale, a mask of frailty.
The others looked on in silent mockery—how many days had he been ‘sick’ now? Who was he putting on this act for?
It seemed all had made arrangements; as they entered, each young man was paired with a courtesan.
Wang Chuan’s expression remained unchanged, as if he didn’t belong there.
The Sixth Prince grew irritated, slamming the table and calling for the most beautiful girls to serve their illustrious guest.
Instead, a parade of unattractive, pockmarked, or awkwardly plump women were trotted out, their coy manner making them all the more off-putting.
The rest watched him with interest, as if awaiting a scene.

“Cousin, take your pick. Ge’er, come pour our prince a drink,” the Sixth Prince called.

Wang Chuan, who had been motionless, finally stirred, lifting his gaze.
A delicate fragrance wafted in—a young woman of remarkable beauty, in her prime, with a face to steal hearts, light makeup enhancing her allure, lips like rose petals, her white dress ethereal.
She approached gracefully, but was quickly seized and roughly handled by the Sixth Prince, who kissed her with boorish greed.

“In this world, there’s no such thing as an untouchable courtesan—just a matter of price. I’ll throw down ten thousand taels, and if there’s any more nonsense, I’ll tear this place down. Is she not mine now? Tight indeed...” The Sixth Prince stared at Wang Chuan. “Cousin, isn’t that right? Didn’t you have a favorite here yourself?”

“Your Highness, isn’t our prince’s favorite sitting right there in your arms?” someone chimed in.
The others paused, then erupted in laughter.
“Didn’t they say Lady Ge’er was the Jin Prince’s exclusive prize? What happens if someone else touches her?”
“Who knows? Scary!”
“Will our prince get angry and take another Yan Prefecture from us?”
...

“Oh, so she’s yours, cousin? Say so earlier—if you couldn’t afford her, I’d have bought her for you.” The Sixth Prince, suddenly realizing, pushed her away, wiping his hands as if ridding himself of filth. “Enjoy yourself, don’t be shy.”
Wang Chuan remained motionless, but his fists clenched, veins bulging, eyes ablaze.
The woman, pushed between them, looked about to cry, her body trembling as she glanced at both men.

“So you’d kiss him with a mouth that’s just been on me?” Wang Chuan stared at the Sixth Prince. “Why, old Six? Was that really necessary?”

Bang—
The Sixth Prince slammed the table, sending dishes flying and women screaming, their faces drained of color.

“You—”

“Old Six, I’ve always wanted to talk to you. Did you call me here just to humiliate me?” Wang Chuan sighed. “Was that so entertaining?”

“Then tell me—what do you call entertaining?” the Sixth Prince sneered.

“I remember, back at the western hunting grounds, you wanted to fly a kite and we snuck out. Then a wolf appeared—you held it off so I could escape. If I hadn’t called for help, you’d have lost your life. We were close then, and you began training hard in martial arts. Now you stand undefeated.”
“Back then, we were like real brothers, closer even than kin!” Wang Chuan slapped the table, voice thick with emotion. Tears welled in his eyes, and after a bout of coughing, his face turned even paler.

“So you remember!” the Sixth Prince roared, upending the table. “Back then we agreed: I’d take Yan Prefecture, you’d be emperor of Jin! Two brothers, a friendship for a hundred years—never to cross each other. And now? My Yan Prefecture is gone! Gone!”