A massive pleasure boat drifted at the heart of the great Yuning River.
Night after night, zither music flowed across the water like an invisible thread, binding the heart of all Yulan Town to the boat’s prow.
One sweeping melody, ten thousand miles of moonlight stretching long.
Hundred-zhang river surface rippling with waves, thousand-xun emerald waters swaying with the moon.
At first, only scattered words of admiration, but soon the entire town’s sentiment shifted.
In teahouses and taverns, merchants and scholars raised their cups in merriment, the clinking of glasses ringing out, mingling with the scent of wine and the burnt-sweet aroma of sugar-roasted chestnuts from below, drifting far away on the night breeze.
They praised each other in turn, saying that zither sound was like celestial music from the ninth heaven, capable of cleansing mortal dust—if you hadn’t heard this zither, you weren’t worthy of being called a citizen of Yulan Town.
Ears filled with those swelling words of praise, it seemed the entire street was cheering for that boat at the river’s heart.
The pleasure boat sang and played every night, and the middle-aged ferryman carried young masters and honored guests to the boat, one boatload after another.
They were richly dressed, adorned with jade and jingling gold, the rustle of brocade fabric whispering softly as they moved.
The moment they boarded, they crowded around the deck, the wooden planks sinking slightly beneath their feet, every pair of eyes burning fixedly on that graceful figure plucking the zither at the prow.
The songstress Liu Pianpian wore a thin veil, revealing only a pair of autumn-water eyes.
The river wind occasionally lifted a corner of the veil, exposing a pale, delicate chin.
Her ten fingers lightly plucked the strings, drawing a full-boat roar of approval.
“Miss Liu’s zither skill—surely even celestial maidens are no match!”
“A woman like this—if I could have one night of romance, I’d trade ten years of life for it!”
“Ha! Those stupid women clinging to their chastity plaques, how dare they be compared to Miss Liu?”
The whole boat erupted in laughter, yet tinged with fervor.
Some tossed gold, ingots landing on the deck with a dull thud, rolling to the songstress’s feet.
Some recited poetry, dressing lechery as romance, trampling chastity into ridicule.
Mocking chastity as stupidity, exalting debauchery as immortal…
Such was Yulan Town, and such was the entire Southern Ridge Cloud Prefecture.
Yet forming a strange contrast to all this adulation was Liu Pianpian’s own loneliness.
Her zither tone was hauntingly beautiful, but she never paused to acknowledge a single cheer.
Her fingertips slid across the strings, as if she were a solitary soul speaking into the abyss.
Few could truly converse with her—but the ferryman, past forty with eyes as sharp as a young man’s, was one of them.
The ferryman rowed in silence, never speaking more than necessary to his passengers.
After delivering a wave of honored guests, he would sit alone at the stern, listening to the zither music wind down.
When the deck emptied and voices faded, leaving only the river wind slapping the hull, he would speak in a low voice, hoarse as sandpaper:
“Today’s zither sound is three parts sadder than yesterday’s.”
The songstress’s fingertips hovered above the strings.
She didn’t raise her eyes, the veil pressed against her cheeks by the night wind:
“The fish at the river’s bottom are listening too.”
“Fish that listen will die.”
“People who listen will die too.”
That was all their conversation amounted to.
The ferryman said no more, rowing away with creaking oars, like a sigh slowly dissolving into the river mist.
Half a month passed.
The townsfolk began saying the zither music summoned evil.
Every night the music played, the next day livestock would be found drowned dead on the riverbank.
The creatures died in strange ways—the innards of oxen, horses, sheep, and pigs seemed gnawed hollow from within, leaving only hollow skins floating in the shallows, reeking with a thick, putrid stench.
The townsfolk pinched their noses and hurried past, yet at night they couldn’t help gazing toward the river’s heart.
On this day, a white-robed swordsman crossed the stone bridge over the Lesser Yuning River and entered Yulan Town.
He walked to the banks of the Great Yuning River and saw the water mirror-still, reflecting a face exactly like Xiao Yi’s.
Yet in his brows was none of that prodigal’s languor—only a keener, sharper heroic air, and a certain stillness born from the depths of his soul.
His name was Gu Yun.
From a distance, Gu Yun saw the townsfolk carrying away another drowned livestock carcass.
The beast’s eye sockets were hollow, its abdominal cavity caved in, the skin seeming drained from within—one look made you want to keep your distance.
Gu Yun turned his gaze to the pleasure boat at the river’s heart.
Lanterns blazed, the faint strains of strings and flutes drifting over.
Then he looked to the ferry landing on the shore.
There, a ferryman with a spine as straight as a pine stood quietly on a small boat by the bank, holding a fishing rod, line dangling into the murky water, utterly motionless.
Gu Yun thought for a moment, then decided to strike up a conversation.
He clasped his fists in greeting: “Esteemed… brother, these livestock keep dying gruesomely on the river. Do you know what’s going on?”
The ferryman didn’t turn around.
The fishing line trembled lightly on the water’s surface, sending a thin ripple spreading outward—much like his mood at this moment.
“I don’t know.”
“And the zither music on that boat…”
“Pleasant to hear.”
The ferryman cut him off.
His voice was that of a middle-aged man, yet carried a young man’s pride and edge.
“But pleasant things are often poisonous.”
Gu Yun’s brows furrowed slightly. He wanted to press further.
But the ferryman was already reeling in his rod.
The line left the water, trailing a string of sword-shadow-like droplets, dripping one by one back into the river—just like the words he intended to speak.
“Yuning River… Yuning River. But this great river is anything but peaceful. There may be something at the river’s bottom, pressed down by the zither music, yet also breathing through it. Livestock carry heavy blood-aura, so they’re naturally chosen first. Which means… next, it’ll be people’s turn.”
…
The water boiled with a gurgling sound, tea fragrance rising in wisps, bitter and warm, blending with the river mist before being scattered by the night wind.
Bai Chengwan listened across the river to the zither music on the boat, his eyes hollow yet tender.
The melody was mournful, but he wasn’t listening to the music—he was listening to the person.
He lifted the teacup but didn’t drink, merely letting the steam warm his eye sockets until his eyelids stung with dryness.
As if that could evaporate some unutterable apology, turning it into river mist that scattered without a trace.
“Was my decision truly wrong?” he murmured lowly, his voice scattering into the river wind, light as a sigh yet heavy as a stone sinking to the river’s depths.
“It was your father who killed you… your father, who nearly killed the one you treasured most…
Your father wants nothing—only to protect what you left behind…”
On the pleasure boat, the zither music gradually faded.
The storyteller had taken his seat in the boat’s pavilion at some point.
His wooden gavel struck once with a sharp crack like thunder, bursting through the clamor of the entire boat.
He began, his youthful voice still carrying an ancient, age-worn depth, cutting cleanly through the river wind and waves:
“Continuing our tale! The Primordial Heavenly Mother gained the True Dragon’s essence at the depths of the Chasm Abyss, and was hunted by all the major powers—enemies on every side. But heaven never seals off all exits—the demon dragon Meng Zhang turned out to be the East Sea Azure Dragon, offspring of the True Dragon itself. After a mortal battle with her sworn foe, the Primordial Heavenly Mother rode the dragon’s pulse to the East Sea, concealing her name and vanishing into the mundane world. When the East Sea Azure Dragon’s true soul emerged, heroes across the land swarmed like carp crossing a river, all entering this game of Nine Dragons Contesting the Soul. And yet… the game is shrouded in mist, and no one knows who anyone truly is.”
“Excellent! Well told!”
The young masters and honored guests aboard burst into applause, gold and silver trinkets raining down without end.
The clinking of wine cups rose once more, serving as a fine interlude to Liu Pianpian’s zither playing.
But the songstress’s fingertips at the boat’s prow trembled, and a single string let out a piercing crack, like a silk thread snapping.
On the riverbank, Bai Chengwan’s hand jerked, splashing tea onto the stove fire.
It hissed, sending up a puff of burnt steam.
Deep in the shadows of the trees, Gu Yun pressed his hand to his sword hilt, drawing half an inch of the blade, staring hard into the darkness before him.
Through the deep night, the ferryman looked toward the young girl Bai Ling on the riverbank, clutching her tea satchel, searching for her father along the river’s edge.
Everyone was a player in this drama—yet no one knew who anyone truly was.