Three Steps C2

Chapter 2 – “Ying Xiu, native of Guangling, Xuzhou.”

As the other man slowly drew closer, Ying Xiu grew all the more unnerved. The man’s beauty was overwhelming, so striking it seemed to rob heaven and earth of their color.

Had it been any other face, Ying Xiu would have already knocked him unconscious, dragged him into hiding, and waited patiently until the time came to depart the vessel. Yet here he stood, helpless, unable to move—only for the chance to look upon him a little longer.

“…You, I—” The youth stammered, as if words had tangled in his throat. After a long pause, he reclaimed his voice. “I am a scholar temporarily lodging by the Qinhuai. By carelessness I boarded the wrong boat. I beg you not to take offense.” Suddenly remembering something, he hurried to add: “I left silver behind, under the corridor pillar, as payment.”

It was a pitiful lie. Assassins were schooled in concealment, skilled at waiting for the perfect moment to strike—but they were poor at appearing openly before others, and worse still, clumsy liars.

A sword hidden in his sleeve, and yet he claimed to be a lost scholar.

His friend, Jianxin, had once said that Ying Xiu was pure as unmarked paper. Luckily, he bore unmatched martial skill, and so had survived in this turbulent age.

Until now, Ying Xiu had dismissed such words. Deception, manipulation, workings of the heart—those were for spies. His own task was simpler: discern who must die, then see it done.

At this moment, however, regret crept upon him. He thought—ah, had he learned a little of the spy’s arts, at least he might manage a fluent lie.

Nervously, he explained his presence upon the boat as having paid a fare. His anxious yet earnest tone was met with silence.

The Emperor Zhaosu asked: “And how did you climb aboard?”

Ying Xiu replied, candid as ever: “A rope ladder.”

This grand vessel was the work of palace craftsmen exhausting their lifetime of skill. A hundred feet tall at least—it took even a long climb to ascend its gangway. Yet this youth declared he had scaled it solely by rope.

Zhaosu Emperor: “…”

He fell silent. He had not imagined a spy whose brains and brawn were so mismatched. At length, he spoke a third question—an indulgence. “Show me again.”

“I could, but…” Ying Xiu hesitated, embarrassed. “Not now.”

All around, the waters swarmed with the armored ships of Jiangzhou’s garrison. For him to climb up now would draw their suspicion.

Ying Xiu added, earnestly: “Next time I come, I’ll show you.”

Next time I come.

The Emperor savored those three words slowly, the tip of his tongue rolling over them. His lips curved faintly, the shadow of a smile.

The youth, entranced, stared dumbly, his sword slipping from limp fingers and clattering to the floor. The Emperor glanced briefly at the blood-stained steel, then answered in a low voice: “Very well.”

From the deck outside, faint noise drifted in, as though some commotion stirred. Yet no one came to explain. Perhaps, Ying Xiu thought, it was because this white-clad recluse held little worth in their eyes.

The thought led him even to pity the man.

If soldiers came searching the room, he would dive through the window and escape, sparing this person all burden.

But no such scene came. The noise ebbed; silence returned. Presently, a young page knocked upon the door.

Ying Xiu snatched up his fallen sword, slipping swiftly behind the screen. From there, he watched as the white-robed recluse sat unmoved upon the woven mat.

The page entered. Dignity and solemnity clung even to that youthful frame—reverent and precise, unlike any common servant.

He announced that the ship had reached shore, then bowed deeply and withdrew.

Ying Xiu lingered a moment before stepping out from hiding. Pushing open the window frame with practiced ease, he prepared to leap away. Yet suddenly he turned his head toward the recluse.

“Ying Xiu, a native of Guangling, Xuzhou.”

The recluse answered calmly: “Xie Zhou, of Jiankang.”

Jiankang—the capital of the Southern court.

And the surname Xie—most often it called to mind the grand and preeminent Xie clan of Jianzhang.

Could this man be one of their line?

A retainer of the Xie? Not easily taken from their grasp.

Thoughts spiraled swiftly. Then, with the sun rising upon the river and gilding his form, Ying Xiu leapt. Half-turning mid-air, black robes whirling like petals, he landed firmly upon the distant bank, then vanished swift as firelight in the morning haze.

The Emperor drew back his eyes, lifted the konghou, and plucked its strings gently.

The gaze of that boy lingered upon his mind, strangely familiar, as though glimpsed countless nights within dreams.

Similar perhaps, yet wholly distinct. Ying Xiu’s eyes had been clear, pure, unclouded.

A blood-wet blade in his hand, and yet such eyes.

“Tok tok—”

The lattice door thudded under a knock. General Shang Weijun, commander of the Imperial Guard, fell prostrate in fear. “This humble subject has failed in duty. May Your Majesty deliver punishment.”

But the Emperor only lingered upon his strings, letting the man kneel. His voice flowed, quiet as dusk: “Ying Xiu, of Guangling, Xuzhou. Investigate.”

Shang Weijun’s pupils contracted, then quickly he bowed, repressing all shock. “At once.” He remained kneeling, awaiting further word.

It came, distant and cold above his bowed head: “The Xiangli clan—you will deal with them.”

“This subject obeys.” He did not falter. For when the Emperor said “deal with,” all knew it bore only one meaning—that from this day forth, the Xiangli who had ruled Jiangzhou for decades would cease to stand.

Their crime: daring to search the royal barge into which the Emperor had traveled in disguise, disturbing his peace.

Even so, more astonishing than the annihilation of the Xiangli was this: the nameless assassin, Ying Xiu, not only lived—but had spoken his name to the Emperor himself.

Such a one was inscrutable indeed.

That same inscrutable youth changed clothing, hired a small skiff at the pier, and rowed beneath the dreamlike lotus blooms. His thoughts wandered unbidden back to the white-robed recluse.

In youthful purity, beauty unmatched, his bearing radiant as spring.

An unearthly beauty—and that peril shimmering beneath it—had struck him to the core.

Xie Zhou, Xie Zhou—Ying Xiu repeated the name over and over, unable to release it.

Xie Zhou of Jiankang, the capital. In so vast a land, when again would but fate let them meet?

Ying Xiu returned alone to his appointed tavern rendezvous upon the banks of the Qinhuai. The wine shop lay unopened still; only a few failed scholars sat upon the steps, drinking on stone slabs.

Now clad in simple green cloth, indistinguishable from common folk, Ying Xiu pushed aside the tavern shutter, and asked the drowsing tavern-keeper, “Why has today’s wine not yet been poured?”

Why had no one come to Po’gang Crossing at dawn to fetch him?

The man lifted his eyes, sharp in their glint. After a long look, he smirked. “So, you survived.” His voice carried faint surprise, which swiftly dulled into coldness. “Think well—why bring no wine? Wine is brewed at tiger-hour. Why did you act four quarters early?”

This was no ordinary innkeeper. He was Ying Xiu’s superior, Jianxin, who had long disapproved of him.

Ying Xiu’s nature was too upright, too soft—straight as a wooden beam. To him, wrong was wrong, right was right, and no shade of gray could be borne. Killers must die; crimes must be paid.

Worst of all, he bent not to orders, often straying by his own will. Tonight, for the sake of a stranger’s child, he had thrown aside the plan.

So Jianxin withheld aid—and meant to let the Jiangzhou warlord’s men teach him bitter lesson.

Ying Xiu offered no defense. He said only: “I am willing to accept punishment.”

Jianxin sneered. “And who dares to punish you? Who doesn’t know what you truly are…” But his words cut off. Indeed, Ying Xiu seemed charmed by fortune. Rumored to be a refugee from the south, no one knew where he had gained such martial arts. Four years ago, after saving the heir of their lord, he had been taken in.

Only seventeen, yet already he served as confidant to the lord’s eldest son. When he came of age, his household would be granted protection and security forever under aristocratic favor.

A bright future—and yet he squandered it. Disobedient even when assigned by the young master himself.

In these times, saving nobles could still earn reward. But saving mere commoners? Nothing but foolishness.

“Enough,” Jianxin sighed at last, words failing after so many calculations. “Let there be no next time.”

The outcome, however, was unearthly smooth.

The Xiangli, who had entrenched themselves in Jiangzhou Xunyang for generations, fell in but two hours. The court proclaimed an edict; their clan was confiscated and extinguished.

That fortress, spreading tens of miles of farmland, thousands of tenant households, now lay in silence, overtaken by imperial guards.

The Emperor Zhaosu, the youthful tyrant famed for violence, who in boyhood had slaughtered eunuchs and priests alike with his sword, leaving their blood to flow for miles—rumor claimed nothing was impossible for his cruelty.

Between Jiangzhou and Jiankang stretched a thousand li. Yet still the tyrant’s eyes reached, his spies swift and merciless.

Imperial scouts rode through the streets of Qinhuai. With hoofbeats came spreading whispers. In moments, the city surged alive with noise of boats, of voices and waves in autumn wind.

Along the river and streets, armored scouts searched house by house, seizing peasants for interrogation.

Patrol boats surged across Qinhuai, brushing by a tiny skiff.

Beneath the sun, Ying Xiu leaned lazily against the bow. One hand supported his cheek, the other loosely wound with a strand of black silk, hair tumbling in disheveled waves.

Eyes closed, he plucked lotus seeds from the water, peeled their husks, placed them upon his tongue, scattering petals across the boat.

Among deep lotus blossoms, he reclined—a youthful figure, drifting and elegant.

None would have suspected him the silver-masked assassin who last night had ended a warlord in one stroke.

Scouts stared in passing, sighing to themselves of fleeting youth, oaring off in haste.

As silence returned to the water, Ying Xiu opened his eyes, their line falling upon a neighboring skiff. Within it, a mother and daughter gathered lotus.

The young girl with double-knotted hair blinked, recognizing the youth who had saved her. She wished to call out, but her mother silenced her with a handful of sweet lotus seeds. She chewed and swallowed. By the time her mouth was free, the boat had drifted away.

He had vanished like the moonlight’s boy, impossible to see again.

Even disguised, they had known him.

Ying Xiu watched the shabby skiff fade into lotus depths, memories flooding him—the towering noble ship, the empty chamber, the white-robed recluse with the konghou.

The morning poured golden upon the waves.

The Jiangzhou lord lay dead. Jianxin had yet to set him new assignments. For now, his days lay idle.

Perhaps…he could go see Xie Zhou.

Ying Xiu donned once more his assassin’s disguise, gathered a clutch of lotuses as a gift, and rowed lightly to Po’gang Crossing.

The river wind struck chill, carrying with it the faint stench of blood. Scarlet streaks drifted upon the waters.

At the ferry’s thoroughfare, ships teemed. Ying Xiu gazed upward, scanning for sight of the grand vessel. Aristocrats had their own exclusive docks—this must be the place.

Suddenly, a voice came, soft at his side:

“Young friend, are you perhaps seeking someone?”