Chapter 31: In Days of Old, There Was a Beauty Named Lady Gongsun

This summer rain, once it arrives, pours down with such force that within half an hour, the surroundings are almost transformed into a lake. By this time, the sky has darkened completely. Fires have been lit in all three dilapidated halls, and everyone begins to prepare their supper. Naturally, the richest aroma comes from Ye Chang’s corner.

The thick fragrance wafts into the main hall, where a petty official, eager to please, smiles at the magistrate and says, “Sir, it seems there’s a cook outside. Why not invite him to prepare a late-night meal for you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the official snaps, glaring at him.

Although the official’s attire is not of particularly high rank, that single glance is enough to make the subordinate tremble and fall silent.

Outside, the rain gradually subsides. The magistrate’s expression finally relaxes: it seems the rain will stop by tomorrow, so his journey won’t be delayed. He carries a heavy responsibility and is anxious to return to Chang’an; the more delays on the road, the greater the risk of mishap.

In the western hall, Ye Chang’s improvised Eight Treasures Porridge is finally ready.

Shishanzhi, who is accustomed to traveling, still carries a monk’s alms bowl. Ye Chang ladles out half the porridge for him, and the two sit, savoring their meal.

“I never expected even porridge could taste so fine. Eleventh Brother, you must be the reincarnation of the Heavenly Chef Star.”

Having licked the last grain of rice from his bowl, Shishanzhi, still unsatisfied, laughs as he compliments Ye Chang, his expression clearly tinged with flattery.

“If you find it so delicious, you should do something in return—go wash the bowls,” Ye Chang replies, unwilling to miss the chance. He cooks because he loves good food, but in truth, he prefers to be lazy when possible.

The monk scurries off to wash the dishes. Watching his clumsy movements, Ye Chang regrets it a little—he might break his bowl. Yet Ye Chang refuses to wash them himself; at home, he would not have the young girl Xiang’er’s hands grow rough, and as for whether Shishanzhi’s hands would callous, it mattered as little to Ye Chang as a single copper coin.

Just then, a soft voice comes from outside.

“Master Ye, may I come in?”

Ye Chang, previously lounging carelessly, straightens up at the call, “Of course. What is it? Does Madam Gongsun wish to sample my cooking?”

“How dare I trouble you again, Master Ye. Though I am headstrong, Madam Gongsun would never be so presumptuous.” The graceful woman enters, her eyes shining brightly in the firelight. By the riverbank earlier, she struck Ye Chang as bold and spirited, but now, under the lamplight, the duskiness of her skin is softened, and her autumn-water eyes gleam with allure.

Like many beauties of the Tang era, her figure is slightly plump, and her lowered neckline tempts the gaze downward.

The rain outside has lessened, so she is not soaked, only a few spots of her clothing are damp, the wet fabric slightly translucent, hinting at the skin beneath—a tantalizing effect.

Ye Chang had seen many beautiful women, so his demeanor remains calm; he does not rise, but greets her where he sits, “Madam, coming through the rain at night, do you have business with me?”

“No, I simply found your poetry remarkable, so I came to chat for diversion on this rainy night.” The lady smiles, “My husband’s family name is Chen; you may call me Madam Chen.”

Her voice is gentle, lacking the fire of the daytime, and her smiling eyes seem to intoxicate. Before Ye Chang can speak, Shishanzhi, returning from washing bowls, bursts in, “You painted skeleton, begone!”

His shout shatters the delicate atmosphere that had just begun to bloom in the shabby hall. Ye Chang looks helplessly at the blunt monk—though he might have thought the same, it should never be said aloud, for it would surely lead to a quarrel, and Madam Chen would likely leave in embarrassment.

He must admit, sharing fireside conversation with a charming and eloquent lady is something Ye Chang would welcome.

In this era, entertainment is scarce; even a free spirit like Li Bai could only gather friends for a drink.

“The monk is impertinent and deserves a slap!” Madam Chen glances at Shishanzhi but does not lose her temper. “If there were no painted skeletons, where would monks come from?”

She claims to be the monk’s mother in jest, but Shishanzhi does not grasp the nuance and simply grins, “With the Buddha, there are monks. But you speak refreshingly, not like those shy types—I rather like it.”

From another, such words would seem flirtatious, but Shishanzhi is forthright, and Madam Chen, cheeks flushed, gives him a fierce glare but does not press the matter.

“How old are you this year, Master Ye? Not yet twenty, I suppose?”

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“Madam, why ask? Do you hope to marry him, seeing his talent and youth? Alas, it’s not possible—you’re older, and Master Ye…” the monk begins.

“Enough, Shishanzhi. No one will mistake you for mute if you keep quiet. This is Madam Chen,” Ye Chang interjects.

“Oh, already married? Then perhaps she seeks a match for her sister. That won’t be easy—Master Ye is a star reborn, with culinary skills and poetic talent—not someone ordinary could wed! Pity he’s not handsome enough. If he were as robust as me, he’d be every maiden’s dream!”

Ye Chang is helpless against the monk’s endless nonsense, but Madam Chen is not annoyed, smiling and bantering with him. Their conversation dominates, while Ye Chang speaks less. After some time, Madam Chen rises to leave, her gaze lingering on Ye Chang, as if tinged with regret.

“That woman is best left alone,” Shishanzhi suddenly comments after her departure.

“Oh?”

“Don’t be fooled by her appearance. Three or five of you, Master Ye, would not be her match. That Madam beside her is even more formidable—even I might not fare well against her.”

Ye Chang knows well that Madam Gongsun is formidable. Her “sword dance” is a dazzling skill, and surely, she must possess true martial ability to perform such feats.

But Shishanzhi’s claim that even he might not prevail shows his confidence in his own prowess.

“Don’t worry, I won’t provoke them. My purpose here is to recover my brother’s remains—there’s no time to meddle with such formidable women.”

The night passes quietly, but at dawn, a scream shatters the peace. Ye Chang had not slept deeply, and Shishanzhi reacts swiftly, grabbing his monk’s knife and rushing into the courtyard.

The scream comes from the main hall, followed by cries of alarm. By the time Ye Chang and Shishanzhi reach the door, someone kicks it open, and several soldiers escort the official outside.

The merchants and strange travelers also flee in panic.

Only the official who had banished Ye Chang and Shishanzhi to the western hall does not emerge. Ye Chang frowns; trouble is at hand.

Indeed, the official shouts harshly, “No one move, and no one leave! Anyone who moves is the murderer!”

The terrified crowd freezes.

The official acts quickly. Ye Chang catches his gaze—a cold, suspicious stare full of anger, threat, and many negative emotions. Ye Chang has rarely seen anyone’s eyes express so complex a mix of negativity.

From this alone, Ye Chang judges—the official is not a good man.

The official fixes him with a piercing stare, then spits out another command: “You two, don’t move either!”

This is directed at Ye Chang and Shishanzhi. Ye Chang, aware that trouble has come, glances at the seven or eight soldiers; he sighs inwardly.

“No one is to move!” the official repeats, then circles the abandoned temple courtyard, turning back to glare coldly at Ye Chang and Shishanzhi.

Shishanzhi, rubbing his bald head, looks confused.

“Seize the bald monk—he’s the murderer!” the official orders.

Shishanzhi grows furious, gripping his knife, ready to resist, but Ye Chang restrains him. Ye Chang believes Shishanzhi innocent, but if he resists, unless he kills everyone present, he would become a wanted fugitive.

Ye Chang does not wish to be implicated as an accomplice to a state criminal. He holds the monk back and addresses the official, “Sir, why accuse the monk of murder?”

“Last night’s heavy rain washed away our footprints entering the temple, but later, only light rain fell, so the ground preserved the prints left after the storm. There are only two sets—look for yourself,” the official points to the ground. “See?”

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Ye Chang looks down and indeed sees two sets of footprints connecting the main hall and the western hall—one set pointing toward the main hall, the other toward the western hall. Clearly, someone traveled between the halls at night.

“My subordinate was decapitated with a sharp blade—the wound is clean, showing great strength and a keen weapon. This bald monk is powerful and clearly undisciplined. He carries a fine knife made by a master, more than capable of severing a head.” The official’s voice is devoid of emotion, making his accusation all the more forceful.

“Nonsense, I spent the whole night…” Shishanzhi begins.

“Monk, arguing solves nothing—let me speak,” Ye Chang interrupts again.

The official’s reasoning is not without merit, but there are flaws.

“Sir, why would the monk kill your subordinate? If he intended to murder, why not conceal the footprints, leaving such an obvious clue?” Ye Chang raises his doubts, just as voices sound from the east wing—Madam Gongsun and Madam Chen emerge. Ye Chang glances at them and continues, “Moreover, if the monk killed someone last night, why not flee, instead of staying and exposing himself to suspicion?”

The official’s mouth tightens, deepening the lines on his face, his contempt evident.

“I, Ji Wen, speak nothing but reason,” he says icily. “As for the monk’s motives… I believe after a few hours in my office, he’ll confess.”

“Hm?” Ye Chang is surprised by Ji Wen’s arrogance, intending to seize Shishanzhi outright. The scholar before soldiers, unable to reason; the commoner before a tyrannical official, powerless. Ye Chang’s mind races: “Ji Wen, you are concerned for the state, eager to find the real killer, and I sympathize. But if you arrest the monk so quickly, what if the true murderer escapes?”

“I say he is the murderer, so he is the murderer,” Ji Wen interrupts roughly. “You look like an accomplice—come with him!”

“Ji Wen, do you truly wish to earn a reputation for injustice, letting the real killer go free?” Ye Chang is anxious now. He knows he has no power in this era—if he goes with Ji Wen, once they reach the court, under torture, even innocence can turn to guilt.

Ye Chang, lacking detailed historical knowledge, does not realize Ji Wen is one of the most ruthless officials of Emperor Xuanzong’s reign, a peer of Lai Junchen and Zhou Xing. But he senses Ji Wen’s malice, and his brows knit tightly.

He must find a way out quickly—either expose the real killer or deter Ji Wen from acting.

“Absurd!” Ji Wen sneers. “It seems you intend to resist arrest—resisting means death. Seize them!”

At his command, the soldiers draw their blades, advancing.

Ye Chang’s gaze sweeps the ground—the main evidence supporting Ji Wen’s suspicion is the footprints, but Ye Chang is certain they are neither his nor Shishanzhi’s.

These are two sets of men’s footprints, heavy and firm.

“Wait, these footprints aren’t right!”

“There’s nothing wrong—if there is, you can explain it in court. Seize the criminal monk and his accomplice!”

With Ji Wen’s shout, the soldiers close in, and Shishanzhi breaks free, his knife singing as it leaves its sheath.

Just as violence is about to erupt, Madam Gongsun speaks.

“My surname is Gongsun. Everyone calls me Madam Gongsun,” she says calmly. “I have met Left Chancellor Li and performed before His Majesty. Ji Wen, this monk is a Shaolin warrior. With the few soldiers you have, you are unlikely to be his match.”

At her declaration, Ji Wen’s expression changes dramatically.

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