Azhu

The group entered the Melodic Zither Pavilion and, upon reaching the main hall, Abi invited everyone to sit. Male servants soon arrived, offering fragrant tea and delicate pastries.

Although Abi was a maid of the Murong family, she was a close attendant and held a position of some importance. This very pavilion had been built by Murong Fu as a residence for her, with several servants assigned to her care.

Tang Xuan, Kumochi, and Duan Yu each took up a teacup. The aroma was fresh and inviting. After a sip, they found their mouths filled with fragrance, the taste lingering pleasantly.

The pastries came in four varieties: rose pine nut candy, tuckahoe soft cake, emerald sweet biscuit, and lotus-root flour ham dumplings. Each was shaped with such elegance that they seemed more suited for display than for eating.

Thanks to the perfect realism of the “Grand Wuxia” game, Tang Xuan was able to fully savor the experience.

At that moment, Abi emerged from the back hall, followed by an elderly man with hair and beard as white as silver, leaning on a cane.

Kumochi, upon seeing the old man, asked, “May I ask, sir, what is your esteemed name?”

The old man grinned, replying, “I’m just the young master’s old servant, hardly worthy of any grand name. I heard, Master Monk, that you were a good friend of our late lord. How may I be of service?”

Kumochi said, “What I have to say, I must present to Young Master Murong himself.”

The old man replied, “That’s unfortunate. The young master set out two days ago, and there’s no telling when he’ll return.”

Tang Xuan looked at this “old man,” his nose twitching slightly, amusement flickering in his heart. Wasn’t this none other than A’Zhu, whose disguise was so masterful that neither gender nor age posed any difficulty? She had, after all, been killed by her own lover’s palm strike.

Even now, the faintest trace of a delicate fragrance clung to the “old man”—undeniably the scent of a young woman. Tang Xuan recognized it, though Kumochi did not. For all his keen senses and advanced inner strength, Kumochi was a monk who had adhered strictly to his vows, viewing all women as nothing more than skeletons beneath the skin; cosmetics and perfume were to him as foul as pus and rot.

He could not discern the subtle difference between the bodily scents of men and women. Duan Yu, who had absorbed a great deal of inner energy with his Northern Darkness Divine Skill, possessed sensitivity enough to notice the fragrance as well, though he assumed it came from Abi and thought nothing of it.

Hearing that Murong Fu was away with no return in sight, Kumochi declared, “In that case, I will not wait for the young master’s return. Please, steward, take me to pay my respects at the late lord’s grave, that I may honor an old friendship.”

The old man waved his hands. “I can’t make such decisions, nor am I any steward!”

Kumochi pressed, “Then who is the steward of your household? Let me meet him.”

The old man nodded repeatedly, “Very well, very well! I shall fetch the steward.” With that, he turned and shuffled back into the inner hall.

After a while, a tall, thin man of about fifty appeared, his face sallow but his manner sharp and capable. Tang Xuan caught a faint scent and knew at once this was another of A’Zhu’s disguises.

The tall man saluted the company. “I am Sun San, at your service.”

Kumochi explained, “I was a close friend of the late Master Murong. Upon hearing of his passing, I traveled from Tibet to pay respects at his grave. In life, I had an agreement with him: if I could obtain the sword manual of the Six Meridian Divine Sword, I would show it to him in exchange for a few days’ study in your family’s Returning Skill Library. I have not fulfilled this promise, and I am deeply ashamed.”

“Sun San” asked, “And if you did obtain the sword manual? And if you did not?”

Kumochi replied, “The agreement was that if I secured the sword manual, I would allow him to peruse it for several days, and in return, I would be granted access to the books in your family’s Returning Skill Library.”

The mention of the library made “Sun San” inwardly alarmed; that the monk knew its name was surprising.

Tang Xuan, too, was startled. The Returning Skill Library was where the Murong family collected their martial arts manuals, akin to the Sutra Pavilion of Shaolin Temple. For players of “Grand Wuxia,” it was a treasure trove of skill books.

Most of the Murong collection, however, comprised third- and fourth-tier martial arts—unlike Shaolin’s Sutra Pavilion, whose seventy-two ultimate skills were at least fifth- or sixth-tier. Tang Xuan now regarded the Returning Skill Library as beneath his notice, though in the outside world, players would fight tooth and nail for its treasures.

Kumochi continued, “I have indeed brought the sword manual, so I must, as agreed, request a few days’ study in your library.”

“Sun San’s” eyes flickered. The library was the Murong family’s most vital place and not one to be entered lightly. The old master had been dead for years; who could say whether the monk’s story was true? Even if there had once been such an agreement, could any sword manual truly rival the importance of the library?

As “Sun San” pondered, Abi interjected, “The late master has passed on, and mere words hold no weight. Besides, even if the master monk has brought the manual, there is no one here who could understand it. Any previous agreements are now null and void.”

“Sun San” nodded in agreement.

Nevertheless, she was curious about the Six Meridian Divine Sword manual and asked, “What manual is this? Where is it? Let me have a look to see if it’s real or fake.”

Kumochi pointed at Duan Yu. “This young master Duan here has memorized the entire sword manual. Bringing him is as good as bringing the manual itself.”

Abi laughed, “So there’s no actual manual, just a joke from the master monk?”

Kumochi replied, “I would not dare jest. The original sword manual was destroyed by Master Ku Rong at Tianlong Monastery in Dali, but fortunately, Master Duan here has memorized it in full.”

Abi retorted, “If Master Duan remembers it, that is his affair. Even if anyone is to consult books in the Returning Skill Library, it ought to be him, not you. What does it have to do with the master monk?”

Kumochi said coldly, “To fulfill my ancient promise, I intend to cremate Master Duan before the late Master Murong’s grave.”

At this, everyone was shocked. Yet Kumochi’s expression betrayed no levity; he was deadly serious.

He was, in fact, secretly sneering. By this method, he intended to force Duan Yu to recite the sword manual. Even if Duan Yu would rather die than yield, Kumochi could use his “living manual” as an excuse to demand access to the Returning Skill Library after cremating him.

While the skills within were of little use to Kumochi himself, he could memorize them and bring them back to Tibet to train others—an invaluable advantage.

He cared little whether the Murong family agreed or not. If they refused, he would use force if necessary.

Both “Sun San” and Abi were no fools; they had already guessed most of the monk’s intentions. They were appalled at the prospect of burning Duan Yu alive, but given the monk’s status as the state preceptor of Tibet and his formidable martial abilities, they were at a loss for a solution.

Duan Yu, for his part, looked utterly miserable. He was about to be cremated and could do nothing about it.

Just then, Tang Xuan spoke coolly, “The master must be joking. How could anyone simply burn Young Master Duan alive?”