Book 7: The Son of Heaven Chapter 156: Glass Flower
The rear garden of the Ye Estate.
Ye Wan's pupils contracted slightly, staring unblinkingly at the young servant in blue. He hadn't expected that after being exposed, the other party would have the audacity to turn around and face him directly, rather than immediately choosing to scale the wall and escape.
Fan Xian calmly turned around, his eyes holding only tranquility, devoid of any other emotion. He looked at the unfamiliar young general before him and immediately discerned his identity. The only men who could come to Ye Ling'er's private garden without announcement were the elder and younger men of the Ye family. Since this wasn't Ye Zhong, it naturally had to be General Ye Wan, who had risen meteorically over the past year and earned the admiration of countless Qing army soldiers.
A year ago, or even further back, perhaps a sense of mutual admiration and involuntary connection might have arisen between Fan Xian and Ye Wan, the two most formidable young men of Southern Qing—just like how Fan Xian and the Eldest Prince started with resentment but eventually grew closer due to their temperaments.
But not today. Now, Fan Xian was a rebel of Southern Qing, an unforgivable criminal, while Ye Wan was a suddenly risen star general, the most trusted figure of the younger generation by His Majesty in private. Most crucially, Fan Xian, after his long journey across the snowy plains, seemed to have grown indifferent to everything in the world; his eyes held only calmness and detachment.
This calmness and detachment represented powerful confidence, but in Ye Wan's eyes, it was intense disdain. The hidden resentment, unwillingness, and anger that had simmered within him for days instantly consumed his entire being. Yet, this anger did not cause the slightest deviation in his judgment; instead, it made him even calmer.
"Fan Xian is here!" Ye Wan roared. Although he greatly desired a fair duel with Fan Xian, he wouldn't make that mistake. For the Southern Qing court, Fan Xian was like a fishbone stuck in the throat that simply couldn't be swallowed. Capturing or killing this man was what Ye Wan wanted most.
His Majesty had once said that if this man did not die, the Imperial heart would know no peace. As a subject, Ye Wan had to suppress his pride. So, after his roar alerted his personal guards outside the garden, he immediately chose to retreat. Using this seemingly weak posture, he blocked Fan Xian's escape route. He was willing to endure this somewhat humiliating method to buy more time.
Once the personal guards arrived and the alarm sounded throughout the capital, Ye Wan didn't believe Fan Xian could escape. Fan Xian was also well aware of this. So, the moment Ye Wan coldly spoke, he had already pounced.
Fan Xian lunged forward like a wisp of smoke. Though seemingly gentle, within that gentle shadow was a heart-chilling domineering aura that tore through the cold autumn air and shattered the tranquility of heaven and earth within the garden.
The overwhelming, fierce, and domineering momentum rushing towards him caused Ye Wan, who had retreated three steps, to narrow his eyes. He felt the forceful wind before him was as piercing as icy blades. His heart was shocked, but his expression remained calm and unchanged. Without time to draw his blade, his hands crossed before him in an instant, left fist and right palm meeting, forming a formidable 'Hand Bridge' in an extremely short time, sealing the space in front.
Once the Hand Bridge appeared, it was like an iron chain spanning a river. A solemn, murderous, and powerful aura spontaneously arose, solidly blocking Fan Xian's punch. It made that domineering fist seem like a floating log drifting down the river—its momentum fierce, but utterly incapable of giving the feeling that it could shatter the iron chain.
Fan Xian, mid-air, also narrowed his eyes. He had diligently practiced the Ye family's 'Great Coffin Splitting' technique for years and was very familiar with the Ye family's ancestral martial arts. Yet, today, Ye Wan retreated three steps, seemingly weakening his stance, but unexpectedly, with the formation of the Hand Bridge, a solid, thick wall seemed to appear horizontally in the air.
Such a profound and exquisite sealing technique was definitely not part of the Great Coffin Splitting. Could it be Ye Liuyun's 'Scattered Hands'? Had the ultimate art left by the Grandmaster been learned by this young general?
Fan Xian's heart trembled slightly, but his hands did not slow in the slightest. The aura emanating from the Hand Bridge before him was too formidable. He knew his domineering punch might not break through the other's defense. Moreover, the power of the Flowing Cloud Scattered Hands lay in their unpredictable shifts between solid and ethereal. Once the opponent's Hand Bridge sealed his move, the ensuing counterattack would likely be faster than his own.
And more crucially, the counterattacks of the Flowing Cloud Scattered Hands were like clouds at the horizon; no one could grasp their true trajectory. Even if Fan Xian wasn't afraid, if he were truly entangled and sealed by the Flowing Cloud Scattered Hands, he probably wouldn't be able to break free immediately. And Ye Wan, clearly aiming to capture or kill him, certainly wouldn't mind stalling him to join forces with others for a combined attack.
... ...
Swish! As if by magic, a slender, black crossbow bolt suddenly shot out from Fan Xian's sleeve, exceeding the speed of his fist, and thudded into Ye Wan's Hand Bridge.
This move was treacherous; Fan Xian had always been a treacherous person. However, the thud sounded problematic. The slender, poisoned bolt seemed to have hit wood, leaving only a small red dot on Ye Wan's calloused yet still fair hands before feebly falling down.
After cultivating Ye Liuyun's Scattered Hands to its peak, one could even clamp Si Kongjian's ferocious sword. His grandnephew Ye Wan clearly hadn't reached that realm, but facing Fan Xian's treacherously shot bolt, he appeared exceptionally resilient.
Following the black light came a bright flash. Ssshh! Fan Xian's tightly clenched fist suddenly opened, and a black dagger stabbed down fiercely.
Ye Wan's expression remained steady and unmoved. But his two hands, fist and palm intersecting, became soft before the black dagger, transforming into two wisps of cloud in the sky, gently adhering to the sides of Fan Xian's black dagger. This rendered Fan Xian's immensely domineering energy as if stabbing into cotton or a quagmire, failing to stir even a single ripple.
'Let him be strong, let him be forceful.' For the first time, Fan Xian encountered the true 'bright moon and great river', the 'clear wind and mountain ridge' of the Ye family, and found himself unable to advance a single inch!
... ...
Fan Xian’s right foot slammed heavily onto the stone slab between them. With a sharp crack, the slab shattered like a spiderweb! His expression remained unchanged, but his right index finger hooked subtly, executing a swift, clever maneuver. The black dagger traced a fierce, gleaming arc following the tip of his finger.
By now, the two were almost within arm’s reach. Ye Wan had no room to retreat, and Fan Xian had to break through. In an instant, both had elevated their cultivation to its peak.
As the black dagger, carrying its fierce momentum, slashed forward, Ye Wan’s hands suddenly transformed into two ancient trees—leafless branches splaying open. Clang, clang, clang, clang! They met the black dagger in dozens of rapid clashes, yet not a single mark was left on those withered-looking fingers!
In that fleeting moment, the corner of Fan Xian’s mouth lifted into a faint smile. It was a smile of calm, the confidence that such calm embodied, and the power that this confidence revealed. His black dagger struck dozens of times, all blocked, yet he used the momentum to retract it. His left hand, which had been hanging calmly at his side, clenched into a fist. Devoid of any intricate angles or techniques passed down by grandmasters, it simply smashed forward with raw force.
Thud!
Fan Xian’s left fist slammed squarely into the hand bridge Ye Wan had hastily reconstructed in that split second.
The confrontation between these two powerful young men had escalated into a contest of foundational martial prowess. Fan Xian discarded all external emotions and techniques, engaging Ye Wan in a direct, unyielding clash of internal energy—brutal and uncompromising.
Fist and palm collided without hindrance.
Ye Wan’s face darkened slightly, then instantly paled. His left foot anchored behind him, hands guarding in front, his body formed a perfect arrow-like posture. His rear foot was like a stake driven deep into solid rock, his two hands like an iron plate, blocking any oncoming assault.
Fan Xian, however, remained as relaxed and casual as ever, as if he had merely thrown a reckless punch in a fit of anger. His feet were still loosely planted, his posture still lacking any formal rigidity.
A powerful shockwave emanated from the two figures in the garden. With a whoosh, an autumn gale erupted, stirring countless碎石 and fallen leaves.
Fan Xian’s eyes lit up, fixed on Ye Wan’s stern, slightly dark face so close to his. He hadn’t expected Ye Wan’s internal energy to be so formidable—able to withstand his two hidden strikes and still block his long-prepared, domineering punch.
How had Ye Wan cultivated such robust and solid internal energy? Could it be that during his exile in Nanzhao, he had relentlessly tempered his spirit and will without rest? At this thought, Fan Xian felt a flicker of admiration for his opponent. However, footsteps were already approaching from outside the garden. Fan Xian didn’t want to delay any longer.
Fan Xian was slightly astonished, unaware that Ye Wan’s inner shock was even more profound. Ye Wan knew his own strength was immense, yet… facing Fan Xian’s seemingly casual punch, he felt an ominous premonition that his hand bridge would be shattered. This feeling arose purely because Ye Wan, standing within the arena, more keenly sensed Fan Xian’s power—more domineering and formidable than the legends suggested!
In that moment, Ye Wan finally understood where the reputation of "Young Master Fan" originated. He also realized why the Emperor had instructed him to take three steps back immediately upon seeing Fan Xian.
If Ye Wan hadn’t retreated those three steps earlier and preemptively formed his hand bridge, given Fan Xian’s adaptability, strength, and ruthlessness, he would likely have shattered Ye Wan’s defense in an instant with a triple strike, leaving him no chance to deploy his Flowing Clouds Palms!
Was he truly inferior? Though Ye Wan’s expression remained steady and calm, his heart surged with a fierce impulse to engage in a final, all-out struggle!
…
Fan Xian didn’t give him that chance. Though he couldn’t kill his opponent in a single move, he was determined to leave an indelible impression—a result satisfactory to himself for this first encounter, destined to be recorded in history.
Thus, Fan Xian’s eyes grew brighter, his clothes trembling and rustling in the autumn wind. A faint, yet continuous stream of primordial energy from heaven and earth began to pour into his body—following the breeze, through the openings in his garments, through every inch of his skin.
Fan Xian closed his eyes, veiling their unusually bright light. With a muffled grunt, his left arm surged forward. The fist, whose momentum should have been spent, now unleashed its full force!
…
A dam built of sand and stone had blocked a mighty river stretching thousands of li. Yet, the water level rose higher and higher, its force growing stronger. Suddenly, as if heaven itself turned unkind, rain poured down—countless acres of rainwater cascaded into the river, instantly breaching the dam.
A great hall on the verge of collapse was propped up by countless thick, straight logs, barely sustaining its structure. Yet, the earth began to tremble. An energy that hadn’t existed before suddenly appeared in the world, shaking the ground, unsettling the logs’ foundations, causing them to fall one by one. Deprived of support, the hall crumbled with a thunderous roar.
From the beginning, Ye Wan had adhered to the principle of responding to change with constancy. Using the Ye family’s Flowing Clouds Palms and its sealing posture, he had successfully blocked Fan Xian’s triple strike. He felt no pride, even though he faced the formidable Fan Xian, because he knew his own strength best. But now, he suddenly felt the hand bridge formed by his two hands being shattered, his body—this great hall—on the verge of collapse…
So, Fan Xian’s power exceeded even the legends, surpassed even his own assessment!
An autumn breeze swept through, stirring the withered leaves that had been shaken by their clash. Amid the dancing leaves, Fan Xian’s exceptionally steady fist broke through the hand bridge of the Ye family’s Flowing Clouds Palms as if crushing dry weeds and smashing rotten wood, landing squarely on Ye Wan’s right chest!
The autumn wind rose again; the leaves danced once more.
In the Ye family’s rear garden, Fan Xian’s figure had vanished. Only Ye Wan remained, his face pale, clutching his chest, forcibly swallowing the mouthful of blood that had rushed to his lips.
The guards finally rushed into the garden, but they saw no trace of the enemy. All they saw was the usually invincible Young General Ye, seemingly defeated!
From the moment Ye Wan saw the blue-clad attendant to the guards’ arrival, only about ten seconds had passed. In those mere ten seconds, the two pivotal figures who would shape Southern Qing’s future had their first encounter—and it had concluded with a victor.
Ye Wan covered his chest, forcibly suppressing the boiling true energy within his body. His eyes quickly regained their sternness as he said coldly, "Notify the palace: Fan Xian has returned."
As these words were spoken, the personal guards finally understood who their general—whom they regarded as a god of slaughter—had been defeated by. Astonished expressions appeared on their faces.
Ye Wan slowly turned around, clasped his hands behind his back, and narrowed his eyes as he gazed at the high wall Fan Xian had leaped over earlier. His emotions were exceptionally complex—a mixture of anger and resentment. In the previous battle, his first thought as a subject was to detain his opponent, so he had adopted a defensive stance from the very beginning, causing his momentum to fall at a disadvantage. This was the source of his resentment. Perhaps things would have been different under different circumstances?
Fan Xian's final punch had easily broken through his hand bridge! Although Fan Xian's Overbearing True Energy, after breaking through the Flowing Cloud Scattered Hands, could not retain much lethal force, the fact that he had been defeated and injured was undeniable. Especially the powerful true energy that surged from that fist at the last moment made Ye Wan realize one thing: currently, he was truly no match for Fan Xian.
Ye Wan never underestimated his enemies, especially someone like Fan Xian, who was renowned far and wide. Yet, he still hadn't expected that the strength Fan Xian displayed today would surpass the legends, the military intelligence reports, and even his own estimations!
A cough sounded. Ye Wan wiped the blood from the corner of his lips with his sleeve, his eyes icy cold and filled with extreme anger. The reason for his fury lay in the unfairness of life. Since childhood, he had trained diligently in the southern deserts, his dedication unmatched in the world, which had allowed him to achieve his current peak ninth-level strength. Yet, it seemed insufficient in Fan Xian's eyes!
This was impossible! Fan Xian hadn't lived many more years than he had, so how could he have cultivated to such a level? Talent? Could talent alone surpass his diligence?
...
...
Fan Xian was unaware of the young general's rage back in the Ye residence. Even if he had known, he likely wouldn't have understood, because he knew better than anyone that he was absolutely not a talent in martial arts cultivation. It was just that his luck was somewhat better, and he had been more diligent and hardworking than anyone else.
In the end, he and Ye Wan walked the same path. The only difference was that Fan Xian had begun cultivating the Overbearing Art from the day he was born. From the first day he was alive, he had lived in fear of death. Such pressure and such feelings were unmatched by anyone in the world, which was why he had achieved his current peculiar state.
Having defeated Ye Wan but unable to kill him, Fan Xian felt not a trace of pride or satisfaction. His confidence, now built upon formidable strength, had elevated him beyond a certain realm. In today's battle, he had ultimately broken through with sheer force. It seemed simple, but it was a return to simplicity—an exceptionally exquisite choice.
He lowered his head, shook off the gradually rising commotion in the capital, and silently returned to the inn. There, he saw his silent Uncle Wu Zhu, who was not gazing at the scenery by the window today but instead had his head lowered, as if pondering something.
When humans think, God laughs. But if Wu Zhu began to think, who would laugh? Fan Xian coughed lightly twice, expelling the bloody phlegm caused by the internal injuries from the counter-shock of Ye Wan's hand bridge. Looking at Uncle Wu Zhu, he said, "He knows I've returned. I will enter the palace tonight."
Although he knew there wasn't much meaning in saying these words, for some reason, Fan Xian still habitually reported everything he did to Uncle Wu Zhu, just like that day and night of coughing up blood and talking in front of the snowy temple.
As expected, Wu Zhu showed no reaction, merely keeping his head lowered.
Fan Xian's head also gradually lowered.
The night deepened. The inn room remained unlit, shrouded in darkness, with two figures inside.
...
...
Early the next morning, as dawn barely broke, the inn room was already empty. The unlit candle still maintained its delicate form, not shedding sticky tears in premature mourning for the revenge and conclusion about to begin.
Shortly after midnight, Fan Xian changed into a eunuch's attire and vanished into the capital's night. Before leaving the inn, he took one last deep look at Uncle Wu Zhu but did not attempt to wake him or invite him to join the conflict of human emotions.
Wu Zhu didn't seem to mind his departure either, simply waiting alone until daybreak. The moment daylight broke, rain began to fall over the capital in late autumn and early winter. Icy raindrops pattered against the transparent glass window, blossoming into flowers upon impact.
It was rain, not snow, yet it felt exceptionally cold. The chilly drizzle never intensified, merely falling softly, striking the tiled roofs of the capital's houses, the bluestone alleys, and the small bridges over flowing streams, creating a rhythmically slow and elegant melody.
All the houses in the capital, bathed in the light cold rain, had windows. Since the revival of the Internal Court, the price of glass within the dynasty had plummeted, and most of these windows were now made of glass.
Thus, all the cold rain falling upon the mortal world blossomed into flowers of varying sizes on the glass.
Wu Zhu, his eyes covered with a black cloth, sat quietly by the window, watching the raindrops blossom on the glass. After an unknown period of silence, he suddenly extended a finger and gently touched the glass, as if wanting to touch the beautiful flower outside the window, yet somewhat helplessly separated by the pane.
"This is glass," Wu Zhu suddenly broke the silence, speaking to the window without a trace of emotion. "I made it."
Wu Zhu sat for a long while longer, then stood up and silently gazed out the window, as if remembering that it was time for his stroll. So, he turned, pushed the door open, left the room, descended the stairs, walked out of the inn, and stepped into the icy rain.
His cloth garments bore many dirty spots—marks left by capital urchins throwing things at him at a street corner yesterday afternoon. Yet, throughout the entire night, Fan Xian, weighed down by his heavy heart, hadn't noticed this.
No one goes for a stroll in the rain. Perhaps some couples enjoy the ambiance, walking under umbrellas in the drizzle, but in this world, there likely weren't any scholars shouting broken poems madly in the rain under umbrellas—that would be sheer folly. Wu Zhu, his eyes covered with a black cloth and dressed in simple cloth garments, walked in the rain, drawing surprised gazes from many people sheltering from the downpour.
The icy rain soaked Wu Zhu's cloth garments and washed away the somewhat dirty mud stains. He walked alone, silent and solitary, through the capital's streets and alleys, letting the rain drench his eternally black and glossy hair, as well as the black cloth veiled with millennia of hardship.
Raindrops dripped from the edges of the black cloth.