Lin Feiyuan's words were met with superficial agreement from Wei Ping, who only trusted six-tenths of them in his heart.
He suspected the other party was equally skeptical, which was why the plan disclosed to him was half-revealed and half-concealed.
He knew the signal for action, the markers, and what he needed to do, but he had no idea when the signal would be given.
Wei Ping probed, "If we don't set it in advance, I'm afraid I won't react in time."
Lin Feiyuan laughed, "You're not the main assassin, just responsible for backing me up. You don't need time to react."
"The formations in Song Courtyard are intricately linked and hard to deal with. I need to prepare ahead."
"Who said we're sneaking into Song Courtyard to kill him? Would you kill Xu Yun in Huawel Sect or your great-grandfather in your ancestral home?"
Wei Ping hinted, "If there are still people from our side lurking near the Immortal Official Manor, then it might not be impossible."
"I know what you're trying to ask," Lin Feiyuan said leisurely. "Head south out of this street, turn right, and walk ten steps. Go on, or you might miss them."
Wei Ping hurried downstairs, his footsteps making the stairs tremble with a steady thud.
The shopkeeper chased after him to see him out, "Steward Wei, take care! Please bring Song Xian Guan to visit when you have time—"
Strings of golden lanterns hung from the second and third floors on both sides of the street. Snowflakes drifted slowly through the beams of light, landing on pedestrians' shoulders and cheeks, cool and crisp with a hint of frost.
Every brick and tile of "Thousand Canal Bazaar" had been poured with Wei Ping's effort—designed and supervised by him, attracting merchants to settle in. He had watched tall buildings rise from the ground, bright lights shining brilliantly in all directions.
Tonight, everyone walking through this bazaar wore expressions of peace and joy—except him, who found no peace.
"Jade hairpins, lilacs, narcissus, red leaves—take a look! Wear flowers in winter to be the prettiest on the street, keep flowers in winter for a prosperous festival!"
Wei Ping grabbed the wrist of the hawker, realized he was truly an ordinary mortal, and quickly let go.
"Steward Wei, looking at red leaves? These are leaves not found in Tiancheng, specialties from Sanqing County, fresh stock that just arrived this morning!"
"Where did they come from?!"
Wei Ping, who always smiled at everyone, had never been so sharp-tongued before.
The hawker was startled, "It was a person in colorful clothes who sold me a basketful this morning. I'm only reselling them for a tiny profit—I don't make much, just a hard-earned sum. Here, take this leaf as a gift."
Wei Ping patted the hawker's arm and silently turned to leave.
I should have thought of it earlier. Have I become foolish since coming to Thousand Canals? Or is it that the more I care about something, the more easily emotions sway me?
Song Qianji had a fondness for plants—whoever obtained rare flowers and grasses would bring them to him. Since Wei Ping was often by his side, he would inevitably see them.
Lin Feiyuan, upon first arriving in Thousand Canals, had used this feint to make him suspicious and doubtful, even suspecting Ji Chen.
...
That day, when Wei Ping returned, Ji Chen asked a few questions, but Song Qianji said nothing.
Wei Ping didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
During the day, he carried on as usual—still the chief steward, still managing the nine-square grid.
At night, when all was silent, he climbed the cloud tower, the highest building in Tiancheng, once the residence of the former Immortal Official.
Raising his eyes to the bright moon, he speculated and filled in the details of Lin Feiyuan's plan. Lowering his gaze to Tiancheng, he engraved the terrain and landscape in his mind, rehearsing the possible assassination routes the other might take.
Day by day, Wei Ping waited, but the other party never came and even lost contact.
If not for the occasional hawkers selling red leaves in Tiancheng, the nighttime meeting at the silk shop would have felt like a figment of his imagination in the snow.
One can be a thief for a thousand days, but one cannot guard against a thief for a thousand days.
The busier Wei Ping was during the day, and the more he prepared in secret—the more thorough his preparations—the more he felt it wasn't enough.
At night, he started drinking again.He used to drink every day, drowning in drunkenness until he lost track of time. But since coming to Thousand-Ditch Prefecture, he hadn’t touched a drop.
Wei Ping finished his wine and slapped the railing, cursing, "Meng Heze, you said you’d protect Senior Brother Song—where are you now? Leaving that fool Ji Chen behind—can he handle anything? Don’t you dare die out there!"
One should never lean on railings alone, for those troubled in mind might easily jump.
Wei Ping didn’t jump, because Song Qianji needed his steward to manage an important affair.
"Harvest Festival? What kind of celebration is that?"
Song Qianji was sweeping snow and shoveling ice. He preferred to tend to Song Courtyard himself, trudging through mud and slush, never letting others help. "It’s a festival I just thought of myself."
As cold arrives, summer departs; autumn gathers, winter stores.
Song Qianji loved spring’s blooming flowers, summer’s blazing vitality, and autumn’s heavy, abundant harvests.
Winter was different. Winter meant "storing." Mortals hoarded food, cultivators accumulated Spirit Qi. The world’s vitality lay hidden beneath snow and soil, conserving energy to endure the bitter cold, awaiting the return of spring.
Life and death revolve, just as heaven and earth cycle.
Wei Ping followed behind Song Qianji, occasionally handing him a warm towel to wipe his hands.
The steward’s serene smile remained unchanged. "Why does the master suddenly wish to celebrate a festival?"
"After heavy snow, the Yang energy of heaven and earth lies dormant, while Yin energy rises. This is a time for nourishment, rest, and relaxation—not for straining the mind or spirit. If one’s heart is troubled, it hinders cultivation."
Song Qianji glanced at him, his gaze gentle despite the winter’s biting wind. "Set other matters aside. Let us celebrate."
Wei Ping suddenly felt as if he were standing naked in the snow, his restless anxiety laid bare.
He lowered his head. "Alright, I understand."
Thousand-Ditch Prefecture would hold a Harvest Festival. Work on river channels, mountain paths, and bridge construction was temporarily halted. People returned to their villages, and under the organization of the Ministers of Agriculture and Works, they prepared for the festival competition.
"I heard the prizes will be awarded by Song Xian Guan himself—is that true?"
"Truer than pure gold! If you win first place, you might even shake hands with Song Xian Guan!"
Not only was all of Thousand-Ditch Prefecture as jubilant as if celebrating the New Year, but Liu Xianguan from neighboring Hongfu Prefecture also sent a congratulatory letter. Wei Ping traveled to Hongfu to purchase fireworks and firecrackers, hired dragon and lion dance troupes, and even persuaded Hongfu Prefecture to send three teams to compete and perform, making the festival a lively shared celebration.
On the eve of the grand event, shops along the main street temporarily closed. Long tables lined the streets, with village representatives displaying local specialty crops—some piled with grain, others with potted saplings.
A large stage was erected at the center of Thousand Canal Bazaar, where Ji Xing rehearsed her announcements.
The girl’s voice was clear and pleasant, like a magpie heralding spring:
"Table A1, Team 'River Workers Return Home to Plant Wheat' from Xiaolan Village, presenting two dan of wheat for the competition. Please come onstage to display!"
"Table A2, Team 'Sweeter Than Sugarcane Juice' from Quhe Village, presenting ten jin of sugarcane for the competition. Please send a representative onstage to cut the sugarcane!"
"Team 'Greener Than a Hat' from Huagang Village, presenting eight carrying-poles of mung beans for the competition."
Ji Chen wore a complicated expression.
"Brother Wei, this is all too…" He wanted to say "undignified" but felt too embarrassed. "When Brother Meng returns, he’s sure to say we’re not taking things seriously!""Then let him come back!" Wei Ping chewed on a licorice root, squatting on a pillar by the platform as he shot a defiant glare. "Let him come back, grab me by the collar, call me a bastard, curse me as worthless—but where is he?"
"You..." Ji Chen stared blankly, seemingly startled by his attitude.
"I'm joking." Wei Ping returned to normal, hopping off the pillar and slinging an arm around Ji Chen's shoulder with a grin. "Since he's not here, we have to make the Harvest Festival even better. Look at all these people here for rehearsals and competitions—aren't they happy? Who says competitions have to be formal? If everything were as ethereal and detached as the Grand Audience Assembly, with no noise or excitement, what would be the point?"
Ji Chen pondered for a moment. "You're right. How could our Thousand Canals festival be as dull as those Cultivation World gatherings?"
"Look over there." Wei Ping pointed toward someone chatting with contestants from Hongfu. "They're all wearing new cotton robes and hats, the same new style. So where's the biggest difference between people from Thousand Canals and Hongfu?"
Ji Chen looked puzzled. "Their accents?"
Wei Ping shook his head.
"Complexion? Hongfu people seem fairer?"
Wei Ping still shook his head.
"Then what is it?"
"It's their posture. People from Hongfu stand straighter."
Ji Chen gasped. "You can even tell that?"
Wei Ping said, "When you've been hunched over for too long, it's hard to straighten up."
He was gradually realizing that people from Thousand Canals always treated happiness and joy with caution, as if stolen luck couldn't be celebrated openly or laughed about too loudly.
"They need to truly be happy once. They deserve to truly be happy once." Wei Ping's voice suddenly dropped. "If anyone dares ruin this, I'll take their life!"
That night, Song Qianji lay back in his recliner, gazing at the stars.
The tranquil winter night was tinged with faint red at the horizon. Though sparser than in summer, the stars shone brighter.
Wei Ping brought thirty people through the back gate of the Immortal Official Manor. Song Qianji casually greeted them: "Here for questions?""
But Wei Ping replied:
"Tomorrow Thousand Canal Bazaar will be crowded and chaotic, hard to manage. These are the guards I secretly selected for you, sir."
When choosing and training them, Wei Ping hadn't picked the naive Ji Xing or the easygoing Xu and Qiu, but instead selected the more resilient Zhou Xiaoyun.
The others also came from hunting teams and had followed Song Qianji all the way from Huawel Sect. Hearing they were to provide close protection for Senior Brother Song, they wore serious expressions, barely containing their excitement.
Song Qianji understood: "To prevent crowd crushes?"
Wei Ping shook his head: "For crowd control, I've trained a city defense team selected from river workers. These people will accompany the Immortal Official, specifically to protect you."
Song Qianji was baffled: "I don't need guards. You've worked hard, but please return."
Having a group around me—would they be protecting me, or would I be protecting them?
How absurd.
Getting guards for Song Qianji? What "brilliant genius" came up with this ridiculous idea.
Wei Ping said gravely: "I think you need them!"
He signaled Zhou Xiaoyun with his eyes.
Zhou Xiaoyun led the chant: "Protect Senior Brother Song! Protect Thousand-Ditch Prefecture!"
Thirty voices shouted together, low and resolute.
In the end, Song Qianji silently accepted Wei Ping's arrangement.
He who takes is lesser. After all, he'd eaten countless nine-grid hotpot meals—as long as the other didn't go too far, he was willing to accommodate a little.
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