Chapter Fifty-Two: The Lament of Bleached Bones

Shen Lian had always yearned to seek immortals and pursue the Way, but now, with a true master of miraculous Daoist arts standing before him, a thread of apprehension crept into his heart. Otherwise, why would he exert his "True Explanation of the Supreme Purity Spirit-Treasure Natural Heart-Sealing and Mind-Calming," rendering his thoughts utterly still?

As this notion surfaced, realizing himself to be like the old lord who loved dragons in name but feared them in truth, he couldn't help but smile wryly within.

The tranquil, undisturbed state of mind was thus broken.

When he looked around, he found that he was no longer in the hall. He had followed the master of Su Manor straight ahead, falling to the rear, with Kuhuai and Xiao Zhu walking before him.

Ordinary people, when traveling together, subconsciously follow the one in front. Among animals, this tendency is even more pronounced.

Such following comes without conscious thought.

Yet Kuhuai, Shen Lian, and even Xiao Zhu were all people with strong self-awareness. That the master of Su Manor could, without a trace, lead them all in his wake was truly a skill that left Shen Lian in awe.

Entering a state of focused calm, Shen Lian could still his mind but not guard his soul completely.

The fox immortal Xin Qubing had told him that his body and spirit were at odds, indicating that his soul and spirit had not become one.

Therefore, his spirit found it easier to leave his body, but this came with its own drawbacks. Otherwise, ordinary cultivators would need to calm themselves for a long while before their spirits could leave the body, not as he did, able to dispatch his soul mid-action, even in combat.

Thinking of these things, Shen Lian’s steps did not falter. His true energy and body had adapted to this rhythm; only when the master leading them stopped would he naturally halt as well.

He could have forced himself to break away, but that would only heighten the discord between his soul and spirit.

On the contrary, this unique cadence made him acutely aware of the gulf within himself.

And this was why he could regain his clarity.

Around him was a sea of milky-white mist; he could not tell where they were, nor distinguish cardinal directions.

Suddenly, his senses cleared; the sound of a gentle brook rippled nearby.

The mist dispersed, revealing an intimate, winding path beneath his feet.

On either side flowed water, with shrubs beyond, and farther still, towering bamboo groves whose leaves whispered in the evening breeze.

A pavilion stood in quiet seclusion.

One by one, they took their seats, Shen Lian finally regaining control of his body.

Xiao Zhu and Kuhuai seemed not to notice their prior confusion—only after sitting did they awaken as if from a dream.

“Where are we?” Xiao Zhu asked. After agreeing to stay, she’d felt as though she’d merely dozed off, only to find herself seated here upon waking.

“This is but my humble garden, no need for concern,” the host replied with a genial bow. At his clap, attendants glided in with graceful steps.

A group of beautiful maids entered in a stream; the first eight carried trays with delicacies the likes of which none could name the ingredients for.

Behind them, four more each bore a silver jug and cups.

The table was perfectly square, each of the four seated at a side.

Shen Lian sat opposite the master of Su Manor.

After the serving maids withdrew, two remained: one with a zither, one holding a flute.

One asked, “What music would the master care to hear today?”

Her voice was gentle, yet lacked vitality.

Shen Lian covertly observed each maid—every one stunningly beautiful, but their eyes dull and lifeless.

It made him think of the lifelike wax figures he’d seen in famous halls in his previous life—so true to life, yet devoid of spirit.

But wax statues remain still, making it easy to spot the difference. These maids, however, moved naturally—clearly not mere artifice.

“Before the gates of immortality lie many bones. Today, play ‘Lament of the White Bones,’” the host said with a smile, not bothering to consult his guests’ wishes.

To dine and drink with music playing only further displayed the master’s extraordinary grandeur.

Shen Lian, for his part, settled in readily.

Kuhuai spoke least, Xiao Zhu the most.

Though the three were not friends, an unspoken understanding bound them now. The mysterious, seemingly immortal master of Su Manor drove them to huddle together by instinct.

At the same time, Shen Lian sensed that, though Kuhuai was sparing with words, he harbored goodwill toward him, with no ill intent.

As for the host, genial as he seemed, his thoughts were the hardest to discern. Shen Lian’s sensitive spirit could not probe his depth at all.

When he tried, a formless barrier repelled his soul’s touch, blocking all attempts at divination.

The wine was mellow and left a lingering aftertaste; the dishes offered myriad flavors. Even Xiao Zhu, born of a noble line, had never tasted such exquisite fare.

Yet, in this mysterious place, before this enigmatic host, what pleasure could even the rarest delicacies offer?

Thus, Xiao Zhu ate without joy.

She glanced furtively at the others. Kuhuai’s expression was not as dour as his name implied.

He ate when served, drank when bidden—nowhere in the world could one find a more obedient monk.

But Xiao Zhu knew this monk had roamed the martial world for many years; he was already famous when she was born. In the underworld, to be renowned and survive long meant extraordinary skill and wisdom.

Anyone who lives to see a natural end has something remarkable about them.

Though he had not yet reached old age, the monk was already advanced in years.

Xiao Zhu understood that, to leave safely this time, they would likely have to rely on the old monk—after all, age brings cunning, and he would surely have some means.

On the other hand, perhaps Shen Lian was truly enjoying the meal.

He ate with elegance, savoring each bite with closed lips, chewing carefully, never making a sound.

His dining manner radiated a composed grace, as though wasting food was simply unthinkable.

His bearing seemed innate, not acquired.

He never ate too much or too little of anything, even of his favorites.

Such self-restraint, when displayed, was a mark of cultivation.

Some believe that only by indulging oneself can true nature be revealed—this, they say, is carefree living.

But true freedom does not lie in being ruled by desire, but in being able to restrain oneself.

Absolute freedom is not freedom at all.

The maids played zither and flute, singing “Lament of the White Bones”—a song befitting its mournful name.

Yet, it was “sad but not wounding,” so that the music did not cloud the heart or spoil the meal.

“How is this melody?” the host asked with a smile.

“It exists in heaven, not on earth,” Kuhuai replied, laying down his chopsticks with heartfelt sincerity.

“It’s truly lovely,” said Xiao Zhu, revealing with her words a literary sensibility out of step with her family background. Still, she knew well that no one in the world disliked flattery.

She had a beautiful face, and as a beauty, she understood well the power of a few words of praise to sway a man.

“The composition is fine, and the skill exquisite—but it’s still missing something,” said Shen Lian.

The host’s expression darkened slightly, and he replied coolly, “It seems you have high standards, young man. You may not realize—even within the imperial palace, you would not find musicians more skilled than these.”

As he spoke, he coughed faintly, as though, despite his Daoist arts, the host’s health was not especially robust.