Chapter Seventy-Five: An Invitation from the Cai Residence

The carriage rolled onto the street, and Zhi Ping, Jing Shu, and Zhi Qi stood before the temple to see him off.

“Shu’er, what do you think of him?”

“In appearance, he is truly peerless.”

“This Young Master Zhang certainly has an extraordinary presence,” Zhi Ping said, watching her. “And then?”

“But the way he looked at me—his gaze was pure, without desire, filled only with simple joy. I do not understand it.”

“That precisely shows he is no ordinary man.” Zhi Ping shook his head. “I knew from the start, he’s just a merchant’s son who’s only recently managed to forge a connection with the Emperor. In Chang’an, he holds neither power nor influence.”

“What?” Zhi Qi exclaimed in surprise. “Then why are we inviting him?”

“As a chess piece, how can one have the right to choose? But after meeting him today, he truly surprised me.”

Zhi Ping closed his eyes with a sigh. “You both know, the Han dynasty has already descended into chaos. In every troubled age, heroes arise and warlords vie for supremacy.”

“The world is like a chessboard. Those who compete for power are the players; those of us without the means to do so can only be pieces on the board.”

Zhi Ping turned and walked into the temple, the two young women following behind.

“Though we are pieces, there are moments to place our bets. If we choose correctly, and one day Shu’er whispers in the ear of the one who holds power, ‘I beg you, look kindly upon my clan,’ then our people will fare much better.”

“But…” Zhi Qi said, “there is only one Sister Shu’er. None of our clan’s daughters can compare. This wager… can only be placed once, can’t it?”

“The best bets should strike two birds with one stone, or even three with one. Shu’er,” Zhi Ping looked at Jing Shu with satisfaction, “I have not raised you for your beauty alone.”

“I remember something,” Jing Shu said.

“What is it?”

“The way Young Master Zhang looked at me was as though he were regarding an object.”

“Then make sure he loses himself with a single glance.”

Zhang Yu sat inside the carriage, heading toward Wang Yun’s residence.

He wanted to see if he could find any clues from Wang Yun. Zhang Yu did not believe that the man behind the scenes was truly this stubbornly patriotic old man. Besides, the system showed that Wang Yun’s favorability toward him was as high as sixty-six. Though the bond had not yet been forged, there was no way Wang Yun would deliberately plot against him.

If nothing seemed amiss, Zhang Yu would tell him about Jing Shu’s visit today. It would suit their purposes— the Xiongnu needed a powerful ally, and his own group needed a beauty to work her schemes. As for Dong Zhuo and Lu Bu, well, they needed a beauty too.

The carriage came to a halt, and as Zhang Yu was about to step into the residence, he was stopped by the steward at the door.

“Brother Wang Feng, is something the matter?”

“Sir, someone from the Cai family just came. Left Commander Cai wishes to invite you to his residence for a discussion. The carriage is waiting for you over there.”

So saying, Wang Feng pointed to a nearby carriage, whose driver looked over with respectful deference.

“Is it Cai Yong, the Left Commander?”

“The very same.”

“For what reason does he wish to see me?”

“I’m not sure, but perhaps that driver knows,” Wang Feng replied, glancing toward the coachman.

“Is Lord Wang at home? I have urgent matters and can wait to leave until I see him,” Zhang Yu said, glancing at the sky.

“His Lordship went out earlier today and has not yet returned.”

“Very well.”

Zhang Yu turned, taking Han Long and Xiahou Lan with him as he boarded Cai Yong’s carriage. The day was proving to be quite the ordeal of rushing about.

The coachman treated Zhang Yu with great courtesy, his bearing befitting the household of a renowned scholar, and explained the invitation thoroughly.

Cai Yong’s scholarly reputation was famed throughout the realm, earning him the respect of all the court’s officials. Each day, countless people came to pay him visits, and the carriages lining the streets around his residence had become a sight of Chang’an in themselves.

Over time, Cai Yong found this display ostentatious. He devised a plan: on ordinary days, he would refuse guests, but at the end of each ten-day period, he would invite the literati, scholars, and gentry of Chang’an to a gathering at his home.

The gatherings revolved around conversations on literature and music—inevitably, topics such as the qin, chess, calligraphy, painting, poetry, and song would arise.

Those words felt all too familiar. Zhang Yu could not help but laugh inwardly: “I’ll take on all comers!”

Of course, that was impossible.

The longer he dwelled in the past, the more reverence Zhang Yu felt for the scholars of old, and he had gained a unique perspective on ancient and modern culture. Though he possessed a system, every poem he had used to make his name had been carefully considered and selected.

After all, times set their own limits. The masterpieces within his system might not always suit the era. Tang poetry flourished in the Tang, Song lyricism in the Song, and Han rhapsodies in the Han—their times gave rise to their glory, and they, in turn, defined their age.

And who was Cai Yong? In Zhang Yu’s eyes, Cai Yong was a true master, a scholar of “system-level” talent.

In music, he left behind the legendary Jiao Wei Qin and Keting Flute.

In calligraphy, his clerical script was unparalleled, and he created the exquisite Feibai style.

In the classics, he completed the very first stone inscriptions of the Chinese canon, the “Xiping Stone Classics.”

Not to mention his literary achievements—he was the last great master of rhapsody in the Han dynasty, and in an age when most scholars had no books to read, his family owned a library of ten thousand volumes.

On top of that, he had spent over a decade in exile—truly a man who had both read ten thousand books and traveled ten thousand miles.

With such a master as host, could his guests be anything less?

So Zhang Yu kept his demeanor humble. In the presence of men whose learning rivaled mountains, it would be an achievement just not to make a fool of himself.

Still, as Chairman Mao once taught: “In strategy, despise your enemy; in tactics, take him seriously.” Even as Zhang Yu braced himself to be utterly outshone by these scholars, he still quietly combed through his system for any poetry or essays he might put to use.

He browsed from poetry to chess, from calligraphy to painting, until he opened the section on music and discovered a piece he had overlooked—“Eighteen Songs of the Nomad Flute,” by Cai Yan—Lady Cai Zhaoji.

He could not say he liked her, but she was someone for whom Zhang Yu felt deep sorrow.

“In ancient times, Lady Cai created the sound of the nomad flute, playing all eighteen songs. The Hu people wept, their tears soaking the grass at the border. The Han envoy, heartbroken, returned home.”

Whenever he read of this talented woman’s fate in his previous life, Zhang Yu could not help but sigh. Yet now, living in these troubled times himself and seeing the system’s account of Cai Yan’s life, he was filled with grief and burning anger.

In her youth, young Cai Yan fled with her father for twelve years.

At sixteen, she married Wei Zhongdao of Hedong, but her husband died young, and she returned home bearing the stigma of having brought misfortune.

Not long after Dong Zhuo’s assassination, Cai Yong was executed by Wang Yun for mourning Dong Zhuo. Thus, Cai Yan lost both her father and her protector.

In this era of chaos, life was worth less than grass. Li Jue and Guo Si ravaged Guanzhong, the Xiongnu invaded, and she was taken captive.

What torment awaited a Han woman in the lands of the Xiongnu? She was forced to become the wife of their Left Sage King for twelve years, bearing him two children.

Even when Cao Cao later ransomed her back, she knew no peace or respect.

Cao Cao married her to Dong Si, a fellow townsman, but soon after, Dong Si committed a capital crime. At that time, Cao Cao was entertaining guests when he heard Cai Yan had come to plead for her husband:

“Outside is Cai Yan, daughter of Cai Yong. I will have her come in for you all to see.”

Was this not sorrow? Was it not rage?

“Sir… are you all right?” Han Long had noticed Zhang Yu’s low spirits after boarding the carriage. Just now, he seemed to grit his teeth, his eyes even turning red. Han Long asked softly, worried.

“I’m fine.” Zhang Yu straightened, like a lion awakening from slumber, his vigor renewed.

“The nomad flute originated in the north, but through the qin its music was transformed. Though the eighteen songs end, their sound lingers and thoughts remain endless… My bitterness and resentment fill the heavens; the world, though vast, can scarcely contain it!”

“I, Zhang Yu, have never met you, nor can I say I love you. But I will protect you, and even more, I will defend the vast lands of China from foreign harm.”

“In this world and this life, as long as I am here, no one will hurt you again.”