Chapter 32: Meeting Ma Yu Again

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Qin Fei’s meaning was clear: they had likely offended an organization or some high-ranking official, rather than acting on a personal whim.

Isn’t that nonsense? For the Beggars’ Sect’s Lin’an branch to do things for them, to even open the city gates at night and give orders—or at least influence the Lin’an government—suggests considerable clout.

But what did this have to do with him and Master Chonghe? The man was killed by Hong Qigong, and the matter was exposed by the Imperial City Office...

Ignoring these trivial matters, Qiu Zhiqing left Lin’an on his own and headed to the Fuxing Temple where he was lodging. On the mountain path, a beggar blocked his way, claiming to deliver a message. Upon opening it, Qiu found it was an invitation from Hong Qigong: “Tonight, at the quarter past the ninth hour, meet me atop the Yongjin Tower!”

Qiu was puzzled. They had parted that very morning; why arrange another meeting that night? Could this beggar chief really be inviting him for a meal at the Yongjin Tower?

Time flew in busy moments. An afternoon of free medical consultations yielded no surprises—mostly minor ailments like headaches and colds. Soon, the last moments of the ninth hour arrived, and Qiu Zhiqing arrived early to wait beneath the Yongjin Tower.

Yongjin Tower was one of Lin’an’s two largest restaurants, the very one Meng Gong had asked him to try. But Qiu had been short of funds and hadn’t gone before; last time, he had exhausted his budget...

Yongjin Tower was actually the gate tower of Yongjin Gate, which had since been renamed Fengyu Gate. Unable to find Hong Qigong, Qiu Zhiqing watched the scenery from atop the city gate. There’s a saying: when you watch the scenery from the city wall, others watch you.

For example, as Qiu admired the West Lake’s night view outside the city, a gentle breeze stirred behind him; he reached back, caught a peanut, and looked up to see Hong Qigong smiling down from the tower.

Qiu Zhiqing was speechless. He found a quieter spot and climbed to the rooftop. Displeased, he said to Hong Qigong:

“So when you said ‘atop the Yongjin Tower,’ you meant literally on top of the tower! I thought, as chief of a sect, you’d at least invite me inside the restaurant for a meal.”

Hong Qigong said nothing, tossed him a small jar of wine, and placed the fried peanuts between them, then grumbled:

“A beggar like me can’t afford to eat inside the restaurant. Sneaking food in is awkward. This place isn’t the imperial kitchen; a beggar like me has no qualms here. Your Quanzhen Sect is rich and powerful—why don’t you invite this old beggar for a meal downstairs?”

Qiu Zhiqing avoided answering, popped the peanut he caught into his mouth, chewed, then opened the wine jar and took a sip. It was clear and sweet with a faint fruity aroma.

“Fruit wine?” He shifted the topic awkwardly, earning a sharp look of disdain from Hong Qigong.

This was Qiu’s first time drinking wine in this world, and he hadn’t expected to share it with an old beggar. But given this beggar’s renown, it wasn’t a waste of his first drink.

“This is authentic Autumn White Dew, a palace tribute. Tasty, right?” Hong Qigong said. Indeed, it was very good and the name was lovely.

But Qiu still had a question: “Master Hong, why couldn’t you speak about this last night? And why do you always like to meet on rooftops? Aren’t you afraid of heights?”

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“Isn’t it good to be high up? Many strive to climb higher just to see farther. Since you managed to come up here, why look up at others in the crowd below?”

Qiu Zhiqing understood. This was Hong Qigong’s quiet reproach for Qiu’s refusal the night before to investigate the matter thoroughly with him.

Qiu sipped the wine and gazed at the brilliant starry sky, sighing, “Master Hong, people are different. Some like to stand on high places and look down on the world; others prefer to keep their feet on the ground and gaze at the heavens.”

Hong Qigong grumbled,

“Do you really believe those airy-fairy fairy tales about becoming immortals? Like Wang Chongyang, you’re bewitched! Gazing at the heavens? The vast sky is far beyond the reach of mere ants like us. Sitting quietly on a mountain, watching the world’s bustling scenes, caring for the unjust—that’s the duty of a true man! To be frank, we already have leads in the Jin territory. Are you going or not?”

Qiu Zhiqing shook his head. “I’ve come down the mountain to seek the Way and won’t go. I believe, with your martial skill and wisdom, there’s nothing that can truly trouble you.”

He roughly guessed Hong Qigong’s meaning: The Beggars’ Sect had few demands on their successors, and Hong Qigong was no longer young. So he took a liking to Qiu, considering cultivating him as the next Beggars’ Sect chief.

But the Beggars’ Sect wasn’t his only option—Quanzhen was. He was a third-generation direct disciple of the Quanzhen Sect. Although envious of his Eighteen Dragon-Subduing Palms, some things were just as they were, like Master Cuixu currently teaching him.

Ma Yu had compiled nearly all the Northern Sect’s theories, except for the core Innate Skill, into volumes for Cuixu, who in turn only taught Qiu everything except the Southern Sect’s core “Taiyi Jinhua” classics.

Hong Qigong left, heading north to Jin territory, departing with a touch of regret. Qiu Zhiqing did not stop him, only watching as he walked away.

He knew that with Hong Qigong’s departure, the Eighteen Dragon-Subduing Palms would no longer belong to him. But Hong Qigong would surely find a more fitting successor—someone better than him.

...

After Hong Qigong’s departure, Qiu Zhiqing’s life returned to its former calm, as if that early spring infatuation and chance meeting were just a stone dropped into a lake, stirring ripples but no lasting waves...

Only Qiu himself knew that he had let go of a person, saved some, and missed a great opportunity.

In the sixteenth year of Jiading during the Southern Song, early July, within the imperial palace’s Little West Lake octagonal pavilion, Qiu Zhiqing faced Zhao Yuju, two years his junior, and calmly bid farewell. Zhao Yuju was the closest friend he had made inside the palace.

“Chonghe, we don’t know when we’ll meet again. But though millennia stretch across the world and the future is as vast as the sea, there is time ahead! Farewell!”

Zhao Yuju was a prince raised in the palace, a candidate for crown prince. He knew his chances were slim. Before meeting Qiu, he had drifted aimlessly.

Only after meeting Qiu did he speak of the outside world and northern affairs. This Taoist was like warm sunlight in a cold winter, bringing light to his gloomy life.

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Qiu Zhiqing thought Zhao, though somewhat dull, was inherently kind and worth befriending.

“Well then! May you grow wings and become a northern fish! Just practice the breathing methods I taught you well. Even if you don’t want to stay in Lin’an, you can come find me at Quanzhen on Zhongnan Mountain!” After a heartfelt farewell, Qiu Zhiqing left the palace with grace.

Returning to Fuxing Temple, after dispensing medicine to several unwell pilgrims, it was nearly the last moments of the ninth hour. Back in his room, Qiu gazed at the longsword hanging untouched on the wall for nearly three years. For some reason, a knowing smile appeared.

Carrying the sword felt as familiar as ever, and he faintly sensed the fleeting joy of its swift flash...

Qiu silently thought he must have been driven a little crazy by following Master Cuixu’s cultivation—feeling joy from a sword isn’t normal. Why not say you’ve become an immortal?

That evening, Master Cuixu told him that after leaving Lin’an, twenty miles northeast, someone awaited him.

Qiu quietly calculated—twenty miles northeast of Lin’an was Niujia Village, a popular scenic spot he had already visited.

But meeting his senior meant meeting the Seven Sons of Quanzhen. He recalled when Qiu Chujie had brought him back to Quanzhen from Lin’an to Zhongnan, he was just over a year old. Now it was their so-called eighteen-year appointment.

Qiu was not interested in such details. He barely remembered the storylines, but since Master Cuixu said he had taught all he could and their fate was done, it was time to return to Zhongnan Mountain with his master.

Arriving in Niujia Village, it was clearly less prosperous than years before, a sign of the Southern Song’s decline.

At the only inn capable of hosting guests, Qiu found it even more dilapidated than his first visit. Inside, his master and several uncles were gathered around an old man in hemp clothing, speaking.

As Qiu approached the door, Ma Yu looked up and instantly recognized him. Without hesitation, he hurried over.

“Zhiqing, why are you here? You wrote before that you were staying at Fuxing Temple. We planned to visit you there, but didn’t expect you to be here too. Truly, truly—”

Ma Yu left his sentence unfinished, busy steadying Qiu who had knelt down.

“Disciple pays respects to Master. Three years apart, and Master has gained even more immortal grace. My heart is moved...” Seeing Ma Yu again stirred a complex wave of emotions in Qiu.

He thought he had grown numb to life and death over the past three years, but seeing Ma Yu’s graying hair overwhelmed him; his clumsy mouth betrayed him with tears.

Ma Yu pulled him up and sighed, “Enough, enough! What immortal grace? Your hair has just turned whiter! Well done! Your skills surpass even your master and uncles. Go greet the others!”