Chapter 112: Flowing Waters Do Not Always Find a Kindred Spirit

Beyond the ancient mulberry trees lay Huanggang. The waterways of Hongze Lake intertwined in a complex network spanning hundreds of miles. Since the Han dynasty, more and more people had settled around the lake, gradually forming small market towns primarily inhabited by fishermen, with villagers as a secondary presence. These towns had once flourished greatly due to commerce between the north and south.

Gusang and Huanggang were among these towns.

The town of Huanggang derived its name from a high ridge on its left side, crowned with jagged peaks, elegant stones, dense forests, and treacherous terrain. On the right side was the shore of Hongze Lake, its open waters hosting the lake’s best and largest harbor for entry and exit.

Nestled between mountain and water, Huanggang occupied a critical position along the north-south route and was densely populated.

However, with the rise of bandits, the severing of trade routes, and the raids of water pirates, the surrounding market towns fell into ruin and despair. Gusang’s plight was a typical example. Yet, upon leaving Gusang and arriving at Huanggang, Kong Sheng was astonished to find the town seemingly untouched by war or banditry—fields interconnected by paths, roads unobstructed, smoke curling from every household, the crowing of roosters and barking of dogs filling the air. Despite it being winter, the town thrummed with vibrant life.

This scene reminded Kong Sheng of Tao Yuanming’s Peach Blossom Spring. Though he was uncertain of the exact details of Tao’s utopia, what lay before him seemed to surpass even that ideal: everywhere, peace, harmony, and joy pervaded.

Fishermen returning from the lake carried their nets and baskets, their faces radiant with happiness and contentment. Many villagers led oxen and children, jubilantly heading towards the farmlands. What they saw and heard resembled a hidden paradise, a stark contrast to the outside world, leaving them all stunned.

Yet Kong Sheng also noticed that the townsfolk were highly wary of outsiders. Before his group even entered the town, a dozen or so robust young men armed with sticks blocked the road leading to Huanggang. At their forefront stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick eyebrows and imposing features.

He stepped forward, furrowing his brows and demanded loudly, “Who are you? What business do you have in Huanggang?”

Mu Changfeng rode up with a slight smile. “We are headed north across the river. Passing through here, we just wish to rest briefly and have some food before continuing on.”

It was clear these men were township militia, self-organized to protect the village, independent of any official authority. Kong Sheng’s gaze swept thoughtfully over them, yet a lingering question remained: in this chaotic era of war and banditry, how could this place remain untouched? And with the water pirates nearby, was it truly because they refrained from harming their own neighbors?

The tall man waved dismissively. “Our town’s roads are closed. If you want to pass, you must take the route around the ridge over there.”

He pointed toward a distant hill. Beneath it was another path, but it circled around much of Huanggang.

Mu Changfeng frowned. “On what authority do you block the road? Do you have permission from the officials?”

The man scoffed. “Officials? Those big shots have long since fled and are nowhere to be found. Can we rely on them? We villagers must protect ourselves. This is our town’s road, and we decide who passes. If we say no, then no. Don’t waste our time!”

Puffing out his chest, he declared proudly, “I, Huang Dali, say the road is closed. Huanggang forbids unknown outsiders; you’d better take the detour!”

Behind them, Wu Xian and Wu Jie, irritated and angered, were about to step forward to scold or even rough up these rustic villagers. To them, these country bumpkins were insignificant and no match.

But Kong Sheng calmly interjected, “Enough. They have their rules. We are travelers; we must respect local customs and not cause trouble. Brother Mu, Wu Xian, Wu Jie, let’s take the detour.”

Without hesitation, Kong Sheng spurred his horse and galloped toward the ridge.

He sensed this town was no ordinary place. Without understanding the full situation, it was best not to provoke. Besides, detouring was a small inconvenience not worth a fight.

Mu Changfeng followed closely behind. Li Xuan, her face solemn, urged her horse forward, and Wu Xian and Wu Jie, sulking, flicked their whips in the air before reluctantly trailing on their weary black horses.

The detour added about ten miles. Riding swiftly, they soon passed through winding paths and fertile fields. A towering ridge suddenly appeared before them, stretching from the hillside down to the shore of Hongze Lake—a broad expanse of open land.

Midway up the ridge stood a pavilion. From it drifted the gentle, melodious sound of a guqin. The closer they approached, the clearer the music.

Kong Sheng looked intently and saw a young man in coarse clothing, his long hair flowing loosely behind him. His serene and refined face betrayed no emotion as he sat cross-legged, solemnly playing the guqin, immersed in his own world, oblivious to the arrival of others.

The music flowed smoothly and deeply, ancient in style, with clear overtones that evoked the wondrous imagery of layered mountains and clear valley springs. The group sat quietly upon their horses outside the pavilion, listening.

Mu Changfeng, Wu Xian, and Wu Jie, unfamiliar with music, grew restless, but Kong Sheng and Li Xuan were discerning listeners. The young man’s appearance was elegant and timeless; his skill on the guqin was truly extraordinary.

Kong Sheng closed his eyes slightly, smiling silently.

As the music rose, Kong Sheng’s mind drifted to a distant Spring and Autumn period: the masterful guqin player Yu Boya, on a serene, misty morning, sitting amidst the mountains, playing his newly composed piece on the Fuxi qin. His notes pierced the silent forest, sometimes light as falling jade, sometimes fierce like a dragon’s roar, sometimes cold and lingering, sometimes vast and overwhelming. The pine winds blended with mountain springs, weaving a gentle melody. Passing woodcutter Zhong Ziqi stood quietly in the music, eyes lowered, utterly absorbed until he exclaimed, “Magnificent! Truly as if the spirit of flowing water itself!”

At the mention of Zhong Ziqi, Li Xuan suddenly clapped her hands in admiration and exclaimed, “Wonderful! What a flowing melody! Brother, your guqin skill is like the voice of heaven—simply marvelous!”

Zhong Ziqi was Yu Boya’s confidant, yet flowing water did not always find its soulmate. Li Xuan’s abrupt interruption might not have endeared her to the guqin player, as she had broken the mood and scenery — possibly inciting annoyance or anger.

The young man in coarse robes paused, the music cut off abruptly. He looked up at Kong Sheng and the others with an expression unchanged—no anger, no disturbance. After a single glance, he lowered his head again, fingers flying over the strings, and began a new, brisk, melancholy tune.

Soon, the music conveyed a wave of loneliness, desolation, sorrow, despair, and heartbreak, like a mountain stream flowing through their hearts. Even Mu Changfeng, unfamiliar with music, could sense the player’s grief and sorrow.

Kong Sheng felt it deeply. This was likely a lament, a song of remembrance for a dearly loved one. The melody was unconventional, lacking intricate technique, instead pouring raw, unrestrained anguish through passionate fingerwork.