Chapter 82 Seeking Shelter from the Snow at Wu Pavilion (1)

No one could have foreseen that just as Kong Sheng and his three companions settled into the abandoned temple, clouds would gather and winds would rise, shrouding the whole of Jiangnan in a thick, oppressive gloom. From the Hour of the Tiger, heavy snowflakes began to drift down, blanketing the land with a relentless flurry.

It was the first snowfall Jiangnan had seen since winter began, and the first since the fifteenth year of the Tianbao era was renamed Zhide. In recent years, such heavy snow had been a stranger to the south; when dawn broke, the snow pressed against doors, blocked roads, and buried the fields, catching many unprepared.

The temperature plummeted with alarming speed. Though the snow still fell, it was clear the cold would deepen further once the storm passed. Unlike the bitter dry chill of the north, Jiangnan’s people were accustomed to gentle winds, warm sunshine, and misty veils. Now, suddenly thrust into an icy world where even an outstretched hand was numbed by the cold, they struggled to adjust.

Kong Sheng had hoped to wait out the snow before resuming their journey. But the storm, heedless and unending, continued to thicken, until heaven and earth became a boundless expanse of white, the official road to Runzhou lost beneath the drifts.

Restless and uneasy with pressing matters on his mind, Kong Sheng knew they could not linger long. Four men could not sleep in the wild. The temple, drafty and exposed, sufficed for a night’s shelter but would be unbearable for longer. Left with no choice, they braved the storm. Trudging through knee-deep snow, they only managed to cross into the borders of Runzhou by the afternoon.

The snow still whirled about them; travelers on the road were as scarce as stars at dawn. As the majestic city of Runzhou loomed ahead, Mu Changfeng shook the heavy snow from his cloak and rubbed his stiff hands, calling out, “Master, Runzhou is just ahead. There’s a pavilion over there—let’s rest for a while. We can enter the city once the snow stops.”

Kong Sheng let the snow melt on his cheeks and brow, turning to water as it slid down. He gazed toward the ancient city’s outline, then glanced at the hexagonal pavilion to the left, where three travelers had already taken refuge. After a moment’s thought, he nodded. “Very well. We’ll wait out the snow, then enter the city.”

The four pressed forward, leading their horses step by step through the deep drifts toward the shelter. Beside the pavilion stood a grand, luxurious carriage, its roof thick with icicles and snow, a clear sign that its owner had tarried there for some time.

A manservant, proud and haughty in his tight-fitting attire, stood at the edge of the pavilion, horsewhip in hand, his stance wide and arrogant. On a stone bench within sat a youth in splendid robes. Behind him, a delicate-featured maid carefully set a brazier at his feet. The scene was unmistakably that of a young master from a wealthy family, forced to halt his journey by the snow.

Though only pausing for shelter, the comforts due to such a master were not forgotten: the brazier, the warming pouches, a teapot in an insulated cover, several exquisite pastries, and even two or three bright red fruits whose names Kong Sheng did not know—all vivid against the snowy backdrop.

Though material comforts of this age lagged far behind those of modern times, the privileges of the wealthy were no less extravagant. The saying that “behind vermilion gates, meat and wine go to waste while bones freeze in the street” was no mere empty phrase.

As Kong Sheng led his horse through the snow, he looked up at the pavilion’s plaque, half-obscured by drifts. The words “Xiangwu Pavilion” glimmered faintly in ancient gold script. His heart stirred—was this the famous Xiangwu Pavilion of Runzhou, celebrated in Du Mu’s poetry?

Yet the pavilion was so small, standing solitary by the desolate official road, that Kong Sheng found it hard to imagine the raucous gatherings of Jiangnan’s literati, calling friends to compose verses beneath its eaves.

The pavilion was cramped, already occupied by the young master, his maid, and servant. With Kong Sheng’s group, it would be crowded indeed. But as the shelter was not private property, Kong Sheng gave it little thought and led his group forward. He was about to tie their horses outside when the servant snapped his whip and said coldly, “The pavilion is too small—there’s no room for so many. My young master is here; you’ll have to find shelter elsewhere.”

Kong Sheng frowned but said nothing. Mu Changfeng, behind him, bristled, “Is this pavilion your private property?”

The servant snorted. “Of course not.”

“In that case, why should you stay while we cannot? There’s not a single other shelter before the city—the snow is heavy, so where do you suggest we go?” Mu Changfeng, a man of the martial world, had little patience for the arrogance of wealthy households oppressing the common folk.

“Insolence!” the servant roared. “How dare you be so rude before my young master!”

“Insolence? Rude?” Mu Changfeng pointed to his own cheek, curling his lips in derision.

Seeing the servant about to resort to violence, his insults growing more outrageous, Mu Changfeng’s anger flared. With a ringing sound, he drew his sword in a flash, the blade darting like a dragon toward the servant’s throat. “Out of the way!” he commanded coldly.

Given Mu Changfeng’s nature, had the servant not moved, he might truly have struck him down.

Kong Sheng frowned, about to urge restraint—this was unfamiliar territory, and there was no need to make trouble over mere shelter. But at that moment, a flash of swordlight shot from behind the servant. A sharp clash rang out as Mu Changfeng’s blade was knocked aside by a delicate short sword. The servant’s face went pale as he staggered back, and the young master, smiling, stepped between them with the sword gleaming coldly in his hand.

Mu Changfeng’s eyes narrowed in caution. The young master’s speed and strength were anything but ordinary; he was clearly a skilled swordsman. Using the etiquette of the martial world, Mu Changfeng bowed slightly and said, “I am Mu Changfeng. May I ask your name?”

The youth smiled faintly but did not answer in kind. His voice was light and clear, tinged with a northern accent, not the soft cadence of Jiangnan. “Who I am is of no importance, nor am I concerned with your name. My servant was indeed rude, but was it not excessive for you to draw your sword so readily?”

Mu Changfeng was left speechless, coughing awkwardly and stepping back.

Kong Sheng studied the youth—tall and slender, almost frail, with pale skin, arched brows like crescent moons, and finely chiseled features. His beauty was striking and his bearing noble, though there was a faint air of delicacy, a lack of masculine vigor.

Hearing his voice, sharp and lilting, with a northern nasal tone rather than the soft dialect of Jiangnan, Kong Sheng guessed he was most likely a woman disguised as a man. Yet judging by her aura and comportment, she was no ordinary outsider, but someone of significant background.