Chapter Forty-Four: Buddhists, Daoists, Demons, and Devils (Part One)

Changle Quarter, Princess Taiping’s Residence.

The youngest daughter was like a thorn in Princess Taiping’s heart. Each time she saw her, she was reminded of her harmonious and loving consort, Xue Shao. And whenever she thought of Xue Shao, her mind inevitably returned to Quan Ce and the stratagem that had summoned lightning to strike Xue Shao dead.

No one believed Quan Ce possessed the powers of gods or spirits, capable of calling down thunder to execute Xue Shao, but she believed it. The memories were vivid and unrelenting. On the day Quan Ce arrived outside her residence, rain poured relentlessly from the heavens. Ever since learning that Xue Shao’s elder brother, Xue Yi, had been involved in Prince Langya Li Chong’s rebellion, Princess Taiping had known that this day would come—someone would arrive at her door to take her consort away.

She sent word to Quan Ce: let Xue Shao be spared humiliation and torture. It was an impossible request, but it was the last thing she could do for her husband. Whether it could be accomplished no longer mattered to her.

Yet Quan Ce succeeded. Xue Shao died by a bolt of lightning—her consort, graceful and upright as an orchid, was summoned back to the heavens. It was, perhaps, the best that could be hoped for.

Since then, she had begun to pay close attention to this nephew of hers—his repeated brushes with danger, every time emerging unscathed. Even the intricate trap the Plum Blossom Inner Guard set for his father, he unraveled with ease.

Li Sujie had become the banner her mother, the Empress, raised high. Quan Yi and Wang Xu moved with extreme caution, lying low, fearful of making any move. The ones he cared for had all been preserved. He’d gone to the Turks and returned a different man, unleashing carnage with abandon. Even the ferocity of the Turks paled before him, and they began calling him the Demon God. So, this nephew of hers was not without passion—he simply directed it all outward.

Now, her two good-for-nothing brothers, unashamed, had brought family matters into the court. With a casual flick, Quan Ce had toppled a high-ranking third-grade official, the Minister of Heavenly Affairs.

Why had he acted? How had he managed to strike so decisively?

“Princess, do you think Scholar Quan might be one of the Empress’s people?” Behind Princess Taiping stood a young woman of striking beauty, dressed in martial attire, her hair gathered into a high bun with a ponytail cascading down her back. She pondered the possibility, then quickly dismissed it. “No, no, that can’t be. Scholar Quan’s background... Besides, if he were one of the Empress’s, given his talents in both civil and military arts, he’d have long since been promoted.”

Princess Taiping frowned deeply. In the past, Quan Ce’s actions had always been predictable, motivated solely by self-preservation. Now, he was striking first—was it for the sake of one of her brothers? Or for her mother? The situation was shrouded in confusion, a tangled skein impossible to unravel.

“Yunü, what has Quan Ce been up to lately?”

“Scholar Quan’s beloved concubine has opened a pleasure house in Pingkang Quarter called ‘Valley of Forgetting.’ He has been hosting feasts there these past few days. There is a member of the Lu clan from Fanyang, Lu Zhaoyin, who often visits his residence to learn painting. This one is quite the character—first followed Scholar Quan to the Eastern Capital, then moved with him to Chang’an, entirely shameless.”

Princess Taiping let out a derisive laugh.

“Yiya—” The little girl awoke, babbling as she learned to speak, squirming restlessly in her wet-nurse’s arms, chubby arms outstretched in greeting to her mother.

Princess Taiping took her daughter, pausing slightly. “Quan Ce named the child Chichi?”

“Yes, Princess. Quan Yi has failed in his duties as a father, so Scholar Quan, as the elder brother, took it upon himself.”

Princess Taiping glanced at Yunü, dismissing her. Not long after, she summoned another woman dressed in martial attire, Xiangnu, and coldly ordered, “From now on, you’re responsible for keeping an eye on Quan Ce. For now, pass the word—send an invitation…”

Pingkang Quarter, Valley of Forgetting, Inner Chambers.

Fuqu lay draped in sheer muslin, a pink undergarment beneath, one fragrant shoulder revealed, her supple chest rising and falling. Propped on her elbow, she reclined on the couch, her eyes alluring, exuding a myriad of charms.

Quan Ce stood three meters away, an easel before him, charcoal in hand as he carefully sketched.

“Cruel-hearted master, are you done yet? I can’t take it anymore,” Fuqu said with a note of petulant reproach. Two long intervals had passed, and she had called out to him several times, exhausted, but Quan Ce ignored her, absorbed in his drawing, busily engrossed.

“Just a moment longer—don’t move,” Quan Ce soothed her, his gaze lingering on her with an odd intensity.

Though Fuqu complained, she obediently stayed still. What was comfortable at first soon became tinged with discomfort after holding the pose for so long.

“All done, come see,” Quan Ce announced, finishing his study of the human form, his breath slightly uneven. “Take a look while I wash my face.”

Fuqu, suspecting nothing, cheerfully approached the easel, but as soon as she saw the drawing, her cheeks flushed crimson. She snatched the paper, rolled it into a scroll, and held it tight against her chest, glancing furtively around as if she were a thief. It wasn’t that the drawing was poorly done—on the contrary, it was lifelike, her expression and grace captured perfectly. The only issue was that her clothes were nowhere to be seen on the page.

Moments later, Quan Ce returned, hands behind his back, smiling mischievously.

“Scoundrel!” Fuqu cried, pouting. She charged at him, pushing him aside, her robe fluttering as she spirited herself away.

Watching her depart, Quan Ce turned toward his study. This room had been arranged by Fuqu herself: elegant and fresh, decorated with thoughtful touches. The paperweight bore a simple sketch of the Buddha, exuding a sense of serene divinity. He idly toyed with it, when suddenly a hidden door in the wall slid open. Quan Zhong and Shazhashu entered together.

“Elder Master.” “Master.”

“Quan Zhong, you speak first,” Quan Ce said, his expression clouded. He had asked about Li Wei’s powerful connections, and without hesitation, Quan Zhong had named Deng Xuanting. There was surely a reason for this.

Quan Zhong remained kneeling. “Elder Master, Deng Xuanting is from Lantian County—a native of Chang’an, his family deeply rooted here, with eyes and ears all over the city. Many local toughs and petty criminals are under his sway. The ‘Stele Without Words’ was used to cover his tracks, relying on those very same rogues. There have been many conflicts on both sides. Also, he did have dealings with Li Wei. Thus, I…”

“What about his clerk? Is his confession true?” Quan Ce began to suspect it might have been a coincidence, but his cautious nature would not allow him to draw conclusions lightly.

“That clerk left from Lijing Gate and immediately shaved his head to become a monk,” Shazhashu replied. “Master, I followed him for several days. He doesn’t seem like a newly ordained monk. At the monastery, he lives alone, unlike an ordinary novice.”

“A monk?” Quan Ce’s nerves tightened as his gaze slid over the paperweight. He asked about Deng Xuanting’s family—they had not been implicated, and with Deng clan members present, they should not be suffering undue hardship.

“There is something quite strange about this,” Quan Zhong admitted, perplexed. “After Deng Xuanting was executed, Master Yijing from Famen Temple arrived with hundreds of disciples, performing rituals to help the family through the ordeal. He declared that the young master of the Deng family was a reincarnated Buddha-child, and assigned a novice monk to attend to him. The people found it bizarre, but it was considered a stroke of good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” Quan Ce sneered. He had nearly forgotten that in these times of chaos, there were still two great players at work. Sima Chengzhen of the Daoists had drawn him into their camp, never missing a chance to force him to take sides. The Buddhists were equally restless—taking advantage of circumstances to fashion him a golden image, so that in the shadows he appeared to belong to Empress Wu. If the Daoists worked through negotiation, the Buddhists acted with blunt force.

All of this stemmed from that one sentence of his: “What is the point of the Buddhist-Daoist dispute, when the truly virtuous have always shared the same heart?” The Daoists saw his fortune, the Buddhists claimed he possessed wisdom. Whenever the wind stirred, they would seize the chance to pull him into their schemes.

But through their maneuverings, dozens of Li clan scions had perished, their genealogies erased; Deng Xuanting died an innocent death. True sages may have one heart, but their followers were full of schemes.

“Master, master,” Fuqu stood at the door, calling softly. Quan Ce waved his hand, and Quan Zhong and Shazhashu quickly slipped away.

He composed himself and strode out. “What is it? Do you want me to paint you again?”

“Pah, pah!” Fuqu spat twice, then nestled at his side. “A burly fellow just arrived, claiming to be from Princess Taiping’s residence. He left this invitation and departed.”

Princess Taiping? Quan Ce’s brow furrowed slightly as he opened the note in Fuqu’s hand.

“Matters of gods and spirits have ever been inscrutable, yet their tales and legends endure, captivating the soul with their mystery. It is said your erudition is remarkable; surely you possess tales worth sharing. On the night of the Ghost Festival, the fifteenth of the seventh month, at midnight, you are invited to the palace. Withhold nothing.”