6 First Arrival at the Mountain Villa (3)

Mournful and ethereal, tender yet resolute, the notes chattered and intertwined, their long tones unceasing.

What exquisite skill on the guqin! — This was Jiang Xiaoman’s first reaction.

But soon, she perceived something unusual.

The music subtly carried fluctuations of spiritual energy, a particularly gentle and lingering aura. To ordinary ears, the difference might be imperceptible, but for the Jiang family, distinguishing between common tones and those imbued with spiritual energy was as easy as daily routine.

It was well known that the Cen family was a lineage of musicians in the Jiangnan region, with even their maids versed in melodies. Yet who, she wondered, could produce such divine music rivaling that of the immortal sects? Whoever it was, they surely possessed extraordinary spiritual energy.

Jiang Xiaoman resolved to investigate personally.

She gently pushed open the door. Moonlight poured in, casting a silver glow on the ground; the night air was fresh and tranquil. Yet beneath this stillness lay a trace of unease—she felt as if unseen eyes were watching her.

Alert, she scanned the shadows of ancient trees beyond the courtyard walls, the slight rustling within the grasses, and the wavering yellow shadows cast by lanterns hanging from the distant eaves…

She concealed a jade flute within her robes, leaving only half her head visible, ready to draw it at a moment’s notice.

By rights, her identity should remain undisclosed, and the demon beast would be unlikely to single her out. Moreover, even if the worst happened, she carried some earth-escape talismans in her pocket—enough to save her life.

Following the music, she left the guest room, exited the right courtyard through a small gate, crossed the rear corridor, and climbed a gentle hillock. Indeed, the Meixue Manor was vast—rumored to cover several hundred acres, enveloping the entire hilltop, with vast slopes stretching beyond, likely the back mountain.

Beneath the moonlight, the landscape was discernible: flourishing shrubs, dense wild grasses, and, deeper still, what appeared to be several burial mounds.

Earlier, Ling Sichen had mentioned that the back mountain, once a flourishing garden during the late Mr. Cen’s lifetime, had since fallen into neglect. Many slaves who had died of illness were buried deep within that area.

Who, then, would dare play the guqin in such a haunted place at midnight!?

*

Fortunately, just beyond the hillock was a thicket of low bamboo, surrounding a modest, neat courtyard. The music came from within this small enclosure.

The bamboo was dense but not tall, lushly encircling the courtyard. The simple gate was framed by a few bamboo stalks, decorated with some wild herbs. Hanging from the gateframe was a plaque, which Jiang Xiaoman made out in the moonlight, inscribed with the characters “Cuìwēi Yuàn”—“Jade Mist Garden.”

She recalled her father mentioning that after the demon hunt years ago, he and Old Mr. Cen had spent days drinking and celebrating right here in Jade Mist Garden. No doubt, years ago this half-acre courtyard had been lively indeed, but now, nestled deep in the forgotten back mountain, it seemed desolate and forlorn. Yet the lingering, spiritually charged music emanating from within only deepened her curiosity.

She peered from behind the half-open gate. At the courtyard’s center stood a stone table, atop which rested a seven-stringed Yaoqin. The outline was faint in the hazy night, blending simplicity with antiquity. Beside the table sat a graceful woman in a green dress, head bowed, her jade-like hands lightly plucking the strings.

The woman’s appearance was ethereal and refined, like an orchid in a secluded valley. Her black hair cascaded like a waterfall, silvered by the moonlight that draped her in a pale, diaphanous veil. She appeared about the same age as Jiang Xiaoman herself. Knowing that Cen Qiu was already in his thirties with children, this must be someone else.

Behind her stood a petite maid dressed in peach, eyes lowered, quietly listening.

The delicate, clear notes flowed like a mountain brook, winding through the courtyard and bamboo grove. The sound resembled wind stirring pine branches—soft and enduring. The woman’s demeanor was gentle and composed, her fingers effortlessly coaxing the strings, harmonizing seamlessly with the night.

Jiang Xiaoman was entranced, unconsciously stepping forward. Yet her foot crushed a dry leaf, producing a faint crackle.

The woman abruptly lifted her head, the music ceased.

The maid cried out in alarm, “Who’s there?!”

Jiang Xiaoman had no choice but to slowly step out from the shadows.

The woman’s eyes widened upon seeing her. Then, placing a slender, pale finger on the strings, she rose cautiously, scanning her from head to toe.

“Who… are you?!” she asked softly.

*

Jiang Xiaoman halted, lips pressed tight, unsure how to respond.

She and Ling Sichen had arrived late and had not met the manor’s master, so most within the estate were likely unaware of her presence—the mute medicine servant.

As the woman stood, Jiang Xiaoman clearly sensed the spiritual energy radiating from her.

One’s spiritual energy, like one’s pulse or acupoints, was innate—some were naturally thin, others abundant. Untrained, this energy served little purpose, and ordinary people could not contain it, thus it simply emanated freely. It was a pity that someone with such fine spiritual aura was not affiliated with an immortal sect.

The woman’s gaze was serene and still, patiently awaiting a reply. Yet the maid behind her appeared anxious, stepping forward to shield her mistress. “You’re not a thief, are you? Speak! How did you get in?”

“Tao Hong,” the woman said sharply, stopping her maid.

Seeing the maid’s tension, Jiang Xiaoman feared a sudden outcry and stammered, “I… the madam… is seriously ill…”

With no one else around, she conveyed her message as simply as possible.

Fortunately, the woman understood and smiled gently. “So you are the divine healer mother summoned tonight. I thought it would be an old man, but never expected such a young lady.”

She waved her hand, and Tao Hong obediently stepped back.

Jiang Xiaoman smiled awkwardly, deciding not to argue. After all, Ling Sichen had given her a medicine pouch to carry, and her plain attire did resemble a physician’s.

The young woman’s features were gentle, her voice clear and sweet as spring water. “My name is Cen Lan. You may call me A Lan.”

Jiang Xiaoman’s heart stirred—this was the second daughter of the Cen family.

It was said that while Cen Qiu was talented and beautiful, as a teacher she was strict, irritable, and often scolded apprentices. Her sister, Cen Lan, was kinder and more approachable—a reputation apparently well deserved.

Unexpectedly, the second Miss Meixue Manor bore spiritual energy far beyond ordinary people. If she were ten years younger, immortal sects would surely vie for her as a prized disciple. Especially with such guqin skill—how regrettable that someone of her talent had not joined the Jiang family’s cultivation path.

Jiang Xiaoman shyly replied, “Jiang Xiaoman.”

“Jiang…” Cen Lan blinked, “So you are the divine healer Jiang.”

“No, no,” Jiang Xiaoman hurriedly waved her hands, “Just Xiaoman is fine.”

Cen Lan smiled softly, then bent over the guqin again. Her fingers danced lightly, and the melodious notes leapt forth once more, spiritual energy surging with the music like a dried stream flowing again, or a withered tree sprouting new buds.

Amid the ethereal, dreamlike melody, Cen Lan’s clear voice added gently:

“Miss Xiaoman, can’t sleep either?”

Jiang Xiaoman, spellbound, only nodded.

Cen Lan smiled faintly. “This is where my father used to practice his guqin, surrounded by emerald bamboo to contain the sound. Fortunately, you can still hear it.”

Jiang Xiaoman smiled in return. Old Master Cen had chosen well; this elegant, secluded spot beneath the vast, quiet night sky was indeed ideal for playing.

Although her earlier journey felt desolate and eerie, here, bathed in this soft, spiritually charged music, fear vanished entirely.

Halfway through the piece, the music ceased.

Jiang Xiaoman lingered in the afterglow. “Beautiful.”

*

After a long silence, Cen Lan turned the tuning pegs and quietly said, “This piece was composed by my father. The prelude is lively, the main theme brisk, the melody shifts, and the ending is gentle. If you like, Miss Xiaoman, I can play it from the beginning.”

Jiang Xiaoman nodded eagerly.

She quickly seated herself on a nearby stone bench, closed her eyes, and listened quietly.

Her father had once said that hearing Mr. Cen’s “Fragrant Plum Falling Snow” was worth ten years of spring and autumn. Now, hearing it herself, it was as dreamlike and enchanting as the stories suggested—truly worth sneaking away to Yangzhou for.

Lost in the music, Jiang Xiaoman failed to notice Cen Lan quietly watching her, a complex emotion flickering in her eyes…

*

The night passed swiftly. Stars shifted across the sky; dawn’s pale light crept over the east.

Orioles hopped onto branches; clouds adorned the horizon.

This morning’s sky was crystal clear, the sun warm, clouds drifting lazily, and a gentle breeze stirring.

Jiang Xiaoman yawned as she opened the guest room door, immediately spotting Ling Sichen at the table, busy with a cluster of bottles and jars. His long sleeves, part of the special physician’s robe he’d donned, were rolled up and tied around his arms; a headband wrapped his forehead, revealing a bright brow.

The pungent scent of medicine instantly swept away her sleepiness.

“If you hadn’t returned soon, I’d have thought you had gone to confront the strange sound alone,” Ling Sichen remarked without looking up.

Jiang Xiaoman rolled her eyes inwardly—he certainly had high expectations of her. Yet she ignored his teasing, waving her hand to dispel the strong odor.

“What are you doing?” she asked, scrunching her face in displeasure.

“Preparing medicine for the madam,” he replied without looking up. “She must take it for three consecutive days, with varying doses daily. I’m mixing the medicinal base.”

Jiang Xiaoman pinched her nose, thinking: Don’t be a fake healer and ruin someone.

“Three days?” Her thoughts shifted rapidly. “So we only have three days?”

Ling Sichen said nothing, lifting a small flat jar, shaking it, opening the lid to sniff.

Jiang Xiaoman pressed on, “What if we fail to find the strange sound within three days? What then?”

Ling Sichen paused briefly, then met her gaze with serene calm.

“Then there is only one option left.”

He placed three small bottles on the table in a triangular formation, with the flat jade jar in the center. Gathering spiritual energy in his palm, his hand shimmered with red light. With a crisp snap, the jade jar shattered. Its liquid vaporized like morning mist while the residue slowly condensed into a golden pill.

Jiang Xiaoman’s heart jolted; she immediately understood.

This triangular formation and flickering red light were common in Three Realms tales.

“Red Cloud Sword Formation… You intend to destroy the entire manor?” she exclaimed, eyes wide.