Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Fateful Encounter

Seeing the result of his own handiwork, Feng Xiaobao felt satisfied.

Years of patient cultivation had finally yielded abundant rewards. There was a knack to fighting: when outnumbered, the greatest danger lay in being drawn into prolonged or entangling combat. The enemy, many hands and feet to your mere two, could easily surround and overwhelm you if you allowed yourself to be tangled up with one, leaving you vulnerable to the rest. Prolonging the fight was equally hazardous; no matter how much stamina you had, your opponents could take turns resting and recovering their breath, while you would inevitably tire. Thus, when facing a crowd, the only way was swift and decisive action—aim for their vital points, strike like lightning, and never allow yourself to be bogged down.

Moreover, there were two kinds of fights: in one, where the enmity was not deep, the goal was merely to fell your opponents, rendering them unable to continue; today’s brawl was of this sort. In the other, a fight to the death, the objective was to cripple or kill, and such conflicts demanded different techniques and force. These secrets were reserved for the “inner disciples” of a martial school—the knowledge of where the human body was most vulnerable, how much force would result in what consequence. Ordinary students could not learn this, and those who did were forbidden to teach it to outsiders.

Thanks to coin and his own talent, Feng Xiaobao had become an inner disciple and learned these secrets. In his first real test, he displayed his prowess: the ruffians were scattered in all directions, but none were killed or crippled—only left moaning on the ground in pain.

After the fight, Feng Xiaobao did not leave. In a loud voice, he declared, “These swine and curs—I offered them kindness, yet they refused the wine of courtesy and chose the cup of penalty instead. Since that’s their wish, I’ll oblige. When the authorities arrive, please, everyone, bear witness for me!”

The commotion had drawn a crowd; some drifted away, but most stayed, shouting, “We’re willing to testify!” Ruffians were nothing to the people of the Tang capital—they took pride in standing as witnesses, upright and unafraid.

From the edge of the gathering, a clamor arose: the authorities were arriving. An official strode in, flanked by bailiffs. He was imposing in appearance, though his triangular eyes betrayed a cunning nature.

Cunning indeed—no sooner had he entered than he bellowed, “I am Liu Chengxun, City Magistrate of the North Market! How dare you brawl in the street, brazenly flouting the law! Seize them, and we’ll examine the details back at my office!”

So, he led with a heavy accusation and, shrewdly, refused to conduct the investigation on the spot. Once they were behind closed doors, he could do as he pleased.

But the capital’s citizens were no fools; they’d seen such tricks before. They jeered, mercilessly exposing his black dealings. The magistrate’s post was not high, and many in the crowd were no ordinary folks: some had officials for friends or relatives, some were retired officials themselves, and some were current officials.

Amid the tide of mockery, with Feng Xiaobao showing no intention of cooperating and the bailiffs hesitant to act, Liu Chengxun’s face burned with humiliation. Just as he was about to force his men to arrest Feng Xiaobao and Huang Shanbao, a middle-aged woman in yellow appeared before him.

She flashed something at Liu Chengxun—just enough for him to see—and he instantly recognized it, exclaiming in surprise. She spoke, “Magistrate Liu, my mistress has seen all that transpired—she’s up there.” She pointed to the second floor of the nearby Fragrant Yue Pavilion.

The Fragrant Yue Pavilion was a two-story restaurant famed for its lamb dishes. The upper windows were closed; her mistress remained unseen.

“So best not to make a scene and embarrass yourself further,” the woman advised.

“Yes, yes!” Liu Chengxun replied, his tone instantly deferential.

By now, the beaten ruffians had staggered to their feet and, after checking themselves, found no serious injuries. The woman in yellow turned to Feng Xiaobao, “You’ve punished them enough. Some are hurt—why not give them some money to tend their injuries?”

Feng Xiaobao, delighted at the suggestion, cheerfully handed over ten strings of copper coins to Wu Guangxin.

But one was willing to pay, the other unwilling to accept. Clutching his bleeding nose, Wu Guangxin protested angrily, “You think you can settle things with money? Never!”

If he accepted the money, it would be tantamount to admitting the matter was resolved—he’d lose all face should he seek revenge later.

No matter. The woman in yellow turned to Liu Chengxun, “Magistrate Liu, what do you say?”

A villain must be dealt with by another villain. Liu Chengxun, eager to be rid of the mess, barked, “Enough disgrace—take the money and be gone!”

Reluctantly, Wu Guangxin accepted the coins, his face twisted in misery, while Feng Xiaobao, the giver, was all smiles—a rare sight indeed.

The affair settled, the crowd began to disperse. Feng Xiaobao bowed in thanks to the woman in yellow. “Thank you for your just intervention, Sister. May I ask your mistress’s and your own surnames?”

She smiled demurely. “I am Chen Shiniang. As for my mistress—if you wish to thank her, now is not the time. You have much to pack up…”

It was a polite excuse; after performing and fighting, Feng Xiaobao was hardly fit to meet her distinguished mistress.

In a low voice, she said, “This afternoon, you may come to Green Willow Villa by the Yi River. Give your name, and you’ll be welcomed.”

“I will certainly call and pay my respects. My thanks to your mistress!” Feng Xiaobao bade her farewell and gathered his things.

On the way home, Huang Shanbao teased him, crowing about his rendezvous with a beauty. Feng Xiaobao spread his hands, “Who knows who it is? For all I know, some old man is waiting for me.”

He said this, but in truth, he was rather looking forward to the meeting. If it was an old man, at least he wouldn’t care about his sweaty state.

…

It was an early spring afternoon, the sun warm but not hot. Dressed in a short riding outfit, Feng Xiaobao rode towards Green Willow Villa—guided by directions from Old Luoyang.

At the heart of the estate was a small hill, around which pavilions and towers rose in elegant tiers. There were mountain gates, a main hall, and a rear hill, all built into the slopes, the design both graceful and unique. The estate covered over three hundred mu—compared to this, Feng Xiaobao’s own little manor was a mere village to a city.

The entrance inspired awe: a plaque read, “By Imperial Command: Green Willow Villa.” This was a royal estate.

Several sturdy servants stood guard, but they were not fierce, only quietly courteous—a reflection, perhaps, of a gentleman master, for as the master, so the servants.

He announced his name; the servants, already informed, welcomed him with respect. “Please, young sir, follow us.”

Feng Xiaobao entered and marveled at the scenery. The Yi River curled around the hill like a silver ribbon; green willows trailed their branches, swaying in the breeze. A silver dragon (bridge) arched across the water. There were blue bricks and white walls, golden halls, blossoms like embroidered brocade, groves of trees, winding paths, little bridges over flowing streams, long corridors, ponds, real and artificial hills, and buildings scattered artfully throughout. At every turn, a new vista—truly breathtaking!

This estate must be worth hundreds of thousands of strings of cash! Feng Xiaobao’s was worth perhaps ten thousand; this one was bigger and far more beautiful. There was simply no comparison.

…

At last, he met the mistress—a resplendent beauty!

A top-tier Tang dynasty beauty, mature as a ripe peach, luscious and inviting to the imagination.

Her features and figure bore the bold lines of the Hu people: large eyes, high nose, sharply defined contours, and a tall, robust form. Yet her skin was as delicate and smooth as any Han woman’s, glowing temptingly. The best of both worlds combined—her looks were truly exceptional.

“I am Princess Qianjin,” she said softly.

Well now! Feng Xiaobao was about to bow deeply in salutation.

As a subject of the Li Tang, he had to show due respect.

But Chen Shiniang stopped him. “No need for ceremony—this is no court, but a private home. Be at ease.”

“I am Feng Xiaobao,” he replied, imitating her informality, though inwardly a thousand wild horses thundered through his mind.

He had read in Tang histories that Princess Qianjin was the eighteenth of Emperor Gaozu Li Yuan’s nineteen daughters—the youngest, though only a few years younger than Empress Wu. Twice married, twice widowed. Despite her imperial birth, her mother’s low status meant she was never favored or well-treated. Unlike other princesses, she had shown kindness and admiration for Empress Wu from a young age, drawn to her as a protector in the absence of support from her own family.

She was shrewd—seeing Empress Wu’s potential, she became her close confidante. For a woman to count such a formidable figure as her friend, she could only be a Tang princess.

Historical records even mentioned that Princess Qianjin once encountered a man named Feng Xiaobao… And now, as Feng Xiaobao himself, he had met Princess Qianjin! Was this fate?

Was this real history?

Truth be told, Feng Xiaobao didn’t care much for noble ladies; if he wanted, there were several waiting to marry him. He had already distinguished himself; many aristocrats would gladly have him as a son-in-law (perhaps not their legitimate daughters, but there were plenty of hopes among the others).

But could they compare to Princess Qianjin?

Behind her stood a shortcut straight to Empress Wu!

His thoughts flashed like lightning as he bowed deeply to her. “Your Highness, I must thank you for this morning.”

“In fact, it is I who should thank you,” Princess Qianjin replied with a gentle smile.

Why thank me? Feng Xiaobao was puzzled—they’d had no prior dealings.

“Six-Ingredient Rehmannia Pill,” she explained.

She revealed that she had been unwell, and it was by taking this medicine that she recovered. Inadvertently, she owed Feng Xiaobao a debt of gratitude.

Indeed, a good remedy saves thousands and brings health to countless families—its virtue beyond measure!

“I was at the Fragrant Yue Pavilion for breakfast this morning,” Princess Qianjin continued. “I saw you performing and selling your medicine below. I asked and learned you were the owner of the Six-Ingredient Rehmannia Pill—so young, I was surprised!” (Enough—I’ll write plainly now, in the vernacular, no more affected speech.)

“It’s an ancestral recipe! Only by the blessing of my ancestors can I make such pills,” Feng Xiaobao replied, fabricating without missing a beat.

“I’ve heard you have a shop in the South Market, selling medicine. Your pills are quite extraordinary!” Princess Qianjin smiled. She was bold enough to say so; any proper maiden passing Feng Xiaobao’s shop would probably go out of her way to avoid him.

“Just trying to earn a living,” Feng Xiaobao said.

“It’s no ordinary rice you’re eating—a feast of rare delicacies!” Princess Qianjin remarked meaningfully. “Everyone says Boss Huang struck gold, making a golden rice bowl for the family.”

Oh, so she’s looked into me, Feng Xiaobao thought.

“Nah, just a humble earthen bowl,” he said, forced laughter in his voice.

“An earthen bowl!” Princess Qianjin was amused, her charm shining through, so alluring that Feng Xiaobao couldn’t help but swallow, his gaze burning.

“If you have such an earthen bowl, will you give one to me?” Princess Qianjin asked.

“Your Highness jests. You are a royal princess, used to golden and jade bowls. We commoners must make do with earthenware.”

“Every family has its own hard-to-read scripture. Sometimes, a golden or jade bowl isn’t as good as an earthen one,” Princess Qianjin said wistfully.

“Wise words, Your Highness!” Feng Xiaobao flattered her.