Chapter Eleven: Solo Performance

In truth, Ying Chen was quite surprised by all of this. Yet he was not one to shrink back in fear; now that he found himself in this place, he would simply observe as he proceeded, responding calmly to whatever might come.

As soon as Ying Chen took his seat, only Chen Chang remained standing, awkward and uncertain. Fortunately, someone in the hall spoke up, “Enough, Chen Chang, don’t just stand there—” Mid-sentence, he glanced at Yu Daojing and said, “Otherwise, if Senior Sister Chen finds out, she’ll think we neglected him and made him the butt of our jokes.” With that, he gestured to the seat beside him, inviting Chen Chang to sit.

Chen Chang seemed as though he had been granted a reprieve, murmured his thanks, and took his place at the end of the table across from Ying Chen. Ying Chen watched in silence, thoughtful. It appeared Chen Chang’s status was not so low in the eyes of Yu Daojing’s group; was it because of this “Senior Sister Chen” mentioned?

“Hey.” Just as Ying Chen was pondering, the almond-eyed senior sister waved her slender hand, drawing his attention. “You are Ying Chen, aren’t you?” Ying Chen, somewhat surprised, acknowledged, and she adopted a curious expression. “I heard you were only at the fourth stage of Qi Refining, but now that I see you, the rumors seem unfounded. Is it that you’ve been hiding your strength, or have you advanced rapidly?”

Ying Chen was an obscure figure among his peers; how could his name have reached these people? Clearly, they had asked after him. He moved his brows slightly, hiding nothing. “I spent some time in seclusion and was fortunate to make some progress.”

“Oh?” Her almond eyes sparkled with amusement. “Cultivators of the Path of Innate Truth do not believe in ‘luck.’”

Ying Chen laughed it off, and the senior sister took no offense. “Soon, the minor examination will be held. With your progress, you could easily earn top marks.” As she spoke, she picked up two wine cups from the table, handing one to Ying Chen with a smile. “May your reputation soar.”

Ying Chen accepted the cup. Wine had already been poured. He glanced at it and raised it, “Thank you for your kind words, Senior Sister.”

He drank; the wine ran like fire through his chest, spreading gentle spiritual energy. He immediately felt a slight intoxication.

“Excellent wine,” he could not help but remark.

The senior sister smiled slightly. “This is the Four Bones Brew, unique to our ‘White Bone Society.’ You won’t taste it outside.”

White Bone Society?

Ying Chen had never heard the name, but he knew that at Chishui Cliff, there were various societies—groups of familiar disciples banded together for mutual aid. In such an environment, ‘mutual aid’ seemed almost a joke, but if one spoke of aligning interests, joining forces, and seeking profit together, it made much more sense.

If Ying Chen’s guess was correct, the White Bone Society would be the organization led by Yu Daojing and these others. The senior sister seemed disinclined to elaborate, and Ying Chen wisely refrained from asking further.

Just then, the atmosphere in the hall suddenly grew lively, drawing many gazes. Ying Chen looked up and saw that beneath the bright moon overhead, two sword-dancing immortals descended, sparring with their blades.

Once these ‘immortals’ left the moon, their lifelike illusion weakened somewhat; their paper forms became obvious. Yet their movements did not become rigid—instead, they grew even swifter.

Paper figures floated and swords flashed; they traded blows with such finesse that it became remarkably entertaining.

Someone at the table laughed, “Ha, the same trick again.” Yet beneath the jest, there was genuine interest.

Ying Chen was even more astonished, for he could discern, amid the paper figures' duel, the very forms of swordsmanship practiced at Chishui Cliff.

He then heard the senior sister speak, “This is a common performance.” Ying Chen turned his head and saw her watching the duel as well, though her words were clearly meant for him. “They infuse their magic into the paper figures, letting them perform on stage. It demonstrates both the subtlety of magical control and personal skill.”

“Of course, it’s also amusing.”

She turned to him, smiling warmly. “You are new here, Junior Brother. Perhaps you could show us something?”

Ying Chen immediately sensed several gazes fall upon him again, familiar in their scrutiny and teasing.

“What is this?” he thought, narrowing his eyes. “A test, or an assessment?”

He considered, but the senior sister spoke lightly, “If it’s inconvenient, you needn’t force yourself.”

Ying Chen set aside his thoughts, smiled, and replied, “Why should it be inconvenient?”

Just then, the duel between the paper figures ended—one side victorious, the other defeated. Laughter and praise filled the hall, and some called out, asking if anyone else would entertain.

Ying Chen did not answer aloud. Instead, he tapped the table lightly with his fingertip.

From above the moon, a melody arose, the sound of a zither cascading like mountain streams. Soon, the sounds of other instruments—qin, sheng, pipa—joined in, as if opening a painted scroll, subduing some of the hall’s noise.

The senior sister’s eyes brightened, gazing up toward the moon, where indeed seven or eight paper immortals descended, each bearing an instrument.

It was Ying Chen who, through these paper figures, began to play music.

This performance surprised many; the White Bone Society’s gatherings had been held many times, yet few ever displayed such skill.

Firstly, few at Chishui Cliff were both cultivated and versed in music. Secondly, playing through paper figures was no easy feat.

Though the paper figures held instruments, there were no strings—how could they produce sound? One had to use vibrating magical force instead, and this piece was not played on a single instrument.

With so many instruments, each with its own timbre and musical scale—now the zither, then the sheng—coordinating them seamlessly demanded extraordinary magical control.

Ying Chen, playing through the paper figures, had not reached half the piece before many at the table changed their expressions.

The almond-eyed senior sister seemed unabashed in her admiration. As soon as Ying Chen finished, she exclaimed, “I never expected you to be so skilled in music, Junior Brother.”

Yet her words surprised Ying Chen—she seemed genuinely focused only on the music.

He hesitated, then answered, “I’ve studied a little.”

“Junior Brother, you are far too modest,” she replied. “Such accomplishment could not be gained without a natural gift, guidance from a master, and ten years of immersion.”

Ying Chen merely shook his head.

For one who had once lived in seclusion, music had indeed been a solace, a beloved pastime—but nothing more.

Receiving no response, the senior sister was not offended, still smiling. “I also love music, though my only skill is in playing the flute. If you ever have leisure, I could accompany you.”

Before Ying Chen could reply, someone at the table let out a laugh and whispered to a friend, “Of course Sister Qu loves music. She’s finally found a kindred spirit in this lower courtyard, and he’s a handsome junior with potential. She’s smitten, it seems.”