SES Chapter 204 Part 2

Luo Ren estimated that the Dipper would eventually rotate into its correct orientation—like the “handle pointing south” on their map—and that it would still take some time.

He asked Wan San and the others to help set up camp. They brought out a large double-compartment tent so people could rest as needed. They would be here for a full day and night—it was best to have a place to settle.

Considering the river would rise during the day, he chose higher ground nearby, testing the soil moisture before deciding. Wan San and Cao Yanhua assembled the poles, Yan Hongsha spread the groundsheet, and Mu Dai soon joined them, followed closely by Cao Jiefang—it refused to be left alone with the Taoist.

After anchoring stakes, tying guy lines, and laying moisture barriers, the tent finally stood firm.

They sat inside to rest and called for the Taoist, but he refused to move an inch, muttering about taking measurements.

Let him be.

The late night was cold. Luo Ren took out blankets and they huddled together. Someone yawned, and exhaustion spread through the group.

In the stillness of night, suppressed emotions tend to surface. Yan Hongsha murmured, “This is really nice right now. Who knows where we’ll all be in the future?”

Cao Yanhua remained optimistic. “Where else? Lijiang.”

She looked at him. “Wan San works at a bar—he can stay a year or two, but long-term? You too—don’t forget you ran to Lijiang from Chongqing to lie low. As for me, my hometown is Kunming; Lijiang is just a stop. And Luo Ren—who knows where he and Mu Dai will go after they get married?”

A sense of melancholy settled in. The name Fatebound Gatherings suddenly felt painfully apt—if fate allows people to meet, why must it also make them part?

A gust of wind chilled them. Yan Hongsha zipped the tent shut.

The small space quickly warmed, and drowsiness swelled.

Mu Dai nestled against Luo Ren, half-asleep, when the Taoist suddenly shouted, “Come out! Come out and look!”

He was jumping around outside. Mu Dai’s eyes snapped open—there was flowing light outside, like a projection.

She unzipped the tent and scrambled out, gasping at the sight.

Everyone emerged, speechless, staring upward in awe.

At the center of the Viewing Four Archways, light blazed—the Big Dipper had returned to its proper orientation, its handle pointing south. The brilliance was blinding. For a moment, Mu Dai truly wondered whether the stars themselves had been borrowed from the heavens.

The light pierced something unseen and cast rows upon rows of characters onto the surrounding fog—huge, solemn, trembling with the mist, as if alive.

They were names.

Five names per row.

Arranged in sequence, showing the evolution of Chinese script: seal script, clerical script, cursive, regular, running—ancient forms evolving from rough and rigid to smooth and fluid.

Mu Dai’s gaze locked onto the first name in the final row.

Meihua Yi Zhao.

—Master, why are you called Meihua Ninth Lady? Are you ninth in your family?
—No. From the founding generation of our sect, I am the ninth successor. Each inheritor carries the number forward and adds their own name—or, if lazy like me, just Meihua Ninth Lady.
—Then who was the founder?
—Meihua Yi Zhao. Back in the Ming dynasty.

It was said that the founder, Meihua Yi Zhao, possessed extraordinary skills. Yet in his spare time, he pushed a handcart through the streets selling flowers—changing with the seasons. Spring brought narcissus and camellias; summer, lilies and hibiscus; autumn, chrysanthemums and osmanthus.

And in winter—

Only plum blossoms. Always plum blossoms.

He never shouted to sell his flowers, and no matter the season, if asked for a recommendation, he always suggested plum blossoms.

Imagine him under the blazing summer sun, fanning himself, saying, “Plum blossoms are good. If you’re planting, plant plums. When winter comes, I’ll bring you a few branches…”

Mu Dai whispered, “Leopard.”

Luo Ren thought he misheard. “What?”

“You once told me how Leopard’s ancestors were captured—and how they escaped from beneath the ancestral hall and fled south.”

Yes. Leopard’s ancestors lived in that stone-bridge town. One year, seven people drowned in the town’s pond. Soon after, four or five outsiders arrived—

“Speaking with northern accents, posing as flower peddlers,” according to Wan Fenghuo’s investigation.

Mu Dai raised a trembling finger toward the countless names.

“These are all the people who subdued murderous slips over the generations. The last time—the one who led them—was the first of my lineage.”

“Meihua Yi Zhao.”