Chapter 1

A New Visitor to the Nine Provinces 

The Return of the Luo Goddess: The Suzhao Ode 

Written by Junzi Yize 

“The willows sway to the east by the tower, the serene maiden of Luoshui plays her zither. 

Wild geese drop pearls into the vast ocean, the five heroes of Suzhao are all dashing. 

Cloaked in stars with sleeves full of blossoms, one can savor all the wines of Moonlit City in a day. 

Old friends depart for lands over ten thousand miles away, while new visitors arrive to journey through the Nine Provinces.” 

—West Ravine’s “Suzhao Ode” 

This poem was written by the late king, depicting the flourishing splendor of our great Suzhao following the reform of the Wild Geese Edict. 

The Suzhao Ode has been passed down to this day. From lords and ministers to commoners, everyone knows it by heart. In our great Suzhao, situated in a land of supreme immortality, all citizens are brimming with spiritual energy and gifted with eloquence. Even a five-year-old child can recite it backward with ease. 

Yet, in the profound study hall, this new child seemed to have come to wreck the Master’s podium. 

Look at him—his gaze brimming with brilliance, his voice clear and fragrant like orchids. His delicate, soft appearance is more graceful than that of a maiden, and his fair, glowing skin carries an allure surpassing even the legendary mystical fox spirits of the Nether Mountain. 

It’s one thing to look this way, but he insists on standing upright, exuding an air of dignified seriousness. Who knows what he’s trying to prove? 

At this moment, the Master rolled his eyes in disbelief at what he had just heard. “You don’t know the Suzhao Ode?” 

The boy replied, “I am ashamed, Sir.” 

The Master placed one hand behind his back, and with his other hand, bony like a pair of chopsticks, twirled two strands of his whisker-like beard. “Say that again—what is your name?” 

“Fu Chenzhi.” 

“Fu Chenzhi? Your parents are not of the Suzhao lineage?” 

The other students might not have caught the subtleties of this exchange, but I clearly heard the key point in the Master’s words. 

Fu Chenzhi was obviously not of the Suzhao lineage. Anyone could tell because his hair was black. 

You see, the pure-blooded Suzhao lineage is distinguished by their deep azure hair color, which lightens with age and eventually turns moon-white. Those with exceptional power and seniority may even achieve pure white hair. 

Thus, from the moment he entered the profound study hall, everyone looked at him in astonishment. After all, the students permitted to study here, even if not of royal blood, must at least have some connection to one of the Prime Ministers, Three Marquises, or Six Ministers. In all my years of studying within the ten-mile radius of the Ten Thousand Scrolls Hall, I had never seen a single foreigner. 

The Master’s true curiosity, however, seemed directed at the “Fu” surname. 

Since the founding of Suzhao by the divine lord, our Suzhao lineage has worshipped the immortals and gods. Like them, we do not bear surnames. Those with surnames are either humans, demons, or ghosts. While Suzhao lineage members have only encountered humans and demons in person, countless myths and records affirm the existence of other races. 

And what significance does black hair hold? When we first began our studies, the Master once said, “Black hair is mortal hair. Mortals are humans or demons.” His repeated emphasis on the surname now was likely an attempt to discern whether Fu Chenzhi was a demon or a human. 

Fu Chenzhi replied, “I lost my parents at a young age and was adopted by a Taoist of the Fu clan from the Nine Provinces. Thus, I was raised in the Nine Provinces.” 

The Nine Provinces—the vast lands of the mortal realm, now the domain of the Han Dynasty. 

Well then! Fu Chenzhi turned out to be a mortal! 

A mortal entering the royal study hall of our great Suzhao was certainly no trivial matter. Upon hearing this, we children were dumbfounded, and even the Master’s eyes widened in astonishment. 

However, the Master, whose father had been a former Marquis of the Military Command, was a man of profound strategy and insight, having been immersed in military texts from a young age. After his momentary shock, his sharp eyes quickly shifted with thought. “I saw the High Priest personally escort you here. Recently, he descended to the mortal realm on a pilgrimage. Were you discovered by him?” 

“Something like that…” Fu Chenzhi seemed to leave something unsaid. 

“What do you mean by ‘something like that’?” 

“It was the Court Gentleman of Rituals who discovered me.” 

The Court Gentleman of Rituals? What sort of position is that? 

I listen to my father and mother discuss governance every day, yet I’ve never heard of this title. Is it a post in the Ministry of Records or the Ministry of Rites? Whatever the case, judging by the Master’s raised brows, I can safely guess it’s a minor official. The High Priest is often accompanied by a retinue of followers, and it seems highly likely that the Court Gentleman of Rituals was among them.

 At that moment, the Master glanced around the profound study hall and said with difficulty, “Chenzhi, there’s no empty seat here. I’m afraid you’ll have to stand through today’s lesson.” 

Just as Fu Chenzhi was about to comply, I patted the empty spot next to me. “Who says there’s no seat? There’s clearly one right here.” 

The Master looked troubled. “This… Little Princess, I fear I cannot explain this to His Majesty…” 

“It’s fine. Just for today.” I beckoned to Fu Chenzhi with a curled finger. “You, come sit here.” 

Since I’ve always been a tyrant in the profound study hall, the Master didn’t bother arguing with me further. He simply held his forehead and shook his head, then opened his book and began the lesson. Fu Chenzhi was startled at first, then smiled faintly and sat down beside me. 

I propped my chin on my hand and stared at him for a moment, realizing he truly didn’t look like a mortal. 

The people we see most frequently in Suzhao are either the Xuanzhou people from Mount Daxuan, who are dark-skinned all over, or the Chijing people from the Kingdom of Dayou, whose skin is red from the knees down. These people tend to have rugged features and straightforward dispositions. Their names, following the belief that “humble names ensure longevity,” are anything but poetic. 

But this kid, Fu Chenzhi, not only had an elegant and unique name, but he also looked astonishingly good. In Suzhao, girls tie their hair while boys leave theirs loose, and Fu Chenzhi was no exception. His shiny black hair draped over his shoulders, with only a ribbon tying it at the back of his head. Against his lotus-petal-like pale face, he looked exceptionally delicate. 

Sensing my gaze, he turned to glance at me, a bit shy. “Please, guide me.” 

“Do all Han people look like you?” I murmured. 

“My appearance?” 

“You’re as soft and tender as a steamed bun.” I chuckled. “Are you happy? You’re cuter than all the girls of the Suzhao lineage combined.” 

Hearing this, his bun-like cheeks actually turned pink. However, he frowned slightly and replied seriously, “That’s not a compliment. I’m not pale, and Han people aren’t pale either.” 

“You’re lying. You must look so unlike the Han people that they abandoned you. That’s why the Court Gentleman of Rituals and the High Priest mistook you for one of the Suzhao lineage and brought you here.” 

“Actually, the reason I was brought here is because…” 

Before he could finish, the Master cleared his throat and shot several icy glares our way. We had no choice but to stop talking. 

I placed the book in the center of the desk so Fu Chenzhi and I could read it together. 

Lately, we’d been studying the essays of Beixiang, the leader of Suzhao’s Five Great Heroes. I’ve always found poetry tolerable, but essays utterly dull. Just looking at those dense paragraphs is enough to make me yawn a hundred times. 

To my surprise, Fu Chenzhi seemed utterly engrossed. No matter where the Master went, his eyes followed closely. 

As expected, reading lessons can’t compare to the excitement of the Taoist arts class. 

In the Taoist arts class, we spend 80% of the time practicing spells. As a citizen of Suzhao, even going a single cup of tea’s time without playing with water makes my skin itch. Looking at the kettle on the desk in front of me, I’m always tempted to pour the water out and freeze it into sparkling ice shards, like a celestial maiden scattering blossoms. 

But all Suzhao schools have a strict rule: no spells are allowed during class unless permitted by the Master. Breaking this rule would mean copying Beixiang’s melancholy Collection of Parted Cranes a hundred times as punishment. 

Recalling the many painful lessons of the past, I suppressed the spiritual energy bubbling within me and slumped over the desk, staring blankly into space. 

Just as I was about to drift off, the Master finally stopped his endless lecture and began pacing the study hall with his hands behind his back. Finally, we reached the most interesting part of the lesson: copying famous lines from essays. 

Let me explain—punishment through copying is a painful experience, but when done voluntarily, it’s a different story. Why? Because… 

The fun part is when all the students simultaneously open the lids of their desk kettles. Then, focusing their energy, they point at the kettle. Streams of water shoot upward in columns, flowing to the inkstone and wrapping around the ink stick, spinning it. In moments, ink drips into the inkstone, ready for writing. 

Now it was my turn to shine! 

This sole opportunity to use spells—I had to make it spectacular. 

I rolled up my sleeves to my elbows, rubbed my hands together, and was ready to unleash a magnificent torrent. But just then, Fu Chenzhi also rolled up his sleeves. Instead of summoning the water, he poured a small amount from the kettle into the inkstone. Then, he picked up the ink stick and began grinding it by hand, slowly and methodically… 

Witnessing this, every single student was dumbstruck.