Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Reawakening of the Hall of Sacrifice

In the early morning, the residents of Sanjiang County were all brimming with energy. Today was an important day—the ancestral hall, whose incense had been cut off, would once again be rekindled. The people of Sanjiang County were known for their warmth and devotion; to them, the deities and ancestors they venerated had protected their lineage for generations.

Now, the reopening of the ancestral hall, closed for so long, carried profound significance. They dared not delay. At dawn, Jiang Pingchuan joined Zhou Fu, Madam Zhou, and Xiao Wu, each carrying offerings as they hurried toward the ancestral hall.

The hall was situated in a remote part of Sanjiang County, long untended and overgrown with weeds. Jiang Pingchuan did not approach too closely. For one, he did not wish to entangle himself with the karmic ties there; for another, in the Maoshan tradition, they worshipped the Dao, not deities. So he chose to stand quietly at a distance, watching.

Magistrate Gao, accompanied by Gao Yao and Mamian, stood at the entrance of the ancestral hall. A grand incense table was set there, upon which lay a whole roasted pig and a variety of offerings. Perhaps, after so many years without worship, their ancestors must have been famished—this lavish spread was also their way of expressing contrition.

“Fellow villagers,” Magistrate Gao intoned deeply, “today we reopen the ancestral hall, hoping for the protection of our ancestors. For years, we neglected this place, angering our forebears and inviting misfortune. Today, with regret in our hearts, we come to beseech their forgiveness.”

The people of Sanjiang County raised their heads, gazing devoutly at the hall’s doors, newly painted in vermilion just yesterday. Two bronze lion-head handles gleamed; it was said a new caretaker had been appointed—the Old Scholar, who had spent his life immersed in the classics and believing not in gods or spirits.

Yet now, he had volunteered to become the first caretaker after the reopening. The magistrate did not refuse him. This morning, the Old Scholar looked particularly spirited, dressed in a new azure robe tailored for the occasion, wielding a broom, and arriving early to sweep the hall. One could see his sincerity in wanting to guard this place, though his true reasons remained unknown.

After Magistrate Gao finished reciting a complex passage in Sanskrit, two strapping young men stepped forward, placed their hands on the bronze lions, and slowly pushed open the doors.

At the moment the doors opened, Jiang Pingchuan glanced inside from the crowd. When his eyes fell upon the foremost stone statue in the hall, he felt as though struck by lightning.

That statue was so familiar—standing quietly at the center, its austerity softened by benevolence, unchanged in the slightest. It was a likeness of his Grandmaster, Hongwu. Yet after what had transpired with the elder in the white void, Jiang Pingchuan now thought perhaps this statue was merely an incarnation of that celestial being, with little true connection to his Grandmaster—perhaps only a resemblance. With this thought, his heart gradually calmed.

He turned to leave, but suddenly noticed the statue’s eyes shift ever so slightly. An inanimate object—how could the eyes move?

Jiang Pingchuan halted and looked intently at the statue. What he saw was a living person, not a mere carving. Was this an illusion cast by the ancestral hall? He pondered this as he scrutinized the old man standing at the doorway.

"Well, boy, you've been staring for quite a while and still say nothing—have you forgotten your old master?" The elder beamed at Jiang Pingchuan and finally spoke. The sound of his voice stunned Jiang Pingchuan—this was indeed his Grandmaster, Hongwu.

But how had Grandmaster come to be here, and become one of the deities worshipped in Sanjiang Town? And how could he appear here, safe and sound? What of the other members of Maoshan? Were they well? Thousands of questions surged in Jiang Pingchuan's heart, yet he could only gaze at Hongwu, speechless.

"I know what you wish to ask. Maoshan is gone. This is merely one manifestation of me as a deity. At the final moment, I sent my will through the myriad realms to this place, waiting for you to arrive," Hongwu replied, sorrow shadowing his face, speaking with his usual, unhurried air of mystery.

"Will I ever return?" Jiang Pingchuan choked out. Since arriving in Changfeng Continent, he found himself near tears with disturbing frequency—a far cry from the days in Yuanwu Continent, when he had only made others weep, never himself.

"Whether you return or not is unimportant. What matters is that you live well. You are the hope of Maoshan. The Maoshan arts must not vanish from this world," Hongwu said sternly. Hearing this, Jiang Pingchuan looked into his Grandmaster's eyes and knew he did not wish to see him cry. Sniffling, Jiang Pingchuan simply grunted in reply—though what he meant, he could not say. It was a response, of sorts.

"I will cultivate diligently. I will never let the Maoshan arts perish. Rest assured, Grandmaster," Jiang Pingchuan declared resolutely, echoing what Maoqiu had once told him within the space of Hongwu’s true qi.

Hongwu had sent him out as the seed, the hope, of Maoshan. If he were to falter or disappear, so too would the last vestige of Maoshan fade.

"Pingchuan, the road ahead is yours alone, but do not be discouraged. Your brother Yulong is still missing. I believe it likely he encountered a great opportunity and has already left the forbidden grounds behind," Hongwu said with a kindly smile. Even as a mere fragment of will, even with Maoshan gone, he did not wish to burden Jiang Pingchuan with undue pressure.

In his eyes, Jiang Pingchuan would always be the child who never grew up, although fate had forced this weight upon him far too soon.

"My brother—he might still be alive? Grandmaster, do you know, my parents might also be alive," Jiang Pingchuan said, hope surging as he heard his brother Jiang Yulong might live. He yearned for this to be true, not just a comfort offered by Hongwu. If his brother had truly found great fortune in the forbidden grounds, then beyond those he had always searched for, he now had a brother to find as well.

"As long as they're alive, there is hope of reunion," Hongwu's will began to waver, and as it did, Jiang Pingchuan's expression grew tense. He knew his Grandmaster's will was about to dissipate.

"Grandmaster, I am married now," Jiang Pingchuan blurted out. At once Hongwu's expression changed, and Jiang Pingchuan realized he'd misspoken, but before he could explain, Hongwu burst out laughing. Smiling, he nodded gently before slowly fading from Jiang Pingchuan's sight.

Jiang Pingchuan gazed at the now-empty entrance to the ancestral hall, where not even a trace of Hongwu's will remained. Still, he dared not rub his eyes, fearing that any movement would make Hongwu disappear for good. Before him, the two young men had fully opened the great doors of the hall.

Inside, four statues stood in silent vigil. Hongwu occupied the place of honor; behind him were three others. Two, Jiang Pingchuan recognized—Qian Yuhua and Old Yu. The last was a veiled woman, her features carved indistinctly. Perhaps those who sculpted her had never clearly seen her face, or perhaps, in their hearts, this mysterious woman was as ephemeral as the statue itself.

Jiang Pingchuan watched as Magistrate Gao and his men carried the incense burner into the hall. All the people of Sanjiang County began filing in, each holding incense, which they placed at the altar before bowing three times to each statue, praying for their protection.

Jiang Pingchuan wondered how his Grandmaster could possibly protect these worshippers now—Grandmaster was gone, Qian Yuhua was gone, Old Yu, though alive, had little power left to shield anyone. Only the mysterious veiled woman remained an enigma. A single glance at her statue left a deep imprint in Jiang Pingchuan's mind.

When everyone had finished their worship and departed with Magistrate Gao, the Old Scholar remained, methodically sweeping the hall, though it was spotless to begin with.

Jiang Pingchuan stepped into the ancestral hall, watching the Old Scholar’s back. In that moment, the silhouette was oddly unfamiliar—not at all like the Old Scholar he knew. Jiang Pingchuan stood silently behind him, observing his every move.

"What are you sweeping?" Jiang Pingchuan asked, puzzled.

"The dust of the world," the Old Scholar replied, without turning.

Jiang Pingchuan offered a slight bow, then left. Since the Old Scholar did not wish his true identity known, there was no reason for him to linger.