Chapter Sixty-three: Gathering Together

As Mo Bai and his companions stepped into the vast Sea Breeze Pavilion, a sudden sound of zither music washed over them. There was a grandeur in the melody, yet it was graceful, suffused with an air of solemnity. It made one wonder who could produce such unforgettable music.

With the music rising, the crowd's attention shifted from Gan Yu and Nalan Xin’er, the two beauties, to the source of the sound. “It’s him! Who would’ve thought the Lingjue Arena could attract such a figure? This contest is destined to be extraordinary,” someone remarked, recognizing the performer.

Mo Bai looked up, following the murmurs. On a platform on the second floor, a man in his thirties, clad in golden robes, was playing the zither with sweeping confidence. His demeanor suggested that, in his eyes, there was only his music. All the spirit cultivators seemed to fade away; he stood solitary, proud above all. Yet, eight young maidens stood beside him, some holding parasols, some carrying flowers. Though their poses varied, each was a beauty rare beyond compare. Who could be so flamboyant?

“Brother Mo, who is he?” Nalan Xin’er had already decided to change how she addressed him. Because Wu Luohua’s heart had been claimed, a fact that pained the little witch, yet it unwittingly helped her, and she seemed to have found the one she should choose.

Mo Bai paused, then, seeing Wu Luohua lingering by Gan Yu’s side like a persistent dog, smiled wryly. “Linglong Continent is filled with strange and remarkable people—thousands at the very least. How could I possibly know them all?”

Wu Luohua flicked his folding fan, smiling smugly. “Brother Mo, you may not know him, but I do know his origins.”

Gan Yu turned her enchanting gaze toward Wu Luohua. Xiao Hua, seemingly encouraged, said, “Look at his left hand—do you notice anything unusual?”

At her prompting, Mo Bai and the others looked closer. The hand plucking the strings had only four fingers. Nalan Xin’er exclaimed, “How does he have only four fingers?”

Mo Bai explained, “Though Linglong Continent appears peaceful, it is still a world of men. Wherever there are people, there is strife. For a spirit cultivator to lack a finger is nothing unusual.”

Wu Luohua interjected, “Not quite, Xin’er—look at his right hand.”

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“Ah! His right hand also has only four fingers!” Nalan Xin’er cried out in surprise.

“That’s right. He was born missing a finger on each hand—an impairment, yet he remained undaunted, mastering the nine-string zither, which even ordinary people cannot easily play. His will is truly remarkable,” Wu Luohua continued confidently.

Mo Bai furrowed his brows, as if recalling an extraordinary figure, one worthy of being named alongside Li the Divine Blade, the Cold Monk, Mr. Zhang, and the Mistress of Pen and Cave—a recluse of legendary status.

With the final strum, the stirring zither song came to an end. The audience was so shaken by the melody that, for a moment, they forgot what they were meant to do.

“The Four-Fingered Zither Emperor is indeed a master of music. My respects to you,” suddenly came a crisp, sweet voice. The words pierced the air, snapping everyone’s attention to the speaker—a woman in red stepped out from a corner of the second floor.

She was in her early thirties, yet her beauty did not pale beside the young maidens of twenty or so. She carried the aura of maturity. Yet the crowd was less interested in her appearance than in the bamboo flute she held. Was she about to challenge the zither master in music?

The Four-Fingered Zither Emperor rose slowly. A maid carefully collected his ancient zither. With a graceful leap, he floated across to the opposite side of the second floor, landing without a hint of wobble—a testament to his mastery of spirit movement.

“Miss, your flute is quite the antique. I have some knowledge of flutes myself. Would you allow me to take a look?” The Zither Emperor’s surname was Ping, his given name Yi Chen.

The lady in red smiled softly and handed the flute to him without reservation. As Ping Yi Chen reached for it, a sudden disturbance erupted—a blue shadow flew out from the first floor like a wild goose through the woods, and a flash of white light shot directly at the Zither Emperor. The crowd heard a sharp voice: “Hmph! Shameless villain, how dare you snatch my elder sister’s Yi Qing flute!”

Ping Yi Chen was about to accept the flute when he sensed a surge of murderous intent. He heard the accusation and shook his head inwardly, knowing it was a misunderstanding. Yet the spirit energy sword was formidable; he retreated two steps, flicked his left index finger, and a burst of spirit energy collided with the sword light. With a clang, the sword energy struck a nearby table, shattering it to pieces.

Ping Yi Chen spun elegantly, then smiled at the newcomer—a girl of sixteen or seventeen, whose power was surprising for her age. She must be a scion of a prominent family or have received guidance from a master. “Little girl, I believe you’re mistaken,” Ping Yi Chen said gently.

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“Hmph! Nonsense. The Yi Qing flute is my elder sister’s dearest possession. How could she casually hand it to you? You must be trying to take it by force!” The little girl was fierce, drawing her sword to shield her sister, the lady in red. The latter could only shake her head in resignation.

“Haha!” Ping Yi Chen laughed heartily. “You truly are adorable, little one. From your bold action, it’s clear your elder sister is no ordinary person. How could I possibly snatch her cherished item so easily?”

The girl paused, realizing she had nothing to say. She turned to the lady in red for help, “Elder sister?”

The lady in red smiled gently, “Little sister, don’t cause a scene. Mr. Ping is simply a fellow musician who wished to examine my flute. You didn’t see the beginning. Wait, weren’t you with your seventh sister? Where’s that snow girl?”

“Heh, this little one really is childish—drawing her sword before knowing the whole story. Fortunately, the zither player had some skill, else trouble would’ve ensued,” remarked Nalan Xin’er from below, enjoying the spectacle. Her words, “little one,” carried a certain flavor, though perhaps she herself was no older than the girl.

“Who are you calling childish? Courting death!” Suddenly, a voice cold as ice rang out, its tone almost enough to freeze a soul.

Mo Bai’s heart gave a sudden jolt. He slowly turned around and saw the face of the woman behind the voice.

PS: The new book period is over, no recommendations—how embarrassing.