Excessive talent often breeds a spirit of sloth. Ye Zhuo had a habit of narrowing his eyes whenever he smiled,…
Excessive talent often breeds a spirit of sloth. Ye Zhuo had a habit of narrowing his eyes whenever he smiled, giving him the appearance of a perpetually drowsy, cunning fox.
The other disciples affectionately called him "Ye the Half-Immortal." Yet this nickname did not stem from any grand ambition to shape the cosmos. He simply helped his peers with their mundane troubles: how to talk their way out of being caught skipping class, how to unravel the puzzles their master had left behind, or what topics the elders might quiz them on.
He always seemed unhurried. With just a few casual words, he could untangle problems that had left the younger disciples in knots for days, elevating the art of saving effort to absolute perfection.
As for his master's intricate arts of springs and clockwork, he had mastered them long ago. Yet since his master never pressed him, he saw no reason to show it off, as boasting would only invite more lessons to learn.
All things in this world carry their own truths. There is no need to pry too deeply; knowing enough to get by is enough. To grasp but seventy percent of the wisdom hidden within the mountain is more than sufficient to weather a lifetime.
The greatest priority in this world, after all, is a good night's sleep. To dwell among mountains and streams carrying the title of "Half-Immortal" is surely the height of bliss!
But when his Eldest Brother came to entrust him with the affairs of the sect, he sensed a ripple in the still waters. His brother had always been a poor liar, and Ye Zhuo had never been an easy man to deceive.
His master had once warned him: "Among the five of you, you are the most adaptable. The Eldest is overflowing with righteousness but lacks flexibility. You must help me keep watch over him."
In the end, Ye Zhuo had let those words drift past his ears like the wind.
Fine. To descend the mountain is to be swept into the currents of the age.
The generals harbor deep suspicions, and old grudges have calcified. Factions intertwine like twisted roots, and the ambitious lurk in the shadows. To untangle such a web is truly the most vexing chore under Heaven!
But without me, I doubt any of you could even begin to sort out this mess. Could you truly prevail? Very well. I suppose I can endure a little more hardship.
"If you intend to descend the mountain and save the commoners of Chu, count me in."
How could a "General" march onto the battlefield without his "Strategist"? A mere mayfly of a man, reaching out to grasp the clouds.
Yet in the year they left the mountain, the rains of Neiqiu were far too cold, and far too long.
That Half-Immortal found not a single moment of rest. He exhausted his mind and poured out every ounce of his knowledge, yet in the end, he could not turn the tide for the weak against the strong.
Time flowed onward, and the world changed. That battle became no different from countless others before it, fading into smoke. Countless names were buried in the earth as though they had never drawn breath. The mountain's "Five Wonders" were spoken of no more, leaving their ingenious mechanisms to gather dust beneath the pines.
The historical chronicles, blunt and unforgiving, record it only thus:
"The Khitan general led tens of thousands of cavalry to invade the borders, assaulting Neiqiu. After five days, they failed to capture the city and suffered heavy casualties. Five hundred garrison soldiers rebelled, opening the gates to the Khitan forces. The garrison was slaughtered, and Raoyang fell."
History is a hard, cold stone. How many moths must fling themselves into the flames just to alter a single line carved upon it?