Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Zhi Clan of Jin

Meng Di instructed Xiang Lie and Chen Li to escort Gan Jiang and Mo Ye back to their fiefdom, charging them with overseeing all matters related to smelting. He himself, accompanied by Su’er, passed by Gusu without entering, choosing instead to sail northward across Lake Tai.

The land of the Huai tribes was crisscrossed with rivers and canals, where boats served as carriages and oars as horses, and numerous indigenous tribes were scattered throughout the region. Among them, the State of Xu was a particularly powerful branch, with a history stretching back a thousand years and amicable relations with its southern neighbor, the State of Wu.

But that was now in the past. After King Helü of Wu assassinated King Liao and seized the throne, he used the pretext of sheltering King Liao’s two brothers—Prince Yanyu and Zhuyong—to launch a campaign that destroyed the State of Xu.

Though several years had passed since its fall, the people refused to identify as Wu. The elderly boatmen still spoke of “our Xu State” with every other sentence.

In casual conversation, an old man mentioned that a certain recluse, who called himself the Fisher Father, lived nearby. He was said to be well-versed in ancient and modern affairs and capable of discerning right from wrong.

The Fisher Father? Neither Meng Di nor Su’er had ever heard of him. Still, since he was reputed to be a sage, it would do no harm to pay a visit.

The recluse’s dwelling was deep within the forest. The two left their boat and set out on foot, following the directions given by the old man. The path wound beneath dense shade, the air alive with cicada song; it was indeed an ideal place for cultivating the spirit and mind.

Yet, the chaotic footprints and broken branches along the way seemed out of place.

They had not gone far before a corner of a bamboo hut appeared amid the forest shadows, which they surmised belonged to the hermit.

Suddenly, a sense of danger pricked at Meng Di. He halted. The twang of a bowstring sounded; Su’er flicked her bamboo branch, deflecting a swiftly flying arrow, which thudded into a tree, its shaft quivering.

From the forest came a soft exclamation, then silence.

Meng Di studied the still-trembling arrow and nodded slightly. The archer was strong— the arrowhead had sunk deep into the trunk, nearly piercing through.

To attack so suddenly for no reason—this could hardly be the work of an enlightened recluse. What had transpired here, he could not guess.

Standing at the edge of the woods, Meng Di called out in a clear voice, “Is the Fisher Father here?”

There was no reply from within the forest. The cicada song paused, then resumed, now accompanied by a faint trace of blood carried on the summer wind.

“This is bad,” Meng Di’s expression changed. He unstrapped the Sun-shooting Bow from his back and charged inward.

“Halt!” A burly man leapt out before them, brandishing a bronze cudgel to block the way. “The master of this place is not here. Leave at once.”

“And who are you?” Meng Di’s eyes narrowed.

“Enough talk!” The man, quick-tempered, swung his cudgel down at Meng Di’s head.

Meng Di sidestepped, tapping the man’s abdomen lightly with his bow. A howl of pain followed; the man dropped his cudgel, clutching his stomach and writhing on the ground.

A round of applause rang out. From behind a tree stepped a young man of dignified bearing. “Ben, why don’t you thank this gentleman for sparing your life?”

His demeanor was composed, his voice gentle and courteous, making it difficult to harbor any ill will toward him.

The burly man managed to stand, stepped aside, and muttered, “Zhi Ben thanks you for sparing my life.”

Meng Di nodded slightly, but did not lower his bow.

The newcomer smiled faintly and saluted. “Zhi Shen, heir of the Zhi clan of Jin.”

“Meng Di.”

“Is that an iron bow in your hands, Brother Meng?”

Meng Di paused in surprise. For someone to recognize an iron bow at a glance—such discernment was rare indeed. The Zhi clan? Was this the same Zhi clan that was one of the four great noble houses of Jin?

The State of Jin was a mighty realm, and the head of the Zhi clan held the reins of government there, his status even higher than that of many lords.

Zhi Shen seemed to anticipate Meng Di’s thoughts and nodded. “Indeed, I am of the Zhi noble house of Jin.”

“So it is Young Lord Shen. May I ask why you barred our path?”

“I dare not claim the title of young lord,” Zhi Shen demurred, secretly thinking to himself how the rites and music had truly decayed in these southern lands. In Jin, only a lord’s son could be called ‘young lord.’

Nevertheless, his upbringing did not allow even a hint of contempt to show; he spoke sincerely, “The master here is indeed absent. Brother Meng, might you consider returning another day, for my sake?”

Since the recluse was not at home, Meng Di had no wish to entangle himself further. Facing the legitimate heir of such a renowned house, whose manners were polite despite his clandestine actions, Meng Di saw no need to press the matter.

He was about to take his leave when a thought struck him. He turned and asked, “How did you recognize my iron bow, Master Zhi?”

“I once oversaw the smelting of a great iron cauldron, so I know iron well. Iron is considered a base metal, suited only for hoes and plows, and I have never seen it used to make a bow,” Zhi Shen said, his eyes full of curiosity.

‘Fine metal’ referred to bronze; ‘base metal’ to iron. While Jin also smelted iron, it was only for farming tools. Zhi Shen, confident in his scholarly background, had never before encountered an iron bow, especially one so ancient in design and evidently crafted by a master’s hand.

If not for pressing business, Zhi Shen would have liked to befriend this stranger. Whether it was the maid capable of deflecting arrows with a bamboo branch or the mysterious iron bow, both bespoke an extraordinary origin.

As they conversed, a shout came from within the bamboo hut: “Is that Lord Meng outside? It’s me, Zhong Ying!”

A figure appeared at the window, and from the forest, an arrow flew. There was a muffled cry—the man had been hit.

Zhong Ying? Meng Di was astonished. Had he not perished in battle long ago?

Zhi Shen’s face changed. He stepped back, drawing his treasured sword and pointing it at Meng Di. “Brother Meng, are you in league with the traitor inside?”

Meng Di did not yet understand what had happened, but if Zhong Ying truly was inside, he could not simply ignore it.

The archer in the woods had already revealed himself. Meng Di was a man of swift decisions; at the twang of his bowstring, there was a scream, then silence.

He then leveled his bow at Zhi Shen, and said coolly, “Perhaps now, Master Zhi, you can tell me what is truly going on here?”

A bitter smile appeared on Zhi Shen’s face. “Brother Meng, why ask what you already know?” In his heart, he had already marked Meng Di as foe, believing that all that had happened was but a ruse to draw him out.

He had pursued his quarry here in haste, accompanied only by Zhi Ben and an archer. Now, with the archer slain by Meng Di’s remarkable shot, escape, even into the woods, was futile.

As for the thought of charging in for close combat, it had never crossed his mind; the maid who had deflected the arrow now drew a bamboo sword and pointed it at them, clearly indicating that he and his companion were no match.

Zhi Ben shouted, spreading his arms before Zhi Shen, “My lord, flee!”

Zhi Shen pushed him aside. As the legitimate heir of the Zhi clan, how could he save himself at the expense of a retainer’s life?

Meng Di frowned. He had no enmity with the Zhi clan, and now that the misunderstanding was clear, there was no point in further escalation. Still, there was no need to antagonize them unduly.

He stowed his bow and said to Zhi Shen, “Whether you believe it or not, I came here only in search of a recluse. The man who just called out was once a comrade-in-arms. Since he’s here, I cannot abandon him.”

“Hmph,” Zhi Shen snorted, his mind made up. But with his life in another’s hands, words were pointless.

“You may go,” Meng Di said.

“You’re letting us go?” Zhi Shen was suspicious.

“There’s no reason for you to trust me, but I’m here to save someone, not to make mortal enemies of the Zhi clan.”

Zhi Shen studied Meng Di for a long moment, confirming he was not lying, then turned to leave. At the forest’s edge, he called out, “Brother Meng, may I know your origins? I would at least like to know at whose hand I was bested.”

Meng Di hesitated for a few breaths, then decided to be truthful. “From Han lands—Meng Di.”

“Han lands?” Zhi Shen pondered, but could not recall having heard of such a place. No matter; true or false, it no longer mattered. With that, he departed without looking back.