Volume One Unfathomable Wanderings in the Realm of Paper Leaves Chapter Fifty-Seven The Flower Market

The city of Jiankang remained under martial law, and as dusk fell, the streets and alleys would quickly empty, the marketplaces and wards falling silent. But now, at high noon, the thoroughfares were still bustling, carriages and horses flowing in endless streams, the city vibrant with life.

The capital was resplendent with nobility and grandeur.

At this moment, Yang Ning was riding his horse along the long avenue by the Qinhuai River. In the capital, riding on horseback was the height of fashion. Not only did the sons of nobles like to adorn their mounts with exquisite trappings, but even scholars and poets were fond of parading through the streets on horseback—such was the vogue in Jiankang.

As these refined young gentlemen passed by, each bore a gentle smile, gazing unconsciously upward. There was no need to look aside or downward, for those below were meant to look up at them.

They looked only at the magnificent pavilions, at the beauties within the red and powdery mansions.

The tales of scholars and beauties were always the stuff of legend. They fancied themselves cultured and elegant, wandering by the Qinhuai, all hoping to create a story of their own.

Painted pleasure boats wove across the Qinhuai River, and every so often, a young gentleman in splendid attire would emerge from a cabin, standing at the prow with attendants in tow, assuming the air of one who could command the world.

Such was the daily spectacle along the Qinhuai.

For Yang Ning, this was the first time he was properly passing by the riverside. The day was still young, so he was in no hurry. Yuan Rong rode beside him, puzzled as to where Yang Ning intended to take him.

When Yang Ning left the residence, Duan Canghai could hardly object. Still, after the recent dangers the heir had faced, he wanted to personally escort him. Yang Ning knew that both Duan Canghai and Qi Feng had been working tirelessly of late, so he only permitted Duan Canghai to assign two guards to follow discreetly.

Passing by the Confucius Temple, Yang Ning turned onto a long street vastly different from the lively, colorful riverside. The moment they entered, the air was filled with the fragrance of flowers. Looking around, he saw vibrant reds and lush greens, a riot of blossoms. On both sides of the street stood numerous flower shops—it was a flower market.

Yang Ning was surprised. It was already October, yet the market was still in business. He knew little about plants, but as he rode through, the heady scents and the sight of rare, exotic blooms caught his attention. Many varieties he had never seen before, and he thought to himself, for flowers to bloom so late in the year, they must be quite expensive.

Still, the southern climate was pleasant—even in golden autumn, the weather remained warm.

Suddenly, Yuan Rong seemed to realize something, laughed, and said, “So, after all this, are you taking me to the Marquis of Wuxiang’s residence? Ha! It’s been some time since I saw your good brother-in-law—we can pay him a visit today.”

“Brother-in-law?” Yang Ning was momentarily taken aback and glanced at Yuan Rong, but did not ask further.

He was well aware that his current behavior differed greatly from that of the former heir. There were connections he might not remember, but asking too often would arouse suspicion.

Just as he turned his head, his gaze fell upon a figure not far away. The market was crowded, mostly with women, but this figure was tall and stood out. Yang Ning recognized him at once—he was the same gray-robed elder who had previously disguised himself as a eunuch.

Yang Ning had encountered him twice before—the first time as a refined scholar, the second as a eunuch, and now again in a gray robe, his long beard flowing.

“What is he doing here?” Yang Ning was instantly on guard. He dismounted, and the elder, oblivious to Yang Ning, moved through the crowd.

This old man’s identity was uncertain, but Yang Ning was sure that the beard was fake; only a few days earlier, the man had been clean-shaven—it was impossible for such a beard to grow so quickly.

Unable to restrain himself, Yang Ning gave chase, weaving through the throng. Yuan Rong, not understanding, called out, “Brother Ning, where are you going now?”

Yang Ning saw the gray-robed elder just ahead and quickened his pace. Suddenly, he collided with someone in front of a flower shop—a soft cry rang out, clearly a woman’s voice. Yang Ning had no time to apologize and rushed forward, but the elder had already vanished into the crowd.

He stopped, looking around in bewilderment, but the elder was nowhere to be seen.

Yang Ning frowned. At that moment, the sound of pounding hooves erupted from the other end of the street.

This was a busy market street, crowded with people. Though he himself rode earlier, he had moved at a gentle pace. But now the horses thundered like a drumroll—could they not see the danger of trampling people?

Sure enough, people scrambled to get out of the way, some stumbling and falling, crying out in alarm.

Several steeds galloped down the avenue, their hooves relentless. Even as pedestrians tumbled, the riders did not slow. Yang Ning frowned, about to step aside, when his heart suddenly clenched.

In the middle of the street, a child of seven or eight crouched, playing with clay figurines, utterly unaware of the oncoming horses. No adult was in sight. He clutched a figurine in delight, oblivious to the peril.

The riders, too, seemed not to notice the child. A few onlookers saw it and screamed.

At that instant, Yang Ning shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.

He was fast, but the horses were nearly upon the child. At Yang Ning’s speed, he might not make it in time—if the horses could not be reined in, both he and the child would be struck.

But he hesitated not for a moment.

He knew that in this moment, only he could possibly save the child. If he threw himself forward, there was still hope—if not, the child would surely be trampled to death.

Cries of alarm filled the air; many turned away, unable to bear the sight.

The lead horse was now only a few yards from the child; Yang Ning was equally distant.

Yet a horse at full gallop could easily outpace him. He felt a chill in his chest; in desperation, he tried to gather every ounce of strength into his legs. Seeing that he was still a step too slow, he let out a low roar, and in that instant, felt a surge of energy flood from his chest into his legs.

With power coursing through his limbs, Yang Ning sprang forward like a leopard, reaching the child just ahead of the horse’s head, seizing the child’s arm and rolling them both to the side.

The horse reared with a shrill cry, its forelegs striking the very spot where the child had been. Had Yang Ning been a moment later, the child would have been lost beneath the hooves.

With a crash, Yang Ning tumbled into a flowerpot set before a shop. Pain shot through his body, but in that moment, he managed to lift the child into the air, out of harm’s way.

A woman’s scream pierced the air as she rushed over, voice trembling with tears: “Ding’er, Ding’er, are you alright?”

Yang Ning felt cold sweat all over. He saw that the woman was not yet thirty, her attire marking her as a lady of some wealth—clearly the child’s kin. Handing the child over, he forced a smile. “He... he should be fine. Don’t worry...”

The woman grabbed the child, checking him up and down. Seeing him unharmed, she breathed a sigh of relief. When Yang Ning sat up, she hurriedly said, “Benefactor, thank you... thank you for saving my Ding’er... I will repay your great kindness!” Then, noticing the blood on his forehead, she exclaimed, “You’re bleeding!” Without hesitation, she produced an embroidered handkerchief and offered it to him. “Quick, wipe it. I’ll fetch a doctor...”

Only then did Yang Ning feel the hot pain on his brow, blood trickling where he had struck the flowerpot. It was but a flesh wound, so he waved off the handkerchief and shook his head with a smile. “It’s nothing...”

He tried to rise, only to find his legs had gone weak and numb, drained of the power he’d felt moments before.

“Brother!” Yuan Rong rushed over, face pale with shock. “Are you alright?”

Wiping blood from his brow with his sleeve, Yang Ning shook his head. The weakness in his legs unsettled him.

In that moment of crisis, he had felt energy surge from his core into his legs, granting him a burst of strength—something Duan Canghai had warned him never to attempt lightly. Now, with the power gone and his legs cramping, he wondered if he’d harmed himself despite the necessity.

“Well, you’ve got some skill!” came a voice, not in the capital’s dialect and tinged with arrogance.

Yang Ning’s expression darkened as he looked up. Not far away, a mighty steed stood, its rider gazing down at him with indifference. The sun cast a long shadow from the mounted figure across Yang Ning.

Several more riders arrived. They wore dark green uniforms, white cloths wrapped about their heads, curved sabers at their waists. Though none appeared particularly burly, each had a piercing gaze—a martial artist could see at a glance that their skills were not to be underestimated.

Disciplined and alert, they held their reins in one hand, the other resting on their saber hilts, all eyes fixed on Yang Ning as if he were the one at fault.