Pei Qian, sword and saber at her waist, did not enter the pavilion. She sat on the steps instead, watching the Mountain and Water Spirits with their illustrious standing. Some had received Imperial Enfeoffment from the courts of various kingdoms; others had been enfeoffed by the Confucian Temple itself. Back in their own offices, which of them was not heaven itself within their territory?
Her master had yet to appear. They could wait patiently.
If Shen Zhang was like Zhao Fuyang of Hehuan Mountain, then how similar was Pei Qian to the Daoist priest Cheng Qian, who had once declared, "Those who hold office without possessing the Way deserve death"?
Inside the pavilion, Little Millet sat bolt upright, her fists loosely closed and resting gently on her knees, her feet just touching the ground.
Huang Ye was a ghost. The scene outside the pavilion was dazzling beyond measure. Fortunately, she was inside, where an invisible boundary seemed to separate one world from another. Otherwise, she might have been scattered in body and soul on the spot.
Xia Yupian, who came from Fox Lady's temple, was little better. She was timid at heart; when in her life had she ever seen so many Mountain and Water True Gods? Zhong Qian leisurely cracked sunflower seeds. Earlier, with two unfamiliar young women in the pavilion, she had felt somewhat ill at ease. Once this spectacle formed outside, she relaxed instead.
Before Zhong Qian made her name back home, she had carried sedan chairs for a living. Anyone who could afford to ride in one was either rich or powerful, so she knew more of the workings behind the scenes than ordinary folk.
What office under heaven had old accounts that could withstand scrutiny? The Mountain and Water Officialdom of Treasure Bottle Continent was