Chapter Forty-Five: Life Is Too Hard for Me

Zhou Jinglong’s daughter was named Zhou Xiruo—a name that sounded gentle and frail, yet her character was quite the opposite. Upholding the virtue that a true woman should not serve two husbands, when she heard that Zhao Yu had become engaged again, her heart sank into despair, and she resolutely decided to become a nun.

Due to Zhou Jinglong’s vehement opposition and the reluctance of the temple to shelter her without caution, she had only begun her monastic practice and had not fully taken vows, all the while at a temple not far from Prince Yi’s residence. Situated within the capital and favored by the emperor, a devotee of Taoism, the temple enjoyed a steady stream of incense offerings.

Clearly, the temple had received instructions from Zhou Jinglong, for when they learned that the visitor was Zhao Yu, the elderly priestess led him directly to the rear courtyard.

Turning into the moon gate, Zhao Yu saw from afar Zhou Xiruo standing quietly beneath a pine tree. Her loose Taoist robe made her appear even more slender, and in the sunlight, the fine down at the nape of her neck beneath her high-piled hair was clearly visible, inspiring a spontaneous sense of compassion.

Zhao Yu could not help but sigh inwardly at this foolish girl—why bring such suffering upon herself?

He cleared his throat softly and spoke: “Miss Zhou, I pay you my respects.”

Zhou Xiruo did not turn around. Her voice was cool and distant: “Your Highness, you should leave. My mind is made up. There’s no need for you to trouble yourself on my account.”

Her tone was calm, her manner cold and aloof, as if to keep all at arm’s length.

To be honest, Zhao Yu was not skilled at comforting young women, and this was only the second time he and Zhou Xiruo had met—there was hardly any deep affection between them. Still, to let a girl in the bloom of youth spend her life alone beside flickering lamps and statues of gods—that was something Zhao Yu could not bear to see.

“Little sister...”

“I am not your sister!”

“I’ll call you as I please—listen to me! First, things are not as you think. Second, have you considered how your parents feel about your willfulness? They raised you without expecting much in return, but you shouldn’t break their hearts like this. To be honest, though we’ve only met once, I have a good impression of you, and I hope you won’t disappoint me. Now listen: pack your things and go home at once. If not, don’t blame me for burning this temple down.”

Zhou Xiruo spun around, her beautiful eyes wide with disbelief. She never expected the gentle, elegant Prince Yi to be so domineering and unreasonable. Yet, as she heard these forceful words, something deep within her softened once more.

Her eyes reddened, and tears slipped down as she choked out, “You... you’re bullying me too...”

After all, who can be truly heartless? At that moment, Zhou Xiruo’s delicate, pitiable appearance stirred an urge in Zhao Yu—who had just played the domineering lord—to gather her in his arms and comfort her gently.

He only thought it, though, knowing he was still too young and not yet at an age to be close to women.

He coughed and said, “Just go home and wait. Before long, you’ll see things aren’t as you’ve heard.”

His words carried many unspoken meanings. The young woman’s tear-streaked face lifted in hope, her sobs ceased, and her eyes shone bright.

Meanwhile, Liu Wenqing crept off to find Zhou Jinglong. Dismissing the servants, he sidled up and whispered, “I’ve heard your daughter became a nun because of the broken engagement with Prince Yi?”

On his way to the ball court, Zhao Yu suddenly recalled a phrase popular on Douyin in later times: “Life is so hard for me!”

So far, nothing had spared him from worry—being a prince was truly a stifling burden.

“Your Highness, someone claiming to be an old friend of yours has come with a group to register for the tournament. But there’s something odd about them—even Master Lu is displeased.”

Just as Zhao Yu reached the entrance of the ball court, Liu Heizi hurried over and reported, hands clasped in salute.

“My old friend? Who could bother even Lu Zhishen?”

The answer soon arrived: a short, wiry man with a striking black mustache walked up behind Liu Heizi.

“Yu, my boy! Long time no see—do you still remember Lu Shilang from Jiangnan?”

The introduction startled Zhao Yu. Lu Shilang—the last of Fang La’s Eight Vajra Warriors. We’ve never met before—since when are we old friends?

But then he caught a subtle hand signal from Lu Shilang, and realized at once that this man must have met with Deng Yuanjue.

“Haha! How could I forget you, brother? When did you arrive? Why not send word ahead so I could greet you?”

Zhao Yu could be as smooth as anyone when needed. He warmly grasped Lu Shilang’s arm, making it look for all the world like a reunion of old friends.

“Brother Lu, are you here to compete in the Grand Soccer Tournament?”

“Of course! As soon as I received your letter, I gathered a thirty-man team, training as we traveled. I didn’t expect your stadium wouldn’t be finished yet—I may have arrived early. With such a large place, surely there’s room for my men to stay?”

“No problem at all! Thirty or even three hundred, you’re all welcome. This isn’t the place to talk—let’s go inside!”

As Zhao Yu led Lu Shilang in, his mind raced.

Why had Lu Shilang brought people to join this tournament? Anyone he brought would be Ming Cult experts. If they all acted together, they could do much more than play a match—an assassination wouldn’t be out of the question. But that seemed unlikely; more probably, they were after the stone...

While speaking, the group reached the common room beneath the review platform. The moment Zhao Yu stepped inside, he was assailed by the heavy scent of blood.

Lu Zhishen sat cross-legged alone, his iron staff across his knees, eyes half open, half closed. Though he made no move, a formless aura of menace filled the room.

Opposite him stood three fierce young men. The leader bore a scarred face and a sword at his waist; the other two gripped sabers, all poised for battle.

Seeing this, Zhao Yu frowned and addressed Lu Shilang with displeasure: “Brother Lu, what is the meaning of this?”

Lu Shilang laughed. “Yu, my boy, you misunderstand! What are you all doing—put your weapons away. Wan Chun, come greet Yu.”

“You are Pang Wanchun?”

Zhao Yu was surprised, sizing up the sword-bearing youth—he looked strong, and bold to boot, daring even to come to the capital.

The scar-faced Pang Wanchun greeted Zhao Yu with a respectful bow. “Pang Wanchun thanks you for saving my life.”

Then he turned coldly to Lu Zhishen, saying, “If the master is interested, shall we meet outside the city at midnight?”

Lu Zhishen was about to agree, but Zhao Yu cut in coldly.

“Brother Pang, you challenge my brother upon arrival—is your quarrel with me? I am not much, but I do admire heroes. As a friend, you’ll find good wine here. As an enemy, I’ll see things through to the end.”

This is my territory. What are you trying to do—usurp the host? Coming here and challenging my people—you think you can ignore me? I may only have Lu Zhishen and Lin Chong as fighters by my side, but I won’t be intimidated by you...