The crackling of firecrackers faded into the night, but the chill of winter still bit through Zhao Xunan's sleeves as he followed Zhao Ping'er out of the Governor's Mansion. The Kaiyuan Celebration—once-in-sixteen-centuries spectacle—was in full swing, and the streets beyond the gate blazed with light.
"Master, hurry!" Zhao Ping'er chattered, her breath visible in the frosty air. She'd shed her drab maid's coat for a brighter hue, her black hair pinned with a wooden phoenix hairpin—the same one she'd worn since childhood. "This is the first Kaiyuan since you… since you came back. We can't miss it!"
Zhao Xunan smiled, his gaze softening as he watched her. In his past life, he'd been too consumed by bitterness to notice her loyalty, too weak to protect her. Now, with decades of regret and a second chance, he'd make sure she never felt unvalued again.
They'd just stepped onto the bustling street when a gruff voice called out, "Young Master Zhao—heading to the celebration?"
At the gate stood Old Ran, the weathered guard who'd served the Li household for decades. His face was carved with scars, but his eyes held a sharpness that belied his age.
"Ran Shibo," Zhao Xunan inclined his head. "Planning to stay for the lanterns?"
Old Ran chuckled, his voice gravelly. "Aye. But first—" He pressed a crumpled note into Zhao's hand. "A bottle of Tiankui Tusu wine. Freshly brewed this year. Consider it a New Year's gift from an old soldier."
Zhao Xunan started to refuse, but Old Ran waved him off. "Don't argue. A man who's seen as much blood as I have doesn't need charity. This is… gratitude. For treating me like a man, not a dog."
With that, he turned back to his post, his coat flapping in the wind. Zhao Xunan stared after him, a chill running down his spine. Old Ran's words had been too deliberate, his tone too knowing. He knows something about the lamp riddles.
The streets thronged with laughter and light. Children darted between stalls, clutching candied plums and paper lanterns. Zhao Ping'er lingered at a stall, eyeing a plate of fried dough sticks, but Zhao Xunan steered her onward.
"Not now, Ping'er. There's something more important."
She pouted but followed, her curiosity piqued.
As they weaved through the crowd, Zhao Xunan's mind raced. Old Ran's hint about the Tongshan Temple lantern riddles had reignited a fire he'd buried long ago. In his past life, the Taoist Heaven-Menders from the Dao Palace had slaughtered his parents, framing them as "heretics." His father's final words—"They envy your talent"—had haunted him until death.
And the key to unraveling that mystery? The Tongshan Temple Lantern Riddles.
Rumors said the answers held a treasure: the Treasure Seeker's Record, a scroll that revealed the locations of divine artifacts. In his past life, the genius Dou Sheng had solved them, securing a place among the cultivation elite. This time, Zhao Xunan would claim that prize—not for glory, but for the power to hunt down the Heaven-Menders and make them pay.
"Master!" Zhao Ping'er tugged his sleeve, pointing to a stall. "Look!"
A lantern shaped like a phoenix spun above a table, its colored glass casting rainbows on the snow. Below it hung a riddle: "What shines brighter than the stars, yet fades faster than dawn?" The prize: a delicate silver phoenix hairpin, its feathers inlaid with emerald threads.
Zhao Xunan's lips curved. "That's yours, Ping'er."
She stared, wide-eyed. "But—"
"Take it. You deserve it."
She darted to the stall, returning a moment later with the hairpin clutched to her chest. "Master, thank you!" Her voice wavered, and Zhao Xunan realized—with a pang—how much she'd grown. No longer the timid maid, but a girl who'd stand by his side, no matter the cost.
The riddle's answer had been simple, but the path to Tongshan Temple's lanterns was anything but. They followed whispers and half-heard clues, weaving through back alleys until they reached a dead end.
Ahead stood a ten-foot wall, its surface blank save for a single lantern. Its light was pale, almost eerie, swaying in the wind.
"Master…" Zhao Ping'er's voice trembled. "This is… spooky."
Zhao Xunan stepped forward, brushing snow off the wall. The riddle etched into the paper was brief:
"Come and go without a trace.
Life and death, but a dream's embrace."
He froze. The words felt familiar—too familiar. In his past life, his father had muttered similar lines on his deathbed. "Life is but a dream…"
"Master? What does it mean?"
Zhao Xunan didn't answer. He reached out, brushing the lantern's edge. As his fingers made contact, the paper flared to life, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside lay a scroll, its edges gilded and brittle with age.
"The Treasure Seeker's Record," he breathed.
But before he could unfold it, a voice cut through the silence.
"Well, well. What do we have here?"
Three scholars emerged from the shadows, their robes dyed indigo. At their center stood a man with silver-streaked hair, his eyes sharp as blades.
"Dao Palace Heaven-Mender," Zhao Xunan growled, his fists clenching.
The man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Ah, the reborn prodigy. I've been waiting for you."