"You're awake."
A deep and steady voice, yet slightly hoarse, sounded by his ear. There was little fluctuation in its tone, as if merely stating an obvious fact.
Zhuge Xuan's eyelids were as heavy as if two small lead weights were hung from them. He expended immense effort to barely pry open a tiny slit. What met his eyes were dark brown beams carved with intricate cloud patterns. The air was filled with a thick but not pungent scent of medicinal herbs, mixed with a faint, almost indiscernible hint of sandalwood.
This was not the cramped university dormitory he was familiar with, the one piled high with books and electronic devices.
"Water." He tried to speak, but his throat felt as if it had been sanded with sandpaper, only able to produce a hoarse, airy sound.
A warm and gentle palm lightly supported the back of his neck, while another hand held a porcelain cup, cool to the touch, and brought it to his lips. The warm liquid slid down his throat, washing away some of the burning thirst. He greedily swallowed a few mouthfuls before he felt his vocal cords, which had been on the verge of giving out, seem to regain his control.
"Uncle Quan..."
The two words slipped out, startling even himself. He did not know this middle-aged man before him, dressed in a long, dark blue robe with a touch of frost at his temples, yet this form of address surfaced from the depths of his memory as naturally as if he had called it thousands of times.
Hearing this, the man called Uncle Quan had a flicker of imperceptible light flash through his deep eyes. He set down the water cup, his movements unhurried, his voice still steady, "Young Master, you have been unconscious for 8 days and 7 nights. The physicians in the clan were all at their wits' end, only saying... that it all depended on your own fortune."
The words stopped there, but the unspoken meaning was clear to them both.
Zhuge Xuan closed his eyes, trying to sort through the chaotic ocean in his mind. Countless memory fragments that did not belong to him were washing over his original consciousness like a violent tide. The soul of a 21st-century university student and the memories of a 15-year-old clan prodigy named Zhuge Xuan were forcibly merging in a brutal fashion.
He remembered the final exams in the library, and he also remembered the cultivator gathering called the "Qingyang Banquet."
He remembered the all-nighter he pulled to finish his thesis, and he also remembered the poison-coated dagger that pierced his heart, carrying a cold killing intent.
He remembered the professor's earnest teachings in the classroom, and he also remembered the face of the Wang Clan's Young Master, Wang Teng, twisted in the blood-splatter with glee.
Betrayal.
This word, like a poisoned thorn, stabbed viciously into the junction of his two sets of memories.
The original Zhuge Xuan, a qilin-child of the Zhuge Clan of Langya, the likes of whom appeared once in a century, had already touched the threshold of the "Spirit Condensation Realm" at the mere age of 15. He was hailed as the hope of the clan for the next several hundred years. In the joint trial of the three great clans of Qingyang City, he was supposed to take first place in one fell swoop, securing 70% of the mining rights to the "Crimsonflame Ore Vein" for the clan for the next 30 years.
However, the Wang Clan, who should have been an ally, stabbed him in the back at the most critical moment. It was not just Wang Teng's fatal blow, but also the "Spirit Locking Powder" that had been laid out in advance, causing his spiritual energy to stagnate in an instant, turning him from a genius in the clouds to a lamb awaiting slaughter.
The original owner of this body, in his endless resentment and unwillingness, had his soul scattered and dispersed. And he, an ordinary university student who had died from pulling an all-nighter for a profound ancient philosophy thesis in the library, had, by a strange twist of fate, occupied this shell.
"The Wang family... and the Li family, what was their account of it?" Zhuge Xuan opened his eyes again. The confusion in them had faded, replaced by a profundity that did not match his age. His voice was still weak, but his words were exceptionally clear.
Uncle Quan's movements paused slightly. He was wiping Zhuge Xuan's hand with a damp cloth. Hearing the question, he answered calmly without raising his head, "The Wang family sent people with lavish gifts, saying that Young Master Wang Teng acted rashly, and it was a complete accident. They are willing to concede 10% of the profits from the Crimsonflame Ore Vein for the next 30 years as compensation. The Li family, on the other hand, stated they knew nothing of the matter and sternly condemned the Wang family's treachery."
The corner of Zhuge Xuan's mouth curled into an almost imperceptible arc. There was no anger in that arc, only an icy ridicule.
Acted rashly? With a specially made dagger coated in the lethal poison of "Soul-Severing Grass"?
Knew nothing? If the Li family hadn't been holding back the Zhuge clan's guards on the other side, how could Wang Teng have gotten close so easily?
These hypocritical games between the great clans, even in another world, were just as nauseating.
"What was... the clan's reaction?" he continued to ask.
Uncle Quan stopped wiping. He looked up, his gaze meeting Zhuge Xuan's for the first time. It was a pair of eyes that had weathered many storms, so sharp they seemed to be able to see through a person's heart. He was observing, assessing. Assessing whether this young master who had just walked back from death's door had become fragile and broken, or if his mind had been burned away by hatred.
"The Clan Head was furious. Several elders advocated for immediately going to war with the Wang and Li families," Uncle Quan's tone was impartial, purely stating facts. "But there was also significant opposition. They believe that making enemies of two great clans at the same time without absolute certainty is extremely unwise. The Zhuge clan... though our foundation is deep, cannot withstand such turmoil."
Zhuge Xuan fell silent. The memories he inherited told him that these words were true. The Zhuge clan appeared glorious, but in reality, it was like a colossal old ship, already infested with termites within. The branch families' powers were deeply entrenched, and the authority of the main family had been repeatedly challenged in recent years. The Clan Head, who was his father in this life, Zhuge Yuan, despite his grand ambitions, was often constrained by the clan's internal politics.
If he had truly died this time, the clan would likely have fallen into chaos over the fight for the position of heir. The Wang and Li families had probably counted on this very point.
"War is the worst possible strategy." Zhuge Xuan said slowly, each word seemingly squeezed from between his teeth. "War is fought on foundations, on resources, and even more so, on the hearts of the people. Right now, we hold no advantage in any of these."
In Uncle Quan's eyes, that trace of scrutiny faded somewhat, replaced by a subtle wisp of relief. The young master had not been consumed by hatred. This was more important than anything.
"Then in the Young Master's opinion...?" he asked, following the lead.
This was a test. Uncle Quan was not just his personal attendant, but also his father Zhuge Yuan's most trusted confidant. Every word he said would likely reach the Clan Head's ears within half an hour.
Zhuge Xuan did not answer immediately. He was a person accustomed to thinking, both in his past world and in the present. The soul from a modern society gave him a bystander's calm. Revenge must be taken, but not now. Revenge was never a simple slaughter, but an intricate game of chess. One wrong move, and the entire game is lost.
His greatest asset now was that everyone thought he was already a cripple. Although the "Soul-Severing Grass" poison hadn't completely taken his life, it had severely damaged his meridians. The diagnoses of those clan physicians had probably already spread throughout all of Qingyang City. A former genius reduced to a cripple was the best news for his enemies, because it meant the threat was eliminated. And for those within the clan harboring ulterior motives, it was equally good news.
This was precisely his best camouflage.
"Uncle Quan," he changed the subject, his voice so soft it seemed it could be blown away by the wind at any moment, "I want to play chess."
Uncle Quan was stunned. He had imagined countless possible responses—a passionate declaration of vengeance, a despondent spiral into self-abandonment, or a profound deliberation on the clan's future. But he had never expected such a light, almost childishly willful request.
"Play chess?"
"Mm, Go." Zhuge Xuan's gaze shifted to the window, where an old locust tree stood, its branches and leaves swaying gently in the breeze. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, casting dappled spots of light on the ground. "It's been a while. My hands are getting a bit itchy."
Uncle Quan gave him a deep look. On his face, which was usually as placid as an old well, a complex expression finally appeared. He didn't ask any more questions, but simply nodded silently, turned, and walked out.
The room returned to silence, with only Zhuge Xuan's own steady breathing and the occasional chirping of birds from outside the window.
He knew what Uncle Quan was thinking. A young man bearing a blood feud, his meridians destroyed, wakes up from the brink of death, and the first thing he does isn't to seek death or roar in rage, but to ask to play chess. This in itself was an extremely unusual attitude.
This was precisely the message he wanted to send.
He wanted his father, and all those watching him, to know that he, Zhuge Xuan, had not been broken. His heart was still, as it had been before, an indestructible fortress. His mind was still that precise instrument capable of calculating ten thousand variations.
The body's injuries could be nursed back to health slowly, and the damage to his meridians was not necessarily without a chance of recovery. But if his spirit was broken, then he would truly be beyond salvation.
Before long, Uncle Quan returned carrying an antique Go board. The board was carved from a single piece of warm jade, cool to the touch. The two Go bowls were made of zitan wood, containing black and white jade stones, each one polished to a smooth, round finish, like a work of art.
Uncle Quan placed the board on the small table by the bed, then quietly retreated to one side like a lifeless statue, but his keen perception covered the entire room.
With a still-trembling hand, Zhuge Xuan picked up a white stone from the bowl. The cool touch from his fingertips made his thoughts even clearer.
He looked at the empty board, but what appeared before his eyes was a map of the distribution of power in all of Qingyang City. The Wang family was a venomous snake coiled in the east of the city, the Li family was a fierce tiger lying in wait in the south, and his Zhuge family was like a mighty lion trapped in the northern courtyard, seemingly powerful but in reality bound by invisible chains. There were other powers, large and small, scattered across the city like stars on the board, ready to become an asset or an obstacle to any side at any moment.
This was a dead game.
At least, in the original Zhuge Xuan's eyes, it was so.
But in the eyes of this soul from another world, any game of chess, as long as it had not reached its end, had variables. And what he had to do was become the biggest variable.
"Uncle Quan," he said without looking up, his gaze locked on the board, "help me pass a message to Father."
"Please speak, Young Master."
"Just say this: that 10% of the ore vein profits sent by the Wang family, we'll accept it. Not only will we accept it, but we will do so with great fanfare. Let everyone in Qingyang City know that we, the Zhuge family... have accepted the Wang family's 'apology'."
Uncle Quan's breathing hitched for a fraction of a second. He snapped his head up, his eyes filled with disbelief. This was tantamount to bowing one's head to the enemy, to admitting defeat! With the Clan Head's unyielding personality, how could he possibly agree to such a humiliating condition?
However, Zhuge Xuan did not give him a chance to question.
Pa.
With a crisp sound, the white stone in his hand landed firmly on the "Tianyuan" point of the board.
In the way of Go, the first move on Tianyuan is known as the "Corner of No Concern," and also the "Uncontested Land." This move neither occupies the side nor takes a corner; it seems useless, yet it subtly overlooks the entire board, containing infinite possibilities.
It was like a declaration.
A declaration that, from this moment on, the direction of the game would be redefined by the one playing the stones.
Zhuge Xuan looked up and met Uncle Quan's shocked gaze. A faint smile appeared on his weak face as he said softly, "Tell Father, even a lion uses its full strength to catch a rabbit. But sometimes, a lion feigning sleep has an easier time waiting for the prey to walk into the trap itself."