Chapter 76 — The Fighting Immortals
The day Shang Yulou arrived, Nanfang saw its first snow of the year.
He came with his troupe in two large wagons, reaching Nanfang District just as dawn broke. The cold wind carried flakes of snow, reddening Boss Shang’s nose and knuckles. When he saw Xie Jing and the others cupping their hands in greeting, he smiled through the chill.
“Everyone, it’s been too long! Too long!”
“Boss Shang, you’re as impressive as ever!”
After a few polite exchanges, they entered the theater.
Bai Hongqi had already rented the whole place and arranged quarters for Shang Yulou’s troupe. She’d been running business in Nanfang for years and knew how mixed the people were here — she handled everything flawlessly.
Before every performance, Shang Yulou’s greatest concern — aside from tickets and publicity — was his personal ritual: he carried a small statue of the Buddha and an incense burner wherever he went. Before each show, the entire troupe would wash up, light incense, and bow devoutly. Only then would he feel settled.
But as he was burning incense that day, his right eyelid twitched several times. A bad omen.
Xie Jing came by with a stack of white towels. Shang Yulou was in the middle of painting his face when he saw Xie Jing through the mirror. Half his makeup done, he immediately rose to greet him warmly:
“Manager Xie! You’re the one bringing these? Sit, sit, please!”
Xie Jing had changed over the year — taller now, no longer that half-grown boy.
He set the towels down, polite as ever. “Boss Shang, don’t be so formal. Just call me Little Xie, like before.”
“Then Little Xie it is.” Shang Yulou grinned and called for someone to distribute the towels.
Xie Jing, puzzled, asked: “It’s winter — not exactly hot. Why so many towels?”
Even martial performers didn’t usually sweat so much in the cold.
Shang Yulou chuckled, embarrassed. “To be honest, money’s been tight. These collars on the costumes are all silk and satin — one or two wears and they’re filthy. Adds up over a year! So I thought, since the audience only sees white anyway, why not wrap the collar in a clean towel instead?”
He folded a towel neatly around his collar. It looked snow-white and new. Even up close, it was convincing.
Xie Jing’s lips twitched; he hid a smile.
Same old Boss Shang — stingy as ever.
A silk collar dirtied quickly and yellowed with time. Replacing it cost nearly a silver per piece for the best actors. But a towel? Dirt cheap — even rickshaw pullers wore them around their necks, two for a dime. And once worn out, they could serve as rags. Practical and thrifty.
Shang Yulou, proud of his “towel collar,” chatted happily with Xie Jing before returning to his makeup.
Xie Jing wasn’t there just to greet him. After delivering the towels, he scanned the troupe until his eyes fell on a group of boys — all in monkey makeup, practicing horse stance by the wall.
When they noticed him, their eyes lit up.
He walked closer, looked them over, and said to the one in front, “Little Tang?”
The boy grinned wide and nodded hard.
They were the same group of boys from four years ago — the ones Bai Mingyu had rescued and Xie Jing had cast in The White Ape Presents Longevity before sending them into Shang Yulou’s troupe.
Counting them silently, Xie Jing saw all eleven present. Not a single one missing.
He took out a pouch and handed it to Little Tang, smiling faintly. “Here, I brought this for you. Share it.”
The boy sniffed the pouch — the sweet scent of sugar mixed with dried tangerine peel. Inside were colorful herbal candies made from loquat and monk fruit — treats good for singers’ throats.
He wanted to thank Xie Jing but was gently pressed back down. “Keep practicing. I just came to see you. As long as you’re all doing well, that’s enough for me.”
They reluctantly nodded.
That afternoon, Shang Yulou went on stage.
The guests who had been invited knew well enough who Bai Hongqi was — nobody wanted to offend the Bai family. Whatever grudges they’d had were drowned in wine and laughter.
Shang Yulou performed two plays, winning thunderous applause.
By nightfall, the feast reached its liveliest hour.
Just before the final act, disaster struck backstage.
They were to perform The Havoc in Heaven, but one of the martial performers had twisted his ankle.
Monkey plays were the hardest — full of flips and fights. A twisted foot could ruin a scene, and there was no one else available in the district to fill in. If they canceled, it would disgrace both troupe and patron.
Shang Yulou paced anxiously — short one man and out of time.
With only fifteen minutes before curtain, there was no miracle to save them.
Teeth clenched, he sent for someone from the Bai household, prepared to step in himself if necessary.
When Xie Jing arrived backstage, Shang Yulou looked mortified and bowed deeply.
“Little Xie, forgive me. One of my boys is hurt — can’t go on. I could take his part myself. It’s our fault entirely, of course. The decision is yours.”
But this play had been specially requested by a guest in the audience — they couldn’t just swap it.
Someone beside Xie Jing suggested, “Can’t you give him a small part? Just run on and off?”
Shang Yulou grimaced. “If he forces it, he’ll cripple his foot.”
Xie Jing squatted to examine the boy’s injury. Little Tang leaned in to whisper: “Someone smeared oil on the stairs. He wouldn’t have been hurt otherwise. He was taller — caught two of us when we slipped…” His voice choked. When he saw Shang Yulou approach, he lowered it. “Master said not to tell.”
Shang Yulou was a theater fanatic — strict but fair. He’d never blame the patrons, only try to make up for mistakes. Even now, hoarse from exhaustion, he offered to sing again.
Xie Jing shook his head. Shang’s voice was already strained from two shows — another could destroy it.
After a pause, Xie Jing said quietly, “Find someone who only flips — doesn’t sing. I’ll go.”
Shang Yulou froze. “You’ll go?”
Xie Jing nodded.
Delighted, Shang Yulou rushed to reorganize the lineup. “Little Xie, any requests?”
“Just get me a weapon,” Xie Jing said, “something solid.”
“Ah?”
At the front of the hall, the band struck the opening drumbeat — but no one appeared on stage.
The audience began to murmur. Someone in the back even whistled mockingly.
The band struck again, and this time, the actors entered.
But no sooner had the “Monkey King” appeared than someone booed loudly.
From behind the curtain, Shang Yulou peeked and saw movement in the last row — shadowed faces, unclear who they were. His brow furrowed. He whispered to the others to be cautious, but before he could finish, another jeer rose from the crowd.
A bad feeling crept in. Someone was here to make trouble.
A teapot suddenly flew from the audience, narrowly missing the actor’s head. Startled, the “Monkey King” lost his rhythm, breaking the scene.
Laughter erupted from the back. A pale-faced man in a black silk robe stood, sleeves rolled, shouting, “Ha! So this is what the Bai family calls a show? Trash!”
Once one teapot flew, others followed — plates, cups, anything they could throw. Some crashed onto tables, splashing guests and sending them stumbling to the doors.
But the exits were blocked.
The pale man — about thirty, sharp-eyed, cruel — played with a jade thumb ring as he sneered. Each time he yelled, his dozen black-clad thugs echoed him, jeering and whistling.
The guests, sweating, tried to excuse themselves. “We… suddenly remembered something urgent at home. We’ll repay your hospitality later, Manager Bai.”
Bai’s attendants noticed the ruckus and hurried to escort them out — only to be blocked by the gang.
The pale man smirked. “Why rush? The best part’s yet to come.”
A few timid merchants pleaded, “Good sir, we only came to eat and enjoy the show. Please, let us pass.”
He laughed, pleased by their fear.
Then he gestured slightly. One of his men grabbed another teapot and hurled it at the stage.
This time, the “Monkey King” caught it mid-air with his staff and smashed it down. Scalding tea splashed the pale man’s shoes.
His expression darkened. “Courting death!”
Two of his men leapt onto the stage, overturning props and shouting, “You stinking actors think you can—”
Before he finished, the “Monkey King” struck. A single swing of his staff sent the man sprawling. The second was kicked aside. With a fluid motion, the “Immortal” tucked up his robes, leapt from the stage, and charged straight for the ringleader.
Strike the leader first.
The crowd barely registered what happened before chaos erupted. The rest of the troupe — including Little Tang and the boys — grabbed whatever they could and followed Xie Jing into the fray.
The fight was fierce but short. Xie Jing fought like a storm, his staff breaking bones and sweeping legs.
Bai Mingyu’s guards joined in. Within moments, the gang was routed.
The pale man took seven or eight hits from Xie Jing’s staff, rolling and howling on the floor. When he tried to pull a gun, Xie Jing smashed his chest, knocking the breath — and nearly blood — out of him, kicked the weapon away, and shouted, “Bai Er, catch!”
Bai Mingyu caught it underfoot and scooped it up.
The pale man spat blood and snarled, “Do you know who I am?! You dare hit a member of the Azure Dragon Society? You’ll regret this! The boss said anyone working for the Bai family today gets both legs broken!”
Xie Jing pressed his boot against the man’s head, forcing it to the floor. “Then go tell your boss,” he said coldly, “if he so much as touches the Bai family, I’ll take both his eyes first.”
The man’s bravado evaporated — he’d never seen eyes so cold.
Before Xie Jing could finish, noise erupted at the entrance.
The doors burst open.
A line of men in black stumbled inside — hands raised, faces pale — followed by soldiers in uniform, rifles aimed squarely at their backs.
The soldiers shoved them to the wall and restrained them.
Then came a tall man, wrapped in a pale blue fur cloak, his steps calm but firm. He coughed lightly and said, voice smooth and composed:
“My apologies. Today’s reception was poorly handled. The situation outside is settled — you may all leave. Another day, I’ll host again. I hope you’ll honor me then.”
The guests were escorted out. The thugs were bound and taken away.
In minutes, the theater was empty — overturned tables, shattered porcelain, pools of tea still glistening on the floor.
Bai Mingyu bowed. “Lord Bai Jiu.”
The troupe retreated backstage. Xie Jing tried to slip away too, but a calm voice halted him.
“Jing’er. Stay.”
He froze. Head lowered, silent.
Footsteps approached — slow, deliberate. Familiar boots entered his sight. His palms grew damp.
Lord Bai Jiu stopped before him and lifted his chin, studying his face.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Xie Jing finally looked up. Their gazes met — his heart pounded uncontrollably.
The man’s thumb brushed along his jaw. Then he smiled faintly.
“What’s this? One year apart, and you don’t recognize me?”
Xie Jing, in a white Monkey King’s costume, waist bound slim, had only a touch of red at the eyes — a minor role, meant to blend in. Yet he was striking, the handsomest “Monkey King” onstage.
Caught like this, face flushed, eyes wide and clear, all trace of the fierce fighter gone — he looked utterly obedient.
