Volume One - The Youngest Among Three Hundred Chapter Thirty-Nine - Fireworks and Assassination

Chen Chang’an and Su Wanqiu exchanged equally disdainful glances at the man hovering in midair. Su Wanqiu spoke first, “Let’s go find Mao Ji. Ignore him.”

“Alright!” Chen Chang’an replied cheerfully. In truth, now that the case was over and he no longer needed his immortal brother-in-law for protection, he too felt that the man was somewhat unhinged and had no wish to fall in with his ways. Retracting his scornful gaze, he nodded, “Yes, let’s go.”

With a slight tilt of his chin, he took hold of Su Wanqiu’s sash, gently guiding her in the direction of Mao Ji’s residence, the renowned artisan of Great Min.

In the past, Su Wanqiu would have responded to her nominal husband with her usual cold indifference. Yet tonight, for reasons she could not fathom, she agreed to take him to see Mao Ji. Perhaps, she thought, it was because he was working on behalf of Princess Changning.

She quietly justified herself with this reasoning.

Their family’s great courtyard stood in Yong’an Ward, separated from Mao Ji’s Yonghe Ward by only a single block—a short distance. At three-quarters past the hour of Xu, they arrived.

By now, the sun had fully set. The long streets were ablaze with lanterns and festoons, a riot of colors—greens and reds, every lamp glowing, illuminating a scene of dazzling prosperity. At the back, Chen Chang’an, fingers still hooked to Su Wanqiu’s sash, walked in step with her graceful shadow ahead; together, they made an elegant pair.

Two quarters of an hour later, they reached Mao Ji’s dwelling—a craftsman’s workshop, guarded by two young doormen.

“We’ve arrived,” Su Wanqiu said, glancing back at Chen Chang’an.

Chen Chang’an responded with an “Oh!” or two, then stepped forward, relying on his hazy vision, and bowed, “Sirs, my name is Chen Chang’an. I have urgent business with Master Mao. Please inform him.”

The shorter, rounder doorman swept his sleeve, “Master is busy crafting festival lanterns for His Highness the Crown Prince. He will see no one. Please leave.”

The taller, thinner doorman ran his eyes over their attire, sneering, “Judging by your clothes, you barely pass for inner-city residents. My master only receives those of wealth and rank. As for you, you are not worthy.”

Su Wanqiu’s brows arched sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The thin doorman’s gaze brimmed with contempt. “What do you think it means? Get lost.”

“You—”

Chen Chang’an stopped the indignant Su Wanqiu and smiled, “Gentlemen, I am here on important business—to create a birthday tribute for Princess Changning to present to Her Majesty the Empress. Please, announce us.”

“What’s that?” Even the round doorman, who’d maintained some manners, now snorted, “If I’m not mistaken, you’re blind, aren’t you? A useless cripple, and you’re making a tribute for Princess Changning? Ha! You’ll kill me with laughter!”

The tall doorman rolled his eyes. “Get out. My master doesn’t meet just anyone.”

A sharp voice cut through their argument. “What’s all this noise? I am working on the Crown Prince’s festival lantern—must you disturb me?”

An elderly man with silvered hair but a ramrod-straight back emerged, radiating vigor—none other than Mao Ji.

“Master!”

“Master, these two insisted on barging in. We were just about to send them away,” the two doormen explained, bowing.

Mao Ji followed their gestures, casting a stern glare at Chen Chang’an and Su Wanqiu. “Leave at once! Stop this racket! I have lanterns to make for His Highness. If I’m delayed, even ten of your heads won’t be enough to atone!”

Chen Chang’an, undaunted, smiled and drew closer, his dim vision barely catching outlines. “Master Mao, I’ve come to prepare a birthday tribute on behalf of Princess Changning for Her Majesty the Empress.”

“What did you say? For Princess Changning?” Mao Ji paused, as if recalling something, and asked in surprise, “Are you… the Chen Chang’an currently investigating for Princess Changning?”

As the greatest craftsman in Great Min, Mao Ji was privy to much. Only last night, he’d heard that Princess Changning and the Three Departments had hired the blind son-in-law of the Su family for the case.

Chen Chang’an nodded. “I am.”

This connection softened Mao Ji’s manner. He straightened. “What does Young Master Chen wish to prepare for Her Highness?”

Chen Chang’an leaned in and whispered his idea. Mao Ji’s eyes lit up, though he sounded doubtful. “This… is it really possible?”

Chen Chang’an patted his chest. “Of course. Why not try it, Master Mao? You’ll see for yourself.”

After a moment’s thought, Mao Ji instructed his doormen, “Fetch some saltpeter, charcoal powder, sulfur dust, bamboo tubes, and flints.”

“But Master, he’s just a blind man. Why waste your time?” the round doorman muttered.

Mao Ji roared, “Just do as I say!”

“Yes, yes!” The two hurried off. Two quarters of an hour later, from the courtyard of Mao Ji’s residence, bursts of brilliant, dazzling fireworks shot sky-high, scattering radiant stars across the night. It was breathtaking.

The doormen gaped. “This… this is so beautiful. Truly beautiful.”

Su Wanqiu’s face was rapt, utterly lost in the spectacle—a feast for the eyes. That Chen Chang’an could envision such a thing was astonishing.

Mao Ji gazed up in awe. “Young Master Chen, it really works! I have crafted all my life, but never imagined packing saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal into a bamboo tube and lighting a fuse could create such beauty.”

“Young Master Chen, your ideas are wondrous. I am in awe. What do you call this?”

Chen Chang’an waved his hand. “They are called fireworks.”

“Fireworks—what a splendid name! I’ve never seen their like. Compared to the Crown Prince’s lanterns, they’re many times finer. None of the other tributes can approach this. This year, Princess Changning is sure to win Her Majesty’s favor!”

Mao Ji was beside himself with excitement. All his life he had built on the work of predecessors, seldom inventing anything new. The advent of fireworks gave him a sense of real achievement.

He knew that, in a hundred years—no, even after millennia—the world might forget the Master Craftsman of Great Min. Yet with Chen Chang’an’s idea, with fireworks, his name might live forever. It was a gift for the ages.

With unexpected humility, Mao Ji bowed deeply. “Young Master Chen, these fireworks will sweep through Chang’an and bring me renown. That you would grant me this chance—I am deeply grateful.”

Su Wanqiu was astonished. Only moments ago, Mao Ji had refused them entry, claiming they were unworthy. Now, this man whom the city’s nobility vied to honor, had humbled himself before Chen Chang’an.

Of course, she could not truly understand. For a craftsman, a lifetime of toil is all for the chance to create something that will endure through history, so that, a thousand years hence, someone might remember the creator.

That is the dream of every artisan. And Chen Chang’an had made it come true.

Chen Chang’an, by now accustomed to such reactions, replied, “Master Mao, you are too kind. I merely offered a simple idea; the real artistry is yours.”

Reflecting on the princess’s request, Chen Chang’an had deduced from memory and experience that fireworks did not exist in Great Min. He could have made them himself, but, being blind, might have blown himself up. Thus, this chance for renown fell naturally to Mao Ji.

Hearing Chen Chang’an’s modesty, Mao Ji bowed again. “No, no, Young Master Chen. After the festival, fireworks will take the world by storm. I will share in the glory—all thanks to you. If ever you need anything of me, all you need do is ask.”

“Very well!” Chen Chang’an answered. Wasn’t impressing others exactly the goal?

The next moment, Mao Ji rounded on his doormen, barking, “Aren’t you going to apologize to Young Master Chen?”

“Yes, yes!” they stammered.

“Young Master Chen, I was blind to your talent. I deserve punishment for my rudeness. Please, forgive me.”

“It’s nothing,” Chen Chang’an said, hands clasped behind his back, shaking his head with lazy ease.

Seeing his disciples forgiven, Mao Ji beamed and, trembling with excitement, lit up another round of finished fireworks. With whooshing bursts, colored flames shot into the night sky, blooming in clusters of radiant light.

They were as lovely as a meteor shower.

None in Great Min had ever seen fireworks before; all present were utterly entranced. Though their beauty lasted only a moment, the awe it left behind would endure forever.

All along Yonghe Ward, in homes and on the streets, anyone who witnessed the spectacle flocked to Mao Ji’s residence in amazement. “What is that? It’s so beautiful—I’ve never seen such a thing!”

“Yes, it’s stunning. I could watch forever.”

“Father, I want it, I want it!”

“It’s coming from Master Mao’s house! It must be his latest invention—he truly deserves his reputation.”

As the fireworks bloomed, two shadowy figures landed silently atop the beam of Mao Ji’s main hall, peering through the colored haze at Chen Chang’an.

“He’s alone—no Su Dingfeng, no Li Shu. Now is the perfect time.”

“Yes, it’s beautiful. To die amidst such splendor is a kind of fortune. Sir, please unleash Zaisheng and kill him now.”

Indeed, the two were the Talon Man and Master Fenyang.

Master Fenyang, clad in a Daoist’s robe, curled his lip in a cold smile. “Very well. This blind son-in-law has foiled our plans twice. He must die. I want his organs to explode in a mist of blood.”

As he spoke, he raised his hand, splaying his fingers toward Chen Chang’an. The Ninth Original Art—Zaisheng—flared to life, rippling waves of distorted space surging forward.