In the small street, the rain had begun to ease. Ning Yao turned to look at Chen Ping'an, who breathed steadily and bore himself with calm composure. Though she harbored no fondness for Old Yang, she had to admit that the old man was a true master hidden from the world.
"Old Yang is no simple person."
Ning Yao paused for a moment, then turned her gaze toward the unremarkable Yang family shop. The street rain had moistened everything like fine pastry, and after the rain the medicine shop's outlines were soft, its air hazy with mist. The girl made a small correction to her own words: "Old Yang is very remarkable."
Chen Ping'an hadn't noticed the difference between the two statements. He simply murmured an agreement and smiled: "I used to think Grandpa Yang was just a nice, fair man. Now I realize Grandpa Yang has been hiding his true self all along. Miss Ning, he must be a cultivator as well, right?"
Ning Yao said something Chen Ping'an couldn't understand. "Something like that, but not quite. Though for you, it doesn't make much difference."
Now at the southern end of the gallery bridge, Chen Ping'an—having survived his brushes with death—looked again at the girl in green. The youth's state of mind was entirely different from before.
When she heard footsteps, she rose with a shy smile. Seeing the straw-shoe boy and the green-robed girl standing shoulder to shoulder, the ponytailed girl seemed slightly ill at ease. Chen Ping'an no longer dared to treat this girl named Ruan Xiu as an ordinary maiden. Naturally, the image that had left the deepest impression on her remained those four characters: sitting idle while eating through the mountain.
Ruan Xiu glanced at Ning Yao, whose expression was cold and whose bearing radiated a sharp, heroic beauty. She didn't dare greet her.
Ning Yao cast a brief look at the petite yet well-proportioned, fresh-faced girl and wasn't particularly inclined to exchange pleasantries.
The three descended the gallery bridge steps together. Chen Ping'an said softly: "I heard from Mr. Qi that Liu Xianyang is all right."
Ruan Xiu nodded vigorously: "He's awake, he's awake. The shopkeeper at the Yang family shop examined him afterward and said the King of Hell showed mercy, sparing Liu Xianyang's life—that's how he pulled through. The old shopkeeper also said that as long as he wakes up, there's no more danger. I was worried you'd be anxious, so I wanted to tell you right away, but my father wouldn't let me cross the bridge..."
The girl chattered on, like a yellow finch chirping on a branch, growing somewhat apologetic at the end.
There were things she hadn't said aloud. After Liu Xianyang woke, she had rushed out the door immediately. When she arrived at the gallery bridge, she'd been so focused on delivering the news that she completely forgot her father's prohibition against entering the town. But just as she was about to run down the steps on the north side, her mysteriously appearing father seized her by the ear and dragged her back. It took much pleading before he agreed to let her sit on the south steps and wait.
This wasn't the stirrings of first love or any youthful romantic attachment—it was simply a spontaneous act of kindness.
Of course, the premise was that Chen Ping'an hadn't repelled her. On the contrary, she felt a certain goodwill toward him, even a measure of recognition.
All of this had begun with their first meeting at the green ox's back, when the boy willingly waded into the water to catch fish for another person. Afterward, his wounded left hand had stung so badly he'd sucked in his breath through clenched teeth, yet he felt no regret. Then, when Liu Xianyang met with disaster, the boy had again stepped forward to shoulder what needed shouldering. This was the accumulated merit Chen Ping'an had earned, drop by drop.
It was the youth Chen Ping'an's long, unwavering consistency—merely encountered by chance by the girl Ruan Xiu. What Chen Ping'an had missed, of course, was far greater: the golden carp in the fish basket, the loach given to Gu Can, the four-legged lizard, the locust leaves drifting before his eyes. All these missed opportunities for fortune and fate would not necessarily come into his hands simply because he was a person who cherished what he had.
As Chen Ping'an, Ning Yao, and Ruan Xiu descended the gallery bridge, none of the youths realized that droplets of water at varying heights were quietly falling into the stream.
Those droplets might have hung from the bridge eaves, gathered on the railings, or collected in the hollows along the walkway's outer edge. In the end, they all fell into the creek and merged with the flowing water.
At the same time, in the Yang family shop's waterlogged rear courtyard—which resembled a small pond—ripples spread in succession, restoring the muddy, sodden appearance of any common courtyard in the world. Standing on the water's surface was a hazy figure wreathed in smoke, barely discernible as a hunched old woman whose features remained unclear.
Old Yang was unfazed by the sight. He took another draw from his pipe and asked: "What did you see?"
The figure swayed like a water plant caught in a current, drifting involuntarily. A hoarse voice spoke: "That little girl—she is, after all, the sole daughter of our next saint. Her status is exalted beyond measure. Why must she dote on a youth from the slums?"
Old Yang scoffed: "Is that all?"
The old woman above the water trembled and dared not speak again.
The old man said slowly: "Since you've now reached this stage, I should explain some of the rules to you—lest you perish without knowing why, believing yourself wronged."
He seemed to be gathering heavenly secrets and didn't rush to speak.
After the rain stopped, the courtyard's standing water gradually receded, and the old woman's form grew more tenuous. She pleaded pitifully: "Great Immortal, I only wish to see my grandson a few more times."
Having been interrupted, Old Yang grew somewhat impatient: "What you wish is your own affair. I can't be bothered with such things."
At this, the old man's gaze grew distant. He murmured as if to himself: "Consider yourself lucky. If you had fallen into the hands of the three teachings, whether you'd even have an afterlife would be questionable. Where would you be now? The Buddhists speak of subduing the 'mind monkey and will horse'—the act of forming an intention and making a vow are of paramount importance. The Confucians are somewhat better, not casting so wide a net. They simply exhort with earnest patience, cautioning their disciples to practice 'watchful solitude'—meaning do not say one thing while thinking another. The Daoists, however, elevate the importance of 'how one thinks' to the highest degree, going so far as to regard heart demons as the chief enemy of cultivation—stricter even than the Buddhists. That is why, once many people stray from the path, they fall into what are called heretical side paths. Because the Daoists pursue clarity of mind and prize self-examination, once they are stumped by the very questions left by the Daoist patriarchs, their minds descend into chaos..."
The pipe-smoking old man was like a hidden dragon in a rolling sea of clouds. The old woman listened as if lost in fog. She was, after all, a native of this place who had never read a book. Naturally she couldn't grasp these profound and mysterious doctrines. She could only steel herself and memorize them by rote.
Old Yang suddenly laughed: "You actually don't need to remember any of this—because we don't concern ourselves with such things."
The old woman froze.
Old Yang repeated: "We don't care how you think. We only watch what you do."
The old woman said tentatively: "Great Immortal, I understand."
The corners of Old Yang's mouth twitched: "Since you are now a river-spirit, you must be responsible for all affairs of the river. You are both accumulating your own merit and earning the incense and kinship of the local people. If you can induce someone to build a shrine for you and cast a golden statue, establishing a projection of yourself within, that will be your achievement. After that, you must strive to gain the court's recognition, to be inscribed into the official registry of mountains and rivers within the kingdom. If you can't manage that, at the very least have yourself recorded in the local county gazetteer. If the shrine dedicated to you is eventually declared an unauthorized cult site and demolished by the authorities, with your golden statue torn down—then your days will be harder than those of a wandering ghost bereft of shade."
The old woman summoned her courage and asked: "Great Immortal, as you said before, everything here is forbidden. So what can I, a mere river-spirit, do besides drawing on borrowed time to extend my life? The shrines, incense, mountain registries, county gazetteers you mentioned..."
Old Yang replied: "That was before. In the future, it's hard to say. This place will be downgraded from a small chiliocosm to a small blessed land with no barrier to entry. Anyone may come here, and there will no longer be a requirement to pay those three bags of copper coins. This is precisely why the Great Li Emperor has resorted to every means—because doing certain things sixty years early versus sixty years late yields entirely different results."
The old woman gritted her teeth and asked: "Great Immortal, is the reason you're willing to shelter me because of my grandson?"
Old Yang nodded without concealing his original intention.
The old woman pressed further: "Then why did you let the military cultivator from Zhenwu Mountain take my Ma Kuxuan? Why didn't you cultivate him yourself?"
It turned out that this old woman who had become a river-spirit was none other than Granny Ma of Apricot Blossom Lane—the woman who had been slapped to death.
Old Yang tapped his pipe lightly against the ground. The spirit-form of the old woman, condensed from her soul above the water, immediately contorted and twisted. She shrieked without cease.
This unforeseen pain struck like a mortal suddenly suffering agony that tore at his heart and churned his innards. How could the old woman endure it?
Old Yang said evenly: "Although in my eyes there is no distinction between good and bad, no division between righteous and wicked, and I do not weigh merit accordingly—that does not mean I am fond of what you've done. Before, I couldn't be bothered to settle accounts with you. But henceforth, even if I scatter you to ash and vanish, it would require only a passing thought. So don't push your luck."
The old woman fell to her knees and begged for mercy: "Great Immortal, I wouldn't dare—I wouldn't dare!"
When the sword cultivator of Zhenwu Mountain had paid a tremendous price to summon the true deity surnamed Yin, and the youth Ma Kuxuan had confronted the deity with brazen questions—even that military sword cultivator had felt his heart seize with dread, fearing he might provoke divine wrath. Yet in the end, the deity surnamed Yin had answered the youth with perfect composure, even replying in the words of the mortal world: "It is not that I would not, but that I cannot."
This was far from the kind of exchange expected between a mortal and a god.
Yet this anomaly—likely even the sword cultivator, whose status was already extraordinary, hadn't understood it, attributing it to the deity's own unknown rules and considerations. But the old man in the courtyard knew the truth.
That youth was the one heaven had marked.
Not one whit inferior to the maidservant Zhigui.
Wang Zhu, Wang Zhu.
Together they formed the character "pearl."
For a true dragon, what treasure is most precious?
The pearl!
Why had she chosen to attach herself to the Great Li prince Song Jixin?
Throughout history, emperors had always liked to style themselves as true dragons. A single person's fortune could be bound to a dynasty's fate. Clearly, the two were a powerful pairing, complementing each other.
But then again, the path of cultivation is long. Fortune, talent, constitution, opportunity, temperament—none can be lacking. Yet on the road of cultivation, there are those who gain a head start and then lead at every turn, and those who accumulate deeply before erupting—the great vessel that matures late. There are no absolutes.
In this town's generation, besides Ma Kuxuan and Zhigui, Song Jixin, Zhao Yao, Gu Can, Ruan Xiu, Liu Xianyang—and those other children each with their own destinies and opportunities—could all be called heaven's favored ones.
Even the unfathomably deep Old Yang wouldn't dare say whose achievements would ultimately surpass whose.
Old Yang glanced at the standing water in the courtyard and said: "Go. For now, you need only watch the movements near the gallery bridge."
The old woman said in alarm: "Great Immortal, the gallery bridge—especially that deep pool—even I cannot approach it. Every time I get even slightly close, it feels like being boiled in oil..."
Old Yang smiled: "You don't need to get close. Just keep your eyes on the gallery bridge. For example, if something flies out from beneath it in the future, simply note its direction."
The old woman hastily acknowledged the order and departed.
In an instant, her gossamer form vanished from the surface of the courtyard's standing water.
"Master! Master!"
From the back door of the Yang family shop's main hall came Zheng Dafeng's hearty laughter, called out in eager haste to deliver good news.
Two figures arrived at the rear courtyard in succession. Zheng Dafeng strode with the wind at his heels: "Senior Brother has returned—great news!"
Old Yang looked past Zheng Dafeng to the solidly built man behind him. The latter nodded.
But the man hesitated, his mind full of questions. He was, however, slow of speech and awkward with words, and didn't know where to begin.
In the end, he simply said in a muffled voice: "Master, why did you take Ma Kuxuan as your disciple instead of that boy? I don't like the one surnamed Ma."
Old Yang glared at him: "So that's why you took it upon yourself to grab that golden carp and try to sell it to Chen Ping'an?!"
Compared to Zheng Dafeng, who was stiff and cautious in the old man's presence, this middle-aged man had far more backbone. He sat down on the bench where Chen Ping'an had previously sat: "So what? I felt like it. Master, you're quite fond of that boy yourself, aren't you?"
If Chen Ping'an had been present, he would have been shocked—for the middle-aged man who had been selling fish on the street was none other than this person.
Old Yang laughed through his teeth: "And what was the result? Did that fish basket and golden carp reach Chen Ping'an's hands? Hmm?!"
The man sulked and said nothing.
Zheng Dafeng fanned the flames from the side: "Senior Brother, I hate to say it, but you wasted that Dragon King basket. Who did you give it to—of all people, the little prince of Great Sui, our Great Li's mortal enemy? Be careful Song Changjing doesn't settle the score later. Besides, good things should stay in the family. You could have given it to my niece or nephew. What—do you think the treasure was too hot to handle? If it really was, you could have just given it to me."
Old Yang cast a cold glance his way. Zheng Dafeng froze like a cicada in winter, not daring to utter another syllable. He raised both hands in surrender and sat obediently on the steps.
The old man said: "Take Fu Nanhua with you and go to Old Dragon City."
Zheng Dafeng's face registered shock. He turned to look and saw only the old man's weathered, expressionless countenance.
This bachelor who had served as the town's gatekeeper slowly withdrew his gaze, patted his knees, rose with a bitter smile, and without uttering a word, descended the steps and walked toward the shop's back door.
From behind came the old man's commanding voice: "Remember—you must never reveal your origins, even on pain of death!"
Zheng Dafeng's bitter smile deepened. He nodded without turning back and quickened his pace.
Upon reaching the corridor behind the main hall, the man turned around, knelt, and knocked his forehead three times against the ground in sound prostration. He spoke in a low voice: "Master, take care of yourself."
From beginning to end, the old man said nothing.
Zheng Dafeng departed the Yang family shop in somber spirits.
The man Li Er, still seated on the bench, spoke up on behalf of his junior: "Master, you were too harsh on Junior Brother..."
The old man smiled: "Inhuman?"
The man nodded: "Though Junior Brother carries himself with no seriousness day to day, his heart toward you is genuine. Honestly, I can't compare to him in that regard."
The old man was noncommittal: "Either way, he's a rootless duckweed—can't even compare to weeds growing by the roadside. He may as well die wherever he dies."
The man sighed: "Junior Brother is leaving the town this time. He'll surely leave with an unsettled heart."
"As a general rule," Old Yang said, "to ensure a lineage passes on and a flame is handed down, one needs three disciples. One must be 'greatly useful'—able to bring glory to the sect. After the master's death, he can carry the weight, hold the stage. He is both face and substance. Another must be 'continuing the incense'—seemingly without the former's abilities, but possessing resilience. When the sky falls, even if the useful disciple dies, this one can ensure the sect's flame never dies. In times of prosperity, the role is unremarkable; in moments of decline, it becomes critical. The last must be 'interesting'—gifted in talent, blessed in constitution, everything about him fascinating. He need not feel particular gratitude toward the master or the sect. A master does not hold such a disciple to every rule. As the saying goes: teach a disciple and the master starves. This last disciple is exactly that."
The man asked curiously: "Me, Junior Brother, and Ma Kuxuan—which of the three are we?"
Old Yang laughed: "After all these years, who says I've only had the three of you?"
The man was taken aback, his smile somewhat awkward: "I forgot about that."
Old Yang asked with a smile: "What about Song Changjing?"
The man considered seriously for a moment, but only two words emerged: "Not bad."
Old Yang smoked his pipe, exhaled billowing clouds, and clucked his tongue in admiration: "Then he must be formidable."
The man said: "Song Changjing agreed to..."
Before his disciple could finish, Old Yang stamped his foot. Heaven and earth fell silent.
The man smiled: "Master, the things we've been doing over the years haven't exactly been covert. Do we still need to worry about appearances?"
Old Yang said slowly: "Not even bothering to keep up appearances—are you planning to stage a rebellion?"
The man asked: "Are there two kinds?"
Old Yang looked up at the sky. His gaze pierced through the three layers of heaven and earth. The old man said nothing.
The man's heart grew heavy. He asked: "Master, must my two children really go to that Cliff Academy?"
Old Yang replied: "Since Qi Jingchun is willing to make this exchange, why wouldn't they go? A thing like this—calling it a once-in-a-century opportunity is no exaggeration."
Old Yang then asked himself: "Why didn't Qi Jingchun give everything to Chen Ping'an at once?"
He smiled: "You think that would be helping the boy? It would be hastening his death. If you had succeeded in delivering the Dragon King basket and the golden carp to Chen Ping'an, I guarantee that within three days, the boy would have died mysteriously somewhere in town."
The man asked in confusion: "Before Chen Ping'an turned six, his father shattered his life-bound porcelain vase. That removed his constraints. It's true the boy can no longer hold great fortune—but isn't that both a curse and a blessing? He became like a lamp in a dark room, drawing all those moths to flame. In that process, it's only natural that the poor boy might have caught hold of something."
Old Yang explained: "As long as he remains in the town, Chen Ping'an will have no good fortune. Fortune too great for the boy to bear or hold—he is destined for a life of poverty and want, empty-handed. That he's survived this long is already remarkable enough. Any of those so-called heaven's favored ones would have died seven or eight times over."
The man grinned: "So that's why you were willing to help him. What you could give was exactly what Chen Ping'an alone could receive."
Old Yang hesitated for a moment, then exhaled a thick plume of smoke: "But did you know that the fortune you tried to give Chen Ping'an nearly killed him? The Great Sui prince and eunuch, Ning Yao, the penal-system assassin, that strange Daoist—Chen Ping'an nearly died along that entire chain."
The man frowned.
Old Yang changed the subject: "In the past, the saints who presided over this realm would, upon taking office, first inspect the four suppression artifacts left by the ancestors. The second thing they would do was come here to pay their respects. But even among those saints, the vast majority understood only what happened, not why. There are also two types who do not come. The first type appeared mostly in the early years, when the Buddhist faction of the Baoping Continent was powerful and monks were still numerous. Those people didn't dare come—they feared entangling themselves in karma. The other type is like Qi Jingchun—those above deliberately withheld the truth, hoping Qi Jingchun and I would come into conflict and fight. The reason Qi Jingchun came today is that he figured it out on his own, or perhaps..."
The old man's expression grew solemn: "That possibility is too remote, and the consequences too vast to imagine. I hope it's not—and... it probably isn't."
Within the small chiliocosm, there was yet another heaven within heaven.
Qi Jingchun presided over one realm; Old Yang held sway like a regional warlord, with not the slightest indication of being a guest under another's roof.
Old Yang sighed with emotion: "Before Qi Jingchun's own master, there was a Confucian saint who said, 'The sage exhausts his sight, using compass, plumb line, and measuring cord, to create the round and square, the flat and straight.' What does that mean? Simply put—you common folk should be grateful to the sage's great benevolence. He expended tremendous effort, exhausting his eyesight, to establish these rules and frameworks so that future generations might walk within them without suffering calamity or misfortune—and so that in the next life, they might have the chance to be reborn as human beings."
The man scratched his head: "Master, why are you telling me this? I don't understand any of it. Zheng Dafeng is the one who can discuss such things with you."
Old Yang laughed: "If you, Li Er, could discuss it, I wouldn't have opened my mouth at all. One speaks, one listens; one asks, one answers. It's just right."
Old Yang stood and gazed into the distance: "If one day that boy can walk out of the town alive and wander the world for a few decades, he will surely be astonished to discover that the hometown town he once knew was, in fact, so vast."
Since his master had risen, the man stood as well. Though he didn't know how to flatter, he still understood propriety.
Old Yang said: "You shouldn't stay here either. Take your wife and go somewhere else. On the Baoping Continent, you'll never break through to the next realm in this lifetime. Song Changjing is petty. Having him suppress your cultivation level—that would disgust even me, let alone disgust you. Oh, and your son and daughter—if you truly can't bear to part, you may take one with you. At worst, it will reduce the share of Qi Jingchun's gift."
The man asked: "Master, what if my wife insists on taking both children?"
Old Yang snapped in exasperation: "Who wears the trousers in your house?!"
The man replied with complete conviction: "She does."
The old man took a deep breath and waved them away: "Go on, go on—all four of you, get lost! Do as you please!"
The man descended the steps, then suddenly turned his head and asked: "And you, Master?"
The old man sat back down on his bench and reached into his pocket for tobacco, only to find it empty. He withdrew his hand and said with perfect calm: "What else can I do? Wait to die, that's all."
The man walked to the eaves, then for no apparent reason turned back and smiled: "I don't think Ma Kuxuan can carry away that thing."
The old man's expression darkened. He said with self-mockery: "If he can't carry it away, then truly no one can."
---
The town's four surnames and ten clans suddenly received word: within three days, all outsiders must evacuate the town entirely. The Lizhu small chiliocosm would permit departures only—no entries.
Though resentment ran deep, in the end not a single person disputed the order.
In the eastbound procession, the Li clan ancestor personally appeared to secretly escort the young master of Zhengyang Mountain away.
The next day, from far to the west of town came a series of rumbling sounds—like an earth ox turning over, shaking heaven and earth.
It was the mountain-moving ape of Zhengyang Mountain, which had truly uprooted an enormous mountain peak.
The old ape, having revealed its true form of a thousand zhang, was about to hoist the peak onto its back.
Its shoulder suddenly tilted, as though something immense had pressed upon it. The old ape raised its head and narrowed its eyes to look.
Upon the mountain summit on its shoulder stood a tiny figure.
Qi Jingchun.
The old ape laughed heartily: "Qi Jingchun! Don't be so petty—you'll delay the greater matter!"
Qi Jingchun said in a deep voice: "Put the Cloud-Cloak Mountain back."
The old ape's shoulder heaved upward. It roared in fury: "And what if I don't?!"
The next instant, the mountain-moving ape suddenly released both hands from the mountain's underside, executed a sideways roll, and its colossal form crashed down, crushing countless trees in the vicinity.
The next instant, the thousand-zhang ape was trampled into the ground by a single foot.
That figure was truly one who held up the sky. Compared to it, the mountain-moving ape was like an ant beneath another's sole.
Another stomp drove the struggling ape deeper underground.
And another.
The thousand-zhang ape lay collapsed in the massive crater, drenched in blood and on the verge of death.
The figure bent low, its head seeming to press against the firmament, and looked down upon the mountain-moving ape with mockery: "If it were me from sixty years ago, the first thing I'd have done after stepping out would be to flatten Zhengyang Mountain with a single stomp!"