In the two days before Qi Jingchun set down those chopsticks, ominous signs had begun to appear in the town. The water level of the Iron Lock Well dropped alarmingly. Branches snapped from the old locust tree, their leaves withered and yellow—clearly defying the rule of spring's vitality and autumn's decay. And outside the town, where mud statues and wooden carvings of gods lay scattered at random, explosive cracks like firecrackers rang out through the night. Those who went to investigate found that near the town, the mud bodhisattvas and wooden immortals that had certainly still existed the previous winter had vanished by more than half.
From Fulu Street and Peach-Leaf Lane, ox-carts and horse-carts had never stopped departing. On the wide flagstone streets, even deep into the night one could hear the restless clatter of hooves that disturbed dreams.
The outsiders in their lavish robes and air of wealth had also begun hurrying away. Most wore expressions of displeasure, gathered in twos and threes, frequently pointing toward the town's schoolhouse with considerable indignation.
The town's bachelor gatekeeper Zheng Dafeng had vanished. The kiln-bureau superintendent's compound showed no intention of replacing him. Without its two front teeth, the town spoke and let the wind through.
Liu Baqiao and Chen Songfeng returned along the same route. When the gallery bridge's outline came into view, it was already dusk. Liu Baqiao followed a small path to the creek, crouched down, and scooped a handful of water to wash his face. Deciding it wasn't quite satisfying enough, he simply bent over and plunged his entire head into the stream. He lifted it suddenly and shouted with pleasure, then turned to look at the drenched and exhausted Chen Songfeng. Liu Baqiao teased: "A delicate scholar, powerless even to bind a chicken."
Chen Songfeng simply cupped water to drink, his throat hoarse: "I became a qi-refining practitioner only to strengthen my body and live a few more years—long enough to read a few more books. How could I compare to you sword cultivators? Besides, in this Lizhu small chiliocosm, qi-refining practitioners who aren't sword cultivators suffer most. One moment's carelessness in circulating one's qi, and cultivation is lost. The higher your realm, the greater the damage. I never imagined that my low cultivation would prove an advantage."
Liu Baqiao clapped him on the shoulder: "Why not switch allegiances and join our Wind-Thunder Garden to practice the sword? I'll watch your back. Think about it—becoming a sword cultivator, riding the sword on the wind, soaring ten thousand zhang above, lightning-fast. Especially during a thunderstorm, riding your sword through it all..."
Chen Songfeng suddenly smiled: "I've heard that the sword cultivator at the Wind-Thunder Garden who gets struck by lightning the most is named..."
Liu Baqiao thrust out a palm: "Stop!"
Sword cultivators were qi-refining practitioners too—only their bodies tended closer to the pure martial practitioners of the other path. In simple terms, body and spirit, flesh and will: sword cultivators pursued mastery of both. Other qi-refining practitioners only needed their physicality to not hold them back and didn't consciously temper it. Of course, as qi-refining practitioners refined their breath and cultivated their energy, the perfection of their bodies was ongoing—like spring rain nourishing the soil, constantly being honed. But compared to sword cultivators, the intensity and frequency of body-tempering was far less. They would never approach the single-minded dedication of a martial practitioner.
For the world's qi-refining practitioners, there existed a consensus: the physical shell was, ultimately, an object in perpetual decay. As long as it sufficed, it was enough. If one could fortuitously cultivate an indestructible vajra body or an immaculate, crystal-clear form, so much the better. If not, no matter. One must not become so obsessed with this aspect that one strays from the true path.
Liu Baqiao asked casually: "How many realms has your distant relative reached?"
Chen Songfeng replied helplessly: "How would I know such classified secrets?"
Liu Baqiao recalled the confrontation that had erupted in the bureau's main hall and said with admiration: "Song Changjing is truly formidable. What's terrifying is how young he still is. The average eighth- or ninth-realm martial practitioner is well past fifty or sixty—even a hundred isn't considered advanced age. But if I remember correctly, Song Changjing is barely forty. No wonder he was once mocked by that man as 'needing his arrogance pressed down.'"
Chen Songfeng said softly: "Born in tune with heaven's will. Fortuned above all."
Practitioners of the upper five realms were rare as dragons—heads seen, tails hidden, hard to find. But eighth- and ninth-realm martial practitioners were known throughout the world, not far removed from secular kingdoms. Moreover, the martial way advanced through repeated battles of life and death. At the razor's edge between living and dying, only by witnessing death could one break through it—gaining a transcendent state akin to the Buddhist "spiritual ease" or the Daoist "clarity."
Beyond sparring between two grandmasters, eighth- and ninth-realm martial practitioners particularly enjoyed bullying the elite qi-refining practitioners of the middle five realms. Especially someone like Song Changjing at the pinnacle of the ninth realm—virtually unbeatable beneath the upper five realms. Only sword cultivators among qi-refining practitioners could challenge him, and even then only to ensure the loss wasn't too humiliating—a merit in defeat.
Yet there was a subtle reason why ninth-realm martial masters could act with such impunity. The final floor of the middle five realms—the tenth-floor great cultivator—had already turned away from worldly affairs. Not even the fate of families or the rise and fall of kingdoms could command their attention. All that mattered was "the great dao."
Liu Baqiao was still immersed in his own thoughts: "Song Changjing told me to leave the town and claim the talisman sword by my own merit. Should I send word to the Wind-Thunder Garden? Tell them to set up the victory feast in advance?"
Chen Songfeng, caught between laughter and tears, gazed at the ankle-deep, murmuring stream. Thinking of Song Changjing and the elegant youth at the prince's side, he vaguely sensed a gathering tide of great forces. He decided that upon returning to the ancestral home of the Longwei Commandery Chen clan, he must convince the family to place their bet on Great Li's dynasty. Even if they couldn't go all in, the Chen heirs must integrate into Great Li's court as soon as possible.
Chen Songfeng murmured: "Great Li's momentum—the times favor it, heaven and earth conspire together. My Chen clan must support the rising dragon, not compete merely to cling to its tail."
Liu Baqiao asked: "What are you muttering about?"
Chen Songfeng stood and shook his hands, smiling: "You seem to have hit it off with that boy from Mud Vase Lane."
Liu Baqiao rose as well, nonchalant as ever: "A chance encounter—come together, part by fate. Heaven knows if we'll ever meet again."
The two stepped onto the bank along the spring grass. Chen Songfeng asked: "I hear the blessed land within the Nanjian Kingdom's borders will open to the public this winter, allowing several dozen to enter. You still can't break through your bottleneck, can you? Will you try your luck?"
Liu Baqiao scoffed: "Absolutely not. Going to lord it over ants—I'd be too ashamed."
Chen Songfeng shook his head: "My teacher, Senior Brother Liu, once said: the mind-mirror brightens with polishing. Cultivating the mind-state in meditation on the Daoist patriarch's lotus platform is indeed of great benefit. But occasionally wallowing in a mud puddle has its merits too. Going to a blessed land as a banished immortal, cast aside and forgetting one's former life—whether in ease or suffering—there's something to be gained..."
Before Chen Songfeng could finish, Liu Baqiao cut in: "I'm too competitive. If I go to a blessed land where spiritual energy is thin and can't break the seal on my own to return home, I'll be left with a mental knot. More harm than good. Besides, if the 'locals' there gave me trouble, that would be another ailment. Even if it cost me dearly afterward, I'd have to descend in my true form to settle the score properly—which would defeat my original intention."
Liu Baqiao clasped his hands behind his head, his face full of disdain: "To put it bluntly, those three blessed lands on our Baoping Continent have gone rotten. Everyone knows it. They've become playgrounds for the heirs of wealthy secular families, spending money to find amusement. No wonder they're called the brothels of immortal rule—foul air and ugliness."
Chen Songfeng smiled: "You can't paint them all with the same brush. Leaving aside outsiders like us, among the locals there are no shortage of brilliant talents."
Liu Baqiao rolled his eyes: "A blessed land—so many people living there. How many emerge each year? Maybe not even one. Those who do make it here—in a century, how many are eventually remembered by name? Countable on one hand. I just don't understand why these blessed lands are so revered. Some even claim that owning partial jurisdiction over a blessed land is worth as much as having an upper-realm cultivator. They're mad."
Chen Songfeng smiled: "The returns from a blessed land are a slow, steady stream. Occasionally there's a surprise. And the best part—all the benefits are reaped without effort. Who wouldn't want a share?"
Those who left a chiliocosm usually had good fates. Those who rose from a blessed land had especially hardy constitutions.
Liu Baqiao asked: "You don't seem to like that boy surnamed Chen?"
Chen Songfeng considered, then chose to bare his heart: "Personally, I have no issue with the boy whatsoever. But objectively, his very existence makes our entire clan awkward. The Chen clan of the Lizhu small chiliocosm is already a laughingstock on this continent. Within the town, a once-numerous surname reduced to a single person—the rest all servants of other families. In the eyes of the Longwei Commandery Chen clan, we share a distant ancestor with the town's Chen family, but that's ancient history with no emotional residue. Yet every rival of the Longwei Commandery Chen clan sees it differently. Under these circumstances, if the Mud Vase Lane boy had also become a servant of a great family, it would have ended there—a single laugh, soon forgotten. But this boy's stubborn persistence, his solitary existence, draws exceptional attention. Many outsiders are even betting on when the sole surviving Chen of this line will cease to be 'the only one.'"
Liu Baqiao frowned: "That's hardly the boy's fault."
Chen Songfeng smiled: "Of course—the boy is blameless. But the world has many things that don't follow reason."
Liu Baqiao shook his head: "It isn't that reason is hard to follow. In fact, you're the ones who are unreasonable. It's just that the boy is too weak and small, which allows you to appear self-righteous. Add the considerable influence of your Longwei Commandery Chen clan, and you vastly outmatch him. But compared to those who laugh at you from the sidelines, you're only middling—so your position grows ever more awkward. In the end, unwilling to admit your own inadequacy, you turn around and cast the boy as the culprit. I believe that if this Lizhu small chiliocosm weren't so difficult to enter, the slum boy who embarrasses your clan would have long since been quietly eliminated by some pretext—or killed by a vassal family to curry favor."
Chen Songfeng's face flushed crimson—a flash of anger born of shame.
Liu Baqiao, hands still clasped behind his head, tilted his face toward the sky with the same languid expression: "I know you're not that kind of man, Chen Songfeng. But men like you are rare. Those who aren't, are many."
"Take Zhengyang Mountain's mountain-moving ape—he couldn't get the sword scripture, feared the Wind-Thunder Garden would, and so punched that Liu boy. Fair? I don't think that's fair. But did it matter? It didn't. I didn't even dare challenge the old ape head-on."
Liu Baqiao sighed, released one hand, and patted his stomach: "As for me—I'm clumsy of tongue, soft of fist, and slow of sword. If I weren't, I've got enough reasons stored up in here to give this world a thorough talking-to."
Chen Songfeng exhaled: "So you think the boy is admirable?"
Liu Baqiao turned toward the western mountains where the great sun was sinking: "Admirable? Impossible."
Chen Songfeng looked puzzled.
Liu Baqiao smiled: "The moment I saw that boy, I felt a deep sense of shame."
Chen Songfeng found this inconceivable and shook his head with a laugh: "How so?"
Liu Baqiao swallowed some words before they left his lips, sparing their relationship. Chen Songfeng might not be the most congenial company, but compared to ordinary scholars, he was far superior. One should be content.
The talkative Liu Baqiao fell into silence for the rest of the walk.
---
Night had deepened. Chen Ping'an had made three torches by hand, and the three walked by firelight.
At last they reached the foot of a tall mountain. Chen Ping'an wiped the sweat from his brow and said to Ning Yao: "Miss Ning, tell her—this is a mountain sealed by the court. Does she have any objections?"
Ning Yao relayed this to Chen Dui, who shook her head.
Chen Dui raised her gaze and looked around. She was utterly certain—the ancestral grave of the Yingchen Chen clan was here.
A traveler returning home feels a stirring in the heart.
Chen Dui slowly closed her eyes. After a moment, she crouched and traced a long string of characters on the ground with her finger. Her lips moved faintly. Then she swept her palm across to erase all traces. Rising, she stepped around where the runes had been and began the ascent—without needing Chen Ping'an's guidance.
When they reached a spot halfway up, Chen Ping'an pointed nearby: a small earthen mound on which grew a tree with a strangely straight trunk—straighter even than green bamboo. Chen Ping'an felt a weight lift from his chest and nodded: "This is the place."
Chen Dui said gravely: "Wait for me at the foot of the mountain."
Ning Yao tugged Chen Ping'an's sleeve, signaling him to go down together.
Chen Dui set down the book-box and carefully took out, one by one, the offerings she had painstakingly prepared for the rites and ancestor worship.
At one point, the woman fell into a momentary trance. She gazed at the small tree, tears welling in her eyes—tears of joy. She whispered: "So it is. Just as I thought."
Finally, with absolute devotion, the woman prostrated herself before the small earthen mound, performing the full ritual of three kowtows and nine prostrations.
Then she lay face down, trembling: "The Yingchen Chen clan offers thanks to our founding ancestor's protection!"
At the foot of the mountain, Chen Ping'an and Ning Yao sat back to back against opposite sides of the large basket. Ning Yao asked: "Earlier on the trail, why did you deliberately take the long way around?"
Chen Ping'an was stunned: "Miss Ning, even you noticed that?!"
Ning Yao gripped her scabbard and pushed backward. The scabbard's tip struck the boy's lower back: "Take that 'even' out!"
The straw-shoe boy grimaced and gently rubbed his waist. He lowered his voice: "Didn't I tell you? There's a huge cliff face covered in black stone—the kind you call 'dragon-slaying platform.' I was afraid she'd see it. And if she knew what it was—what if she got ideas? Better safe than sorry. I understand that principle."
Ning Yao laughed: "Miser. You were really worried she'd find a way to carry it off and leave you empty-handed."
Chen Ping'an grinned foolishly: "Miss Ning, being that blunt—you must not have many friends!"
Ow.
The sudden pain struck again. Chen Ping'an freed a hand to rub the other side of his waist.
He suddenly nudged Ning Yao's back with his elbow: "Want some wild fruit? I picked three on the way here—stashed them in my sleeve pouch. She probably didn't see."
Ning Yao said dismissively: "Mountain fruit this season? How could it taste good?"
Chen Ping'an turned and held out two blood-red wild fruits, each the size of a peach, with a smile: "Miss Ning, you wouldn't know—this fruit is only edible in spring. It ripens in late winter, matures in early spring, and is now fully ripe. One bite—tch, tch, tch—the flavor is so exquisite you might accidentally bite your tongue off. And here's the strange thing: with all these mountains around, this fruit only grows in this one spot. I learned about it from Old Yao when we came here to dig for a certain kind of earth. Other places have wild fruits with decent flavors, but after eating and comparing them all, I think none measure up to these."
Ning Yao accepted the two fruits, determined that if they tasted bad, she'd return the remaining one. "Eating and comparing, nibbling east and west—what are you, a wild boar?"
Chen Ping'an bit into a fruit and smiled: "When I was little, my family was poor. I ate whatever I could catch. And once, from eating indiscriminately, I wrecked my stomach—rolled around on the ground in the alley in agony. That was the first time I ever heard my own heart beating—like thunder on a drum."
Unfortunately, Ning Yao was busy eating and didn't catch the boy's last words. The first bite told her the fruit was extraordinarily sweet. The flesh slid down and her whole body warmed, as though she were in a house with heated floors—the fruit was like a series of charcoal braziers. She closed her eyes to assess her organs. Though her entire body felt comfortable, there was nothing else remarkable—meaning the fruit could roughly be classified as a mountain treasure among immortals, but nothing more. Certainly it would fetch a high price in the secular world, but it wouldn't make cultivators envious.
For mortal folk below the mountains, it would be a supreme elixir for prolonging life.
Had she known this earlier, Ning Yao would have refused the fruit.
She felt a twinkle of regret, wiped her mouth, and turned to hand back the remaining fruit: "Not tasty. Here."
Chen Ping'an took it back, crestfallen. He'd thought Miss Ning would enjoy it.
Ning Yao gently tapped the basket with her feet and asked: "Were you saving it for that woman Chen Dui?"
Chen Ping'an shook his head: "Why would I give it to her? We're not related. I was saving it for Liu Xianyang."
Ning Yao asked suddenly: "If Ruan Xiu were here, would you give it to her instead of Chen Dui?"
Chen Ping'an nodded: "Of course."
Ning Yao asked again: "What if you only had two fruits? Would you give them to me or to Ruan Xiu?"
Without hesitation, Chen Ping'an answered: "One for you, one for Ruan Xiu. I'd be fine just watching you eat."
Chen Ping'an received another sneak attack. Rubbing his lower back, he protested innocently: "Miss Ning, what was that for?"
Ning Yao pressed further: "What if there was only one?"
Chen Ping'an chuckled: "Yours."
Ning Yao: "Why?"
Chen Ping'an, both cunning and earnest: "Ruan Xiu isn't here. But you are."
The boy's lower back was struck twice in rapid succession. Pain forced him to leap up and hop around—causing Ning Yao to plop directly into the large basket.
Chen Ping'an quickly pulled her out.
Ning Yao wasn't angry, but she gave him a fierce glare.
Chen Ping'an righted the basket. The two sat back to back once more.
Ning Yao asked: "Do you know what kind of tree that is?"
Chen Ping'an shook his head: "No. I've only ever seen it here. None of the other mountains seem to have it."
Ning Yao said gravely: "Legend holds that if a kaishu tree—an exemplary tree of rectitude—grows from a family tomb, it heralds the birth of a Confucian saint of supreme virtue, one who will be greatly favored in your world."
Chen Ping'an said "Oh."
Confucian saints, auspicious omens, righteousness—none of it registered with the straw-shoe boy.
Ning Yao asked: "Don't you envy that woman up there? Haven't you wondered why that kaishu tree doesn't grow over your own ancestors' graves?"
Chen Ping'an answered a different question, beaming: "This year's Qingming Festival—I can still tend my parents' graves. That makes me happy."
Ning Yao abruptly stood. This time it was Chen Ping'an who plopped into the basket.
Ning Yao doubled over with laughter.
---
The town's schoolhouse retained only five pupils, of varying backgrounds and ages. Among them was a little girl in a bright-red cotton jacket. Though she hailed from Fulu Street, she never bullied anyone at the school—nor did she particularly enjoy crowds. She preferred wandering on her own. The boy Li Huai, son of Li Er from the town's westernmost household, also studied at this school. His parents had taken his sister and left town, leaving him behind. Li Huai hadn't cried or made a fuss. In fact, he was thrilled—no one to boss him around at last. But at night, the boy—who lodged with his uncle—woke from a nightmare and began shrieking at the top of his lungs, only to be subdued by his uncle and aunt working in concert: one wielding a chicken-feather duster, the other a broom.
The remaining three students came from Peach-Leaf Lane, Qilong Lane, and Apricot Blossom Lane—two boys and one girl.
After class, Mr. Qi presented each of them a calligraphy piece to keep safe and copy carefully. He said he would check their progress in three days.
It was a single character: Qi.
After the pupils departed, the ancient, decrepit sweeper—having bathed and changed his clothes—came to the door of Mr. Qi's study. He sat down on the ground and began.
The old man posed a classic Confucian question on the phrase "the first month of the Spring King."
Qi Jingchun smiled knowingly and answered—explaining what was meant by "spring," what by "king," what by "first," and what by "month."
This was the particular practice of "holding the classic and asking hard questions" found in every great Confucian academy. A designated "questioner" would interrogate the lecturer—posing one question, several questions, even a hundred.
This exchange took place at the first meeting between Mr. Qi and the old man.
That had been eighty years ago.
But at the time, it was Qi Jingchun who had asked the questions, and the one answering had been their shared master.
When the old man had finished all his questions, he looked at Qi Jingchun: "Do you remember our master's parting words before we went to the Cliff Academy?"
Qi Jingchun smiled and said nothing.
The old man answered himself: "For me, the words were 'Heaven and earth birth the gentleman; the gentleman orders heaven and earth.' For you, they were: 'Learning must never cease. Indigo is taken from the indigo plant, yet it surpasses the indigo.'"
The old man suddenly blazed with passion: "Master placed such hope in you! He wished you to surpass the master! Why must you persist in this place, refusing to turn back until you hit the wall? Why sacrifice a hundred years of cultivation and a thousand years of the great dao for a mere town of five or six thousand souls? Had you been an ordinary scholar, it would be one thing. But you are Qi Jingchun—our master's most treasured disciple! A scholar who could have opened a new path, even founded a new teaching!"
The old man trembled: "I know—it was Buddhism that misled you! What is this 'sentient beings are equal'? Have you forgotten what Master said about distinguishing the noble from the base..."
Qi Jingchun smiled and shook his head: "Though he is our master, his learning is vast, but his reasoning is not always correct."
The old man was so shocked he was speechless. Then his face flushed with fury: "Ritual is what straightens the body!"
Qi Jingchun replied with a smile: "The gentleman yields when the time calls for yielding, and extends when the time calls for extending."
Though the words seemed to emerge from nowhere, spanning a vast distance, the old man's expression changed dramatically upon hearing them—his face full of alarm and suspicion.
Qi Jingchun sighed. He looked at this fellow disciple who had followed him here for sixty years and spoke gravely: "What's done is done. I entrust those children to you for the journey to the Cliff Academy."
The old man nodded, his expression complex, and rose to leave.
Qi Jingchun murmured to himself: "Master, is there such a thing as true heaven-bestowed justice in this world?"
---
Two carriages departed Fulu Street well before dawn, leaving the town early.
At first light, a straw-shoe boy carrying two large cloth bags set out to wait outside the kiln-bureau superintendent's compound.
One bag held pouches of gold-essence copper coins. The other held what he considered the most valuable snake-gall stones.
But by the time the sky had fully brightened and the compound's gatekeeper came out with a broom to sweep the street, the boy still hadn't seen the departing carriages.
He had to swallow his pride and ask: when had the party of Chen Dui's people left Fulu Street?
The gatekeeper smiled and said they had already left long ago.
The straw-shoe boy was stunned. Hadn't Liu Xianyang agreed to wait until dawn?
In that instant, his vision blurred.
He thanked the gatekeeper and turned to run.
He ran out of the town and covered nearly sixty li in a single stretch. At last, reaching the top of a slope, the boy stood exhausted and gazed at the winding road stretching on ahead.
He crouched at the crest, the copper coins and stones he'd failed to deliver lying at his feet.
A girl with a sword at her side and a blade at her waist sat down beside him, soundless and breathless, huffing: "You're supposed to be a miser who'd sell his soul for money—since when did you become so generous? All your worldly possessions, given away? Liu Xianyang may be your friend, but that's no reason to empty your pockets."
The boy simply held his head and stared into the distance.