Upon the craggy peak of Hengshan, nestled a humble temple, its façade unadorned save for the faint gilt ghosts of long-vanished characters. Before its weathered doors stood a venerable cypress, its boughs a gnarled testament to ages past, its needles whispering secrets to the wind.

Within and without, the temple shone with an unnatural light, lanterns ablaze in defiance of the coming night. Scattered about the temple’s precinct, a score of men and women, clad as servants and maids, huddled in whispered conversations, their faces etched with unease.

Inside the sanctuary, a raucous scene unfolded. Five or six men, their ages spanning the vast chasm between youth and venerable age, their faces flushed crimson with drink, roared with mirth. Empty Kaifeng wine jars littered the floor, testament to their revelry. These were men of breeding, judging by their cultured speech and their boisterous critiques of the realm’s affairs. Emboldened by the potent brew, one amongst them, his chest bared to the cool mountain air, raised his glass high, turning to face the clay effigy of the Green Queen enshrined within. “God or phantom, I fear ye not!” he bellowed. “Show thyself, and I shall pledge ye a cup! Ha! Queen Qing, should you deign to descend this night, the tale shall be sung for generations, your incense burning ever brighter! To you, then, I offer this first draught!”

He quaffed the wine, most of it spilling down his chest and onto the earthen floor in a clumsy cascade.

His companions roared with laughter, urging him on to further blasphemies. One even dared suggest carrying the Queen’s image from the altar, promising a night of carnal delight, a shared dream of spring between goddess and mortal. Such sacrilege only fueled their merriment.

Then, a sigh echoed through the small temple, silencing the revelry for a fleeting moment.

A gentle breeze stirred, but lost in their drunken stupor, the men noticed nothing amiss.

—

Halfway down the mountain, Chen Ping’an, immersed in the art of the sword furnace, felt a shift in the air and glanced downwards. A figure ascended, using a mere branch as their aid – Xie Xie, a scion of the fallen Lu family.

Chen Ping’an considered descending, when he saw the girl raise her head and grin, brandishing the branch. Her voice, honeyed and alluring, drifted upwards. “No need to trouble yourself, we can parley from here!”

With the agility of a mountain cat, she took flight. Toes lightly touching the bark of the trees, she leaped upwards, propelling herself backwards onto the next. Up and up she climbed, a dancer among the branches, her movements betraying the discipline of a skilled martial artist.

Finally, she reached a branch near the one where Chen Ping’an stood, hanging precariously sideways. “You practice martial arts, I hone my Qi. Not so different, really,” she said, still smiling. “Those who reach the highest pinnacles of Qi cultivation often look down upon martial artists. They see it as a lesser path, a consolation prize for those lacking the gift for true cultivation. They cleave the world into nine realms, sneering at the lower ones, much like monks who shun the lower quarters. They treat the Wufu as a low slut. In the end, both sides grow tired of the others, and they feel lost.”

Chen Ping’an inquired, “Why do you tell me this, Miss Xie?”

She rested the branch across her legs, her gaze unwavering. “Cui Dongshan is, shall we say, quite desperate. He’s been burning incense at every tiny temple he can find. He approached me in secret, offering a treasure if I could speak a few words in his favour, even if you still refuse to take him as a student. Of course, I was initially intrigued by his masterless flying sword, but Cui Dongshan refused, offering only a bamboo flute upon completion of the task. He even showed me the flute, a veritable instrument of fish and insects.”
“This palace, now lost to time, was once a closely guarded secret of the Lu Dynasty,” the woman purred, her voice like honeyed wine. “It was a binding token, forged in the fires of loyalty, to secure the alliance with the Lu family’s first emperor. And me? I am but a woman, drawn to all things beautiful and enchanting. What fairer prize than you?”

A rustle in the leaves startled her. Chen Ping’an, interrupted in his exercises, mirrored her pose, perched upright on a branch. He met her gaze. “My lady Xie, pray continue. I am all ears.”

Xie gifted him a dazzling smile. “I thought I had finished. I spoke of the chasm between pure martial artists and mountain-dwelling monks, hoping to tempt you with paltry stones for precious jade. Cui Dongshan’s constant pratfalls? I observe with detached amusement. But when faced with speaking to you, I find myself plagued with hesitancy, fearful you’ll dismiss me unheard. Then the Fish and Insect Flute, so close to my grasp, would sprout wings and vanish.”

Chen Ping’an nodded. “Should Cui Dongshan inquire, I will vouch for the ardor of your pursuit. If it pleases you, could you enlighten me further on the subject of martial arts?”

The girl narrowed her eyes, piercing him with a gaze that threatened to see clear to his very soul. “I know but whispers and echoes, and nothing is forbidden from being spoken. The reason I possess even these fragments lies in the lower realms of cultivation. Qi, Nourishment, Connection – the first five stages. Yet, they remain trapped within the confines of skin, flesh, bone, and blood. Hence, they are relegated to the ‘lower realms.'”

She extended a delicate finger, tapping at several points on Chen Ping’an’s body. “The human form holds over three hundred Qi Fortresses, interconnected like the peaks of a mountain range. Your first step, entering the Mud Embryo Realm, seeks to find one such fortress and nurture it. Herein lies talent made manifest. Surely, someone has explained this to you?”

Chen Ping’an had been listening with rapt attention. “I have heard the gist of it, aye, but I would gladly hear it again. Fear not, Lady Xie, that you bore me with repetition.”

The girl tapped the branch thoughtfully, tilting her chin and gazing at a point just above Chen Ping’an’s head. “A martial genius, it is said, can discern that vital breath from a tender age. Furthermore, the Fortress it chooses will not be some unremarkable site, but a key point imbued with inherent power. Some settle on barren ridges, or unclaimed corners of a mass grave, while others claim Hongzhu Town, poised on the edge of prosperity, or even the majestic Dali Capital City itself. The fates of each are vastly different. Lastly, the very essence of that breath, its thickness, its length, its quality, all determine its potential. For what good is a Fortress in Dali Capital, if it lacks the capacity for growth? Do you comprehend?”

“I believe so,” Chen Ping’an responded.

“Cui Dongshan’s so-called ‘Natal Flying Sword’ is naught but the sword cultivator’s counterpart. He warms the blade within the Natal Acupoint, fusing it with his very soul. When released, it is the essence of his being, slaying foes with ethereal force. When it returns, it dissolves back into the void. My master once said that a human’s Qi Fortress is a blessing in itself, possessing the inherent power to…” She trailed off, lost in thought.
“The flesh, though born small as a finger-length, can be forged anew through relentless training. Once the gates of the joints are unlocked, they possess an infinite capacity, able to house a flying sword or a mountain-sized artifact with equal ease.”

“The second stage of your martial path involves harnessing the power of your innate acupoints to expand the pathways within, transforming the rugged, narrow channels into grand, official roads. The myriad martial arts of this world stem from differing methods of mountain-clearing and road-building. Where one begins, which path one chooses, and the shortcuts one takes – each school holds secrets passed down through generations. For example, the channels forged by a boxing practitioner differ greatly from those of a swordsman or spear wielder. Chen Ping’an, I sense you are now laying the foundation in this second realm. No wonder you dedicate yourself to boxing and stance work each day. At your current pace, I believe you will soon reach the third stage. Pray tell, may I know the location of your natal acupoint?”

Chen Ping’an shook his head, “Nay.”

The young woman wrinkled her nose, muttering, “Stingy one.”

However, recalling the woeful fate of Cui Lin, a young master from Dali, she quickly concluded that Chen Ping’an’s refusal was quite characteristic. Bluntly put, Chen Ping’an’s temperament was akin to a stone at the bottom of a pit – foul-smelling and unyielding. More kindly stated, his mind was steadfast and unshakeable.

Chen Ping’an then inquired, “Why does Miss Xie believe I am close to the third realm?”

Xie blurted out, “You martial artists rely solely on the power of a single breath, ultimately sacrificing the body in exchange for destructive force. To live longer and extend one’s life, one must enter the sixth realm early, able to nourish the soul and spirit, allowing them to sustain the body. Prolonged delays in the second and third realms will deplete innate true energy. Each battle, each grievous wound, becomes a furious expenditure of vitality. This is why so many foolishly train themselves to death through boxing. Even those noble families who immerse themselves in rare medicinal baths to heal their injuries merely treat the symptoms, never truly benefiting the soul. While they may possess martial prowess, they cannot attain enlightenment and longevity. However, reaching the pinnacle of martial arts, attaining the ninth level or even the true, legendary end, makes living a century or two quite feasible.”

Chen Ping’an countered, “That is not entirely accurate. Those blessed with great talent may progress swiftly, but those of meager abilities like myself risk error if driven by haste. It is better to proceed step by step, avoiding missteps. Then each stride holds worth. Besides, I practice martial arts not to pursue such lofty heights, but simply… to strengthen my body.”

Chen Ping’an’s words took on a subtle shift. In truth, he was using boxing to preserve his life.

After Cai Jinjian employed vile means to shatter the Bridge of Eternal Life, Chen Ping’an’s only initial discomfort was its blockage, hindering his cultivation and leaving him exposed. After the Qidun Mountain battle severely damaged him, the lifespan he had painstakingly cultivated vanished like mist. Fortunately, his southward journey, sustained by countless daily stances, had allowed Chen Ping’an to reclaim some of what he had lost. He could clearly feel his body improving, as if stitching together the breaches in a crumbling house.
The lass offered a small, serene smile. “The path of fists and blades is a winding one, each traveler treading at their own pace. If a steady hand guides your journey, I see no ill fortune in it.”

As a student of Qi, my understanding of martial disciplines is but a glimmer compared to a roaring bonfire. I confess, I often overlay the principles of Qi cultivation onto the movements of martial arts. While her insight is broader than old Zhu He’s, the nuances, the subtle pressures and counters, are surely lost to her when compared to a fifth-realm martialist like Zhu He. Furthermore, Zhu He was personally heralded as a “Sage Master” by the ancestor of the Li family in Fulu Street, an accolade that dwarfs even renowned instructors. Such recognition speaks volumes of Zhu He’s prowess. Yet, he is shackled by the Li family’s limited lore, confined to a humble town. Like most river-folk martial artists, he believes the ninth realm to be the pinnacle, singing its praises as the ultimate destination.

In truth, a tenth realm exists, a gulf so vast it dwarfs even the chasm separating the sixth and ninth.

Martial prowess, alas, is not a pathway to the Great Dao. Though one’s flesh may be as impenetrable as the Vajra Diamond, true transcendence remains elusive. The brevity of life is a harsh bottleneck, an unbreakable wall. Reaching the Great Dao is a dream, a chimera that eludes all who seek it through martial might alone.

And it is precisely this which breeds a sense of condescension in the hearts of Qi cultivators. We see these mountain-foot martialists as forever dabbling, their efforts confined to the foothills. At best, they may venture halfway up our mountainside for a fleeting visit, but there their ambitions end. What grand destiny can they hope to achieve? While we, the ascetics of the higher realms, are treading the path of longevity, of enduring hope.

If martial prowess cannot lead to the Great Dao, even a body as unbreakable as the Vajra Diamond is limited. A century, perhaps two, and then they are merely dust and bone, no more significant than a forgotten pebble on the mountainside.

Curiosity lighting his eyes, Chen Ping’an inquired, “Fair maiden, you who practice Qi, you celestial beings roaming freely amongst the peaks, do you also find yourselves compelled to hone your bodies as these martial practitioners do?”

He recalled Ning Yao’s words back in town. Even bound by the town’s magical dampening fields, individuals like Yunxia Mountain’s Cai Jinjian and Laolong City’s Fu Nanhua possessed a physical strength far exceeding ordinary men. A single, well-placed blow from them could be fatal, while Chen Ping’an’s relaxed strikes struggled to even wound them significantly.

The words “roaming freely” seemed to strike a chord within the lass. A fleeting shadow of bitterness crossed her lips before she composed herself, her eyes regaining their quicksilver gleam. Patiently, she explained, “The cultivation of Qi is paramount, the body but a vessel. Though perhaps ‘vessel’ is too crude a word. Think of it thus: a simple earthenware bowl can hold but a few measures of wine, while a priceless, jadeite vessel of the same size can contain a hundred times more. We, who cultivate Qi, seek to draw upon the vitality of the heavens and earth, to imbue our skin, flesh, bones, and blood, to fortify the very vessel itself. Should a Qi cultivator’s body be too frail, too delicate, it would surely undermine the grand endeavor of immortality.”

Having spoken her piece, the girl seemed disinclined to continue the conversation, retreating into a quiet reserve. She turned her gaze towards the moonlit landscape beyond Hengshan, lost in her own thoughts.

Chen Ping’an, sensing her reticence, did not press her further.
Chen Ping’an, a man more familiar with the cobbled streets of his heart than dusty tomes, could not weave eloquent explanations. Yet, the truth of the matter settled deep within him, a silent understanding.

Therefore, he guarded the secrets of his body’s inner workings like a dragon hoards gold. He would breathe no word of the swirling currents within, the dance of qi through his meridian pathways.

The sword energy A-Liang had imparted, now stilled after eighteen cycles, remained a closed book.

Indeed, the very essence within, once hesitant like a timid fawn, now roamed like a fire drake. It had finally chosen two Qi Mansions as its havens. The first was within the acupoint near Qidun Mountain, where he himself had felled the white python. That location, once host to the vanquished sword energy, now welcomed the new energy like a pauper finding a king’s ransom. It lingered there far longer than near the Lower Dantian.

He now consciously coupled his movements with Old Man Yang’s breathing exercises, attempting to channel each inhale and exhale through the eighteen vital points along his meridians.

His boxing form, to any eye, remained simple and unadorned.

Yet, his unwavering dedication to the breath, that inner cultivation, was a thing unseen, a hidden labor.

The words of Old Man Yao, spoken long ago, resonated still, echoing within the alleyways of his memory.

“What is yours, grasp it tight, and never let it go. What is not, do not even reach for it.”

In his youth, weighed down by poverty, he’d pondered the latter. Now, touched by fortune and ambition, the first half of the phrase bloomed anew.

“I, Chen Ping’an, will strive to excel in all things I undertake!”

He repeated it often, a silent mantra in the quiet hours.

The boy in straw sandals, now south-bound, had worn through many pairs. He had witnessed grand vistas, yet he held fast to the fundamental truths learned in his youth, those bedrock principles upon which his life was built.

Perhaps it was the enduring fear of destitution that made every seemingly small wisdom so valuable to the Nibo Lane youth. With the passing of time, they only grew richer. He weighed them in his dealings with others and revisited them in solitude, savoring their essence.

From the “Great Li,” a foundational text, came the words: “That which Heaven bestows is called Nature; to follow that Nature is called Tao; to cultivate Tao is called Teaching. The Tao cannot be separated, even for a moment; that which is separated from Tao is not the true path.”

One day, Li Baoping, the scribe, attempted to explain this sacred wisdom. The young man in white, so rarely seen, stepped silently from the carriage and listened. Then, just as silently, he departed.

However, the little girl Xie, immersed in her scroll at the time, recited the passage in a flat, rote manner, leaving Chen Ping’an more befuddled than before. The pair quickly moved on.

Now, the girl suddenly spoke, “Don’t worry about me, Chen Ping’an, go ahead.”

Chen Ping’an nodded. “Cui Dongshan believes a powerful beast might be lurking in Hengshan. Be careful, Miss Xie, it’s getting late.”

The girl smiled. “Although I’m but a nascent cultivator of the lower realms, I possess a few tricks for self-preservation in a life-or-death situation. Do not fret.”

Chen Ping’an slid down the tree trunk and onto the earth, moving forward with his stake, a ‘mountain-shaking’ weight in his hands. His tension eased, replaced by a quiet focus.

The once-simple external forms of his boxing practice were beginning to possess a newfound smoothness and internal harmony.

The girl, perched upon a branch, gently patted her knees.

And the young man in white stood ethereally upon a nearby height, a silent observer.
A branch, sprung from the very earth where Chen Ping’an had once planted his sword-forge stake, swayed beneath his feet. The young man’s form rose and fell with its gentle rhythm.

Cui Xuan, facing outwards from the mountain’s embrace, flicked his wrist. A bamboo flute, a gift laden with unspoken meaning, arced towards the waiting girl, Xie. She caught it, her gaze downcast and shadowed with complexity.

“Thank you,” she began, “Nearly two decades have passed since that journey began. Does even the National Master still struggle to fathom Chen Ping’an’s true nature? You bade me speak freely, to share my thoughts, yet what knowledge could such a conversation truly yield?”

The boy in white, Cui Xuan, peered into the distance, his voice a mere whisper. “When Chen Ping’an sets eyes upon me, a subtle withdrawal occurs within his spirit, a defense erected as surely as a mountain pass. It is the wolf-smoke signal, a prelude to seclusion and martial law. Only in the company of you and Li Bao does he shed some of these veils, revealing glimpses of his true self. But it is not enough. One is needed to speak profound words, to touch upon matters closest to his heart.”

Xie ventured, “And where, precisely, lies Chen Ping’an’s deepest boundary? What must be breached to truly know him?”

The boy evaded her question, his face contorted in a fleeting mask of pain. “The Old Man… He imprinted words upon my very soul. Words that, for now, I only understand amplify certain emotions within me. They appear natural, a spontaneous outpouring, yet in retrospect, they are… terrifying. Were it not for Yang’s warning, I might have embraced them as my own.”

The girl offered a small smile. “Does the National Master seek to learn sincerity from mortals, then?”

Cui Xuan did not turn. His voice was cold. “Little girl, I would advise against impertinence. My patience, like all things, has its limits. Chen Ping’an, I am bound by circumstances beyond your comprehension. Were it not so, he would have perished a hundred times over. As for you, you are but a reed, bending to the prevailing winds, a forgotten soul for whom no headstone will mark your final rest. To crush you beneath my heel would be a matter of the merest whim.”

Silence fell between them.

Cui Xuan toyed with his wrist, the gesture dismissive. “Yu Lu is far more clever, and infinitely more pleasing, than you.”

The girl dared not speak another word.

Perhaps the steadiness of her path, and the absurdity of her master’s pronouncements, had bred within her a contempt she had failed to perceive.

The young man’s brow furrowed in confusion, and he muttered to himself, “The Tao is vast, the Buddhist path stretches far, and the Confucian laws are of great order. Each possesses the foundations upon which to build an enduring creed. How can other schools of thought hope to contend? Is there truly no chance for any to rise against them? Must I follow in Qi Jingchun’s footsteps, and sever myself from the Old Man’s prescribed knowledge? Yet I tried that once, and though I believed I had found my true path, the Old Man… he simply swatted me down. What is it you want of me? Tell me!”

Tears welled in the boy’s eyes, streaming down his cheeks.

And in that moment, the girl, Xie, saw no absurdity. Instead, she wished only that she were deaf, and had not witnessed his torment.

The boy turned, his face wet with tears, and offered a watery smile. “Little bitch, you are once again indebted to me for your life. Remember this. One day, you will repay it.”

————

When Chen Ping’an returned to the cowhide tent, he found himself momentarily taken aback.

A face unfamiliar and unsettling greeted him.

A woman in a white dress, her skin fairer than the driven snow, her lips a delicate shade of blue, possessed an aura both ethereal and detached. She did not seem of this mortal coil.

She sat by the flickering bonfire, engaged in a game of chess with Lin Shou. And the vague, spectral form of the Yin God perched beside them, its gaze fixed intently upon the checkered board.
Baoping, perched beside them, was a sprite untouched by the gravity of the game. Whether it was Lin Shouyi or the spectral woman, each move drew a chirped commentary. Yu Lu, ever vigilant, remained at her post, a silent guardian of the carriage, distant from the dancing flames.

Chen Ping’an, returning from his own contemplations, found himself bewildered by the tableau.

Li Huai, ever eager to explain, scurried to his side. “This sister,” he whispered, “is forthright as a mountain stream. Upon first meeting, she confessed herself a spirit from the Qingniangniang Temple high above. In life, she held chess above all things. Now, trapped within the small temple, she is beset by boisterous scholars and poets. Driven from her meditative quiet, she descended and, upon seeing Lin Shouyi reviewing the game, felt compelled to play. Should she lose, she has promised a rare and lonely chess record as reward. The Yin God, after cautious inquiry, deemed her harmless and granted her leave.”

Chen Ping’an, alas, possessed little skill in the art of the checkered board and, ever fearful of misstep, preferred a slow and ponderous game – a style that did not appeal to the discerning eye of Lin Shouyi. He resigned himself to his lack of talent. Yet, often, Lin Shouyi would, during moments of rest, pore over ancient scores, as still and serene as an enlightened monk, a clear sign of the tutelage of his family.

Chen Ping’an approached the campfire, keeping a respectful distance from the chessboard, adding wood to the blaze. Even the engrossed Lin Shouyi lifted his head, a flicker of apology in his pale face, as if remembering the weight of Chen Ping’an’s journey with them. After the ordeal with the bride-ghost, the Yin God had explained in grim detail that all spirits unlisted in the Imperial registers, however virtuous or powerful, were considered little better than wandering, forgotten wraiths.

Chen Ping’an waved a dismissive hand, offering a warm smile. “Continue, I am merely tending the fire.”

The spirit woman, utterly absorbed in her game, held a black piece against her chin, her brow furrowed in concentration.

It became clear her skill was not unmatched, for Lin Shouyi held a clear advantage.

Chen Ping’an retreated a short distance from the blaze, casting a covert glance toward the Yin God. The spectral figure smiled, offering a subtle nod, reassurance that the woman held no threat.

Only then did Chen Ping’an find true ease.

The Yin God, it seemed, had parted ways with them beyond the Dali Yefu Pass, presumably to return to Longquan County by the same route. But he had clearly changed his mind, tarrying a while longer not at the behest of Old Man Yang, but for reasons known only to himself.

Confused, Chen Ping’an, given the spirit’s obvious intent, agreed.

And so, he returned to his exercises, coaxing the nascent furnace of swordsmanship within.

When he opened his eyes once more, he found the Yin God seated beside him, his back to the chess players, his gaze fixed upon Chen Ping’an.

“Is there something amiss?” Chen Ping’an inquired.

The Yin God nodded. “I return to my duties soon. I bid you farewell.”

Chen Ping’an offered a simple nod in return.

Then, the Yin God spoke his name.

As the boy turned, a look of bewilderment on his face, his eyes widened, for he saw a face, faintly familiar, revealing the true visage beneath the spectral guise. He quickly raised a finger to his lips, motioning for silence, and the vision of clarity vanished, replaced once more by the wavering, indistinct form. The Yin God, employing a secret art, spoke directly to the youth’s very soul, making his words heard without sound.
Beside Heart Lake, her voice, soft as the whisper of reeds, drifted on the wind. “Xiao Ping’an,” she murmured, “For years you watched over Xiaocan, a debt I can never truly repay. The river loach, a kindness beyond measure. Gratitude overflows, yet… to offer my life in return, though the desire burns bright, is a path forbidden to me.”

A crimson tinge touched Chen Ping’an’s eyes, yet a grin bloomed across his face. The boy, pure of heart, rejoiced for Gu Can’s sake. Still, a shadow of sorrow lingered, an unwanted guest in his joy.

Yin Shen, a flicker of moonlight given form, raised a fist, gesturing towards the heart. “Chen Ping’an,” he declared, a smile gracing his ethereal features, “I believe in you. One day, you shall reach the loftiest heights, the furthest horizons!”

Words failed Chen Ping’an. Before he could find his tongue, the spirit of Yin Shen faded into nothingness, leaving only the chill of the lake in his wake.

In that year, Chen Ping’an turned fourteen years of age. Young Cui Yi was fifteen, a budding sapling of a man. Lin Shou was twelve, his spirit still fresh and green. Li Baoping, a sprite of nine summers, and Li Huai, a mere seven, frolicked in innocent bliss. Yu Lu, a wisp of fourteen herself, watched over Thank You, a child of thirteen years, his heart as vast as the sky above.