Upon the precipice etched with the Celestial Emperor’s draconic reprimand, stood three souls. A voice, keen as any celestial blade, echoed unseen, belonging to a woman whose mastery of swords rivaled that of the very gods. Her presence, a ghost in the mountain wind, remained hidden from sight.

Cui Minghuang, lowest in cultivation, bore the heaviest heart. In less perilous days, he was Cui Junzi, a guest of honor, a man whose flattering tongue could coax blossoms from barren trees. Yet here, on this night, he was but an ant, insignificant even beside the dust motes dancing in the moonlight.

This humbling reality chafed at his accustomed arrogance. He fought to quell the rising tide of frustration, muttering Confucian verses, seeking solace in their ancient wisdom. He dared a glance toward the gnarled figure, a man returned from the star-strewn rivers of the heavens themselves. Publicly, he was a former minister of the Huang Ting kingdom. In truth, he was a dragon, ancient and terrible.

Unlike the fidgeting Emperor Cui, the dragon was an island of serenity. He stroked his beard, eyes alight with interest as he regarded the cage of shimmering sword-ki.

Cui Minghuang’s journey south had been a secret, undertaken at the behest of the Grand Astrologer. His mission: to parley with this slumbering dragon. The Astrologer envisioned this being, disguised as a retired official tasked with founding an academy in the Piyun Mountains, as its first Headmaster. Cui Minghuang himself, by prior agreement, would serve as Deputy. Together, along with a renowned literary figure from the Dali Dynasty, they would usher in a new era of learning, eclipsing even the famed Shanjing Academy of Qi Jingchun.

The location, originally intended for Guanhu Academy, was, rumor had it, compensated for handsomely by the Dali Emperor.

Before receiving the Astrologer’s coded missive, Cui Minghuang had been ignorant of the leviathan lurking in the shallows of the Huang Ting Kingdom. Possessing the inherent toughness of his draconic kin, he wielded dominion over water that surpassed even the most adept cultivators of the eleventh realm.

The Astrologer’s letter hinted at the gruesome legacy of the ancient Shu Kingdom, a realm famed for its dragon-kin. Following the world-shaking Dragon Cull, its rivers ran red with draconic ichor, its mountains littered with shattered scales and splintered bones.

This ancient dragon, cunning and patient, had survived by constant transformation. He had walked the earth as a general, a minister, a peddler, a hero. He had tasted the myriad flavors of mortal existence.

The old serpent held little interest in breeding, his progeny scattered thin across the land. A son, the Hanshi River God of Dashui, and a daughter, the foremother of Liu Jiahui’s Qiulu Inn in Ziyang, whose true nature was a secret even from her own disciples. The eldest son, however, shunned his heritage, preferring to wander the world, his fate now uncertain.

A humble scholar, burdened with luggage, had ascended the mountain by means of Taoist shrinking spells. Little did he suspect that his path would be blocked, and by such formidable forces. The sky-piercing wall of sword-ki severed his connection to the outside world, leaving him blind and vulnerable.

“Good heavens,” the scholar murmured, scratching his chin. “Are the women outside truly this fearsome now?”

He sighed, raised a hand, and with a gentle tap upon the empty air, intoned, “Stay.”

Silence descended. The roar of rivers, the whisper of wind against the sword-ki, all vanished. Time itself faltered within this ten-mile radius.

The spirit of Confucianism, ancient and vast, surged forth.

Cui Minghuang, fear giving way to ecstatic hope, chanted the sacred teachings within his mind, striving to amplify his own moral aura. This was a chance, perhaps the only one, for a Confucian gentleman to attain sainthood.

Even the ancient dragon recoiled, instinctively putting distance between himself and the unassuming scholar. Even if that distance offered no true protection, it served as a gesture of deference.

From his youth, the dragon had heard tales of a pact made between a Confucian saint and the Four Dragon Kings: “Should a dragon venture ashore and encounter a sage, it must yield and conceal itself.”

One boastful dragon, second only to the Dragon Kings in power, had dared to disregard this pact. From the depths of his lake, he stirred up waves that towered over the shoreline, daring the traveling sage to challenge him. He remained within the water, technically adhering to the letter of the law. What could a Confucian sage do to him?

The young dragon had reveled in the defiance, until his elders recounted the aftermath. The sage, with a single gesture and words akin to the scholar’s “Stay,” stilled the waters, trapped the dragon in mid-air, and banished the waters back tens of miles. The dragon had violated the pact, stepping ashore in spirit, so the sage flayed him alive, pinning his hide beneath a mountain-sized boulder, condemning him to millennia of submerged torment.

The elders had warned, their voices grave: “The tempers of these Confucian saints, especially those venerated in the Temple, are not to be trifled with.”

The young dragon had dared to question the righteousness of the act, only to be silenced with a furious rebuke: “Fool! Who made the rules in the first place?”

Now, atop the cliff, the ancient dragon remembered these tales, a pang of sorrow echoing in his ancient heart. “The dragons, born to roam the heavens, to bring rain and bounty, have fallen from grace, their ambition their undoing,” he lamented.

The scholar, startled, turned to the aged dragon, offering a gentle smile. “To acknowledge one’s errors is a virtue,” he declared. “No wonder I sensed something amiss here. A touch of humility was lacking. Well met, old friend! Alas, I cannot tend to you at present. Begone!”

With a flick of his fingers, the dragon and Cui Minghuang were flung from the precipice.

Man and beast landed upon the distant river. Simultaneously, they clutched their hands, concealing golden glyphs that had appeared in their palms. Secrets to be kept.

From atop the cliff, the scholar chuckled. “Hide them well, lest you become heroes against your will!”

Realizing his error, he faltered, unsure how to amend his words.

Then, a figure materialized on the far side of the sword-ki barrier, tall and clad in white, sheltering under a massive lotus leaf, as white as the snow-clad peaks.

The scholar frowned, his mind racing. With a sigh, he gazed at the sky, lingering on the clouds, muttering, “The final journey, then? That spirited boy, with his unwavering adherence to righteousness… it shall be a hard path for you indeed.”

Turning to the woman in white, he said, “If Chen Ping’an were to strike down the younger Cui Feng, it would be a tragedy.”

She smiled. “Perhaps. But beyond my control. Were you to escape this cage, your words might find their mark. But first, you must leave. I have no inclination to restrain those two you cast out.”

The scholar sighed. “I was never one for combat, even in my prime. Why force my hand? Besides, Chen Ping’an and Cui Feng… both are, in a sense, my disciples. Who would I favor? Though my actions preserved Cui Feng, it was ultimately for Chen Ping’an’s sake.”

The woman in white nodded. “A reasonable sentiment.”

Then she shook her head. “But I have not come to parley with reason.”

The scholar’s despair deepened. “For the sake of your little Ping’an, grant me this single exception? I am but a teacher, helpless without willing ears. And you, one of the world’s four greatest warriors, are the wielder of the…well, never mind the title. This is unfair!”

The tall woman held her strange parasol, her expression unchanged. “Break the formation.”

The scholar, defeated, pleaded, “Do you even know who I am?”

The woman in white smirked. “I do. You are Wen Sheng.”

The scholar gaped, surprised that such knowledge did not dissuade her. “This is too much,” he sputtered.

He was the Sage of Letters, revered by every Confucian scholar, enthroned at the heart of the Confucian Temple.

Beneath him were the Sage of Ritual and the Sub-Sage, who carried the torch of Confucianism through the ages.

These figures were extolled as models of virtue, the architects of the complex Confucian code. Wen Sheng was the fourth and final position in the Confucian Temple.

The sage has been gone from the Confucian Temple for a long time and has moved out. He smashed the statue of the god.

The scholar reached back, patting for his luggage, finding only empty air.

Again, he tried, his tone gentle. “Surely we can find a compromise? Must we fight?”

The woman considered, then nodded. “I shall offer a token of respect.”

The scholar beamed. “Excellent!”

Instantly, the sword-ki intensified, the sword force rising to an unparalleled crescendo, threatening to cleave the very fabric of existence.

These were the arts of the ancient Sword Immortals, who bowed to no authority, who roamed the earth with impunity, wielding the sword of oblivion, the sword of absolute mastery, the sword of invincible spirit, and the sword of world altering prowess.

The woman curled her lip. “Break the formation! Is this not respect enough?”