A blush of anticipation painted the little maiden’s cheeks as the appointed day drew near. Fear held no sway over her heart, only a childish delight. She dreamt of her uncle, a celestial warrior descending from the boundless heavens upon a blade of shimmering light, proclaiming his kinship for all the world to hear.

Unburdened by the harsh realities of mortal men, Li Baoping gave no thought to the shadows lurking beneath the surface. No dark designs, no concealed daggers, could pierce the innocence of her young mind. She entrusted her heart without reservation, a simple act of faith in a world fraught with peril.

Perhaps it was this very naivete that stirred the slumbering scholar upon the boy’s back to reveal secrets best left hidden. He cherished this fragile trust, a rare bloom in a desolate landscape.

“Uncle Master,” Li Baoping chirped, her voice like birdsong, “If words fail and swords cross, we can always flee!”

Chen Ping’an smiled, a gentle warmth in his eyes. “Aye, lass, as long as you don’t mind my clumsy retreat.”

And so, Chen Ping’an led Li Baoping and her companions through the bustling market, purchasing sturdy boots for their weary feet. He spared no expense on two sets of fine raiment for each, claiming that no coin should be spared for comfort.

Li Baoping, ever true to her heart, chose garments of vibrant crimson. For, long ago, a wandering soothsayer had declared that such hues would ward off malevolent spirits and ensure her good fortune. Though years had passed, and the girl had grown, her family remained steadfast in their belief, constantly reminding her to shun all other colors. The mere mention of the soothsayer now brought a mischievous glint to her eyes, and she vowed to give him a sound thrashing when their paths crossed again.

Throughout their shopping, the old scholar remained lost in slumber, his weight surprisingly light for one who carried such vast knowledge within. Chen Ping’an, laden with his burden, wondered how a single mind could hold such a boundless trove of wisdom.

Though the journey had left its mark, darkening her skin and thinning her frame, Li Baoping radiated an inner strength as they returned to the Qiulu Inn. Her bookbag was full and her heart was even fuller. Chen Ping’an marveled at the ethereal mist that veiled the alley, a mystical echo of the “Search Mountain Picture” gifted to him by the blind old Taoist. The painting, with its fantastical depictions of gods and mythical beasts, paled in comparison to the living reality that surrounded them.

As they approached the inn, guarded by two towering painted deities, the old scholar stirred from his sleep, his feet finding solid ground. A silver ingot appeared in his hand, plucked from a seemingly bottomless pouch. The old scholar turned his gaze upon the two fellows, his expression reflecting confusion.
Faces etched with a mix of understanding and sorrow, he smiled, a gentle parting gesture. “Every feast must end. The road calls me west, a journey through many lands. I can linger here no longer.”

The aged scholar, his voice like the rustling of autumn leaves, spoke slowly, “Chen Ping’an, the fractured soul of Cui Yan, a tapestry of good and evil, however imperfectly divided, I entrust to your care. Teach him not just with words, but with the example of your actions. Show him the path I myself have tried to illuminate. This is why I asked him to remain by your side.”

Li Baoping, her brow furrowed in youthful disapproval, protested, “But Master Wen Sheng, Cui Yao is a wicked soul! Why do you constantly shield him?”

“Alas,” sighed the old scholar, a hint of weariness in his tone.

He offered a patient explanation, “I have lifted the bindings upon his spirit. If you believe he deserves death, then heed not my frailties and do what you must. My seeming favoritism stems from a deeper truth. His wrongdoings are, in part, born from my own flawed teachings. Perhaps I was too absolute in my judgments, causing Cui Yan to believe I dismissed him without proper consideration.”

The old man’s gaze was distant, his voice hushed. “In truth, I was caught in a storm of my own making, driven to prove a point, with no time to gently guide him, to patiently unravel his misconceptions. And so, in his youthful anger, he chose to betray my trust, leaving a trail of discord in his wake, Ma Zhan being but one example. Yet, if he can tread the path he now seeks, he might indeed bring benefit to the world, a slow and steady climb that could, in a hundred years, a thousand, add another incense stick to the altar of Confucian ideals. These tangled webs of consequence, woven with both great achievement and utter folly, you too may encounter as you rise higher and see further. Learn from my mistakes. Think deeply, act deliberately, and above all, be mindful of those closest to you. Do not let darkness fester beneath the lamp, or you will know true sorrow.”

His frail hand, gnarled with age and wisdom, rested briefly on Chen Ping’an’s head, then gently ruffled Li Baoping’s hair. “Do not yearn for quick growth, my dears. With adulthood comes a burden of cares, and fewer companions to share the load. Garments and boots are best when new, but friendships ripen with age. And with age, alas, comes mortality.”

Li Baoping, ever inquisitive, piped up, “But Lin Shouyi, the mountain spirit, says that those who cultivate the Qi can live for a hundred years, even a thousand!”

The old man chuckled, a warm and comforting sound. “And what of a hundred years hence, or a thousand?”

Li Baoping, testing the waters, ventured, “Then I’ll just be leaving first?”

The old man was delighted by her innocence and laughed silently, “Then the other way around, Xiao Baoping, if you are a very good girl like you, one day, you will be no longer in the world, then how sad your friends will be. Anyway, I This old man will cry so sadly that he will definitely not even be able to drink wine at that time.”

Li Baoping suddenly realized, and the little chicken pecked at Michelle and said, “Yes, yes, no one can die!”

The old scholar extended his hand, offering a bar of silver. Chen Ping’an eyed it cautiously. “It’s not worm silver, is it? Like Cui Wei possesses?”

The old scholar shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Such trinkets are rare. A young Cui Yan might have found it amusing, but the older version would barely glance at it. This, which appears merely a silver ingot, is in truth an unformed sword embryo, far superior to the one Cui Xuan hid in the square. Its origins are deep and potent. If you have the wit…”
“An opportunity awaits you, young Chen Ping’an! A journey to the God Island of Middle-earth beckons, but to seize it, you must first journey to Suishan. There, perchance, you might partake of some fellow’s finest brew. Aye, the Flower and Fruit wine of Suishan, a draught unmatched in all the realms!”

The aged scholar, his eyes twinkling, raised a calloused thumb. “A nectar fit to intoxicate even the gods themselves!”

Chen Ping’an accepted the offered silver ingot, its coolness a stark contrast to his own heated thoughts.

“Ah, but I remember,” the old man chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I offered you apprenticeship before, and you stubbornly refused. What has changed that now you accept this humble trinket?”

Chen Ping’an shifted uncomfortably. “I… I fear to refuse such kindness again, lest I sow the seeds of lasting ill will.”

Li Baoping, her brow furrowed in innocent curiosity, whispered, “Master Wen Sheng, is it simply because it glitters like silver? Surely uncle isn’t so easily swayed?”

Chen Ping’an, with a gentle flick, knocked a chestnut against her forehead.

Li Baoping, clutching her head, wisely fell silent.

The old man roared with laughter. “Xiao Baoping, when next we meet, cast aside the title of Master Wen Sheng. You are a disciple of Qi Jingchun, and I, merely his gentleman. What, then, should you call me?”

Li Baoping stammered, bewildered, “Master? Grand-Master?”

The old man, his smile widening, nodded. “Either will suffice, child. Choose what pleases you best.”

With uncharacteristic haste, the little girl bowed low, forgetting the precarious weight of her book-laden satchel. A stumble, a gasp, and Chen Ping’an was there to steady her and take the burden of the heavy box.

The old man, ramrod straight, accepted the gesture with regal calm.

The aged scholar, his hands clasped behind his back, sighed contentedly. “The sword embryo, they call it ‘Little Fengdu.’ Accept it without qualm. All ties of cause and effect clinging to it have been severed. As for how to command it, fear not. Be gentle, be patient, and as the river finds its course, so too will the blade recognize its master. Neglect it, and even a thousand years of possession will avail you nothing. It will remain but a useless piece of rusted iron.”

Chen Ping’an stowed it away with meticulous care.

The old scholar nodded once more. “Go now, Chen Ping’an.”

With that, the old man turned and departed.

“Master?” Li Baoping called out, confusion clouding her features.

The old man paused, a gentle smile gracing his lips. “What is it, little one?”

The little girl pointed a small finger towards the heavens. “Master, are you not undertaking a long journey? Why not simply… vanish, and be done with it?”

The old scholar chuckled, shaking his head. “Indeed, to vanish. A fitting notion.”

Chen Ping’an and Li Baoping both tilted their faces skyward, searching in vain. The old man was gone.

Yet, at the other end of the street, near the bustling Xingyun Liushui Lane, an old scholar paused, casting a knowing glance towards the entrance of the Qiulu Inn, before finally disappearing into the throng.

***

Back in the familiar courtyard, the tall woman sat upon a stone bench, her gaze fixed on the sky, a soft smile playing upon her lips.

The two women lived so close, yet Yu Lu and Xie Xie remained blissfully unaware of the sword spirit’s presence. Whenever she chose to reveal herself, she subtly shifted the auras around her, cloaking herself from the eyes and ears, and indeed the very senses, of the two young women.

Li Baoping offered a hasty greeting before retreating to the house to deposit her books. Chen Ping’an settled himself beside the sword spirit.

The tall woman stretched out a hand, and with a flick of her wrist, the ancient sword, slumbering beneath the bridge for countless years, materialized in her grasp. “Times have shifted,” she stated bluntly, “and adjustments must be made. Our century-long agreement stands, yet I shall quicken the pace of the blade’s refinement. I shall strive to restore its original glory within the foreseeable future. This, however, means your Dragon-Slaying Platform will be… insufficient. Utterly, tragically insufficient.”

Chen Ping’an, thoroughly bewildered, could only ponder the small, mysterious Dragon-Slaying Platform that had inexplicably appeared in his yard, only to be carted off to the blacksmith’s shop at his own hand.
She graced him with a smile, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Remember that time, perched upon the moss-covered bridge, you dreamt of tumbling into the stream with a companion and a wicker basket? In that very moment, I spirited away the Dragon Slaying Platform. Those stones you later mistook for it were but humble… well, not entirely humble. They were gallstones of the most potent serpentine variety, potent enough to coax a mere reptile into a… a titan of scales! To secure the Platform, I traded a price centuries in the making. The great Dragon Slaying Platform of the deep mountains was the payment. Perhaps not the entirety of that stone cliff, but most of it, I wager. Fear not, mortal, for I have a plan. If concealment proves impossible, I shall bestow it upon the warrior-monks of Zhenwu Mountain in Fengxue Temple, offering alongside it a few arcane tomes. They shall not deem the bargain unfair, but rather weep with joy, embracing the gift with tear-streaked faces.”

Chen Ping’an felt as though he were deciphering celestial pronouncements, his tongue tied, his mind a blank parchment.

She reached towards the heavens, and a pristine white lotus leaf manifested in her palm, shimmering with ethereal light. “This fragile vessel, born of your sour scholar and your unusually spirited blade, cannot long endure. It is but one reason for my haste to depart. The scholar has pledged to spare his master from the entanglement of Cui Lu’s misdeeds, venturing first to the Chen family in Yingyin, then westward to reveal the truth. Thus, he shall, as he promised, guide those children in their studies. With a rogue like Cui Wei and the martial prowess of Yu Lu, even should the master’s sword-qi falter, I believe fortune shall favor him.”

A shadow of melancholy crossed her features. “But upon my arrival at the Great Sui Academy, I shall be confined, a prisoner within its walls for sixty years, lest my endeavors unravel. You must ensure your survival, and the steady growth of the state. A vexing task indeed.”

Chen Ping’an mused, “Aliang once remarked that a martial artist or qi-user who attains the third tier may journey alone through the land. So long as they shun recklessness, they shall likely meet no grave peril. At the fifth or sixth tier, one may traverse the continent, avoiding the crowded paths, the famed lakes, and the impulsive acts of heroism. Slay demons, if you must, but otherwise keep a low profile. Should disaster strike, blame fate, for a cursed life fares no better sheltered at home.”

She nodded, offering a wry smile. “It pleases me to see you think so. Better cautious and grounded, than a seeker of unattainable heights.”

Then, her gaze narrowed, piercing him. “Why, on the eve of my departure, do you not inquire as to how I might safeguard your life, how I might resolve the shadows looming in your future? We are bound by fate, are we not? Are you not curious as to why I have not mended your Bridge of Eternal Life, to ease your path to cultivation? By both sentiment and reason, is this not a request you should make?”

Chen Ping’an confessed, “Last night, I rose from my bed, intending to ask precisely those questions, but I held my tongue.”

The sword spirit pressed, “And why?”

Chen Ping’an responded with earnest sincerity. “Not from embarrassment, I assure you. For a matter of such great import, I would cast aside all pride. But I have always placed my faith in Old Man Yao, who was, in a sense, half a parent to me.”
“…Believe the words of the fire-master, who at that time wrought wonders with clay and flame.”

The sword spirit, her voice a chime of silver, cut short the boy’s thought. “I know. I witnessed the scene reflected in time’s flowing currents. A curious pronouncement indeed.”

A flicker of vexation crossed her face. She rose, the lotus-leaf parasol unfurling with a rustle. “Do you understand the whispered curse of ‘ill-fated visage’? It is more than superstition, young one. For common folk, fortune and misfortune dance to the tune of destiny, and a change of name alters little. But tamper with the Bridge of Eternal Life, disturb the flow through the Qi-Fortress points, and you unleash a tempest.”

“Cultivation itself is defiance, a rebellion against the ordained Way. The awakening of a Qi-bender is nothing less than the forging of their own Great Path, forcing the Heavens to yield. The Gods decree birth, age, sickness, and death; yet we strive for bodies unblemished, lives unending, freedom untamed. The Heavens, unwilling, must yet acknowledge our ascendance. Think, then, how arduous the path.”

“Were the Bridge of Eternal Life so easily built, would not all descendents of powerful ancestors ascend to godhood? Alas, the meridians, the Qi-Fortresses, the very bloodline of humankind are the most profound mysteries of creation. Recall the Taoist saying, ‘Two Heavens and Earths, within and without.’ This ‘small world’ is the human form itself. To construct the Bridge of Eternity is not merely to be blessed by the Heavens, but to *connect* these two worlds. It is a feat nigh impossible. Not that it *cannot* be done, but the cost is staggering. Such a undertaking demands mastery of the Yin and Yang schools, and the healers’ arts. It is a reason these schools are not known for war, yet retain their power.”

Seeing the boy’s disappointment, yet noting the absence of despair, the sword spirit smiled knowingly. “Fear not, Little Peace. Everything, in its time. Temper your body first; lay a strong foundation. Else you’ll be unable to even lift me, and what then? Do not underestimate the art of physical training! The scholar’s landscape painting granted you a tenfold monk’s illusion, but the body of a Nine-Realms cultivator might yet pale beside a Fifth or Sixth Realm warrior. No true cultivator dares neglect this aspect. They hone their bodies and souls with unrelenting discipline, refusing imperfection. This meticulousness is what gives rise to the ten-level Qi training geniuses, the hidden dragons beneath the waves.”

Chen Ping’an held these words in his heart, carefully storing each one away.

The woman in white stood in the courtyard, her smile like sunrise. “Little Peace, wait sixty years for me. And don’t become a wizened old man, or I might not recognize my own chosen one.”

Chen Ping’an stood, about to reply.

But she had already begun to walk toward him, raising her hand in a gesture of promise.

Chen Ping’an quickly met her gesture, lifting his own hand high.

Yet their palms only grazed the air, for the woman in white vanished, departing as swiftly as she appeared.

Chen Ping’an sank back to his seat, then struck his brow in sudden remembrance. He had forgotten the locust wood sword!
In the shadowed depths of the Qiulu Inn, within a chamber known only to a select few, Cui Feng sipped his tea. Before him, Liu Jiahui, Mistress of the Highrise and a figure of renown within the county, knelt as humbly as any serving maid. Her eyes, sharp and ever watchful, clung to the movements of the Dali National Preceptor, whose true power remained a shrouded mystery.

The Ziyang Mansion, her home, had become a pawn in the grand game played by the Huang Ting Kingdom, itself swept by the tides of Dali’s ambition. Their alliance, a precarious thing, had been ordained by the Mansion’s reclusive Founder. And thus, those like Liu Jiahui, who saw no path to immortality and craved worldly security, clung fiercely to any symbol of imperial authority.

For though Emperor Hong of Huang Ting had decreed ancient reverence for immortals, his realm was too small to hold the allegiance of a spirit like the Ziyang Mansion. Lingyun Sect, entangled in Huang Ting’s fate, might remain loyal, but the Mansion dreamed of a wider stage upon which to enact its grand designs – far grander than the mere “palace” sought by Fulong Temple.

Liu Jiahui was no fool, unlike the handsome youth with the mole upon his brow. She knew there was a reason, a single, undeniable truth, that explained all. It was the figure in green robes, standing silently beside the Preceptor, who bore the unmistakable mark of servitude. No man of Huang Ting, she believed, could command such loyalty from Hanshi, the cruel River God.

After inquiries regarding the inner workings of the Ziyang Mansion, Cui Feng turned to her with a chilling smile. “Wei Li, the county magistrate, is he not your… paramour? He may prove an obstacle to Dali’s path. Tell me, Mistress Liu, would you be willing to slay him with your own hand this very night?”

The question struck Liu Jiahui like a physical blow, rendering her speechless, her body taut with fear.

Cui Ying chuckled, a light, unsettling sound. “But perhaps I am simply a breaker of hearts.”

The young Preceptor nodded, a disarming smile gracing his lips. “Indeed, such is my nature.”

Liu Jiahui felt a desperate urge to weep, her face paling with dread.

The Preceptor waved a dismissive hand. “To ask you to spill blood is a cruel thing. And as the Ziyang Mansion is now allied with Dali, I would not burden you, Mistress Liu, with such a grim task. No, the River God, who already shares a… *connection* with Lord Wei, shall see to the deed.”

With all her strength, Liu Jiahui choked back the tears that threatened to spill. Her voice, though trembling, held a note of defiant desperation. “National Preceptor, if Wei Li is to die, *I* shall be his executioner! There is no need for the River God to intervene.”

Cui Feng sighed, feigning sorrow. “Ah, but then Mistress Liu would surely bear a grudge against me, against Dali. Perhaps it is better to have you slay your lover, only to have the River God then extinguish your life. At least you would become legends – star-crossed lovers whose deaths shook the kingdom…”

A spark ignited in the woman’s eyes, peach blossoms turned to burning embers of murderous intent. She would gladly see the world crumble around her, so long as she could drag her tormentors down with her.

The man in green robes took a step forward, a sneer twisting his lips. To him, Liu Jiahui and her ilk were nothing more than ants, foolishly challenging the gods themselves.

Reality crashed back upon her, and the woman staggered backward, fear eclipsing her rage.

Cui Feng, still seated, lifted the lid of his teacup. The fragrant steam rose in swirling wisps, intoxicating his senses. He closed his eyes, drawing in the aroma with a sigh, then slowly opened them, fixing his gaze upon the trembling woman before him. He continued, his voice a silken threat woven into the silence of the room.
A storm raged within Cui Feng’s heart, a battle against the gods themselves. He offered a brittle smile. “All beings suffer, and their well-being is paramount. For this single cup of exquisite tea, I shall grant Wei Li reprieve. Believe me, I speak the truth.”

The woman, drained of strength, swayed on her feet. Gathering the last dregs of her courage, she whispered, “Lord National Master, are you truly not deceiving me?”

Cui Feng chuckled, a chilling sound. “What sport is there in deceiving *you*?”

Liu Jiahui, once sharp as a honed blade, now felt utterly lost. She dared not believe him.

Cui Feng waved a dismissive hand. “Begone. But heed my words. Watch Wei Li closely. Prevent him from acts of utter folly. Whether you become the consort of a future Lord Dali, whether Wei Li ascends in Dali’s court… rests entirely upon your abilities.”

At last, Liu Jiahui grasped the underlying meaning. Otherwise, she would truly not be able to catch up with the wild thoughts of Master Dali, and the feeling of fear had penetrated into her bones.

It wasn’t just fear of the youthful, enigmatic National Master, who seemed so slight, but fear of the invincible Dali army and the National Master Dali who was above ten thousand people.

The memory of their first, seemingly amiable meeting felt like a cruel jest, the two thousand taels of silver she accepted now burning in her coffers like stolen fire.

It was likely the most ill-gotten gains in the world.

Cui Feng, noticing her lingering hesitation, snapped, “Leave!”

With a hurried curtsy and a murmured farewell, the woman fled.

Once she was gone from the secret chamber, the man in green robes dared to ask, “Lord, do you truly spare Wei Li’s life?”

Cui Feng’s smile became sharp and wicked. “Guess?”

The green-robed man rubbed his temples, a look of weary resignation on his face. “I can never truly fathom the National Master’s designs. I simply obey.”

Cui Feng took a long draught of his tea, then carefully set the cup down on the table. “I do not kill him. Wei Li and the River Lord under your command are talents I intend to utilize in the future.”

The man in green robes was utterly taken aback.

Reuse Wei Li? Why? Could a mere fourth-rank magistrate of Huang Ting Kingdom, devoid of family influence, possibly capture the National Master’s interest?

Ignoring the Hanshi River God’s unspoken question, Cui Feng tapped a finger on the table. “The autumn harvest approaches. Let your Dashui Mansion, employing your predictable methods, orchestrate ‘accidents’ in this county. Let suffering and despair fester until the people are on the verge of rebellion. Then, give Liu Jiahui an opportunity. Send word to Wei Li, promising that you, the mighty Water God, will intervene and alleviate their plight. Wei Li will, of course, be suspicious. That matters little. You will feign a request for gold, demand a plaque from the Ministry of Rites. Even if doubts linger, he will, for the sake of his people, tremble and agree. Continue this charade until the Dali armies march south. When the time is right, when Wei Li stands defiant, ready to defend his city to the death, *then* you will reveal your hand. Proclaim that Wei Li conspired with your Dashui Mansion, all for the sake of ambition and reputation. Then we’ll see how many of those two hundred thousand souls revile Wei Li, and how many remain who trust in him.”

The man in green robes asked carefully, “Is this…?”

Cui Feng rolled his eyes. “Need I spell it out for you? I desire Wei Li’s demise more than his continued existence! You, a supposedly divine being, are outwitted by a simple woman. Such a shame.”

The dignified God of the Hanshi River bowed his head, his face flushed with shame.
The icy draft, a mere babe among rivers, whimpered a plea like a novice supplicant before a grand sorcerer: “Great Master, I crave your wisdom.”

Cui Yan, a wisp of a man draped upon his cushions, stirred with languid annoyance. “Do true scholars, truly burdened with light, know what they dread most? To be born not to the life of the court, but to a craven king who demands their voice for the burdened folk. To counsel with conviction, knowing the axe may fall, a perfect conscience etched in history’s indifferent stone. It is not the breaking, for even that grants a tale. It is the utter powerlessness, the inability to stem the tide, to safeguard kin and kingdom. Some find solace in the secluded temple, others in far-off lands. Poets, at least, can vent their woes in ink. But that which truly grates…”

The youth, clad in moonlit silks, interjected, “Is the fate of Wei Li. A scholar’s son, driven by Confucian ideals to wrestle with the world’s turmoil, clawing his way through courtly machinations. He poured forth his soul, offering only kindness, only to be met with the poison of malice. He sought nothing, craved nothing, and yet he shall be stripped of all. He laments failing his people, when truly, they have failed him. I would have him savor that bitter draught.”

A verdant figure, draped in the flowing robes of a river spirit, sighed, “To walk in those sandals is a fate worse than oblivion.”

His thoughts flashed to a woman beloved, and he murmured, “If Wei Li knew the secrets held within these walls, he would beg Liu Jiahui to end his torment with her own hand.”

Cui Yan idly covered his teacup, his face a mask. “Once despair has consumed Wei Li entirely, at the appointed hour, I shall grant him insight. Liu Jiahui shall choose ‘self-destruction,’ leaving behind a missive, a poisoned quill scratching the truth. She is a guest of the Grand Water Estate, a spy in the service of Dali. She confesses her guilt, begs his forgiveness for betraying Wei Li, and… finally, she will confess that she loved him dearly.”

At this, the green-robed guardian of the land, the very essence of river and mountain, felt a primal terror prickle his skin, a bone-deep chill that stole his breath.

“Wei Li is a promising sprout, one who may bloom into my most cherished disciple. Do not treat him as mere amusement. Should he seek oblivion, you will stay his hand.”

Cui Yan rose, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes, and turned to the petrified River God. “What troubles you so? You have a powerful sire.”

The verdant spirit’s heart churned with conflicting emotions.

Cui Yan, upon his toes, reached out to clap the River God’s shoulder, offering “comfort” laced with venom. “You harbor a darkness you may not yet recognize, but it matters not. Both you and your father are but ants beneath my heel. Your joys, sorrows, hatreds, and reverences… when I am well-disposed, I shall indulge your whims and sooth your fears. But in my displeasure, remember the ancient kingdom of Shu, where a dragon of rare hunger feasted upon those who displeased him. I shall…”

A sudden, terrifying gleam bloomed in the youth’s eyes, a molten gold that burned within his pupils. In a voice of silken menace, he finished, “…Eat you.”

The green-robed guardian stood motionless, his Adam’s apple bobbing in silent terror. A cold sweat drenched his brow.

Cui Yan’s feet returned to the earth. He smiled. “See? I jest. Return to your Grand Water Estate. You shall be treated as Wei Li will be, a welcomed guest of Dali. Have no fear.”

The man in the green robes said not a word.
The robed figure remained immobile, silent, yet resolute in its stance.

Earlier, Liu Jiahui had been dismissed with a patronizing reward, the man sneering, “Look, frightened you.” The implication hinted at momentous consequences, but what meaning did they hold?

Now, the words hung in the air, “A mere shade of meaning… what difference could it make?”

Cui Ying feigned ignorance, offering a placating apology, “You’ve truly overestimated its importance this time.”

The green-robed man simply raised a hand, wiping the beads of cold sweat from his brow.

Cui Xuan pondered, then turned to lift the teacup, draining the last drops. He set it down deliberately. “If, with the aid of your father and myself, you successfully *consume* it… if you can truly bind yourself to the great nation of Dali, you will be safe. You must understand that in this endeavor, one that dwarfs even the Great Dao itself, your father is wanting, and I am merely an instrument. Only then will you stand on equal footing with me.”

The robed man froze, then bowed his head, clenching his fists, his eyes alight with fervent ambition. He spoke no words, for all was understood in the silent understanding of shared darkness.

Cui Yan waved a dismissive hand. “Begone.”

The robed figure seemed released from a dark enchantment, a hint of elation in his bearing. He dissolved into a swirling emerald mist, a sighing wind heralding his departure.

Cui Ying clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes closed as he paced the opulent, secluded chamber.

Finally, he lifted his gaze, staring intently at a section of the wall, as if piercing the veil of reality to see some distant realm. “The old wolf has finally left his den.”

Cui Wei narrowed his eyes, a chilling smile playing on his lips, and strode from the secret room.

————

When Cui Xuan slipped back into the courtyard, a smug satisfaction clung to his features.

So what if he had lost his cultivation? He would manipulate these fools as puppets in his grand design.

In the courtyard, Chen Ping’an was seeking advice from Li Baoping regarding the proper construction of tombs for the wealthy, seeking to understand their demands and customs.

For Chen Ping’an harbored a dream: that one day, flush with coin, he would transform the humble, unmarked grave into a fitting memorial.

As they drew closer to the Great Sui Dynasty, the journey home beckoned. Upon his return, this would be his first act.

Though Chen Ping’an faithfully carried a handful of soil from the mountains each time he ventured forth, to enrich his parents’ graves in the age-old tradition, he now realized the wisdom of a proper burial, understanding the saying “To treat death as life.” This journey had revealed to him the meaning of such words, adding to the weight of his guilt.

Li Baoping, possessing limited knowledge, offered what he could, promising to send a letter to his brother for more detailed guidance.

Chen Ping’an was content to learn what he could. With coin in his purse, anything was achievable. The insurmountable problems of the past were now mere trifles.

Suddenly remembering something, Chen Ping’an asked the young girl, Cui Feng, to show him how to write the character “王” – “King.”

Li Baoping knew the character and traced it with a finger on the stone table.

Chen Ping’an sighed thoughtfully. “Such a difficult character to master.”

Not far behind him, sweat beaded on Cui Lai’s brow, as if he had committed a grave offense. Had retribution arrived so swiftly?

Had the old scholar not just departed? Was Chen Ping’an, a man even more ruthless than himself, already preparing to lavish his coin on a tomb and a headstone… for *him*?

Chen Ping’an turned and saw the silent boy…
A figure, pale as alabaster, stood motionless.

Cui Wei, seized by a chilling dread, spun on his heel and fled. He dragged a petrified Liu Jiahui to a shadowed corner, forcing a sycophantic smile. “Lady Liu,” he oozed, “a grand truth has dawned upon me! Kindness is key! Grant me but your loyalty, and I shall ensure your future with Wei Lihe is as a painting of enduring harmony, overflowing with generations of progeny!”

With a smug flourish, Cui Xian departed, waving off the kneeling, terrified woman. “Believe it or not, harlot! You lap up lies like honey, yet reject the truth outright. Bah! You and Wei Lihe are now blessed with good fortune by my hand. May you cling to each other until the grave claims you both!”

Slinking back into the courtyard, Cui Wei found Chen Ping’an, a man known for his cruelties, seated alone, meticulously grinding the edge of a talismanic blade against the Dragon Slaying Platform.

Cui Yan’s face drained of color. “What? To appease you, I must needs sacrifice Dashui Mansion? No, no! Such things cannot be undone, decisions swayed by whim alone. It involves the Great Lords! How can I possibly retract my original design, my grand scheme?”

Chen Ping’an, turning his head, furrowed his brow. “Twice you have skulked outside, a shadow in the periphery. What mischief are you about?”

Cui Ying pointed a trembling finger at the keen-edged knife. “What are you doing? Honing that blade with such… serpentine intent.”

Chen Ping’an growled, “Henceforth, hold to tranquility, guard your thoughts. And we shall not cross paths again.”

From another, Cui Feng would have dismissed such words as empty air. But spoken by Chen Ping’an, they held the weight of iron. He remained hesitant at first, but a wave of relief washed over him. He raced to the stone table, collapsing upon it, whispering, “Sir! I have just enacted a deed of purest beneficence! The truest kindness! Do you believe me?”

Chen Ping’an raised his gaze, piercing him with a long, hard look. At last, he nodded.

Cui Ying nearly wept with gratitude.

Such trials, such hardships, had marked this venture from seclusion for the young Cui Feng.

Cui Lu, eyes wide with servility, offered, “Sir, shall I sharpen your blade for you? As your disciple, I am idle and restless, plagued by sleepless nights and uneaten meals.”

Chen Ping’an merely glanced at him. “Begone.”

With a theatrical sigh, Cui Yan straightened, bowed with exaggerated reverence, and then, whistling a merry tune, turned and swaggered back to his chambers, his heart filled with a buoyant joy.

Chen Ping’an, watching the retreating form of the handsome rogue, was seized by a sudden doubt. Had his long sojourn in the well left his mind… a little waterlogged?