Wei Bo, a god clad in white, moved with the subtle grace of a whispered secret. He dabbled briefly in conversation, yet revealed nothing of true substance. His calligraphic scrolls remained blank, mirroring the emptiness of his words. He stood, a figure of stark purity, his robes billowing like captured wind amidst a sea of clouds and ancient, towering peaks.

After departing Luopo Mountain, Wei Bo drifted with unhurried purpose. He gathered the ethereal substance of clouds, sculpting them like snow, each handful growing denser, heavier. Finally, with a powerful clasp of his hands, he compressed the celestial matter into a single, smooth pebble. Soaring above the land, he sought the headwaters of the Longxu River, a silver thread winding through the emerald tapestry of the mountains. With a gentle flick of his wrist, he cast the enchanted pebble into the stream below. It tumbled into the water, where a swift bluefish, lured by its otherworldly gleam, swallowed it whole.

The fish, now a vessel of hidden magic, journeyed downstream. It passed the green cow grazing peacefully, the weathered stone arch bridge, the fiery glow of the blacksmith’s forge. Finally, it plunged over the roaring waterfall where the Longxu met the Tiefu River, carried along by the relentless current.

The river surged, a living embodiment of time’s passage. On the banks of the Iron Talisman, an ancient willow tree stretched its gnarled branches across the water. Upon a bough sat Wanhua, the river goddess of this place, her armor gleaming faintly as she meditated, eyes closed in serene contemplation. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open, her gaze sharp and discerning. With a graceful gesture, she summoned the bluefish from the rushing water, holding it captive in her outstretched hand.

Wanhua, her fingers as delicate as they were strong, sliced open the fish’s belly, revealing the nestled, luminous pebble. It pulsed with a potent energy, a treasure beyond mortal reckoning. With a touch of her thumb, she mended the fish’s wound, a small act of grace, and returned it to the river. The fish, invigorated by the brief encounter, darted away, its scales shimmering with a newfound, almost mystical, luster.

Wanhua examined the enchanted pebble, its surface interwoven with strands of cloud-root, a substance of immense value to any deity of water. To mountain gods, the world offered its own feasts: the essence of water and the ethereal threads of clouds, born from the intangible heart of the mountains. These were distilled, purified forces, akin to the legendary dragon-slaying blades or the potent snake gallstones of draconic beasts – objects of immense power and significance.

Raising her eyes, Wanhua saw him. Amidst the swirling mists and clouds, atop the highest peak, stood Wei Bo, a figure in white, a single golden ring adorning his ear.

She had seen him before, escorting Xu Ruo, the Mo family hero, one of Dali’s gatekeepers. They had ridden a black serpent, journeying against the river’s flow, back towards the mountains. Yet, Wanhua had never anticipated Wei Bo’s ascension to become the principal deity of Dali’s North Mountain, a rank far surpassing her own.

Was this an act of kindness, she wondered, a gesture of goodwill towards one whose position was still fragile, a move to secure loyalty?

Wanhua sneered inwardly. Without hesitation, she clenched her fist, crushing the pebble in her palm. Its potent essence surged into her, a wave of invigorating power. Her hair whipped around her, and the river waters below roiled and churned, as if rejoicing in their mistress’s augmented strength.

Wei Bo, his gaze shifting from the distant Tiefu River, returned to his domain, Piyun Mountain.

He glided above the rolling hills, occasionally acknowledging the salutations of Qi-cultivating mortals below. Once, he would have responded with a smile, but today, his heart was elsewhere.

He arrived at a newly constructed, iron-chained suspension bridge, spanning the chasm between two towering peaks. Though unfinished, it was wide enough for two carriages to pass abreast. Even the fiercest winds caused only a gentle sway, a testament to the meticulous craftsmanship of the Mohist artisans and engineers who had built it. Their standards were unyielding, demanding perfection in every detail. The bridge deck was crafted from resilient green ebony, capable of withstanding all but the most devastating blows. Even a sword cultivator of the lower five realms, striking with all their might, could only manage to pierce a hole. The iron chains, forged from the finest metal, were virtually indestructible.

After all, in the mortal realm, a century-old shop was but a gilded sign. Upon the immortal mountains, one needed at least five centuries of existence to even whisper of being “time-honored.”

As the white-clad mountain god traversed the dark bridge, the contrast was striking, evoking a sense of profound solitude and elevated power.

Wei Bo paused, grasping the bridge railing, and gazed upwards.

He knew that at least half the reason for his elevation to the prestigious role of chief deity of Dali’s North Mountain was due to the man with the straw hat and the bamboo sword.

It was through the man’s mysterious intervention, the touch of that unassuming bamboo blade, that Wei Bo had been freed from his long imprisonment. The spirit’s golden body had been altered, expanded.

Could a mere bowl hold the waters of an entire cistern? Of course not. Though Wei Bo had once been a powerful god, capable of receiving vast amounts of incense, his imprisonment had diminished him. To suddenly accept the offerings and spiritual energy of all of Dali’s Northern Mountains…it had seemed impossible. He felt like a child wielding a heavy hammer against iron – a task doomed to cause injury.

But now, Wei Bo effortlessly governed over thirty mountains.

Therefore, Wei Bo was willing to extend the utmost kindness to Chen Ping’an, to guide him through these mountains and rivers, to subtly place the mark of Dali’s North Mountain upon the young man.

Firstly, Chen Ping’an was not bothersome. Secondly, it was a way to repay Aliang’s generosity. Thirdly, and most importantly, Aliang might one day return.

Wei Bo feared that if Aliang did return and found him wanting, the same bamboo knife that had elevated his realm in Qidun Mountain could just as easily shatter it beneath Piyun Mountain. The Wei Bo of Qidun Mountain might not have cared, but the Wei Bo of today…he could not bear such a loss.

For there was a girl, cultivating in the Changchun Palace of Dali.

Wei Bo turned his gaze north, towards the distant reaches of Dali, his eyes narrowing. He murmured, a whisper carried on the wind, “Live well. And in this life, do not fall for scholars again. Scholars are the most hopelessly devoted.”

————

Outside the desolate bamboo building, the young boy in green, having overheard the tale spun from the heavens, felt the need to calm his nerves with a common snake gallstone.

Chewing thoughtfully, the boy considered the sorrowful expression Chen Ping’an had worn before turning back to the bamboo building. “I never expected our master to cry,” he mused. “He truly is a man of deep feeling, to be so moved by a story that has nothing to do with him. I believe his future will be extraordinary. He’ll cry out against injustice, rescue damsels in distress, perhaps even transform into a…a shimmering white fish leaping through the waves…”

The boy’s imagination painted a vibrant, romantic picture of Chen Ping’an’s destiny. He envisioned the stern, unyielding youth one day being swept away by the affections of a martial arts heroine. The thought amused him greatly.

The girl in the pink skirt, however, remained troubled by the earlier revelations. “If the demon clan is so cruel and tyrannical,” she asked the boy in blue, her voice filled with worry, “why are we allowed to live peacefully among the mountain gods in Haoran’s world? Why don’t the Qi-cultivating humans simply exterminate us?”

The boy in green pondered this briefly, then replied casually, “I suppose we’re like…a bit of dung on the roadside. Stepping on it would only soil one’s shoes.”

The girl remained unconvinced, unable to formulate a more comforting explanation. She could only carry her anxieties, a silent burden within her heart.

Wei Bo had departed, yet Chen Ping’an did not immediately rise. He sat alone on the small bamboo chair, the early spring mountain wind chilling his face and stirring his hair.

Before leaving, Wei Bo had chuckled, “It is rumored that Aliang seeks a sword, a sword worthy of his immense power.”

Chen Ping’an vividly recalled their first meeting by the Tiefu River. The man had held his hat in one hand, tapping the hilt of his bamboo knife with the other. He had declared, with a touch of boastful confidence, “I cannot find a sword worthy of me, one that would not shame the swordsmen of this world.”

Wei Bo had also said, “Some say he is a sword cultivator at the pinnacle of the Thirteenth Realm. In his battles against the great demons, the sword he wielded was not the finest, but he was accustomed to it, reluctant to replace it. After it shattered, he naturally needed a new one, a *better* sword!”

“Imagine, if he could find a weapon that he deemed suitable, a sword that could even slightly enhance his already formidable power…even by a single level…he would be at the peak of the Fourteenth Realm! As a sword cultivator, he might even be able to challenge the ancestors of the Three Religions, the Taoist Patriarch, and the Most Holy Master!”

“What manner of being would Aliang be, wielding such a blade?” Wei Bo had finished, his voice filled with awe and anticipation, like a small hill gazing up at a towering mountain.

After entering the landscape painting of Master Wen Sheng, Chen Ping’an had slashed the sword.

Only now did Chen Ping’an understand what Aliang had relinquished.

That rainy night, walking down the mountain with Aliang.

“You took what I believed was mine.”

“If you fail to carve even a few words there in the future, I will not strike you down.”

Chen Ping’an had not understood the true weight of those words, spoken so calmly by the man in the straw hat. Because Aliang had said it so lightly, the boy had no conception of their gravity.

He did not know how exceptional that sword was.

He did not know how powerful Aliang was.

Had Chen Ping’an known, before Aliang’s departure, he would have pleaded with the sword spirit, the fairy maiden, to change masters. He would have told her that the man was named Aliang, that he was a swordsman, and a truly good person.

But Aliang had not spoken, and the boy had remained ignorant.

Only after Aliang had left did the boy realize.

Such a Liang.

How foolish.

Why did he call himself a bad person?

Chen Ping’an sat in stunned silence for a long time before finally rising and walking towards the bamboo building. The young boy in green asked anxiously, “Master, are you alright? Were you frightened by Wei Bo’s stories? You needn’t be afraid. The upside-down mountain’s sword energy, the Great Wall, Aliang the Great Demon Sword Immortal…they are all so far removed from us. And the Confucian saints are not merely skilled in rhetoric; they are also formidable fighters. Besides, that strangely named swordsman, no matter how powerful, has nothing to do with us. Such a person must be…”

Chen Ping’an gently patted the head of the chattering boy. “I am fine,” he said with a smile.

He went to the second floor, took up the locust wood sword, and walked to the corridor beneath the eaves. He raised the sword high towards the heavens, and spoke a few words silently, from the depths of his heart.

“I am a swordsman.”

“That is all.”