Chen Ping’an, honored with the title of “Distinguished Guest,” possessed no gilded tongue nor captivating charm. Thus, he dismissed the notion of requiring two maids to attend his every whim. The girl Qiushi, however, found her purpose elsewhere, transforming into a veritable oracle of gossip, regaling Chen Ping’an with the strange and wondrous tales that unfolded aboard the Kun-ship. Whether the boy from Dali cared to listen was of little consequence; he proved a captive and amiable audience.

She chattered of a wager placed upon the gambling stage, a gamble that unearthed a rare jade, birthing forth a chalcedony of dazzling brilliance. Once cleaved, it shimmered with a light worth at least thirty thousand snowflake jade, a veritable fortune won.

Then came the tale of Liu Damazi’s weapon shop, where two wealthy patrons clashed over a singular spiritual weapon. Incensed by each other’s presence, they engaged in a furious bidding war, driving the price ever higher. Finally, there was the man who boarded from the Wutong Mountain Ferry of Dali, a soul of even greater extravagance. He initially sought a square painting halberd of eight thousand snowflake jade, only to part with nearly twenty thousand for its possession. This fueled Qiushi’s envy and dismay; how could one squander such wealth? Did he truly believe it grew upon trees, ripe for the picking?

At Xinghuafang, a soul, steeped in spirits, bellowed the name of his beloved, a lament so piercing it disturbed the nearby patrons. The manager of Xinghuafang, weary of the disruption, dragged the man away and administered a sound thrashing. Yet, undeterred, the forlorn lover returned the next day. He dared not yell, instead squatting on the street, devouring dry cakes while gazing longingly at the attic window of his heart’s desire, his cheeks wet with silent tears. It was said they had once shared such simple fare, a memory now laced with the bitterness of unrequited love.

He was a young acolyte of the Fourth Realm, who had plundered his family’s coffers to pursue his infatuation with a maiden as fair and pure as a white lotus. He had spent the past two months in her thrall, lost in a haze of affection. Yet, the rumors whispered that this monk was an exemplar of chaste devotion, having never so much as touched Qing Gong’er’s hand. A true gentleman, indeed.

Qiushi spiced her tales with embellishments, rendering them more captivating than any storyteller’s yarn, but Chen Ping’an’s true fascination lay not on the ship, but beneath its keel.

One twilight eve, the Kun-ship encountered a tempestuous gale, forcing it to descend its flight. This act revealed to Chen Ping’an a land ravaged by war; pyres blazed, smoke billowed in the air like twisted saplings, and fire consumed all. Chunshui, versed in the lore of Baopingzhou, consulted the study’s charts and quickly deduced the truth. A bloody conflict raged below, a battle for supremacy between two ancient dynasties, locked in generations of bitter rivalry. After centuries of simmering animosity, they had poured forth all their strength, dispatching hordes of Qi practitioners to decide their fate.

This clash, she surmised, would leave both sides crippled. The northern reaches of Baopingzhou, bounded by Guanhu Academy, would be left with only the Gao family of the Great Sui Dynasty, a power both civil and martial, capable of rivaling the barbarian Song of Dali. The land, ripe for the taking and sparsely defended, would be overrun.

Chunshui, her gaze upon the war-torn earth, sighed softly. “If the fighting grows dire, perhaps Baopingzhou will inherit a new ancient battleground. In a few decades, when the energies stabilize, Zhenwu Mountain or the saints of Fengxue Temple will oversee its dominion, birthing a brand new military territory.”

Chen Ping’an continued to observe the ground, now lit by the flickering flames, which cast the observation deck in the likeness of warriors clad in gold and silver armour.
The battles raged on a scale beyond mortal comprehension. Chen Ping’an could only surmise that the combatants, beings wielding powers beyond the ken of ordinary men, clashed with monstrous entities that clawed their way from the earth’s bowels, their struggles measured in distances that dwarfed even the fingernails of giants.

Visions unfolded that left Chen Ping’an speechless. A choir of cranes, their cries echoing with an ancient sorrow, ascended languidly from a sea of clouds. With deliberate strokes, they climbed into the upper, ethereal ocean, a living tapestry woven against the sky. Geese, in their southward migration, flew in perfect formation beneath a roiling pillar of cloud, rent by lightning and thunder. Around this tempestuous column, Qi cultivators circled, wielding enchanted artifacts to siphon the raw energy of the storm, capturing lightning in their pockets. Then, like streaks of starlight, noble Qi cultivators astride majestic Qingluan, outpacing even the mightiest Kun ships, vanished in blinding flashes of bejeweled light.

Chen Ping’an learned that the Kun Ship possessed a “Letter Shop,” a repository for messages carried by flying swords, akin to a terrestrial post station. Wishing to reassure loved ones and share the wonders he’d witnessed, he entrusted Qiushi with two missives. The contents were simple – assurances of safety and snippets of his fantastical journey, harmless even if they fell into the wrong hands. Yet, the cost proved exorbitant. A letter to Longquan County in Dali demanded a princely sum, a tribute fit for the immortals themselves. A message destined for Wei Bo at the Dasui Shanya Academy was even more staggering, twenty snowflake jade coins! Chen Ping’an reluctantly abandoned his grander plans, settling for these two. He tasked Wei Bo, and Li Baoping at the Dasui Academy to carry news onward to others.

Standing on the ship’s observation deck, Chen Ping’an, guided by Chunshui’s knowing gaze, discerned a solitary structure nestled near the railings. Fleeting sparks of energy flickered around it, barely perceptible to the untrained eye. Chunshui smiled, “That is where the ‘Rats’ dwell.” As birds followed paths in the air, so too did flying swords find their designated routes. A specific altitude existed, a sweet spot for long-distance travel, where resistance was minimal. Here, dedicated Qi cultivators toiled, carving out specialized pathways for these aerial messengers. Once a flying sword was launched, it would naturally seek this “sweet intestine path.” Disciplined members of larger sects knew this rule, and avoided this zone when straying from the path.

Qiushi returned to his chamber, leaning against the doorway, and chuckled. “It’s not as if there aren’t any clueless rustic Qi cultivators out there! They finally learn to fly, think the sky’s the limit, and blunder straight into the ‘sweet intestine path’! They emerge bruised and battered, lucky if they don’t get their eyes or necks pierced, plummeting to their doom and splattering like mud on the ground! Pitiful indeed.”

Chen Ping’an, ever the layman, inquired, “Surely there are those tempted by greed? Would no one dare intercept these flying swords?”

Qiushi nodded gravely. “Indeed, there are misguided souls who prey upon the unwary. But the Flying Sword paths, also known as the ‘Cloud Pattern Trails’, are heavily guarded by ‘Cloud Pattern Monks’. These guardians hope to reap riches in the sky. They actually want for some fool to take on the role of thief. The letters carried by flying swords are not very profitable, but if they catch a thief, they can extort a sky-high compensation. If the thief cannot pay and lacks influence in the mundane world, the monks are left with an unrecorded pauper. If the thief’s name isn’t in the archives, it is unlikely that the thieves can be caught.”
“To be without a copper to one’s name… then all paths would be closed.” He resigned himself to this fact, for the stakes, at least, were low.

Qiu Shi sighed, her eyes green with envy. “That Qi refiner overseeing the Cloud-Patterned Path is plump as a goose! Each time these fellows embark on a journey, they dwell in chambers fit for a minor lord.”

Chunshui, her voice like the gentle murmur of a stream, offered, “The ancient Immortal Houses, those spanning millennia, rarely rely on flying swords for missives. Many are the arcane secrets that allow for face-to-face parlay, such as the Mother Elm’s Seed. One whispers enchantments over it, then speaks. Another, placed leagues away, will tremble and relay the words.”

Chen Ping’an could only stare in wonder.

Qiu Shi watched Chen Ping’an, ever the earnest listener, a frown furrowing her brow. *How did such a pauper come to the attention of the Lord of Dali Beiyue? What treasure untold does he unknowingly possess?*

Thankfully, Chen Ping’an’s lack of coin bred humility. He asked questions freely, never feigning knowledge he did not possess. Qiu Shi, innocent soul that she was, saw this as a virtue. For to flaunt riches one does not have, to feign understanding where only ignorance reigns… that was both pitiful and tiresome.

Inevitably, their conversations often drifted to their homeland, Beiju Luzhou.

A land overflowing with sword cultivators, so many that some said there were none who weren’t.

And with swords came a spirit of fierce dominance. A simple truth: the Posa Forest in the South and the Baoping Forest in the East are commonly named Nanposa and Dongbao Powder, Luzhou is clearly divided into It is the northeast of Haoran, but it calls itself Beijuluzhou. This makes the Aiaizhou in the north only a Naiaizhou, and it is just abandoned by the Bei character.

Even Chunshui, graced with an ethereal poise, possessed a subtle arrogance when speaking of Luzhou’s greatness, a pride she scarcely recognized within herself. Qiu Shi was more overt, often using “we” when describing Beiju Luzhou’s glories, implicitly chiding Baopingzhou’s perceived shortcomings. As she spoke, her eyes would gleam, bright as a fledgling yellow oriole preening its feathers.

Then came the day Chen Ping’an prepared to depart the strange, sky-bound house.

Chunshui was visibly delighted, and Qiu Shi nearly danced with glee, bowing low as she exclaimed, “Mr. Chen, safe travels!”

A wave of guilt washed over Chen Ping’an.

It seemed Qiu Shi held a great secret: that very night, a Flower-and-Bird Banner would be unfurled from the Kun ship’s prow, revealing scenes from across leagues of land. This news did not overly surprise Chen Ping’an, for he recalled the stormy night when the green-clad boy conjured a bowl of water. In its shimmering surface, Su Jia’s sword-borne form was displayed with remarkable clarity.

Chen Ping’an’s departure was not driven by a desire for spectacle, but by necessity, for the events about to be displayed on the Flower-and-Bird Banner were directly linked to him.

Zhengyang Mountain and Fenglei Garden, two ancient powers, were poised to clash in a contest of life and death. The news arrived with sudden force, catching all of Baopingzhou unawares.

Even these few scattered words, carried across the continent, sent a chill down the spine.

The Treasure Bowl Continent’s two most renowned houses of swordsmanship, represented by three generations of masters – old, middle-aged, and young – would each send forth their champions.

The young champions would vie for victory alone, their lives spared regardless of the outcome.

The backbone generation, however, would fight where victory and defeat were but steps from life and death. All depended on the will of each house… but who
The air crackled with unspoken threats, for neither faction realized the encounter outside the mountain gate threatened to erupt into a deadly clash. Honor and pride were at stake, and given the fiery tempers of Zhengyang Mountain and Fenglei Garden, only blood could settle the score. Even the ancient patriarchs of both sects harbored a grim resolve, a willingness to deliver a final, mortal blow.

A palpable murderous intent hung in the air, as though the very spectators could taste the metallic tang of blood before a single sword was drawn.

Zhengyang Mountain’s champion was the fair Su Jia, a young swordswoman renowned for her top-grade sword gourd. But Fenglei Garden presented a mystery. A disciple, chosen to represent the sect in this critical moment, was virtually unknown, his fame paling even in comparison to the junior disciple, Liu Baqiao. Yet Fenglei Garden would never send someone unworthy to such a pivotal battle.

Chen Ping’an led his companions down to the deck, towards the bow of the ship. There, unfurled, was the ancestral banner of Tajiu Mountain, adorned with lifelike, vibrant birds. These avian images flitted about the silken weave, their ethereal cries filling the air. Fully extended, the banner towered, a colossal tapestry five or six meters in length and two meters wide. A sight that stirred the soul to those close by, yet was still visible from a distance despite its size.

Sword cultivators were masters of swiftness, their blades like lightning, their movements precise as a whisper, and their strikes as a thunderclap. The subtle magic woven into their art was fleeting, best observed up close. Thus, the ferry master had designated specific viewing tiers, the most coveted being the three private rooms. The first row not only offered delectable treats but also the company of trained, beautiful maids, courtesy of the ferry’s coffers. The renowned courtesans of Xinghuafang, however, were a matter of separate negotiation for these distinguished guests.

Ordinary patrons like Chen Ping’an could, if they wished, take a maid from the ferry’s retinue to attend him.

Magical flight was forbidden, as unchecked ascent would breed chaos and disputes for vantage points. The ferrymaster’s decree was absolute: no soaring into the sky.

Therefore, most spectators, to achieve a better viewing angle, simply lugged chairs and stools, resembling a crowd gathered for a temple fair.

Chunshui Qiushi, despite his youth, was well-versed in the intricacies of such events. A consul paved their way, securing excellent seats with ease.

The sight of a young man in simple straw sandals garnered curious glances.

Was it a wealthy eccentric in disguise?

Otherwise, who would wear such humble footwear unless they were tilling fields and planting rice?

Three large red sandalwood chairs sat around a small table. Upon it rested a dish of Kuque Tongue, a specialty tea from Juluzhou. It required no brewing; one simply chewed the leaves raw. An initial astringency yielded, after what seemed like half an incense stick, to a sweetness more pure and refreshing than ordinary tea – hence its whimsical name.

As they waited for the duel to begin, Chunshui entertained Chen Ping’an, who was chewing tea leaves, with tales of the tea’s origins and virtues.
## The Tale of Bitter Sparrow’s Tongue

Legends whisper of the Bitter Sparrow’s Tongue, a rare brew said to cleanse the spirit and sharpen the gaze. It is a drink coveted by the gilded houses of the Three Continents, favored amongst scholars and magnates for its supposed enlightenment. In those dynasties where the Art of the Tea Ceremony held sway, a single chest of this elusive leaf could sway fortunes and topple empires. Such “gifts” were far removed from the paltry offerings of common bribes; they were grand gestures, worthy of a deposed dignitary’s tearful farewell, where strained words of “bitterness ending in sweetness” masked the true sting of corruption.

Alongside this bitter treasure flowed streams of exquisite pastries, enchanted baubles, and fruits imbued with subtle power. Yet, all paled in comparison to the Bitter Sparrow’s Tongue, a prize so scarce, so sought after, that its mere possession spoke volumes.

The mountains, Chen Ping’an had come to realize, were far more interconnected than he imagined. Though separated by natural chasms, bridges of influence and reciprocal favor spanned the divides, humming with the energy of profitable exchanges.

He listened intently to Chunshui’s prattle, his gaze sweeping the surroundings, paying particular heed to the three distinct parties gathered before him. They were, without a doubt, scions of wealth and power, celestial beings of the mortal realm.

The ferry hailed from Juluzhou, and while some may have been mere merchants, most appeared native to that land. Even the children, he noted, carried themselves with a peculiar air, their toy swords crafted not of painted wood, but tempered steel.

Indeed, be they women, children, or greybeards, all Juluzhouans favored practicality over ostentation when it came to their blades. No gaudy jewels adorned their scabbards, no flowing ribbons distracted from the deadly purpose.

Before him sat a woman of formidable stature, her sharp cheekbones and pursed lips marking her countenance, if not beautiful, then undeniably commanding. She squinted, studying those she observed with a calculating intensity.

By her side, a man of delicate features, ever eager to please, darted about fulfilling her every whim. His handsome face and lithe frame suggested a life of ease, yet his subservient posture and fawning smile betrayed a surprising lack of power. He cradled a child, a boy carved from jade, whose exquisite beauty was somewhat marred by an effeminate demeanor.

An old woman, her skin like parchment, her hair like spun moonlight, served as the family’s tutor. A pretty maid, with a frigid air mirroring her mistress, stood close by.

To the woman’s left sat a broad-shouldered man, his posture ramrod straight. A flicker of disdain danced in his eyes as he watched the obsequious man. When the man caught his gaze, he did not flinch, but rather broadened his smile, even bowing his head in deference. A strange, unspoken power dynamic played out before Chen Ping’an’s eyes.

He continued to peruse the scroll, using the pretense to absorb every detail, every nuance of the scene.

Qiu Shi, emboldened by his observations, dared to glance at the imposing man, only to be sharply rebuked by Chunshui. The tall man, however, leaned back, his head swiveling, a chilling grin revealing rows of unnervingly white teeth. Qiushi, terrified, instantly lowered his gaze, gasping for breath.

The man returned his attention forward, and Chunshui, enraged by her brother’s impertinence, stomped heavily on his foot, eliciting a pained whimper. Qiu Shi looked at his sister with wounded eyes.

To the far left, an old man in a scholar’s robe sat alone. He wore a battered mink hat, had removed his boots, and sat cross-legged, huddled within the embrace of a large, comfortable chair.
… which bordered on the absurd.

Upon the right flank stood two fledglings of the sword, a man and a woman, seemingly scarce past their twentieth year. Though their true age remained veiled, hidden beneath a sheen of cultivation.

The youth, with a practiced flourish, drew his blade an inch from its sheath, then gently resettled it, his hand lingering upon the scabbard.

The woman, however, eschewed the common adornment of a bead hairpin in her chignon. Instead, dangling from her elaborate knot, was a miniature sword, blunted and harmless save for the single, snow-white bead the size of a sparrow’s egg, which pulsed with an inner light, a beacon of subtle power.

*Was she not proclaiming her possession of a curious treasure for all to see?*

Only the boldest naivete could explain such a display, or so Chen Ping’an reasoned.

In the fore, three distinct parties held the choicest vantage points, each exuding an aura that suggested trouble should one dare to provoke them.

Chen Ping’an drew a long breath, steeled his resolve, and fixed his gaze upon the scroll, a silent promise to meet whatever lay within with unwavering focus.

Zhengyang Mountain. The Apeshield, sworn to the protection of their peak. A feud sworn in blood. A debt that demanded repayment.

And Liu Baqiao of Fenglei Garden, an old acquaintance, his heart aflame with an unrequited passion for the Zhengyang Mountain’s celestial, Su Jia. A memory of a past jest, courtesy of Miss Ning, that once left Liu Baqiao flushed with discomfiture.

Chen Ping’an sat upright, a sudden thought sparking within him. He inquired of Chunshui and Qiushi, the possibility of tasting the bitter sparrow tongue tea.

But even Qiu Shi, normally ever agreeable, shook her head with uncharacteristic vigor.

Chunshui, with a delicate gesture, indicated the Kun Ship Deacon standing sentinel at the room’s threshold. Understanding dawned. Chen Ping’an then asked, “Might I take a portion with me? Or am I confined to the savoring of its leaves only within these walls?”

A flush rose upon Chunshui’s fair cheeks as she replied in a hushed tone, “Young Master, it is permitted, though such a request is…uncommon.”

Chen Ping’an grinned, his spirit buoyant. With deliberate flamboyance, he scooped perhaps two taels of the precious leaves into a sleeve pouch, his voice amplified just enough to carry, “I shall return home presently, to savor each leaf slowly, letting the taste linger. A final, proper farewell.”

He waited, hidden from view, anticipating the coming contest.

But then, a voice, soft as a summer breeze, whispered his name between the very beats of his heart, “Chen Ping’an.”

His first instinct was to search for the speaker, but he checked the impulse. His memory, fortunately, served him well.

He recalled that maiden from his youth, when he had ridden upon the back of Qingniu, the emerald ox, and first glimpsed her and her companion, a vision of celestial beauty.

Her name, he believed, was He Xiaoliang.

A Taoist fairy of the Shengao Sect, whispered to be the object of the green-clad youth’s most ardent admiration, surpassing even the celebrated Su Jia. The youth had once declared, half in jest, half in earnest, that he would gladly sacrifice a century of his lifespan for the mere touch of her hand.

The voice continued, a thread of urgency woven into its silk, “Might you return anon? I have matters to discuss, and the constant presence of others offers little opportunity for private discourse.”

Weighing his options, Chen Ping’an glanced towards the vermillion wine gourd strapped to his waist. *Very well,* he thought, committing the answer silently.

Rising from his seat, he informed Chunshui of his intention to retire to his chambers.

Chunshui offered to guide him, but Chen Ping’an smiled. “Such a short distance? Surely, I cannot lose my way.”

Taking the key from her outstretched hand, he slipped from the bustling gathering, unnoticed as a shadow.

—-

Stools and chairs, a sea of faces.

And at the edge of the fray, a downcast Taoist, peachwood sword slung across his back, his spirit too weary to vie for space, a gentle soul lost in a world of sharp edges.
He stood forlorn at the edge of the throng, a simple stool clutched in his hand. But before him rose a tiered mountain of faces – benches and chairs layered upon one another, teeming with onlookers, children perched precariously on shoulders. Even atop his paltry stool, how could he hope to glimpse the spectacle?

He was but newly arrived in the Three Realms, a babe compared to those who “sucked wind, drank dew, and knew not the taste of mortal grain” in the hallowed Middle Five. The Kun-ship, a leviathan traversing the continent from Juluzhou, offered little respite for travelers. Only Zhongzhou offered reprieve, but solely to Qi-training geniuses of the Cave Realm could they leap from the ship and embrace the wind. Even those in the Sea-Viewing Realm struggled to grasp this feat, a liberty reserved for the great monks of the Dragon Gate Realm, who alone were unbound by earthly tethers and danced with the wind itself.

His current predicament, this ignominious ferry trip, was born of ill fortune. Impatience led him to squander precious coin on expensive talismans. Then, through perilous battle, he had seized a demon-slain bead, hoping to sell it for a fair price. Alas, upon the Kun-ship, the merchants, though willing, offered a pittance. The young Taoist, hoping to secure a humble abode, found his dreams evaporating.

Truly, the heavens mocked him.

Copper coins could not slay a hero, and he was far from heroic. He was a mere worm, determined to vanquish evil, yet thwarted at every turn.

How could a true “Zhang Family Heavenly Master” accept coin, promising succor, only to preside over a family’s ruin?

The two orphaned children, innocent and unknowing, bore him no ill will, yet the young Taoist’s heart was heavy with self-reproach.

As these thoughts consumed him, the red-eyed youth set down the stool, sinking onto it with a sigh. His hands rested on his knees, the peach-wood sword upon his back a testament to his confusion. Had he erred from the very beginning, forsaking Imperial examinations for the pursuit of immortality? He’d been so eager to descend from the mountains, armed with meager skills, envisioning himself a righteous demon-slayer. Had he been wrong?

The young Taoist, his eyes burning with guilt and sorrow, raised his hand and clenched his fist, gently striking his chest as if to ease the ache within.

Then, a hand appeared before him, offering an exquisite jade pendant, etched with the words “Dajishantianzi” in miniature. He looked up to see a dark-skinned, yet honest-faced young man smiling. “I dwell in the Heaven’s Size Chamber,” the man said. “If you truly wish to view the scroll, borrow this for a while. Once you reach the second row, seek out a maid named Chunshui Qiushi. Tell her… you are a friend of Chen Ping’an. They are easily recognized, for they are twin sisters and bear a striking resemblance.”

The young Taoist could only gape in silence.

Chen Ping’an pressed the pendant into his hand, then turned and trotted away, glancing back with a smile. “Remember to return it to me once you’ve taken your seat.”

As he ran, Chen Ping’an mused: *This young Taoist is too easily moved.* Just because he couldn’t see the flower-and-bird tapestry clearly? He’d even seen the man wiping tears. Could it be that he was like Liu Baqiao and the boy in green, and he…
He held a secret admiration for the ethereal Fairy Su Jia, though this too was but a ripple in the pond of his deeper motivations for gifting the jade pendant.

For it was the memory of a winter’s dusk, long past, that truly moved his hand. He saw again the small boy, barely five years old, pacing the shuttered lanes of Nibo, his tears a silent testament to some forgotten sorrow.

Now, they were all bound together upon this ferry, the Taoist no less than himself. And the priest, with his threadbare robes and humble mien, seemed unlikely to flee. Even should the jade be lost, it was a debt Chen Ping’an could bear, a transaction not meant for the clamor of the Weaving Board. He trusted the generosity of Dajishan, believing such a small favor would be readily overlooked.

And should all else fail, Chen Ping’an possessed the rich “Fifteenth” of the square-inch world, a treasure to draw upon in times of need.

—

Within the study, a temporary haven for Chen Ping’an, sat a young woman draped in a loose Taoist robe, her slender fingers tracing lines of elegant calligraphy.

Hers was a face of captivating beauty.

The Taoist nun, resting her cheek upon her hand, turned the pages with a languid grace. Yet, beneath the surface lay a melancholy as profound as the deepest well.

At that moment, the woman embodied the very spirit of the windswept Fengxue Temple of old, a sorrow so vast that neither the finest wine nor the strongest brew could quell it. A sorrow capable of breaking the heart of even the most carefree sword immortal, one who had witnessed the wonders and sorrows of the world in all its vastness.