In this long-trodden world, who among us has not gathered skills or claimed a magical treasure or two to guard against ill fortune?

Thus, when the scholar Chu, for no discernible reason, heard the name “First Year,” a chilling dread seized him. He knew something was amiss, perhaps a hidden stratagem of the boy. Yet, he could not discern the source of the impending crisis. With a grim resolve, the besieged scholar Chu altered his course of action. From his sleeve, he produced a sphere of swirling blue and white light, clearly an object of no common origin.

As Chu clenched his fingers, the sphere began to dissolve like wax to a flame. Its viscous essence seeped from his grasp, quickly enveloping his form. In the blink of an eye, the slender man was encased in pristine white armor, a radiant heart-guard upon his chest. It was the very style of light armor favored by the Spirit Official Gods enshrined within the temples of the mortal realm, imbued with the weight of glory and righteousness.

Had scholar Chu not felt his very life threatened, he would never have deigned to employ this invaluable “A Pill.” Esteemed beyond measure by strategists and warriors, its true worth lay not in its price, for it was beyond coin. Forged from the remains of ancient Mohist artisans and bound by Taoist incantations, they were typically crafted into fist-sized orbs for ease of transport. Yet, upon the field of battle, they could be awakened with a touch of true qi, instantly conjuring armor to shield the wearer in an indestructible bulwark.

Protected now by the armor, the surface shimmering with a pale, moonlit halo, like heavy snow upon the still night, scholar Chu found a semblance of calm. A bitter smile touched his lips. “Young lad,” he murmured, “You have forced my hand. This light armor was meant to safeguard against treachery when the spoils were divided, to withstand the combined assault of the White Dew Taoist and the mountain god. Now, revealed too soon, they will surely be wary. What am I to do?”

Though his words seemed light, his heart remained heavy. He was still perplexed. Why had the boy uttered only “First Year,” leaving the rest unspoken? Why hadn’t the sword already left its wooden case, flown from the opposite wing, or some hidden ally rushed forth to slay him?

The scholar Chu remained puzzled.

The taciturn youth before him was not one for jests.

He had nearly forced him to reveal his true strength. Even the burly swordsman, who recklessly felled great beasts, might not have achieved this with his mere fourth-realm power.

Though “First Year” had yet to appear,

The scholar Chu remained certain that when it did, it would be either a formidable adversary or a weapon of terrible might.

Chen Ping’an, in turn, felt a flicker of annoyance and patted the sword gourd at his waist.

The “First Year” within the gourd had undergone a sudden change. Once, it was ill-tempered, often causing Chen Ping’an grief. But since leaving the mountain of Luotu, it had become indolent, silent all day long. Even the urge to quarrel with Chen Ping’an seemed to have vanished. Even after Chen Ping’an remade the sword-raising gourd, it remained motionless, hovering in the void within.

However, the verdant and subtle flying sword, Fifteen, buzzed with restless energy, engaging in a faint emotional exchange with Chen Ping’an. It seemed to wish to express its eagerness to face the “First Year”.
As the first stars of the New Year shimmered, a promise hung in the air: He could grant him this boon.

The twin flying swords, fresh from their slumber within the forge, possessed the minds of babes. Sentient, yet their understanding was raw, driven by instinct more than reason. They sensed Chen Ping’an’s presence, his will, yet communication remained a frustrating dance. He could only glimpse their fleeting emotions, rendering true conversation a distant dream.

Observing Chen Ping’an, the Chu scholar fixed his gaze upon the vermilion wine gourd. It was a simple thing, unadorned, devoid of any magical aura. Even before, during their initial encounter beneath the drenching rain, he had dismissed the boy and the young Daoist as unremarkable. The Caiyi Kingdom, a land neither grand nor profound, was unlikely to harbor hidden dragons. The Bailu Daoist and others were already deemed masters and immortals.

Indeed, the Chu scholar was the lurking river dragon, stirring the depths.

His journey south from the ancient Yu Kingdom to Caiyi was a deliberate orchestration, each move calculated to seize control of the ancient house. Though confident of victory, he proceeded with patience, first securing the allegiance of the Bailu Daoist and the Lucid Temple Mountain God, forming a three-way pact. Then, he befriended the noble Liu family, luring them to this place. He spun a tale, claiming to risk his own person, to discern the truth of the matter. The Liu’s scholarly spirit was merely a mask to cover the faint demonic aura clinging to him. His true aim was to unearth the earth veins that nourished the very foundation of the house, a foundation upon which an ancient magic formation was built. In the chaos of the inevitable conflict, he planned to seize the magic weapon, escaping without too much entanglement with his allies, or the Jiawan creature’s protection, and fleeing back to the ancient Yu Kingdom to resume his secluded practice.

The arrival of the burly, bearded swordsman was a stroke of opportunistic brilliance. By spreading tales of the haunted house in nearby towns, he stoked the flames of fear and superstition. While it was true that the ancient house had long been steeped in yin energy, it posed no real threat. This was merely a tool to muddy the waters, ensuring his escape. Even if the swordsman’s actions benefited the house’s protectors, drawing out the Bailu Daoist and the Mountain God, it would be a worthy price to pay.

Unaware of the intricate web of deceit, the warm-hearted swordsman of the ancient road, spurred on by the rumors and emboldened by two flagons of strong ale, felt his blood surge. Sensing the strangeness in the heavy rain, he set out at once, determined to vanquish the demons.

The Mountain God’s contribution of oil-soaked torches, the Bailu Daoist’s cunningly concealed oil-paper umbrellas within copper coins – all were subtle, yet calculated moves.

The former was intended to assist the nominal owner of this domain in observing the internal energy of the ancient house up close, and the latter would allow the Daoist to locate the secret entrance, allowing him to sabotage the ancient house from within, and thus resist the threat from the outside. The methods, such as the broken Shengao Zong Qingci runes, have a trace of authentic Taoist screen walls. These techniques have helped the ancient houses to block many insidious attacks.

None of the three parties within this alliance were to be trifled with.

But this was…
Had it not been for the iron law of the mountains and fields, where the strong devoured the weak, this scholar would have long served as a stepping stone for some fierce cultivator.

Were there truly Qi refiners indifferent to the world? Aye, a rare few. Within this ancient house, the lord and lady, the aged crone, and master and servant had dwelt in quiet simplicity for a century. And such tranquility, it seemed, was a prize all now coveted.

Loath to instigate strife, the scholar Chu chose to offer concessions. With a placating smile, he said, “Young Master Chen, we bear no true grudge. Why then must we meet in mortal combat? Should you deign to withdraw from this ancient house tonight, I vow that whenever you pass through the ancient Yu Kingdom, I, Chu, shall treat you to the finest wine. Nay, were you to desire a drink within the very palace, even on a stormy night, we could sit atop the roof, sharing wine and admiring the swirling snow, untouched by the Emperor’s wrath.”

Truth be told, though of humble origins, this scholar Chu had acquired a certain bearing through cultivation. His appearance was comely, even surpassing those pampered sons of noble houses. Such grace and poise could only be earned, not inherited, hinting at some unique opportunity that had shaped him.

Chen Ping’an finally spoke, his voice measured. “I hear the Emperor of ancient Yu bears the surname Chu, as do you. Is there a connection?”

The scholar hesitated, as if striving for honesty, then nodded and smiled. “A connection exists, yet there is no shared blood. We are… interdependent, yet wary. A complex relationship, difficult to define simply.”

The character Chu, he explained, was formed by forest above and forest below. It could also be interpreted as “ancestor.” Two trees formed a forest, and roots lay beneath. That the scholar Chu bore this surname was telling. He and his kin were, in essence, ancient trees that had awakened.

Alas, Chen Ping’an’s knowledge of the written word was rudimentary, merely a surface understanding. He lacked the deeper wisdom required to truly interpret meaning, a skill possessed by the likes of Cui Feng and Wei Bo Yanbo.

Chen Ping’an eyed the armor worn by the scholar Chu, and resolved to forgo his Fifteenth strike. He would instead use this encounter to test the depth of his boxing skills, to gauge the true power of this cultivator of the Three Realms. Then, he asked directly, “At what level do you stand in Qi refinement?”

The scholar Chu smiled, a touch of false modesty in his voice. “Merely the Fifth Realm.”

A prevarication, of course.

A mere step from the mystical transformation into the Sixth Realm, the Golden Core Realm. Those immortals who bore the title “Elder” in prestigious sects were often cultivators of the Fifth Realm, wielding immense influence. And this was true within even the most powerful sects, let alone a small, secluded kingdom like ancient Yu.

The scholar Chu’s feigned humility, however, was lost on the blunt Chen Ping’an. Was this truly the “great demon” of the Fifth Realm that the Taoist Zhang Shan had warned of? A grin slowly spread across Chen Ping’an’s face, his wrist twisting in anticipation. The hunt was on.
The woman in the silken wedding gown could not hope to prevail against him. The craven, hidden within his turtle shell, was naught but a whetstone upon which to hone his skills. A swift and decisive end would be most pleasing. No coin would be lost should he fail to crush him utterly, for the fates had gifted him a bounty exceeding mere riches. He had not one, but *two*, flying swords at his beck and call!

Chen Ping’an, scarcely a neophyte in the arts of fisticuffs, dared to bait the mighty Zhengyang Mountain Apes as one might a pampered lapdog. His strength was not the subject of whispers, yet his audacious spirit was unmatched in all the realms. Of course, when life itself was wagered, caution and cunning became his allies.

“Why must you fight?” the scholar Chu, a man draped in the finery of old coin and local influence, pleaded in exasperation.

Chen Ping’an offered no veiled courtesy. “If I do not vanquish you, my friend and that swordsman will find themselves in dire straits.”

A shadow darkened the scholar’s eyes. Even a clay Buddha, dulled by silent contemplation, could be roused to ire. “Young pup, are you truly so blind as to seek your doom? Let me make this abundantly clear: unseen eyes watch you even now. Ancient powers dwell beyond these walls. Do you truly wish to invite their wrath? Do you presume to think I fear you?”

Chen Ping’an’s reply was a spark that ignited the scholar’s fury. “Whether you fear me matters not. Only the battle remains.”

Chen Ping’an inhaled deeply. His delay was not a tactic to intimidate, but a necessity. He had to discern the will of the twin spirits within his sword gourd, those fierce little ancestors that dictated the dance of steel.

This understanding would shape the very essence of his coming fight.

Flying Sword Chuyi, known also as Xiao Fengdu, materialized within the ancestral house, a fleeting white rainbow suspended in the air. Though slender, the blade pulsed with a solemn, unwavering power, its keen edge unsheathed, unyielding.

Flying Sword Fifteen, the blade once traded with the wizened Old Man Yang, possessed a different temperament altogether. Its spirit leaned towards the silent and watchful. Within the gourd, its movements had been frantic, near-impossible to track. It now hovered close to the inner walls, never quite touching. It was a creature unlike Chuyi, who careened through the gourd like a drunken moth.

From these observations, Chen Ping’an divined thus: Xiao Fengdu, the White Rainbow Flying Sword he christened “First Day of the First Moon,” possessed superior sharpness and raw power, but suffered from a slowness of speed and a lack of finesse. It proved difficult to control fully, often leading to imprecise strikes. In a prolonged engagement, especially one where he held the advantage, he could unleash First Day of the First Moon to batter his foe with reckless abandon. Yet, in a dire situation, he would need the swiftness and silence of Fifteenth, a blade designed to deliver a single, decisive blow.

The natal flying sword held within a man’s soul was a power beyond measure. It was the bedrock of every swordsman’s aspiration. Those fortunate enough to possess one cherished it above all else. These blades were a terror to the hordes of Qi practitioners. But every flying sword born of the soul held two burdens: the arduous path to its creation, paved with countless treasures, and the fearsome reputation of its killing power. A single flaw, a nick in the blade sustained in battle, would send tremors through the wielder’s very being.
The natal sword, cracked and ruined, demanded constant sacrifice, an insatiable maw devouring fortunes whole. Above, ever vigilant, the heavens watched, weighing the cost of such a broken blade.

Thus, the adage echoed throughout the mountain monasteries: “A sword cultivator is born rich, a sword cultivator dies poor, and many a sword cultivator wakes stripped bare of all, consumed by their steel.”

This was why Chen Ping’an had sought battle at the year’s very dawn, fearing that the 15th day would herald the blade’s true awakening, a flash of deadly brilliance followed by utter ruin.

Both sides held firm, their wills unyielding. Words had failed; only steel and fist could now decide their fate.

Chu, the scholar with eyes of ancient sapwood, tapped the gleaming heart-ward upon his chest. “So confident in your fists, mortal? Strike here, if you dare. This is the Jiao Wan, forged with three thousand snowflakes, a treasure of the ancient Yu Kingdom’s royal lineage! Break it, Chen, and you shall have earned your victory!”

Chen Ping’an answered with action.

His toe cleaved the flagstones, a whirlwind of motion launched him forward.

The old saying held true: a tree, once rooted, is slow to change; a man, however, can adapt and overcome. Though a Qi training cultivator of the fifth level and possessed of formidable resilience, the tree-spirit scholar lacked the fluidity of true close combat, thus resorting to the costly Jiao Wan as a last bulwark.

Chu steeled himself, gathering his Qi, bracing for the onslaught, calmly awaited the approaching storm.

The punch landed, a force that reverberated through centuries. The Jiao Wan buckled inward, a miniature sun collapsing. The scholar, hurled backward, crashed through the courtyard wall. But there was no clumsy stumble. Instead, the wall behind him exploded, revealing a horrifying sight: not brick and mortar, but a writhing mass of ancient tree roots, pulsing with unnatural life.

Chu, dusting off his robes, sneered. “Is that all you possess? Even if I stood unmoving, and you struck a hundred times, Chen, you would still struggle to pierce the Jiao Wan. You are without the strength of a Sixth Realm Hero.”

The warrior’s three realms surpassed mere physical tempering, ascending to the mastery of chained Qi, the Little Master Realm. Each level resonated with the soul, the spirit, the courage within, amplifying combat prowess exponentially. This granted not only physical strength but also a profound advantage against the supernatural, turning the tide with each strike. Their fists became burning suns, banishing shadows with righteous fury.

The successful blow, aimed at the heart’s true guard, was not the culmination but a mere prelude. Chen Ping’an paused, not from fatigue, but from astonishment at the wall’s horrifying truth. Was this entire ancient house rooted in the earth, a living extension of Chu’s being?

Flashes of light burst from the darkness, briefly illuminating the night, mingling with the shouts of bearded swordsmen engaged in fierce combat.

The three yellow talismans of pagoda design, meant to bind demons, were spent. But two golden talismans of similar purpose remained hidden within Chen Ping’an’s sleeves.

And two other talismans.

*It is well,* Chen Ping’an thought grimly.

The previous assaults…
Their strikes, though seemingly reliant on nimble footwork, were, in truth, artless and direct.

But Chen Ping’an was now different. He adopted a stance of forgotten ages, planted a foot with deliberate slowness, extended his arms, and with agonizing control, clenched his fists. A fluidity, like the gentle caress of running water, possessed him.

Then, with sudden ferocity, Chen Ping’an unleashed a torrent of blows, a blinding storm that threatened to shatter the very air. To the scholar Chu, each punch was akin to the rising sun of a new and terrible dawn over the Eastern Sea.

The God-Man Drum Beat Style!

The scholar Chu swallowed hard, a wild impulse to simply sit and parley warring within him. How could mere armor, even enchanted, withstand this onslaught? The boy before him was yet to ascend to the third realm of martial Qi! Where did he get it.

How could such raw, unreasonable might reside within this boy?

The scholar Chu resolved to retreat, to at least evade the initial fury. Even as he shifted his weight, the youth vanished, only to reappear in a blink, directly before him. A fist, hard as granite, slammed into his ribcage, jarring him. Yet, as he recovered, he realized the blow, while fierce, lacked the devastating power he’d anticipated. He settled into a sturdier stance, relieved.

A wizened hermit, dwelling in a dilapidated mountain hut, had once chuckled, “The God-Man Drum Beat Style, you see, it hinges on the first punch. That first strike connects, divine will flows, head and tail become one. The subsequent hundred strikes follow naturally. Thus, to ensure success, the first blow MUST land. The measure of the remaining blows depends on your wind.

To ensure the first punch landed, Chen Ping’an deployed a ground-shrinking talisman.

The tempo of Chen Ping’an’s strikes increased, the force behind them only marginally improved. He hammered at the Qi Mansions located on the scrollar Chu, each strike causing the armor to glow. Every attempt at evasion was narrowly thwarted, the punch following close behind. After ten punches, the scholar Chu grew pallid and realized that the only reason the armor was glowing was due to it be struck repeatedely.

Shoulders, chest, ribs, abdomen, back, temples, brow, elbow, knee.

No place offered respite.

Chen Ping’an’s fists moved like lightning, yet his gaze remained unnervingly calm, his breathing measured. The scholar Chu, in his centuries of existence, had never witnessed such precise, almost unnatural, timing. The perfect confluence of step and strike was a sight more befitting an ancient monster.

By the fifteenth blow, Chen Ping’an’s knuckles had split and bloodied, bone showing beneath the torn flesh. But such insignificant pain was nothing to Chen Ping’an.

Compared to the agony of splintering fingers and shattered bones, the pain was soothing.

The scholar Chu began to revert, his flesh swelling, eyes turning a venomous green, and veins bulging like gnarled branches beneath his skin. He raised his arms in a desperate ward, and, as each punch sent him reeling, he bellowed, “Bailu, God of Qinshan! Things have changed, help me!”

On the hillside above the ancient house, the mountain god’s face darkened at the sound of his name.

The torch that the scholar surnamed Chu inserted in the corridor column.
The stolen flames, torn from their source, scattered like dandelion seeds in a gale. Though most flickered and died, embers, tiny fire sprites, danced through the pavilion’s shadowed eaves, across the Sanjinyuan courtyard. The Mountain God of Qinshan, gazing through these fiery emissaries, could observe the ancient house as if through his own eyes, lent to him by the capricious spirits of the blaze.

Thus, he witnessed the clash between the scholar Chu and the enigmatic youth, a spectacle that ignited a certain…annoyance within him. Not for lack of desire to intervene, but for the agonizing calculus of advantage. To aid Chu before his defenses shattered would offer meager reward. To slay the boy, securing the enchanted armor for himself, would be…well, unsatisfying.

Just then, a Taoist of middle years, his hand never straying from his snow-white whisk, spoke, “The swordsman’s wrath surpasses all reckoning! If I hold back, the wraith’s very essence will be imperiled. Qinshan, will you join me, or remain a mere observer, a weight upon the scales?”

The Mountain God chuckled, a sound like stones grinding against one another. “Are we not bound by oath, partners in both fortune and adversity? There is no place for retreat when the final hour draws nigh.”

The Taoist threw his head back and laughed, flinging the whisk before him. As it neared the earth, it bloomed into a magnificent white stag, which the Taoist swiftly mounted. He rode towards the ancient house, robes billowing like sails in a tempest, a sight that would surely have prompted any woodcutter to kneel in awed supplication.

The Mountain God, dispensing with arcane gestures, simply took a single stride, appearing beside the Taoist upon the stag.

The white stag, swift as the wind, carried them to the ancient house. The Taoist leaped from its back as it reached the threshold, the stag shrinking back into the familiar form of a whisk, nestled once more in its master’s hand. The Taoist, grinning, called out, “Fear not, Brother Chu! Aid has arrived to vanquish your foe!”

Chen Ping’an, having unleashed twenty blows that strained him to his very limit, found the enchanted armor still unbroken.

Though the scholar Chu was battered, blood streaming from every orifice, his spirit reeling, the very bones of the pavilion groaning under the force of their combat, he still clung to a thread of resilience, his innate talent and charmed defenses just enough to prevent him from being crushed by the youth’s merciless fists.

Then, the White Stag Taoist descended from the heavens.

Chen Ping’an merely retracted his fist, gently patting the sword gourd that hung at his waist.

A sliver of white rainbow, unleashed from the small vermilion gourd, pierced the enchanted breastplate of the youth, precisely where the boy’s heart beat beneath.

All the luminous fireflies gathered within the Jiao Wan congregated within that single point of impact.

A sound, delicate as the shattering of porcelain, echoed from the enchanted armor.

The white light recoiled, flashing back into the gourd, vanishing without a trace.

The dying scholar Chu was seized by terror, but that dread swiftly morphed into rapture. The armor had held! He lived!

But then, an icy tendril brushed his brow, and his burly form crashed to the ground. With his last breath, he uttered a venomous curse, “I have been thwarted at every turn! Be warned, you shall suffer as I have!”

With these words, the fallen scholar Chu dissolved into a pile of green, decaying wood, crumbling to ash. The armor, bereft of its master, collapsed into a dull, unremarkable sphere, only visible in the light.

Chen Ping’an frowned.

For on the first day of the new lunar month, another faint green light flashed forth from the gourd, moving with a speed that surpassed all that had come before.
A shimmering arc of opalescence, a spectral rainbow made steel, flashed again and again. Each ethereal blade found the chink in the scholar’s armor, a weakness in the weave of spirit-spun energy shielding his heart’s mirror. Then, swift and silent as shadows, two of those gleaming swords pierced the very seat of his soul, finding purchase between the learned man’s brow.

From the ramparts of the ancient house, a figure cloaked in the gaudy finery of the Temple of Bliss cried out in a voice laced with dread, “The Natal Sword Flight!”

He wheeled about, each stride eating up leagues of the frozen earth. When the icy wind kissed his face, it found him drenched in a cold sweat. “Mother above! A Sword Immortal walks!”

Beside the veranda, the White Deer Taoist, who had just ignited the ritual pyre, sprung onto the balls of his feet and fled without a word. In his haste, he flung his whisk into the heavens. It fluttered down, abandoned. The white deer stumbled to the ground, and the Taoist scrambled onto its back, urging it into a desperate, headlong flight.

Chen Ping’an stood bewildered, the wind whipping around him. He stared at his hands, a frown etching itself upon his brow. *Sword Immortal? How?* he thought, his heart filled with a disquieting awe. He, a simple man who had barely touched the path of martial arts, a mere layman who’d punched the air for less than two years? He wasn’t even a cultivator of the sword!