The clash of steel echoed through the ancient house’s courtyard and beyond the silken curtains of the embroidery tower. A wanderer, sworn to rid the land of shadows, stood defiant. Though his spirit was tempered in but four trials, the greatsword he wielded pulsed with ancient magics. Infused with his own vital force, each stroke unleashed a crimson light, accompanied by the faint crackle of wind and thunder, an aura of unstoppable force.

Against him stood the old crone, for years the yard’s keeper, a secret cultivator of chi from the Third Realm. But age had withered her power, and she proved no match for the bearded hero and his enchanted blade. In a score of clashes, she was overwhelmed, sent reeling by a savage blow, and cast, unconscious, into the shadows of a nearby chamber.

Her defeat, though swift, was not entirely undeserved. Long confined within this cursed place, steeped in the miasma gathered by unseen rituals, she was, though no creature of darkness, nonetheless weakened by the holy steel. Further, the bearded swordsman possessed the grim wisdom only the road can teach, and fought with a cunning that defied her withered arts.

As the crone fell, the master of the ancient house, a man lost in dreams of dusty tomes, emerged from the shadows, drawn by the desperate fight. Seizing a blade long untouched, its surface as cool as the moon, he met the swordsman with a fluid grace. His attacks were not direct, but subtle, each thrust aimed at vital points, the tip leaving trails of cerulean light, like sad fireflies flickering in the rain.

The bearded swordsman, a veteran of countless battles, moved with a brutal simplicity. No intricate flourishes adorned his technique, but each strike was swift, powerful, and precise. A single hit would surely cripple, or kill. Yet, he struggled against the man in black, who seemed to anticipate his every move.

A spark of insight ignited in the swordsman’s eyes. “You craven dog!” he roared, “You were born to the path of light, yet you embraced this vile corruption! Half-man, half-specter, pandering to this succubus, poisoning the land for leagues around! Do you not realize the death you have wrought?”

With a cry of rage, he gripped his greatsword in both hands, unleashing a mighty blow that cleaved through the man’s lesser blade. The sorcerer was sent staggering backward, his feet splashing through the rain-soaked earth. Steadying himself, he coughed up a mouthful of blood, then with a flick of his wrist, shattered the nearby raindrops into a fleeting shower of sparks.

The bearded swordsman advanced, his enchanted blade radiating a fierce light that illuminated his arm, the source of a righteous anger. “The wise ones say that redemption is always within reach,” he bellowed, “yet you defile all that is sacred! Will you not cease this madness?! Do you truly believe I, Xu, dare not end your pathetic existence?”

For the first time that night, the man spoke. Though his voice was hoarse, and thin, it possessed a certain morbid elegance. “Words are but wind, good sir. Leave this place, and trouble us no more. Your heroics are unwelcome here.”
The man, remaining unsettlingly calm, did not curse the harsh accusations. Instead, a twisted jest escaped his lips. “A butcher lays down his cleaver,” he chuckled, “and expects to find enlightenment? An amusing notion.”

The burly swordsman, beard thick as tangled briars, scanned the courtyard, then glared towards the shuttered window of the second floor. Withdrawing his gaze, he spat, “Still clinging to wit, are we? I see you retain some reliance, some advantage. And rightly so! For a soul steeped in Qi-training, scraping the bottom of the Five Realms, it’s nigh impossible to amass such a vast, festering empire in a mere century! Elsewise, the very spirits of these hills and rivers would howl their displeasure.” He paused, his voice laced with scorn. “Though you lack the decency to acknowledge your kin, no doubt you peddle tall tales to keep the curious at bay.”

The accusation struck him like a physical blow. His face contorted, resembling a temple gargoyle in furious animation, and he roared, “Is it not so?!”

The man clutching the longsword offered a sad smile, a flicker of remorse shadowing his eyes.

The burly figure thundered, “I offered you repentance, a chance at renewal. Since you spurn it, blame not Xu when he strikes down a demon!”

But before he could draw steel, a sigh escaped the man’s lips, a whisper of guilt. He bit down, drawing blood from his finger, and with crimson ichor, painted arcane symbols upon the blade. He inscribed a jade-green lyric, a *Qingci Baogao*, with his very life essence.

It is whispered that the *Qingci Baogao* is an ancient rite, a petition flung to the heavens. When rendered with true sincerity and accepted by the celestial realms, it grants the supplicant a divine boon. Invoke the Thunder Gods, and the *Qingci* might conjure lightning itself, forging a golden shield, making the mortal vessel a temporary avatar of thunderous power.

“So,” the burly man snarled, recognition dawning. “I sense the lingering aura of a masterfully wrought *Qingci* clinging to the screen wall. A formal disciple of the Shengao Sect! Truly, your corruption runs deeper than I imagined!”

Rage blazed in the big man’s eyes. He lunged, the great sword a flash of silver, cleaving the air with such force that the entire courtyard erupted in blinding light.

He had faced demons and ghosts aplenty, witnessed their depravity and misery. But this… this was different. This was a power gained, a trust betrayed. Such abominations held no surprise, for depravity was in their nature. But a Qi-cultivator, twisting righteous gifts into tools of oppression, was a violation that ignited the burly man’s righteous fury.

Driven by this rage, the burly swordsman became a whirlwind of destruction. The blessed blade, a weapon craved by even the most esteemed masters, sang a song of pure, untainted light. The air crackled and bucked, the rain dissolving into mist before it could touch the cobblestone floor.

But the aged man, withered and consumed by his pursuits, was a flickering candle in the wind. His realm, barely clinging to the edge of the Five, was fueled by a dwindling reserve. The *Qingci Baogao*, though enhancing the blade’s power, could only offer a slight respite against the coming storm.

Above, on the second floor of the Embroidered Building, the female ghost in the emerald gown remained unseen, unheard.
She could no longer resist. With a gasp, she emerged from the shadows, one hand clutched to her face, the other gripping a weathered column of the veranda for support.

Her arrival unleashed a storm. The cobblestones of the courtyard, the very pillars supporting the manor, and the ancient, arm-thick roots of the trees, writhed with a dark sentience, becoming living crossbows that spat wooden bolts towards any who dared intrude.

Xu, the mountain of a man with a beard like tangled briars, already held the advantage. Yet, he found himself suddenly beset by peril. Undaunted, he danced within the yard, a whirlwind of steel deflecting the barrage of branch and root. Each strike of his blade severed the unnatural projectiles, sending splinters flying. He roared with laughter, his voice echoing in the gathering gloom. “The old crone shows her true colors! A twisted tree spirit, indeed! Fear not, my friends, Xu will prune your roots! We’ll leave you a single breath, just enough to gasp as the sun bleeds you dry!”

A flash of yellow scurried along the veranda. Young Zhang, a Taoist acolyte barely a man grown, sprinted into the fray, two charmed talismans flapping wildly against his calves. He wielded a peach wood sword, the air shimmering with the speed of his passing. “Xu Daxia, hold fast! The Way has come to aid you in this unholy battle!”

A rogue root, thick as a serpent, slammed against Xu’s shoulder. The force sent him spinning, yet with a brutal grace, he cleaved the tendril in mid-air. Black ichor, smelling of stagnant pools, oozed from the severed end, polluting the air with a palpable miasma. Fortunately, Xu’s chi flowed thick as a golden shield, deflecting the worst of the corruption. He spied the approaching Taoist. Spitting blood and grinning ruefully, he barked, “Little monk, well-intentioned, but ill-advised! Hie thee hence, and take thy friend with you! Find the nearest town, and order forth the finest wine to reward a weary hero – that would be a truer aid!”

But the young Taoist refused to be deterred. To vanquish demons and safeguard the innocent was his sacred oath.

For Zhang Shan was no mere supplicant. He was a scion of the Tianshi Mansion of Longhu Mountain, however distant his lineage. Even so far removed from that hallowed peak, even with his meager abilities, he was one amongst a million vying to inherit the mantle of the true Zhang Tianshi!

The talismans plastered to his legs, purchased at great cost, were Divine Movement Charms, capable of sustaining their magic for the length of a single incense stick. These “Armored Steed Talismans” allowed him to run with the speed of a warhorse, a fleeting echo of ancient hunters patrolling the wild winds. Thus, the Divine Walking Talisman held its place as a seventh-grade treasure in the sacred Talisman Alchemy Book. Expensive, yes, but worth every coin to a young Taoist lacking strength and experience.

He was but a king amongst thieves, perhaps, but a king nonetheless.

Zhang Shan gripped his peach wood sword, chanting under his breath as he weaved through the collapsing corridors. He glanced upwards, towards the second story of the Embroidered Building. “Hurry as the law decrees! *Ji!*”

The peach wood sword swept from behind him, a blurred extension of his will. Instead of a direct assault, it followed the arcane patterns of the sword-dance, creating a shimmering arc. The blade bypassed the supporting column and struck at the tree spirit from the side.

Distracted by the need to empower her husband against the swordsman’s onslaught, and simultaneously parrying the whistling peach wood, the female specter could no longer conceal her horrifying visage. Half her face was a rotting ruin, crawling with festering maggots.
The bones were a grim tapestry, barely enough to cradle half a face, its pallid surface fractured like ancient porcelain glazed with frost. It was a sight so wretched, so defiled, that a fainter heart would surely have perished from fright.

From the very column of the corridor, thick, cerulean branches, like grasping thumbs, erupted, ensnaring the peachwood sword poised to pierce the ghastly visage.

A silver sigil, no larger than a bean, bloomed upon the blade, the talisman light swirling like liquid moonlight. Each drop of that sacred ichor was a burning brand against the unholy branches, which writhed in agony, releasing plumes of noxious azure smoke.

The wraith, struck as by a bolt of celestial fire, uttered a wail that clawed at the soul. She twisted her blighted head, unable to bear the holy light, and flung the burning branches, and the peachwood sword entangled within, into the silken confines of her embroidery-laden boudoir. The sudden movement dislodged a ghastly rain of clotted gore and writhing maggots, which cascaded upon her ruined beauty. A soft, mournful whimper escaped her, a lamentation born of pain and shame.

“Yingying!”

The man, his grip tightening on the sword hilt, cried out the name of the tormented spirit. Heartbreak etched deep furrows in his brow. “You are merciless!” he roared, his voice echoing with despair. “Why must you conspire with the lewd temple’s mountain god, and so torment us? Though Zhujing is a spirit of the shadows, she is not malevolent. For a century and more, I have bled my own life force to sustain her, and I have used this ancient house as a nexus, drawing in the negative energies of the surrounding lands – energies that rogue sects and that mountain god exploit to fuel their own dark ambition. You call yourselves heroes, upholders of the righteous path, yet you prey on the defenseless, instead of confronting those who wield true power!

He laughed, a hollow sound filled with bitter grief. “Is it simply because we are not of your world, and because that self-proclaimed ‘noble’ is a god? Do you believe that right and wrong are so easily defined?”

The man, pale as death, stood defiant, his gaze fixed on the radiant light emanating from the sword. Once, he had known the majestic grandeur of his order, emerald mountains and sparkling streams, the soaring cries of sacred cranes, a blessed sanctuary. There, he had honed his swordsmanship, deciphered ancient texts, a young prodigy destined for greatness. Then came the letter, a raven’s harbinger of sorrow. His betrothed, his childhood love, lay dying, beyond the reach of mortal healers. The letter urged him to remain steadfast in his studies, for even his presence could not forestall the inevitable. His father hinted that this union, forever broken, would have hindered his ascent within the sacred order.

He burned the letter and descended from the mountain, his sword his only companion.

He arrived to find his beloved already departed.

Driven by desperation, he defied the edicts of his order. He employed a forbidden ritual, drawing forth a soul-summoning talisman with blood drawn from his own heart. He seized her lifeless form, and with it, the fragile tendrils of her lingering spirit. Under cover of darkness, he fled into the wild, untamed mountains. He sought out places of raw, untamed yin energy, hoping to rekindle the embers of her life. For a hundred years, he had sacrificed his fortune, his strength, his very essence. He had raised this ancient house, using the stolen timbers and the power of the earth itself…
From the heartwood of a fallen Elm, ancient kin to the Yu realm, a wicked sorcery was wrought. The forbidden art of Bloom-shift and Root-weave twisted the wood’s essence and a mortal woman’s soul into a single, unholy union. Beneath silken gowns, no earthly roots took hold, yet the entire Ancestral Manse served as her hidden veins, prolonging a life unnaturally bound and weaving a prison of ancient timbers.

Together, on the Embroidered Tower, they made their devotions. Distant echoes of ancestral altars and the memory of parents unseen were honored, then, turning to one another, they swore oaths of interdependence, their fates now eternally intertwined.

Only the woman’s handmaiden remained constant, a silent witness. Once a girl with raven locks, she withered with the passing decades into a crone with hair like spun snow.

The past was a weight too heavy to bear.

The swordsman, his hand still gripping his weapon, breathed a lament, “If this is the nature of the world, then our continued existence holds no meaning.”

The hulking, bearded warrior, stayed his blade, a hand raised in tentative truce. His voice, deep as a mountain cavern, thundered, “Unravel the riddle! What secrets shroud this place?”

The swordsman offered a bitter smile. “The malign deity of the Whispering Shrine has long coveted this Manse. With the coming of spring, I knew my waning strength could not withstand the dark machinations of those lurking shadows. Against my conscience, against my vows, I penned a desperate plea to my sect, begging for a Fifth Realm adept to bolster our defenses. But my message vanished like a stone cast into the boundless sea. Such is the way of the world, is it not? None wish to stain their hands with another’s mire. Had I heard such a tale whilst training upon the mountain, I would have descended myself to purge the rot.”

Taoist Zhang Shan, sidling up to the bearded swordsman, whispered urgently, “The Divine Striding sigil upon my legs nears its end. Should they attempt treachery, I would fain retreat with haste!”

But then, a smile flickered across the Taoist’s lips. “Yet, methinks the swordsman speaks the truth.”

A shadow of unease flickered across the warrior’s face. The heart of man is a labyrinth, and the smiles of fiends are ever deceptive.

If but a single disciple of the Ascendant Peak Sect were to grace this place, even a lowly acolyte of the Second or Third Realm, their presence alone would vouchsafe the innocence of the haunted lord and his tree-bride.

For a Taoist of Baoping Continent, blessed by the Heavenly Lord as their guiding star, even the humblest sweeper of the mountain gate held more sway than the lords of lesser sects beyond the realm.

Though a fragile truce held, vigilance remained paramount.

The woman, the stolen heartwood of the ancient Yu Elm thrumming within her, had long been sheltered by her consort. During this conflict, she had watched in terror as countless tendrils of her essence were severed by the warrior’s blade, each strike a chilling echo of the peachwood’s power. She knew, deep within, that this day would inevitably arrive, yet its presence ignited a profound fear. She was a burden, a tether, a constant source of guilt for her beloved.

Her mind was a tempest of emotions, swirling for a century now.

Then, a pair of auras, vast and terrible, descended upon the outer courtyard. One, clad in the robes of a Taoist, plummeted from the heavens, yet, strangely, bypassed the Embroidered Tower, choosing to land within the distant yard. Though the lord of the Manse had heard the clash of arms from that quarter, the battle with the warrior demanded his full attention. He could only surmise that the ancient handmaiden, she who had once been a mere girl, had finally succumbed to madness.
A creeping dread, a villainous blight, held the Ancient House in its thrall.

Then came whispers of the Eunuch Gods from the hidden temple and Bailu, the itinerant Taoist, fleeting shadows passing through. They spoke of strange things – “native flying swords” and “sword immortals” – claiming to have met a true immortal upon the mountain. So great was their fear, they dared not draw steel, turning tail in hasty retreat.

The swordsman, his beard a tangled wilderness, murmured, “Little Taoist, go. See what lies beyond.”

Zhang Shan, the young acolyte, felt a pang. Though the swordsman’s voice held a calm facade, his eyes betrayed a desperate plea – *flee this place of wicked deeds.*

The young Taoist was rendered speechless, a storm brewing within his soul.

He had found a brother in arms, one willing to offer his life in the fight against shadows, a stalwart figure braving the dragon’s lair and the tiger’s den. This was the hero of his dreams. Yet, grief gnawed at him – the constant, bitter taste of his own inadequacy.

Saying nothing, the young Taoist drew his peachwood sword, its wood worn smooth. He retrieved it from the embroidered building, clinging to the divine ward talisman strapped to his leg for one last moment, then turned and fled into the night.

In the yard, the swordsman frowned, lost in thought. Were these events a blessing or a curse? Could it be that the venerable Shengao Sect had truly sent disciples to intervene?

The woman, her form vast and ancient, feared the swordsman’s strength was waning, that this battle was a final, desperate gamble. Discarding all pretense of grace, she lumbered forward, her immense frame, draped in a green gown, almost swallowed the tall embroidered building. It now appeared as if the second-story beauty was broken open by the quilt, like a woman standing on a huge tree stump falling in the yard, behind her a great tangle of ancient roots, slanting into the air.

Trembling, she reached for him, her hands cupping his face, making only gentle, babbling sounds. Her only regret was that she could not speak.

The swordsman soothed her, “Fear not, fear not. It seems the sect has sent aid to rescue us.”

The bearded swordsman, watching this scene, sighed and leaned heavily upon his sword. Even if these two were truly creatures of darkness, their love for one another could not be a falsehood.

Having scattered the Eunuch God and the Bailu Taoist, Chen Ping’an retrieved the round ball of armor, storing it within a hidden pocket. He then moved swiftly along the veranda, preparing to unleash his two flying swords, ready to strike from the shadows and sever the swordsman in the fifteenth moment. Chu’s first day would be responsible for distracting and draining the energy of the treant woman. But as Chen Ping’an prepared to launch the swords from their gourd-shaped sheath, he found that the battle had stalled, both sides holding their ground. He found himself unsure of the truth, and held his breath, and stood silently behind a pillar covering his figure.

Hearing the bearded swordsman’s words, Chen Ping’an hesitated. He stepped onto the pillars and, swift as a bullet, crossed the Sanjing courtyard, reaching the far end of the veranda. There, he tapped lightly on a beam, his body flowing like a fish through water. He returned to the courtyard, passing from the third level to the second, and finally to the ground, standing at the door of the wing where he had been before. As his feet touched the threshold, the young Taoist burst forth.

“Chen Ping’an!”

Taoist Zhang Shan’s voice was fraught with urgency. “Let’s…”
“Seize what is needed and be swift!” came the hissed command. “Xu Xiashi desires our presence in town with utmost haste. The tapestry of events is knotted beyond immediate unraveling…”

Chen Ping’an, senses heightened, rose and pointed towards the ancient house’s gate. “Intruders!”

Indeed, a company had breached the threshold. Dozens of cloaks were drawn, and the interlopers advanced with a practiced tread, bypassing the screen and entering the courtyard.

These figures were clad in the austere but elegant raiment of Taoist ascetics. Upon their heads sat the fish-tail coronet, marking them as adherents to one of the three ancient Taoist lineages. Five they were in total, a mix of age and youth, each radiating an aura of formidable spiritual strength.

Leading them was an elder Taoist, his eyes burning with an inner light that pierced the night, a testament to years of rigorous cultivation. He was a veritable god amongst men.

Amongst the other four, The youngest seemed to be a stripling of no more than twenty summers, clutched a small copper bell and bore a black-sheathed sword, its hilt adorned with a long tassel of golden silk knots.

Then came twin maidens, their faces etched with arrogance. One carried a coiled rope of shadow-black about her waist, the other a supple whip of green and yellow bamboo slung across her chest.

Trailing behind was a mere child, his limbs short and quick. In his hand he clutched a simple wooden block, but upon it were carved the ancient characters, “Ten Thousand Ghosts Bow Their Heads.”

The young Taoist chuckled, a sound like windchimes. “Master, these are but mortals, not demons.”

The elder Taoist nodded, indifferent to Chen Ping’an and Zhang Shan who stood at the wing door. He strode onward. The others gave Zhang Shan’s Taoist robes and crown a glance of faint amusement.

Leaving the two behind, the five entered the inner courtyard. The old Taoist, his voice booming with righteous fury, roared, “Yang Huang! Reveal yourself and acknowledge your transgression!”

Downstairs, the man who stood holding the sword heard the familiar voice, and his heart was torn between hope and despair.

The hope stemmed from the elder’s undeniable affiliation with the Shengao Sect, confirming his plea for aid had been heard. Though fallen from the sect’s rolls, they were not deaf to his plight. The mountain god Qin was destined to feel the wrath of the sect.

But the despair was born of darker currents. The elder Taoist was of his generation, a rival from the days when both had entered the Shengao Sect. Their masters were brothers, their lineage intertwined, yet their animosity was legendary. Now, one was an immortal master, the other a fallen spirit. Would the elder use this opportunity to settle an old score?

For behind the elder, not behind Yang Huang, stood the might of the Shengao Sect, the ruling power of the continent.

The man bade the woman behind him to remain hidden. With a sigh, he plunged his sword into the floor. Releasing the weapon, he bowed deeply towards the corridor. “Yang Huang submits to the sect’s judgment.”

The old Taoist strode across the courtyard, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Yang Huang, a century has passed since our last encounter. It seems you’ve made yourself quite comfortable.”

The bearded swordsman, his gaze fixed on the arrivals, found his grim visage reflected in the steel and silks that marked them as children of the Tao.
The five Taoist priests, sworn to the immortal heights of Shengao, disregarded their ambition for heavenly ascension. Instead, they turned towards the bowing man, clasping their fists in humble apology. “This night, good Master Xu, your virtuous union has been affronted,” one intoned, “For this, Xu offers sincere penance! Should amends require his life, Xu shall readily offer it.”

The bearded wanderer, weathered by twenty years of worldly observation, saw past the gilded facades of both Yang Huang and the Shengao elders with practiced ease. He knew, as all mortals do, that fortune and misfortune danced a perilous waltz.

These so-called holy men, old and young, wore piety on their brows like poorly affixed masks.

Taoist Zhang Shan sighed, “Indeed, a priest from Baopingzhou.” The Juluzhou acolyte, glancing at the ragged hem of his own robe, felt a pang of shame. Yet, he held firm, fearing the burly swordsman might whisk Chen Ping’an away, and resigned himself to watching from the veranda’s edge.

The elder Taoist of Shengao, having led his four junior disciples down the mountain to taste earthly matters, now placed his palm against their backs. With a subtle, secret gesture of their order, the four dispersed, each taking a position around the ancient dwelling, trapping it. One, a swordswoman, perched atop the high wall. Their stance spoke not of protectors, but of captors.

Yang Huang, reaching out, gently clasped the hand of the unsightly specter. “I yearn for an eternity bound to you,” he whispered.

The female ghost, unable to articulate her desires in mortal tongue, offered no sound, no whimper. Yet, all who witnessed knew her heart’s echo: *“I yearn for an eternity bound to you.”*

Nothing more needed be said.

The sandal-wearing boy, who had intended only to be a detached observer, suddenly found his cheeks stained with tears.

Even he was bewildered by the swell of emotion.

His childhood memories, like aged tapestries, were faded and indistinct.

Yet, one image remained crisp and clear: his father, a man of few words, uttering the only declaration of love the boy ever heard him speak. “Will we be together in the next life?”

His mother, mending clothes by the flickering lamplight, simply smiled. “Why would we not be?”

Little Chen Ping’an, nestled in her embrace, was too young to comprehend the weight of those words, the threads of life and death woven into them. But he remembered their faces, their expressions, etched forever in his heart.

Now, as the years had passed and his parents had departed, Chen Ping’an felt more deeply than ever that a single lifetime was never enough when true love took root.

And so, the tears flowed.

Taoist Zhang Shan, startled by Chen Ping’an’s strange behavior, reached out and wiped his own cheek, confused. Surely the lingering drizzle hadn’t soaked him so thoroughly? It mattered not whether one held an umbrella or not for such light rain.

Concerned, Zhang Shan asked, “Chen Ping’an, are you well?”

Chen Ping’an hastily wiped his face, forcing a smile. “I am well, Master Zhang, it is just a strange night and I was a bit slow to feel the unease it is causing.”

Taoist Zhang Shan nodded in sympathy, patting Chen Ping’an on the shoulder. Turning his head, he suppressed a smile. “Just pretend I saw nothing.”

The old Taoist of Shengao Sect surveyed the scene, his gaze finally settling on the man standing defiantly before him. “How the wheel turns, and all things fade,” he murmured, a chilling smile playing on his lips. “A pair of star-crossed lovers… Yang Huang, tell me, should you be dealt with according to the cold laws of the sect, or according to the warmth of comradeship?”
The nobleman of ancient lineage clenched his jaw, swallowing the words that strained against his throat. Yet, in the depths of his heart, he knew he would soon kneel, a supplicant begging the celestial master of Shengao Sect for leniency toward the innocent beyond the mountain.

A mighty warrior, beard thick as brambles, found his tongue tied. Justice demanded he speak, yet prudence choked the words before they could form.

The elder Taoist, his eyes like chips of obsidian, wheeled upon them, his voice a thunderclap. “Silence, meddlers! Shengao Sect purges its own. None shall presume to interfere!”

The bearded swordsman’s gaze burned with a fiery indignation, his hand itching for the satisfying weight of his blade. But the fire dwindled, replaced by a weary resignation.

To interfere in the affairs of such a powerful sect was to invite oblivion. This law held true in the villages below, and it held true upon the mountain. It clung to the air, a suffocating truth that pervaded all lands.

Just then, Chen Ping’an turned, pressing a small sphere into the hand of the Taoist Zhang Shan. “Zhang Shan, from this moment forth, we are strangers. Take this…”

Zhang Shan recoiled, bowing his head close. “Chen Ping’an, tread carefully. If you strike the first blow, all righteousness will abandon you. I know the measure of these ‘righteous’ immortals. I have a way…a better way than fists. Remember, when the blows begin to fall upon me, stay your hand. To interfere would unravel all I hope to achieve.”

Chen Ping’an hesitated. “This will suffice?”

The young Taoist offered a confident smile. “We shall see. And if it fails, you may then take up the mantle.”

A glimmer of anticipation flickered in Zhang Shan’s eyes. Chen Ping’an, no match for a warrior of even the lowest realm, would surely fall. It was as if the very ancestors of the Three Sects themselves had descended to bless their humble disciple, Zhang Shan, in this endeavor!