Within the magistrate’s manor, the aged Seneschal beckoned Liu Gaohua towards the hidden postern of the official residence. There stood a carriage, clearly prepared for a journey of considerable length. The old man extended a weathered hand, a wry smile upon his lips. “Young Master, pray, ascend.”

A silken curtain was drawn aside, revealing a lady fair as a pear blossom kissed by rain. Seeing her younger brother, Liu Gaohua, a measure of her anxiety abated. She dropped the curtain once more, leaning against the carriage wall, her thoughts lingering on the Liu Lang (husband).

Confusion clouded Liu Gaohua’s brow. “Uncle Song, what manner of sorcery is this?”

The Seneschal’s gaze hardened. “The magistrate, your father, has commanded me to convey you hence, beyond the city gates.”

Liu Gaohua’s voice rose in alarm. “Leave the city at such an hour? Does peril truly stalk Yanzhi County? Uncle Song, ’tis precisely *because* of this that I cannot depart. What fate awaits my father should ill befall him?”

The Seneschal, a fixture within these halls for countless seasons, chuckled dryly. “And what, pray tell, can a mere scholar, armed only with quill and parchment, accomplish against the tides of fate?”

Liu Gaohua was silenced, the truth stinging like a wasp’s barb.

The Seneschal pressed onward. “Young Master, delay no longer. The Eldest Lady awaits.”

Liu Gaohua shook his head, resolve hardening in his eyes. “I shall not leave! I will not abandon my sister…”

He surged towards the postern, but with a speed belying his years, the old man materialized before him, barring the way. The Seneschal’s smile widened, a cunning fox regarding a bewildered hare. “Uncle Song knows a trick or two, gleaned from years amongst the world’s charlatans. Will you mount the carriage of your own accord, or must I render you senseless and convey you thus? Truth be told, my bones ache these days. Dragging a limp form would strain my old frame. Would you inflict such hardship upon an aging servant?”

Liu Gaohua jutted his chin. “Release me!”

The Seneschal sighed, a theatrical gesture. “Your father, bless his soul, foresaw this stubbornness. He charged me with delivering a message, a truth I withheld, fearing it would sunder father and son. But your obstinacy leaves me no choice. He said, ‘Liu Gaohua, in all your twenty years, you have done naught to ease my brow. Do not linger here, obstructing my path. Is that understood?'”

Tears welled in Liu Gaohua’s eyes, his lips trembled with unspoken emotion.

Silence hung heavy, broken only by his weak query. “Where is my sister?”

The Seneschal shook his head, a hint of pity in his gaze. “For now, she is beyond our grasp. Depart with the Eldest Lady; I have dispatched a messenger in search of the Second Lady.”

Liu Gaohua seemed poised to protest, but the Seneschal, his patience frayed, stamped his foot. “By the spirits, Liu Gaohua! You are a man grown, yet you whine like a babe! What is so difficult to understand?”

Liu Gaohua, stung by the rebuke, retorted, “I have never received guidance from my father or comfort from my mother. What great deeds can be expected from such a foundation?”

The Seneschal sputtered, unable to find a suitable response. Finally, he choked out, “Go! Just… go, before you drive me to madness!”

Doubt gnawed at Liu Gaohua. Each choice felt wrong, each path shrouded in uncertainty.

He suddenly understood the weight he had carried, the grievances he had harbored. His father, engrossed in official matters and flowery prose, enjoyed long conversations with outsiders and spent afternoons playing chess with the idle scholars who frequented the manor. He lavished praise upon the offspring of his friends, yet offered only lukewarm affection to his own son, especially after his failure in the Imperial Examinations, punctuating their conversations with barbed criticisms…

Now, he understood how petty those grievances were.

The Seneschal sighed, his voice softening. “Go, young master. To remain is to invite further trouble and only deepen your parents’ worry.”
“Nothing,” echoed in the desolate air.

Liu Gaohua, his face etched with a weary resignation, offered a mirthless smile. “Then let us depart.”

The old retainer, his face a map of wrinkles earned from years of service, nodded solemnly. He waited patiently as Liu Gaohua climbed into the waiting carriage. With a soft clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, the old man guided the horses, drawing the conveyance away from the shuttered street and southward, toward the uncertain dawn.

As they journeyed, Gaohua cast his gaze back upon the county seat. The streets, for the most part, still throbbed with an oblivious vitality. Merchants hawked their wares, and travelers, ignorant of the doom gathering like a storm cloud, thronged the thoroughfares. Little did they know, a thread of life and death was woven into the very fabric of the city. General Ma’s words echoed in his mind: the demons had arrived with purpose and preparation. If the worst were to unfold, the cost would not be counted in mere hundreds of souls. History, he recalled, was rife with instances of the Caiyi Kingdom labeling such horrors as mere plague, concealing the machinations of fell sorcery – the foul arrays of demon lords, or the unleashed power of cursed artifacts. The bodies of those who perished in such calamitous events were often left to rot, shunned by terrified survivors, lest the taint spread. Yanzhi County would become another such blight upon the land, a festering mass grave stretching for leagues.

Innocence, it seemed, was destined to fall. Who amongst the ignorant masses could hope to escape the coming darkness? Only a stalwart champion, a bulwark against the tide, could offer salvation. But without such a figure, only despair awaited.

The old retainer felt a flicker of something akin to pride stir within him. The actions of Magistrate Liu, in this dire hour, had earned his long-held respect.

Liu Taishou had spent a king’s ransom to implore the Chongmiao Taoist to send a message to the fabled Flying Sword Sect, seeking aid. It was true, the Lingxi Sect would send their champions. It was also true that a Cailuan, a majestic avian capable of riding the winds, could swiftly bear aid southwards.

But swiftly, by whose measure? Liu Taishou had painted a false dawn, claiming the Cailuan, flying alone, could reach Yanzhi County by midday on the morrow. But burdened by two or three souls, it might not even reach the northern border of the county by nightfall.

Why this deception? Because Liu, as protector of the realm, needed someone to stand firm against the encroaching darkness, to hold the line until the celestial aid arrived. If they could weather the storm until noon on the next day, then those with the courage to stand against the infernal tide, those who had earned the demon’s ire, would have no choice but to fight for survival alongside their city.

If the demon lord, lurking within the city’s heart, held its forces in check until noon, then all would be well. Then, Liu Taishou could force a confrontation, unmasking the hidden enemy.

If Yanzhi County were to proactively declare war, the demons might bide their time until the following day. At that moment, the county city would welcome reinforcements from all directions. With the Immortal Masters of the Lingxi Sect arriving, Liu Taishou was even less concerned about the situation.

When a scholar is pushed to the brink, he can be formidable. A mind filled with knowledge can drown a person in cunning strategies.

This was the first time the old retainer had truly beheld the cunning strategist within Liu Taishou. He found himself not disappointed, but filled with a strange respect.

Alas, he feared the opportunity to celebrate this revelation would never come.

Before leading young Master Liu Gaohua to the back gate, the old man had shared a heartfelt moment with Liu Taishou.

The magistrate had confessed that if the disaster in Yanzhi County were contained, claiming only a few hundred lives, he could easily flee. But if countless innocents were doomed to perish, he would stand his ground.

At that moment, the scholar, adorned in his official attire, had pointed to his heart, declaring it burdened.

He had said that he had devoted his life to the wisdom of the ancient sages, that they were his old friends and teachers and to flee now, was to betray them. If he survived this ordeal, he would no longer have the heart to read the books, for he would be living a lie of betrayal and cowardice.
The Lord of Rouge County, a man who had never known the sting of steel nor the choking breath of war, found himself trembling. Though his voice strove for conviction – “If I don’t read books in this life, what’s the fun of living?” – his teeth chattered, his face drained of color, and his legs threatened to betray him. He was a rabbit dressed in the lion’s skin of righteous pronouncements, a sight for the seasoned eyes of the old staff to behold.

To hear such bold words issue from such a craven heart was, in truth, somewhat comical. But the old staff found no amusement in it. Scholars risen to power were a breed apart from those hungry, unfulfilled souls who blamed fate for their lack of advancement.

The ancient groom, burdened by his thoughts, urged his steed onward, leaving the city behind. He glanced back, seeking his errant apprentice, the one he’d secretly taken under his wing. She was nowhere to be seen, undoubtedly embroiled in some mischief. He only prayed she would stay clear of trouble, for the shadow that had fallen upon Rouge County was far beyond her youthful grasp.

He shook his head, sighing, “The rivers and lakes are thick with secrets, and the mountains whipped by treacherous winds. How hard must it be to simply carve out a life, earn an honest crust?”

***

North of Yanzhi County stood a rice shop, its doors open for over two decades. The proprietor, a tall, lean man, was known for his taciturn nature. His two compatriots, men who had settled in the county alongside him, were equally reserved. Yet, they were seen often at the city god’s pavilion, burning incense, earning them favor among the townsfolk. Moreover, the rice and other goods sold within were of good quality and reasonably priced, ensuring the shop a steady flow of customers.

On this particular day, two strangers entered the Mipu: a middle-aged couple, their faces etched with a seeming honesty. Later, the shop closed early, and the young lad, hired only last winter, explained it away, stating that the Mi Shopkeeper had received distant kin. No one questioned it; it was only natural that long-lost relatives would have much to say after years apart.

As darkness fell, the shop owner and his wife sat at a table laden with food, its aroma filling the small space. The three shop hands huddled together, gnawing on melon seeds, clearly not invited to the main feast.

The man, the visitor, seized a greasy chicken leg and devoured it with gusto. He clutched a wineskin in his other hand, spilling half its contents as he tilted his head back to drink.

The woman subtly arched her neck, pinched the flesh of her chin between two fingers, and peeled away a thin layer. She tossed it onto the table with a resounding *thwack*. Leaning back against the chair, she exhaled heavily, “This cursed masquerade is truly a torment! One can barely breathe! And thirty silver snowflakes besides…”

From their corner, the three shop boys gasped, recognizing the term “masquerade”. *Thirty snowflakes*…they knew what she meant, and their eyes widened in comprehension.

The woman, unfazed, raised her other hand and tore off the second layer of skin, throwing that one upon the table as well.

The three lads were stunned, swallowing hard.

Beneath the mask lay a far more striking face. *Could there be yet another layer?* The three exchanged nervous glances, praying against the unveiling of a third face. So, when the woman raised her arms again, they whispered their anxieties, silently begging, “Please…not a beast! Just a beautiful woman.” And then, it was done. The revealed visage was indeed fair, but with a wicked gleam in her eye. She cast a coquettish gaze at the trio and drawled, “Well, my dears, don’t I look delightful like this?”
“Beautiful, wouldn’t you say?” The woman’s voice dripped with vanity.

The proprietor of the humble rice stall, a grizzled man known as Mildew, barked, “Enough with the frivolous chatter! Speak to the matter at hand.”

The man, reeking of roasted meat and cheap wine, merely gestured with a greasy chin towards the woman. He clearly preferred stuffing his face.

The woman retrieved a tarnished hand mirror from her pouch. With meticulous slowness, she adjusted a stray strand of hair, a lazy smile playing on her lips. “My Devil, we’ve come to discuss the division of spoils.”

Mildew, with a crunch, devoured a forkful of pickled winter vegetables. His brow furrowed. “Spoils before the deed is done? Are your wits truly addled?”

The woman lowered the mirror slightly, her smile widening into something almost predatory. “You are close to Liuli Xianweng, an association spanning a century. Of course, we know this. But the grand ship is listing, Mildew. Surely, you wouldn’t drown with it?”

Mildew’s chopsticks clattered against the worn wood of the stall. “What are you implying?”

“Something rather illuminating.” The woman tucked the mirror away and, with a disturbing ripple, peeled off her face. Beneath lay a complexion marred by freckles, the illusion of beauty dispelled.

The man, still gorging himself, chuckled, flecks of grease spattering. “Indeed! Had she resembled He Xiaoliang or Su Jia, with that seven-tenths perfection, I’d pay five hundred snowflakes! Aye, to spend a night with Fairy He or Fairy Su, bathed in their celestial light… a man could never tire of it!”

The woman shot him a look of mild disgust and continued. “A fledgling Sword Immortal from the Shengao Sect, one named Fu, has joined the Lingxi Sect’s southern procession. Her aura is immense, despite her youth. The two founding ancestors of the Lingxi Sect practically worship at her feet like she was a Bodhisattva.”

Mildew slammed his chopsticks down. His face was a mask of concern. “Speak true?”

The woman nodded. “If it weren’t for this, we’d have deserted you already. Why involve ourselves in a loss? We are not ones for ill-advised ventures that lack mutual profit; if we were that reckless we would never have been able to maintain our position.”

Mildew seized upon a critical point. “How do you know of the Shengao Sect’s involvement? You have spies within the Lingxi Sect, and of significant rank?”

The woman countered with a raised eyebrow. “Is that so surprising?”

Mildew offered a dry, mirthless smile. “So, you peddle secrets even on sacred mountains. I am impressed.”

The man tossed the picked-clean chicken leg bone to the dirt. “Impressive to reach the peak? We’re mere flies buzzing around giants.”

The woman spoke plainly. “Mi Lao Demon, this is the crux of it. Give us a truthful answer. If you are resolute in clinging to Liuli Xianweng, we depart after our meal, not a word spoken. The Lingxi Sect’s decree is profit enough. But, if you are willing to align with us, then choose wisely. Eliminate Liuli Xianweng, open the barrier in advance, and flee during the ensuing chaos.”

The tall, gaunt Mildew hesitated.

The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I will slay Liuli Xianweng myself! His Liuli Cup is yours, along with whatever trinkets you can pilfer from the old fool’s hoard. But that seal… it must belong to us.”

Mildew pondered for a long, drawn-out moment. “Wait,” he rasped.

He turned to a lithe young man with delicate features, his youngest disciple. “Cast the coins. Foretell the auspiciousness of this decision.”
A faint, cruel smile played on his lips. He spilled a handful of copper jangling in his palm, squatted low to the dusty earth, and tilted his head upwards. “Laomi,” he rasped, “what boon awaits?”

The aged warlock, Laomi, replied with chilling calm, “No more need to don the garb of women each night.”

The other two acolytes, long steeped in the dark arts, merely exchanged knowing smiles. Only the youngest, a boyish figure with a delicate blush rising on his cheeks, spoke. “What benefit, Grand Master? Grant us another request, I beg you.”

Laomi pondered, a glint of madness in his eye. “The spoils of our venture shall be divided amongst you all.”

A youth with a voice as silken as shadow asked, “Assuming there is life enough in you to claim such spoils? Shall you still have years enough to savor them?”

Miao Demon, the elder warlock, cast a cold glance at his two seasoned disciples, then nodded to the youngest. “Yes.”

With a coy smile, the boy bit a fingertip, drawing a bead of crimson blood. He smeared it upon each copper piece in turn, then scattered them upon the packed earth. He studied the chaotic array with widened eyes. “Good fortune!”

Miao Demon breathed a sigh of grim relief, then turned to the couple. “I have bid my disciples weaken the wardings. We three shall fall upon Liuli Xianweng together, and swift be our victory. Agree?”

The woman’s gaze slowly slid from the comely youth’s face, a dark satisfaction blooming within her. “Agreed.”

The man, however, spoke with sudden, venomous suspicion. “Miao Demon, a century of entwinement binds you to Liuli the Immortal. How can you bear to strike him down?”

Miao Demon plucked a morsel of food from the table. “Offer you a goblet brimming with the Xianren’s essence, and bid you slay your own wife, would you refuse?”

The man’s face fell with disappointment.

The woman showed no sign of grief. She drew forth a polished bronze mirror, examining her reflection from every angle. “If my worth could equal such a draught in the eyes of this heartless cur, I would have lived a life worthy of song.”

—

Outside the Temple of the City God, a young girl stood trembling near the back door of the main hall. She dared not even venture into the small courtyard between the Shrine of Wealth and the Altar of Tai Sui.

For the City God’s Temple before her was overturned, a scene of wild chaos.

The immortal master she revered had been, moments before, brutally trampled upon by the corrupted City God, Chen Wen. Yet, the young Immortal Master now stood, and with a surge of power, forced the City God to stumble back. Then, the infamous Golden City God, resplendent in his colorful robes, unleashed a furious assault. He darted through the spacious hall like a gilded whirlwind, chasing the sword immortal in the silken robes around the crumbling walls.

During this relentless onslaught, the Immortal Master endured a twenty-one stage barrage of blows, each strike delivered with an arcane fist stance that shattered magical protections. The Golden City God, consumed by infernal forces, shed fragments of his gilded form, which drifted like shimmering dust motes through the air. Countless fissures spiderwebbed across the surface of the clay statue, weeping wisps of black smoke. Yet, with a thunderous roar, the Golden City God formed a strange and unknowable hand seal. The gold dust coalesced once more upon the statue’s surface, and even the deepest cracks sealed themselves shut.

Save for his eyes, which burned as black as pitch, the City God exuded a terrible grandeur, a malevolent brilliance. A mere glance sent shivers down one’s spine. Yet his form remained dazzling, three spans in height, each punch a resounding blow, each step shattering the floor tiles beneath. He was a celestial tyrant unleashed, a bringer of ruin.

The Silver Bell Girl, trembling with fear, wondered if this seemingly invincible Jinchenghuang could be defeated.

She was also deeply confused. Why did the old immortal Jianxian not unleash the golden talismans in his robes? Why not summon his flying sword? Instead, he fought the City God hand-to-hand. She had witnessed the Immortal Master change his fist techniques many times, and watched him be brutally driven from one end of the City God’s Hall to the other. The sounds alone were enough to send shivers down her spine.
The assault upon the Jincheng deity was a storm of fists, a defiance that sent him reeling against the very walls of his domain. Enraged, the City God, heedless of the sacred hall, wrenched a mighty pillar from its foundation. The grand hall shuddered, threatening collapse, but the god cared not, wielding the timber as a weapon of divine wrath, sweeping and smashing with unbridled fury.

It was a clash of immortals, a battle that shook the very earth.

The maiden, witnessing this spectacle, felt a thrill of fear course through her. Her palms slicked with sweat as she offered a silent prayer of encouragement. Though the ancient god was pressed back, he fought with a valor that shone even in defeat.

He raised his arms in a desperate shield, intercepting another descending beam. Wood splintered, stone crumbled, and the force drove him to his knees, sinking into the very ground itself.

The girl averted her eyes, unable to bear the sight of such brutal impact, knowing the pain must be immense.

Another blow sent him flying from the hall, tumbling across the dusty courtyard. From the shattered threshold, the Jincheng God sneered, gesturing mockingly. With a roar of defiance, the old god rose and charged back into the fray.

Before a candle could burn halfway, the City God’s Palace was a ruin, ravaged by the very being sworn to protect it. Five, six beams lay splintered amidst the wreckage. Dust swirled, obscuring the sun as the Jincheng God tore loose the last crimson painted timber. One wall remained standing, though marred and cracked, while the opposing side had utterly collapsed. Upon this fractured rampart stood the old god, his robes torn, spitting blood that mingled with the dust.

He treated this Jincheng aberration as Kuxuan, the second dread steed, a trial by fire to temper both body and spirit.

Mere fists, he knew, would not prevail.

It was unnerving; the statue of the god seemed to draw strength from the very stones of the Palace, restoring itself from grievous wounds with impossible speed. This defied reason.

A quick glance revealed the secret: the Jincheng God remained rooted within the Palace, never straying beyond its influence.

“A foot of earth,” he mused, “can be a small world, a cave of wonders, mirroring the power of the heavens.”

He recalled the lessons of the sages, how Master Qi and Master Ruan drew strength from their Lizhu Cave Heaven. Within the hallowed halls of the academy, a Confucian sage was unstoppable; upon the ancient battlefields, a military saint held sway.

“This corrupted City God draws power from this place,” he realized. “He is anchored here.”

Taking a deep breath, he surged forward, baiting the Jincheng God to leave the ruins. If he could lure him beyond the Palace’s influence, the tide might turn.

But the world rarely yielded to wishes. Though driven mad by demonic possession, the Jincheng God clung stubbornly to his shattered domain. Twice, the old god offered himself as bait, allowing himself to be hurled beyond the Palace’s perimeter. Each time, the Jincheng God merely seized a fragment of the ruins, wielding it as a weapon, and relentlessly pounded his adversary.

Seeing the futility of prolonging the struggle, the old god knew he must hasten to the Prefect’s House and expose the villain masquerading as a deity.

This clash, he now understood, was a necessary prelude, a refining fire.

He rained down blows, each strike precise and powerful. At the same time, from the gourd at his waist, the sword known as the First Day of the Month surged forth, followed by the Fifteenth, a jade blade shimmering with ethereal light.

Above the ruins of the City God’s Palace, the white arc of the First, the verdant flash of the Fifteenth, and the relentless fury of a god’s fists converged upon the towering, corrupted statue of the Jincheng God.

The girl with…
The Silver Bell, once bright, lay shattered, its chime silenced by forces beyond mortal ken.

To quell the monstrous corruption unleashed, Chen Ping’an offered the Golden Pagoda Demon-Suppressing Talisman. The act drained the talisman’s power, leaving it a mere shadow of its former glory, yet the demon was bound. Its golden effigy lay in fragmented ruin, a dozen shards glinting weakly beside a small, azure wooden box.

Chen Ping’an, collecting the remnants of the struggle, wiped the blood from his brow and approached the maiden. A gentle smile touched his lips. “What name do they call you, little one?”

The girl seemed lost in the aftermath, replying in a hushed tone, “Liu Gaoxin.”

“Happy?” Chen Ping’an inquired.

A blush crept across her cheeks. “The ‘gao’ meaning tall, the ‘xin’ meaning warmth. Not happy. My parents named me thus, wishing me to stand tall and bring warmth, leaving a sweet fragrance even at life’s zenith.” She possessed a face of exquisite beauty and a spirit of untarnished purity.

Desiring no further entanglement in the sorcery that had unfolded, for the battle between the Immortal Master and the demon of Jincheng had drained her, she sought only rest.

Chen Ping’an had intended to comment on the name’s simple beauty, a name understood by all, much like his own. But the correction of “happy” stayed his tongue.

A sudden realization struck him. “Might you be sister to Liu Gaohua?” he asked, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

The girl’s eyes sparkled. “You know my brother, Immortal Master?”

Chen Ping’an chuckled. “We met but recently. I intend to call upon your father, the magistrate, to reveal the truth about the old god, for he is the architect of this evil.”

The girl, absent from the lakeside spectacle, had not seen the faces of the old god nor the woman in vibrant silks. Chen Ping’an, meanwhile, had already broken for the high walls of the town, with the girl close behind. Though she possessed a certain nimbleness, she lacked Chen Ping’an’s supernatural stamina. Soon, she found herself breathless. Chen Ping’an paused beneath the jutting eaves of a roof, allowing her a moment to recover.

Liu Gaoxin spoke cautiously, “Old Sword Immortal, why do you not fly upon your sword? You could carry me upon the winds to my home, and we would arrive much faster.”

‘Sword Immortal’ was flattering enough, but to be called *old*?

Chen Ping’an fought back a smile, choosing to ignore the barb. Once her breathing settled, he resumed his breakneck pace across the rooftops of the county.

The girl mused to herself, “This Old Sword Immortal… truly, he is unpredictable.”

*And* his temper was surprisingly gentle!

Seizing the opportunity, she stole glances at him. He was quite handsome, certainly not old!