The scrolls whispered tales of ages past, where the Golden Elixir was but a stepping stone to the hallowed realm of the Nascent Soul – a truth obscured by errant scribes, now set aright.

Under the cloak of night, when Sun Jiashu should have played host to a dignitary from the sun-kissed lands of the Southeast, a decree went forth. The inner city’s Sun Mansion, poised for revelry, was instead commanded to refuse the grand banquet. A murmur of dissent arose from the estate steward, unheard for its temerity, yet Sun Jiashu offered no explanation. He severed the ties between the old house and the Sun’s domain within his study, and sought the solace of the small ancestral hall behind.

The steward, in his unease, found himself granted audience with the progenitor of the Sun lineage, a being of Nascent Soul might, unseen by the family for a century. This unexpected intervention, a word face-to-face, calmed the troubled waters and served as a potent balm.

Clean and clad in fresh raiment, Sun Jiashu stood alone within the hallowed hall. He lit incense, and turned to face the wall, lost in silent contemplation.

Beyond the spiritual tablets, hung portraits of past heads of the Sun clan. Their attire, like his own, was understated. The mantle of leadership passed in alternate generations. After Grandfather Shu departed to the heartlands of Central Earth Shenzhou, young Sun Jiashu had inherited this vast legacy at barely twenty years. The weight of those years pressed heavily upon him.

His gaze swept across the painted visages. Some had stemmed the tide of ruin; others had charted new paths of commerce. A few had forged bonds with powerful cultivators of the upper five realms, securing the family’s prosperity. Yet others were marked by mediocrity, allowing the Sun’s influence in Laolong City to stagnate. There were those who, through poor choices, surrendered ancestral lands piece by piece, and those who abandoned worldly concerns for the pursuit of Dao, leaving their kin adrift.

Sun Jiashu pondered his own future portrait. Would he be remembered as the ancestor of resurgence, the architect of renewed glory? Or the instigator of downfall, the one who planted the seeds of ruin? Or simply a fool who squandered a golden opportunity?

As the night deepened, the Nascent Soul ancestor drifted into the hall. A silence hung heavy, broken only by the elder’s soothing words, “Three times you wagered, and thrice you deemed that youth worthy. To stake the fate of the family a fourth time is no small thing. Fret not over the fifth, nor the loss. Know this: the Golden Elixir Consecrator, whom you sought to align with our cause, prefers the quietude of the Sun’s ancestral home to the siren call of Fu Donghai.”

Sun Jiashu remained fixed, eyes still upon a chosen portrait. He nodded. “I understand. The betting, I can accept. The outcome is… not worsened. And if we are without a future Nascent Soul, then doom will claim us all eventually.”

The elder Sun paused, reluctant to delve into matters of destiny, matters too sacred to casually discuss, even between kin. The three esteemed worshipers of the Sun’s ancestral home shared this reverence. Their curiosity regarding the young man’s cultivation ran deep, yet they would never directly inquire, contenting themselves with playful speculation.
Here’s a rewrite of the content in a fantasy style, attempting to capture the tone and essence of the original while using more evocative language and adhering to the prompt’s requirements:

***

Sun Jiashu extended a palm, the lines etched deep like ancient roads on a weathered map. “My dealings with Chen Ping’an,” he stated, “have been business, pure and simple. Not that I hold Liu Baqiao lightly, mind you. But Chen Ping’an… he is an enigma, a shimmering prize I could not resist. There was no fighting his star-crossed fate. I, Sun Jiashu, am a merchant, a scion of my house. But I know now that too much knowledge has been my undoing.”

He turned, lifting his palm higher as if presenting a truth to the heavens. “When Chen Ping’an twice vanquished the Chaoxia Golden Dragon, while the Fu family’s tendrils still grasped the land, my carefully laid plans crumbled to dust. I had erred so grievously, and watched as… Old Dragon City slipped through my fingers like water.”

Even the Nascent Soul Ancestor, hailed as an Earth Immortal, could discern nothing extraordinary within that young man’s outstretched hand. Yet, the elder was certain: Sun Jiashu had glimpsed the bitter end of all his schemes.

A profound sorrow etched itself onto Sun Jiashu’s face. “Were it merely the loss of Chen Ping’an, a friend who was never truly a friend, and the fall of Old Dragon City, I would have gnashed my teeth and swallowed my pride. Sun Jiashu could have borne it! Coin can be recouped; my talent for making it is unmatched!”

The old man remained silent, a sentinel awaiting the next sorrowful revelation.

Sun Jiashu lowered his hand, clenching it into a fist that trembled. “But amidst these trials, I have realized that my path to riches, the very foundation upon which I built my prosperity, is revealed to be a mere winding lane, a shadowed offshoot of true wealth. Chen Ping’an, whom I’ve known but a moon, has laid bare the truth. Our ancestor, the first merchant, warned that fleeting wealth is like rushing water, quick to arrive and quicker to depart, a siren’s song to be resisted!”

Sun Jiashu averted his gaze, seeking to hide his shame from the ancestral spirits. He bowed his head, unwilling to let the weight of his despair be witnessed by those who came before.

The Nascent Soul Realm elder slowly approached. “And now,” he murmured, “are you to be undone by this despondency, rendered incapable of action?”

Sun Jiashu cupped his hands, exhaling a soft, troubled breath. “The Fu family has no movement for no reason. It’s not human inside and outside, only I, Sun Jiashu. The key is that I’m not sure now. Chen Ping’an thinks I am, and he’s in the end. What kind of person is this the crux of the problem.”

The elder frowned. “What Chen Ping’an is to you, is difficult to discern. But have you yet grasped his true nature?”

Sun Jiashu sighed, his voice laced with frustration. “I believed I had. I believed that even knowing the truth, Chen Ping’an would not begrudge the Sun family its due. At worst, we would become strangers, forever estranged. But now… now, I question whether Chen Ping’an is one man or many, whether his mask is his true face, or a reflection of those around him.”

The elder placed a hand on Sun Jiashu’s shoulder. “Jiashu, you are shrewd, gifted. You are fit to lead the Sun family, even after this debacle. And so, I will not speak as an ancestor today, but as one who sees a younger man astray. Cast aside the calculations, the pride of your house, the currents of Baopingzhou. Are you still Sun Jiashu, the friend of Liu Baqiao? Chen Ping’an is but another friend brought to you by Baqiao. Meet him with the simple heart of friendship, and for a time, forget the ambitions of your line.”

Sun Jiashu turned, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “It’s…”
“Feasible?”

The elder smiled, a crinkle appearing around his eyes like ancient runes. “You might as well taste the fire. The ashes of despair offer little warmth. Some burdens, try as you might, refuse to be hidden. Life, my boy, is a mountain pass thick with snow. Strive to cross, spend all your strength, and even if the blizzard prevails, you will know you gave your all. And as you say, the House of Sun still draws breath.”

Sun Jiashu, still veiled in doubt, stammered, “Then… then I shall attempt it?”

The elder tilted his head, gazing at the sky beyond the ancestral hall’s aged timbers. “Go. Remember this day. The day the Mountains-and-Sea Turtle sets sail.”

Jiashu drew a shuddering breath, turning towards the exit. Resolve flickered within him, yet his youthful gait remained hesitant.

“This trial has wounded young Jiashu deeply,” the elder murmured, his gaze following the retreating figure. “He fears to lose again, having already yielded thrice. He forfeited the wealth of Guyu, lost the chance at a hundred-year offering, the hope of nascent immortality. The House of Fu stood firm as stone while he faltered. And finally, the path itself slipped from his grasp, his very soul began to tremble. Had I stood in his stead, I would likely have fared worse. My spirit would have shattered beyond repair.”

The elder turned away from Jiashu’s departing back, his attention shifting to the ancestral images lining the walls. A wry smile touched his lips. “This hardship, though bitter, is a blessing in disguise. Better this trial now than a catastrophic fall later, from which no shepherd’s crook can retrieve the lost sheep. Too much ease breeds a facile wisdom, but true strength is not born of talent alone. Wouldn’t you agree?”

A rustling sound echoed from the portraits, as if the ancient ancestors whispered their assent.

—

Meanwhile, in the bustling city of Fucheng, Song Jixin remained ever in the shadow of the Deputy Mountain Captain of Linlu Academy.

The treaty between Laolong City and Dali had been sealed even before Fu Nanhua descended into the Lizhu Cave Heaven. Song Jixin’s presence served only as a symbolic gesture, a façade of representation as Prince Song Mu of Dali. This entire undertaking was not merely the scheme of Cui Lai, the Dali National Master, but a directive from the Dragon Emperor himself. From the docks of Longquan County to the gates of Laolong City, His Majesty, secluded in Jingcheng to regain his strength, had imposed no demands upon Song Jixin, feeding the young Prince’s growing suspicion that the Deputy Mountain Captain held the true reins of power.

Longquan County. Laolong City.

*Zhigui, Wang Zhu is the pearl*.

These fragmented clues, these whispered secrets, Song Jixin had painstakingly woven into a vast tapestry of unseen intent, a grand strategy of northbound and southbound maneuvers. The alliance with the House of Gao of the Great Sui, willing to cede vast territories to the Song Dynasty of Dali, and the machinations of Xie Shi, the Heavenly Lord of Beijuluzhou, had already loosened the iron grip of Guanhu Academy over the northern provinces. Though the Academy had struck first, its thunderous attack upon the Caiyi and Shushui Kingdoms only served as a prelude. In the unfolding drama, Song Jixin saw the shadow of the Dali Iron Cavalry, unstoppable, descending southward, their whips cracking upon the shores of the South China Sea…

He held his tongue, kept these visions locked within the vaults of his mind.

The boon to the Song House of Dali did not necessarily translate to advantage for Song Jixin. He lacked kinship with the powerful Ministers in the Imperial Court, held no allegiance with the esteemed Generals who had forged the Zhu Kingdom. His younger brother resided within the Changchun Palace, a favorite of the Empress. When, after years of separation, his son was finally legitimized and brought to Dali, should he not, as a dutiful father, hasten to greet his sovereign mother? But no matter how deeply the Empress might grieve…
Within the frigid walls of Changchun Palace, Song Jixin found his heart untouched by sorrow. He observed the Empress, a woman of fallen power cast into the Cold Palace’s shadows, as if she were a stranger weeping. No empathy stirred within him, only the faintest, forced tears. Their exchange was a hollow mimicry of reunion, more akin to a sovereign addressing a subject than a son embracing his mother. Even young Song He’s weeping presence only amplified the strangeness, a discordant harmony of forced sentiment.

Later, wandering alone through the Fu family’s labyrinthine courtyards, Song Jixin dismissed his escort from the Linlu Academy. He passed handsome servants and graceful maids, all oblivious to his true identity. Yet, the ancient dragon-shaped jade pendants, Fengyun and Buyu, hanging at his waist, were keys that unlocked every door within the Fu’s vast estate.

Zhigui, his maid, was absent, her whereabouts unknown. And Xu Ruo, the renowned Sword Immortal of Central Earth God Island, remained elusive. Song Jixin yearned to forge a bond with the enigmatic warrior, but felt a peculiar distance, a barrier that mere politeness could not breach. Perhaps, he mused, attaining higher station would smooth the path. For now, he suppressed his frustration, lest it fester into something more dangerous.

He admired the carefully sculpted beauty of the Fu family’s domain – mountains rendered in miniature, rivers tamed into serene streams, gardens overflowing with exotic blooms, and pavilions that seemed to float on the air. Yet, a creeping ennui settled upon him. He remembered simpler days, wandering the town’s streets, with or without Zhigui, and a pang of longing pierced his heart. He feared a future where she was no longer his maid, a future where her lithe form vanished from his sight.

He turned, seeking her, but found only an empty corridor. A gaudy cage held a parrot, squawking unintelligible phrases in the thick dialect of Lao Longcheng. Irritated, Song Jixin strode to the cage and rapped his knuckles against its bamboo bars. “Silence!” he commanded.

With uncanny speed, the parrot mimicked his harsh tone, regurgitating the phrase, “Silence!”

Song Jixin raised an eyebrow. “Song Mu is the uncle,” he retorted.

The colorful bird turned its back, presenting its feathered rear to Song Jixin. “Your uncle!” it screeched.

A genuine laugh escaped Song Jixin’s lips, chasing away the gloom. His spirits lifted, he continued his stroll, a smile playing on his lips.

***

The Longtai, a forbidden peak in Lao Longcheng, stood not within the city’s walls, but on a sheer cliff overlooking the eastern sea. A spire of stone, dozens of feet high, it was the tallest structure in the region. A Qi practitioner of the Golden Core realm, eternally vigilant, guarded the path, preventing unauthorized ascents.

Today, Fu Qi himself led a guest towards the towering monument. His legitimate son, Fu Nanhua, alone accompanied them, all others were dismissed.

Strangely, Fu Qi stopped at the foot of the Longtai, allowing his guest to ascend the weathered steps alone.

The Golden Core guardian, after saluting Fu Qi, glanced lingeringly at Fu Nanhua before retreating to his hut to meditate upon the rhythmic crash of the waves, seeking to hone his spirit.

“Nanhua,” Fu Qi murmured, “you chose not to strike against Chen Ping’an before. Was it your deduction that someone as cunning as Sun Jiashu would only make maneuvers more brilliant than your own?”

Fu Nanhua answered honestly, “That, and I always ask myself, what…”
The query asks to rewrite the provided text in a fantasy style, removing any AI explanations. Here’s a possible rewrite, incorporating elements of fantasy world-building, noble houses, and a sense of foreboding:

“What course should I steer, were I to regard this matter as Lord of Laolong City? Is it for the good of the City, or…?” Fu Nanhua’s voice trailed off, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

Fu Qi, her father, beamed. “I see you heeded my words that day. A true heir of the Fu cannot wait until the city’s mantle is upon their shoulders to think as a ruler. This is vision, Nanhua, foresight! For if even the strongest warrior in our line is but a selfish brute, concerned only with personal glory, what chance would we have against a True Immortal of the Upper Five Realms? The Fu, Laolong City itself, would be but dust.”

Nanhua, steeling herself, asked, “But Father, my power is… lacking. How can I legitimately claim the Lordship in time?”

Fu Qi chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “How? With gold, daughter. The Fu have never lacked for wealth in Laolong City. Do you think I ascended from Jindan to the Tenth Realm of Yuanying on sheer willpower? The treasures I consumed could pave the long streets outside the city gates thrice over! Diligence is vital, yes, but gold greases the path, buys power, bends the elements.”

Nanhua stared, stunned. “It is… that simple?”

Fu Qi placed a hand on her back, his gaze drifting towards the lone figure ascending the Dragon Staircase. “Her opinion, Nanhua, even a careless word from her lips, carries weight. The final decision, it might as well be. There are whispers, shadows within the Fu, that remain beyond your grasp for now. But you will learn, the full panorama of Baopingzhou Mountain will reveal itself to you.”

A fire ignited in Nanhua’s eyes.

Fu Qi’s smile chilled. “And then, daughter, you will smell the blood.”

The figure, a girl, reached the Dragon Platform, her face slick with blood, tears of crimson flowing from golden eyes.

Alone, she surveyed the landscape.

Nine Continents, Five Lakes, the endless Seas, all the tombs above and below the mountain were her enemies!

—

That night, Chen Ping’an fished under the starlight, then honed his stance within the Sword Furnace. Dawn broke, and he gazed eastwards, across the sea. He did not summon the falling gold this time, but grinned, raising a hand in greeting, as if to an old acquaintance.

Gathering his rod and basket, Chen Ping’an returned to the Sun ancestral home, finding Sun Jiashu waiting by the river.

Jiashu waited for him, yes, but Chen Ping’an had also been waiting for him.

Within the crowded alleys of that lesser city, Zheng Dafeng had urged him to shed his concealing visage, then a Yin God had interfered.

Even a casual parsing of the Sun family’s words, innocent as they seemed, revealed a hidden blade.

Disappointment? Inevitable.

Rage? Unquestionable.

Liu Baqiao had offered him the Sun’s hospitality with good intentions, and whether he accepted was Chen Ping’an’s choice. At its core, it was the instinct to seek shelter. Yet, looking back, this decision may not have been the worst, but it was far from the best.

What was the Sun’s creed, the bedrock of their beliefs? Sun Jiashu had unknowingly revealed…
The veil of familiarity over Sun Jiashu’s countenance thinned once more in Chen Ping’an’s mind, replaced by a burgeoning wariness and keen scrutiny.

For simplicity was not akin to dimness of wit, and true goodness required a knowing glance at the shadow it sought to overcome. To live virtuously, a man must first comprehend villainy. And for a righteous heart to thrive in this world, *that* was the greatest kindness one could offer it.

These were not lessons gleaned from dusty tomes for Chen Ping’an. The city’s chaotic currents, the whispered squabbles between neighbors, the sly machinations of Long Kiln apprentices – were these not texts in themselves, etched in the very cobblestones beneath his feet?

Sun Jiashu watched the approaching swordsman, his youthful face set with grim purpose. He drew a steadying breath, offering not a word, but a deep, apologetic bow.

Chen Ping’an sidestepped the gesture, a seemingly discourteous evasion of Sun Jiashu’s supplication.

Sun Jiashu, unbowed by the slight, straightened and offered a rueful smile. “Chen Ping’an, I have secured passage for you on the Fan family’s ferry to Osmanthus Isle. My Sun family no longer has the face to ask you to climb atop the Mountain-Sea Turtle.”

Chen Ping’an’s voice was a low ripple, unsettling in its calmness. “Sun Jiashu, why is this?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sun Jiashu squatted beside the riverbank. He plucked up a pebble and flung it into the water with a frustrated sigh. “In my greed for wealth and power, I concealed the Fu family’s true grip upon Laolong City. I allowed you to bring only a threadbare facade into their closely guarded domain. My gamble was that Fu Nanhua’s pride would not allow such an insult to pass. With the ensuing chaos, I planned to secure half of the Sun family’s holdings and offer them as your protection, Chen Ping’an. After that, you would sail safely to Overhang Mountain, believing yourself indebted to Sun Jiashu. And I believed that the Sun family would reap a greater reward than it had ever lost.”

Chen Ping’an remained rooted to the spot, his fishing rod and basket heavy in his hands. “How did you ensure my survival?” he pressed, cutting to the heart of the matter.

Without turning, Sun Jiashu pointed a finger skyward. “Fu Nanhua has no right to know the secrets held by those highest in the Celestial Canopy. But I, as head of the Sun family, know them. Fu Qi, the lord of Old Dragon City, knows them as well. This play, Chen Ping’an, was orchestrated. I would present the image of stubbornly defending you, risking everything for your sake. Fu Qi, after bruising the Sun family, would intervene at a predetermined moment. You, Chen Ping’an, would face neither danger nor death. And I, Sun Jiashu, would become your valued friend in adversity.”

Only then did a tempest brew within Chen Ping’an. His face darkened with a fury contained, a nascent power suppressed with iron will.

Sun Jiashu cast another stone into the river. “The Sun family has prospered greatly in recent years, seemingly a match for the Fu family. But I see further. Of the five great houses, the Fan family has tied itself to the Fu. The other three have sought patrons – Guanhu Academy, the immortals of Beijuluzhou, the wealthy families of the Southeast Continent. All have found their backers, their paths to survival. My Sun family hesitated, desiring the favor of the Song family of Dali, yet finding no path. Years ago, I sent a Jindan family to worship towards Dali Jing, hoping for even a glimpse of Emperor Dali. But even the gate of the vassal king Song Changjing’s palace remained shut to them. Such is the despair of a merchant unable to find a temple for his offering.”

Chen Ping’an asked the second…
“It seems I am no friend of yours, Sun Jiashu,” Chen Ping’an said, his voice as steady as the river flowing beside them. “Tell me then, where stands Liu Baqiao?”

Sun Jiashu, who had prepared a thousand replies in his mind, found his tongue utterly bound. He could only gaze, face etched with bitterness, at the rushing water. The question had struck him, a blow direct to the heart.

Hidden from mortal eyes, the ancestors of the Sun family, spirits bound to the ancestral lands, watched and worried for their descendant.

Sun Jiashu bowed his head, cradling his face in his hands. Finding no easy solution, the shrewd merchant at last gave voice to his thoughts. “Of course I consider him a friend. But perhaps, after this, you shall gain one more foe, Chen Ping’an, and lose one friend, Liu Baqiao.”

Chen Ping’an’s voice, unwavering, cut through the air. “So, you dare not slay me? Fear grips you, lest one day I return to Haoran and tread upon the Sun family’s ancestral home?”

Sun Jiashu shook his head, a desperate attempt at defiance. “I have no desire to kill you.” He forced a smile, a ghastly parody of his usual charm. “Do you believe that, Chen Ping’an?”

Chen Ping’an offered no reply.

Sun Jiashu rose, as if shedding a weight of a thousand pounds. The haunted look vanished, and something of the Laolong City merchant returned. “I have spoken all that I should, and I shall say no more. From this moment forward, I wash my hands of you, Ping An. I will not regret what you do. Sun Jiashu still possesses that much honor.”

Chen Ping’an sighed, a sound of weary acceptance. “Once I retrieve my belongings, I shall seek the dust medicine shop in the inner city, and from there, take the Fan Family’s Gushua Island to the Upside Down Mountain.”

Sun Jiashu nodded once, curt and resigned. “So be it.”

Silently, they made their way back to the Sun family’s ancestral home, each lost in their own thoughts. Chen Ping’an, true to his word, shouldered a meager pack and walked along the dusty path, his memories his only companions.

Sun Jiashu sat alone, breaking his fast on meager fare: pickled vegetables, thin rice porridge, and a plain steamed bun. Across from him, unseen by mortal eyes, sat the ancestor of the Sun family. The ancestor opened his mouth to speak, but Sun Jiashu cut him off. “I will explain the entirety of this matter to Liu Baqiao without delay.”

The old one inquired, his voice a whisper of ages, “Do you fear to embarrass Chen Ping’an further? Or is it that he is uneasy, and will not yield the secrets he holds?”

Sun Jiashu paused, setting down his chopsticks. He pondered carefully, then answered with brutal honesty. “It seems there is a measure of both.”

The ancestor probed tentatively, “Why not arrange an…accident…upon the Peach Blossom Island ferry?”

The weight lifted, Sun Jiashu found his spirit renewed. He shook his head, a genuine smile gracing his lips. “One wrong cannot excuse another. I dare not gamble with fate so recklessly.”

The old man seemed to exhale in relief, more so than even Sun Jiashu himself. He chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. “Then the Sun family is not lost. To seize opportunity in the tide of events is best, but to avoid grievous error is no small feat. Now that the grand design unfolds, one cannot always resort to chance. Sometimes, it is enough.”

Sun Jiashu smiled, a spark of his former self. “A wise elder is a treasure indeed!”

The old man rose, his form flickering slightly in the morning light. “Eat slowly, and find your balance. In the days to come, temper your passions.”

Sun Jiashu put down his chopsticks, standing to offer a respectful bow. He did not resume his seat until the old man had departed, then he buried his head in his simple breakfast.

The bitter taste lingered.

For the ancestor of the Sun family knew full well that any inappropriate response from Sun Jiashu would result in his swift and unceremonious removal as head of the family. The unspoken understanding hung heavy between the old and the young, and neither saw anything amiss in it.

Leaving the boundaries of the Sun family’s ancestral lands, I…
Having arrived at a city renowned for its prosperity, I inquired as to the correct road and then engaged an ordinary carriage to convey me to the inner city. The fare was unremarkable, a relief after journeys where one might find oneself vying for passage with gryphons, fell beasts, dragon steeds, and other outlandish conveyances, stretching a common road into a spectacle of three hundred leagues.

Entry into the inner wards did, however, necessitate a further expenditure.

Once seated within the carriage, I directed the driver. Unseen by him, a spirit accompanied me; the very same presence that had lingered outside the Dust Medicine Shop. He introduced himself as Zhao, and I, with due reverence, addressed him as “Master Zhao.”

Beyond the alley’s mouth, I settled the carriage’s due. Zheng Dafeng was absent from his usual perch beneath the locust tree, instead occupying himself behind the shop’s counter, lost in contemplation. He displayed no surprise at my arrival, merely informing me that while the shop itself was modest, the space behind it was considerable. Drawing back the curtain, I found a courtyard paved in bluestone, mirroring the arrangements of the Yang family apothecary. A main hall stood facing us, flanked by empty wings on either side. I chose one at random, the one on the left, and deposited my sword case and belongings within, retaining only the gourd at my belt. Zheng Dafeng, mimicking Old Man Yang, settled himself beneath the eaves of the main hall, upon an antique bench procured from some obscure curiosity shop, exhaling plumes of smoke.

To my eyes, however, his tobacco burned with all the depth of a forgotten well.

Zheng Dafeng’s dry tobacco seemed a mere jest.

I sat in the doorway of my chamber, announcing my intent to take the ferry to Osmanthus Isle. Zheng Dafeng simply nodded, claiming it was easily done, and swore he’d almost worship me as an ancestor.

The two souls, so ill-matched, lapsed into silence, one puffing tobacco, the other quietly drinking.

This lack of drama proved tiresome to the unseen presences behind the curtains, who quickly dissipated.

Zheng Dafeng, bored and puffing on the unpalatable tobacco, wondered at the old men who enjoyed the taste. From time to time, his gaze would flicker toward the placid boy. The moon swelled and waned, fortune ebbed and flowed. With the splintering of Lizhu Grotto-Heaven, the boy’s luck had turned decidedly for the better. He considered how Chen Ping’an’s entry into Laolong City would have been far more arduous had it not been for the arrival of the Dali Ferry and the Yunlin Jiang clan; Fu Qi would not have been so easily swayed.

Meanwhile, I pondered how best to spend my five coppers.

Zheng Dafeng abruptly broke the silence. “Just asking, mind you. What would you do if Master Qi were to declare that you, Chen Ping’an, would never ascend to the fourth realm?”

I considered his question. “Then I suppose I should accept my fate.”

Zheng Dafeng seemed taken aback, then rolled his eyes, his boredom deepening.

*Be your own preacher?* Were not Chen Ping’an and himself kindred spirits in such matters?

Unwilling to abandon the thread, Zheng Dafeng pressed on. “And after accepting this fate, what then?”

It was a matter neither stinging nor soothing. I replied with indifference: “Why, continue practicing boxing, of course. What else is there to do? It was upon boxing I relied to save my life. Besides, the practice is not solely about breaking realms, but also about strengthening the body. It is always a good thing to be more vigorous.”

Zheng Dafeng narrowed his eyes, a sly smile gracing his lips. “And what if you were to stumble upon the bottleneck of the third realm and glimpse the faintest hope of the fourth?”

I turned to regard him, almost uttering the very catchphrase of the old sword saint of the Shushui Kingdom. *Do you take me for a fool?* Practicing boxing is a good…
The matter of transcending, and shattering the mortal coil, was foremost in his thoughts. He had reached an impasse, and naturally sought a way to break the shackles.

“Do you not recall Master Qi’s pronouncement, that the Fourth Realm is forbidden to you?” Zheng Dafeng inquired.

Chen Ping’an’s eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief in their depths. Was Zheng Dafeng truly so obtuse? How could a martial master at the pinnacle of the Eighth Level be so utterly perplexed? He took a long draught of wine, its fire doing little to thaw the chill in his heart. “Master Qi is learned, aye, but his intent was born of kindness. Should the breaking of the realm prove ill-advised, I would bear the burden. But if it brings forth good, and Master Qi erred in his foresight, am I to forever deny myself progress?”

He murmured inwardly, “To do so would surely disappoint Master Qi.”

Zheng Dafeng’s face grew grave, his usual indulgence in dry tobacco forgotten. “How could Master Qi be mistaken?!”

Chen Ping’an spoke with solemn conviction. “If… if I could stand before Master Qi once more, and ask him if fallibility were beyond his grasp, what answer do you believe he would give?”

Zheng Dafeng was struck as by a thunderbolt. His face contorted in anguish, the discarded pipe rolling unheeded on the ground. He clawed at his head with both hands, his knuckles white against his weathered skin.

His eyes, bloodshot and tormented, fixed upon Chen Ping’an in a daze. He roared, “Chen Ping’an! Did Master Qi entrust a message to you for me?! Speak! Speak plainly! If there is one, I will gladly be your guardian on the path! Ten years, a hundred years, I will serve!”

Chen Ping’an shook his head. “No.”

Zheng Dafeng leapt to his feet, pacing frantically like a trapped beast. His movements were erratic, more akin to a novice in the Third Realm than a master of his caliber.

Chen Ping’an murmured, “Has he betrayed the enemy?”

The Yin God materialized beside him, its ethereal form subtly cloaking the courtyard, ensuring no sound or disturbance escaped the confines of the doorway.

Zheng Dafeng stumbled about, muttering, “Master Qi… I have heard your teachings, sought your wisdom in times of doubt. You must have concealed a truth, a secret message meant for me! I did not grasp it then… Think, Zheng Dafeng, think! Do not yield to despair…”

The very air in the courtyard churned, a chaotic gust rising from the flagstones, coalescing into a razor-edged blade of wind. Fortunately, the Yin God subtly intervened, preventing the swirling forces from shattering the paving stones and collapsing the corridor pillars.

Chen Ping’an watched silently, the wine warming his throat, as he observed Zheng Dafeng’s tormented display and the unsettling phenomena that accompanied it.

Finally, tears streaming down his face, Zheng Dafeng ceased his restless pacing and looked up at Chen Ping’an. “Master Qi had a reason for teaching you, Chen Ping’an. I beg you, speak! Whatever it may be, just say it! The path of the sage lies in cultivating oneself, managing one’s family, and navigating the world with virtue. Just say it…”

Chen Ping’an clutched his sword gourd, his face an impassive mask. “Why?” he asked.

Zheng Dafeng nearly wailed, “You are my guide! Chen Ping’an, you are my guide!”

The Yin God whispered urgently, “Chen Ping’an, this is dire. If Zheng Dafeng persists in this madness, he risks becoming a martial arts fiend, his soul fragmented beyond repair. Even should he regain his senses, all hope of reaching the pinnacle will be lost. And I fear I cannot contain him. This shop, this alley, this entire street… all will likely be destroyed by his rage, countless lives lost or maimed.”

Though his face betrayed nothing, Chen Ping’an’s heart churned with apprehension. *Guide?* What ridiculous notion was this? How could a fledgling barely acquainted with the Fourth Realm possibly guide a master poised on the cusp of the Eighth? Chen Ping’an…
The courtyard was a maelstrom of vengeful wind, spirits of the air coalescing into miniature whirlwinds, seven, eight feet tall, like dancing dervishes of destruction. Where they trod, the ancient bluestone paving fractured and crumbled beneath their ethereal feet.

Chen Ping’an, desperate, channeled his will into the Fifteenth Flying Sword nestled within his gourd and drew forth his small bamboo slips, etched with the wisdom he had gleaned. He repeated the words, meant to comfort the departed, to Zheng Dafeng, but the warrior only writhed in agony, shaking his head in denial. The gale seized Zheng Dafeng, lifting him like a broken-winged bird, the wind howling around him as blood wept from his seven orifices.

Though Chen Ping’an conjured forth the verses that adorned the walls of the bamboo building, poems etched in ink of moonlight and starlight, and spoke them aloud, Zheng Dafeng remained unmoved. The traveler from afar could no longer utter a word, only stagger in the tempestuous air, clinging to the last flickering ember of his sanity.

The path to martial mastery grew steeper than the ascent past the third, fourth, sixth, and seventh peaks. This was the Kanxin Pass, the Barrier of the Heart.

But the barrier beyond ninety… That was a realm of dread unknown, spoken of only in whispers. The Gate of the Sky, they called it, a testament to the impossible heights.

Zheng Dafeng knew all this too well. He envied his senior brother, Li Er, lost in his waking dreams, and burned with jealousy for Song Changjing, who had clawed his way into the tenth realm amidst the crucible of life and death!

He had brawled with Li Er countless times, nearly beaten to a pulp, and yet…

Why was Song Changjing, barely forty, able to achieve what Zheng Dafeng, who had surged so powerfully into the eighth realm, could not?!

Why had the old master declared that the ninth realm was forever beyond his reach? Was the crushing weight of this prophecy destined to break him entirely?

Why, after pondering the scrolls of “Sincerity” and witnessing the preacher’s rejection of a grand boon, did the understanding of the scroll only bring the promise of the ninth realm, but never the power to seize it?

The Yin God, a silent watcher, clenched his ghostly fists, his gaze fixed on Zheng Dafeng’s spiraling descent. Hesitation gnawed at him. To intervene now would be to shatter Zheng Dafeng’s martial future irrevocably.

Suddenly, Zheng Dafeng halted, suspended in mid-air, painted in crimson, his face a bloody mask of despair. “Master… I cannot… I am not worthy… Forgive me…”

Chen Ping’an, his heart heavy with helplessness, saw a flash of memory: a little girl, clad always in a red cotton jacket, leaping and laughing, untouched by the world’s woes.

He recalled Li Huai speaking of her, how she posed questions that even the wise scholars could not answer, and how Mr. Qi never rebuked her for it.

A connection sparked within Chen Ping’an’s heart. He murmured, barely audible, “A disciple need not be inferior to his teacher.”

The words, faint as the buzz of a fly,

exploded in Zheng Dafeng’s ears like the roar of the tide crashing against the walls of Laolong City.

He looked down, his gaze drawn to the ancient cigarette pipe clutched in his hand.

He remembered, with startling clarity, the old man who had always observed him through a veil of smoke, his eyes cold and unyielding. Even at his most arrogant, Zheng Dafeng had never dared to meet that gaze head-on.

Until this day, Zheng Dafeng had never questioned it. The world knew nothing of the old man’s true identity or origins, but Zheng Dafeng did. The world knows
The world remained blissfully ignorant of the ancient one’s potent magic, a secret he guarded closely. Men knew naught of his legendary exploits, yet Zheng Dafeng held them etched in his memory. How, then, could Zheng Dafeng presume to be a disciple? What worth had an eighth-level warrior, daring to gaze upon such majesty?

Zheng Dafeng, head raised, drew a deep breath. He wiped the crimson stain from his brow and whispered, “So, it is thus.”

He uttered no boastful cries, nor did manic laughter spill forth. Instead, step by deliberate step, he ascended towards the empty air above the courtyard. Within his heart, he silently vowed, “Master, you dwell now in a realm far beyond my grasp. But fear not. Your disciple, Zheng Dafeng, will climb, step by weary step, until he stands beside you.”

And so it was, on that day, that a man began to climb. He ascended, not upon mountains of stone, but upon the very air itself, rending the veil of clouds. He trod upon the high sea of vapor, and still, his gaze sought a loftier height.

In the ancient Dragon City, a tempest arose, winds howling and clouds racing, stirred by the unfurling of a new legend.