Chen Ping’an gazed towards the heavens. So mighty was Zheng Dafeng’s breakthrough that it summoned forth the Fu family’s cloud sea in truth. Yet, man and swirling vapor both faded, leaving him to murmur with unease, “Was the commotion… too great?”

Yin Shen chuckled, a sound like wind through brittle reeds. “Enough to send the rats and jackals scattering.”

That Zheng Dafeng could marshal such strength, cleaving through the bottleneck with a single stroke, pleased the spirit. Had the breakthrough shattered him, the Heavens would deal justly with others, but these lesser Yin Gods, born of forgotten shrines, were granted no such grace. Should their appointed tasks crumble, they risked wrath and annihilation, a fate spun from threads of cosmic displeasure.

Chen Ping’an, ever cautious, chewed on these words. They tasted of truth, yet held little immediate consequence. Still, like the wisdom etched onto his bamboo slips, they were best kept safe, for one never knew when their weight might be needed to anchor one’s path through the world.

“Surely,” Chen Ping’an asked, his brow furrowed with concern, “it won’t incite the city to scorn? Zheng Dafeng… what is he to do afterward? I can’t watch his every step, guarding him from the Five Great Surnames?”

Yin Shen glanced towards the distant East Sea and shook his head. “Fu Qi has already moved. Zheng Dafeng, seizing the moment, will weave his business shrewdly. He will return from the cloud sea diminished, but not broken.”

Chen Ping’an nodded, gathering his green bamboo slips, tucking them into his pouch of holding. These were more than mere strips of bamboo, like those he’d gifted to Lin Shouyi and Li Huai. Most came from Wei Bo’s ruined dwelling on the barren slope, remnants of a bamboo structure crafted from the Qidun Mountain Fighting Bamboo, hewn from the very heart of Qingshen Mountain. He learned at Qingfufang, near the Shushuiguo Ferry, that such bamboo held little market value, yet Chen Ping’an prized them dearly, considering each phrase, each verse, a thousand times before committing it to the unyielding wood.

Suddenly, Yin Shen spoke. “Would you grant me a small slip? Engraved with: *’Gods and Immortals, a chasm lies between, Yin and Yang, forever unseen. Soul anchors spirit, a steadfast guide, Shaping the golden body, where truths reside.'”*

Chen Ping’an shook his head, a swift and decisive refusal. “Nay.”

He thought: *Does he take me for Baoping, Li Huai? To offer whatever bauble is desired?*

But then, remembering the favour Zheng Dafeng’s reveal had wrought for the spirit, he softened. Old Man Yang’s will, or not, he owed a debt. “Very well,” he conceded, “a slip I shall grant.”

Yin Shen, surprised by the sudden change of heart, and a little eager, hastily clarified. “Hold! I was about to offer… ten Grain Rain coins for that very slip.”

Chen Ping’an, having just plucked the bamboo from his hidden realm, staggered at the mention of “Grain Rain coins”. “Even if wrought from the Wind-Sheltering Bamboo of Qingshen Mountain, this is just so small a slip… surely it isn’t worth so frightful a sum?”

Yin Shen smiled, a flicker of amusement in his ancient eyes. “To any other, it’s worth mere copper, maybe a sliver of silver, but to me… this slip, and those words, are priceless. Are you now reluctant to part with it? Shall we haggle for a pittance? A few Summer coins, perhaps?”

Chen Ping’an rose and offered the slip, a slight smile playing on his lips. “Master Zhao, claim your prize.”

Yin Shen claimed the slip with one hand, the ten Grain Rain coins nestled in the other. Chen Ping’an snatched the handful of shimmering currency, giving them a hasty appraisal before whisking them into his hidden space.

“Doubting their authenticity?” Yin Shen teased. “The cost of Summer and Grain Rain coin rises ever higher on the mountain, I hear.”

Chen Ping’an chuckled. “Never having beheld true Grain Rain coins, I rely on Master Zhao’s integrity.”

He declined further wine, lest his Sword-Raising Gourd, that harbinger of Flying Sword Fifteen, be provoked.

A Xiaoxue coin equated to a thousand silver taels in the mortal realm. One Xiaoshu coin, a hundred Xiaoxue. One Grain Rain, ten Lesser Heat. The currency of the mountains flowed in “hundreds and tens”. The gold and copper coins forged solely for Lizhu Cave Heaven exceeded even Grain Rain in value.

Ten Grain Rain coins!

He felt, at last, a hint of affluence.

“Master Zhao,” Chen Ping’an inquired, an audacious glimmer in his eye, “shall I show you my full collection? See if any other phrases stir your interest?”

Yin Shen shook his head, his smile widening. “My coffers are now bare, I can afford no more.”

The ten Grain Rain coins represented his entire savings from his journey south to Laolong City.

He had offered such a sum to commemorate Zheng Dafeng’s breakthrough. The words on the slip had resonated within his soul at that crucial moment, as if whispered by divine providence. He *had* to acquire it. The mysteries were unfathomable, accessible perhaps only to the Qi practitioners of the Yin and Yang school.

“No matter,” Chen Ping’an countered, “if there are others that catch your eye, Master Zhao, they are yours as a gift.”

Yin Shen tilted his head, considering the boy, before turning once more to the cloud sea, a newfound amusement shimmering in his gaze.

Laolong City, a sprawling metropolis, took little note of the flight of a kite or the swoop of a bird. Zheng Dafeng’s ascent, his breakthrough, the strange cloud sea that followed, went unnoticed by the common folk. But every Qi trainer and martial artist felt its tremor. The Fu family, most of all, were keenly interested, as was Zhigui beneath Dragon Platform. Fu Qi himself ascended to the cloud sea to greet the man who had breached its formation.

The cloud veiled all, hiding the man’s features. The esteemed practitioners of Laolong City speculated wildly, wagering fortunes on his identity. Was it the Fu family patriarch, emboldened by his half-immortal weapon? Or the Jiang family patriarch, unleashing a show of force for his daughter’s impending marriage?

Laolong City thrived on commerce, the jewel of Baoping Continent. A crossroads for three continents, it teemed with wealth and gamblers. Wagers sprang up like mushrooms, fortunes changing hands on whispers and guesses.

Within the inner city, the Fan family’s elders, ancient beyond measure, stood shoulder to shoulder in a high tower, joy illuminating their faces. Based on the cloud formations and gathered intelligence, they deduced that Zheng Dafeng, the apothecary, had unexpectedly broken through to the ninth realm, becoming a Grandmaster. For the Fan family, this was a blessing beyond compare, an ascended martial master to safeguard them in the coming decades.

“*Such a great blessing, for Boy Fan to have such a preacher!*” one ancient Jin Dan ancestor proclaimed, stroking his beard.

Laughter echoed through the halls.

Then, the cloud sea above Laolong City writhed and collapsed. Unprepared, those within found themselves lost, disoriented, even the closest companions feeling a stifling oppression. The flow of Qi faltered, even for the most skilled practitioners. But as swiftly as it had come, the fog lifted, the clouds vanishing into the ether.

Zheng Dafeng had departed in the form of an Eight Realm traveller, returning to the alleyway at the zenith of the Ninth.

Within the medicine shop, the women continued their carefree banter, oblivious to the momentous events. The frog-in-a-well ignorance of those at the mountain’s foot was also, in its way, a form of stability. When the shopkeeper returned with two jars of fine wine from the neighboring street, they took little notice.

He offered a jar to the boy seated on the bench, then settled upon the steps before the main room, silent, neither smoking nor drinking.

His first words were not for the “decree” preacher, Chen Ping’an, but for Yin Shen. “*Old Zhao, can we speak plainly now? What further revelations does the old man have? Chen Ping’an will depart on the Osmanthus Island ferry in a few days, can you now unveil the truth about protecting the Taoist?*”

Yin Shen shook his head. “*The Gods merely warned that success meant joy, failure meant the sea’s embrace.*”

Zheng Dafeng rubbed his face with both hands. “*By my mother, I’m still in a daze.*”

He tucked his pipe away, uncorked the wine, and tilted the jar, drawing a continuous stream of wine into his mouth. Wiping his lips, he gazed at the cloud sea, and said, “*Old Zhao, did you anticipate what I beheld? Did you foresee that I would nearly batter my heart against Heaven’s Gate? Have you ever thought of me I saw the scene near the gate and almost…*”

He sighed, then smiled. “*I cannot speak the old man’s words, for they held two meanings from the beginning: ‘The ninth realm, a life without hope.’ Hah! The old man is such a rogue!*”

Yin Shen twitched his lip.

*Zheng Dafeng truly knew no fear.*

As if pinched at the neck, Zheng Dafeng glanced around, guilt etched on his face. He rose, walked to the center of the courtyard, faced north, and addressed the empty air. “*Old man, do not be alarmed! Your disciple, Zheng Dafeng, has succeeded! But I feel great shame, unable to share this joyous news in person. Old man, you are wise and mighty, do not be angry! I can only offer three bows, with the burning of incense to express my feeling!*”

He held imaginary incense and bowed thrice towards distant Dali.

Chen Ping’an was puzzled. How could Old Man Yang have fostered such divergent disciples as Li Er and Zheng Dafeng?

But then he thought: *Li Baoping, Li Huai, Lin Shouyi… they are all wildly different, separated by a hundred thousand leagues. I should not be surprised.*

Before burning his incense, Zheng Dafeng performed a curious gesture. His arm snaked around his head, as if retrieving three unseen sticks.

This done, he returned to his bench, as if resigned to enjoyment. He stared at Chen Ping’an, and Chen Ping’an stared back.

A rogue who seemed to owe debts he had no intention of repaying.

One conveying: *You dare not refuse to pay, though I could not harm you without risk… yet I will vex you to the grave!*

Yin Shen, observing this silent exchange, felt a growing distance from the world, as if he did not understand it.

A voice shattered the stalemate. Someone lifted the curtain, a pot of Laolong City’s finest osmanthus wine held in one hand. The youth, with red lips and white teeth, hesitated upon seeing the yard’s occupants. “*Master Zheng… may I enter?*” he asked softly.

As the youth entered, Yin Shen faded away.

Chen Ping’an, turning his head, recognised a martial artist, perhaps of the third realm. The youth’s breath, his movements, his blood flowing under the skin revealed a solid foundation, yet flaws remained. The channels of qi within his body seemed too narrow, too rough…

Chen Ping’an was surprised.

He saw the youth’s martial arts realm from a great height.

It was only then that Chen Ping’an realised he had truly entered the fourth realm.

Zheng Dafeng, oblivious to Chen Ping’an’s silent musings, waved the youth forward, saying “*I knew I could not hide it from your grandfather! But only a single pot of the Fan family’s brew? Is that not stingy? I am always vague in big things, and very particular about small things. When you return, ask him to improve, one should not be too frugal in life.*”

The youth was silent, then said with a touch of resignation. “*I came with the wine after overhearing my grandfather. This was not his intention. Perhaps, when I inherit the Osmanthus Island ferry, I will prepare a grander gift. I stole this pot, please do not tell my grandfather. I will ask my husband for a gift from my house…*”

The youth placed the wine and fled.

Zheng Dafeng did not stop the Fan youth. He glanced at Chen Ping’an, his face a mask of silent ire, and thought: *They are both young men, yes, but look at him! Sincere, generous, amicable, full of love, a font of advantage. Then there is you, Chen Ping’an, still clinging to debts of mere copper from the past! You are too white, too old-fashioned, a creature of bad habits!*

Chen Ping’an gleaned much from the youth’s words.

A member of the Fan family, the same that had followed the Fu family in betting on Dali. A disciple of Zheng Dafeng, destined to inherit the Osmanthus Island ferry.

Coupled with Yin Shen’s prior revelation, he inferred that Zheng Dafeng sought to do business with Fu Qi.

Chen Ping’an breathed a sigh of relief. Regardless of the grandees’ machinations, the Fan family ferry seemed a safe choice for his journey to Upside Down Mountain.

Let Laolong City grapple with its conflicts and demons. Chen Ping’an needed only to bide his time, board the Osmanthus Island, reach the Upside Down Mountain, journey to the Great Wall of Sword Qi, and deliver the sword upon his back.

Zheng Dafeng reached out and snagged the youth. “*Boy Fan, return! Are you truly so shameless as to beg for gifts on my behalf?*”

What the youth said to his home, Zheng Dafeng did not care. He had found Chen Ping’an’s company tiresome. Better to drag in a source of cheer to relieve the boredom, lest he be trapped staring at Chen Ping’an. Besides, a ninth-realm martial artist could not afford to act rashly, a tremor of fear lingering deep in his heart.

The youth, yanked back from the alley’s edge, stumbled, startled. He thought an assassin had struck, but then heard Zheng’s booming voice. He chuckled, gesturing to the waiting Jin Dan family servant to remain calm. Turning back, he called out to the women within the shop, before lifting the curtain and returning to the yard. Joyful chatter trailed in his wake.

The youth loved the atmosphere.

The fairy maidens within the Fan family compound were fairer, more ethereal, yet the youth knew the smiles they offered him differed from those found here.

One was for the future head of the Fan family; the other was for a mere boy.

He did not dislike the former, but he preferred the latter.

Chen Ping’an moved a stool for the youth. The youth snatched it up eagerly, saying “*Thank you!*”

Chen Ping’an smiled and shook his head. “*You’re welcome.*”

The youth, holding the stool, turned to Zheng Dafeng. “*Master, where shall I sit?*”

Zheng Dafeng waved his hand, jesting. “*Go sit by the curtain, and keep the wind at bay.*”

“*Very well!*”

The youth settled by the doorway, posture rigid, eyes downcast, hands demurely upon his knees. Though he tried to appear solemn, a glimmer of delight shone in his eyes.

Like a clear stream, carrying both joy and sorrow in its depths.

Chen Ping’an envied this young man.

He possessed a quality that Chen Ping’an had always desired, but never attained.

He remembered the drunken old scholar’s words: “*The young should carry grass and birds on their shoulders, not burdened by family feuds, national strife, or moral strictures.*”

The youth was that scholar’s ideal.

Chen Ping’an could not.

Zheng Dafeng sensed Chen Ping’an’s unease, and though he could not know his exact thoughts, he smiled and tossed the pot of osmanthus wine to the Fan youth.

The youth’s smile blazed. “*Master Zheng, I dare take only a sip!*”

Chen Ping’an raised his sword-raising gourd and laughed. “*Drink with me.*”

The youth paused, then nodded with gusto. “*Then I shall make it a prodigious sip! Ah, yes, my name is Fan Er. Not a nickname, but Fan Er, because I have a sister ahead of me, named Fan Junmao. My name is Fan Er… yes, that is, is there any sister? My parents gave me this name, it makes me sad. And you? May I know your name?*”

He took a mighty gulp, his face flushing as he choked. He was truly saddened by his name.

After drinking, Chen Ping’an smiled, and said, “*I am called Chen Ping’an, Ping’an Ping’an.*” (Peaceful Peace).