Zheng Dafeng, gazing at the celestial ocean swirling above Laolong City, abruptly broke the silence. “Why aren’t you wearing a skirt, then?”

From the humble temple nestled within the courtyard, the local Yin God materialized, his expression a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

Zheng Dafeng, unfazed, turned and grinned. “Old Zhao, are you truly deaf to my query?”

The Yin God, whose earthly name was Zhao, shook his head. “I know no more of Fan Junmao’s affairs than yourself. However, within the temple’s walls, I overheard a fallen swordsman from a foreign land whisper a rumor. Likely false, mind you.”

Intrigued, Zheng Dafeng leaned closer. “Speak then, Old Zhao. We two are beset by idleness, after all…”

The Yin God scoffed. “You are beset by idleness. I, on the other hand, am perpetually burdened. I have the unenviable task of threading the veil between realms – a pursuit far removed from the glories of battle and steel. And let us not forget your own ‘pursuits,’ which involve bartering crude jests with every woman in the city. A gentleman refrains from further commentary, but perhaps you should seek enlightenment at Guanhu Academy.”

Zheng Dafeng chuckled. “Old Zhao, you wound me with your melancholy words. To share this fate, however meager, is a blessing.”

The Yin God retorted, his spectral form shimmering with annoyance. “It is a cursed fate, more like.”

Zheng Dafeng shook his head, gesturing towards the swirling clouds. “She and I share a cursed fate. You and I, Old Zhao, share a bond of…misery.”

Earlier, when Fan Junmao had entered the dust-laden medicine shop, the Yin Spirit had dutifully retreated. Such was the rule, and a matter of etiquette. He hadn’t overheard their conversation, but he could sense a discord. Furthermore, the astonishing progression of the Fan family’s eldest daughter, from that fateful encounter in the cave to a rapid journey between Dali and Laolong City, and finally, her current golden aura at the medicine shop’s entrance, defied explanation. No amount of Taoist genius could account for such a swift ascent. It was…terrifying. The Yin God, Zhao, couldn’t help but recall tales of a girl who emerged from the hidden Lizhu Cave Heaven, her innate talent so profound, it dwarfed even those blessed with the legendary “Born Knowing.”

Shocking, indeed.

The Yin God sighed inwardly.

Fortunately, few such beings walked the Nine Continents.

Zheng Dafeng nudged him from his reverie. “Hey, Old Zhao! Rouse yourself! Cease this dawdling and tell me more of the foreign swordsman who met his untimely demise in Lizhu Cave Heaven. What whispered secrets did he reveal concerning the Fu family and the celestial sea of this half-immortal relic?”

The Yin God turned a deaf ear. “I am weary of words. I have duties to attend.”

And with a flicker, he vanished.

Zheng Dafeng stood gaping, before finally snarling, “Your uncle!”

“Wasted is my appreciation for your shared surname, Zhao Yao!”

The bamboo curtain rustled, revealing the radiant face of a young woman, the same lass who often sat by Zheng Dafeng’s side, munching on melon seeds. She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Shopkeeper, are you perchance considering recognizing me as an elder?”

Zheng Dafeng tossed aside his ancient smoking pipe, straightened, and rubbed his hands together, hurrying towards the girl with delight. “Elders? Nay! You possess more life than a spring day!”

The girl cocked her head. “One marries after becoming a relative, does one not? What must I do to avoid such a fate?”

Zheng Dafeng moved to embrace her shoulders, but she deftly sidestepped him, her smile playful. “What is this? Are you seeking to make me your bride?”

Dejected, Zheng Dafeng withdrew his hand. “Brother and sister, then. Brother and sister. A husband and wife, alas, must maintain a respectful distance.”

The man retreated to the counter, his gaze lingering on the blossoming beauty before him. “A garden full of spring, locked away from the world.”

He suddenly chuckled, a glint in his eye. “Better to teach a child a skill than to bestow a thousand gold coins. Better to grant a good reputation than…”
Hark, sisters! Have ye heard the old wives’ tale: “Teach thy child?”

‘Tis said Zheng Dafeng, purveyor of remedies and whispered secrets, once possessed a book pilfered by a lass with eyes for parchment, but disdain for his prattling. This book, alas, found its way into the clumsy grasp of the apothecary’s keeper, who, shamefully, deemed it not worth returning. Imagine! Cheating a humble soul of mere coppers! Enraged, she sought to reclaim her treasure with broom in hand. Only then did the miserly keeper concede, promising a hundred pennies docked from his next moon’s wages. The lass, having devoured its contents, bore the prize home, fearful of her parents’ wrath, those who ever favored her younger brother, accusing her of extravagance.

When silence met his query, Zheng Dafeng unveiled his trump: “That lad of the Fan family, oft seen at our humble shop… would ye know his given name?”

All eyes turned to the apothecary.

A smirk curled on Zheng Dafeng’s lips. “He is called Fan Er, one, two of one, three. Does such a name suit a strapping lad?”

None dared believe him, dismissing it as the keeper’s cruel jest.

He abandoned the tale of Fan Er, muttering to himself, “Young Fan, trained in the arts of war, stands to inherit his family’s fortune, though born of a lesser consort. And his sister… ah, a name of strength, promising deep roots and flourishing branches. The Fan lineage… holds certain…distinctions.”

He rested his cheek upon the counter, gazing out at the brewing storm. The winds of fate carried tidings.

The Jiang daughter of Yunlin will wed into the Fu family of Laolong City.

The dowry, a bounty beyond imagining.

But what price will be exacted? What name shall fuel this bloody squabble that threatens to consume Laolong City, leaving only two houses standing amongst the ashes?

Zheng Dafeng chuckled. These smoky, chaotic affairs were not his concern.

His gaze lingered upon a woman in the throng. Perhaps he should acquire fine raiment for her, dresses close to the skin? Garments that clung to the form, revealing the ripeness hidden beneath. He laughed and wiped at the drool gathering at the corner of his mouth.

This was the day of a god.

What of the Tianmen General, impaled upon the pillar with a sword, the frost and snow armor gleaming with celestial light? What of Fan Junmao, who glimpsed the secrets veiled in the heavens? Those tales were best left for another day, when the tides of fate drew nearer.

————

A swordsman of the Golden Dan Realm, channeling a sliver of sword energy, the very essence of sharpened steel, lunged without warning toward the soul of a martial artist.

Even Ma Zhi, knowing Chen Ping’an’s formidable foundation in the third realm, found it astounding.

Should there not be a stumble, a faltering?

Chen Ping’an, mistaking the old god’s mercy for weakness, smiled and said, “Fear not, Master Ma. I have long tempered my soul in the third realm, endured much suffering. I can withstand the pain. So long as the sword’s edge does not shatter the core of my martial arts, strike true, Master Ma.”

“Be warned,” Ma Zhi nodded, pausing a moment in thought. He extended his hand, twisting three strands of sword energy from the cold shade of his natal blade, shaping them into orbs the size of pearls, each radiating a faint, glacial light. Truly, it was akin to plucking the cool shade of a tree. The old swordsman, with a flick of his wrist, sent the spheres swirling.
Time quickened its pace. Three beads of frigid sword essence, born of the sword energy, chimed with a subtle, crystalline tone as they plunged into Chen Ping’an’s being. It was the sound of his three souls – Fetal Light, Shuang Ling, and Sejing – stirred from their slumber.

This time, Chen Ping’an was prepared, a sword-furnace of willpower forged in the depths of his spirit. The invasion was akin to a visitor thrice rapping upon the door of his heart, yet with weapons of ice and darkness, each strike aimed to nail itself into the soul. A tremor threatened, but Chen Ping’an remained resolute, possessing his own defenses. A roaring fire-dragon of pure martial qi, summoned from the depths of his honed physique, raced to extinguish the three chilling hollows carved by the sword intent.

“Master Ma,” Chen Ping’an announced, “Again.”

The aged sword cultivator, his expression unreadable, already knew the path he would take. Silently, he drew his fingers along the length of his natal flying sword. This time, he eschewed the finesse of condensed beads, instead peeling a sliver of pure sword energy directly from Liangyin. It hovered before them, not lunging, but radiating a chilling aura that plunged the already cool Guimai courtyard from midsummer back into the grip of early spring.

The energy hung poised between the two, a silent promise of pain.

Ma Zhi spoke slowly, “Fetal Light is the spark of a man’s primordial spirit. The natal blades of most sword cultivators use this as their innate sword-furnace. Once the sword is complete, it rests within, as if in a scabbard, a place to nurture the weapon. The three souls drift within us, like hidden serpents, secret roads, furtive rats. They have their own winding paths. The beads I sent before were mere appetizers. Now comes the main course, a weightier offering. Chen Ping’an, receive it!”

Chen Ping’an nodded, a barely perceptible movement.

The old man’s lips curled slightly. In that instant, the sword energy, a whisper of power, was unleashed, unstoppable, and plunged into Chen Ping’an. “Never,” Ma Zhi said, a chilling smile playing on his lips, “Entertain doubts, such as a desire for anything other than sheer survival in a life-or-death battle, when facing a sword cultivator…”

Pure martial artists stand as the most extreme sect. They refine the body, the qi, and the spirit, an inward journey from the external that in turn strengthens the physical form. In the eyes of mountain monks, they do not pursue the Great Way, but themselves. A martial artist’s lifespan, though short relative to the mountains – approximately three hundred years – stands as a pinnacle of human potential, far beyond the reach of most Qi refiners.

While Qi refinement sought inner and outer cultivation, the pure martial artist’s “heavy” form becomes a burden. The martial artist’s Taoism is too low, and the martial artist is too stubborn. The soul is assaulted, and he must stand upon his own strength, relying on the pure, true qi to support his very being.

This is called “not borrowing power from heaven and earth.”

The Qi refiner, however, builds a bridge to immortality, connecting inner and outer realms. Drawing on the abundant spiritual energy of the world to nourish the soul and its dwelling places. Through this unity of heaven, earth, and self, they seek to extend their lives far beyond mortal limits.

At that moment, Chen Ping’an’s soul was wracked with cramping pain, the kind that made the task at hand a trial.
Chen Ping’an, alas, remained a Sword Furnace, unmoving as the very mountain.

Ma Zhi, Archmage of the Golden Core, arched a brow.

Though he held back his true might, the eyes of a Jindan were sharp. The flaws of a warrior in the Fourth Realm were to him as obvious as gaping holes, leaking power in every direction. Chen Ping’an’s hesitant nod was an invitation, yet Ma Zhi had overestimated the youth’s resilience. It was wanting, sorely wanting. The boy had endured trials in the Bamboo Hut of the dilapidated mountain, a skin-flaying ordeal gifted by the strange old man named Cui. His was a tenth-level martial artist, a master of the Drum Beater Style, the essence of which tormented the boy’s three souls and seven spirits. He was subjected to the Yunsteamed Daze and the Iron Cavalry Chiseling Formation, arts the old man had honed over a lifetime, skills he still reveled in even at the peak of his own power.

To withstand those godly drumbeats, Chen Ping’an had already cultivated a natural breath and the Eighteen Sword-Stopping Energies. Then he suffered cramps and flaying, agonies both myriad and profound. Though he remained far from the Seventh Peak of martial mastery, Ma Zhi’s petty sword energies could not find purchase, unless the power could be brought to bear ten fold and forced his way through.

The three strongest realms in the world are of great value.

The barefoot, pugilist elder, in his own way, was not interested.

Ma Zhi felt a flicker of advantage, and drew three strands of pure sword energy from his life-bound blade, seeking to embody them in the flesh. This time, the three blades would strike true, he thought. Surely, Chen Ping’an’s three spiritual pathways were not so flawless.

Chen Ping’an stood still, silent. He dared not ask the Old Sword Immortal to increase his strength, for fear of wounding the aged warrior’s pride. Though the three wisps of sword energy were keen and bleak, they were as plowing a field with oxen. On the three ethereal channels within the body, the blades carved shallow furrows, like icy streams flowing through his heart, chilling him through. But this suffering was merely an *amuse-bouche* compared to what he had endured in the bamboo hovel.

Ma Zhi, too, sensed something amiss. He must reassess this Chen Ping’an’s abilities. Glancing at *Liang Yin*, his flying sword trembling impatiently, he drew a deep breath. “Chen Ping’an,” he warned, “I shall next force *Liang Yin’s* ethereal form into your soul, a piercing intrusion that will cause excruciating pain. Should you be unable to bear it, speak forthright. For though *Liang Yin* is my life-bound blade, and aligned with my heart, this intrusion is akin to trespassing upon another’s home, a violation your soul will resist, greatly hindering my connection to the blade. Against enemies, I would ignore this, caring only for victory, but it is different between us. Do not boast.”

Chen Ping’an dismissed the notion of a Sword Furnace, and instead took a step back, settling into an ancient stance. He clasped his fist to his heart, raising his punch high above his head.

Then, raising his leg, his pose echoed that of a Heavenly King in a Buddhist temple, though only in form. The true meaning was far deeper. This fist was the Cloud Steamed Daze, the style that had vanquished the Golden Sea.
Beneath the eaves of the Sun family’s ancestral estate, where clouds mirrored themselves twice in the still waters of the great lake, Chen Ping’an shifted his stance. The transformation was complete. Gone was the lighthearted youth, the one who shared jests with young Fan Er in Ma Zhi’s eyes, the boy of quiet contemplation. He became something else entirely.

This single punch, still unthrown, spoke volumes through posture alone. What audacity! Were a martial master of the seventh rank from Laolong City, or even a hidden eighth, to strike such a pose, it would be the culmination of decades, perhaps centuries, of grueling discipline, tested in the crucible of life and death. But this boy? How could he possess such resolve?

Ma Zhi, already reeling from countless shocks this day, watched with mounting disbelief.

Chen Ping’an’s mind was a canvas wiped clean. The phantom of the flying sword, the presence of the Golden Core sword cultivator – all vanished. He saw only the barefoot old man, roaring with laughter in his bamboo haven, a figure of fierce defiance. The old man was not merely instructing Chen Ping’an; he was addressing the very core of being, the heart of the world itself.

This punch, when unleashed, would banish the gods back to their celestial domain! It would plant the feet of the world firm upon the earth!

“Draw your sword!” Chen Ping’an declared, his voice ringing with challenge.

The ancient sword cultivator, unmoved by the seeming insolence of youth, heeded the call. With a thought, his flying sword materialized from thin air, a vanguard of iron preparing to carve out new territories for its liege.

A pallor crept across Chen Ping’an’s face. His fists clenched, trembling slightly, but then his feet slammed into the earth. The courtyard floor shuddered as the towering mountain fist, like the roots of some ancient peak, spread its power beneath the ground.

Ma Zhi frowned, his fingers tracing a downward path as though wielding a blade to cleave the young man’s core.

Chen Ping’an’s eyes widened, teeth gritted, cheeks bulging. Again, the fist assumed a new form. The clouds, still swirling above the great lake, began to compress, the space between his fists lessening. All the martial intent that radiated from him now flowed inward, as swift and decisive as a clap to swat a fly.

“Such arrogance is ill-advised,” Ma Zhi sneered, increasing the weight of his natal flying sword with a subtle gesture.

Then, with a ripple of his shoulder, Chen Ping’an unleashed his fist. The surging martial intent shot skyward, striking the leafy canopy of the ancient osmanthus tree, guardian of the courtyard’s very air. At that moment, the illusion shattered. The branches, the leaves, had been merely a veil, a shimmering curtain of water. The blow rippled through this illusion, blurring the scene beyond the courtyard walls.

The old man, stung by the boy’s defiance, thought grimly, “A Golden Core cultivator humbled by a mere fourth-level martial artist? Never!”

He stepped back, his hand forming the sword seal. “Chen Ping’an,” he declared, his voice sharp as honed steel, “the true sword test now begins! The flying sword shall weave shadow and substance, testing your body and soul, forcing you to meet the enemy with the very core of your being!”

The boy, his gaze unwavering, offered no reply. Instead, he slowly retracted the ancient boxing stance, letting his arms fall.
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Within the borders of Laolong City and atop the heights of Overhang Mountain, a guardian of the Golden Core held vigil. Yet, the veiled power of Guihua Isle hinted at deeper mysteries. Aunt Gui, she of Qi Sea cultivation, was but one of the Isle’s custodians, a scholar in comparison to the might concealed. Now, with the arrival of Grandpa Ma, Guihua Isle boasted not one, nor two, but three souls touched by the Golden Elixir’s grace.

Jin Su, a sprig of osmanthus in a vast forest, refused to believe such tempestuous change could truly be.

Six souls, young and old, had sailed from Tongyezhou, a land whispered of in tales. They were the Fan Family’s largest trading partners, their coffers overflowing with the Isle’s secrets, laying claim to almost half the hidden cellars. What wonders of Tongyezhou they traded for these treasures, Jin Su could not fathom. Only whispers reached her, tales of a grand sect, a pillar of immortal power, that bore the name of that distant land.

But the Master had spoken, and so Jin Su would descend to the foot of Guihua Isle, seeking herbs as bidden.

As she departed, she glanced back. A towering, gaunt old man, half a head taller than any in Laolong City, stood out. His face was childlike, yet he possessed an ancient stillness, cloaked in a thick, black robe that seemed untouched by earthly stains – a garment of true power.

He guarded a youth of unremarkable countenance, thin eyebrows arching over eyes that narrowed to slits. When those eyes fixed upon a soul, even the Golden Corn within the cave realm would prickle with unease, daring not meet their gaze.

Aunt Gui, ever courteous, inquired, “What matter compels you to seek me by name?”

The youth narrowed his eyes further, piercing her with his stare. “Are you the one they call Lady Gui?”

“I am,” she replied, her composure unyielding.

A flicker of avarice ignited within the youth’s gaze. “I am Jiang Beihai, of the Yugui Sect. Our order seeks a ferry to span the continents, and the thought is that you would be very interested in joining the Yugui Sect.”

Aunt Gui offered no reply.

He laughed, a sound that held an edge of steel. “Consider all losses suffered by the Fan Family, and all future gains from Guihua Isle, repaid within the space of a century! A mountain of coin will flow to compensate them, a proposal they dare not refuse. So, Lady Gui, what is your thought?”

Dongbao Pingzhou was the smallest of the Nine Continents, and Tongyezhou, to its southeast, was vast, dwarfing even Fuyaozhou. Moreover, Tongyezhou boasted a multitude of blessed caves, the bounty of which lured monks from Posa and Juluzhou, each seeking their own fortune. Many would “exiled immortals” in these blessed places, and they would all come to reap rewards far surpassing those of more ordinary lands.

Within Tongyezhou, two powers stood as twin peaks: the Tongye Sect and the Yugui Sect, one in the north, one in the south.

The young man who aided the Ding Family’s escape hailed from the Tongye Sect. A sect named for a continent, enduring for millennia, needed no further testament to its might. It was of this nature like those of Juluzhou in the northeast, that daring to usurp the title “North Juluzhou” from Aiaizhou was a bold statement of similar intent.

A woman in palace dress offered a soothing smile. “Young Master Jiang, you have long resided in the sect’s tranquil heart. The Yugui Sect prefers a gentler touch than the Tongye Sect’s boisterous displays. I am certain Lady Gui has heard little of our kindness.”

Aunt Gui shook her head. “The Yugui Sect? Its name rings in my ears like thunder. The Jiang Family, who guard the Cloudgrass Blessed Land within your sect, has produced a single heir for ten generations. These things are known.”

The Jiang scion smiled, a predatory gleam in his narrowed eyes. “If you are already aware then what accounts for your such tepid interest.”
“Doubtless, she believes Yu Guizong and the Fan family of Laolong City dwell upon separate continents, cleaved apart by Tongyezhou, placing them beyond the reach of each other’s grasp.”

Even then, the Jiang scion, despite protestations of innocence, bowed in feigned apology. His face, however, was as cold as winter’s breath. “My tongue ran amok, words spoken in haste. Forgive my impropriety, Madam Gui.”

Aunt Gui, ever composed, replied with a gentle grace, “An oath upon the Great Way touches the very core of a Daoist’s practice, and should not be lightly cast aside. I understand the noble intentions of Master Jiang.”

The man straightened, a glint in his eye. “Indeed?”

A smile bloomed upon Aunt Gui’s lips. “That oath, however, binds only for a Jiazi, a cycle of sixty years. If Master Jiang’s heart truly holds such sincerity, why not but wait?”

The young man’s laughter echoed across the waters. “To invite Madam Gui to join Yu Gui Sect is no small testament to my sincerity! Were she willing, marriage would be gladly offered.”

With a dismissive wave, he chuckled, “A jest, Madam Gui, nothing more! Fear not, for the leader of Yu Gui Sect, and indeed my own family, have long held you in high esteem. I, Jiang Beihai, would not dare presume to offend such a lady.”

Aunt Gui’s smile remained unyielding, an impenetrable defense.

For a woman’s worth is not solely determined by beauty or face.

The tall, gaunt elder, though his tone remained impassive, held a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “Madam Gui’s kindness is well known. As my son has said, Yu Gui Zong extends a truly earnest invitation. We beseech you to give it serious consideration, and hope that sixty years hence, we might share a cup of your own brewed osmanthus wine within the gates of Yu Gui Zong.”

Aunt Gui gave a subtle nod.

Thus they parted ways.

As she slowly retraced her steps towards the courtyard, her gaze drifted towards Laolong City. A hint of helplessness, perhaps even grievance, flickered across her face. Was it merely a trick of the light?

Meanwhile, above Laolong City, a woman in verdant robes reclined upon the sea of clouds, a lazy yawn escaping her lips. “So many seek oblivion. How tedious. Time for a drink…”

She reached for her wine gourd, only to find it empty. This conjured the image of the “little wine ghost,” the sword-wielding youth in the river’s dragon path, perpetually lifting his gourd in a drunken salute. *Am I to be repaid so soon?* she thought, a flash of irritation crossing her features. Rising abruptly, she scooped a handful of clouds laden with the essence of rain from the celestial sea and crammed them into her mouth, chewing with ill-concealed displeasure on the flavorless “cloud wine.” Her mood was soured.

She glared at the distant Osmanthus Island with cold eyes, then propelled herself backwards. Like a child playing hopscotch in a city street, she leaped across the cloud-squares, moving from the southernmost edge of the sea of clouds to the northernmost reaches. Gathering momentum, she raised her arms high, mimicking the stance of one about to cast a spear. With a sudden halt and a piercing shout, she bellowed, “Fly!”

The sea of clouds roiled like a cauldron brought to boil.

Following her mimed throw, a snow-white blade, ripped from the very fabric of the clouds, flashed more than ten feet long, cleaving the sky above Laolong City.

On the distant sea, the Osmanthus Island ferry bobbed, a world away from Laolong City.

Suddenly, the tall, gaunt elder of Yu Gui Zong slammed a palm towards the Jiang heir.

Jiang Beihai, however, stood his ground, raising his arms in a defensive block. His robes swelled ominously, crackling with lightning and thunder.

All of Peach Blossom Island shuddered violently, the waters around it erupting in chaos. Jiang…
Beihai, his face a mask of bewildered sorrow, turned his gaze. The venerable Yuanying’s robes were shredded, a tattered testament to battle. Though salvageable with weaving arts, his arms were a crimson tapestry of blood and splintered bone, the ivory beneath laid bare to the uncaring sky.

The ancient mage coughed crimson ichor onto the parched earth, his gaze locked upon the heavens above Laolong City. He raised a mangled limb, a stark declaration against the encroaching darkness, and rasped, “Young Master, remain hence. Approach me not, nor wander without cause.”

Within the gourd that hung at Chen Ping’an’s waist, the Jian-Yang sang with fervent energy. The flying sword, like a long-lost comrade, thrummed with eagerness for the fray.

The woman, poised to intervene, halted at the sight of the Yuanying’s outstretched arm. A mocking smile curled her lips. “Ah, is this a plea for yet another sword?”

The emerald-clad sorceress, known as Fan Junmao, leaned back, her toe barely gracing the ground, and propelled herself backwards. Once more, she mimicked the throwing motion, and with a peal of cruel laughter, cried, “Begone!”

Then, she folded her arms across her chest, her gaze returning to Guihua Island, a smile of sardonic amusement playing on her lips. “Even after a millennium has passed, I still find myself drawn to such stalwart heroes. The ones who endlessly crane their necks, and dare me to end their lives: ‘Come, slay me! I await your blade!'”

Upon Osmanthus Island, Chen Ping’an clutched the gourd, a sliver of hope piercing the despair. He had been too slow before, but this time, he had glimpsed a thread, a fleeting premonition of what was to come.

A venerable sword-sage of the Golden Dan, his essence wavering, his mind fading.

Chen Ping’an closed his eyes, abandoning the mortal world, and embraced the arcane whispers of the sword with all his heart.