**(Each chapter could span eleven thousand words, a tapestry woven long and deep.)**

He came, a warrior of fearsome skill, his blade singing a song of vengeance. From distant lands he journeyed, arriving upon the shores of Guihua Isle, a verdant jewel set in the vast ocean. Scarce had he landed when another blade, an echo of the first but imbued with greater fury, rent the heavens above Laolong City, tearing through the cloud-sea like a celestial thunderbolt.

The power unleashed by these twin strokes shook the very foundations of the world. Across the waters that separated Laolong City from Guihua Isle, two gashes, glowing with residual energy, scarred the sky, testaments to the swords’ raw might.

Chen Ping’an stood transfixed, eyes closed, seeking to decipher the sword intent humming in the air. A nearby ancient swordsman, his weathered face etched with the wisdom of ages, stirred from his reverie. He, Ma Zhi, unlike the younger martial artist, had resisted the urge to seize upon the fleeting sword intent, to grasp at stones from a foreign mountain in the hopes of polishing his own jade. Though his martial prowess might be less than that of some fourth-tier fighters, his understanding of the sword’s soul was profound. He knew that the essence of another’s blade, particularly one of such formidable power, could corrupt and muddy his own meticulously honed intent.

Yet, were the two swords close in spirit, then such an exchange could be a boon.

But Ma Zhi’s sword intent, rooted in the earth, in the cooling shade of ancient trees, resonated with the crispness of a spring, the heavy silence of falling snow. These were far removed from the fiery, battlefield-born intent of “strangulation and attack” that pulsed within the swords unleashed from the cloud-sea. He would not risk tainting his own essence. A junior blade master, newly awakened to the fifth tier, might benefit even from contradictory intent.

Chen Ping’an, in a trance, unconsciously manifested a sword furnace, drawing the energies towards himself.

Ma Zhi, seasoned beyond measure, would not interrupt this fledgling opportunity. Instead, with a flick of his wrist, he scattered the ancestral shade, drawing forth threads of stray sword energy and guiding them towards the Guimai courtyard, bathing Chen Ping’an in a deeper understanding.

In this act, Ma Zhi felt a burgeoning awe for the sword wielder of Laolong City. The Earth Immortal’s blade was a marvel, exceeding any measure of power he had previously witnessed. Truly, to judge the distance between blade masters was not merely to consider the physical realm but the very condensation of their intent. A sword wielded with scattered, unfocused energy, though mightily destructive, betrayed a mind adrift, unable to fully master the blade’s potential.

But this master from Laolong City, launching his assault across leagues of sea, possessed a blade whose intent was as focused as Ma Zhi’s own blade, forged over centuries. How could he not be astounded?

Such a tenth-tier sword master, one whispered to be an Earth Immortal, stood on the very precipice of shattering the bottleneck and ascending to the fifth realm. The power of a sword master often manifested in the middle five realms, causing them to be compared to the land gods of the tenth realm. They were like those of the Fengxue Temple, who had walked beyond the known world before reaching the Yupu realm, hidden behind the barrier of life and death.

It seemed certain that this ancient swordsman of Laolong City harbored a deep grudge against someone dwelling upon the Fan family’s Guihua Isle.
He would never have risked invoking the wrath of the Heavens and unleashing his sword with such ferocity unless truly provoked.

Ma Zhi, his voice laced with concern, inquired of Aunt Gui, “Madam Gui, by whose hand was this celestial display enacted? Is it a strike aimed at our Fan family, or merely a dispute with a foreign guest?”

Aunt Gui hesitated, her response veiled in ambiguity. “It seems to originate from a paradise within Laolong City. A conflict has arisen with the Jiang family of the Yuguizong in Tongyezhou. Our Fan family and Guihua Island should maintain neutrality and avoid entanglement.”

Ma Zhi sighed, “When gods clash upon the mountain’s peak, mortals can only but watch the spectacle unfold.”

Aunt Gui offered a faint smile. “Indeed, such is the wisest course.”

Suddenly, Ma Zhi’s eyes widened. “Yuguizong Jiang? But the Jiang who hold dominion over the blessed land of Yuncao?”

However, Aunt Gui had already erected a wall around her thoughts, severing any echo of her heart, paying no further heed to the old Jian cultivator’s probing.

Ma Zhi dismissed this behavior, attributing it to Madam Gui’s unique position, her anxieties focused on protecting the sanctity of Guihua Island from the fallout of others’ quarrels.

Seeing the younger man still standing, Ma Zhi sheathed his ominous, flying sword and settled at the stone table. The world held ten great cave worlds, thirty-six lesser cave worlds, and seventy-two blessed lands – sanctuaries of power scattered across the realms. These places, steeped in varying degrees of celestial energy, were ranked accordingly. The Qingtan blessed land, held by the Shengao Sect in Baopingzhou, was considered meager, while the Yuncao blessed land, guarded by the Jiang in Tongyezhou, was exceptionally bountiful.

When Chen Ping’an opened his eyes, the old man smiled inquisitively. “Well? What say you?”

Chen Ping’an smiled. “I can only say that sword possesses immense power, though its true measure escapes me. After much contemplation, I grasped only a sliver of its essence, a fleeting echo. A pity. If only that sword had moved with a more measured pace.”

Ma Zhi chuckled. “A immortal sword cultivator of the Nascent Soul Realm, pausing to offer greetings to you, Chen Ping’an, before unleashing his blade?”

Chen Ping’an scratched his head. “How dare I expect such a thing?”

Then, worry creased his brow. “Is there a sword cultivator who harbors ill intent towards Osmanthus Island?”

Ma Zhi waved his hand, adopting a leisurely air, and explained with a smile, “Nay, fear not. It seems he merely harbored a grudge against a Tongyezhou guest upon the island, and thus displayed his power with two masterful strokes. Each strike was carefully measured, leaving Guihua Island untouched. In truth, it was an act of showing respect to Osmanthus Island. Otherwise, the clashes of Earth Immortals are usually in secluded locations with few visitors, and some of the energy will be dispersed.”

Ma Zhi spoke lightly, but the old man pondered the matter more deeply.

This unknown Earth Immortal Sword Cultivator was either bound by an unyielding code, or he was tied by an ancient bond to the Fan family of Laolongcheng – the latter being the more probable explanation.

Otherwise, such an atmosphere of forced harmony within Guimai Courtyard would never exist.

Jiang Beihai’s face was a mask of simmering fury.

The family’s tenth level Nascent Soul supplicant lay in a pool of his own blood. His priceless robe, the “Mo Zhulin,” was utterly ruined. The cost of its repair would likely exceed that of procuring a new garment of equal quality. The old man, though not gravely injured, rose shakily, his gaze desolate and lost. The Jiang ancestor’s precious robe had absorbed most of the second sword’s power.

The tall, gaunt old man glared at the distant Laolong City, his voice a venomous whisper. “To launch such a treacherous, two-pronged attack! Such blatant disrespect is intolerable!”

“Old Su, what has transpired?” Jiang Beihai demanded.
A hush fell, heavy and unnatural. Though his limbs still twitched with the fading echo of the unseen force, the young master Jiang Beihai found his feet as if petrified to the very soil. He, scion of the esteemed Jiang family, stood immobile, a statue carved from fear. Around him, the assembled entourage of the Yuguizong, the Jade Cassia Sect, suffered the same eerie paralysis, holding their breaths as if any sound might shatter the spell.

The old worshipper, a figure of granite fury, spoke with a tone betraying his helplessness. “I only know that both blades originated from the same hand, drawn from the cloud-wreathed skies above Laolong City. Could it be that some forgotten ancestor of the Fu clan brandishes a half-immortal artifact, making such a demonstrative display?”

Jiang Beihai pondered, his brow furrowed. “The Fu family holds no love for the Ding, and the Ding are thick as thieves with the Tongye Sect. It was the Ding who allowed them to find purchase in Laolong City in the first place. Our Yuguizong and the Tongye Sect have been locked in a feud that spans a thousand years. Logically, an enemy of an enemy… even when we opted to sail from the Fan’s Guihua Island to Chaoxuan Mountain, we passed over the Fu’s Twunting Whale…”

He continued, “They shouldn’t harbor such deep-seated animosity towards us. The Fu family is not foolish. They understand the strength of the Yuguizong, the stature of our Jiang family within its ranks. Furthermore, the Fu have always maintained amicable ties with the Fan…”

The woman in the palace dress, her voice a whisper of silk, ventured, “Could it be Lady Gui herself? Perhaps a Fu ancestor pines for her affections?”

Jiang Beihai’s voice dropped, laced with suppressed anger. “We make no secret of our intentions to treat openly! We speak only of trade! If Guihua Island were truly Fu Qi’s domain, and Lady Gui his mistress, then such a tempest might be comprehensible. But this isle of cassia was won by the ancestors of the Fan through sheer luck! Would the Fu family risk all for that? Do you truly believe the Yuguizong to be so toothless? I need only add a wisp of fuel to the fire, and our sect’s two oldest, most irascible ancestors would descend upon Laolong City with a host of warriors to demand answers!”

He sighed, lamenting how women were always inclined to think of matters of the heart when matters of trade and power loomed.

The tall, gaunt old man, his face a landscape of weathered furrows, warned Jiang Beihai with a grave intensity, “Young Master, we shall make no report to the sect concerning this incident when we reach Touxuan Mountain!”

Jiang Beihai gave a silent nod, a bitter smile playing on his lips. “Old Su, I understand the gravity of the situation.”

The old man drew a deep breath. “I shall depart for Laolong City immediately, to parley with this sword wielder in person. I must discern the source of this affront and put the matter to rest, so that we may journey to Kouxuan Mountain with clear minds. I shall strive to return to Cassia Isle with all due haste.”

Jiang Beihai offered softly, “Old Su, take utmost care.”

“Fear not, I shall never besmirch the name of the Yuguizong, nor that of the Yunku Jiang.”

With those words, the old man ascended, borne aloft on the wind, bound for Laolong City. Before his departure, he had subtly concealed the priceless robe, “Mo Zhulin,” beneath his traveling attire. The bloody rents in his flesh knitted themselves shut with astonishing speed, a testament to the arcane arts mastered by a Nascent Soul Realm powerhouse, a legend in the lands of Tong Yezhou.

Following the twofold display of swordplay’s might, the whispers and speculations spread like wildfire through Guihua Island, amongst both the Fan family’s retainers and the assembled passengers. Fortunately, almost all were seasoned travelers, familiar with the vagaries and wonders of the world. Those deemed worthy to journey to Overhang Mountain did not scare easily. Although shaken, they remained composed, and the Guihua Island leadership swiftly moved to allay any lingering fears, and the storm of unease subsided as quickly as it had risen.

Jin Su, having delivered the mountain-gathered medicinal herbs to Guimai courtyard, hastened back to his mistress, Aunt Gui, her countenance serenity itself.
The Mistress, rarely graced with the joy to brew a pot of tea, watched her disciple’s return. She poured a steaming cup for Jin Su, who, upon sitting, composed himself before daring to sip and savor her art.

The Mistress knew the disciple was burdened with questions, yet remained silent. A gentle smile played on her lips as she spoke. “For Jiang’s eldest son, this was undoubtedly a tragedy. But for you, Jin Su, for us, it is a blessing fallen from the heavens. Ask not too much, for upon your return from the Upside-Down Mountain, I shall strive to grant you an audience with the crafter of that fated blade.”

Aunt Gui chuckled softly. “The heavens hold wonders beyond imagining, and mortals are but a fraction of all that exists. When you walk alone, it is best to temper your pride.”

Jin Su, heedless of the elder’s wisdom, turned his gaze towards Laolong City, his heart brimming with anticipation.

The humble courtyard, untouched by worldly storms, remained a sanctuary.

Each day, Chen Ping’an practiced the sword with the ancient Jindan spirit. Afterward, the spirit performed a threefold task: first, to nurture its nascent flying sword, transforming into its ethereal form to aid Chen Ping’an in strengthening his three souls – consolidating the Fetal Light, invigorating the Spirit, and fortifying the Seclusion. This laid the foundation for the three soul paths. Then, the spirit, taking the form of Ma Zhihui, guided the flying sword against Chen Ping’an in mock combat. Finally, it observed Chen Ping’an’s practice of the “Swordsmanship” techniques, offering guidance and correcting flaws in his stance.

Yet, Chen Ping’an’s swordplay was curious. He never drew a blade from the wooden chest, instead adopting a sword-holding pose, imagining a weapon in his grasp. Ma Zhihui questioned this, but Chen Ping’an’s answer was perplexing. He claimed that “Subduing Demons,” one of the swords, belonged to another and thus remained untouched. As for “Demon-Elimination,” the Huai Wood Sword had once been unsheathed in battle, but he found it too light. He sought a practice blade, a flowing iron sword, to give him the weight he needed. He felt there was something wrong with the lightness.

Only when wielding a heavy sword, honing his speed to unnatural heights, could he hope to one day replace it with a wooden blade, drawing it with blinding swiftness against an enemy.

Ma Zhihui, a celestial spirit scornful of mortal martial arts, held little regard for Chen Ping’an’s stubborn pursuit of swordsmanship. He saw no potential in such mundane endeavors. Yet, he recognized Chen Ping’an’s unwavering dedication to the path of the blade.

The young Jin Su, a maiden of Osmanthus, brought three meals a day at the appointed hours. The Mistress found solace in Chen Ping’an’s lack of greed. He treated Jin Su as a simple servant, refusing any personal assistance.

The Guimai Small Courtyard also required regular replenishment of its treasured Osmanthus brew.

As Jin Su, it would be no problem to bring dozens of pots of mellow wine to the small courtyard.
She had, in a fleeting fancy, considered collapsing the courtyard in a single, earth-shattering exhale. But wisdom, and perhaps a subtle yearning, stayed her hand. It wasn’t merely the hope of another encounter, a further glimpse into the soul of the rustic outsider. After all, the long voyage across the Azure Sea grew tiresome, even for the Osmanthus Maidens, so accustomed were they to the well-trod route. The famed Ten Vistas of Osmanthus Isle – the moon’s reflection upon the tide, the celestial groves mirrored in grand, ancient palaces, shimmering mirages, and the silver dart of flying fish around their island home – held initial wonder, prompting coin flung at painters to capture their ethereal beauty. Yet, familiarity bred a gentle apathy. No, it was the strange folk and peculiar happenings surrounding Osmanthus Isle that truly captivated their interest, offering a spice to their otherwise predictable lives.

Chen Ping’an, with the first blush of dawn painting the eastern sky, rose and dedicated an hour to the ancient Six-Step Walk. The spectral visages of old warhorses and weathered swordsmen danced around him, a silent audience to his practice. Nearby, Ma Zhihui, the Old Sword Saint, would leisurely sip from a pot of osmanthus wine, patiently awaiting the conclusion of Chen Ping’an’s training. As the final drops were drained, Jin Su, the kitchen girl, would arrive with a breakfast box, the exchange taking place with practiced efficiency in a mere quarter of an hour. Ma Zhi, in the interim, would expound upon the day’s lessons, dissecting the required force, emphasizing the importance of intent, and weaving tales of legendary sword cultivators from across the realms.

Afterward, Chen Ping’an would return the emptied food box to Jin Su, waiting demurely at the courtyard’s gate, offering a simple word of thanks. Should the need arise to replenish the wine stocks in Guimai Courtyard, he would directly inform the young woman, unburdened by false modesty.

His training day, as directed by Ma Zhi, began with the “Strange Swordsmanship.” Before the sun had fully crested the horizon, Ma Zhi would unsheathe his blade without warning, deliberately disrupting Chen Ping’an’s stances. Thus, Chen Ping’an would labor over the Avalanche and God-Suppressing Head, and other forms honing four sword moves, whilst simultaneously dodging the unpredictable strikes of a Golden Core sword cultivator. On occasion, the Old Man would dispense with ceremony and unleash the afternoon’s sparring session in the morning light.

Before noon, the two would break for a simple meal, after which the real trial began. Ma Zhi, now subtly amplified his power from the Caves Realm to the formidable Seventh Sea-Viewing Realm, would sit at the stone table, drinking and observing. He would then initiate the sparring, wielding Liangyin, his ethereal sword, to subtly assassinate Chen Ping’an. By what arcane means would Chen Ping’an defend himself? Would he rely on the terrifying power of ancient boxing, the newly acquired offensive and defensive techniques of “Swordsmanship,” or a chaotic flurry of whatever came to mind? Ma Zhi cared little, so long as Chen Ping’an avoided the cold, silver shadow that flashed across the courtyard or managed to strike the flying sword with a well-placed blow.

More often than not, before the day’s swordplay concluded, Chen Ping’an was left battered, bruised, and clad in tattered rags.

Sometimes, Ma Zhi would momentarily sheath his blade, granting the embattled Chen Ping’an a brief respite to savor a few sips of wine. Upon the table were spread the accoutrements of a seasoned drunkard: peanuts, pungent garlic cloves, crisp fried fish, and chilled pig ears. But the moment Chen Ping’an drew a breath, the Old Man would unleash another thunderous assault. Perhaps he still crunched on the brittle, dried fish, even as his sword, a silver flash, threatened to pierce Chen Ping’an’s heart. The blade, having performed its deadly arc, would then return, piercing Chen Ping’an’s back, prompting the Old Man to sneer, “Had the flying sword held true…”
Had you succumbed to the Void, young Chen Ping’an, you would have tasted death twice over. Nevermore would your tongue savor this cured fish, seasoned with salt and peppercorns. If only for this humble feast, and the warmed wine that graces it, you must strive ever harder.

Within Guimai Small Courtyard, the pursuit of the Sword held dominion, banishing all thought of dinner. Only midnight snacks were deemed necessary, and Jinsu, a silent guardian, left the food chest at the courtyard’s gate.

As the You hour waned, Chen Ping’an endured his nightly trial. He stood firm as an anvil, channeling “Passing Through the Corridor” and “Galloping Across the Post Road,” techniques born of his soul’s communion with the flying sword and the shade of the soul itself. Thus, he tempered the thickness and resilience of his three souls.

The old Sword Sage, his tutelage now subtle, refrained from detailed explanations of his craft. Instead, he carefully metered the pain, leaving Chen Ping’an to glean its bitter essence.

This hour was both beloved and loathed by Chen Ping’an. He cherished the hardship, for he knew it bore the fruit of martial progress. Yet, he couldn’t escape the harsh memories of the dilapidated bamboo dwelling. Thankfully, the old Sword Sage’s method was more refined, less brutal than the divine punishments meted out by uncaring celestials. Chen Ping’an not only survived but thrived, seizing the chance to hone the Six-Step Stance and two stances from the “Strange Swordsmanship”: the Mountain Stance and the Armor Stance. Compared to the slow, simmering pace of solitary practice, the old Sword Sage’s guidance was akin to a fiery forge, tempering his martial spirit with twice the result for half the effort.

With time, a curious idea blossomed in Chen Ping’an’s pain-addled mind. He reasoned that the rapid, intricate avalanche of the sword draw, coupled with the searing agony of the old Sword Sage’s flying sword quenching his very core, could be exploited. By gritting his teeth and persevering, he might draw the sword faster. His understanding of this technique deepened, and soon, each avalanche, each “holding the sword,” felt imbued with a power that startled even him. He felt as though, given a true weapon, the very air around the courtyard would crackle with his unleashed sword-qi.

The day’s sword practice usually concluded between the Xu and Hai hours. Chen Ping’an would then set about boiling water, adding medicinal herbs to a large tub. Before the steam rose, he would retrieve the food chest from the courtyard’s entrance. The old Sword Sage and his student would then share their midnight repast at the stone table. If Chen Ping’an was grievously wounded or his blood ran too freely, he would first immerse himself in the herbal bath, cleansing and changing his garments before eating. Even if the old Sword Sage had already begun, she would patiently wait at the stone table, offering Chen Ping’an her insights from the day’s sword practice. Like a grandmaster reviewing a game of strategy, Ma Zhi, a Golden Core Sword cultivator, possessed unparalleled vision. Though she shared a lineage with the irascible Cui of the bamboo dwelling, she possessed a greater patience, carefully explaining each nuance. Almost every question that Chen Ping’an posed was answered thoroughly.

After clearing the food chest, Chen Ping’an would resume practicing the walking stance from the Shanshan Fist Book. Whether a decade or a century passed, whatever heights his power might reach, Chen Ping’an would never abandon this fundamental art, this crude foundation of all martial pursuits.

Then, as midnight fully embraced the land, Chen Ping’an would retreat to his bed, seeking the solace of sleep.

Such was the rhythm of his days, a cycle unbroken. And before he realized it, the…
Thirty sunrises and sunsets had painted Osmanthus Isle anew, and the isle’s westward journey had carried it past three of the fabled Nine Sea Sights.

Now, nearly a tenth of their voyage lay behind them. Regarding the fourth of Osmanthus Isle’s scenic wonders, the old swordmaster suggested Chen Ping’an might cease his tireless cultivation for a spell and savor the view from his ancestor’s osmanthus tree.

Heeding the elder’s counsel, Chen Ping’an found himself at the dawn’s first light atop the crowded peak of Guihua Isle. He gazed into the distance, where a colossal chasm split the waves. Osmanthus Isle was on a path to pass directly through the divide. On either side rose twin island-mountains, tiered like descending waterfalls of stone. Upon their slopes, structures clung to the precipice, lost in swirling mists.

This was no mere isolated immortal sect, but rather two colossal cliffs in stark opposition. Upon each stood a golden statue, each a hundred feet in height, bathed in a perpetual, holy light. Even seasoned Qi cultivators would hold them in awe.

Legend held that these were the golden visages of gods long past. One, it was said, had once stood guard at the Southern Gate of Heaven itself. The other was the Celestial Rain Master, sovereign of the great watercourses of the world, and nominally in command of all the dragon spirits that stirred the clouds and rains. The Gate Guardian leaned upon his sword, hands clasped against the hilt, a titan overlooking all creation.

The Rain Master’s face was veiled in perpetual mist, obscuring any hint of gender. Ribbons of iridescent material, of origins unknown, danced around the statue, adding an ethereal quality that belied its age. The gods seemed to subtly display their divine power, controlling the flow of all southern waterways.

Chen Ping’an drew forth a bench, complete with a worn railing, and sat cross-legged, facing the divine colossi. He slowly savored a draught of wine.

The murmurs of the Qi cultivators around him were a tapestry of dialects from Kuluzhou and Tongyezhou, laced with the occasional earthy tones of Laolongcheng. Chen Ping’an struggled to decipher their meaning, but fortune favored him. A young woman, a Qi cultivator of the Fan family from Osmanthus Isle, stood nearby. Her voice, though youthful, carried with it authority. She was, it seemed, offering explanations of this wonder of the seas to the travelers. In the elegant tongue of Baoping Zhou, she narrated the scene of “The Confrontation of the Gods,” tracing the origins of the statues. She even touched upon the long and storied history of the resident immortal sect. Someone inquired as to why the Osmanthus Isle ferry never docked at the island. The Fan family Qi cultivator explained that while passage was permitted, the sect forbade disembarkation. Uninvited guests were, at best, deported; at worst, imprisoned on the island. Tragedy, she hinted, had befallen those who defied the edict.

Finally, the young woman smiled, announcing to all upon the peak that a spectacle even grander would unfold in half a day’s time, a sight not to be missed.

Then, from between the cliffs of Guihua Isle, a vibrant, embroidered ball suddenly plummeted, hurtling towards a young man who sat quietly enjoying the vista upon the mountain’s brow.

The man instinctively reached out, catching the hydrangea ball, a look of startled bewilderment upon his face.
A whisper ran through the mortal realm: “Even the immortals must stoop to such measures?”

Fan Qi, a youth barely begun his cultivation, stood gaping. “Young Master,” he stammered, eyes wide with urgency. “Our senior from Guihua Island claims this…this is the immortal house choosing a son-in-law! They have set their sights upon you! Such an opportunity comes but once a century! Though you be spoken for, Young Master, you must accept! To be favored by a true immortal, chosen by the throw of the silken ball…it is a blessing beyond measure. Be cautious, Young Master, be wise!”

Indeed, a brilliantly embroidered hydrangea, clutched in the young acolyte’s trembling hand, pulsed with arcane energy. He stood at the precipice of decision, a storm of doubt raging within him.

Then, as if answering his unspoken plea, the hydrangea, bound by a silken ribbon, surged forth. One end wrapped itself around the man’s wrist, and the other soared skyward, toward the cliff’s summit. With a gasp, he was yanked aloft, drawn irresistibly to a brightly painted pavilion nestled among the clouds. There, bathed in ethereal light, stood a maiden of surpassing beauty, her cheeks flushed with excitement, the other end of the ribbon clutched in her hand. Surrounding her, several celestial attendants smiled benevolently, offering silent blessings to this union forged by fate.

Chen Ping’an, witnessing this spectacle unfold, felt neither envy nor resentment. He was merely… perplexed. He had been but a dozen paces away when the young Qi practitioner, upon hearing Fan Qi’s words, had hesitated only for a breath. A fleeting flicker of regret, then pure joy, washed over his face as he summarily dismissed his earthly betrothed from his thoughts.

Chen Ping’an gazed towards the pavilion, a strange notion taking root. The fairy maiden may possess immense power, he mused, but her eyesight… was perhaps not her strongest attribute.

Later, back at Guimai courtyard, the old sword master chuckled, washing down meager fare with cheap wine. “A hydrangea, flung from the heavens! Who’d have thought? A pity, boy, a terrible pity! To witness the choosing on Guihua’s peak is a legend made real, a sight seen only once a century. Alas, the blessing of such a fateful encounter was not yours…”

Chen Ping’an offered a wry grin. The old man sobered, his gaze hardening. “The ten scenic wonders of Guihua Island hold opportunities aplenty, though fickle fate determines who shall grasp them. The celestial hydrangea is but one example. Who would have thought a rustic cultivator of the Cave Realm, with middling talent, would be deemed worthy?

“The other nine wonders,” the old man continued, voice low and grave, “require no deliberate pursuit. But *this*… this spectacle calls for a personal pilgrimage to the foot of Guihua Island, to the very edge of the ferry’s waters. For if luck should favor you, even a Golden Core or Nascent Soul cultivator would envy such a blessing.”

Chen Ping’an sighed. “I’ll not waste time chasing fortune. My blade awaits in the courtyard.”

The old sword master scowled. “Go! You *must* go! Even a sliver of hope deserves your attention. The path of cultivation is not paved with ease, but with the constant striving for advancement. Go, witness the marvel, test your fate! What is lost by trying? Never forget, boy, the power of ‘what if’ lies in…”
Feared by the Seekers of Qi, yet coveted above all else…

Chen Ping’an, ever mindful, ventured, “Master Ma, I am but a humble martial artist, not a soul who treads the Qi-seeking path.”

The aged Sword Saint clapped a hand to his brow, frustration etched upon his face. “By the ancestors! Your presence dulls my spirit. Practice your bladework these next days. I must wander, seek solace, and escape your… singular focus.”

For two suns, the Sword Saint remained absent, leaving Chen Ping’an to his solitary practice. The elder returned to Guimai Courtyard in a whirlwind of unrest, a fleeting glimpse granted before he vanished once more, offering only a hasty, “Continue your efforts!” Chen Ping’an, untroubled, attributed the elder’s disappearances to the whims of social obligation.

Thus they arrived at the fifth vista along Guihua Island’s cross-continental route: the Jiaolong Gully.

Heeding the elder’s counsel, Chen Ping’an lingered long enough to greet Jin Su. At midday, she appeared at the courtyard gate, inviting him to descend and partake of the view. As a favored guest of Gui Palace, a secluded path was provided, free from the throng. Side by side, Chen Ping’an and Guihua Xiaoniang walked, she recounting the tale of Jiaolong Gully’s origins.

Within that chasm dwelled a multitude of dragons, most tainted by the chaos of diluted bloodlines. Some, true Water Dragons, driven by ancient instinct, would soar above the land, only to struggle mightily against the winds in their return. Oftentimes, these untamed beasts, unbound by celestial decree, would unleash their magic in torrential downpours, causing floods and drawing the ire of humankind. Branded as “Evil Dragons,” they became the prey of Qi-seekers, hunted not only for serving the Heavens and the people, but also for the priceless innate treasures held within their forms.

Chen Ping’an, remembering the Lizhu Cave Heaven where the last true dragon had fallen, felt a surge of emotion. He quickened his pace toward the foot of Guihua Island, determined to witness the spectacle firsthand. Were these creatures, dwelling in the Jiaolong Gully, truly disciples of the Great Dragons of old?

Reaching the base of the mountain, he found small boats awaiting at the ferry. These were manned by Qi-seekers from the Fan family, tasked with safely navigating the treacherous gully. Guihua Island guaranteed passage so long as passengers refrained from loud noises or wielding their magic, lest they disturb the slumbering dragons below. Should peril arise, the Golden Pill monks of Guihua Island stood ready to intervene.

As a privileged guest, Chen Ping’an was spared the usual fare.

Even had a king’s ransom been demanded, Chen Ping’an would have gladly paid. He boarded a small boat with Jin Su, finding an old man at the helm. In his grasp was a bamboo pole, longer than a man’s stride, etched with sigils and talismans. Four in particular resembled earthworms, bearing a striking resemblance to those depicted in “The Original Book of Alchemy” as the “Lock Killing Talisman,” a potent and ancient ward. The tome cautioned that blood would weep from the parchment upon its completion, a sign not of failure, but of the talisman’s profound creation.

Curious, Chen Ping’an turned to Jin Su, seeking the name of the talisman upon the bamboo pole.
She frowned, a flicker of bewilderment clouding her eyes as though the query had never dared cross the threshold of her thoughts. Turning, she sought the wisdom of Zhouzi. The old ferryman chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. “Truth be told, little sister, this old man knows not the answer. This route of House Fan, it’s as old as time itself. Since the first day, those strange glyphs have adorned our bamboo poles, their meaning lost to the mists of ages. My master, when he passed the oar and the pole to me, couldn’t say for sure either. They say Osmanthus Isle is a taro charm, enough to ward off the dragons of the deep. But, between you and me, few sailors truly believe such tales. We rely more…”

He rummaged within his worn pouch, producing a handful of paper figures – men and steeds fashioned from folded paper. “Should a dragon stir beneath the keel, toss a handful into the water. They’ll vanish quick as smoke. Detouring around the Dragon’s Gorge would add two hundred thousand leagues to our journey, a fate no vessel desires. Aye, Jiaolonggou sounds fearsome, and fills landlubbers with dread. But truth is, Osmanthus Isle has known peace with these beasts for centuries. Fear not, young master.”

Zhouzi barked out a hearty laugh, a sound that spoke of an open heart. “That being said, if the worst were to befall, ruin would follow. Our small boat, this entire isle, would be swallowed whole! For dragons are beings of terrible power. Should they rise together, the seas would boil. I tell you true, even a sword immortal of Yuanying could not provoke them without courting utter annihilation.”

Jin Su, her brow furrowed with displeasure, scolded, “You have a guest aboard, old man! Why speak such ill-omened words?”

The ferryman’s face flushed with shame. “Forgive me, forgive me. Enough said. Young Master, be seated. Let us admire the wonders of the Dragon’s Gorge and pray for safe passage…”

Jiaolonggou was a chasm of strange majesty, its clear waters plummeting into unfathomable depths, stretching ten leagues wide and a thousand long. Within lurked dragons of every hue, serpentine forms twisting and turning, ranging from the size of a basin to the girth of a well. Legends whispered of behemoths whose very eyes were the size of urns. Gleaming scales flickered in the darkness below, a vibrant, terrifying tapestry that instilled a primal fear, a desperate plea not to disturb the slumbering leviathans and invite a watery death.

Suddenly, Zhouzi pointed a gnarled finger towards the sky. “Young Master, look! A rain-wearied dragon, returning from the lands above. Alas, it seems grievously wounded, perhaps used for sport by the Qi-training men of Posa Forum, harried by their arrows. Not all water dragons are so fortunate as to return alive. The corpses of those that perish on the homeward journey often become unexpected windfalls for cross-continental ferries. But Osmanthus Isle is known for its compassion. We do not salvage the corpses of these fallen dragons, instead, we guide them to the reefs near Guihua Isle, and then send them all the way to this Dragon’s Valley…”

Following the old man’s gaze, Chen Ping’an and Jin Su saw a colossal form plummeting from the sea of clouds, crashing into the distant waters with a thunderous roar. The spray shot skyward, but thankfully, the wounded dragon fell more than ten leagues distant from Guihua Isle, posing no immediate threat to the small boats upon the sea.

The boat crept forward, hugging the shores of Osmanthus Isle, never straying more than two or three leagues from safety. The water was so clear it seemed the boat was suspended in air, while below, the dragons slept and played, their sinuous forms weaving through the depths like living currents.
The vessel glided across waters so still they mirrored the heavens, giving the illusion of traversing a landscape of gentle, verdant hills rather than the vast ocean deep.

A sudden frown furrowed Chen Ping’an’s brow. His hand moved instinctively, grasping the hilt of a sword within the scabbard strapped to his back. “Tell me,” he asked, his voice low and edged with concern, “is this Jiaolong, this scaled serpent of the deep, counted amongst the mountain spirits and zodiacal beasts?”

The old boatman, Zhouzi, had assumed the youth’s ignorance was vast. They were now but two leagues from the welcoming shores of Osmanthus Isle, poised upon the lip of Jiaolong Valley, a chasm that plunged into unfathomable depths. A nervous tremor shook the boy. With a practiced ease, Zhouzi offered a reassuring smile. “In ages past, such a Dragon was deemed a noble being, touched by the divine. But times change, young master. Now, they are… beasts, no more.”

He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. “Fear not, young master. Osmanthus Isle is a frequent visitor to these waters. The annals of my family, the Fans, tell of ancestors who witnessed two cultivators of the Nascent Soul, their very presence stirring the Jiaolong Valley beneath their feet. Yet, no water dragon rose to challenge them. The tales of danger we spin are often meant to dissuade less… desirable guests. But you bear the mark of Guihua – Osmanthus Bloom – and so, I shall spare you such tales…”

Jin Su, a woman of sharp eyes and sharper wit, glared at Zhouzi, silently rebuking his loose tongue. How dare he reveal the secrets of the Fan family so freely?

The old man, duly chastised, hunched over his bamboo pole, rowing with renewed diligence. Every so often, he tossed a handful of intricately folded silver paper offerings into the abyss: paper men, paper horses, delicate paper pagodas and chariots, all destined for the watery depths.

Suddenly, his eyes widened, fixed upon a point in the distance. “By the gods! Someone plots against Osmanthus Isle!”

Almost as if summoned by his words, Aunt Gui, a formidable woman radiating an aura of ancient power, appeared from Guigong, the Isle’s heart. Her gaze mirrored the old man’s, focused on a vessel ahead. Her voice, though soft, was edged with fury. “Someone has dared to use a Dragon King’s Basket and snared a young water dragon, a playful hatchling!”

The old man stood, his weathered face etched with worry. “Could it be Jiang Beihai, seeking vengeance? They disembarked midway, yet our Ma Zhi followed them these ten years, finding nothing amiss. Or perhaps the Ding family? But they possess no Dragon King’s Basket! The Fu family then? But they lack the motive…”

Aunt Gui shook her head, her expression grim. “Too soon to say. The most urgent task is to appease Jiaolong Valley. To rouse its ire is to invite disaster, even should the monks of the Upper Five Realms lend their aid! Thousands of souls dwell upon Guihua Isle… what are we to do? We are all marked for doom! Who dares to take flight and call the wind at such a time?”

Zhouzi’s face hardened. “All vessels, return to port! No Qi trainer on Osmanthus Isle shall take wing without express permission, lest they be deemed a provocation by Jiaolong Valley. Show the skill of your blades so that the visitors know we are not jesting!”

Ma Zhi, a Sword Cultivator of the Golden Dan Realm, drew his longsword and hurled it skyward with a speed rivalling lightning, far exceeding the speed of a Golden Dan cultivator upon the wind. But the flying sword, barely a few miles from Osmanthus Isle, was crushed by an unseen, spectral claw descending from the cloud sea above. It exploded in a shower of incandescent fragments.

He loosed another sword, and another, each meeting the same fate.

Aunt Gui turned, her voice gentle but resolute as she addressed Jin Su and Chen Ping’an. “You two, return to Guimai.”
The courtyard emptied. “Whatever horrors unfold, cling fast to the roots of the osmanthus; it is your only beacon of hope!”

Jin Su, her sandaled foot already upon the muddy bank, stood at the ferry crossing, gazing back.

The swordsman, he who called himself Chen Ping’an, seemed planted upon the boat’s deck. When at last he stirred, he held aloft a length of green bamboo.

“What fool’s errand is this?” Jin Su demanded.

Chen Ping’an replied, “Watching tarragon may be really useful.”

Jin Su shot him a look fit for an addled simpleton before turning, her robes billowing as she vanished towards the mountain’s crest.

Then came the cataclysm. As if the very mountains bled into the sea, Osmanthus Isle plunged earthward, sinking a hundred feet into the churning depths.

For leagues around, the ocean floor mimicked this descent. Jiaolonggou, once a seabed canyon encircling the isle and the ferry, rose from the abyss, becoming a towering range shrouded in perpetual twilight.

Every spiritual creature within the dragon’s domain turned its gaze upon the cursed isle of osmanthus, a palpable current of malice surging through the water.

Aunt Gui, pale as moonstone, drifted forward, hovering in the air above the turmoil. She spoke in forgotten tongues to a dragon wreathed in golden scales, its eyes like chips of glacial ice.

The celestial sword forged by the saint Ruan Qiong, still sheathed upon Chen Ping’an’s back, vibrated with a frantic hunger.

Ruan Qiong had once implored him: flee from such monstrous power. But where could he flee now?

He could neither seek sanctuary in the forbidden Guimai courtyard atop the mountain, nor stand like a lamb awaiting the slaughter.

Instead, Chen Ping’an looked down at the unyielding bamboo pole in his grasp. He sat cross-legged upon the deck, resting the pole across his knees. Carefully, he scraped away the poorly-inscribed talismans that defiled it, glyphs that mocked the “Original Book of Alchemy.” From memory, he conjured the proper seals. He retrieved the small snow cone brush gifted by Li Xisheng. He moistened the pen, the tip bloomed crimson, as if dipped in potent ink. With a grim smile, Chen Ping’an laid the bamboo pole upon the damp earth to his left. With the steady hand of the boy he used to be he engraved the “locking talisman” that would stop the dragon.

It was a desperate act, akin to using a dead steed to mend a living one.

If this failed, he would draw the saint’s blade from its sheath and perform a feat sung of in ancient tomes, emulating the legendary sword immortals who had dared to slay dragons in their lairs.

When the final stroke was complete, the emerald bamboo throbbed with a ghastly, bloodlike light.

Chen Ping’an steeled himself. Gripping the bamboo pole, he leaped onto a drifting boat, one that had not yet been secured to the shore. Standing alone upon its fragile deck, he drew a deep breath and slammed his palms against the hull, sending the vessel shooting forward like an arrow.

With the bamboo pole slung over one shoulder, he raised the gourd filled with sword-raising wine to his lips. As he drank deeply, he whispered into the wind: “Lock-cutting talisman, I call upon you! Cut that which binds the dragon, lock that which imprisons its power. Succeed, as the ancient immortals did. Fail, and our hometown’s iron dragon-locking well will become an island on the deep. May our fate prevail!”

The sea, once a path to the island, was now filled with ancient evils as the dragons closed in. Disaster was coming, and only a miracle would survive.

Yet in the face of oblivion, Chen Ping’an stood proud, a solitary figure against the encroaching dark, embodying a moment of breathtaking defiance.
Before the eyes of all who dwelled on Osmanthus Isle, a sight unfolded. A humble skiff, adrift upon the jade waters, drifted with a languid grace. Upon its deck stood a lad, a bamboo pole resting upon his youthful shoulders, as he raised a flagon to his lips, drinking deep from its mysterious brew.