The isle of Osmanthus nestled like a bowl within a bowl, the sea itself forming the outer rim. Upon this placid surface, doom awaited, for the passengers were deemed forfeit, destined to appease the hunger of the dragon-kin, a feast long foretold.

The waters surrounding Osmanthus Isle and the burdened ferry remained eerily still, a deceptive calm under the chilling gazes emanating from the depths of Jiaolong Gulch. An air of unease permeated the island, a silent stew of resentment, lament, and a dawning realization of inescapable fate. Some, in their desperation, entertained grim calculations, weighing their meager chances, hoping to snatch a burning ember from the dragon’s fire. Survival alone, they reasoned, would be a prize beyond measure, worth even the gruesome plunder of Qi-training corpses, let alone the fabled treasures of Osmanthus Isle.

At the island’s edge, where the cliffs met the treacherous sea, Aunt Gui, the island’s steward, a figure long hidden in the shadows, confronted the ancient Golden Dragon. Their exchange was a torrent of guttural sounds, an alien tongue unlike any spoken on the mortal continents – likely the primeval language of dragons, once called the “Song of Water” by forgotten scholars. Why Aunt Gui possessed knowledge of this arcane speech, why she dared face the monstrous dragons alone, were questions the passengers dared not dwell upon. They could only pray that this unassuming woman would somehow ascend, become a savior of the Fifth Realm, and lead Osmanthus Isle from the jaws of Jiaolong Gulch.

Her parley with the dragon faltered. Suppressing her mounting fury, Aunt Gui strove to maintain a measured tone. “Is there no room for discourse? The records are clear: the Fan family has always offered tribute. For generations, their ferries have scattered silver foil origami in your waters, a sign of respect, a tribute to Buyu. They have never failed to honor the pact…”

The golden dragon, its eyes the size of dustpan lids, fixed her with a gaze of glacial indifference. “Rules are rules. To disregard them would unravel the very fabric of Jiaolong Gulch.”

Before Aunt Gui could argue, the dragon’s massive claw slammed into the water, unleashing a maelstrom of surging waves and howling winds. The gale stung Aunt Gui’s face, yet she did not flinch, did not invoke Earthly Immortal powers to shield herself. She endured the dragon’s wrath, a solitary figure facing the tempest.

The old dragon sneered, “Osmanthus Isle has been betrayed, and I am not blind. I saw through the charade from the start. But the rules remain. Your isle, through recklessness or malice, permitted passengers to wield the Dragon King’s Basket, to ensnare a youngling. This act has shattered the accord. Mistress Gui, you may depart. The rest, all living souls aboard that ferry, are forfeit.”

Aunt Gui shook her head, her voice firm. “I will not abandon them.”

The dragon’s eyes gleamed with a chilling blend of contempt and ravenous hunger, a connoisseur beholding a long-awaited delicacy. “I knew it. And that is why this must be. Mistress Gui, do you understand the restraint I have practiced each time your vessels have passed? I have honored your broken iron laws, suppressing my hunger, enduring. Can you fathom the fortitude required?”

Aunt Gui’s voice barely a whisper, “There is no other way?”

The ancient Golden Dragon shifted its colossal form, its length a veritable island, its shadow a harbinger of doom.
The sun bled across the ridge, painting the cerulean expanse with molten gold as two wisps of dragon-whiskers drifted, mournful streamers, into the clear sea. Light kissed a small boat bobbing in the woman’s wake, its sole occupant a gaunt man with a cruel glint in his eyes. He surveyed the scene, a tiny basket clutched in his hand, a miniature cage of ivory so delicate it seemed a trinket, yet held a prisoner of immense value.

Captured, a young dragon, once six spans in length, cowered within the Dragon King’s Basket. It thrashed, a scaled worm, its whimpers a pathetic symphony of fear.

Zhouzi, the old ferryman who’d once guided Jin Su and Chen Ping’an, stood upon the water beside the man’s vessel, a watchful sentinel guarding against escape. Why he, whose true form was that of an immortal residing within the Golden Pill of Guihua Isle, hesitated to seize the basket outright was a matter of dire consequence. The thief possessed a sinister aura, a deer-headed, rat-faced villain wreathed in the miasma of his *natal* flying sword. The blade, no longer than a foot, was forged from pure shadow, belching forth plumes of thick, black smoke – a clear sign of a Sword Cultivator who attained the Dragon Gate Realm. Zhouzi feared a desperate act, the destruction of both basket and dragon, a loss that would weigh heavy upon Guihua Isle.

“Why?” Zhouzi demanded, his voice a low rumble. “Why commit such an act of pointless cruelty?”

The man only grinned, his gaze flickering across the scene, offering no answer. Zhouzi probed, seeking clues, desperate to discern if the hand guiding the thief belonged to the elusive Master Jiang, who had departed the ferry prematurely, or perhaps the rival Ding family of Laolongcheng, ever envious of the Fan’s fortune. But the man remained a locked vault of secrets.

Time was slipping away. Zhouzi needed word from Madame Gui, a resolution to the negotiations with the ancient dragon. If all paths led to ruin, then he would strike, killing the man and claiming the basket, even if it meant sacrifice. He could endure a loss of life on Guihua Isle, but not the utter devastation of the Fan family’s thousand-year legacy, devoured by the machinations of ancient, imprisoned souls.

He forced himself to remain calm, ceasing his attempts to pry words from the man’s lips. “Do you truly believe you can escape?” he asked, his voice measured. “To flee this Dragon’s Ditch, beneath the very eyes of the Old Wyrm?”

The man’s grin widened. “Perhaps,” he said, a spark of manic glee igniting his eyes. “Shall we find out?”

With a sudden, dramatic flourish, he hurled the Dragon King’s Basket towards Zhouzi. “This little trinket cost me a fortune in Guyu coin! Have it!”

The basket, clearly a flawed creation, a relic from a separatist kingdom swallowed by the ages, was a crude imitation compared to the true Dragon King’s Baskets of yore. Yet, through countless hunts and destructions, these imperfect vessels had become rare, their value rivalling even the most potent sword gourds.

Zhouzi hesitated to seize it. Experience had taught him to expect treachery. Instead, he used a controlled burst of *qi* to hold the basket aloft, his eyes narrowed in fury. The man had indeed tampered with the basket, poisoning the young dragon within. Blood welled from unseen wounds, exposing raw flesh and splintered bone. The creature was dying.

The man erupted in laughter, his *natal* sword dissolving into billowing black smoke, a protective shroud around him. With a flourish, he conjured a golden talisman. “A toast to your grave, old man! Pity there’s no small osmanthus brew to celebrate…”

The talisman blazed with golden light, and the man…
A ripple distorted the air, and the figure vanished from the deck as if swallowed by the very fabric of reality.

The ancient golden dragon, scales shimmering like a thousand sunsets, tossed its magnificent head. A sibilant whisper, like a whip of pure sound, cracked through the air, aimed at the seemingly empty space beside its colossal form.

Moments later, two figures plummeted from the heavens above Dragon Serpent Valley. It was the sword cultivator who had gambled everything on a desperate escape, sacrificing a priceless talisman to flee the dragon’s wrath. This Square Inch Talisman, a treasure of the second rank, promised passage of a hundred leagues in the blink of an eye. Its creator, a master artisan of unparalleled skill, had boasted that none in Dragon Serpent Valley could hinder its power. The sword cultivator, in his hubris, had believed his scheme foolproof – a brazen theft of the Dragon King’s offspring, a calculated gamble amidst the chaos of the standoff between Osmanthus Isle and the valley. With Lady Osmanthus’s attention fixated on the elder dragon, and the supposed inviolability of the talisman against even a Land Immortal’s blade, he’d seized the opportunity to slip from the battlefield.

The old dragon’s whisker lashed out again, striking the air, and a series of muffled explosions echoed in the depths of the sea, like the rumble of spring thunder.

The Golden Core sword cultivator, cleaved asunder by the unseen force, watched his nascent golden core crumble to dust. A shower of glittering fragments rained down into the clear waters of Dragon Serpent Valley, as the two halves of his body followed. Their descent drew the attention of countless dragons, who surged forth in a frenzied contest, a maelstrom of claws and teeth in a desperate struggle for the spoils.

The sword cultivator died with eyes wide open, forever fixed on the impossible.

How arduous, how backbreaking, was the path of a solitary cultivator, toiling without the patronage of a powerful clan, to reach the Golden Core Realm?

In life, he had envisioned a grand future, the completion of this daring venture would provide him with the means to secure a paradise of verdant lands and soaring peaks. There, he would found an immortal sect, a lineage that would flourish for ten thousand years. He would emulate those fortunate seedlings, nurtured from birth, and guided on the righteous path, avoiding the constant missteps that had plagued his own existence…

Master Zhou, having assured himself that the Dragon King’s cage was secure, clasped it gently. He turned his head, his expression a mixture of concern and resignation. “Little one,” he sighed, “what are you doing here? This cataclysm is beyond your power to influence. Retreat to Osmanthus Isle, and pray that you still see the mountain standing when you arrive. Or… be prepared for the worst.”

Master Zhou trailed off, the weight of the unspoken truth heavy in the air. The battle was at hand, and words were now as useless as pebbles against a tidal wave.

Taking a long draught of wine, Chen Ping’an secured the sword gourd at his waist.

Master Zhou detected nothing amiss, nor did the woman, her back turned to Osmanthus Isle as she faced the ancient dragon.

But within the dragon’s silver eyes, flecked with the gold of ancient wisdom, a flicker of amusement ignited. He chose not to expose the youth’s ruse, content to play a game of cat and mouse, a fleeting distraction from the grand spectacle unfolding.

Chen Ping’an spoke, his voice calm. “Senior, is the situation on Osmanthus Isle truly beyond repair?”

“Gravely perilous.”

Master Zhou nodded, unable to sugarcoat the truth. He spoke with brutal honesty, “Rumor claims that the old dragon, when he forged a pact with the Fan family ancestor, possessed a power akin to a Nascent Soul cultivator. The Dragon Serpent race are born as exotics, and their practice is often extremely slow, but once…”
They ascended to a precipice, their martial prowess far eclipsing their humble state. Below, a chasm teemed with hundreds of dragons, a force that dwarfed even the infamous Baoping Island. Central to their power was an ancient dragon, master of formidable formations, a challenge of the highest order.

Chen Ping’an’s brow furrowed. “This old dragon… he is but a Nascent Soul, a mere immortal of the lowest tier?”

Lao Zhouzi nodded, puzzled by the swordsman’s query.

Chen Ping’an gazed upon the golden behemoth in the distance.

The dragon returned the stare, its silver eyes brimming with disdain, a pointed glance directed at the sword-raising gourd at Chen Ping’an’s side.

The dragon had seen through his meager attempts at deception.

Wei Bo, the Mountain God who had entrusted him with this ‘Jiang Pot,’ claimed even ten-level Qi cultivators could not penetrate the enchantment veiling the gourd. Yet, this dragon was clearly beyond that. Chen Ping’an’s subtle influx of lunar power, a secret weapon, was now unveiled. A crucial trump card, exposed.

“Lad,” Lao Zhouzi pleaded, “Turn back. Your youthful valor is commendable, but futile. Why court a dragon’s maw? Return to Osmanthus Isle, cling to that faint hope. Here, I am powerless to aid you. With your current strength, you march toward oblivion.”

Lao Zhouzi stifled the urge to add that even on Guihua Island, death awaited, but better there than swallowed whole by a sea dragon.

Chen Ping’an grasped the tarapole, offering the bamboo shaft to Lao Zhouzi. “Elder, this is a Lock-Cutting Talisman, modified from a text of alchemical lore. The complete talisman demands eight ancient seal scripts. Your previous markings held only four, ‘What is the matter?’, neglecting the order of Master Rain, and distorting the talisman’s cloud patterns. I have redrawn it.”

The old man examined the pole, transfixed. “The Lock-Cutting Talisman, you say? Missing Master Yu’s Imperial Order? The script, the patterns, the very essence… of remarkable depth. Are you a Taoist of the Talisman School, young master? Are you a grand master of a sect?”

Chen Ping’an shook his head.

He would not confess his martial artistry, nor his casual apprenticeship to a scholar from Fulu Street, drawing talismans in passing.

Lao Zhouzi sighed, “A tragedy. If but all the tarapoles bore this perfected Lock-Cutting Talisman, and a master of Qimen Dunjia weaved them into a formation… perhaps, just perhaps, we could shake this dragon trench. Alas, what a wasted opportunity!”

Aunt Gui drifted back, a flicker of surprise in her eyes at the sight of the staff, but without Lao Zhouzi’s despair. “Useless,” she said calmly. “The talisman’s origins are profound, its engravings deep…
From whence the Dragon Pillars and Swordsprings hail, those dread artifacts by which the Ancient Ones did bind and scourge dragons for their transgressions. Even a fleeting glimpse of such a thing in bygone days was enough to cow a serpent, but the old wyrm is wise. He no longer trembles at the sight of mere bamboo staves, for such materials are common, and further, the enchantment of those binding talismans demands the most skilled hand and purest inks…”

Chen Ping’an offered the bamboo pole, his eyes flitting towards the ancient dragon, seeking any sign.

A glint of silver flashed in the beast’s eyes, a fleeting glimpse of ancient memories, before settling back into their placid depths. Two long, silvery whiskers drifted lazily in the currents, scattering light through the depths. It was said a golden beard, a thousand years grown, when woven into a demon-binding rope, would become the most potent of arcane tools.

Drawing his gaze away, Chen Ping’an spoke, his voice soft but clear, “Aunt Gui, venerable elder, would you grant me a moment to conjure a new ward? If you both harbor other plans, then disregard my plea. Fear not, I will strive to complete it myself.”

The perseverance burning in his eyes belied the gentleness of his tone. “A ward of great import!”

—

Upon Osmanthus Isle, within the Guest Palace atop its highest peak, a young guest paced on the rooftop, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Beside him, an old woman watched with concern etched on her face.

The youth wore a bright yellow robe, deceptively simple at first glance. But like Chen Ping’an’s sword-raising gourd, a master artificer had woven a potent illusion. Should one penetrate the veil, they would see the robe was no silk, but a tapestry of exquisitely crafted bamboo. Each sliver was thin, yet impossibly strong. It was a garment that offered warmth in winter and coolness in summer, enfolding the wearer in a perpetual pocket of blessed earth, aiding in his cultivation. A true masterpiece of immortals’ craft.

This “Qingliang” robe was a treasure of the Blue Sacred Mountain in the Bamboo Sea Cave, once favored by a monarch of a lost dynasty. Lost for centuries, it now graced the shoulders of this boy.

The boy spoke, his voice tinged with the lilting cadence of Baoping Zhouyayan, “Grandmother Liu, the talismans of that hundred-mile square inch cultivator were useless. Is my hundred-mile square inch talisman equally…unfulfilled?”

The old woman sighed, “The dragon’s power alone is not to be feared; it is but the pinnacle of the Yuanying. However, aided by unknown hands, this trench has become a microcosm, a pocket realm. Were a Sage to sit within, their strength would be formidable. And they have seized the hour, the place, and the moment…”

The boy frowned, “What then shall we do?”

The old woman smiled, “Young Master, do not fret overmuch. I will, at any cost, see you safely out of this dragon’s ditch. When you are clear, retrace your steps to the cliff where the hydrangea balls were cast. Speak your name to the building there, they shall not neglect you. You will then return to Aiaizhou unhindered, and tell your tale to the ancestors. Then will heavenly retribution fall, razing this land to dust, avenging your old woman.”

The boy protested, “Grandmother Liu, this is a matter of life and death, yet you speak so lightly? I will not have you die here. We must return home together.”

The old woman’s smile remained, her eyes filled with a gentle affection. “It is a necessity, child. And I will not weep before you, lest I….”
“She’s so old,” the handmaiden fretted, her voice a low murmur laced with anxiety, “she truly can’t bear such hardship.”

Old Liu, seated near her charge, remembered the past. Her gaze drifted to the jade ring on the young master’s hand, an heirloom of untold power. “Young Master,” she said softly, her voice a rustle of dry leaves, “Guard this treasure well. Never reveal its contents before strangers, and never tempt fate by testing the hearts of men. For the hearts of men are fragile things, and shatter under scrutiny.” A distant sadness clouded her wrinkled face, a reminder that every crone was once a maiden, full of hope and light.

The boy in bamboo, oblivious to the old woman’s musings, pointed towards a small boat gliding by. “Grandma Liu, look at that boatman, scarcely older than I, yet strong enough to pole that heavy barge! He’s bold and comely! A far sight better than me, I warrant. I must commission a painter to capture this very scene!”

Old Liu shook her head, a gentle smile playing on her lips. “Do not aspire to such rustic ventures, Young Master. You are no mere son of the soil, but a scion of fortune. Should harm befall you within the lands between Baoping and Posa, the consequences would be dire indeed.”

The boy sighed, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Grandma Liu, I have seen enough of the world to be considered a man, not a babe in swaddling clothes.”

The old woman offered no retort, her silence a knowing one. Those supposed “adventures” had always been watched over by vigilant ancestors, unseen but ever-present. This long journey from Aiaizhou to Juluzhou, then southward to Baopingzhou, with stops at Shengaozong, Guanhu Academy, the Yunlin Jiang family, and finally Laolong City, before continuing south to Tongyezhou, had been remarkably smooth. Even visits to the northern reaches of Tongyezhou and the southern Yuguizong, including a near-entry to the blessed cloud caves, had been devoid of true peril. Old Liu couldn’t shake the feeling that her Lord’s escort was too light, even with a Qi-training man of the Nascent Soul Realm. How precious was her Young Master!

In Jiaolonggou, a Jade Pu realm sword cultivator would have been more fitting. Then the Young Master wouldn’t have needed to even furrow his brow in concern, let alone feel fear. He could have simply watched the spectacle unfold from a safe distance.

***

Outside a humble dwelling on the hillside of Guihua Island, a beautiful young woman sat in a small pavilion. Her attire, a simple short shirt and long skirt cinched at the waist with a ribbon, belied the turmoil within her. Though anger simmered at the Fan family in Old Long City for the misfortune that had befallen her, she patiently brewed tea, her movements precise and deliberate as she packed away the tea set. She began to unravel a plan, but a sudden sense of dread overwhelmed her, brought about by the sight of cultivators of the Golden Sword, all of whom had been killed.

The woman, her face etched with worry, tapped her fingers on the table, muttering, “This makes no sense. I had a fortune read in Laolong City, and was urged to descend the mountain and embrace Osmanthus Island. It seemed logical, a chance to seize opportunity. How could this lead to death?”

She rose, lightly touching her toes to the edge of the pavilion, she had a wider view. Swallowing hard, she slowly squatted on the roof. Now, ready, she began to calculate and evolve a plan, “Perhaps an expert hides nearby? Or the one who breaks the deadlock has not yet made themselves known? Surely, this is not a true impasse, it cannot be…Let me calculate you, the woman who confronts the golden old dragon. Ah, it seems you are Osmanthus Island itself…Strange, still, the breaker is not you…”

“Let’s observe this hidden ferry boatman, huh? He seems to be a Qi-training man, having fallen from the…”
The elder’s fall from Yuanying to Jindan was a heavy blow, wounds yet unhealed. A veteran warrior, no doubt etched with tales, yet his gambit had been disrupted. “A most inconvenient game indeed…” a woman muttered, pacing a dusty chamber.

“As for this whelp, this cub who knows not the dragon’s wrath… bah! To think, a mere bamboo pole to his name! Always posturing! He fancies himself a Fifth Realm Sword Immortal, the fool… If there’s a key to this impasse, could it be a hidden deity, perched on the mountain, biding time, waiting for the serpent to slumber, ready to strike the fatal blow? Let me see… a celestial being *is* obscuring their aura, cleverly concealed… Alas, not quite ready!”

Her brow furrowed, crimson creeping up her cheeks. She tugged at her hair, a jade hairpin askew in her disarray, her bun threatening to unravel.

“Patience, patience,” she urged herself, “Master always said, within every great tide of fate lies a ‘one,’ the genesis of all things. That elusive ‘Tao’ the Ancestor seeks. The true dragon, the essence of Lizhu Cavern, the Sword Qi Great Wall, all are born from it… this, too, must hold such a truth.”

As the woman wrestled with destiny, young Jin Su, the Osmanthus maiden of Guimai Courtyard, glanced back, thrice over. She saw the dangerous dance between her master and the golden dragon, recognized the latter as the aged alchemist Zhouzi from Osmanthus Isle. She also saw the foolhardy boy, rowing headlong into the fray. Jin Su knew she shouldn’t resent the boy’s rash courage, yet a gnawing anger festered within her. It felt as if all the woes of the day could be laid at his feet, easing her own unease.

Jin Su refused to dwell on it, to admit the truth: her anger stemmed not from Chen Ping’an’s actions, but from his *willingness* to act, a stark contrast to her own cowardice, her inability to stand beside her master, shoulder to shoulder.

In the space between life and death, some cling to safety, calculating, retreating. Others seek justice in the face of ruin, finding life only in embracing death.

For a youth only just embarking on the immortal path, who can say which is right, which is wrong?

Upon the waves near Osmanthus Island, two small boats bobbed side-by-side.

Lao Zhouzi’s pleas had fallen on deaf ears. He couldn’t bear to see the boy meet his end, so he barked in frustration, “If Lady Gui herself has warned of the Old Serpent’s might, what madness possesses you? Why court disaster?”

The woman offered a weary smile. “We are surrounded, with death as the only path to escape. The old dragon gives no quarter.”

The old man lowered his voice, a desperate plea, “Lady Gui, you *must* survive! The Fan family…”

She shook her head, a quiet resolve hardening her gaze. “My decision is made.”

She turned to the boy, her voice gentle, “Chen Ping’an, this talisman… is it truly so vital?”

Chen Ping’an nodded with fervent conviction.

The woman inhaled deeply. “Well, we have arrived here. What else can I do? This old dragon clings to the strict confines of the “rules”, but as we know, even a well planned journey can fail in the moment of truth. It is because you are so willing, Chen Ping’an, that I offer you a window of oppurtunity. I am willing to buy you time.”

Chen Ping’an immediately took up a seat within the boat, facing the golden dragon. He connected his energy with his flying sword Fifteen, a square inch of focused will, and soon a piece of green talisman paper slipped…
From within the folds of his robe, as if a fragment torn from some arcane grimoire, Chen Ping’an retrieved a Snow Cone brush. A sigh escaped his lips, soft as a falling snowflake. But as the magically imbued brush descended towards the waiting talisman paper, a tremor ran through him. The pen’s tip seemed to pierce a blizzard, the very air thickening with frigid weight, each step weighted heavy with snow.

Chen Ping’an’s pure martial ki, usually a torrent of unwavering power, was abruptly severed, cleaved clean by an unseen force!

Never before had he encountered such resistance, not even when inscribing the mighty Baota Demon-Suppressing Talisman upon gilded paper.

A flicker of surprise ignited within him.

Though it threatened to bruise his spirit and shatter his very soul, Chen Ping’an summoned a draught of air, solidifying his resolve. His arm steadied, and the Snow Cone’s nib pressed onward, towards the virgin surface of the talisman.

Action must be taken, yet the situation must be made stable.

Earlier, before the decrepit temple of Huangtingguo, young gallants, clad in silks and mounted upon warhorses, their hearts ablaze with impetuous righteousness, had nearly scuppered the affairs of a righteous Qi cultivator, allowing a troublesome mountain fox demon to slip its bonds.

A grim reminder that good intentions could pave the road to ruin.

If stability could be assured, then Chen Ping’an felt compelled to act.

In the Rouge County City God Temple of Caiyi Country, the magistrate’s daughter, her laughter like tinkling bells, had often aided him. For it had reached the point where her assistance was not just welcome, but helped bear the burden.

Like a ferry, a boat upon the Old Dragon City lake, a vessel upon Jujube Mountain.

This Osmanthus Island, the inherited domain of his friends Fan Er and Guan Hou.

And the Kun ship, once home to two young maidens, Chunshui and Qiushi, both girls of singular virtue. Chen Ping’an held fast to the belief that, no matter the years, no matter the distances, no matter the towering peaks and raging rivers that might separate them, they would one day meet again.

Chen Ping’an further tightened his grip, channeling his breathing and sword energy, allowing the untamed torrent of true energy within to find swift and unwavering passage.

For when energy is stable, the spirit finds calm. And when the spirit is calm, true enchantment can be achieved.

Remember the long hours spent firing porcelain, rolling tablets, and the steadiness it required. Only a stable heart can guide a stable hand.

At last, the tip of the Snow Cone grazed the indigo surface of the talisman paper.

A pinpoint of light exploded forth, radiant as the moon rising from the fathomless sea.

Oblivious to the celestial display, Chen Ping’an was consumed by the task, focused on etching the eight words upon the green parchment: “What is the task? The command of Master Yu.”

He sat cross-legged, lost in the moment.

Bent over the ancient page, brush in hand, he appeared neither martial artist nor swordsman, but a scholar, patiently copying texts within the silence of the mountains.

Whether this talisman succeeds or fails, we shall speak of it after the drawing.

Like the earth-shattering blows of mountain-shaking boxing, skill is only born after a million repetitions.

To stand idly by today, Chen Ping’an felt, would be a betrayal of the boxing, the swords, the wine he had tasted, and the people he had…
Please provide the content you want me to rewrite in a fantasy style. I need the text you want me to work with. For example, you could give me something like:

“He was very intelligent, everyone knew.”

And I would transform it into something like:

“His mind was a forge, burning with insights known to all the wise folk of the land.”