Chen Ping’an stepped onto a jade platform, the heart of a vast lake rippling beneath a canopy of rising mist. Hundreds of pavilions, delicate as dragonflies’ wings, dotted the watery expanse. Stone paths, slick with spray, wove between them, each graced with a handful of small boats bobbing at their moorings, eager for passage across the shimmering expanse.

All around the platform, maidens in verdant silks, fair of face and bright of eye, stood ready to guide those who sought lodging.

Chen Ping’an’s chosen sanctuary was the Yuyinshan Tower. The vendor of the jade sigil, granting access to the floating city, had suggested a shared dwelling, a three-tiered structure offering a more agreeable price. But Chen Ping’an, after a moment of contemplation, had declined.

He knew it was common practice – a swallowed-treasure ferry indeed! Yet, a struggling cultivator, accustomed to pinching copper coins, who yet chose solitary confinement over shared quarters, seemed…odd. To share was to forge bonds, to foster fleeting acquaintance, and who knew when such a nod might blossom into a fateful boon?

Guided by the soft hand of a Bishui Lake maiden, Chen Ping’an descended from the platform and embarked upon a winding path that snaked across the water. Above, the immortal orders swooped and soared – swords cleaving the air, robes billowing against the wind. Soon, a vision in silk, light as a feather, chased after him. Her voice was tinkling like a little bell.

Chen Ping’an was no stranger to burdens. From his days as a humble apprentice in Longyao, to his escorting Li Baoping and Li Huai to the Great Sui Academy, he had borne his share of worry and care. But such troubles were honest and straightforward. It was the ephemeral shadow of worry that truly troubled him, like the Yin-Yang Warlock called Lu Tai. Not that Chen Ping’an felt the heavy sense of foreboding like he did in the presence of Fu Nanhua or Cui Feng, but when the nature of a thing remained shrouded in mist, Chen Ping’an preferred to err on the side of “not bad.”

How many dreams of ascending into the Liu family in the Ape Ruo Mansion?

The pronouncement of the name “Jingjian Pavilion next to the Ape Ribs Mansion” was enough for Chen Ping’an to discern the weight of the Liu family in Aizhou. Without hesitation, he set about drawing a clear line between himself and Liu Youzhou. Perhaps, deep down, Chen Ping’an longed for the solitude of Lizhu Cave Heaven, a place etched forever in his heart.

The sorcerer, Lu Tai, walked shoulder to shoulder with Chen Ping’an. He tipped his head, fixing Chen Ping’an with a saccharine smile. “Are you angered? Surely a man of your stature wouldn’t be so… frugal? Generosity is a virtue, and a spacious heart gathers ample blessings. A Confucian scholar is not a weapon, surely you’ve heard this?”

Chen Ping’an halted, turning to face the singular character. “Why do you plague me? Your stroke of good fortune has naught to do with me…”

Lu Tai’s smile widened. “Hasn’t it? I used the Grain Rain coins *you* gave me. Therefore, your hand is paramount. You are the key piece in this… game.”

This time, Chen Ping’an cut him off. “It was not given, but *lent*.”

Lu Tai’s slender brows, arching like a woman’s, furrowed. After a moment’s contemplation, he asked, in a voice as soft as falling rain, “Talking about money breeds ill-feeling. Why not engage in a bit of commerce? I shall exchange for you even more Grain Rain coin.”

Chen Ping’an simply shook his head.
“Settle the debt later,” the youth declared with a troubled sigh.

Lu Tai, wearing a mask of wounded innocence, pleaded, “Why do you shrink away from me so? Do you perceive me as some ravenous beast? Imagine it, upon the path of cultivation, to journey together, to witness rivers carved through stone and mountains scraping the heavens. What could be more wondrous?”

Chen Ping’an felt a dull ache behind his eyes.

It appeared a truth existed in the world beyond the grasp of reason, one for which he possessed no vocabulary of explanation.

They walked on in strained silence. Breaking it, Lu Tai gazed about, his eyes alight with arcane knowledge. “This hidden valley was once a fragment of Chuanhua Cave, a smaller domain ruled by a female immortal obsessed with gathering the purest spring waters of the realm. Alas, her ascension failed. Not only did she perish, but the very Heavens turned against her, shattering Chuanhua Cave. Most of it vanished into the void, but this Azure Lake remained, renowned for these three hundred leagues. Its waters are a confluence of her most prized springs. Should one discern the subtle veins where the spring’s essence pulses, one would possess the most exquisite water for the brewing of tea.”

Chen Ping’an remained silent. After traveling another four or five *li*, they came upon the three-tiered Yuyin Mountain Tower. A covered corridor encircled each level, guarded by railings of polished white jade. Nearby, a small ferry nestled against the shore, two skiffs bobbing gently at their moorings. Not far from the tower, a vast field of lotus bloomed, and a maiden in a straw hat, her voice a sweet and simple melody, punted her little boat amongst the blossoms.

Chen Ping’an halted. “I’ve arrived.”

Lutai nodded blithely.

Seeing the charade, Chen Ping’an said plainly, “I won’t be inviting you in today. Should time allow, I will seek you out. Which dwelling do you occupy?”

Lu Tai pointed directly at Yuyin Mountain Tower.

Chen Ping’an forced a humorless smile. “Young Master Lu, jest not.”

Lu Tai held up his hands, as if offering a gift to the heavens. “But moments ago, there at the lakeside pavilion, driven by dire straits, and recalling our amicable bond, I presumed upon your hospitality and… well, sold my residence. To an exceedingly wealthy deity.”

Chen Ping’an’s brow furrowed, darkening his face.

Lu Tai rushed to reassure him. “Fear not, I shall never intrude upon your practice. Simply lend me one of the small boats. I will slumber there each night and never set foot within Yuyin Mountain Tower unless dire need dictates. I bring my own fruit; concern yourself not with my sustenance. We cultivators are not enemies in life! You mustn’t feel burdened. Hardship is a path to enlightenment…”

Chen Ping’an’s expression turned thunderous.

How could such a foolish and brazen creature exist?

Suddenly, Lu Tai’s face broke into a wide grin. “Ah, very well, I confess. While the official purpose of this journey to Tongyezhou was to claim the ‘Fenghou’ auspicious omen, I also foresaw that the true prize lies not in treasure, but in the five words: ‘Gazing at the Dao from afar.’ Which is to say, to walk alongside you, and through observing your spirit – whether ascendant or beset – to sharpen the edge of my own heart. It is a process akin to using stones from other mountains to polish jade…”

He faltered, then chuckled, amending his words. “No, wait, I mean to use the jade from other mountains to strike stone!”

Chen Ping’an disregarded the flippant remark. But upon hearing the phrase “Gazing at the Dao,” a wave of worry and relief washed over him.

If Lu Tai spoke true, then this was no orchestrated plot against him. Yet the notion of an unpredictable entity, with unknown goals, intruding upon his search for the Daoist temple and the ancient hermit… what manner of complication was this?

Lu Tai hesitated, as if steeling himself for a momentous decision, then grit his teeth.
His teeth gnashed, and Lu Tai declared, “Your coddling stifles my chance to Ascend the Dao and Claim my Marquisate! I offer honest augury, within limits. Gods of the Upper Five Realms are forbidden! To meddle with them invites ruin a thousandfold worse than storm-tossed seas! Such serenity here is rare, don’t squander it!”

As if fearing disbelief, Lu Tai fixed Chen Ping’an with a piercing gaze. “I speak true!”

Chen Ping’an sighed, waving away the offer. “You may reside in Yuyin Tower, but henceforward, our paths diverge. Our wells shall not mingle with the river.”

A strange look settled upon Lu Tai’s face as he watched Chen Ping’an’s retreating back. After a moment of stunned silence, relief washed over him. He hastened to follow.

And so it was that Chen Ping’an took the first floor, while Lu Tai claimed the third, separated by an unseen second story, a void of unspoken understanding.

Sprawled upon the third floor bed, laziness and contentment painted upon his face, Lu Tai chuckled. “Ah, the sacred distance between man and woman!”

Since fate had delivered him here, he would find peace within it.

Chen Ping’an no longer gave thought to the Yin-Yang scion wreathed in mist and shadows. Save for the longsword she carried and the sword gourd at her hip, she possessed naught else, a picture of singular ease, marred only by the inexplicable weight of the forsaken realm.

Seated by the window, Chen Ping’an drew forth a stack of tomes from his fifteenth square object. He laid out elegantly bound volumes of “Shan Hai Zhi”, revered in both Middle Earth Shenzhou and Tongyezhou, along with a few travel logs gleaned from the Colorful Country. Beside them he placed precious bamboo slips from Zhuhai Cave’s Tianqing Sacred Mountain, intending to carve words into them as he read.

Each dawn, he practiced the Shanshan Fist. Each afternoon, he honed his swordsmanship. Each evening, he delved into books, learning the graceful tongues of the two continents.

A marvel, truly. A shattered secret realm, yet it held a semblance of sun and moon, a distinction between day and night. Was this the artifice of immortals, or the curious law born from the fractured blessings of a fallen cave heaven?

In his boxing practice, Chen Ping’an moved through the postures, circling the corridors of Yuyin Tower.

A cool breeze carried the scent of lotus blossoms. Intermingled with the faint song of a lotus-picking maiden, the young man in white moved with quiet grace.

In the afternoons, his sword practice remained confined to the spacious first floor. He forbore venturing onto the outer corridors, choosing instead to hold a virtual sword style.

For carrying “Sword Qi”, the longsword itself, tempered the soul, a form of practice in itself. Even in slumber, Chen Ping’an remained armed, choosing to sleep upon his side.

The sword-raising gourd hung high before his bed. Now that he drank from it less often, it needed not always be slung at his waist. He felt an ever-strengthening bond with the two small ancients of the first and fifteenth days. As they traveled the leagues together, this bond deepened, their communion flowed ever more smoothly, as if the intelligences of the two natal flying swords were growing and maturing with each passing day.

When Chen Ping’an closed his eyes, he tasked them with guarding the dwelling. Chu Yi did not agree, but neither did she refuse. The gentler Fifteen welcomed the duty with joyful anticipation.
A knowing silence hung within the gourd that cradled blades, a nod unspoken.

As the twilight deepened, Chen Ping’an retrieved the ancient “Original Book of Alchemy” from his hidden sanctum of Fangcunwu. Reaching the fourth rank of martial prowess, he found himself able to craft two new talismans. The first was the “Shanhe Sword Imperator,” a charm of dominion over mountain and river, wielding the sword of command. The book spoke of “shan,” or mountain, as a trinity, but left the specifics veiled in mystery. The description of “he,” the river, was equally cryptic, hinting at forgotten gods who once governed the waterways, dedicated to the banishment of evil and the consumption of malevolent spirits.

Sword Edicts were a type of amulet, potent and precise. The second talisman, the “Rain Summoner,” promised a sky choked with darkness and deluge. A relic of altar rituals, more suited to the hands of Taoist masters, it held little allure for Chen Ping’an.

These new talismans, however, possessed a certain refinement compared to his earlier works—the Yang Qi lamp, the Dust Ward, and the Pagoda Demon-Suppressor. Chen Ping’an, ever the seeker, was particularly drawn to the Sword Imperator. Using common yellow paper, he painstakingly inscribed the sigils, though the act felt somehow incomplete. Since attaining the Chain Qi realm, his spirit had grown stronger, often registering the faintest echo of dripping water within the depths of his Heart Lake.

He perceived that the Sword Edict lacked the necessary magical intent, a potency yet unawakened. But its full power remained unknown, for Lu Tai, the scholar who dwelt above, shielded him from proper testing.

The days bled into a decade, punctuated by the faintest sound of footsteps above. Yet Lu Tai never descended, never disturbed Chen Ping’an’s quiet pursuit.

A wave of ease washed over him. A fate that sought you out, unbidden, was not necessarily ill-omened. Nor should one desperately chase after fortune.

That night, Chen Ping’an had just finished crafting his second Sword Imperator, yet dissatisfaction gnawed at him still.

Like imperfect porcelain, an expert could discern the subtle flaws even in pieces that appeared identical to the untrained eye.

Could it be, he wondered, that true mastery demanded a journey to ancient battlefields? A confrontation with the heroic ghosts and vengeful spirits that lingered there? Only then could he perfect the fourth level of martial arts and truly command the Sword Edict?

Chen Ping’an frowned, lost in contemplation, when he heard a sound. He looked up to see Lu Tai descend the stairs, stopping to tap upon the wall, like a courteous guest at a door. Then, with a smile, he seated himself upon the steps, but did not venture into the lower floor.

Chen Ping’an reached for the “Shan Hai Zhi,” a book of lore, to conceal the Sword Imperator, but Lu Tai chuckled. “What are you about? It’s just a forgotten ancient talisman, and a poorly wrought one at that! The only thing it possesses is a raw purity, and a mere glance sent a pang of pain through my very being. It still aches now.”

“What is the remedy?” Chen Ping’an inquired.

Lu Tai gestured toward the sword talisman on the table. “This amulet is truly ancient. I wager not another soul in the Lu family, least of all someone as young as myself, would recognize its origins. What pains me is that *you*, a warrior of such refined skill, are staining your hands with such a mangled and unrefined piece of antiquity.”

Chen Ping’an could not help but interject, “Is it forbidden for a martial artist to draw talismans?”

Lu Tai’s lips curled ever so slightly. “Oh? Is that so? Then the records in my family’s vast library must be incorrect, or perhaps my own vision is dimmed.”

Yet Lu Tai did not concede.
The old ferryman, Lu Tai, leaned back, his gaze piercing Chen Ping’an like a master diviner reading faded tea leaves. “Firstly,” he began, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder, “your hand dances across the parchment as if possessed by the pen itself, not guided by the wisdom dwelling within the very symbols you inscribe. You glimpse the destination, perhaps, but stumble blindly along a twisted, treacherous path to reach it. Thus, your talismans flicker with power, yet are as fragile as spun glass.”

He paused, letting his words sink in like stones dropped into a still pond. “And secondly,” he continued, a glint in his eye, “this Rejuvenation Parchment you wield… it is a resource squandered upon barren soil. Not a heretic are you, young master, but a prodigal son carelessly wielding a king’s scepter! Should the true Masters of Talisman behold this, they would surely invoke the Celestial Punishment upon your head for such wanton waste.”

Chen Ping’an frowned, the ferryman’s words a labyrinth of hidden meanings. He sought to unravel the truth from the taunt, the guidance from the gibe, but the task felt akin to capturing smoke with bare hands.

“May I,” Lu Tai asked, his voice deceptively mild, “examine that talisman more closely? I saw the material in passing, but I was not sure.”

Hesitantly, Chen Ping’an retrieved the Sword Imperative talisman, offering it to Lu Tai back-first, a subtle act of caution.

Lu Tai chuckled, unperturbed by the veiled distrust. He scrutinized the parchment, his eyes gleaming with a scholar’s hunger. “Indeed,” he murmured at last, nodding. “Rejuvenation Parchment, of the highest grade. Infused properly, it could be used again and again. The power of a talisman waxes and wanes with the quality of its foundation. True masterpieces, sought not for brute force but for enduring grace, are born from such scrolls. As for you, young master, a phrase from a bygone master comes to mind: ‘Jade Pillars polished to gravel.’ You possess the form, but lack the enduring strength. A waste, is it not? Chen Ping’an, does this not pain your soul? But fear not, your coffers overflow. You shall not feel this slight expenditure.”

Chen Ping’an glared at the riverman, then back at the rejected talisman resting upon the table.

Lu Tai leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, his eyes filled with mocking amusement. “Did this… benefactor, who gifted you these treasures and guided your hand, not impress upon you the virtue of thrift? Surely, even a fledgling talisman crafter such as yourself should strive to conserve such precious resources.”

Chen Ping’an let out a heavy sigh, frustration etched upon his face.

Lu Tai’s smirk widened. “A seventh realm martial artist, steeped in true Qi, could likely craft a potent talisman with a single breath. But alas, such warriors have already scaled the mountain of power. Their minds, tempered in battle, have no room for such delicate arts. You are fortunate indeed. Only through such rare materials and tools could you produce even a passable result. Otherwise, each stroke of your brush would be akin to setting ablaze a mountain of silver!”

Chen Ping’an shot the ferryman a venomous look.

Lu Tai simply threw back his head and laughed. “You are an anomaly, Chen Ping’an. A warrior who dabbles in talismans, yearning for both the blade and the brush! Should you not dedicate yourself fully to one path? Are you not afraid that you may become neither a skilled warrior nor a masterful talisman crafter? A donkey chasing two carrots, destined to catch neither!”

Chen Ping’an, ignoring the barbed words, turned away and reached for his copy of *Shan Hai Zhi*.

Lu Tai, with a quiet grace, rose and returned to his chambers on the third floor. He would soon depart the Yuyin Mountain Tower, journeying forth to explore the shimmering expanse of Bishui Lake, and perhaps discover ancient treasures hidden within its depths.
The Whale of Sunken Riches it is called, for it has, over eons uncounted, grown monstrously large and filled its belly with the lost spoils of the deep. Wrecks of ships that plumb the ocean’s blackest heart, and even the great ferries which once dared cross continental divides, now lie within its gut. Thus, treasures untold, strange and wondrous, must surely dwell within the maw of such a beast. Some whisper even of golden remains, the last vestiges of fallen heroes, swallowed whole after their final, valiant stand.

One afternoon, young Chen Ping’an found Master Lu Tai meticulously unpacking a set of tea implements, drawn from some unseen fold of space. With arcane skill, he coaxed the very essence from Bishui Lake’s waters, and began to brew tea upon the first-floor veranda. The scent was enchanting.

Chen Ping’an, though tempted, declined a cup, choosing instead to hone his swordsmanship within the house.

Thereafter, Lu Tai would brew tea each day, alone, savouring its taste and the view, often remaining seated for the entirety of the afternoon.

One day, near midday, as Chen Ping’an prepared to conclude his sword practice, he saw Lu Tai rowing towards them from afar.

He tied the boat, leaped onto the veranda, and stood before Chen Ping’an, who was now engaged in a slow, deliberate boxing form. With a flourish, Lu Tai held aloft a stack of boxes, brimming with rouge powder. It was a display, meant, no doubt, to flaunt his recent acquisitions. Chen Ping’an recalled a single visit to the trading posts built on platforms near Bishui Lake’s center – nests of merchants peddling all manner of goods. He found them vapid and the prices, even steeper than the infamous Upside-Down Mountain. The desire to purchase anything there swiftly vanished.

With a flick of his ankle, Lu Tai gracefully jumped back, settled onto the white jade railing, and opened one of the rouge boxes. He withdrew a small bronze mirror, pursed his lips thoughtfully, then, with a delicate finger, traced along his finely arched eyebrows. Each movement was precise, almost ritualistic.

Chen Ping’an continued his boxing, pacing along the veranda, never once glancing in Lu Tai’s direction.

As Chen Ping’an passed by again, Lu Tai, still perched on the railing, the small bronze mirror held aloft, paused in his beautification. “Does it please your eye?” he asked, a hint of mischief in his voice.

Chen Ping’an offered no acknowledgement, neither glance nor word.

And so it continued, each time Chen Ping’an passed, Lu Tai posed a new question.

“Chen Ping’an, do you not think the blush is perhaps a touch too bold?”

“Should the line of the brow be rendered more delicately here?”

“With a pin from Hualuzhai, the rouge from this box indeed seems to apply with greater symmetry. What is your opinion?”

Chen Ping’an remained silent, adhering to his training schedule without deviation.

Finally, on one pass, Lu Tai simply placed the mirror, the hairpin, and the rouge boxes on the railing beside him. He turned his gaze towards the broad lotus leaves floating on the lake, his eyes soft, his makeup meticulous.

Chen Ping’an was about to return to the house when Lu Tai, without breaking his gaze, spoke again, “Do you find a man such as myself… ridiculous? Perhaps even a little…repugnant?”

Chen Ping’an stopped. He turned, walked towards Lu Tai until only five or six paces separated them. Facing the lake, his back to the veranda, he also sat upon the railing.

Lu Tai, unanswered, remained unperturbed. He idly picked up a box of rouge, deemed its quality lacking, its name unworthy, and without a second thought, tossed it into the Bishui Lake.

Suddenly, Chen Ping’an spoke.
“What price do you ask for this painted blush?”

Lu Tai, startled, turned and sat beside him, facing the serene lake. “Not dear, friend. Each box of ‘Summer Kiss’ is valued at a Little Summer’s worth of coin. ‘Tis a new shade this year, much sought after. Even the fairest Elves of the Middle Kingdom clamor for it. Alas, ’tis likely a trick of the grease-palmed merchants, swindling them all together.”

Chen Ping’an sighed, “One Little Summer… a hundred Snowflakes, a hundred thousand silver taels. I ponder…”

He paused, then whispered, “A good heart is worth more than a thousand gold pieces. To buy it might not be dear, but some would be stunned by the price and refuse to believe such a wondrous rouge exists, even if struck down for their disbelief.”

Lu Tai, perplexed, simply breathed, “Huh?”

After a silence, Chen Ping’an, clad in robes white as winter’s first fall, placed his hands upon his knees and recounted a tale of the Long Kiln, a story from his distant home of a certain effeminate man.

He spoke solemnly, without drama, detailing the tragic life that met its end.

He, himself, was surrounded by a vibrant sash, shimmering with an ethereal light, a god even fairer than the loveliest mortal woman.

“This man, a common villager, slight of frame and even bearing a wisp of beard, cherished fine silks and adorned himself each morn until he shone with cleanliness and grace. After toiling hard, he would sweep a hand like the most delicate orchid, never once faltering in his practiced elegance.

“He knew nothing of Feixia’s art, nor Peach Blossom’s charm, yet he coveted the various rouge powders, those meant for lips, cheeks, and thrushes.

Chen Ping’an gazed into the distance, a melancholy settling upon him. “In the end, I considered him odd. A man who so wished to appear as a woman. But on the day he ended his own life with shards of porcelain, just before covering himself with his bedding, he begged a boon of me, which I refused. A refusal I still regret. Had I known, I would have surely granted it.”

“He spoke at length that day, and in his final smile, he declared his intent to be a woman no longer. He desired that I keep his box of rouge, lest he be tempted to return to it.”

“I refused such a request then. I would refuse it even now, in death. He pleaded twice, then ceased his persuasion.”

“After his passing, none saw the box of rouge, nor did any truly care.”

Chen Ping’an turned, regarding the beautiful Lu Tai, whose visage rivaled any mortal woman’s beauty. “Why would you discard such a costly blush?”

Lu Tai tilted his head, and the exquisite bead hairpin adorning his hair tipped with it. He smiled. “Why not gift it to you, friend? When you return to your home, take this painted blush to the man’s grave and tell him that such beauty exists in this world. Tell him to be a girl in his next life, to apply it with abandon upon her face, even by the pound, never again to worry for its price…”

Chen Ping’an turned away, gazing into the distance, shaking his head. “I cannot even find his grave. Why would I show him this, or tell him such things?”

The boy in white, with eyes pure and bright, clasped his hands behind his head, saying nothing, nor offering any further word.