Chapter 531: The Fist of a Mountain Summit Realm Is a Bit Heavy
A single green-clad figure traveled upstream along the great river that flowed into the sea. He did not deliberately walk along the riverbank, listening to the water's sounds and watching its surface, for he needed to carefully investigate the local customs, the various mountain peaks, and the numerous mountain and river deities along the way. This often required detours, so his pace was not particularly fast.
Whenever he set his mind to accomplishing something, he had always been like this—expending both mental and physical effort without considering it hardship. Those around him could feel at ease and rest assured. If they were relatively young, they might even be unaware of the good fortune they enjoyed, taking it for granted.
Perhaps because he had grown up at the bottom tier of the marketplace, Chen Ping'an possessed extraordinary patience and resilience.
During his journey, Chen Ping'an encountered a mountain and river sight that prompted deep reflection.
Once, Chen Ping'an lodged for the night at an inn near a prefectural City God temple in the Fugu Kingdom. At midnight, bursts of clamorous gongs and drums, audible only to cultivators and ghostly beings, rang out. The misty barrier of the netherworld suddenly shattered. Under the guidance of various ghostly officials and functionaries, the specters near the prefectural city entered in an orderly fashion, one after another. This was the bi-monthly City God's night court session, known as the City God's Night Trial, during which the City God would judge the merits and demerits of the ghosts and spectral beings within his jurisdiction.
Chen Ping'an quietly left the inn and arrived outside the prefectural City God temple. The two Day and Night Wandering Spirits, who served as gate gods to prevent ghosts from causing a commotion, fixed their gaze on him and immediately bowed in salute. They did not address him with titles like "Immortal Master" but respectfully called him "Master."
Chen Ping'an returned the gesture with a cupped-fist salute and requested permission to observe the City God's night trial.
One of the Day Wandering Spirits immediately turned and went to report. After obtaining the joint permission of the City God, the Civil Judge, and the three main and deputy officials of the Yin Yang Office, the spirit immediately invited this itinerant cultivator inside.
In the main hall, the City God sat high behind a large desk, while the Civil and Martial Judges and the various department heads of the City God temple stood in orderly succession. They judged numerous ghosts and spectral beings. If any objected and were not among the utterly wicked or those whose merits and demerits were clearly defined, they were permitted to appeal to the neighboring Grand Mountain Lord or Water God Manor Lord, who would then dispatch netherworld officials to retry the case.
Chen Ping'an did not sit on the chair that the City God had specifically ordered to be brought out. Instead, he placed the chair behind a vermilion lacquered pillar, sat down there, and kept his eyes closed, resting his mind.
When a particular ghostly being loudly cried out in protest, refusing to accept the verdict, Chen Ping'an opened his eyes, pricked up his ears, and listened to the prefectural City God's rebuttal.
It turned out that the ghostly being, during his lifetime, had been a Confucian child student without any formal scholarly title. He had once accidentally unearthed a large pile of bones outside the prefectural city, retrieved them one by one, and had them properly buried. The ghostly being considered this a great merit and questioned why the various officials of the City God temple turned a blind eye to it, refusing to offset his own sins. He deemed this a great injustice. He insisted on appealing to the Water God Manor Lord. If the Manor Lord ignored his case, covering up for fellow officials, he would be willing to forfeit his chance at reincarnation and would beat the grievance drum, appealing all the way to the Central Mountain Lord of the Fugu Kingdom, demanding that the Mountain Lord administer justice and severely punish the City God for dereliction of duty.
The City God roared in anger: "City Gods throughout the world investigate the deeds of living beings in the yang realm. For your actions during life, remember: intentional good deeds, even if good, are not rewarded; unintentional evil deeds, even if evil, are not punished! Go ahead and beat that grievance drum until it breaks at the Manor Lord or the Mountain Lord's office—they will still follow tonight's verdict. There is absolutely no chance of a revised judgment!"
The ghostly being slumped to the ground in dejection.
At the end of the Yin hour, just before the rooster's crow.
The City God's night trial came to a temporary close.
Chen Ping'an then stood up, walked around the pillar, and stood below the hall. He expressed his thanks to the City God, whose official robe and insignia patch were only in black and white, and then took his leave.
The City God personally saw him to the main gate of the temple.
At the gate, the City God hesitated for a moment, then stopped and asked, "Master, did you, within the territory of Qujiang Prefecture, secretly cut a road down the mountain for the conscripted laborers who were felling imperial timber deep in the rugged mountains?"
Chen Ping'an nodded. "I did indeed do that. Seeing the rugged path and rampant miasma, I couldn't bear it."
The City God sighed. "Two of those men were supposed to die accidentally during the timber transport—one crushed alive by a huge log, the other falling off a cliff. By doing so, Master saved two lives. So, does Master know whether this act accumulated more merit or entangled you in more karmic consequences?"
Chen Ping'an smiled. "Since you, City God, bring it up, I imagine it's the latter."
The City God looked at this cultivator for a long moment, then laughed. "Master is Master. I think I understand a little now."
Deities observe the human world, looking not only at actions but more importantly at the heart.
The City God sighed again. "The actions of mortals are like water gathering into a river. The river can irrigate fields and benefit countless people, but it can also overflow and cause disaster. In an instant, a breach and flood might drown countless souls, and merit and fault switch places so quickly that people are caught off guard. Since Master has chosen to cultivate in the mountains, you must be extra careful. Of course, I am low in rank and my words carry little weight. I have no broad vision, and I hope Master will not let these words disturb your state of mind, or my sin would be great indeed."
Chen Ping'an thanked him again.
Chen Ping'an returned to the inn, lit the lamp on the table, and began to copy a page from a Buddhist sutra—a single page comprising an entire scripture—to calm his mind.
After putting down his brush, he put away the paper, brush, ink, and that page of scripture.
The sky was just beginning to lighten.
Chen Ping'an blew out the lamp and stood by the window.
The rules of the Great Dao for mountain and river deities, if examined closely, would be found to deviate quite a bit from the rules established by Confucianism. They did not absolutely conform to what the secular world considered good, evil, right, or wrong.
Gradually ascending higher in the mountains, becoming more and more like a true cultivator—this was the path he had to walk.
It was like everyone growing up.
Chen Ping'an was actually in quite a good mood.
Having traveled over so many mountains and rivers, accumulated so many items, large and small, his belongings were abundant.
The future of the Fallen Mountain Sect filled Chen Ping'an with anticipation.
A single flower blooming alone does not make spring; only when the whole garden is in full bloom does Chen Ping'an see the beautiful scene he most hopes for.
Chen Ping'an left the prefectural city and continued his journey through the territory of the Fugu Kingdom.
Without his jade hairpin, without his bamboo hat, he carried only his bamboo box and a green bamboo staff, wandering alone.
One day, at a riverside shrine, Chen Ping'an entered to offer incense. In the rear hall of the shrine, he saw a thousand-year-old cypress tree. It would take seven or eight strong men with arms linked to encircle it, and its shadow covered half the square. Beside the tree stood a stone stele, on which was inscribed an essay by a literary giant of the Fugu Kingdom, commissioned by the local government at great expense to hire a famous engraver. Though it was a relatively new stele, it was full of ancient charm. After reading the inscription, Chen Ping'an learned that this ancient cypress had survived numerous wars and turbulent times, standing tall through the ages despite the vicissitudes.
Chen Ping'an liked the content of the stele's inscription, so he took off his green bamboo book box, took out paper, brush, ink, and inkstone, used the book box as a desk, and began to copy the inscription word by word.
The inscription was lengthy, and Chen Ping'an copied it meticulously, so absorbed that night fell before he knew it.
The shrine had a curfew, but instead of chasing him away, the shrine keeper, together with a young acolyte, brought out two narrow benches and placed them beside the ancient stele. They lit lamps to help illuminate the stele in the temple. The lamps were covered with plain silk shades, elegant yet delicate, to prevent the wind from blowing them out.
When Chen Ping'an saw this, he quickly stopped writing, stood up, and bowed in thanks.
The old shrine keeper smiled and waved his hand, indicating that the guest should continue copying the inscription. He also said that the shrine had rooms for visitors to stay overnight.
The old man instructed the acolyte, who then took a key and crouched nearby, dozing off.
The acolyte was terribly bored, so he watched the man copying the inscription from behind. The calligraphy? Neither good nor bad—just careful and neat, nothing really outstanding. He had visited other shrines before, and compared to his own, those were far more impressive. They had many wall inscriptions by literati, each more elegant than the last. One particular literary giant, drunk and holding a cup, had written a whole wall in cursive script that truly stirred the soul. Although it was cursive on a wall, it was hailed by the Fugu Kingdom's literary circles as a "Picture of an Old Dragon Spreading Rain."
This young green-clad Confucian scholar's calligraphy? Not that great. Very average.
After Chen Ping'an finished copying the inscription, he tidied up his bamboo book box, put it back on his back, and went to the guest lodging. As for how to express his gratitude, after much thought, the only thing he could do was to donate more incense money when he left the next day.
The acolyte yawned continuously, feeling as if drowsy bugs had crawled into his ears. Still, he didn't blame the guest for being too slow. The shrine had many stone carvings and wall inscriptions, so it was common for scholars to come here to copy texts. The acolyte was young, but he was experienced. The shrine keeper grandfather was also eccentric, always treating scholars with preferential respect. The acolyte had heard from a few senior brothers that in the old shrine keeper's life, he had received countless scholars traveling to the capital for examinations or touring the landscape. Unfortunately, the shrine's feng shui was mediocre. After so many years, not a single scholar had passed the imperial exams and become a high official of the Fugu Kingdom. Other shrines—which one hadn't produced one or two scholar-officials who, after smooth official careers, brought glory to their shrines?
Chen Ping'an walked into the corridor, stopped, and looked back.
The thousand-year-old cypress's leaves rustled in the wind.
Chen Ping'an smiled and murmured, "The branches stir in the clear wind and bright moon, as if a sword immortal's sword were flashing."
The acolyte was taken aback. "A fine poem, young sir. Where did you see it in a book?"
Chen Ping'an smiled. "I've forgotten the source."
The acolyte said regretfully, "If only you had composed it yourself, young sir. Then I would ask the shrine keeper grandfather to find someone with good handwriting to serve as a ghostwriter, inscribe it on the wall, and increase our shrine's incense offerings."
Chen Ping'an looked at the ancient cypress and shook his head.
The acolyte thought that this traveling scholar from afar meant that the poem was not his own composition, so he said softly, "Come on, young sir. Let me take you to the guest house so you can rest early. The guest house is small, but it's clean. Don't worry, I take care of it. I guarantee not a single ant or insect."
Having said this, the acolyte added in a low voice, "If you do happen to run into any, please don't tell the shrine keeper grandfather."
Chen Ping'an smiled and nodded, humming in agreement, and followed the acolyte to the guest house.
Over by the ancient cypress, the leaves rustled.
The ancient tree spirit, about to take on human form, nearly wept in frustration. It wanted to grab the acolyte's wooden head and give it a few good knocks to wake him up.
You foolish little child, why are you so thick-headed? Don't you know what a great blessing the shrine has just missed?
If only that sword immortal had inscribed that poem on the shrine's wall—then it could have achieved a spiritual leap! As for the shrine's incense offerings and feng shui, they would have risen immeasurably.
Ten crimson-robed high ministers in the Fugu Kingdom's court—could they compare to a casual piece of this man's calligraphy?
But since that immortal had just shaken its head at it, it dared not say anything rash, lest it offend the passing immortal and make things worse.
Late that night, Chen Ping'an was as usual practicing the Six Steps Walking Pile, simultaneously incorporating the Sword Furnace Pile and the Thousand Autumns Sleeping Pile.
Half-asleep, half-awake, his fist intent flowed through his entire body.
Within the small cosmos of his own body, another kind of cultivation was taking place.
Cultivating the body and cultivating the mind, neither neglected.
Chen Ping'an sensed a slight stirring in his heart, but he did not open his eyes. He continued to immerse himself in his state and continued his walking stance.
That night, the old shrine keeper dreamed of a man in green clothes, carrying an ancient cypress branch on his back like a wandering knight with a sword. The man revealed his identity: he was the incarnation of the General's Cypress in the rear hall of the shrine. He begged the shrine keeper to obtain a piece of calligraphy from the green-clad guest. He must, at all costs, implore that passing immortal master, who was lodging at the shrine, to complete this task before continuing his journey. The man in green spoke earnestly, almost in tears.
When the old shrine keeper woke with a start, he sighed. He was reluctant to force the issue and found it difficult to ask for calligraphy from that young scholar who was a true immortal yet unrecognized. But after thinking it over for a long time, recalling the thousand years the ancient cypress had accompanied the shrine, and the many verified accounts of its protective blessings throughout history, the old man still put on his boots and clothes and left his room in the darkness. However, when he reached the guest house, he lingered for a long time without knocking. Instead, he went over to the ancient cypress and said softly, "Cypress Immortal, I'm sorry. I did not follow your words and ask him. The actions of immortals are difficult to fathom. Since he was unwilling to leave a piece of writing of his own accord, it must be that our shrine lacks sufficient merit and our fortune is not yet complete."
The ancient cypress remained silent, with only a sigh. It did not insist that the shrine keeper change his mind.
It was only at this moment that Chen Ping'an stopped his fist stance and smiled knowingly.
Chen Ping'an had always believed that whether a place's feng shui was proper or not ultimately rested with people, not with spirits or immortals. There had to be a proper order of precedence. The common saying, "As long as the green hills remain, there is no worry about firewood," reflected this.
The so-called "green hills" still reside in the human heart.
Thus, the green-clad figure drifted like the wind through the shrine and in an instant appeared beside the shrine keeper. He smiled and said, "It's no trouble at all."
The ancient cypress spirit, which had cultivated for a thousand years without yet achieving a complete human form, appeared in the guise of a man in green clothes. His body was still ethereal and indistinct. He knelt and kowtowed. "Thank you, Immortal, for your grace."
The old shrine keeper was also somewhat panicked and was about to bow in thanks.
But Chen Ping'an calmly accepted the kneeling bow of the ancient tree spirit.
However, when the old man tried to bow, Chen Ping'an reached out and stopped him.
This was not because the wood spirit was non-human and therefore inferior.
Rather, it was because on the Great Dao, when receiving the grace of heaven and earth, what the grass and tree spirits bow to is the hard-won opportunity granted by the Dao.
After witnessing the City God's night trial earlier, Chen Ping'an felt as if the clouds had parted to reveal the bright moon. He had completely understood one thing.
For a cultivator seeking clarity of mind, they must first rectify the source and purify the origin.
Chen Ping'an asked the old shrine keeper and the ancient cypress spirit to wait for a moment. He went to the guest house, took out a piece of golden talisman paper, sat upright, and after concentrating his mind for a moment, he wrote the poem on it stroke by stroke. Then he put his bamboo box back on his back, returned to the ancient cypress in the rear hall, and handed the paper to the man in green. He said seriously, "Bury this talisman at the point where the tree roots connect with the mountain's root veins. Refine it slowly over time. On the Great Dao, blessings and calamities are uncertain; they all reside in your own heart. Cultivate well from now on, and may good deeds beget good deeds."
The man in green held the golden talisman with both hands and bowed again in thanks, weeping with gratitude, his voice choked with tears.
Chen Ping'an then decided not to stay overnight at the shrine any longer. He took his leave and departed. The moon was bright and the stars were sparse; the bright moon rested on his shoulder and also on his bamboo box.
He looked back and saw the old shrine keeper and the man in green still there, seeing him off. Chen Ping'an waved his hand and continued his journey.
Well, that saved him some incense money.
Not a loss.
Chen Ping'an smiled and continued on his way. In the deep silence of the night, he moved slowly with the Six Steps Walking Pile.
No distinction between day and night, no taboos.
Such is the way of the world. As for opportunities, each has its own destiny.
Meeting him, Chen Ping'an, at this shrine might have become a so-called "blessing."
But at other shrines, even if their feng shui was completely different from this one, meeting other cultivators with different temperaments and affinities might also be just the right opportunity. Meeting him, Chen Ping'an, might instead result in a missed encounter.
On the Great Dao, there are a thousand paths, each leading upward.
That is why like-minded travelers are so rare and difficult to encounter.
Subsequently, Chen Ping'an stopped by the great river in the central mountain region of the Fugu Kingdom. He fished side by side with an old man. The latter was clearly a Qi Refiner, though not of high cultivation—at the Observation Sea Realm. His setup was grand: many maids and young attendants accompanied him, a long row of green fishing rods, and countless bait supplies—one large basin after another, enough to fill even the biggest fish in the big river. Seeing that the young man in green appeared to be a pure martial artist of the fourth or fifth realm and apparently enjoyed fishing, the old fisherman ordered a maid to bring over a large basin of bait. The maid smiled and told the young man not to be polite, saying that her master was always generous to chance-met fishing companions. She added, "If you don't lay a big bait nest, it's hard to catch a big fish." The maid set down the large basin and said these words to Chen Ping'an, who nodded vigorously and replied, "That's the truth. The old gentleman must be a transcendent master of the fishing art." At first, Chen Ping'an felt a bit guilty about accepting such a large basin of immortal bait, so he loudly asked the old master's Dao name.
The old man laughed heartily. "My friends in the mountains all like to call me the 'Fills the Sea True Man'!"
Chen Ping'an silently glanced at the large basin and thought to himself that whether in the mundane world or in the mountains, it was true: only parents could give a wrong name; there was never a wrong nickname.
The old man kept catching fish, but he never landed the kind of rare fish from the great river that he had in mind.
As dusk approached, a huge multi-tiered ship passed along the great river. Armored warriors stood solemnly on the ship. The vessel cut against the current with great commotion, and large waves crashed against the shore, toppling the green bamboo fishing rods.
The old man began to curse loudly, his voice full of vigor.
From the ship emerged a burly general, clad in Ganshui Armor, holding an iron spear. His aura was oppressive, and he stared intently at the old fisherman on the shore.
A maid cautiously reminded, "Master, it seems to be the Grand General of the Fugu Kingdom, wearing a rare set of Divine Man Dew-Catching Armor."
"It's Gao Ling, the Grand General of the Fugu Kingdom!"
The old man took a closer look, stamped his foot, and said in exasperation, "Damn it, stepped on a piece of dog shit hard as iron! I hear this guy has a bad temper. Let's pack up and scram!"
On the ship, a woman appeared beside Gao Ling, the Defender General of the Fugu Kingdom. Gao Ling lowered his head and whispered to her. She nodded, lightly leaped, and stood on the ship's railing, poised to strike.
Chen Ping'an slowly reeled in his line.
On the ship, the conversation between the burly general and the woman was clearly audible.
The richly dressed, opulent woman, upon hearing that the old fisherman was a wild cultivator from another country, nicknamed "Fills the Sea True Man," of a loose and carefree nature, an old cultivator at the Dragon Gate Realm who had the cultivation but negligible combat power, instructed Gao Ling to go and teach him a lesson. No need to kill him, just teach him a lesson—say, beat him half to death. Then, see if they could recruit him as a guest retainer in her mansion. The general hesitated, saying the man might not be willing; he had already refused several invitations to serve as a guest elder from the Emperor of the Qingyu Kingdom.
The woman made an "oh" sound.
The general understood her meaning.
The Fugu Kingdom itself was not very powerful, but its backing was remarkably strong. The woman beside him, who possessed both noble status and an immortal's aura, was one of the links connecting the Fugu Kingdom to that backing.
Although Gao Ling appeared to be only thirty years old, he was actually already sixty. Among the Fugu Kingdom's military officers, his official rank was not the highest—he was a third-rank deputy—but his fists were certainly the hardest.
A single punch today might elevate him from third-rank deputy to full third-rank.
So Gao Ling laughed loudly and said, "I think there's no need to run. Why not come aboard and have a drink!"
The armored general stamped his foot heavily. The ship tilted, and the rows of armor clattered loudly. The armored soldiers, forgetting their dignity, quickly grabbed onto the railing to steady themselves.
Gao Ling landed on the surface of the great river and walked across the water toward the shore.
He thrust his spear forward.
A cultivator at the Observation Sea Realm, and not even a registered mountain immortal, just a wild cultivator—if he had any sense, he would yield. If he didn't, even better—it would give Gao Ling a chance to display his skills in front of the woman.
But before Gao Ling could reach the shore, his vision blurred, and he felt a dull sensation in his chest.
His body shot backward all the way to the ship.
It turned out that a green-clad figure had appeared out of nowhere, arriving in front of Gao Ling in an instant. One palm struck his Ganshui Armor. Gao Ling had come as fast as a thunderbolt, but his retreat was even swifter than the wind, with a roaring sound at his ears.
The man lightly slapped out a palm, and Gao Ling's body floated up, landing on the ship's bow. He staggered several steps before regaining his footing.
After that light palm strike, the green-clad figure borrowed the momentum to leap backward several zhang, flipped his wide sleeve, twisted his body sharply, and in the blink of an eye returned to the shore, landing gracefully.
Gao Ling's expression darkened. He hesitated, considering whether to put on a brave front and pretend to be a fat man. Winning this fight was out of the question. If he made her lose face by showing incompetence, that would be the most awkward situation—pleasing no one.
The woman beside him had a sparkling look in her eyes. She smiled and said, "It's nothing. No need to care, and certainly no need to pursue it. My master once said personally that the mortal world should not be underestimated. Among great mountains and rivers, masters often appear. It was not in vain that I disembarked at Longtoudu in the Luying Kingdom and deliberately took this long water route. I've finally seen a so-called transcendent wonder. Just one glance is already a gain."
Gao Ling breathed a sigh of relief.
On the shore, the man cupped his fist, seemingly offering an apology to the ship.
Gao Ling was taken aback, then also smiled and returned the gesture with a cupped fist.
The woman's face grew even more radiant. She murmured to herself, "Awesome. Very interesting. Gao Ling, I'll credit you with a merit!"
The ship slowly sailed away.
The old cultivator at the Dragon Gate Realm had just wanted to strike up a friendship, but the green-clad guest had suddenly vanished without a trace.
What to do?
The old cultivator rubbed his chin and then began to give orders to move. He instructed the maids and attendants to move all the large basins to another spot—the very place where the green-clad immortal had been fishing. It must be a blessed spot with excellent feng shui.
As soon as he sat down, he immediately felt refreshed and invigorated. Sure enough, this was a place an immortal had taken a fancy to; even the river breeze blowing on his face seemed a few points sweeter.
In the distance.
Chen Ping'an continued his journey.
He took a slight detour, walking through an open plain with a wide view.
Suddenly, Chen Ping'an stopped. He put away his bamboo box into his inch-sized storage artifact.
But a moment later, he frowned in deep thought. Was it his imagination?
Chen Ping'an continued slowly forward.
---
The Sweeping Manor was the holy land in the hearts of the martial world of the Wuling Kingdom.
There were all sorts of rumors about this manor in the martial world.
Some said that Old Master Wang Dun had never married because, when he was young and traveling in the north, he suffered a love injury. He had fallen in love with a woman who later became the Empress Dowager of the Jingnan Kingdom. Unfortunately, the heavens did not cooperate, and the Old Man under the Moon did not pull the red thread. The two never ended up together. Old Master Wang Dun was a hopeless romantic, so he devoted himself to martial arts. His misfortune was one man's sorrow, but it was the great fortune of the entire martial world of the Wuling Kingdom.
Others said that the manor's home-brewed "Thin Plum Wine" was actually a recipe left by immortals. A martial artist who drank a jar could increase their strength by several years. That was why the disciples taught by Old Master Wang Dun were all outstanding—they were all steeped in vats of Thin Plum Wine.
There were also rumors that within Sweeping Manor there was a heavily guarded, trap-filled forbidden area where Wang Dun had personally written martial arts manuals. Anyone who obtained one would become a first-rate expert in the martial world. If they got a saber manual, they could rival Fu Loutai's saber technique. If they got a sword manual, they could match Wang Jingshan's swordsmanship.
All of this, of course, was nonsense—stuff that made outsiders drool and spit, but left insiders both amused and exasperated.
Lu Zhuo, one of Wang Dun's direct disciples, was helpless about it, but his master never seemed to mind.
Lu Zhuo was the least talented among his fellow disciples. He was slow at learning everything—swordsmanship, saber techniques, boxing—and not only slow, but his bottlenecks were as big as mountains. He could see no hope of breaking through, not even a glimmer of light. His master often comforted him, but in truth, his master had no solution either. In the end, Lu Zhuo resigned himself to his fate. Now, the old steward was getting on in years, the senior apprentice sister had married far away, and Wang Jingshan, a highly talented senior disciple, had to take on the manor's mundane affairs for years, truly hindering his cultivation. In fact, Lu Zhuo was more anxious than Wang Jingshan. He always felt that Wang Jingshan should have long ago gone out into the martial world to hone his swordsmanship. So Lu Zhuo began to intentionally or unintentionally immerse himself in the manor's countless worldly chores, planning to help the old steward and Senior Brother Wang in the future by shouldering both sets of responsibilities.
He would get up at the Mao hour, practice his stance, or practice swordsmanship or saber techniques until the Chen hour. After breakfast, he would go to the old steward to review accounts, record transactions, and calculate numbers. The manor's correspondence, the management of its many properties, and the expenses of the numerous disciples and students—all needed to be consulted with the old steward. By approximately the Si hour, after finishing his lessons like a schoolboy, he would go to the back mountain of the manor, where it was quiet, to watch the junior apprentice brother practice swordsmanship or the junior apprentice sister practice saber techniques.
The manor had many disciples, servants, and their families, so it ran a private school.
The master teachers of the early school years had all been very learned, but they never stayed long.
They would come and stay for a year or two before resigning. Some were retired officials who were simply too old. Others were reclusive literati without official positions but with considerable prestige in scholarly circles. In the end, the master simply hired a provincial graduate who had given up hope of passing the imperial examinations, and never changed teachers again. When that graduate had to take leave from the manor for personal reasons, Lu Zhuo would act as the school's teacher.
In the afternoon, Lu Zhuo would teach a group of fellow disciples the methods of the sword, saber, and fist. After all, the fellow disciples of Lu Zhuo's generation also needed to cultivate themselves. So Lu Zhuo became the most convenient person to call upon. However, Lu Zhuo bore no resentment at all. Instead, he was delighted to be able to help a little.
Lu Zhuo's days now were like this—full of trivialities and minutiae. It seemed as if in the blink of an eye, the sky would go from the fish-belly white of dawn to the twilight colors of sunset when birds returned to their nests. Only after the Xu hour, when the world was dusky and everything was hazy, did Lu Zhuo have the chance to do something for himself, like reading some miscellaneous books or flipping through the mountain and river gazettes that his master had purchased, learning about the wonderful deeds of the immortals in the mountains. After reading them, he felt no longing or anticipation—just a respectful distance.
This evening, Lu Zhuo personally held a lantern and patrolled the manor as usual. It was just routine. Although rumors in the martial world were numerous and varied, no one had ever actually violated the rules and trespassed into Sweeping Manor.
In the back mountain, the junior apprentice brother was still diligently practicing his sword.
Lu Zhuo did not disturb him. He silently walked away, practicing his stance as he went.
It was a basic fist stance he had been walking for many years. Senior Apprentice Sister Fu Loutai and Senior Brother Wang Jingshan both liked to tease him about it.
Because the stance was not personally taught by Wang Dun of Sweeping Manor. It was from a crude fist manual he had obtained by chance when he was young. Master Wang Dun had no objection to Lu Zhuo practicing this fist, because after looking through the manual, he felt the practice was harmless but not very meaningful. Since Lu Zhuo liked it, he let him follow the manual. As it turned out, Master Wang, and his senior fellow disciples, were right. But Lu Zhuo himself didn't feel he had wasted his effort.
On his way down the mountain, he saw the old steward, his figure stooped, standing at the bottom of the steps, as if waiting for him.
Lu Zhuo hurried down the mountain.
The old steward had a gaunt, refined appearance and a thin frame. He wore a long green gown. The old man often coughed, as if he had fallen ill in his early years and never fully recovered.
One of the old man's legs was slightly lame, though not noticeably so.
The old man's surname was Wu, his given name Fengjia—a relatively uncommon name. Except for Lu Zhuo's generation of disciples, the younger generation and children no longer knew the old man's name. From Wang Dun's senior disciple Fu Loutai down to Lu Zhuo and the youngest apprentice, everyone liked to call him Grandfather Wu. When Lu Zhuo first entered the manor as a boy, the old steward was already working there. They said the old steward had been at the manor as long as the manor itself had existed.
Lu Zhuo said softly, "Grandfather Wu, the wind is strong and the night is cold. I'll handle the night patrols from now on."
The old man waved his hand and continued the patrol with Lu Zhuo, smiling. "Lu Zhuo, I have two things to tell you. You might be... disappointed. Yes, disappointed."
Lu Zhuo found it a bit strange. The old steward seemed different tonight. In the past, the old man gave the feeling of decrepitude, like a candle flickering in the wind, nearing the end of his life. This had worried Lu Zhuo a lot. Perhaps because his martial arts would never reach the peak, Lu Zhuo tended to think about more things beyond martial arts, such as the elderly steward's twilight years, whether the children would have a chance to take the imperial exams, and whether the manor's New Year atmosphere would be a bit richer.
The old man spoke slowly. "Lu Zhuo, you actually have the aptitude for cultivation. And if you had been lucky enough to meet a Dao transmitter in your early years, your prospects would have been considerable. It's just that you met your master, Wang Dun, and turned to martial arts instead. A waste of heaven's gifts."
Lu Zhuo smiled and was about to speak, but the old man waved his hand and interrupted him. "Don't say it doesn't matter. That's only because you, Lu Zhuo, have never personally witnessed the majesty of mountain immortals. A Qi Jinglong—he certainly has a high cultivation level. He's just a chance-met friend from your travels in the martial world. That Qi Jinglong is a bit of a freak—not a scholar but more like a pure Confucian. So you don't really know what mountain cultivation is all about."
Lu Zhuo had nothing to say.
The old man continued, "Furthermore, your talent for martial arts is really mediocre. Very mediocre. So those bottlenecks you face are genuine barriers. You can't get past them now, and you might never get past them in your entire life."
Lu Zhuo sighed, feeling a bit sad. "Grandfather Wu, I know that better than anyone."
The old man also felt a twinge of inexplicable sadness. "Of all the children in this manor, I've always valued your temperament the most. That's why I let you stumble upon that fist manual. But many things in this world are just that helpless. Just because you, Lu Zhuo, are a good person doesn't mean your life will go smoothly. In your youth, you were no match for your senior apprentice sister and senior apprentice brother. In adulthood, you can only watch helplessly as your junior apprentice brothers and sisters leave you in the dust. Until you grow old and die, you may not even be able to compare with their disciples—your own grand-disciples. So whether you are disappointed or not, I am very disappointed. Not in the heart, but in the way things work."
Lu Zhuo was a little shocked.
The old man turned to look at Lu Zhuo. "Lu Zhuo, one last question. Would you mind spending your whole life in mediocrity as the manor steward, year after year, with all the splendor passing you by?"
Lu Zhuo thought it over carefully and smiled. "I really don't mind. I'll just be a good manor steward."
The old man nodded. "Very good. Don't underestimate yourself, either. With people like you around, doing small things, the world will have more hope for great achievements. So that little disappointment I had earlier is nothing to mention. It is people like you, Lu Zhuo, who are the hope of this world. An old codger like me, Qiu Fengjia, a sweeper of this manor, saying something like that sounds shameless, doesn't it?"
Lu Zhuo smiled. He didn't want to lie, but he also didn't want to hurt the old man's feelings, so he compromised. "Not really."
The old man laughed heartily. At this moment, there was no trace of the sickly, decrepit old man.
An eagle stands as if sleeping; a tiger moves as if sick—that is when it is most ready to strike.
"Since you have passed my test of character, it's time for you to change your path and ascend high! You shouldn't be wasting your spirit on trivial matters!"
The old man said, "I will leave the manor tonight. I've been hiding for many years. It's time for an ending. I've left two letters in the accounting room, one important mountain artifact, and an immortal cultivation manual. One letter you give to Wang Dun. Tell him that he has delayed you, his disciple, for many years, and it's time to let go. Take the other letter with you. Go find Qi Jinglong. From now on, cultivate and become a mountain immortal! A Lu Zhuo willing to be the manor steward for a lifetime can make the world a little more hopeful, but a Lu Zhuo who ascends the mountain path and practices the sword will naturally benefit the world even more."
Lu Zhuo was stunned.
The old man grabbed Lu Zhuo's head with one hand and punched him in the chest with the other. Lu Zhuo was severely injured on the spot, his spirit and soul stirred wildly, but he couldn't speak a word, writhing in agony.
"Everything else is fine, but this hesitant, irresolute temper of yours—I can't stand it most of all! If you, Lu Zhuo, don't go and fight for a seat on the mountain peak, are you going to leave it to those Qi-refiners who are even worse than bastards?!"
The old man stared at Lu Zhuo, who was on the verge of passing out. He said in a deep voice, "But if you want to embark on the path of cultivation, you have to break the Bridge of Longevity first! Remember, grit your teeth and bear it. If you can endure, there is hope. If not, you can content yourself with being the manor steward."
When the old man released his grip, Lu Zhuo collapsed to the ground, the lantern falling from his hand.
Lu Zhuo spat blood.
The old man crouched down and smiled. "Of course, my name is not Wu Fengjia. That's the name of a dead swordsman from my youth. Back then, he died saving a beggar child from being run over by a carriage wheel. That little cripple never stopped practicing his fists his whole life, just to prove one thing to that savior: that a fourth-realm martial artist giving his life to save a rag-covered orphan—that was worth it!"
Lu Zhuo felt the pure true qi of a martial artist gradually dissipate. The pain was unbearable, but he gritted his teeth, trying to hear every word the old man said.
The old man smiled. "I comprehended a crude set of fist techniques on my own. In the eyes of ordinary people, I was mediocre in talent, no genius. Looking back now, the techniques, stances, and moves recorded in that manual were indeed crude and ordinary. So I practiced with my head down, and didn't reach the point where I could, alone, publicly declare revenge against the leading immortal mansion of that kingdom until I was over forty. Everyone laughed at me, saying I was an ant trying to shake a tree, utterly overestimating myself! Very well! The very essence of my fist technique lies in the ant moving a mountain into the sea! Unfortunately, you, Lu Zhuo, have practiced that manual for many years and have never been able to enter the door, have never been able to let the fist intent take hold on your body. That's fine. There are many paths in this world. As long as you, Lu Zhuo, are a good person, it doesn't matter much whether you are my direct disciple."
Finally, the old man bent two fingers and tapped gently on Lu Zhuo's forehead, sending him into a deep sleep. There was no need for Lu Zhuo to continue climbing the martial arts ladder. Whether he endured that physical suffering or not was meaningless. The key to future cultivation in the mountains was the continuous turmoil in his spirit and soul.
The old man in the long green gown stood up and muttered to himself, "My real name is Gu You."
The old man smiled. "Before I settle matters of life and death with that Ji fellow from Ape Cry Mountain, I should probably go and meet that young man first. If I die, consider it repaying the 'Shakes the Mountain Fist Manual.' If I don't die... heh, that seems unlikely."
The old man thought for a moment, then sneered, "I won't bully him. Since he's vying for the title of the strongest sixth-realm pure martial artist, I'll suppress my cultivation and only use... ninth-realm martial artist punches."
---
On the plain.
Chen Ping'an felt something was increasingly wrong.
A huge sense of crisis enveloped the heaven and earth.
There was no way to avoid it, no way to escape.
It was the second time during his travels in Beiju Continent.
The first time had been at the foot of Zhengrong Peak, where he encountered Ji Yue, the Sword Immortal of Ape Cry Mountain.
Chen Ping'an felt no panic at all. Instead, in an instant, his mind became as still as water.
Beyond the limit of Chen Ping'an's vision, an old man in a long green gown stood still, his eyes closed, as if resting his mind.
When he opened his eyes, he took a single step.
Silently.
But in the next instant, on the ground, it was as if a spring thunderclap had erupted out of nowhere.
On a single straight line.
Chen Ping'an narrowed his eyes.
Talismans in his sleeves, the Dharma robe of Golden Sap, two flying swords—even for a Sword Immortal, at this moment, these would be external objects for a pure martial artist, utterly useless.
Chen Ping'an trusted his instincts.
His opponent was at least a Mountain Summit Realm martial artist!
The condensation and density of his fist intent were unimaginable.
Chen Ping'an began to sprint straight ahead.
If he retreated or dodged, his own fist intent would decrease by one point, and his chance of survival would decrease by one point.
A decrease in fist intent meant admitting defeat.
In the martial world, admitting defeat often meant death.
One punch exchanged.
Chen Ping'an was sent flying backward several dozen zhang. He landed abruptly, but he still couldn't stop his momentum. The soles of his boots were completely worn away.
His entire body felt like it was falling apart.
This was the first time Chen Ping'an had used the Divine Man Drumbeat Style, and the fist intent was broken the moment he extended it!
But the other man stood motionless, strolling at leisure, as if allowing Chen Ping'an to exchange for a breath of pure true qi. He drifted over gracefully and threw another punch.
Chen Ping'an, whose vision was already blurry, was hit square in the head with another punch.
He was sent flying again.
Completely unable to fight back.
The figure in the long green gown had already leaped high into the air and threw a punch downward.
That punch struck Chen Ping'an square in the chest.
A large crater appeared on the ground.
Chen Ping'an was drenched in blood, lying on the ground, unable to get up.
His flesh, blood, meridians, bones, his qi palaces, his acupoints.
All were on the verge of collapse.
The old man, a martial artist of at least the Mountain Summit Realm, simply stood at the edge of the large crater, his hands behind his back, without saying a word. He stopped throwing punches, just looking down at the blood-soaked figure in the pit.
He saw the young man, who had already completely lost consciousness, first move a finger of his left hand, then try to push himself off the ground with his elbow, struggling to rise.
The old man in green just looked on coldly, watching the various tiny, instinctive struggles of the young martial artist.
From repeatedly lifting his elbow, raising his back slightly off the ground, falling back down again, to being able to support himself on both hands, and then wobbling to his feet—it took a full half-incense stick's time.
The old man sneered. "I'm standing right here. As long as you can walk up to me and throw one punch, you get to live."
The young man, who had no consciousness left, only a faint spark of innate spirit, lowered his head, bent over, swung his arms, and staggered forward.
The twenty-plus steps to walk up the slope of the crater were like a child carrying a huge basket, climbing the mountain to gather medicine under the scorching sun.
Step by step, ascending. The young man, his face covered in blood, had just raised one arm.
The old man said indifferently, "Sorry, but you still have to die."
He raised one hand, swung a fist wide, and the old man in the long green gown and cloth shoes punched the young man back into the bottom of the pit.
The old man walked down into the pit step by step, sneering, "The older you get, the higher the realm, the more afraid of death you become? No wonder after a flash-in-the-pan as the strongest third-realm, you failed to claim 'strongest' for the fourth and fifth realms! If that's how it is, I think it's better if you just die. Give that bit of martial luck to someone else. To give it to someone like you, I'd say it sullies that fist manual."
The half-dead man was silent.
The old man frowned, then looked down. He saw the man's finger twitch again.
The old man laughed.
Very good!
You could say he was dead, but his fist intent was still alive.
This was a small thing.
But it was the biggest thing in the world, because it couldn't be faked!
The old man burst into laughter.