Chapter 982: The Answer
In the New Year's Gift Shop on Qilong Alley, the white-haired boy sitting at the doorstep sunbathing looked a bit listless. When he saw Chen Ping'an arriving to check the accounts, he only gave a dull greeting of "Hidden Hand Ancestor."
Compared to usual, this was somewhat different. Between the two adjacent shops, there was now a "long wooden bench," the most common sight in rural villages. Neighbors could find a place to sit and chat whenever they had nothing to do.
Chen Ping'an sat down beside him, shook out his long blue gown, crossed his legs, and looked relaxed. He smiled and asked, "Do you want to go cultivate in Tongye Continent? There's a minor blessed land there. Bai Xuan, Cheng Zhaolu, and a few other children are already there forging swords and cultivating. I can have Cui Dongshan build you a Daoist estate. I'll cover the cost. The entire sect territory, stretching hundreds of miles, is now our own turf. Once you're there, if you're interested, you can even guide Cheng Zhaolu and the others in their cultivation. One of the little girls is named Chai Wu. She has excellent talent in the Dao path and is Wei Xian's first disciple. With your wide-ranging knowledge, you'd have no trouble teaching anyone. If you have a favorite mountain peak, just tell Cui Dongshan it's my wish and have him allocate it to you. Consider it an opening of a new peak without holding a ceremony. As for the registration in the ancestral hall of Green Lotus Peak, whether as a patron or guest elder, pick whichever you like. If you later come across someone with good aptitude and want to take them as a disciple, you're free to do so."
Because of Bai Jing's arrival, Qilong Alley easily attracted the attention of certain prying eyes. In contrast, the Green Lotus Sword Sect was better at hiding people.
A flying ascension realm peak sword cultivator, especially one from the savage wasteland who had lived for ten thousand years, would draw far more attention than a newly established sect, whether by identity or strength.
The white-haired boy still lacked energy, looking sick and listless. "The road is too far. I'm too lazy to go."
"It's good enough being a menial disciple here. I've already grown familiar with the place. It's better than starting over somewhere else, all that effort and trouble. Teaching others the Dao and passing on martial arts is even more of a hassle—I'm not good at that."
"Hidden Hand Ancestor, you can't be someone who loves the new and forgets the old. Just because a few characters like Cui Huasheng and Xie Gou have shown up, you want to drive me away? Not to mention, my loyalty is unmatched—there's no second like me."
Chen Ping'an laughed. "Since you don't want to move, forget it."
The white-haired boy sniffed, looked left and right, then furtively pulled a booklet out of his sleeve. "A fist manual. A living one. It has thirty-six diagrams in total, corresponding to thirty-six fist techniques. They're famous signature moves from the pinnacle martial artists of the Green Curtain Heaven—the kind of top-shelf goods stashed away for a rainy day. Ordinary good techniques aren't even worthy of being recorded. You know better than me how picky that certain someone's standards are."
Chen Ping'an smiled. "If you'd given this to me a few years earlier, it would have been useful. Now, it doesn't mean much anymore."
Even as he said this, his hand moved quickly, tucking the booklet into his sleeve without even looking at it.
This statement wasn't entirely a case of fishing for compliments. Take the fist techniques from Pu Mountain's Six-Immortal Diagram, for example. Their benefit to Chen Ping'an's current fist technique mastery was extremely limited. If it weren't for needing to teach others, Chen Ping'an probably wouldn't have spent so much effort perfecting and improving Pu Mountain's fist principles, trying to lower the threshold for ordinary martial artists to learn, and then compiling them into a manual.
It seemed that the more fist techniques he learned and the higher his own realm, the more he could appreciate the preciousness of the Mountain-Shaking Fist.
Of course, Chen Ping'an also wanted to compile a fist manual entirely his own—one that would allow the pure martial artists of both sects to gradually cultivate and steadily ascend over the next ten, hundred, or thousand years according to that manual, and then, like the Pu Mountain Cloud and Grass Hall, later disciples could continuously improve upon it, surpassing their predecessors.
Chen Ping'an suddenly asked, "Have you ever heard of any unconventional insights regarding the three layers of the pinnacle martial realm?"
The white-haired boy shook his head. "I'm not a martial artist or a fist practitioner. You shouldn't be asking me this. Even if you told me, I probably wouldn't have taken it seriously."
Chen Ping'an apologized, "I shouldn't have brought this up."
The white-haired boy grinned. "Doesn't sound like the Hidden Hand Ancestor anymore."
Below the Return to Truth realm, from the ninth martial realm to the first layer of pinnacle Vitality Surplus, there was still great emphasis, especially on Vitality Surplus.
But once a martial artist reached the Return to Truth layer, they needed to fuse their own martial insights, stance frameworks, techniques, and fist principles into one crucible, seeking the word "condensation," to prove the saying "return to simplicity and truth."
As for what "Spirit Arrival" meant? Chen Ping'an was still exploring, and he could only figure it out on his own—there was no other way. Back in the bamboo building on the second floor, when he practiced his fists, the old man never talked about such things. Occasionally, he'd say something that brushed on it, but it was mostly unpleasant, like, "With a physique as fragile as paper and a mind as muddled as paste, you dare hope for the tenth realm atop the mountain peak? If you can halve that in this lifetime and become a fifth-realm martial artist, you should be burning incense to thank the heavens…"
In Chen Ping'an's view, Zhu Lian was someone who stayed stuck in the far-traveling realm all day, yet spent his time pondering the mysteries and obstacles of the Return to Truth layer.
Fists have lightness and heaviness; methods have no high or low.
This principle, when spoken by ordinary people, lacks conviction.
But Zhu Lian didn't need to speak it—he embodied it.
After all, he was the first martial madman in the history of Lotus Flower Blessed Land to massacre all nine other masters of the world.
Zhu Lian's pride and breadth of mind were so great that even Chen Ping'an dared not claim to see him clearly.
The white-haired boy shifted from sitting to squatting—maybe it made him look taller. After that, the two fell silent, soaking up the warm early-spring sunlight together, lazy and relaxed.
Chen Ping'an's mind wandered far and wide, his thoughts sliding like a foot on a watermelon rind, going wherever they pleased.
In Chan Buddhism, there had always been the concepts of "placing a head on a head" and "original face."
Chen Ping'an suddenly recalled the many broken divine statues from the Immortal Tomb back in the day.
Among them, he seemed to remember a dharma statue of a three-headed, six-armed demon-subduing form.
He shook his sleeves, closed his eyes, meditated for a moment, then opened them. He hesitated but didn't stand up. Instead, he sat and formed Daoist hand seals and dharma mudras at lightning speed, executing more than twenty types in an instant.
But Chen Ping'an quickly withdrew his hands.
The white-haired boy pretended not to notice. Only after Chen Ping'an stopped that dizzying sequence of movements did the boy, squatting on the long bench, suddenly start chuckling.
"One plus one equals two—even a kid in split pants knows that. Five plus five equals ten—the answer is obvious."
"But if you say one plus one equals two, plus three equals five, plus two plus three finally equals ten."
"There will always be someone who insists it equals eight, or nine, and they just can't see the one or the two."
"One plus ten is eleven. One isn't eleven, ten isn't eleven either. If ten is missing, everyone can see it, so that kind of oversight is rare. But if one is missing, it's relatively hidden."
"If that's the case for ten, what about a hundred? Ten thousand? A million? So someone once said that all knowledge in the world is about stubbornly doing subtraction, to the point where you subtract until there's not even a one left. Almost no one is willing to do addition."
Chen Ping'an first smiled knowingly, then laughed out loud, his entire face lighting up with amusement, until finally he burst into hearty laughter.
Now it was the white-haired boy's turn to find it strange. "Is it really that funny?"
This was actually an odd saying of Wu Shuangjiang's from back then. Back then, the female cultivator of Suichu Palace, whose Dao name was Tianran, didn't find it funny at all.
She just thought Wu Shuangjiang was rambling, as he always was.
Chen Ping'an was certainly a reserved and introverted person—not one to show joy or anger easily. But he wasn't the type to be perpetually gloomy or long-silent either. Even in the prison of Old Deaf Kid on the Sword Fragment Wall, Chen Ping'an would find joy in hardship and often pull some inexplicably ridiculous stunts. In Chen Ping'an's own words, a person can endure hardship, but they shouldn't look bitter.
However, in the white-haired boy's memory, Chen Ping'an had never before laughed so uncontrollably, unable to close his mouth.
Chen Ping'an really wasn't faking it; he was genuinely happy. It took him a while to stop laughing. He nodded and said, "It really is funny!"
The white-haired boy pursed his lips. "You're all weirdos."
Chen Ping'an crossed his legs, hands stacked on his knees, and smiled. "When scholars argue, even if it's a gentleman's debate, they often dislike following a step-by-step, interlocking logical progression. Well, to be honest, they're not good at it either. Examples of those who stay reasonable from start to finish are rare. The Goose Lake Debate definitely counts as one. A step down, the disputes over poetic style among Su Shi's disciples were also quite good. Another step down, they start invoking benevolence and righteousness. The lowest are those who only talk about personal morality. The funny thing about worldly affairs is that it's often this last group that has the most killing power and lasts the longest—like a father-in-law stealing ashes, torturing prostitutes… Whenever they bring it up, they make a conclusion first and then reason backward. Since the person's moral character is flawed, naturally all their knowledge is dregs. They have no idea about the specific development of the various Confucian veins, how many attempts the Confucian scholars of the past—I mean the truly responsible ones—made, how many detours they took, how much effort and sacrifice they expended… I really don't know how things will be now, or after a thousand years, or ten thousand years."
In Buddhist history, aside from the distinction between Mahayana and Hinayana, the later flourishing Chan sect had major disagreements with the earlier Dilun masters, the scripture masters with profound Buddhist principles, and the strictly precept-observing Vinaya masters. Even within Chan itself, there were endless disputes and mutual challenges, giving rise to so many koans, lamp records, eulogies on old cases, and huatou… At the summer retreat palace, Chen Ping'an often repeatedly studied the *Blue Cliff Record*, the *Empty Valley Collection*, and the *Congrong Hermitage Record*.
Those who dislike reading naturally agree with the saying that a scholar is useless in a hundred ways.
Those who love reading naturally feel joy in the belief that reading is for the next life.
But whether one loves reading or not doesn't seem to have much to do with what kind of person one becomes.
It's probably like what the old abbot of the Mind-Appearance Temple in Lotus Flower Blessed Land once said: "How we see the world is how the world sees us."
The white-haired boy said calmly, "Do you have to read so much?"
Chen Ping'an smiled. "When I say reading, I don't just mean books."
Being able to live an uneasy life with ease—Chen Ping'an admitted he couldn't do it.
But he had seen people who could.
During those months of being trapped in the Book-Splashing Lake, he once saw a poor, elderly woman in clean clothes.
It made Chen Ping'an feel that people like her were bodhisattvas in this bitter world.
As a child grows up, especially after their parents leave, it's like a house missing a door. Death stands outside, and the person has to face it.
The white-haired boy turned his head and said softly, "Hidden Hand Ancestor, wipe your tears."
Chen Ping'an was startled. He raised his hand, but before it reached his face, he let out a breathy laugh and slapped the boy.
The white-haired boy tilted his head to dodge, in high spirits, and burst into loud laughter.
Xie Gou wasn't at the shop. Probably off posting those plaster remedies again, matching wits with the wealthy families of Fortune and Blessing Street and Peach Leaf Lane?
Chen Ping'an stood up and walked into the shop. Acting manager Shi Rou immediately handed over the account book. Chen Ping'an stood by the counter, leafing through it casually, and glanced at the child who was reading a strange tale with his head down. "Junchen, Manager Li from Red Candle Town said you like to buy books on credit there?"
He wanted to...
This first disciple's first disciple to voluntarily call him "ancestor" was very hard.
Zhou Junchen was unusually sheepish. He played dumb, pretending to be deaf and mute, hoping to slip by.
If Chen Ping'an wanted to talk about sect seniority, Zhou Junchen was never afraid. But when it came to money, the kid was a bit timid. "Three coppers can stump a hero," as they said.
Chen Ping'an said, "I passed by the bookshop earlier and settled the dozens of silver taels you owed. I also covered some extra. From now on, don't borrow money to buy books."
That little brat really splurged on books, throwing money around with boldness. Who taught him that? It definitely wasn't his master, Pei Qian.
Zhou Junchen's face lit up. He rarely gave a sincere smile to this grand master.
But then the grand master immediately added, "What I mean is, don't run up credit at the bookshop—it doesn't sound good. Owing me money is fine. You can pay it back slowly, deducted from your monthly allowance."
Shi Rou suppressed a laugh. The little mute, who told her everything, had been confident about this. He had planned to borrow money from his master Pei Qian to pay off his debts. In Zhou Junchen's scheme, since you're the master, if you lend money to your disciple, you'd be too embarrassed to ask for it back, right?
But today, this grand master had stuck his oar in, and the messy account had suddenly become crystal clear. Zhou Junchen was already regretting it down to his guts. If he'd known, he wouldn't have bought so many books.
Chen Ping'an asked again, "Who came up with the idea for that signboard at Oxhorn Ferry?"
Zhou Junchen took full responsibility. "I thought of it myself! No one else had anything to do with it!"
The kid really wasn't experienced in the ways of the world—so obvious a lie.
Shi Rou immediately grew worried. The rules of Fallen Mountain were very relaxed, it was true.
But when the mountain master Chen Ping'an decided something, he was always very serious.
The little mute was still unafraid, just annoyed. Sure enough, he and this grand master didn't get along. How did his master end up with such a master?
Shi Rou reached under the counter and gently tugged the child's sleeve, signaling him to soften up a bit and not be stubborn.
Unexpectedly, Chen Ping'an nodded. "Still too small-minded. Next time, add the names of Yuanling Hall of Zhixuan Peak in Beiju Continent and the sword immortal Wei Jin of the Wind and Snow Temple. They are both guest elders of our Fallen Mountain, formally registered. Even if they pass by Oxhorn Ferry and see the sign, they won't come to cause trouble. Also, over at the Jade Gui Sect on Tongye Continent, Sect Leader Wei's two direct disciples, Wei Gusu and Wei Xianyou—I believe they'll become famous land sword immortals in the future. You can add their names too. Remember to write down their realms—both are currently at Golden Core. Then after each name and realm, add a bracket."
The child asked doubtfully, "They'll become sword immortals in the future? What's the use of writing their names now? Taking up space like a squatting dog in a latrine without shitting? It'll drag down the value of other shops' patrons."
"What do you know? Adding it later is useless. Only when they reach the Nascent Soul realm, or even the Jade Pu realm, will it mean something. Then people will say that eating pastries from the New Year's Gift Shop can help break through realms."
Zhou Junchen's eyes went wide. You could play it that way?
He thought Xie Gou was shameless enough when it came to making money, but this one was even worse.
Chen Ping'an reminded him, "It's just a suggestion. It has nothing to do with me."
The little mute grinned, giving Chen Ping'an a rare, bright smile.
This grand master, who was never home, did have some tricks up his sleeve after all.
No wonder he could buy up so many mountain peaks.
Chen Ping'an laughed. "When it comes to doing business, forget about cultivation achievements. You, and your master, are far behind me."
The little mute automatically ignored that remark. After thinking it over seriously, he asked, "Won't talking nonsense like that offend the mountain rules?"
Chen Ping'an leaned against the counter, casually flipping through the thin account book. "Offend what? This is called a beautiful story. I'll bet you that in the future, those two sword immortals surnamed Wei will definitely come to the shop to buy pastries, and they won't be angry at all."
"No bet. Not even a single coin."
"A little gamble is fun. Just a few silver coins. The win or loss is clear."
"That white-haired dwarf at the door said that back on the Sword Fragment Wall, you had a huge reputation—top among the new and old Four Greatest, knocking people out with one punch in sparring, and you were undefeated when hosting gambling tables. Your gambling ethics were terrible—kill one if they came, kill a pair if they came two, kill them all if they came three…"
Chen Ping'an let it go with a smile.
The white-haired boy outside, basking in the sun, immediately got anxious. He hopped to the doorway and yelled, "Little mute! Watch your mouth! When did I ever say the Hidden Hand Ancestor had terrible gambling ethics?"
The little mute said, "Oh, you meant Chen Ping'an has excellent gambling ethics? I just take it the opposite way."
The white-haired boy found himself unable to refute the little mute's twisted logic. He gave Chen Ping'an a pitiful look. "Hidden Hand Ancestor, I'm innocent! I'm wronged!"
Chen Ping'an ignored the joker and simply reached out to ruffle Zhou Junchen's head. "Go ahead, be cheeky. Be as bold as you want with me. Try saying that in front of your master."
The little mute chuckled. "My brain isn't missing a screw like some people's."
The white-haired boy put his hands on his hips. "Little mute, if you keep making snide remarks like that, be careful I curse you out! To be honest, when I argue with you, I've been going easy—using less than ten percent of my skill!"
The little mute curled his lip, full of disdain. "Then curse away. Curse all you want. Go ahead and curse my ancestors back eighteen generations. My master isn't here, so what are you afraid of?"
The white-haired boy was genuinely angered. Oh-ho, now he's looking down on people? Who did he learn that from? Who taught him…
But when the white-haired boy realized that another person had joined in giving him a sidelong glance, he immediately calmed down. He sniffed, wrinkled his face, and looked up at the sky. His heart ached.
Shi Rou folded her hands on the counter, watching the three of them banter, a smile on her face.
Chen Ping'an planned to check the next shop. At the herbal shop next door, Cui Huasheng would be going to Xian Du Mountain with Hongxia and Yunzi, but the girl would become Cui Dongshan's direct disciple.
Long-lost siblings—Cui Dongshan sure had some ideas.
Shi Rou suddenly sent a telepathic voice. "Mountain Master, Pei Qian previously sent someone to give me a box of rouge. Thank her for me."
It wasn't her usual deliberately hoarse voice, but a soft, gentle female tone.
Chen Ping'an smiled and nodded. "Don't stand on ceremony with her."
Back then, Pei Qian had spent a brief period studying at a school near the shop, and that was when she started getting close to Shi Rou.
Hesitating for a moment, Chen Ping'an asked via telepathy, "Shi Rou, would you like to change your appearance? Restore your womanly looks and show them? Besides the fox-skin beauty talismans from Pei Xiang's side, Xian Du Mountain also has a kind of talisman made with a secret method from the Jade Mushroom Ridge. Either could let you… change your residence."
Shi Rou shook her head. "Mountain Master, there's no need. I've gotten used to it over the years, and I genuinely don't think it's bad. Besides, living in this immortal cocoon every day is a top-quality Daoist field that any cultivator would dream of but never obtain."
Zhou Junchen rarely spoke to Chen Ping'an seriously, and he even used an honorific. "Grand Master, since you're so good at making money, why don't you give our New Year's Gift Shop and the herbal shop next door some ideas?"
Chen Ping'an smiled. "Make money from immortal coins, but also from silver and copper. As long as the money comes through the front door, regardless of the amount, the key is steady flow over time. Don't seek a torrent of wealth; seek a long and steady stream."
He paused, then reached out and pressed the child's head. "When you grow up, you'll understand this truth—which isn't really a truth."
The little mute nodded.
Although truths weren't worth much, a worthless truth was still a truth. Since he hadn't been charged money for it, listening to it was fine. He'd wait and see.
Chen Ping'an smiled softly. "Actually, not understanding some truths is better."
Many truths seen in books come from understanding a single truth through hardship.
Just seeing without understanding—that is luck.
Chen Ping'an left Qilong Alley. The white-haired boy, having nothing better to do, tagged along behind the Hidden Hand Ancestor like a little follower.
First, they went to the Yang Family Medicine Shop.
Only a young shop assistant was minding the store. Since that upheaval years ago, business at the shop had never been great. But the Yang family had deep foundations, so they didn't care.
Shi Lingshan—came from Peach Leaf Lane. Although not among the Four Great Surnames or Ten Clans, it was still a good background in the town.
This young martial artist probably still didn't know that he was the closed-door disciple of the old man in the back courtyard, nor did he know who his senior brothers were and how famous they had become.
The white-haired boy sat at the doorway and didn't enter the shop—the whole place reeked of medicine, no interest.
Chen Ping'an stepped over the threshold and asked with a smile, "Miss Su isn't here?"
Shi Lingshan said, "Senior Sister has gone on a journey."
Senior Sister didn't say where, but it seemed like a long trip. Very long.
She might come back next year, or the year after, or many next years might pass and she still wouldn't return. He would just wait here.
Shi Lingshan asked curiously, "Chen Ping'an, do you have business with Senior Sister?"
Being a local of the town and related by mentorship, Shi Lingshan didn't have any particular impression of Chen Ping'an, the mountain master of Fallen Mountain. No matter how many titles he had, it didn't matter one copper coin to him. If someone got rich and looked down on others, then they shouldn't come knocking—no one owed anyone anything. If they did come and show off, he wouldn't indulge them. Who wanted to see that expression?
Most importantly, according to some rumors from the shop's owner—though they dared not spread it—it seemed that Chen Ping'an had received a considerable favor from the medicine shop when he was a child.
Chen Ping'an laughed. "Nothing important. Just asking. There are some old matters I wanted to talk to Miss Su about in person."
Shi Lingshan grew wary. "What do you have to talk about with my Senior Sister?"
Chen Ping'an couldn't help but tease, "Shi Lingshan, even if you're guarding against thieves, you shouldn't be guarding against me."
Shi Lingshan pursed his lips. That's not necessarily true.
Zheng Dafeng, the slacker, had once said that honest people didn't have much appeal, but once an honest person had money, they became very appealing.
The white-haired boy, eavesdropping, found it hilarious. For no reason, he recalled an "anecdote" from Fallen Mountain. It was said that when Li Huai was a child, he followed Chen Ping'an to study at the Great Sui Mountain Cliff Academy. Along the way, he acted like a tagalong and was dead set on making Chen Ping'an his brother-in-law. But after thinking it over, this little fool came to a conclusion: "My sister isn't worthy."
Damn it. That "gang" with Millet and the like were all talented people.
Why couldn't he get in? The white-haired boy crossed his arms and started thinking seriously.
Could it be that he could only inherit the position of Right Guardian of Qilong Alley from Zhu Yi Boy?
Wouldn't that mean he was truly worse off than a dog?!
Inside the shop, Chen Ping'an asked, "Can I open the drawer and look at a few medicinal ingredients?"
Shi Lingshan said impatiently, "The shop is open for business—just follow the rules. I don't have any grudge against you. Look all you want."
Chen Ping'an habitually raised his hand, rubbed the side of his blue coat at his waist, then walked to the medicine cabinet. He looked at the labels and gently opened a drawer.
Gathering herbs, weighing herbs, decocting herbs—in these matters, Chen Ping'an was probably no less skilled than an experienced pharmacy physician.
As the saying goes: one side's water and soil raise one side's people. The same applies to medicinal herbs—they are most attached to the land. The same herb, grown on different mountains, will have vastly different medicinal properties. Thus, the dosage must change accordingly. In recent years, the western mountains had all become private property, making it difficult to go into the mountains to gather herbs. So the medicine shop had to find other channels, such as purchasing from various merchants in Red Candle Town.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. The white-haired boy suddenly stood up and ran into the room, intending to take a shortcut—bypass Pei Qian, the chief of the "gang," and directly get a decree from the Hidden Hand Ancestor to make himself the deputy chief. Contentment brings happiness; he wouldn't complain about a small post.
The white-haired boy lowered his voice and told the Hidden Hand Ancestor about this. Unsurprisingly, the Hidden Hand Ancestor told him to get lost.
Chen Ping'an opened another drawer and sniffed. The name of this herb was interesting: "King's Not Stay" (Wangbuliuxing).
Chen Ping'an gently pushed the drawer back and turned to give advice with a smile. "Shi Lingshan, from now on, when the shop goes into the mountains to gather herbs, you can freely go to Immortal Herb Mountain, Cinnabar Mountain, and Weixia Peak. You'll probably find fifty or sixty types of herbs that are better than buying from outside, and you'll save a bit of money."
Shi Lingshan clicked the abacus, distracted. "You shouldn't be telling me this. Gathering herbs in the mountains isn't my responsibility. I'm just the shop clerk. But I can mention it to someone unreliable. Just so you know, that guy is unreliable—his talk is louder than his farts, his work is less than his farts. All thunder, no rain. If the shop had to rely on him, it would have closed long ago. It's only because the ancestors are looking after us."
Chen Ping'an just smiled.
The local customs of the town had always been this simple.
People always spoke with barbs in their words—each one a self-taught master of the Jianghu.
For someone like Shi Lingshan, from Peach Leaf Lane, he was at most an outer menial disciple of this school.
The white-haired boy respected this young man as a real tough guy—daring to talk to the Hidden Hand Ancestor like that.
Even with the passage of time, the Fortune and Blessing Street and Peach Leaf Lane locals who stayed behind, when you stripped away the veiled differences between immortal and mundane, hadn't changed much.
There were still people who wore clean long robes, had read books, and said "Confucius says."
And there were people with dirt under their nails, calloused hands stained yellow by charcoal, and mouths full of curses.
Chen Ping'an left the shop. After crossing the threshold, he stood still for a moment.
Then he passed by the Crab Archway.
He slowly circled the archway, hands tucked in sleeves, always looking up.
"Take the lead without hesitation," "Nature speaks little," "Seek not from outside," "Spirit surges into the Dipper."
The white-haired boy stood still the whole time. Nothing to see—none of the four plaques held any Dao meaning anymore.
Chen Ping'an continued his walk. By the street stood the town's tallest building—a tavern whose true owner was Aunt Feng. Business was still good. Locals liked to come here to show off when hosting banquets in the county, whether wedding feasts or celebration dinners. Some cultivators who had bought houses here as estates also liked to have a few drinks, but naturally, they drank different wine from the common folk.
An iron-locked well had long been fenced off by the county office with a stone railing. Common folk could no longer come with buckets to draw water.
The old locust tree was gone too.
Walking along the main street of the county, he reached the yellow mud house at the easternmost edge of the town. It was Zheng Dafeng's—Fallen Mountain's first gatekeeper.
Further out was the overgrown Immortal Tomb of yesteryear. One could take a detour to the old Porcelain Mountain to the north, but they had been turned into the Civil and Military Temples by the Great Li dynasty.
Chen Ping'an walked to a wooden post by the roadside and sat down. He said to the white-haired boy, "Stop following. It'll give people the wrong idea."
The white-haired boy pretended to be clueless, raising his hand high to gesture at the height difference between them. "Just the two of us? What wrong idea could they get?"
But to be honest, if he could really become the Hidden Hand Ancestor's daughter, it would probably be a pretty lucky thing, right?
Look at Pei Qian, Chen Nuanshu, and Millet—it was clear how spoiled he'd be if he ever had a daughter.
Then why don't you and Ning Yao pounce like a hungry tiger and cook the rice? You coward. No wonder you're still single.
Chen Ping'an couldn't be bothered to argue with her. He sat on the post and turned his head to look at the road stretching into the distance.
The Sword Fragment Wall was thick with sword cultivators. It wasn't strange that cultivators other than sword cultivators found it unsuitable for cultivation there. The sword qi was too heavy, overflowing and filling heaven and earth—a torment for non-sword cultivators.
But there was one thing Chen Ping'an had never been able to figure out, no matter how much he thought about it. It felt deeply mysterious.
That was the fact that the number of pinnacle martial artists in the history of the Sword Fragment Wall was far too small—shockingly, disgustingly small.
White Nanny had once been a great pinnacle grandmaster but lost a realm in battle, becoming a mountain-peak realm.
According to the archives of the Summer Retreat Palace, going further back, the Sword Fragment Wall had only had one pinnacle martial artist for an extremely long period, and that was also a female grandmaster.
It was as if the martial destiny of the Sword Fragment Wall only showed favor to female martial artists?
Chen Ping'an tapped his knee with his fingers, frowning.
On that golden bridge, she had once revealed a secret: The ancient star "Kai Ming," also known as "Chang Geng," was actually that strange mountain peak.
Pure martial artists—the body becomes a god.
Unfortunately, that military sage ancestor never truly succeeded on this path.
The three offices of the Sword Fragment Wall: Punishment Officer, Hidden Officer, and Sacrifice Officer.
According to the original intention behind their establishment, the Punishment Officer governed killing, the Hidden Officer governed strategy, and the Sacrifice Officer governed rituals.
As for the previous Sacrifice Officer, according to the top-secret records of the Summer Retreat Palace, the files of successive Sacrifice Officers were extremely detailed. But there was only a brief mention: sword cultivator, Jade Pu realm, few military merits—utterly unremarkable.
He remembered Ning Yao saying that when she first came to the town, she heard at the Yang family shop that Old Man Yang had mentioned something. A passing sword immortal had left behind a travelogue of mountains and waters.
According to the old man, he had often read that travelogue and thus knew some things about the outside world.
Speaking of a sword cultivator from the Sword Fragment Wall, the old man had used the title "sword immortal."
Chen Ping'an had never paid much attention to this detail before, but now it forced him to think deeply.
Thus, Chen Ping'an suspected that the archives of the Summer Retreat Palace regarding the previous Sacrifice Officer were intentionally falsified.
His thoughts naturally turned to Yu Lu.
He stood up. Instead of going to the Immortal Tomb, he retraced his steps, threading through streets and alleys, and left the town, heading toward that stone arch bridge.
The white-haired boy still followed behind him, swaggering. After stepping onto the stone bridge, she pointed at a patch of green along the riverbank—water plants like pen tubes, jointed. She asked what they were.
Chen Ping'an glanced at them and said they were Artemisia selengensis (lóuhāo). Stir-fried with meat, very fragrant and tasty, but a seasonal wild vegetable—not available all the time.
In the spring breeze, everything grew lush, as if there were everything. When winter came, it was as if there were nothing. Digging winter bamboo shoots was actually not easy, especially when the mountains were covered in heavy snow.
Chen Ping'an smiled and said that lóuhāo might have first appeared in poetry in the works of Su Shi. Just a few words, and Su Shi could beautifully depict the beauty of seasonal scenery.
The white-haired boy asked if the old cook could stir-fry this dish. Chen Ping'an said, "I can do it myself." The white-haired boy just said "oh," but didn't show any interest in picking wild vegetables.
Chen Ping'an stood on the bridge and looked into the distance. He suddenly noticed that there seemed to be more ducks in the river again. Right, Liu Xianyang and the round-faced girl weren't at the blacksmith shop.
No wonder.
The white-haired boy crossed the bridge and sat down on the steps. "Hidden Hand Ancestor, I'll wait here."
Because she knew what Chen Ping'an was going to do. Many things could be done without restraint, but on some matters, one shouldn't joke.
Chen Ping'an turned his head and smiled. "Just follow me. There's no particular ritual or taboo."
Going to the grave to offer incense and add soil.
On this trip to Tongye Continent, he had visited several mountains. On his way back to Fallen Mountain, he had disembarked at Old Dragon City and walked a stretch of mountain and river with Senior Song. After they parted, Chen Ping'an had actually quietly followed behind the old man until he approached a city gate and suddenly raised his arm to wave. Chen Ping'an, who had been silently following, smiled and left. After that, he had passed by and stopped at several green mountains, some still covered in snow.
Chen Ping'an offered incense and added soil, then took out a jug of wine, crouched down, and poured it over the grave.
The white-haired boy crouched in the distance, watching from afar.
Chen Ping'an turned to look. The grave behind him faced a distant mountain, where twin peaks resembled a brush rest.
He was stunned. It was the first time he had noticed this. In his youth and ignorance, how could he have known such intricacies?
Later, after leaving his hometown many times, he had learned some superficial aspects of feng shui and qi watching, but every time he visited the grave, he had never looked at the distant green mountains.
So Chen Ping'an simply sat down beside the grave, silently gazing at the mountain.
So, back then, after his parents left, the choice of this grave site had been deliberate.
Probably chosen by an old man in the town who understood these things.
In his hometown, year after year, as the elderly dwindled, the New Year flavor grew fainter.
He had heard Pei Qian and Millet say that even the "Night Asking Feast" wasn't as lively anymore.
One year, Chen Ping'an wasn't home. Little black charcoal Pei Qian and the others had stayed up in the ancestral home on Mud Vase Lane, opening the door and setting off firecrackers at dawn.
If Chen Ping'an hadn't specifically instructed them beforehand, Pei Qian, who already had some money by then, might have bought out an entire shop's worth of firecrackers.
Millet once had a riddle. It was really thought up by the little girl in black herself, not taught by Chen Ping'an.
Once, Millet asked, "What runs the fastest, and what runs the slowest, but neither can be caught up to?" Chen Ping'an gave many answers, but Millet said they were all wrong. It actually stumped Chen Ping'an, who was usually quick-witted. The little girl was overjoyed, laughing happily, and finally told the good mountain master the answer: "Yesterday and tomorrow!"
It seemed that was exactly it. All yesterdays cannot be retrieved, and all tomorrows are always in tomorrow.
The white-haired boy never disturbed him.
The mountains were warm, the waters soft, willows swayed, grasses grew, orioles flew—spring had arrived, flowers blooming.