Chapter 158: Evil Prophecy

Of Wudang’s thirty-six palaces, Taixu Palace on Great Lotus Peak stands highest. Its upturned eaves are known as Dagengjiao, renowned throughout the land for the immortal Lu Xuan’s sword that hangs there. At this moment, a young Daoist, dressed in robes strikingly different from Wudang’s, sits near Immortal Lu’s treasured sword. A long ladder rests at his feet. This handsome Daoist, holding a wooden bucket, is repainting the peeling and mottled eaves of Dagengjiao. It is none other than Qi Xianxia, the Celestial Master of Longhu Mountain. Looking out, he sees clouds rolling and wind whipping up waves, as Wudang’s seventy-two peaks appear like immortal islands in the sea, a truly refreshing sight. The melodious morning bells from the mountain reach his ears, and Qi Xianxia is momentarily lost in thought.

For the past few days, he has been living in a thatched hut on Wudang Mountain, intent on surpassing the Wudang sect leader who rides a green ox. He has rarely engaged in physical altercations, mostly being forced into verbal sparring with that timid Daoist, yet he has inadvertently benefited greatly. Hearing that Dagengjiao needed repainting and remembering that a celestial sword he had yearned for since childhood hung there, he agreed to help that lazy fellow, Hong. Qi Xianxia never bothered with such minor details, unafraid of criticism from the Celestial Master. Thinking of this, Qi Xianxia was slightly distracted. Wudang Mountain was truly different from the Celestial Master’s abode; it was almost excessively free from worldly contention and strife. Occasional disputes were merely trivial matters that Qi Xianxia disdained to bother with. He made no rash judgments about this, simply tilting his head to glance at Lu Xuan’s sword. Its name was unverifiable, unrecorded in Daoist texts, with only street gossip and unofficial anecdotes giving it imposing names like "Dragon Slayer" or "Azure Sky." Qi Xianxia, of course, didn't take these seriously. However, it was true that this immortal's sword originally had no scabbard. Lu Xuan once said, "Only heaven and earth can serve as this sword's scabbard." But now, the ancient sword had a crude, unrefined peach wood scabbard. Remembering this, Qi Xianxia found it both humorous and frustrating. When he asked the sect leader, Hong, about it recently, the man bashfully revealed the truth: Hong had made the scabbard for the immortal sword when he was young. As for the reason, the young sect leader refused to say, even if it cost him his life.

If this were at the Celestial Master’s residence, Venerable Lu's relic would long ago have been hidden and enshrined in the main hall, fortified with layers of talismans. Not only would adding a scabbard without permission be unthinkable, but even catching a glimpse of it would be rare. To take it a step further, if a scabbard truly needed to be found for the immortal sword, at least python or dragon hide would be fitting.

Wudang Mountain has too few rules.

Qi Xianxia looked down to see Hong Xiang initiating his fist forms. Behind this young sect leader were nearly a hundred Wudang Daoists practicing, both old and young. Initially, only some little sweeping Daoist boys, who found it fun, joined the ox-riding sect leader in his practice. Over time, a few elder Daoists recognized the ancient charm and profound style, and they voluntarily came to Taixu Palace twice daily, at morning bell and evening drum, to practice along. The ox-riding sect leader's set of fist forms began unassumingly, purely natural, and overall, the movements were a series of large circles encompassing small ones, and large rings within small ones, like a silkworm spinning thread continuously.

Qi Xianxia had never witnessed this set of fist forms. Only later, when it was mentioned, did he learn that Hong Xiang had originated it after years of observing the ringing of bells and beating of drums on the mountain. Although Qi Xianxia had practiced swordsmanship since childhood, like all rivers flowing to the sea, he naturally recognized quality. This set of forms, seemingly gentle, contained immense power. When expanded, it seemed to encompass heaven and earth; when condensed, it was like a mustard seed containing a universe. Regardless of its practical combat effectiveness, its value lay in its transcendent concept. To be honest, Qi Xianxia couldn't help but feel a bit jealous of this fellow's innate talent and constitution. This lazy man never diligently practiced martial arts or Daoist cultivation, a stark contrast to his own constant diligence. In the square, the young sect leader, moving like flowing clouds and water, slowly concluded his fist forms. The other Daoists followed suit, their movements already bearing a two or three-tenths resemblance.

An old Daoist stepped forward to consult with the sect leader, and in their discussion, he praised the forms, saying that with prolonged practice, one could "tread on thin ice yet remain as still as a mountain, strike through water currents yet encompass the eight directions in one's heart." The young sect leader listened without conceit or blushing, chuckling, "Not at all, not at all." The old Daoist then worriedly remarked that if everyone on the mountain could learn these forms, there was no guarantee outsiders from below wouldn't secretly learn them. The sect leader shook his head, smiling, "It doesn't matter. These forms excel at nurturing health and spirit. The more people who learn them, the more merit Wudang gains." The old Daoist smiled, no longer needlessly worrying. What did it matter if the sect leader was young? His magnanimity and demeanor certainly didn't lose out to the Celestial Master.

Hong Xiang saw Qi Xianxia carrying the wooden bucket down the ladder, ran over to help take it, and they descended the mountain together, walking side-by-side towards Small Lotus Peak. Some sweeping Daoist boys in the square saw this and felt immense pride. "Look," they whispered, "what about the Young Celestial Master? Hasn't he been won over by our sect leader?" Qi Xianxia didn't mind these subtle thoughts. On the way down the mountain, Hong Xiang led the green ox, still casually with scriptures hanging from one horn, while the other horn now sported the swinging, quite comical wooden bucket. He chuckled, "While practicing, I felt a slight resonance between the ancient sword and you. The day you leave Wudang, just tell me, and I'll give you the sword. If you feel uncomfortable, just consider it a loan."

Qi Xianxia, instead of being pleased, grew angry, scolding, "This is Patriarch Lu's relic, Wudang's mountain-guarding artifact for five hundred years! How can you treat it as a child's toy, giving it away on a whim?!"

Hong Xiang said indifferently, "Didn't I say it's a loan?"

Qi Xianxia snorted, "Don't bring this up again."

Hong Xiang sighed with emotion, "Still, it was the Crown Prince who was bold. If this humble Daoist hadn't desperately pleaded and held onto him when he descended the mountain, you wouldn't have seen this sword."

Qi Xianxia remained unmoved by this, merely remarking sincerely, "Outside the scabbard, the world is vast; inside, the sword energy is long. One can glimpse Patriarch Lu's demeanor back then."

Hong Xiang muttered, "Patriarch Lu specifically warned emperors to bear their own destiny and not to disturb the monarch's path of good governance with internal and external alchemy. Throughout history, alchemists caused calamities and brought about national disasters because wandering immortals entered the court, practicing arts for the sake of 'gain.' This isn't true cultivation; it's more like cultivating falsehood. Like your Uncle Zhao Danping, who preaches in the capital, participating in palace rituals and reportedly writing eloquent memorials to the Celestial Venerable, which is why the people of the capital call him the 'Azure Verse Scholar'—doesn't this Great Celestial Master feel ashamed? Because of his favor, who knows how many Daoists and alchemists are hoping to climb the ranks through this path. This might very well be opening a Pandora's box for the Daoist lineage."

Qi Xianxia, perhaps out of respect for his senior, kept a placid expression and remained noncommittal, even though he had strong reservations about Longhu Celestial Master Zhao Danping's actions.

Hong Xiang led Qi Xianxia to the thatched hut where the Prince of Beiliang had stayed while practicing swordsmanship. Outside, the vegetable garden was lush green; Hong had been tending it all year. He picked a cucumber, wiped off the small thorns, and bit into it. The young sect leader sighed again and again. He remembered the slender girl who had carried him up the mountain, and her "death warrant" beneath Dagengjiao, which Senior Brother Xiaowang had praised as containing sword intent. As an outsider, he always felt that the grievances and affections between the Prince and her were shrouded in mist. If someone claimed the Prince didn't care about her, Hong Xiang would never believe it. For that servant girl, who was in some ways irrationally proud, the Prince had suffered quite a few setbacks. The girl from down the mountain was like an old mother. Hong Xiang looked up at the sky and murmured, "This Princess Taiping truly hasn't lived a peaceful life."

Qi Xianxia stood outside the vegetable garden, watching the sighing young sect leader, and asked, "When do you plan to go down the mountain?"

Hong Xiang replied helplessly, "I dare not."

Qi Xianxia said flatly, "You dare to give Patriarch Lu's sword to an outsider, yet you don't dare go down the mountain?"

Hong Xiang remained silent, as timid and reclusive as ever.

Qi Xianxia sneered, "Are you afraid of hindering Wudang's resurgence? Afraid of letting down your ancestors and senior brothers on the mountain?"

Hong Xiang shook his head, "No."

Qi Xianxia turned and left, leaving behind a question: "The three-sect debate at the peak of Longhu Mountain this year, are you going or not?"

Hong Xiang lowered his head, counting on his fingers, and said, "Allow this humble Daoist to calculate."

Qi Xianxia scoffed, "Calculate what? No matter how you calculate, you won't go down the mountain. Why deceive yourself?"

The young sect leader, whose temper was so good it was astounding, quietly said, "Nonsense!"

Qi Xianxia laughed heartily and walked away.

At Beiliang's frontier fortress, elite troops were heavily garrisoned, and the iron cavalry was fierce.

That day, a sudden sandstorm erupted, with shattered stones as large as dippers scattered everywhere by the wind. Looking from the city walls, all that could be seen was tyrannical dust, exuding the unique desolation of the frontier. Amidst this chaos, a figure in white robes still rode out of the city. Beside him, on horseback, sat an elegant woman veiled in black. The white-robed figure led the horse, holding himself extremely low, making one wonder which of the six major border garrisons deserved such an honor. The woman had an ethereal aura, clutching a pipa. Facing the storm, she gazed into the distance and could see a tornado spiraling skyward. Sitting on horseback, she said in a clear, cold, soft voice, "Openly and privately releasing a great enemy of Beiliang from the city, aren't you afraid the King of Beiliang will grow suspicious of you, his adopted son?"

The white-robed man continued to lead the horse slowly, making no sound. Around where he and the horse passed, the sandstorm could not intrude.

The woman, dressed in black with a black veil but wearing a pair of snow-white embroidered shoes, also fell silent.

The white-robed man finally spoke: "Chen Zhibao only knows that Fan Bailu, the foremost 'cavalry drum' player of Northern Mang, entered the city, but not that Princess Qingluan of Northern Mang has left the city."

The woman in black with white embroidered shoes chuckled, "How dare Bailu call herself the foremost? Xun Zigang's right hand is unmatched in its power, his plucks like charging cavalry. Zu Qingshan's left hand on the strings is profound, his notes like large and small pearls falling onto a jade plate. Only they can be considered pipa masters."

The man smiled faintly, "It's true that those two are skilled at intricate plucking, but their scope is monotonous. They're not as good as Miss Fan, who composes her own lyrics and melodies, plays for her own enjoyment, and integrates everything."

The woman, whose face was obscured by her veil, turned to look at the white-robed man. This grand strategist, for whom she had risked entering Beiliang territory, truly acted unpredictably. Her clear-purposed journey to Beiliang had been forcibly dragged by him into an ambiguous situation. Clenching her teeth, she said in a deep voice, "General, Bailu can guarantee you a place in Northern Mang in the future, a position higher, not lower, than in the Liyang Dynasty!"

Chen Zhibao slightly shook his head and said, "That would be uninteresting."

The woman of special status frowned, "General, are you sure Northern Mang will lose? Can you achieve merits no less than those of the Spring and Autumn period? Beiliang's iron cavalry is indeed said to be invincible, but with court restraints, they haven't been able to fully exert themselves for nearly twenty years. But if you, General, were to enter Northern Mang and take command of its forces, I can guarantee you boundless freedom. Is there anything more interesting in this world than being an enemy of Beiliang's iron cavalry? Once Beiliang is pacified, and you, General, drive south unhindered, with Gu Jiantang, and King Yan Chi, King Guangling, the Spring and Autumn battle scenario would reappear. Wouldn't it be exhilarating for you, General, to turn the world upside down by yourself? You must know that our Northern Mang Emperor's ambition far surpasses your Zhao clan's Son of Heaven!"

The white-robed Chen Zhibao seemed unmoved, smiling slightly, "When did Miss Fan learn to draw cakes to satisfy hunger?"

The woman was first annoyed, then greatly pleased, but she didn't strike while the iron was hot. She lowered her head and reached out to pluck the pipa strings. Instantly, the sound was like a silver vase shattering or silk ripping, the tone clear and resonant. She softly sang: "At fifteen, a youth flew on horseback, now with white hair, no return. No return! Yellow sand and rolling stones engulf a lone rider, lifelong ambition wanes today, wanes today! Iron armor like snow, war drums beat, when will the white-robed hegemon return? When will he return?"

Chen Zhibao heard it and dismissed it with a smile.

The woman put away her pipa; the metallic sounds subsided. She smiled, "Perhaps in this life, it is destined that we, General, will be clearly on opposing sides. But to be able to gaze upon White-Robed Chen on the battlefield, this one feels she has been born at the right time."

Chen Zhibao nodded and released the reins.

The woman did not put on a show of lingering affection, but softly and humbly said, "Since you, General, are temporarily unwilling to make a decision, then I shall quietly await the day you command Beiliang's three hundred thousand iron cavalry."

Chen Zhibao chuckled, "Miss Fan is thinking too much."

The woman did not refute him. She bent down and reached out, seemingly wanting to touch White-Robed Chen's cheek. Chen Zhibao did not dodge, but she pulled her hand back before making contact. Straightening up, she dared not look him directly in the eye, and turned her head, saying bitterly, "General, please forgive my disrespect."

Northern Mang had three pipa masters: Xun Zigang for his right hand, Zu Qingshan for his left. Yet, ultimately, neither could surpass Fan Bailu with both hands.

Chen Zhibao smiled, patted the horse's flank, and no longer saw them off.

The swift horse galloped away.

White-Robed Chen, with a mind as still as water, turned and narrowed his eyes, gazing into the distance at the King Xu banner atop the city walls, lost in thought.

The Liyang Dragon, the Beiliang Python, the Northern Mang Flood Dragon – the White Robe might slay them all at once.

Who spoke this exceedingly ominous prophecy? Huang Longshi?

Little did he know that Huang Sanjia, the one who spouted nonsense and revealed heavenly secrets, was currently dozens of miles away, watching an impoverished wandering swordsman madly practice swordplay by chasing that tornado.

Chen Zhibao returned to the border city, his face expressionless.