SS CH97

The journey from the Taishang Palace to Wuxiang Temple was essentially traveling from Dongling to Xichuan. If one were to draw a line on a map, it would look very much like cutting the vast territory of Great Chu right in half at the waist. Seeing that there was less than a month left before the Grand Martial Assembly began, no matter could be delayed. Therefore, after their discussion that day, Duanqing took over the vast majority of the sect’s affairs so that Xuan Su could leave the palace to attend the assembly. To be safe, he also invited an elder of his own generation to travel with them.

At this moment, Ye Fusheng stood before the mountain gate, holding Xie Li’s hand in one and the reins of a horse in the other. The autumn wind was harsh, and fallen leaves scattered about. It should have been a scene overwhelmed by the sorrow of parting, but combined with the utterly out-of-tune, absurd singing coming from his mouth, he forcefully turned three parts of desolation into seven parts of public disturbance.

“Black and white chess pieces, a board of right and wrong, alternating between correct and incorrect, straight and crooked; ears listen to the play, singing of painted skin, truth and illusion are hard to explain; heroes reach their dead end, beauties lament their twilight years, sighing a sentence of exhausted mountains and rivers, singing a verse of ruthless time…”

Ye Fusheng’s voice was pleasant, and his speech was so witty and eloquent that even teahouse storytellers would have to concede defeat. However, his singing was always off-key. The more he sang, the more absurd it became, and the more enthusiastic he grew.

Even with Xie Li’s excellent upbringing, he couldn’t help but pull away to cover his ears with his hands, yet he still couldn’t block out the demonic sound piercing his brain.

Fortunately, the people they were waiting for finally arrived.

Duanqing remained in the palace and did not come to see them off. Elder Duanheng, who was over sixty years old, led Xuan Su and a group of Taishang Palace disciples down the Qingming Path. Ye Fusheng was sharp-eyed; he immediately spotted two monks wearing tea-brown robes walking two steps behind Elder Duanheng to his right.

The taller one was about thirty years old, holding an alms bowl and wearing Buddhist prayer beads around his neck. His pace was neither fast nor slow, his footwork steady and powerful—clearly a master of internal martial arts. Yet, while his face maintained a humble and polite expression, his eyes revealed distinct pride and arrogance.

In comparison, the slightly shorter one was much more pleasing to the eye.

This monk looked only eighteen or nineteen. He had fair skin and handsome features. He carried neither a bowl nor a staff, only holding a string of purple sandalwood prayer beads—a total of one hundred and eight. He slowly rolled them with his thumb in time with his steps, cycling endlessly, much like the ceaseless cycle of day and night.

Seeing him, before the two monks could show any doubt, Xuan Su spoke up: “This is a disciple under my Martial Uncle Duanqing, named Ye Fusheng. Although he has not taken vows, he is still a member of the Taishang Palace. This is the Young Master of Duanshui Villa, Xie Li, who is also accompanying us to the assembly.”

Pausing, he introduced the monks to Ye Fusheng and Xie Li: “These two are Senior Brother Hengming and Junior Brother Hengyuan of Wuxiang Temple.”

Ye Fusheng’s heart stirred.

Currently, the two highest-ranking members of Wuxiang Temple were Abbot Sejian and Zen Master Sekong, who held the renowned title of “Western Buddha.” Below the “Se” generation was the “Heng” generation. It made sense they were introduced on the same generational level as Xuan Su.

He hadn’t heard of Hengming, but he knew of the young Hengyuan for a single reason—this person was Zen Master Sekong’s only disciple.

The Western Buddha had only accepted one disciple in his entire life. His background and origins were unknown to anyone; all that was known was that he bowed to Zen Master Sekong eight years ago and changed his name to “Hengyuan” from then on.

One sword and three blades, East, South, West, and North. The Western Buddha’s status in the martial world carried immense weight. Countless people would have willingly shaved their heads and taken vows to become his disciple, yet he ultimately accepted an unknown young boy. Furthermore, he never took another disciple afterward. Hengyuan was both his first and his last, closed-door disciple.

Unfortunately, in his eight years as a disciple, no one had ever heard of him possessing any high talent. His martial arts aptitude was average, and his comprehension of Zen was ordinary. Aside from being kind-hearted and gentle-natured, he showed no other remarkable qualities. Countless people in the martial world lamented for the Western Buddha, saying that the “Futou Fist Scripture” would become a lost art.

As he pondered, the two monks brought their palms together and chanted a Buddha’s name simultaneously. Hengming didn’t like to talk, but Hengyuan offered them a slight smile.

Feeling Xie Li grab a corner of his clothes, Ye Fusheng reached back and grasped that small paw, soothing his anxiety and nervousness before bowing to the two monks.

Duanheng was the highest-ranking elder in the Taishang Palace besides Duanqing. He normally oversaw the Discipline Hall, possessed a strict and rigid personality, and thoroughly disliked these superficial pleasantries. After a couple of polite exchanges, Duanheng spoke up: “The journey is far. Let us set off early.”

Once he spoke, Xuan Su naturally wouldn’t object, and Hengming and Hengyuan deferred to their host. Ye Fusheng glanced at this little old man wearing Daoist robes with his hair pinned by a wooden hairpin. He didn’t see any immortal, transcendent Daoist bearing; he only felt he was looking at an old monkey puffing out its chest and holding its head high, exuding an imposing authority without anger.

Yet, this seemingly unlovable old man possessed a completely restrained aura, leaking not a trace of martial energy. His movements were agile, and his breath remained completely undisturbed when he spoke.

Regardless of his physical martial skills, his internal cultivation was clearly evident.

It seemed Duanqing hadn’t asked this man to accompany them just to maintain appearances or make up the numbers. His primary purpose was likely to keep the younger generation in line and stop them from running wild.

Indeed, after Duanheng spoke, the group of over thirty people all mounted their horses. Following his usual routine, Ye Fusheng hauled Xie Li onto his own horse. Following them forward for a few steps, he ultimately couldn’t resist looking back.

Beside the Wangchen stone stele stood a person who hadn’t been there before. Because the distance was already great, he couldn’t see clearly, but Ye Fusheng was absolutely certain it was Duanqing.

Duanqing was still dressed in his scattered black and white Daoist robes. In a rare occurrence, his snow-white hair was not pinned up, but rather draped loosely down his back, slightly messy from the wind, making it seem as if his entire being was about to ride the wind and drift away.

He stood silently by the stone stele, saying nothing of this hasty parting. Only his gaze clung to Ye Fusheng, watching him drift further and further away.

Duanqing had always understood that he was old.

Just as Shen Wuduan had said, he had become a hollow shell. Looking bright on the outside, his insides had already rotted and hollowed out.

He was old. Many things had become empty talk. The time he spent standing in place waiting grew longer, and the roads he walked grew ever shorter.

Fortunately, he could still watch.

Duanqing watched Ye Fusheng sit on the horseback, sweeping away his previous desolate aura brought by the bleak autumn wind, radiating renewed spirit and elegance. It was just like the Gu Xiao who left Feiyun Peak thirteen years ago, welcoming the future storms with such free-spirited joy. The only difference was that Gu Xiao back then didn’t understand the ways of the world, whereas the Ye Fusheng of today had tasted all the bitter and sweet flavors of the mortal realm.

The silhouettes of over thirty people looked like a long line of tiny ants on the mountain road, yet Duanqing’s gaze remained fixed solely on Ye Fusheng until he galloped away and vanished entirely from sight.

Only then did Duanqing turn to leave, but unexpectedly, a disciple sprinted over from a small path, reporting, “Elder, someone has broken into the mountain.”

A “break-in” naturally meant they didn’t knock on the gate through the maze array. Duanqing’s expression remained unchanged. “Where are they?” he asked faintly.

“They came upstream from the lower reaches of ‘Xiaoyao River,’ broke through Wenzui Cliff, injured four disciples, and are currently…” Pausing, the disciple continued, “They are currently waiting at Qingjing Terrace, bluntly demanding to see you.”

Qingjing Terrace was not a place for secluded cultivation or martial arts practice. It was not far from the Repentance Wall where Duanqing resided long-term, but it was the burial ground and resting place of past sect masters and elders of the Taishang Palace.

This was a forbidden area that even inner disciples of the Taishang Palace could not enter without authorization, let alone an outsider with an unknown background.

“Your martial skills have grown lax, and your vigilance is insufficient. Reflect on this yourself after the matter is resolved.” Duanqing flicked his sleeve, striking the disciple’s chest. The latter stumbled back three steps, the congested blood in his chest forced out by the wind of the palm strike. Feeling much better, he hurriedly complied.

Duanqing had already brushed past him. With seemingly ordinary steps, he quickly disappeared at the end of the mountain path.

At this moment, Qingjing Terrace was no longer living up to its name of “Tranquility.” Dozens of Taishang Palace disciples, holding long swords, had formed a sword array, facing the area with strict vigilance but daring not to act rashly.

The intruder they were pointing their swords at was a strangely dressed woman.

She wasn’t tall, and her figure was thin, appearing almost petite overall. However, she was no longer young. A few streaks of gray hair were mixed into the blue ribbons woven into a rather complex hair bun. Three crescent silver hairpins were inserted diagonally, and the dangling gemstone beads clashed against each other, emitting a crisp, pleasant ringing sound in the wind.

She looked to be in her forties, exactly the age when a woman transitions from her prime into decline. Yet, her face showed no signs of heavy twilight; instead, she possessed a bizarrely bright and striking beauty. Even with the traces of time visible at the corners of her eyes, one still found her beautiful.

The woman stepped across the lush grass. The wind brushed back her bangs, revealing a pair of somewhat frivolous eyes. She held a bright, snow-white curved saber in her left hand, and a jug of wine in her right. Paying completely no mind to the swords behind her, her eyes were focused solely on a single grave.

The grave of the fifth generation Sect Master of the Taishang Palace, the Eastern Daoist Ji Qingyan.

She returned the curved saber to the scabbard at her waist, freeing her left hand to trace the cold tombstone. Her gaze, which usually held mockery and arrogance, softened, and she plucked away a fallen leaf that had landed on the stone.

Hearing light footsteps from behind, she turned and saw the snow-white-haired Duanqing.

A flash of shock crossed her eyes, disappearing quickly. The woman curled her deliberately painted crimson lips and smiled: “I heard you came out of seclusion. I thought that guy surnamed Wei was talking nonsense, but I didn’t expect it to be true.”

Looking at her, Duanqing waved his hand, ordering the disciples behind him to withdraw from Qingjing Terrace, before asking, “Why have you sought me out?”

“It’s not just to find you.” The woman turned back to the tombstone. “Five years. I should have come to see him long ago, but I only recently found a chance to leave the mountain.”

As soon as she spoke these words, Duanqing’s thoughts clicked into place. His eyes darkened as he said, “The Martial Arts Assembly is going to spark a storm.”

“If you had been this sharp back then, you wouldn’t have ended up in this situation today.” The woman smiled. Suddenly, she kicked away the incense, candles, and fruits offered in front of the grave, her voice turning cold. “The burial ground of the grand Eastern Daoist—what’s the point of putting these meaningless, vulgar things here?”

Duanqing watched her act wildly without stopping or reprimanding her. He merely watched quietly as she sat on the ground and cracked open the red seal of the wine jug in her hand.

Having lost his senses of smell and taste, he naturally couldn’t smell the metallic, rust-like scent of blood mixed within the strong aroma of the wine. But he could see the stream of red pouring out when the woman tilted the jug.

It was a jug of strong liquor mixed with blood.

“Before coming here, I heard the ‘Ten Year Lamp’ of Jialan City was the most famous, so I specifically went to buy this jug. Unfortunately, two blind fools knocked over half of it, so I had to use their blood to top it off.” After offering half a jug of the blood-wine, the woman flicked her wrist, uncaringly tilted her head back, and took a drink. She turned and offered it to Duanqing. “The wine is good, and the blood is strong. I’ve already taken a sip of the enemy’s blood. Won’t you taste it?”

Duanqing didn’t take it. He merely asked, “People of the imperial court?”

“Accurately speaking, Chu Xun’s people.” The woman’s lips curled up. “With Ruan Feiyu’s death, his true motives are revealed. He can’t hold back anymore and is resorting to desperate measures.”

Duanqing said, “With Zhao Qing captured, I thought you wouldn’t have the spare time to worry about other things.”

“Heh heh, who is he? What does he have to do with me?” The woman chuckled lowly. “Just bait for fishing. Once the fish is hooked, who cares if he lives or dies?”

Duanqing’s gaze turned icy.

“I came to find you to ask you one question.” She swallowed a large gulp of the blood-wine, not caring that the splashing liquid stained half her robes red. Turning to face Duanqing, she raised her arm and smashed the wine jug onto the ground. All the arrogance had vanished from her eyes, replaced by surging fury.

This fury was directed entirely at Duanqing. It wasn’t like thorns pricking his back, but a blade aimed straight at his heart.

“People always change, but you have changed far too much.” The woman stared coldly at Duanqing. “Mu Qingshang, hiding away in the deep mountains like a turtle for thirty years, have you ground away all your edge?”

With a sharp shing, the curved saber was drawn from its scabbard. The string of golden bells hanging from the hilt chimed in the wind, inexplicably amplifying the murderous intent.

The blade pointed diagonally at Duanqing, sharp as a crescent moon. Looking at Duanqing’s still-impassive face, like an ancient well without ripples, she scoffed: “Today, in front of Ji Qingyan, you either come with me, or you kill me and pretend you knew nothing of this, or else…”

Pausing, the corners of her lips, still stained with blood, looked even more macabre as she smiled: “Or else, I will slice open your chest to see if your heart is truly dead.”