Upon arriving at Xiangfan, one could see the famous city tower Diaoyutai atop the city wall.
One pillar of the fish terrace upheld the half of the realm for a decade.
The city tower bore a wooden plaque inscribed with four characters: “Lonely Fishing upon the Central Plains.”
Xu Fengnian paid no heed to Wei Wei and Huangtoulang, directly disembarked from the boat, mounted a swift horse, and rode toward the ghost city in the twilight. Approaching the city gate, he dismounted. Jiang Ni, seemingly believing that Prince Xu truly possessed Daoist magical artifacts, jumped down from the carriage and hurried to Xu Fengnian’s side. Suppressing a smile, Xu Fengnian pointed his Xiudong blade towards the city wall, squinting: “See it there? That greatest defender of the land once resided at that spot for ten years, giving rise to the saying ‘steady as Diaoyutai.’ Few men earned Prince Xu’s hatred; however, this scholar from Xichu, who truly grasped the moral essence from the Spring and Autumn Annals, ranked among the top three. Even after the fall of the Xichu capital post-Xilei, even after the entire Jiangnan region was lost, this fortress and Diaoyutai remained unshaken. Alas, however strong Xiangfan may be, it could not alter the fate of the realm.”
Jiang Ni bit her lip.
Leading his horse, Xu Fengnian said slowly: “When grain stores ran out, they ate their horses, then searched for sparrows and dug for rats. When even those perished, they turned to men.”
Jiang Ni remained silent.
Xu Fengnian whispered softly: “The soldiers knew no other fate but death. To the last man, they fought until none survived. This was the great war of the Spring and Autumn Realm—these tragedies unimaginable to those who merely debated at Shangyin Academy. The mighty Xiangfan: eighteen zhang and six chi tall, base nine zhang wide, a city spanning eleven li. Its foundation was laid with granite and limestone from quarries, its surface with enormous bricks from three provinces. Each brick bore the names of the maker, overseer, and artisan. When the bricks were laid, gaps were filled with a mixture of sticky rice water, sorghum juice, lime, and tung oil, and even steamed earth was used. The master architect in charge of constructing Xiangfan wielded a sharp cone—if a cone penetrated an inch, the builder was slain and buried in the wall. Thus the city was tightly fortified like cast iron. Historians described it as terribly cruel.”
Xu Fengnian halted, avoiding Jiang Ni’s gaze, his tone cold: “Back then, Xu Shao laid siege while Wang Mingyang defended. Each made thorough preparations. This scholar, once a Jixia Academy thinker, enforced a scorched-earth policy, transferring all food and resources from outside into the city, even dismantling houses, carrying timbers and roof tiles within. To prevent Xu Shao from tunneling, he had a hundred wells dug along the walls, each containing leather-covered earthen jars for those with keen ears to listen. Not only the fifty thousand defenders but also the city’s one hundred and fifty thousand civilians were divided into classes—monks, craftsmen, and wanderers assuming their respective duties. Defensive supplies were split into official and civilian categories. Skilled martial men patrolled day and night to guard against spies and saboteurs. Mastering every strategy, Wang Mingyang fully displayed at Shangyin Academy his military knowledge through those ten years. Xu Shao himself admitted, had all at Shangyin Academy been like him, even he wouldn’t mind becoming a Jixia academician.”
Xu Fengnian continued walking. “To attack the city, first they had to cross the river and the moat, then approach the walls, and only then came the bloodiest part—scaling the walls. Known as ‘Ant-ascending,’ picture hundreds of people climbing ladders amid arrows, boulders, and boiling oil. During this battle, the monks devised the Demon Queller Mace; Taoist priests created furnace-borne golden liquid that rotted the flesh upon touch. Following the scaling came street fighting. At that time, Xiangfan harbored numerous heroes and outlaws, determined to protect this strategic central stronghold, united in hatred against the enemy. Before the street battles, they repeatedly drove back the Beiliang troops at the walls in close combat. Without them, Xiangfan wouldn’t have required ten years to fall—merely three would have sufficed. The world remembers Beiliang’s unmatched cavalry, but few realize their infantry was no less ruthless in city assault campaigns across the Spring and Autumn Realm, devastating all. Only at Xiangfan did elite units suffer major losses, including three hundred tunneling experts known as ‘diggers,’ nearly all wiped out. This decade-long battle—right or wrong, who can say? Yet in those ten years, Xu Shao, a man harboring vengeance like a dragon, truly sealed his feud with the martial world.”
The city’s moat was exceptionally wide, the drawbridge not fully retracted. Though night patrols were strict, the bridge had long been kept lowered, the main gates never tightly shut, following the instructions of the Longhushan Celestial Master. After performing more than thirty thousand grand rituals for salvation and absolution of the underworld, the gates remained open, allowing wandering spirits to leave the ghost city of Xiangfan. Legend told that before his departure, the Longhushan Celestial Master personally inscribed talismans around the city and placed a Daoist heavenly charm on the top floor of the fishing pavilion, inscribed: “Heavenly Stars have returned to Heaven, Demonic Spirits must sink into Earth.” It was said the charm would burn to ashes once all spirits of Xiangfan had dissipated.
Yet years passed, and the charm never faded—becoming an unshakable gloom lingering over hundreds of thousands in Xiangfan.
Led by his horse, Xu Fengnian walked beside two young kui beasts, Jiang Ni walking silently beside him. Xu Fengnian instinctively looked toward Diaoyutai. The moon was bright, the stars few, the city tower spectacular in night’s glow.
Turning to the little mud girl, Xu Fengnian gently said: “Don’t be afraid.”
Jiang Ni clenched her sweaty palms, bowing slightly and nodding.
Though the prince could not see the figure in the tower, the figure certainly saw him.
The man within had a tall build, clad in plain Daoist robes, with hemp shoes and a wooden hairpin. In his hand, a white horsehair whisk, he stood in Diaoyutai’s topmost floor—sacred ground guarded by several respected elder Daoists from Longhushan, so strictly guarded not even Prince Jing’an dared enter. Years ago, the Grand Celestial Master decreed only those of the TianShi sect might enter.
Had Xiao Nuwa, the girl who once wrecked the TianShi temple, and Xiao HeShang Nanbei been present, they would have recognized the Daoist priest—none other than the man who brought them into the inner temple, who had blocked a powerful attack with his white whisk from the arrogant Huangzi priest, and personally introduced them to Master Bailian.
This junior Celestial Master of Longhushan bore the surname Qi, same as the revered Daoist Qi Xuanzhen, and shared the same face as an ancient Longhushan ancestor.
Holding the whisk, praised by the national Daoist master as “Taigong seated in Kunlun.”
After descending Longhushan, tales of him accumulated like rolling snowballs, seemingly earning universal acclaim. Yet he remained indifferent, for none of it concerned him. To him, those grand truths few understood were no truths at all. Brotherhood, filial piety, and marital love—these were the real truths. All that great knowledge, confined in ancient scrolls and records, was no knowledge at all. Diligent farming, honest trade, and shrewd business—these were true knowledge. Aware of his shallow Daoist roots, he forsook celestial Daoist quests, seeking instead to bring salvation through martial Dao in the mundane world. He descended the mountain for two reasons: one was to enter Xiangfan, as his master, before entering seclusion, had prophesied the heavenly charm would burn, and he wished to witness it himself. The other was to visit Wudang, to determine if the young patriarch truly bore the weight of celestial Dao. The test? Simplicity itself—his whisk could act as a sword; if he could slay the young patriarch, it proved his power fake. If not, then true.
He turned, glancing at the talisman suspended by a red string connecting heaven and earth, frowning.
The talisman trembled.
Xu Fengnian squinted, spotting a strange woman emerging from the city gate.
Her head shaved clean of the thirty-three thousand strands of Worries and Troubles.
She wore all-white monk’s robes, a white serpent wrapped around her wrist holding a white gourd.
Barefoot, yet not a speck of dust touched her jade-like feet.
She floated lightly across the bridge.
Outside Xiangfan, heavy ghostly aura fell like snow blanketing the sky—yet alone, she appeared as Avalokiteshvara, ferrying souls.
In Diaoyutai, the talisman burned into ashes.
“Ten thousand ghosts exit the city.”
A Longhushan Daoist sighed: “Longhushan has lost. Lantuo Mountain prevails.”
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