Qixianxia, a Longhu Taoist priest known for his stern demeanor, found himself greatly influenced after an extended stay at Wudang Mountain. He was often conscripted by Hong Xixiang for various tasks, such as repairing temples or gathering firewood and charcoal to build bamboo houses. Initially, he faced friction with several generations of Wudang priests, and the younger Taoist novices treated him rather coldly. However, over time, they came to appreciate his character despite his perpetually serious expression, which often made him seem as if he were owed thousands of coins. Their young master and abbot treated him with respect, and when the novices heard that his swordsmanship rivaled that of the sixth master, some of the bolder ones dared to ask him about sword techniques. Qixianxia, generous and free of prejudice, answered all their questions. Eventually, a group of young Taoists, fascinated by the image of sword immortals and martial exploits, followed him around chattering incessantly, making his once solitary bamboo hut quite lively. Unlike the rigid rules and countless regulations of the Longhu sect, Wudang Mountain had fewer formalities. Qixianxia had expected difficulty adjusting, but to his surprise, he found the mischievous novices and elder brothers like Chen Yao, Song Zhiming, and Yu Xingrui quite approachable.
Gradually, Qixianxia’s initial determination to compete with the “cow-riding” Wudang priests faded, and he settled into cultivating sword techniques and Taoist practices on Wudang Mountain. Occasionally, he would ascend to the summit’s Tai Xu Palace to admire the sunrise and sunset. Gazing out, he beheld the seventy-two surrounding peaks like lotus petals encircling the central peak, all bowing respectfully. After each meditation session, he would instinctively look toward a legendary sword hanging beneath the eaves of the palace—the authentic relic of the immortal Lüzu. Qixianxia had revered Lüzu since childhood, which was why he had devoted himself to the sword path, seeking the ultimate mastery of sword techniques capable of severing heads from a thousand miles away. In Taoist tradition, swords were divided into Dao swords and Fa swords. Dao swords were used to sever worldly desires, while Fa swords were for slaying demons and redressing injustice. Dao swords aided spiritual ascension, while Fa swords inevitably entangled the wielder in karmic consequences. A Tian Master of Longhu Mountain had once suffered a rare heavenly tribulation, nearly perishing, and only survived through the sacrifice of several precious lotus plants from the Dragon Pond. Thus, Qixianxia’s choice of the Fa sword path had caused considerable debate within Longhu.
On this day, it was the birthday of the revered Zhenwu Emperor, and pilgrims flocked to the mountain. Strangely, since the “cow-riding” Hong Xixiang became abbot, Wudang’s popularity had grown steadily, despite lacking the miraculous feats of the previous abbot, Wang Chonglou, who could sever rivers with a single finger. Hong had never even descended the mountain once. Qixianxia often listened to his fellow priest Baiyu explain the concept of spiritual fortune, and though he understood only a little, he had observed the clouds and mists gathering over the main peak. Wudang stood in the northwest of the continent, while spiritual fortune generally flowed eastward like a great river. Yet recently, even Qixianxia, a novice in such matters, had noticed the surging clouds and mists gathering beyond the seventy-two peaks, though their eventual eruption remained uncertain. Fortunately, Qixianxia was not one to worry needlessly. Whether Xuanwu would rise, whether Longhu would endure, or which sect truly deserved recognition as the ancestral home of Taoism—all of it mattered little to him. Suddenly, his heart skipped a beat, and he gazed upward toward the ancient sword that had remained sheathed for five hundred years.
The ancient sword, silent since Lüzu’s ascension, began to tremble and hum like a dragon.
The clouds over the seventy-two peaks roared and surged like seventy-two white dragons rushing toward the central peak.
Hundreds of yellow cranes soared and circled.
The countless pilgrims who had come to celebrate Zhenwu’s birthday all looked up at this spectacle. Someone shouted that Zhenwu had appeared, and tens of thousands of awestruck pilgrims prostrated themselves on the ground. To the common people, lofty teachings of sages or the profound doctrines of Buddhism and Taoism often held little sway. They responded more to tangible signs—like the weapons of ruffians or the robes and palanquins of officials. Hence, Buddhism depicted eighteen hells to instill fear, while Taoism told of immortals who saved the world. Though scholars dismissed such tales, they deeply affected the common folk. The Northern Dipper governed death, and Zhenwu presided over Wudang Mountain, commanding the north. In his prime, even southerners traveled to Wudang to pray. Though Wudang’s influence had waned, the northern people still held deep faith. With the heavens churning and yellow cranes crying out, who could doubt that a god had descended?
Chen Yao, who had been searching for a scripture in the sutra pavilion, stumbled to the window, trembling as he pushed it open. Tears streamed down his aged face as he whispered, “Brother Wang, our youngest brother has done it!”
Song Zhiming, who had been refining elixirs deep in the mountains, abandoned his cauldron—containing what mortals considered divine pills—and knelt, exclaiming, “Disciple Song Zhiming of the thirty-six Wudang disciples greets the Patriarch!”
Yu Xingrui, having found a disciple with extraordinary potential in the East Sea and now seated on a meditation platform teaching him inner techniques, clapped his hands in joy, tears streaming down his face. “Li Yufu,” he cried, “your master is finally descending the mountain!”
The seventy-two peaks bowed toward the summit; twenty-four streams flowed endlessly. The longest waterfall, as if guided by divine hands, stretched straight toward the neighboring Xiaolianhua Peak, where a young Taoist cultivated the Way. The waterfall became a bridge across the sky. Tens of thousands of pilgrims, witnessing this, fell silent in awe. A bridge of water—why was it laid? Qixianxia watched the ancient sword fly from Tai Xu Palace, sheathed and glinting, following the water bridge toward Xiaolianhua Peak. He saw the cow-riding figure leaning against a turtle-borne stele, murmuring, “Today’s omen favors descending to Jiangnan.”
The immortal sword circled the young abbot joyfully, like an old friend reunited.
Heart pounding, Qixianxia shouted, “Hong Xixiang, who are you?! Why does Lüzu’s sword resonate with you?!”
The young master ignored him, gazing blankly as he calculated once more. After a long silence, he exhaled and smiled faintly at Qixianxia. Rising slowly, he reached out to the hovering sword, fingers brushing its blade. The sheath gleamed like water, and he whispered, “You go to Jiangnan. You go to Longhu. I’ll follow.”
The sheath flew toward Longhu Mountain; the blade soared toward Jiangnan.
The ancient sword descended first.
Hong Xixiang, clad in simple Taoist robes, brushed off dust and mounted a giant yellow crane, gazing toward Jiangnan.
Jiangnan—how beautiful, especially in red.
Qixianxia gazed after the crane, stunned. “Lüzu?!”
Just as he was overwhelmed, the crane returned. The figure, now riding a crane instead of a cow, jumped down with an awkward grin. “I should greet the seniors before leaving. Oh, Qixiong, would you mind overseeing the novices’ lessons while I’m gone?”
Even the usually reserved Qixianxia wanted to curse. What kind of immortal was this?!
The new abbot, who had never left the Xuanwu Dangxing arch since childhood, and whom the prince had mocked as a coward, had finally found the courage to descend the mountain. A miraculous sight unfolded—a Taoist riding a yellow crane into the horizon.
The crane soared through clouds, passing the mighty fortress of Yulong Pass in the northwest. The fortress, guarding the empire’s northern frontier, stood with towering walls and overlapping defenses. Soldiers on the ramparts spotted the crane—was there a figure on its back? Indeed! The news spread like wildfire, and soon, the entire garrison crowded the walls, staring in awe as the Taoist soared overhead, too awestruck to speak.
In the prosperous heart of the Central Plains stood the Yellow Crane Tower by the great river, its eaves sharp and majestic. Five hundred years ago, the hermit Lü Dongxuan had ascended to immortality here, vowing not to enter heaven until all injustice was gone. He once flew past this tower, bringing auspicious clouds. The walls bore hundreds of famous poems, none surpassing the legendary “The Immortal Has Flown Away.” Today, a grand poetry gathering was held there, and the scholars, drunk on wine and verse, suddenly heard of a mysterious yellow crane flying eastward. Rushing to the balcony, they saw a celestial figure atop it, rivaling Lüzu himself! The poets gawked, disbelieving—could there truly be a living immortal?
Five hundred years ago, he flew west. Five hundred years later, he returns east.
Amidst the misty waters, the Yellow Crane soared past the tower. An old scholar murmured, “To witness this, we need not fear death.”
Jiangnan.
Old scenes, old faces, familiar sights.
Autumn winds rise, leaves fall. Life gathers and scatters. Crows perch and startle. When will we meet again? In such moments, emotions run deep.
The peonies of Baoguo Temple withered one by one, but some ancient osmanthus trees still bloomed in late autumn, their branches lush and fragrant. The Lus of Huting Prefecture had recently overshadowed the other three noble families, like an old osmanthus tree standing tall among lesser trees. After the family head resigned from his post as Right Sacrificial Official of the Imperial Academy, he was unexpectedly appointed Minister of Rites, a second-rank official. His brother, the wandering swordsman and “Tangxi Sword Immortal” Lu Baijie, left Tuibu Garden and became Deputy Minister of War in the capital, just a step from the Grand Secretariat. With both brothers rising, the Lu family became a household name, forcing the court to reassess their alliance with the Prince of Beiliang. Yet, the once-infamous widow of Jiangnan, Lu’s sister-in-law, now lived in solitude. After the scholar Liu Liting was dragged to death by horses, who dared approach her? Rumors spread that she had fallen ill and grown thin. Men felt conflicted, women united in hatred, flocking to temples and shrines to pray for her swift demise. Noblewomen whispered venomous gossip whenever they met. With the Lu family’s power shifting to the capital, especially after the Tangxi Sword Immortal left Jiangnan, the Huting branch faced increasing difficulties. Old rumors resurfaced, and the widow’s name was dragged through the mud once more.
Before a tree shedding golden osmanthus petals, the maid Erqiao fumed, “Miss, why won’t those hags learn their lesson? I’d like to slap them all!”
The woman, thinner than before, tapped Erqiao’s nose playfully. “You’re calling others hags? Aren’t you one yourself?”
Erqiao giggled. “The prince said you used to love wearing red dresses. Why have I never seen you in one?”
The woman’s expression softened. “You’re too young to understand.”
“Not that young,” Erqiao muttered.
The woman bent to gather a handful of osmanthus, its fragrance filling her hands. She gazed at the branches, silent.
Erqiao asked gently, “Miss, it’s getting cold. Let’s go back?”
The woman, paler now, shook her head. “Not yet.”
Erqiao hesitated. “Miss, promise not to be angry.”
The woman smiled. “Go ahead.”
Erqiao lowered her voice. “The prince once told me that a coward on Wudang Mountain still secretly loves you.”
The woman gazed at the sky, letting the osmanthus fall. “That’s your brother’s lie.”
Erqiao whispered, “But you’re waiting for him, aren’t you?”
The woman flicked Erqiao’s forehead. “You shameless little girl.”
Erqiao pouted, cheeks flushed.
“Aren’t you Xu Zhihu?”
A sinister voice echoed.
Erqiao glared upward, spotting a young man crouched on the temple wall, a long saber on his back.
Xu Zhihu pulled Erqiao behind her. “What do you want?”
The swordsman grinned cruelly. “I’m Yuan Tingshan—no aliases. I have a score to settle with your brother-in-law’s younger brother. Besides, I was paid to do this. Otherwise, I wouldn’t bother a widow like you.”
Xu Zhihu frowned but remained calm. “Then kill me.”
Yuan Tingshan laughed. “I usually don’t talk to my victims, but you’re different. It’d be a shame to kill you so quickly.”
Xu Zhihu asked, “Why?”
Yuan Tingshan extended a bloodied arm. “Your bodyguard from Beiliang tried to stop me. He’s dead. If he hadn’t been rusty, I might not have reached you so soon. Now, are you afraid to die?”
Xu Zhihu asked, “What about the girl behind me?”
Yuan Tingshan replied, “One slash.”
Xu Zhihu closed her eyes. “Then do it.”
Yuan Tingshan rose, drawing his saber.
“Dare you?!”
A voice roared with the sound of a sword.
A sword flew from Wudang Mountain, landing before Xu Zhihu.
A yellow crane descended upon Huting Prefecture. A young Taoist dropped like a falling star into the temple courtyard.
Even Yuan Tingshan, hardened as he was, gaped in shock at the floating sword and the young Taoist before him. The Taoist glared southeast. “Zhao Huangchao, do you think Hong Xixiang won’t sever your dynasty’s fortune with one sword?!”
The sword vanished.
At Longhu Mountain’s gate, a scabbard fell from the heavens.
The sword followed, sheathing itself.
The mountain trembled.
Then came a voice from nowhere: “Zhao Huangchao, do you think Hong Xixiang won’t sever your dynasty’s fortune with one sword?!”
Nine Dragon Pond lotuses withered in an instant.
In the Tian Master ancestral hall, centuries-old tablets crashed to the ground.
A middle-aged priest roared, “Hong Xixiang! Whether you’re Lü Dongxuan reborn or Qi Xuanzhen reincarnated, how dare you defy heaven itself?!”
The voice thundered from the heavens: “Seven hundred years of cultivation—what is a mere heavenly tribulation to me?!”
In the temple, before the young Taoist even moved, Yuan Tingshan bled from seven orifices, crashing through walls as he fled, terror-stricken.
Erqiao tugged Xu Zhihu’s sleeve. “Miss, is that a heavenly immortal?”
Xu Zhihu, eyes red, turned away. “What immortal? Just a smelly Taoist from Wudang.”
The young Taoist, who had defied heaven itself, now looked awkwardly at the crane behind him, feathers falling.
Xu Zhihu asked coldly, “Why are you here?”
Erqiao saw the Taoist blushing, tongue-tied.
She wondered, “Is this immortal’s face too thin?”
Xu Zhihu turned slightly. “Who are you?”
The Taoist, destined to carry the Dao, stammered, “Hong Xixiang.”
She repeated, “Why are you here?”
He summoned courage. “You once said you wanted to ride a crane.”
She turned her back.
The man who had threatened to sever a dynasty’s fortune took a deep breath. “Xu Zhihu, I love you.”
“Whether you believe it or not, I’ve loved you for seven hundred years.”
“No one has loved you longer.”
“In the next life, I’ll love you again.”
Erqiao blinked, puzzled. She saw her mistress crying and laughing, utterly confused. “Guess Miss was right—I’m too young to understand.”
The young Taoist extended his hand. “Wherever you wish to go, I’ll go with you.”
That day, the young Wudang abbot rode a yellow crane to Jiangnan, then flew away with Xu Zhihu, leaving the martial world behind.
An immortal descended to Jiangnan on a yellow crane, only to leave the mortal realm the moment he arrived.
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