Chapter 29: Understanding or Not?

That night, Jiang Ni, who was no longer the Princess of Western Chu, descended the mountain alone. Xu Fengnian did not fly into a rage and destroy her rebellious calligraphy. Instead, he lay on the stone steps, drank most of a jug of rice wine, finished all the beef, and waited until the eastern sky turned pale with dawn before leaving the Tai Xu Palace. That day, Xu Fengnian continued to train diligently with his blade. A late bloomer must always endure some hardship.

At dawn, a young novice sweeping the plaza was startled by the hastily scrawled characters on the ground, mistaking them for divine scripture written by an immortal. He dropped his broom and ran back to the temple to fetch his master. The master, after seeing it, called for his own master, and soon the six highest-ranking elders of Wudang—masters and grandmasters—had gathered.

Among them was Wang Chonglou, the only Taoist in the past sixty years to master the Great Yellow Court. There was Chen Yao, the strict yet not inflexible guardian of Wudang’s moral discipline, still vigorous in his nineties, who loved lecturing the most talented junior on the mountain, though his scoldings always ended with more thunder than rain.

Song Zhiming, who had lived two lifetimes and was now one hundred and forty years old, had broken through the “Ending Barrier” seven or eight times—a feat unmatched by most in the world. He was also the master of alchemy, responsible for Wudang’s vast array of elixirs.

Yu Xingrui, who had just returned from wandering the Eastern Sea, was unkempt in appearance but second only to Wang Chonglou in internal energy. He had recently taken on a prodigious disciple under twenty, proving that seniority in Wudang had little to do with age.

Then there was the sword-obsessed Wang Xiaoping, who spoke even less than a mute, his life seemingly devoted solely to the blade.

And finally, Hong Xixiang, the most wayward of them all, who pursued only the elusive Dao of Heaven.

“Fine script,” Chen Yao praised sincerely.

“Exquisite,” Yu Xingrui agreed with a nod.

“Not just the script—the prose itself is majestic, full of righteous fury and defiance, unmatched in my lifetime,” said Song Zhiming, bending over the text, stroking his long white eyebrow. Then he suddenly paused. “Wait—the last seven characters seem superfluous at first glance, but upon reflection, they might be the stroke of genius. What a vow to kill.”

“The calligraphy is wild and unrestrained, like a dragon leaping through heaven’s gate or a tiger crouching on a mountain ridge. Rare. And the prose—hard to believe it was written by a woman barely twenty,” Wang Chonglou declared, settling the matter.

“Shh, keep your voices down,” the young grandmaster whispered nervously.

“Why? The young master is training with his blade below,” Wang Chonglou teased.

“Because when trouble comes, I’ll be the one to suffer,” Hong Xixiang muttered.

“Young people understand each other better. We’re all too old for this,” Wang Chonglou said with a grin.

“Elder Brother, just because I’m young, you’d throw me into the fire?!” Hong Xixiang protested indignantly.

“Little Brother, you must embrace the spirit of ‘If I don’t enter hell, who will?’ The Dao is just like that,” Wang Chonglou joked, showing none of the transcendent demeanor expected of a Taoist immortal.

“Nonsense! That’s a Buddhist saying!” Hong Xixiang retorted.

“All rivers flow to the sea—different words, same truth,” Yu Xingrui chimed in with a laugh.

“You hear that? Your Brother Yu makes sense,” Wang Chonglou said, patting Hong Xixiang’s shoulder while exchanging a knowing glance with Yu Xingrui. At their age, with no hope of ascension, teasing their youngest brother was their greatest joy.

“Little Brother, since your calligraphy is the best here, take advantage of the clear weather and make a copy for the scripture hall’s top floor,” Wang Chonglou instructed.

Hong Xixiang rolled his eyes. “No. If the young master finds out, I’ll be skinned alive.”

Wang Chonglou laughed. “Just omit the last seven characters. What’s there to fear?”

“Easy for you to say—you won’t be the one getting beaten,” Hong Xixiang grumbled.

Wang Xiaoping, who hadn’t spoken in sixteen years, suddenly rasped, “There’s sword intent in these characters.”

The four older brothers exchanged glances, then smiled knowingly.

Hong Xixiang, who had never heard his sixth brother speak before, was first delighted, then resigned. “Fine, I’ll write it!”

Three days later, thunder rumbled.

Xu Fengnian returned to Tai Xu Palace under an oil-paper umbrella. After the drizzle, only ink-black stains remained on the ground. As the rain intensified, drumming against the umbrella, he spotted a lean figure with a peachwood sword on his back standing at the plaza’s edge.

Xu Fengnian wondered if the White-Haired Old Monster had left Beiliang Manor yet—if so, he could have pitted him against this sword fanatic. After his life-and-death duel with the Eastern Yue swordsman, watching masters spar was no longer mere entertainment. Dismissing the tempting thought, Xu Fengnian turned and descended the mountain.

Outside the thatched hut, Qing Niao, the first-rank maid of the Wutong Courtyard, stood in the storm, holding an umbrella painted with a blue phoenix, waiting for the young master.

She handed him a letter personally delivered by the Grand Pillar of State.

Inside the hut, crammed with manuals and barely any standing room, Xu Fengnian found a small, untouched corner—undoubtedly where Jiang Ni had slept. Sitting atop a pile of books, he tore pages from *The Tiger Prison Blade* to wipe his face and hands before opening the letter.

Xu Xiao’s handwriting revealed he had sent agents to the capital and was preparing to humble the arrogant eunuch Sun in two years. But what stunned Xu Fengnian was Xu Xiao’s true motive for sending him to Wudang: Wang Chonglou intended to transfer his profound cultivation to him—an act defying heaven itself!

Could such a thing even be done? Wouldn’t it invite divine retribution?

Destroying the letter, Xu Fengnian turned to Qing Niao. “Can internal energy truly be transferred? If so, wouldn’t sects grow ever stronger by passing down power like an inheritance?”

Qing Niao replied flatly, “Like medicine or rice, the effect varies. At most, half the energy transfers. Once, a demonic master forced his energy onto others, watching them explode limb by limb until only their heads remained.”

Xu Fengnian was speechless. “Such a self-destructive madman exists?”

Qing Niao nodded.

“Was this Xu Xiao’s idea or my master’s?” Xu Fengnian asked.

“I dare not say,” she answered honestly.

Xu Fengnian sighed. “Then it’s Xu Xiao.”

Qing Niao glanced around and actually smiled.

“Wait until the rain lessens before descending,” Xu Fengnian said gently.

Qing Niao nodded.

Eventually, the rain did ease, and Qing Niao departed. Xu Fengnian escorted her to the “Xuanwu Ascendant” archway before turning back.

Outside the hut, he gazed at the muddy vegetable patch and chuckled. “Why put your hatred into writing? If Second Sister finds out, you’ll be in for another beating, won’t you? Stubborn girl.”

From then on, Xu Fengnian trained relentlessly, even daring to venture into the Forbidden Purple Bamboo Forest of the Great Lotus Peak—the domain of the sword-obsessed Wang Xiaoping. Few on Wudang dared disturb him, but Xu Fengnian persisted.

The first time, a single sword strike felled dozens of bamboos, forcing him out. The second time, he stubbornly endured a strike and spent half a month bedridden, costing Wudang precious elixirs. By the time he could cleave a waterfall with his blade, he returned to the forest—only to be driven out again, though this time he managed to stagger back to his hut without collapsing.

Wudang’s alchemy differed from Dragon-Tiger Mountain’s, embracing both internal refinement and external elixirs. Xu Fengnian once witnessed a grand furnace-opening ceremony on Qingyun Peak, realizing the immense effort behind each pill—though that didn’t stop him from consuming them like candy, much to Hong Xixiang’s frustration.

As autumn brought the fragrance of osmanthus, Xu Fengnian split his time between battling waterfalls and sparring with Wang Xiaoping in the bamboo forest, finally reaching the point where he could withstand a single strike without falling.

Few expected the notorious young master to last half a year on Wudang. Rumors swirled—did he hide beautiful maids on the mountain? Feast daily? Or was he a demon suppressed by the reincarnated True Martial Emperor, Hong Xixiang?

The young grandmaster ignored the gossip, only smiling when asked: “The young master is studying *The Seven Bamboo Slips of the Cloud Satchel* and *The Pivot of Taoist Teachings* with great diligence.”

Some doubted, but coming from him, it carried weight.

One indignant mid-ranking Taoist demanded, “Why does this Xu, with all his privilege, come to Wudang to flaunt his blade?”

Hong Xixiang chuckled. “Perhaps he trains for his own sake. The wealthy have peculiar hobbies.”

Others sneered, “He’s stealing Wudang’s secrets to wreak havoc later!”

At this, Hong Xixiang fell silent.

One day, releasing his ox to wander, Hong Xixiang wandered the mountains and saved a cicada from a spider’s web—a small, instinctive act of kindness.

For over twenty years on Wudang, he had done such things, never pondering the Dao, simply living.

Returning to the hut, he found Xu Fengnian munching a cucumber from the garden.

Hong Xixiang tried to sneak one but got his hand smacked by Xu Fengnian’s scabbard.

Squatting nearby, he asked, “Young Master, do you truly not miss the wine, song, delicacies, and silks of your manor?”

Xu Fengnian smiled. “After a lifetime of it, anyone would.”

Hong Xixiang shook his head. “I could never leave this mountain.”

Xu Fengnian scoffed. “You’re just cowardly. Not the same.”

Hong Xixiang pouted—his greatest protest.

Xu Fengnian mocked, “I dare train here. Why won’t you descend? Are there demons below? Isn’t slaying them a Taoist’s duty?”

Hong Xixiang shook his head harder.

Giving up, Xu Fengnian asked, “I’m going to the bamboo forest. Coming?”

Hong Xixiang waved his hands frantically. “No! Brother Wang won’t even let me graze the ox there anymore.”

As Xu Fengnian left, cucumber in hand, he muttered, “Being the world’s best is overrated. Better to be the world’s only. The former is fought over by all, but the latter—that’s the true Dao.”

Hong Xixiang, squatting, cupped his chin. “I think I understand… and yet I don’t.”

Xu Fengnian called over his shoulder, “And don’t steal my cucumbers. I’ve counted them. If one’s missing, I’ll bloody all three of your legs. Understand that?”

Hong Xixiang forced a smile and said, “I understand perfectly!”