The eighty-one peaks of Wudang all bow toward the grand summit, their spiritual beauty unparalleled, yet an anomaly emerged atop the glazed peak. At Little Lotus Peak, Song Zhiming noticed that the second senior brother Chen Yao, who upheld the moral precepts, the fourth junior brother Yu Xingrui, and the fifth junior brother Wang Xiaoping had all gathered behind him, accompanying their youngest junior brother, Hong Xixiang, as they gazed toward the direction of the Hanging Immortal Coffin.
The cow-riding lad sprinted to the turtle-backed stele, leaped atop it, and stood on its peak, his fingers weaving intricate patterns with dizzying speed. Though the youngest brother often forgot his own age, his mastery of numerology was profound. The four classics of the *I Ching* were memorized to perfection, integrated seamlessly, and his divination skills far surpassed those of his peers—even the previous generation’s sect master, who had once calculated the prophecy of “Xuanwu Rising for Five Hundred Years,” admitted inferiority, declaring that the pupil had surpassed the master by leaps and bounds.
Sweat beaded on Hong Xixiang’s forehead as he slumped onto the stele.
His senior brothers tensed. Yu Xingrui, standing beneath the turtle-backed stele, cautiously asked, “Has something gone awry?”
Hong Xixiang wiped his sweat and grinned mischievously. “The heavens’ calculations are flawless. It’s just that this thunderstorm is less intense than I predicted—not enough to scare the scheming folks from Dragon Tiger Mountain out of their wits.”
Yu Xingrui and the others sighed in relief, exchanging smiles. The sect master had mastered the Great Yellow Court and made it known. Naturally, their old rivals from Dragon Tiger Mountain would send people to investigate, hoping Wudang was merely bluffing in desperation. The eldest brother had secretly left seclusion early, and the Dragon Tiger Mountain disciples hiding on Yellow Court Peak likely dismissed Wudang’s claims as empty bravado. Rumors spread in the martial world that Wang Chonglou’s so-called cultivation of the Great Yellow Court was nothing but a hollow boast.
Infuriated, the youngest brother deliberately chose today—Wudang’s once-in-decades “True Subdues Demons” day, when thunder would roar and rain would pour.
The Great Yellow Court, in essence, meant forming the Great Elixir within the body’s furnace, guiding qi to the spiritual roots like a tortoise, resonating with heaven and earth. Only those who achieved this could be called “True Men,” as the ancient text *Great Yellow Court Scripture* stated: “Immortals and Daoists are not divine by nature; they accumulate essence and refine qi to become true.”
Buddhism and Daoism had clashed for centuries, yet they agreed on one thing: both were paths of transcendence, not contests of martial prowess. Thus, when Dragon Tiger Mountain once produced the universally acknowledged prodigy Qi Xuanzhen, his reputation soared, yet he only subdued demons—never competed with Wang Xianzhi for fame. Years ago, when Wang Chonglou severed the river with a finger and was ranked among the top ten masters by gossipmongers, Dragon Tiger Mountain scorned him openly, even composing mocking rhymes about the Wudang sect master.
Wang Chonglou neither argued nor defended himself. After cutting the river to save drowning villagers, he returned to the mountain to cultivate the Yellow Court in seclusion.
Yu Xingrui chuckled, “Youngest brother, how much of the Great Yellow Court will the young master inherit?”
Hong Xixiang sighed. “About half, perhaps.”
Yu Xingrui gasped. “Then his internal energy would surpass all of Wudang’s!”
Hong Xixiang shook his head. “It will take him a long time to digest it.”
Chen Yao sighed. “These days, Wudang has exhausted itself expanding Xu Fengnian’s meridians and acupoints, wasting countless elixirs. It’s like digging a deep pool within him, while the sect master’s energy is the waterfall from Hanging Immortal Peak—pouring down until it overflows. Absorbing half is already immense fortune. At least the eldest brother retains half his Great Yellow Court.”
Hong Xixiang shook his head again. “Not necessarily.”
Chen Yao frowned. “What do you mean?”
Hong Xixiang revealed a secret Wang Chonglou had confided before seclusion: “The sect master cultivated according to the young master’s acupoints. No matter how much Xu Fengnian absorbs, the eldest brother’s Great Yellow Court will dissipate entirely—not a drop left.”
Yu Xingrui paled, murmuring, “How can this be? How?”
Chen Yao smiled bitterly. “Why must the sect master go so far? Even if Wudang declines, we need not fear the Grand Pillar of State this much.”
Wang Xiaoping glanced at the sky and turned to leave.
Without looking, Hong Xixiang said softly, “Senior Brother Wang, don’t seek trouble with the Dragon Tiger Mountain Daoists on Yellow Court Peak. It’ll taint your pure sword heart. Killing those undeserving of death will tangle your divine sword with inner demons, overshadowing its celestial intent. The harder you strive, the further you’ll stray from the sword path.”
Wang Xiaoping paused briefly, then strode away unburdened, his divine sword Shentu resting on his back.
In the Washing Elephant Pool, the young master Xu Fengnian dove deep, picking smooth stones for chess pieces. Though slower underwater, he moved steadily, unaffected by the icy depths. Unbeknownst to him, the breath-holding technique he’d learned from the White-Haired Freak mirrored Daoist fetal breathing—a rare feat for one with such shallow internal energy.
Xu Fengnian gathered a dozen stones but lingered below, enjoying the murky scenery. Unaware of the thunderstorm above, he only noticed the waterfall’s force intensifying, the pool growing colder.
Reaching the massive boulder rooted in the pool’s depths, he kicked off, shooting toward the surface with his treasures.
Above, the waterfall cascaded like a white silk ribbon.
Sect Master Wang Chonglou alighted on the boulder, gazing into the depths with a faint smile.
He closed his eyes.
A soft exhale, a gentle inhale.
Mist billowed across the water’s surface.
The old Daoist, leader of one of the world’s three great Daoist sects, had lived a humble life. Orphaned at twelve, he’d been sent to the mountain to avoid starvation. For decades, he swept floors, lit incense, and studied scriptures under moonlight, dismissed as a bookworm by his peers. At forty, he barely mastered minor Daoist arts. When his predecessor Chen Yingning passed the mantle to him, the world scoffed—even Dragon Tiger Mountain barely knew his name. Yet while his brilliant peers plateaued, the unremarkable Wang Chonglou ascended, his late bloom culminating in feats like severing the river with a finger.
Wang Chonglou flicked his sleeves.
His robes billowed as he tugged the colossal waterfall toward him.
The cascade arched like a bridge.
The *Can Tong Qi*, surpassing the Daoist classic *Heshang Gong’s Commentary on Laozi*, first spoke of the “Three Regions, Eight Scenes, and Twenty-Four Spirits.”
The old immortal breathed deeply, his spirit sinking into meditation, his body glowing like a transcendent’s ascension.
He murmured:
*”Five-colored clouds and evening mist,*
*Close your eyes, gaze inward—*
*Only then do you see your body as a grotto-heaven,*
*The Yellow Court, a blessed land…”*
*”Yellow robes, purple sashes, dragon-tiger seals,*
*Long life relies on the Great Mystery,*
*Three calls, twenty-four breaths flow free.”*
*”The world clings to grains and flavors five,*
*I alone feast on the harmony of yin and yang.”*
*”Two water kings face the gate,*
*Granting life, soaring to the ninth heaven…”*
With each line, golden qi streamed from his lips, coiling through the air.
Eighty-one strands of golden energy entwined the waterfall, merging into a roaring dragon that plunged into the pool.
Xu Fengnian, halfway to the surface, suddenly found the water freezing—then scalding. Panicked, he surged upward, only to see a golden water column hurtling toward him. He fought against it, but the surface had solidified like an impenetrable lid. His consciousness faded as he clutched the stones meant for chess, his mind flashing to his second sister’s words: *”Heaven and earth are a great furnace—who isn’t burning within?”*
Was this death?
Xu Fengnian blacked out, the stones slipping from his grasp.
Wang Xiaoping visited Yellow Court Peak but shed no blood.
The three Dragon Tiger Mountain disciples wisely retreated, daunted by the swordsman’s prowess. On Wudang’s terrain, victory was hopeless.
Wang Xiaoping sat by the pool, his peachwood sword Shentu vibrating restlessly on his knees.
The young master floated atop the water, cradled by golden energy shaped like a lotus throne, the waterfall pounding his head.
Wang Xiaoping refused to look.
In his heart, he longed to sever that waterfall—the embodiment of his sect master’s lifelong cultivation.
A day and night later, the storm passed.
The mountain air refreshed.
Xu Fengnian, his body flushed red, was carried to a hut by Hong Xixiang, a crimson date mark vertical between his brows.
Wang Xiaoping descended the mountain, sword on his back.
Hong Xixiang and Wang Chonglou stood near the turtle-backed stele.
The sect master appeared unchanged, but Hong Xixiang knew this was the calm before the end—his eldest brother had at most two or three years left.
The young uncle asked bitterly, “Must Wudang rise this way?”
The old master smiled serenely. “Not necessarily. But whether I cultivate the Great Yellow Court or not, what good does it do Wudang? I can’t hog this position forever. You’re naturally indifferent, so this pressure might do you good. Even your swordsman brother has left the mountain. With his talent and this journey, he may one day surpass the Wu Family Sword Tomb. With you above and him below, Wudang may yet thrive—if not for five hundred years, at least long enough to afford you a new robe.”
Hong Xixiang crouched, sighing. “You’d only dare say this to me. The others would be furious.”
The old master laughed, unbothered.
Hong Xixiang fell silent, chin in hand, staring at distant peaks.
Wang Chonglou murmured, “Xu Fengnian’s temper is fierce, but he’s not wholly wicked. I won’t meddle in your dealings with him, but I fear the martial world and court won’t stay peaceful.”
Hong Xixiang shrugged. “Not my concern.”
Wang Chonglou sat beside him, guilt-tinged. “My departure means you’re stuck here longer. Resent me?”
Hong Xixiang grinned. “Of course! Unless you revoke my succession.”
Wang Chonglou snorted. “Dream on. Resent me all you like—I won’t be around to hear it.”
Hong Xixiang rolled his eyes. “Master, where’s your dignity?”
The old Daoist scoffed. Unlike Dragon Tiger Mountain’s stuffy elders, he saw no use in hierarchy. Without virtue and wisdom, titles were just baggage—why waste decades posturing?
Suddenly, Wang Chonglou whispered, “Little brother, shall we compete? It’s been years since we measured… distances.”
Hong Xixiang stiffened. “Must we?”
The sect master taunted, “Scared?”
The younger man bristled. “Fine!”
At the cliff’s edge of Little Lotus Peak, the two highest-ranking Daoists of Wudang committed an outrageous act.
They urinated off the precipice.
The old master sighed. “In my youth, I could piss ten zhang into the wind. Now, I wet my shoes. Age spares no one.”
Hong Xixiang crowed, “See? I outdid you!”
Wang Chonglou patted his shoulder. “When our master lost to me, he said the day I lost to you, I could lay down my burden.”
Hong Xixiang groaned.
The old man gazed afar. “A mountain’s greatness isn’t in its height. Pity I won’t see Wudang’s golden age.”
Hong Xixiang hummed, surreptitiously reaching to wipe his hand on his master’s robe.
Wang Chonglou dodged, scowling. “Mine’s new! Yours is eight years old!”
Hong Xixiang retracted his hand, grumbling, “So unfair.”
The Wudang Sect Leader burst into hearty laughter as he departed from Little Lotus Peak, his voice echoing from afar: “Junior Brother, if you ever truly descend the mountain in the future, you must do so with grandeur—bring some glory to your Eldest Senior Brother’s name.”
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