Hu Gonglie was an old man who had seen his share of ups and downs in life. Even with swords and axes at his throat, he wouldn’t flinch easily. Yet, when he learned the identities of the other three seated around the fire, he was stunned into silence. The presence of Huang Chan, a mere official, was tolerable, but the appearance of Yuan Zuozong, the White Bear of the Spring and Autumn, was enough to shock Hu Gonglie. And to top it off, there was the heir of Beiliang, a scion who inherited his title without diminution. When Hu Gonglie followed Gu Dazu to another bamboo pavilion for a private discussion and learned that Gu would soon depart for Beiliang, he immediately requested to relocate his entire family. In his own words, they were merely surviving in Caishi Mountain, and might one day be executed by the court of Liyang as a sacrificial offering. It would be better to move to Beiliang and give the Hu family’s descendants a chance to earn military merit. Gu Dazu neither objected nor made any promises, merely patting Hu Gonglie’s shoulder before parting.
Xu Fengnian was unaware of the nostalgic conversation between the two old men from the fallen Nan Tang dynasty. After returning Huang Chan to the bamboo pavilion, he received a secret message delivered by a trained military hawk, a creature personally groomed by Chu Lushan, the top spy of Beiliang. The message briefly outlined two matters: first, that several hidden families similar to the Wang Lin clan, who had long been embedded within Liyang, were now rising from their roots and rallying toward Beiliang. The second point was more puzzling—it spoke of a mad monk from Landuo Mountain, a figure both Buddhist and demonic who had left his mountain sanctuary and, upon descending into the world, had transformed into a youthful form. Even Li Dangxin had been unable to stop him, and the message warned the Young Lord to be cautious on his journey north, advising him to avoid any encounter with this monk if possible.
After writing about Gu Dazu and Huang Chan, Xu Fengnian released the hawk. He then sat by the hearth with Yuan Zuozong, who had not yet departed, and cast the uniquely penned message into the fire. A thin wisp of smoke curled upward as Xu Fengnian bent down, picked up a pair of tongs, and lightly scattered some ash over the embers. He murmured, “Even the martial world is not peaceful. Landuo Mountain must be resentful that Liangchan Temple produced a white-robed monk who could lift the Yellow River. A monk who, when he first set out, was an ancient, decrepit man over two centuries old, yet upon reaching the Central Plains from the Western Regions, became a young man. Along the way, he slaughtered indiscriminately—far from the righteous wrath of a guardian of the law. No one knows exactly what he seeks. Back in Beiliang, when I first encountered the Landuo monk, he spoke of a female Dharma King with six marks who wished to cultivate with me. I eagerly rushed back to the pavilion to study the secret records. All I found was that she was a forty-year-old woman, which was a great disappointment. I also learned that before the Six-Pearl Bodhisattva, Landuo Mountain had three monks of even higher seniority. One of them had remained confined within a circle he drew for nearly forty years—an act more astounding than the withered swords of the Wu Clan’s Sword Tombs. At the time, I hadn’t yet begun training with the saber and didn’t understand the transcendence of immortals, so I was curious how someone could survive without food or water. Looking back now, I realize how narrow-minded I was. I suspect this monk must have succumbed to madness. Still, to single-handedly carve a path of carnage through the entire martial world—such audacity is rare indeed. The only one who could rival this might be Liu Songtao from a hundred years ago.
“In every generation of the martial world, there are its own heroes. Liu Songtao’s era was no exception—there were sword immortals and sages of the three teachings coexisting, both illuminating and restraining each other. Moreover, it has always been believed that the Dao of Heaven surpasses martial cultivation. Even those who reached the pinnacle of martial prowess, like the old man in the sheepskin cloak and Deng Tai’a, were righteous figures who carried on the legacy. Even Wang Xianzhi, praised as being capable of a fierce duel with Lü Zu, was not considered a practitioner of the dark path. Yet Liu Songtao and this mad monk dare to defy heaven itself, unafraid of divine retribution. Such individuals are exceedingly rare. Unfortunately, the Taoist in the ox cart isn’t here—otherwise, this monk wouldn’t have the chance to run amok. He’d have been sent straight to the Western Paradise by the enlightened Wudang Patriarch with a single sword strike.”
Yuan Zuozong stretched his hands toward the fire, savoring the warmth of the winter hearth, and smiled, “If this monk truly stands on the same level as Liu Songtao, even Qi Xuanzhen, the righteous swordsman who walks the heavens, might not be able to stop him with just one strike.”
Xu Fengnian laughed heartily, “There are two great authorities in the world: one is the emperor who claims the Mandate of Heaven, and the other is the terrestrial immortals of the three teachings who claim to act in heaven’s name. I belong to neither, so I can only watch the spectacle unfold. Oh, by the way, Brother Yuan, do you know the real story behind Liu Songtao? Although Zhulu Mountain has been branded as a demonic sect by the martial world, in my opinion, they are not much worse than the so-called righteous figures, except for their secretive movements and decisive actions. Each of their leaders has taken it upon themselves to vie for supremacy, not merely indulging in mindless slaughter. As for Liu Songtao, there are very few tales about him in the martial world.”
Yuan Zuozong narrowed his eyes, his tone icy, “When I was young, a hermit once told me that Liu Songtao had wandered the martial world many times, making countless enemies. When he was on the verge of transcending to the realm of immortality, the leader of Zhulu Mountain was in deep meditation. At that time, a plain-looking woman, for reasons unknown, was rumored to be his lover. She was cast out into the martial world and met a tragic end—hanged publicly, stripped bare, while the entire world watched. Before she died, Liu Songtao somehow learned of this and broke his meditation to carry her coffin back to Zhulu Mountain. After that came a catastrophe that no one could prevent. At that time, even the terrestrial immortals avoided his wrath—not necessarily because they feared Liu Songtao, who was indeed invincible, but because they were unwilling to intervene. Looking back now, the mastermind behind that conspiracy must have possessed an ambition and cunning second only to Huang Sanjia’s subversion of the Spring and Autumn era.”
Xu Fengnian’s expression darkened, his teeth clenched in silence.
Yuan Zuozong bent down, picked up a glowing piece of charcoal from the fire, and crushed it lightly, speaking in a calm tone, “The hermit who told me this story said that before Liu Songtao died, he laughed and said, ‘Knowing that immortality is unattainable, why rush to commit such evils? Since all was destined in past lives, why not live as a pure and noble man?’ Though I suspect these words were likely added by later generations, they still leave a bitter taste. Such words should be the kind spoken by sages and passed down through the ages, not uttered by a bloodthirsty demon. That entire generation of terrestrial immortals failed to attain enlightenment, and rightly so. If I had lived in the same era as Liu Songtao, I would have slain a few more on his behalf.”
Xu Fengnian sneered coldly, “No wonder my master once said that the King of Hell laughs at the living for no longer resembling humans.”
Yuan Zuozong poured himself a cup of wine, tilted his head, and drank it in one gulp. This general, renowned for his restraint and simplicity in Beiliang—exceeding even the self-disciplined Chen Zhibao—gazed at the empty cup in his fingers and murmured, “My father has reached this point with a clear conscience toward all. As for me, Yuan Zuozong, I am but a mere warrior. I do not ponder the ideals of self-cultivation, family harmony, governing the nation, or pacifying the world. In recent years, I have witnessed many dark deeds within Beiliang, yet I have remained idle. All I hope for is that after my father’s departure, someone will rise to stand at the border of Liang and Mang, so that even a single step southward by the hundred thousand cavalry of the Northern Mang will be unthinkable.”
Xu Fengnian shook his head, “I fear I may not be able to fulfill that.”
Yuan Zuozong smiled, “To live a life that does not betray the swords of Beiliang is enough.”
Suddenly, Xu Fengnian said, “For some reason I can’t explain, since returning from the Northern Mang, I’ve often had the same dream: I stand atop a high place, watching a million armored corpses surge toward me, while behind me, a million spectral soldiers of the underworld also advance. Beside me stands a great banner—not bearing the Xu family name, but the Qin.”
Yuan Zuozong sighed helplessly, “I can handle battlefield slaughter, but leave dream interpretation to others.”
Xu Fengnian shrugged off the troubling thought with a smile, “Brother Yuan, let’s talk about the future of the Beiliang army and the steps for its purification.”
Yuan Zuozong laughed heartily, “That will require several more jugs of wine.”
※※※
At the summit of Zhulu Mountain, Wang Mao, ranked ninth in the new martial world rankings and known as the Broken Spear, stood at the cliff’s edge. The gales howled fiercely, whipping across his face. Beside him sat a short, unremarkable man who had always preferred sitting to standing. As one of the two imperial clans of the Northern Mang, this young noble had, at an early age, joined the ranks of the First Order alongside a similarly young and plump female aristocrat. Together, they had become the new generation of supreme martial artists following in the footsteps of Murong Baoding. Wang Mao had followed the female demon to the Central Plains of Liyang because he had lost to her. It was no shame to be defeated by the fourth-ranked martial artist in the world, one who had fought both Deng Tai’a and Tuoba Bodhisattva. But if it were Wang Mao, he would never have accepted the loss so easily. The reason he had come south with such determination was because he had heard of a younger youth who had traveled to the Northern Mang and slain the fifth-ranked warrior, Ge He. Wang Mao felt he at least needed to kill a Xuantian-ranked expert in Liyang to satisfy his anger. That fat woman, who was even more infuriating for being two heads taller than him, always mocked him for only being strong within his own domain. He had come south determined to make a name for himself, so that upon returning, she would finally admit defeat.
The short youth crossed his arms and asked solemnly, “Wang Mao, do you think Luoyang can stop that mad monk?”
Wang Mao exhaled deeply, “Fifty-fifty.”
The youth glanced at him, “The Sixth-Pearl Guru of Landuo Mountain was only a Great Realm of the Indestructible that hadn’t reached perfection. Compared to Li Dangxin, who has truly attained the Indestructible King Kong, he was still far behind. How can this monk be so formidable? Luoyang nearly ruined Tuoba Bodhisattva’s twenty-year plan in the extreme northern ice plains. Clearly, her strength has risen another level since her duel with Deng Tai’a at Dunhuang. For someone like her, ascending even a single step is as difficult as climbing to heaven. If she’s already at that level, why is the outcome still uncertain?”
Wang Mao smiled, “If she stops him, the leader of the Demon Sect will become known across the world in one battle. If she fails, we can wait for Wang Xianzhi to leave the city before we depart.”
The youth sighed, “Then it’s better if she stops him.”
The two knew that Luoyang, the top dark force of the Northern Mang, had become the tenth leader of the Demon Sect, but they did not know that the one she sought to intercept was the former ninth leader.
This battle might not be any less grand than the legendary duel between Wang Xianzhi and Li Chungan on the Eastern Sea.
The young, maddened monk knew only his name and that he had truly gone mad. He felt no remorse when he killed—only that those who died deserved it. When he tried to trace the causes and effects, his head would throb unbearably, to the point of nearly rolling on the ground in agony. Aware of his own madness, he walked with tears and laughter, unable to control his emotions. Each place he passed and each person he met were quickly forgotten. Again and again, he tried to stop and turn back, but could never do so. It was as if he was meant to journey westward but had instead gone east. The Buddha’s land lay to the west, yet he walked in the opposite direction, growing ever more distant. With only a sliver of clarity remaining, he sought to understand what he had left behind in the west and what he must grasp in the east. A song, initially four words long, expanded into more than a hundred lines. He did not try to memorize it, yet it flowed naturally from his lips.
Though the mad monk might have forgotten, the martial world of the Central Plains was already in turmoil. After the famed white-robed monk attempted to stop the young monk’s advance, the contemporary sword prodigy of the Wu Clan Sword Tombs, Wu Liuding, also tried to intercept him. But with a single collision, the mad monk shattered Wu’s sword formation. His forward momentum was so swift that it surpassed even the Wu Clan’s famed sword riding. Then came Zhao Ningshen, the most promising young Taoist of the Longhu sect, a man rumored to be the reincarnation of the first Celestial Master. The two faced each other—monk and Taoist—but did not clash. The monk charged forward, and the Taoist retreated in step with him. After eighty miles, Zhao Ningshen stepped aside, allowing the mad monk to continue laughing on his way. Zhao then quickly sat cross-legged, blood flowing from his seven orifices, and swallowed a secret elixir passed down in the Longhu sect to barely stabilize his injuries.
The entire martial world feared this monk’s surging momentum.
At the bank of a great river, the mad monk halted. Just as he had sensed the white-robed monk Li Dangxin before, he now had the same premonition. He grinned, squatted down, scooped up a handful of water, and gazed at the muddy water in his palm, like an ordinary man holding boiling water, hastily flinging it to the ground. He stood and looked around blankly.
At that moment, tears streamed down the young monk’s face as he asked himself, “I am here. Where are you?”
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