Taoist temples are places where the Way is observed, and monks are those who have transcended the mundane world. The temples should diligently observe the Way, and monks should live in accordance with the sacred, never delving too deeply into worldly affairs.
Do not forget, this is Beiliang, the place that once turned martial cultivators into pariahs. In recent years, the ruler of Beiliang has either been patrolling the border or watching coldly from the Cool Mountain of Beiliang.
Qingrong Temple in Huangnan Prefecture is renowned throughout Beiliang for its towering ancient trees. The path to the temple is shaded by lush greenery, making it a favored summer retreat for the nobility and officials of the region. Since the Beiliang Prince’s Mansion (Prince’s Mansion) was built atop Cool Mountain, Qingrong Temple has earned the nickname “Little Cool Mountain.” The temple has always maintained close ties with the officials of Huangnan Prefecture. For instance, Wang Xihua, the Chief Official who reveres the teachings of Huang-Lao, though he lacks a formal Taoist master, has taken the temple’s overseer, the venerable Daoist Qinghuai, as his “teacher.” Moreover, this elderly Daoist, already in his seventies, has long been acquainted with Song Yan, Wang Xihua’s political rival and the Prefect of the region. Despite Wang’s allegiance to the Daoist master, Song Yan has not distanced himself from Qingrong Temple. It seems that Master Qinghuai possesses a certain elegance and charm that others cannot match.
Nowadays, with the suppression of Buddhism under Liyang, only the three provinces of Beiliang remain sympathetic to the Buddhist faith. Many monks and nuns have flocked to Beiliang seeking refuge. Qingrong Temple has widely opened its doors, offering “summer retreats” to all who come. Fortunately, the temple enjoys great popularity and offerings, for otherwise it might have been overwhelmed by the sheer number of mouths to feed. Among the monks temporarily residing at Qingrong Temple, the most famous is Master Huangdeng of Jiangnan, a revered Buddhist monk. For the past several months, this monk and Daoist Qinghuai have engaged in open debates on Buddhism and Taoism, drawing large crowds of scholars from Huangnan Prefecture. Whether or not they understand the discussions, it has become almost fashionable to attend, as if missing out would render one hopelessly vulgar.
As night falls, the temple is cloaked in a deep indigo sky. Only one area is illuminated by lanterns, their flickering lights casting a dim glow. Two unfamiliar, unrefined melodies alternate in the night air. At first hearing, they seem crude and off-key, but upon closer listening, one might discern a unique charm.
An elderly Daoist with white hair and a youthful complexion sits cross-legged against a corridor pillar, cradling a feather duster in his arms. This is Master Qinghuai, renowned for his expertise in Taoist rituals. Beside him, an old monk gently claps his hands, humming a tune: “Seizing the mud from a swallow’s beak, scraping gold from the Buddha’s face, carving meat from a mosquito’s leg…” This is Master Huangdeng, a famous monk from Jiangnan who fled to Beiliang during the recent anti-Buddhist purge.
The song ends, yet the two old men remain, exchanging a knowing smile.
Softly, the monk inquires, “Dear Master Qinghuai, I have long heard of Qingrong Temple’s ancient qin from the Lei family of Xishu. When the Lei clan followed their fallen monarch to death, they shattered over a hundred qins they had once cherished, leaving behind only echoes of the past. I wonder, can that qin still produce music?”
The Daoist sighs, “When I acquired it, the ‘Thundering Around the Hall’ qin had already been burned beyond repair, its strings entirely gone. Every time exiles from Xishu gaze upon it, they weep.”
The monk murmurs, “All things arise and pass away.”
The Daoist lifts his gaze toward the lanterns and suddenly chuckles, “Are not Buddhism and Taoism but flies vying for blood, and white ants battling for a hole?”
The old monk nods in silence. After a pause, he asks, “What is your opinion of the ruler of Beiliang?”
The Daoist, unafraid of candor, replies, “He is a man of great merit. In our dynasty, there are six levels of merit: founding the nation, quelling rebellion, capturing rebels, guarding the frontier, repelling foreign invaders, and subduing the southern tribes. The Beiliang King Xu Xiao holds five of these, a feat surpassing even the emperor. Yet as a subject, if the emperor commands death, to refuse is disloyalty.”
The monk smiles serenely, his expression as calm as the breeze. The Daoist gazes at the red lanterns, while the monk tilts his head toward a row of wind chimes that hang motionless and silent.
A sudden hum reverberates.
Though it seems like only a single sound, over forty crossbow bolts simultaneously fly toward the eaves.
The Daoist furrows his brow but does not avert his gaze. With a flick of his feather duster, he catches several bolts in its white threads, then with a twist of his wrist, hurls them back, deflecting the entire volley outside the eaves.
Two armored warriors stride forward from the shadows. When they are ten paces from the corridor, a second wave of arrows arcs over their heads. The Daoist rises, holding the feather duster in one hand and pulling out a length of white silk with the other, casting it into the air.
The experienced Daoist focuses his gaze on the second warrior. This one, clad in iron armor, moves with a graceful gait, suggesting a woman beneath the armor, an unusual sight.
Qinghuai, already at the peak of the Second Tier, has lingered for years on the threshold of transcendence. In the cultivation world, once a Daoist reaches the level of Xiao Zongshi (Lesser Sage), the next step is often the Zhi Xuan Tier (Finger-Sky Tier), which is why Xiao Zongshi is revered as a “Lesser Immortal.” Yet Qinghuai has never openly displayed his true strength, occasionally revealing only enough to suggest a Third Tier cultivator, earning him fame in Huangnan for his mastery of Daoist arts alone. Now, as he steps into the hidden formation, a Buddhist chant rings out. The ethereal Qinghuai’s expression hardens. Rising from Third to Second Tier, he shouts, “The iron chimes ring, the red lanterns sway!” The monk chants again, but the formation fails to activate.
At this moment, the Buddhist is higher than the Daoist.
Finally, Qinghuai ceases to hold back. His robe billows like a balloon. Yet the monk has already closed his eyes in meditation, listening to the gentle chime of the wind bell.
The lead warrior steps onto the corridor, his blade slicing through the Daoist’s protective aura. The cost is great—blood pours from his wounds, his face unrecognizable. Yet he drives the blade into Qinghuai’s abdomen, gripping the hilt with both hands, thrusting forward with all his might, slamming the Daoist against the wall. The blade pierces not only the old man’s body but also protrudes several inches through the wall.
The warrior, possessing a body nearing the Diamond Tier, spits out a mouthful of blood, raising his arm to wipe the blood from his face.
The second warrior, still masked, speaks. Her voice is crisp and youthful, “Secret orders from the Wutong Courtyard. You are authorized to convert Qingrong Temple into a Buddhist monastery.”
The old monk clasps his palms and murmurs, “Amitabha Buddha.”
※※※
In Huangnan Prefecture, there exists a sect known as “Liantang,” a name considered peculiar. While other sects strive for grand, awe-inspiring names, Liantang’s name is simple and unassuming. Its leader, Zhang Ce, nicknamed “Monkey,” is hailed as the finest martial artist in Lingzhou. Lean and agile, he moves like lightning. Before his rise to fame, he once encountered a general’s cavalry on a postal road. The general rode furiously against the wind, his fur hat blown away. With urgent military affairs to attend to, the general paid no heed to the lost hat. Yet a wiry young man leapt into the air, catching the drifting hat mid-flight from two stories high, then caught up with the general in an instant, riding side by side. The general, testing the young man’s stamina, rode thirty miles at full speed, but the young wanderer matched him stride for stride, showing no sign of fatigue. Impressed, the general granted him permission to establish a sect in his territory. Liantang became one of the top three sects in Fengzhou. However, after the general’s death, Zhang Ce’s erratic nature and his tendency to injure or kill in duels led to their relocation to neighboring Huangnan Prefecture. In his later years, his temperament mellowed, and the sect gradually stabilized. Yet Liantang never regained its former glory. Fortunately, in recent years, Zhang Ce has taken in several promising apprentices. These young men, mindful of their master’s example, have learned to cultivate relationships with local officials, helping Liantang establish a foothold in Huangnan.
Dou Yangguan, a carefree youth, joined Liantang at this time. Born into a wealthy family, he was fond of brawling from a young age. To become a true martial expert, one would normally have to spend a fortune. Once, while Zhang Ce’s favored disciple was ambushed by over thirty members of rival factions during a journey, Dou Yangguan risked his life to save him, escorting him all the way back to Liantang. Zhang Ce offered five hundred taels of silver as a reward, but Dou knelt for an entire day and night, begging to be accepted as a disciple. Zhang refused, coldly stating that Dou’s talent was mediocre—a verdict akin to a death sentence in the martial world. Yet Dou, stubborn and determined, declined the silver and merely requested to stay for a month as an outer disciple. A month later, he was unceremoniously expelled. The disciple he saved, out of gratitude, secretly taught him martial arts, violating sect rules. Zhang Ce, enraged, cast him out as well. Dou knelt outside the gate, bowing nearly a hundred times. Eventually, a visiting martial master from Huangnan, who had come to spar with Zhang Ce, interceded on his behalf. Reluctantly, Zhang accepted Dou as an outer disciple, though the favored disciple remained a menial laborer, not officially recorded in the sect.
This is the martial world—without rules, there is no order. This is why countless nameless cultivators strive to join sects. Whether one has a master to guide them is crucial. With the same talent, the difference in cultivation levels after a few years can be as vast as heaven and earth.
On the roof of a side building, two young men drink and admire the moon. One is poorly dressed, sipping slowly. The other is fashionably dressed, handsome, with sharp eyes and a sword-like brow. Every item on him is the latest and most expensive in Huangnan. He lies on the roof, shaking a small red porcelain wine pot. The wine is Lüyi, but in this gourd-shaped pot, it costs nearly as much as the famed Bai Long Shao.
The handsome man, when not smiling, exudes aristocratic grace. But when he smiles, his true nature is revealed. He chuckles, “Yan Ge, I never thought I’d live to drink wine worth six taels a pot.”
The poor man turns and smiles gently, “From now on, even if it costs sixty taels a pot, you’ll be able to afford it. Listen to me, you’ll never find a better woman than Miss Song again. Don’t take it lightly.”
The handsome man, soon to become an inner disciple of Liantang, laughs, “Yan Ge, in martial arts, I can’t match you. But when it comes to dealing with women, especially noble ladies, you’re far behind me.”
The ragged man shakes his head and smiles, “Yangguan, your martial talent is no worse than mine. Though you missed the best time to strengthen your body, our master cultivates both inner and outer strength, his internal energy unfathomable. As long as you become a favored disciple, your future will be boundless. Even if Miss Song is the daughter of the Prefect, you’re worthy of her. Yangguan, don’t think I’m being stiff. When you meet a good woman, no matter how much she loves you, a man must make her proud of you. You can’t treat her like a servant just because she’s a noble girl who obeys you. You may gain respect among your brothers, but if you two become a family…”
Dou Yangguan suddenly looks somber, “Yan Ge, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have been punished by the master…”
The poor man replies with a broad smile, “It’s all fate, and I don’t regret it. I was raised by the master since childhood, following him from Fengyang to Huangnan. I’ve only learned his stubbornness, doing everything with single-minded determination. The eldest senior brother has the strongest will and learned the master’s martial arts. The second senior brother is the most talented, and even without diligent practice, his skills never waned. He also excels in socializing with officials, which has helped Liantang establish itself in Huangnan. But sometimes, it’s hard to balance duty and friendship. No matter what choices you make, life feels unfulfilling. I don’t know whether accepting you into Liantang helped or hurt you. In time, you’ll understand… But I hope you never do. When you become the Prefect’s son-in-law, stop chasing the martial world. You won’t succeed here. Pursue politics or the military—anything is better than this path.”
Dou Yangguan has no words, sitting up and seeing several outer disciples patrolling near the training ground. He feels no enthusiasm.
Suddenly, his eyes widen, and his drunkenness vanishes.
A series of black-armored figures enter the compound in perfect order, leaping over walls and landing in crouches, firing short crossbows. Like autumn leaves swept by the wind, they silently kill the sentries. The patrolling disciples of Liantang are pierced through the head by at least two bolts each, ensuring they die without a sound. From the east, south, and west, the black-armored killers gradually converge on the northern residential area of the training ground, preparing for a more sinister night attack.
As Yan Shijun and Dou Yangguan stand up and grasp the situation, Yan shouts, “Assassins have invaded!”
Dou is stunned, about to ask Yan what enemy Liantang has incurred, when suddenly, the sound of arrows whizzing through the air fills the night. The moment Yan evades one arrow, a second curved arrow pierces his side. Yan stumbles back, another arrow flying toward his face. Except for the second arrow, which is unavoidable, the others are easily evaded. Yan sidesteps, grabs the arrow mid-air, and exclaims, “These are Beiliang crossbow soldiers!”
Before he finishes speaking, a towering black-armored killer leaps onto the roof, clearly irritated by Yan’s warning. He raises his crossbow and slashes at Yan with a sword. Dou, inexperienced in life-or-death combat, has only participated in minor gang fights before—nothing like this terrifying ambush. Even the formidable Yan Shijun is no match for this killer. In one strike, his arm and shoulder are cleaved off. As the killer swings again, Yan’s head is severed. A crossbow bolt is fired at Dou, but by some miracle, he drops just in time, crashing through the roof into the weapon room below. Grabbing a blade, he flees. Every time he moves, crossbow bolts follow like shadows. The killer murmurs in surprise, impressed by the young man’s agility. As he prepares to jump down, another armored figure lands on the roof, wielding a massive horn bow. He fires an arrow into a suddenly lit house, pinning its occupant to the wall. The archer coldly says, “Tonight, we only take the big fish. I’ll stay here. You go down. If you lose to those fledglings from Wutong Courtyard, you know the consequences.”
The burly warrior’s eyes flicker with fear, quickly obeying. He leaps down like a nimble forest ape, joining the others as they advance swiftly toward the main residence—the home of Liantang’s leader, Zhang Ce.
The warriors charge forward like an unstoppable tide. Outer disciples with poor skills are cut down like wheat, while some inner disciples attempt resistance. But these soldiers have no regard for martial etiquette. In close combat, they quickly gain the upper hand, two or three striking at once, using short crossbows to exploit any opening. Their soft armor protects them from minor wounds, and the weapons of the martial sects are not sharp enough to inflict serious damage. As long as the wounds are not fatal, they ignore them, using the opportunity to strike back and kill their enemies. These soldiers, known as Youjun, are seasoned martial experts from the Liyang martial world, adept at one-on-one combat. Over the years, they have mastered battlefield tactics, becoming packs of wolves rather than lone killers. The damage they inflict in groups is incomparable to individual assassinations.
The archer on the roof narrows his eyes and selects a finely crafted arrow from his quiver.
Zhang Ce, known as “Monkey,” is a formidable opponent, comparable to Lu Qiantang, a bodyguard of the Prince. If Youjun and Yingshi succeed in killing him, it will be a great achievement.
※※※
Ren Shanyu falls from the air, her fate uncertain.
Xu Fengnian’s eyes remain calm, “Youjun?”
Then he says, “That must be the big fish fighting against Han Shang.”
Xu Yanbing nods, and then Caoren and Xu Yi find that the gray-haired young master is already gone.
In the Chai Fei Courtyard, the “wealthy old man” who successfully completed the mission prepares to leave quietly—only to die quietly. The old man never knows how he died or who killed him.
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