A grand procession of carriages slowly made its way southward, an entourage so vast that it dwarfed even the retinue of Lu Sheng Xiang, the newly appointed Supreme Commander of the Martial Affairs Ministry. Among the two hundred riders, eighty were elite palace guards of the Jin Wu Corps, bearing golden embroidered sabers. The remaining hundred or so were clad in black, wielding an array of weapons, but all shared one common feature: each wore a conspicuous copper-yellow embroidered fish pouch at the waist. The number of carp tails embroidered on the pouches varied, ranging from seven at the most to four or five at the least. This marked them as martial artists granted official status by the Liyang court, no longer mere outlaws of the wilderness. With this pouch, they could pass through gates and city walls without needing travel documents. Among Liyang’s martial artists, possession of such a pouch was a great honor. Liu Haoshi himself possessed one embroidered with eight golden carp, though he never wore it.
Among the procession, three bore seven-tailed pouches, symbols of first-tier martial grandmasters. Fourteen bore six-tailed pouches, marking them as second-tier grandmasters. All the top sects, including Longhu Mountain, the Wujia Sword Tombs, and Dongyue Sword Pools, had sent trusted disciples to accompany the journey. Most, however, were martial artists who had long since pledged allegiance to the imperial court, serving the Ministry of Justice in recent years. They spied on rebels and hunted down bandits, while the court granted them protection and legitimacy, each fulfilling their own needs.
The two hundred riders escorted only one carriage, a luxurious conveyance pulled by four blood-sweating horses, exuding imperial grandeur. Around it were more than twenty eunuchs, among whom were top-tier martial artists bearing six- and seven-tailed pouches, each fulfilling their respective duties with seamless coordination. As the procession moved southward, it passed through cities without stopping, camping only in the wild. Along the way, military garrisons dispatched light cavalry escorts ranging from one thousand to three thousand riders, maintaining a strict distance of one li behind the main group. Any military unit that strayed half a li closer, likely in an attempt to curry favor, was punished severely—on one occasion, a commanding officer was stripped of his armor and rank the very same day.
For half a month, even the elite Jin Wu cavalry and the top-tier martial artists with yellow fish pouches never once saw the carriage curtain fully lifted. Eunuchs were solely responsible for delivering meals, kneeling before the curtain and speaking softly. A hand would then lift the curtain slightly to accept the food tray. The next time, a new tray would replace the old, and so on.
Initially, some speculated that the occupant might be Liu Haoshi himself, the martial grandmaster said to be just a veil away from the terrestrial immortals. But when they noticed that eunuchs were still tasked with emptying the chamber pot, doubts arose. Most of them had been hastily summoned by the Zhao Gou intelligence network for a trip to the capital, with no clear explanation of their mission. After meeting with Zhao Gou operatives, they had to depart immediately, unable to even inform their sect elders or families. Thus, they found themselves on a mission that was not particularly arduous, but felt strangely unsettling. Even the Crown Prince’s southern excursion had never been this ostentatious.
Could it be that they were heading to Wudi City to challenge Wang Xianzhi? Otherwise, what person or object in the world could possibly warrant the presence of so many top-tier martial artists, each capable of commanding half a martial world?
Yet the truth inside the carriage was unexpected: only two people. An elderly eunuch, frail and drowsy, leaning against the carriage wall, his crimson imperial robe betraying his high status. His original name had long been forgotten with time. He was a Dongyue exile, who, upon entering the Dongyue palace, had followed the common practice of adopting a senior eunuch as a foster father. He was granted a name by his master, who held an even higher rank, thus finally earning his place in the palace. In the chaotic Spring and Autumn era, countless men had castrated themselves in desperation, only to find no place among the eunuchs. This old eunuch, now worthy of the title “Diao Si” (Imperial Eunuch), was named Zhao Sik, and he was already in his forties when he arrived in Tai’an. His second master served in the Imperial Stables (Imperial Horse Bureau) of the Tai’an palace but never rose to great prominence. Yet Zhao Sik, the most unremarkable of apprentices, gradually climbed the ranks, once overseeing the Shangbao Bureau and the Yinshou Bureau in succession. He had served two generations of Liyang emperors with flawless diligence. Not even a single minor mistake had ever been recorded against him. Even Han Shengxuan, the infamous “human cat,” had shown him nothing but smiles. Zhao Sik was among the rare few eunuchs who did not need to yield to Han Shengxuan. The heads of the other twenty-four palace offices all tread carefully in Han’s presence.
Zhao Sik and Song Tanglu, the current head of the Si Li Jian (Office of Ceremonial), shared a close friendship through their masters. Both of their “companion” eunuchs had died on the same day, month, and year. When Song Tanglu became the chief eunuch, he showed no sentimentality, not even to his own master. Yet he always treated Zhao Sik with the respect due to an elder. Having served two generations of Liyang “emperors behind the throne,” Zhao Sik’s influence was profound.
The frail old eunuch sat cross-legged, clearly exhausted, nodding off. A sudden movement startled him awake, his eyes bleary, as if from a dream. The old man sighed softly.
Liyang had seized the Spring and Autumn lands, absorbing their territory, wealth, armories, and even their concubines—all of which were either understandable or at least tolerable. Yet one of the former emperor’s decisions had drawn both internal and external criticism: the near-complete acceptance of the eunuchs from the eight fallen states. This led to the Tai’an palace becoming so overcrowded that it housed twelve bureaus, four offices, and eight departments—twenty-four palace offices in total. At the time, both Liyang generals and officials were puzzled. With the Northern Wilderness still threatening, how could they concern themselves with these scheming eunuchs? But the former emperor turned a deaf ear. The senior chancellor, the mentor of Zhang Julu, repeatedly submitted memorials, all of which vanished without response.
As the war gradually subsided, these eunuchs proved surprisingly loyal, working diligently without incident. Over twenty years, only heard were stories of old eunuchs peacefully passing away within the palace walls, never of any causing chaos. While Han Shengxuan’s influence was undeniable, it was clear that these eunuchs were grateful for the former emperor’s mercy, sparing them from homelessness after their kingdoms fell. While ordinary men might lose their homes yet still survive by their skills, eunuchs had no such luxury.
The old eunuch glanced toward the corner of the carriage, then lowered his eyelids again, having long grown accustomed to the sight. In the corner sat a middle-aged man, serene in sleep, his handsome face marked by a streak of crimson between his brows, as if a third eye had opened. Eight years ago, Zhao Sik took charge of the Yinshou Bureau, overseeing internal court documents and seals. Within two years, he was transferred to the Shangbao Bureau, in charge of the imperial seals. After the “death” of the human cat, the old eunuch, who had planned to retire peacefully, was neither promoted to the Si Li Jian nor allowed to rest. Instead, he was taken by two independent Taoist masters outside the Imperial Academy to see a certain “object.” Zhao Sik’s journey from disbelief to calm acceptance took only half a year, for even the most wondrous things lose their novelty when stared at day after day. From that day on, Zhao Sik was exposed to secrets that ordinary men could never imagine in a lifetime. For example, hundreds of Fenglong Taoists were dispatched across the land to gather heavenly thunder in sacred mountains, forging an unprecedented “Thunder Pool.” Also, each generation of Longhu Mountain Celestial Masters, upon achieving their Daoist mastery, would come to Tai’an to inscribe a talisman for a certain object. Each inscription would take months, even half a year, draining their very essence. Since Liyang’s founding, eighteen Celestial Masters across eleven generations had inscribed talismans, all to suppress the “person” within this carriage—the “Worry-Free Immortal,” the only true celestial being to ever walk the martial world, Gao Shulu.
The so-called four realms of the current martial world all originated from Gao Shulu’s martial insights four hundred years ago. It was he who first classified the Realm of the Indestructible (Diamond Realm) as a martial tier, and inadvertently elevated the suppressed Buddhist teachings to prominence. Yet four hundred years ago, during a decade-long rampage across the land, Gao Shulu slaughtered indiscriminately, leaving no one daring to call themselves a master. Among his victims were two sword immortals, and eighty-one Taoist adepts who perished in a failed “Demon-Sealing Formation” atop Difei Mountain. Gao Shulu left behind only one phrase: “I am but a celestial immortal of this world—why should I bother sealing demons?” Then he vanished into the horizon.
Gao Shulu’s final encounter was with an unknown young Taoist, a battle so fierce that none since have matched it. Some still believe only the Demon-Slaying Platform’s Qi Xuanzhen or Wudang’s Hong Xixiang could rival it in a clash against Wang Xianzhi. And now, Zhao Sik faced this enigmatic figure—neither clearly alive nor dead. The current “Gao Shulu” neither ate nor drank, neither breathed nor moved, like a hibernating insect in winter. His body remained unblemished, smooth as jade. Eighteen talismans from the Longhu Mountain Celestial Masters bound him, and before that, another eighteen seals from Taoist adepts of old. The first nine came from the original Taoist stronghold of Wudang Mountain. The first talisman, known to later generations as the “Founding Talisman,” was inscribed by the nameless young Taoist who had subdued the mighty Gao Shulu in his prime. That single talisman alone laid the foundation for the ascent of countless Taoist sects and cultivators in the centuries to come.
Zhao Sik tugged at his thick Fluffy Mink Hat (velvet fur eunuch hat), a costly item. He was no martial expert, never having learned any techniques. Ten thousand Zhao Siks could not match one Han Shengxuan. His age made him especially sensitive to the spring chill. Zhao Sik often wondered why the Zhao clan had chosen him as the keeper of this secret. Was it because he lacked martial skill? Because he had tread carefully for twenty years, never overstepping? Or had Han Shengxuan left some final words to the emperor? Zhao Sik tugged his lips into a faint smile, gazing at the motionless celestial being across from him, words unspoken. Years of caution had taught him not to speak aloud to himself. Zhao Sik— Bitter Thoughts? The old eunuch chuckled softly. What he feared most was speaking in his sleep. To speak as a man among men and as a ghost among ghosts—what difficulty was that? The true hardship lay in speaking the truth.
Zhao Sik had thought he would die quietly, taking his secrets with him. But then, unexpectedly, a message arrived from Beiliang, where his young master had pledged loyalty. A seemingly insignificant palace maid delivered the message. Zhao Sik had no doubt that the message was split into two parts. The first was a phrase spoken by his young master at their parting, known only to the heavens, the earth, Zhao Changling, and himself. The second part was likely entrusted by the talented Zhao Changling to someone like Li Yishan. Zhao Sik fell into thought. His family, the Luting Zhao Clan, had once been among the ten great aristocratic houses of the Spring and Autumn era. Yet Zhao Changling, the rightful heir, had forsaken his inheritance to join the Xu family. Without Zhao Changling’s support, Xu Xiaoru would never have risen so swiftly among Liyang’s generals. Zhao Sik bore no blind loyalty to the Luting Zhao Clan, but he vividly remembered his young master’s grace and the protection he had offered. All Zhao Sik could do was pass on the detailed southern route and the martial strength of the procession to Beiliang. After twenty years of silence, the secret was like an old wine jar, finally opened and poured out in one swift drink.
Zhao Sik habitually extended two withered fingers, pinching his brow. He could not fathom how Beiliang intended to claim this celestial being. There were two keys, each responsible for one half of the seal. The method of opening lay in Zhao Sik’s hands, while the means of resealing belonged to the hidden Taoist adepts. Even if Beiliang succeeded, they would only obtain a scalding hot potato, burning both hands and heart. No one knew what Gao Shulu would do after four hundred years of slumber. Once the Founding Talisman was removed, who could “seal the mountain” and thus dare to speak to Gao Shulu? Otherwise, who would dare to utter a single word to a madman who had slaughtered all the martial experts of his time?
Zhao Sik gazed at the serene middle-aged man seated on the floor and murmured softly, “This old eunuch was named Sik by my master. All these years, aside from the scheming and intrigue, I can’t say I’ve suffered much. You, Gao Shulu, are called the Worry-Free Immortal. But according to the Buddhist teachings, that so-called freedom is merely sealing away the six senses and two more, to attain liberation. This kind of liberation, I—a Mundane (commoner) wallowing in the mud—cannot imagine. But I wonder, sealed by so many Taoist adepts for four hundred years, can you truly be free of sorrow? Ah, well, even if you cannot see or hear, I won’t pile on your misfortune…”
The old eunuch muttered to himself.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle pierced the air.
Zhao Sik did not flinch; instead, he felt a strange sense of relief. He was simply curious—what force did Beiliang possess to challenge this procession? Though they were already at the southern edge of the capital’s jurisdiction, if Beiliang had stationed a hidden force of several thousand troops here, even if they had turned traitor at the last moment, it would be terrifying indeed—an act bordering on rebellion.
The truth would leave the old eunuch, Liyang, and even Beiliang utterly unprepared.
At the far end of the The Post Road (postal road), only three riders appeared. On the left was a thin young man with the rough features of a Northern Wilderness man, his eyes burning with hot anticipation as he stared at the two hundred riders ahead. He chuckled softly. There was an old saying in the Central Plains: “A wolf travels a thousand miles just for meat.”
On the right rode a rider wielding a broken spear.
In the center sat a pale, effeminate figure in white robes, exuding an air of ethereal grace.
The procession, tasked with delivering Gao Shulu southward to confront Cao Changqing, did not halt but pressed forward. The old eunuch lifted the corner of the curtain slightly and murmured in recognition. It was the demon lord of Zhulu Mountain. The Zhao Gou records had mentioned that the white-robed figure had once blocked the path of the useless monk. It was none other than Luoyang, the Northern Wilderness and the world’s first demon lord, though no one had known she would become the ruler of Zhulu Mountain. As for the two riders beside her, the Zhao Gou had no records on them.
The Qin dynasty lost its mandate eight hundred years ago.
The old eunuch, back turned to Gao Shulu, naturally did not notice the sealed figure behind him, who seemed to have slightly opened his eyes.
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