In the realm of Jianghu, the martial world, two formidable encounters shook the land when Lady Zi from Huishan Mountain and the sword-obsessed master of Wudang Mountain confronted Wang Xianzhi in succession. Beyond the gorge where iron chains once sank into the river, the Guangling River flowed as calmly as ever. Yet, martial artists flocked to the area to witness the remnants of these epic battles. There was the tomb shattered by Xuan Yuan Qing Feng, the current martial lord, and the mountain-moving feat of Wang Laoguai. Wave after wave of martial heroes arrived and departed, many lamenting that they had missed the final sword of Di Xian, the sword immortal, from Wang Xiaoping, and the graceful silhouette of the woman in purple from Huishan.
Unbeknownst to all, somewhere downstream along the Guangling River, an elderly Daoist from Longhu Mountain had been waiting patiently. Though his appearance was that of a middle-aged man, there was an indescribable air of twilight about him. Daoist Zhao crouched by the riverside, scooping up a handful of water, and sighed. Four hundred years ago, Gao Shulu had once said he could drink the entire Guangling River in one breath, a metaphor for mastering all martial techniques in one continuous flow. Now, however, the phrase had become a mockery of someone seeking an effortless solution. Over four centuries, what was once praise had turned into an insult.
The Daoist, whose original name had long been abandoned, gazed at his blurred reflection in the water. He exhaled gently, and the murky water in his palm rippled slightly. In an instant, it became clear and still as a mirror, reflecting a hint of purple.
Life is but a hundred years, and all things change with time.
With a sigh, the elder, whose name was recorded only in the secret annals of the Zhao clan, tossed the water mirror upward. With two bent fingers, he pinched the edge of the purple robe reflected in the mirror. As he did so, a woman slowly emerged from the surface of the Guangling River. This was none other than the highly secretive technique of “fishing the moon from water,” known only to the most elusive masters of the Zhi Xuan sect. The woman, no longer curled like a newborn, sat cross-legged upon the river, still in deep meditation. For some time, she had lain still like a stone sinking into the river, not drifting downstream, but moving upstream against the current. Only when a new energy began to swirl around her form did she begin to drift downstream, where the old Daoist, who had waited in solitude for a century, finally fished her out.
Over the past hundred years, Daoist Zhao had remained obscure, his actions subtle and unseen, like the trail of a snake through ashes—hidden in silence, invisible in detail. This was the path of solitary concealment. He had cultivated an evil dragon in the Tianfei Mountains to siphon the fortune of the Zhao clan of Longhu Mountain, nourishing the Zhao family in the imperial capital of Taian. He had transplanted an ancient locust tree to the Xiama Wei inn to suppress the malevolent aura of the Xu family. He had made a wager with the elder of the Celestial Sect, Zhao Xuansu, exchanging one seal for another. Yet, while he, Zhao Huangchao, had chosen to dwell in seclusion near Huishan Mountain, befriending the diametrically opposed father and son, Xuan Yuan Dapan and Xuan Yuan Jingcheng, it seemed like a mere stroke of luck. But was there not a deeper reason? These subtle, half-revealed actions never interfered with his century-long grand design. They were merely embellishments, like a hermit planting a plum tree in his courtyard—its bloom was welcome, but its absence was no great loss.
Zhao Huangchao gazed at the young woman slowly rising from the river’s surface. As she aged, she grew more like someone, yet at the same time, less and less like her. Why was that? People fight for a breath, and monks burn incense for a name. That was why Liu Songtao had chosen the latter in the end, rather than her.
Xuan Yuan Qing Feng opened her eyes, filled with suspicion toward the Daoist whose depth she could not fathom. Zhao Huangchao smiled and said, “You need not be so wary. Much of what was left for you at Daxue Slope—such as the ‘Jia Yi Zi,’ which Xuan Yuan Dapan never had the chance to use, and the ‘Kuan Xin Wan,’ a special pill your father left you to control your subordinates—was all crafted by this humble Daoist.”
Xuan Yuan Qing Feng, half-believing, half-doubtful, sneered, “Oh? So you are the benefactor of Daxue Slope? Am I to repay the debts of my ancestors to you?”
Zhao Huangchao chuckled and shook his head. Not only was she not like her, she was almost the opposite. That woman of old had seen the world in black and white, with no room for subtlety. But of course, had she remained that naive girl, she could never have forced herself to become boneless, nor could she have become the cunning mistress of Huishan Mountain or the ruthless martial lord of Jianghu.
Zhao Huangchao raised his hand, as if brushing away the morning mist over the river, and his tone grew colder. “In the past, I befriended two generations of Huishan because I admired the ambition of Xuan Yuan Dapan and the sincerity of Xuan Yuan Jingcheng. But neither succeeded, and my efforts, however slight, were wasted. I bear no grudge.”
Xuan Yuan Qing Feng asked, “Then why have you sought me out?”
Zhao Huangchao asked in return, “Xuan Yuan Qing Feng, would you like to reshape your bones and forge a true Bodhisattva’s golden body, then step beyond the Heavens in one bound? Wang Xianzhi abandoned the City of Martial Emperors, but he left a hidden hand in the martial world. If you wish to be the true leader of the martial world, not just a nominal one, you cannot avoid me. If you think me arrogant, then put it another way: I can help you walk the martial path faster, with fewer detours.”
Xuan Yuan Qing Feng did not even bother to hide her disdain.
Zhao Huangchao had cultivated his patience for lifetimes beyond that of ordinary men, so he did not anger. He said calmly, “Just now, I thought of half a phrase: ‘People fight for a breath.’ Xuan Yuan Qing Feng, now that you have entered the realm of Heaven’s Will, what have you realized?”
Though she deeply distrusted this self-important Daoist, she did not underestimate him. After a pause, she flicked her sleeve and sat upon the water. Almost at the same time, Zhao Huangchao also sat cross-legged on the ground, facing her. Xuan Yuan Qing Feng said gravely, “Fighting for a breath begins with one’s own fate, nurturing the flow of energy. Then comes the struggle for the world’s fortune, forging momentum. All of it progresses gradually, until at some moment, in some place, it culminates in a single leap, like a carp swimming a thousand miles and finally leaping the Dragon Gate.”
Zhao Huangchao showed admiration and nodded. “Fate, energy, fortune, and momentum—all fall within the scope of a single breath. Below the realm of Immortal, or more precisely, below the realm of Heaven’s Will, none can escape it. Xuan Yuan Qing Feng, though your path in martial arts is seen by the three teachings as a crooked one, you have nonetheless entered the great hall.”
Xuan Yuan Qing Feng sneered, “So, Master, you have come today to preach great truths? Our meeting is not a debate between Daoists and Buddhists on the Demon-Slaying Platform.”
Zhao Huangchao remained calm, not pretending to be a sage stroking his beard. He placed his hands on his knees and smiled. “How about a deal?”
Xuan Yuan Qing Feng bent down, dipped her hand into the water, and with the other, rolled up her sleeve, revealing a translucent wrist where blood vessels and sinew were visible, but no bone. Zhao Huangchao laughed aloud. “No need. When you are ready, if I have not yet passed away, it will still be valid. Just call for me at Longhu Mountain. My original name is Zhao Huangchao.”
Xuan Yuan Qing Feng nodded silently.
Zhao Huangchao rose and vanished in a flash, his laughter echoing behind him:
“A nation broken nine ways, its people lost in eight.
If I one day become the Azure Emperor,
When autumn comes in the ninth month of the eighth,
On Mount Furong, I shall shake the cinnamon tree.
When this flower blooms, all others shall perish…”
Xuan Yuan Qing Feng’s expression darkened. The Jia Yi Zi and Kuan Xin Wan were secret legacies of the old Huishan Daxue Slope. The former was a human ladder used by Xuan Yuan Dapan to ascend to the heavens. Without it, even if Xuan Yuan Qing Feng had slain many masters to absorb their inner energy, she could never have reached the level of Heaven’s Will needed to challenge Wang Xianzhi. The latter was a mysterious elixir, used to ensure loyalty after kindness and authority had been shown. The Daoist Zhao Huangchao must be telling the truth—he must have been an old acquaintance of Niuguni Gang. Yet, since taking full control of Huishan, Xuan Yuan Qing Feng trusted no one but herself, and she held a deep resentment toward the Daoists of Longhu Mountain. She would not easily make a deal with a nameless Daoist who had appeared out of nowhere.
She withdrew her hand, not a single drop clinging to her wrist. Rising, she glanced around, her gaze lingering on a drifting reed. She flicked her foot, stepping lightly upon the reed’s leaf.
As if in thought, as if in revelation.
A robe of purple, reborn in the martial world, drifting eastward with the river.
※※※
On the post road of Hezhou, a colossal figure charged forward.
Most travelers only saw a blur before clouds of dust obscured the road. But those with keen eyes recognized the giant as a being from ancient times, a relic of the Kunlun Mountains. He stood two zhang tall, capable of uprooting mountains and splitting rivers. Five thousand years ago, when the sages tamed the floods, they had commanded nine hundred giants of Kunlun to carry the Nine Cauldrons, each to stabilize one of the Nine Provinces.
The giant ran with all fours touching the ground, thunderous in his steps, faster than the finest steeds of the frontier.
On his back rode an old man with graying hair, strapped in by a rope to prevent falling.
Once a chaos-wreaking demon in the Spring and Autumn Periods, the old man should have been scheming in the restoration of the Western Chu. Yet, at the critical moment of the new Chu uprising, he had abandoned it all, summoning servants far more formidable than the Kunlun slaves of the Army of the Mountain, heading toward the border of Beiliang.
The journey was rough, and except for necessary stops for food and rest, the old man wasted not a moment, nor spoke a single word. But as he neared the Beiliang Road, he began muttering to himself.
“Old Wang, you picked the wrong time to fight. I should have let you die before you could rise! I made the martial world so entertaining for you, yet you show no gratitude. You may dislike that Xu boy, but why drag a little girl into it?”
“Wang Xianzhi, Xu Fengnian—you both deserve to die! If my daughter dies, Wang Xianzhi, you won’t be guarding Heaven’s Gate, and Beiliang won’t know peace!”
“And you, Xu Fengnian! If you can’t beat Wang Xianzhi, just kneel and beg! Wang would scorn you too much to fight. But no, you had to be reckless, taking Gao Shulu’s body and spirit. What, afraid Gao will kill Cao Changqing, and the woman you love will have no refuge? You can’t even protect Beiliang, yet you dare to dream of protecting Jiang Sai’s life? Fine, be noble! But if you let my daughter die, I, Huang Longshi, may have once plagued Beiliang, but I also left you an escape. From now on, you’ll die as the books foretell—your body torn apart!”
The Kunlun giant had already entered Hezhou, heading straight for the border of Youzhou and Hezhou.
Huang Longshi’s heart sank deeper. No matter how he “saw,” the boy had not yet completed the task. The foundation lay in the Dream of Spring and Autumn, a vision from a nameless Daoist four hundred years ago. Without it, nothing would succeed. Huang Longshi calculated that the boy, though cautious by nature, was also pragmatic. With such a heavy burden, how could he risk his life for a girl whose bond was so fragile? Even Huang Longshi, known for his coldness in the Spring and Autumn Periods, would never act so recklessly. At this moment, to act meant losing his cultivation, his legacy, and his nation’s fate—earning the title of traitor for a thousand generations. Xu Fengnian’s inaction was the right path.
For all his past glories, Huang Longshi had never felt so helpless.
The giant beneath him was nearing his limit.
Huang Longshi said coldly, “You should die now.”
The giant, without complaint, pushed himself to the brink, bleeding from every orifice, to cover the final three hundred li.
After those three hundred li, Huang Longshan would begin his sprint, striving to reach before Wang Xianzhi struck the killing blow.
If only the foolish girl were still alive!
There was one thing Huang Longshi had never told the girl: had he not met her, after the unification of the Central Plains under Liyang, he would have retired to the mountains, devoting himself to martial cultivation and perhaps even seeking transcendence. With nothing left to bind him to this world, he could have gazed upon the heavens.
Approaching Youzhou, Huang Longshan suddenly roared, “Stop!”
The giant halted abruptly, his hands and feet carving deep grooves into the earth. The old man leapt down and dashed forward, his voice heavy with sorrow. “Too late.”
※※※
Wang Xianzhi kept his word. Even if his opponent was a girl, a novel assassin, he had sworn to kill her at their next meeting. So when she defiantly blocked the road at the border, Wang Xianzhi stepped forward and stomped his foot into her small abdomen.
She fell backward, sliding dozens of zhang across the ground.
Her aura long spent, her back torn, her wounds countless.
She should have died lying there, but with sheer will, she rose.
She stood, unafraid.
She had killed Wang Mingyin, Liu Haoshi, and many other masters. She feared neither killing nor being killed.
She was only a little sad, feeling she had not done enough.
She had returned the hairpin.
But not yet the mink hat he had given her.
Her vision blurred, but she still lifted her head. Once, she had been hunted by Yi Jie Liu and a fat woman, and when she could no longer go on, he had descended from the sky, standing before her.
She had been happy—not because she would live, but because he had come.
So simple.
He He Girl closed her eyes. Old Huang had said that death was just a long sleep, one from which no one could wake you. She thought that was nice. Time to sleep.
Just then, perhaps it was a dream, a warm hand gently patted her head, and a voice whispered, “No sleeping in.”
Half-asleep, she felt someone walk beside her, speaking two words—one soft, one heavy.
A whisper.
“I’m here.”
A thunderous cry.
“Wang Xianzhi, you should die.”
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