Chapter 75: The Qingcheng King Bows His Head

Beside the stone steps stood one hundred Bai Ma warriors of the Yi Cong, silent and still. In the dim light of dusk, the Bei Liang swords exuded a chilling battle aura.

At their head rode general Ning E Mei, clad in pitch-black heavy armor, grasping a nearly hundred-jin iron ji-halberd of profound black luster. Riding a black horse and wielding black armor and halberd, he formed a stark contrast with the one hundred Bai Ma light cavalry, creating a suffocating atmosphere.

Before the Qing Yang Palace stood the thirty-six-man Shen Xiao Sword Formation, warriors and swords united, their thirty-six blades pointing at the crowd, radiating brilliance. Amidst them laid the corpses of Daoists scattered across the ground, interspersed with Lü Shu Yang and their companions. A warm bead of blood dripped from the tip of Chi Xia sword held by Lü Qian Tang. Shu Xiu adjusted her breath, enduring the pressure from both the sword formation and the cavalry. Yang Qing Feng extended his pale fingers to gently wipe away a streak of crimson blood from his left cheek, deliberately positioning himself amidst the densest pile of corpses.

Wu Shi Zhen stood awestruck. If he faced the three who had broken the Yu Xiao sword formation, he still possessed an eight- or nine-out-of-ten chance of victory. That Bei Liang Young Masterge, astride a fine steed with a fine blade, could mock Qing Cheng Wang and insult Qing Yang Palace, but such offenses wouldn’t warrant death. Yet, disregarding the stone monument requiring nobles to dismount, riding into the square was a capital offense. Slaying eighteen registered Daoists in a single sweep—he knew fully well the seriousness of such an act in this dynasty, which favored Huang Lao Daoism over Buddhist teachings. Even if the Yu Xiao sword formation had been annihilated, he had no hesitation in forming the Shen Xiao array. He aimed to capture this audacious descendant of Bei Liang’s generals, executing him first and reporting later—every official in Yong Province would support this decision, and he didn’t fear the matter reaching the capital. Perhaps even those local scholars harboring resentment toward Qing Yang Palace would applaud. Who would really care about the few women he had secretly taken for himself?

Yet the scene before him now surpassed all expectations. A hundred cavalrymen, brimming with martial ferocity, had stormed Qing Yang Palace—was this an outright declaration of war? This was no longer simply a death-worthy crime; it was outright mutiny, unauthorized mobilization of troops. It had escalated to an offense punishable by eradication of nine lineages!

Leaving aside this crime that nearly equaled treason, Wu Shi Zhen couldn’t imagine what he could possibly do if the Shen Xiao formation couldn’t withstand the onslaught of over a hundred cavalrymen, plus the great-halberd general and the three martial experts present. His father, Wu Ling Su, pursued alchemy but not martial arts, always contending that seeking Dao through martial might was the most inferior path of heresy. Mount Long Hu’s Qi Xuan Zhen was said to possess celestial power in both hands, yet had anyone ever heard of Qi, the grand Taoist master, claiming himself the mightiest in the world? Thus, should the sword formation unfortunately fall again, his father—renowned more for eloquence than prowess in the alchemical sect—would clearly be of no help. Did it then fall upon the true immortal of Qing Yang Palace? His nominal mother? The problem was, would that hideous woman even lift a finger? That Bei Liang Young Masterge had disrespected Qing Cheng Mountain, yet she often resorted to violent beatings against father and son. Wu Shi Zhen even questioned how he had managed to survive until today. This Shen Xiao sword formation was none other than her creation during retreat—nearly half of Qing Yang Palace’s famed Ling Bao Jing was penned by her own hand.

Beyond the front gate and main hall stood a solitary bell tower, a drum tower absent to balance the yin-yang Daoist harmony. Though towering, it bore no great bell; its upper pavilion housed only miscellaneous items. At a window stood a Taoist of about thirty years, dressed in violet robes, his lean figure upright like a green pine, his face faintly shimmering with an azure glow, exuding the ethereal elegance of a Daoist immortal. Observing the perilous standoff in the square below, his sharp eyes betrayed a hidden malevolence, opposite his otherwise carefree demeanor, as he chuckled mockingly, “I hope this damn Shen Xiao sword formation meets its demise and perishes entirely. It’ll save my Qing Yang Palace a bit of rations. With dwindling incense offerings, even a pig could be slaughtered for meat. But these men—only mouths to feed—just feast under that woman’s patronage, treating me like their chamber pot. They truly think themselves lords!”

PFFT!

A white horse-tail flywhisk struck his face, leaving a blazing red mark.

A cold voice whispered in his ear, “Wu Ling Su, don’t forget who bestowed upon you the title of Qing Cheng Wang. It wasn’t the Emperor’s golden decree—it was me!”

The Qing Cheng Wang—better known as Qing Cheng Wang—didn’t turn his head or flinch. He sneered coldly, “Zhao Yu Tai, if I had known back then I would meet you, I’d have forgotten alchemy and taken to swordsmanship instead. With my talent, where would you stand against me?”

A voice beside Wu Ling Su replied, equally icy, “You’re only good with your mouth. What else do you have to offer? A coward afraid of death and pain, who only dabbles without perseverance—do you really think you could have endured the hardship of sword cultivation? I’d rather believe you slept with the Queen Zheng than believe that!”

Wu Ling Su murmured, “One may strike wildly, but one mustn’t speak recklessly.”

The spiritually attuned flywhisk struck again, leaving his other cheek equally blistered. Balance restored; no one could mock the other.

A magnificent white spear hawk, equally from Liaodong, dove straight towards Xu Feng Nian—not the famed “Xiao Bai” six-year-old falcon, but still a rare species among Qing Bai Luans. Xu Feng Nian used the carved sheath of Xiu Dong as a perch. The immense hawk alighted without causing the slightest tremble in Xiu Dong. Watching this, Wu Shi Zhen—who had never practiced swordsmanship but had witnessed countless sword formations—was momentarily stunned. Xu Feng Nian stroked the hawk’s head, retrieving a tiny bamboo tube tied to its claw. Inside was a message penned by Li Yi Shan, the national strategist. After reading it with an expression unreadable, Xu Feng Nian raised Xiu Dong. The hawk took flight, and Xu Feng Nian tucked the blade away, turned his horse slowly toward Ning E Mei, softly saying, “Return beneath the steps.”

Inside the black armor, General Ning E Mei gave no protest. He signaled, and the hundred riders sheathed their Bei Liang swords, turned, and departed the square, their horses’ hooves light but perfectly in unison. Though not a single blade had truly tasted blood, these Bai Ma warriors had already proven superior in martial presence.

This was the fruit of the Prime Minister’s unchecked cavalry trampling the Jianghu; whether lone heroes or members of sects, all feared and respected the merciless Bei Liang cavalry.

Wu Shi Zhen heaved a sigh of relief—but still hesitated to disband the Shen Xiao formation. Who knew if it might be a scheme by that Bei Liang madman? Xu Feng Nian dismounted his horse, walked toward the sword formation in front of the main hall, with Lü Yang Shu’s trio guarding him protectively, ignoring the thirty-six swords of the Shen Xiao. The Daoist swordsmen stood baffled, glancing repeatedly at Wu Shi Zhen—their current mainstay. When Lü Qian Tang approached within ten paces, Wu Shi Zhen gritted his teeth and roared, “Disband formation!”

On the bell tower, Zhao Yu Tai, the flywhisk woman addressed as Qing Cheng Wang, sighed, “Pity.”

Wu Ling Su frowned, “If you hadn’t held back, that sword formation was doomed to collapse. Why the pity?”

She turned and left. Wu Ling Su, though sharing a marriage of names alone for over a decade, rarely glimpsed her monstrous visage. Occasionally, he’d catch a glimpse of her sturdy back—no less impressive than his own. Half his achievements were owed to her. His royal investiture, his palace access, all were her doing. Wu Ling Su never fathomed her mind, only knowing she wielded a sword, a nun who transitioned from worldly to transcendent life. Normally, she used her white horse-tail flywhisk like a blade. On many dangerous occasions, she had saved him. The Shen Xiao formation was her brainchild. Once on a Mid-Autumn full moon night, he’d seen her practicing swords atop the iron chains bridging Qing Yang’s Twin Peaks. With a single ancient blade, she shattered divine and ghostly powers; even the fierce mountain winds were cleaved asunder with each stroke. Wu Ling Su had seen and heard much in his life, yet never had he encountered a woman with such overwhelming sword intent. He had heard rumors—of one such woman, a famed Northern Liang princess known to have died of illness, who had mysterious ties to the Wu swordsman’s tomb.

That he shared her surname, Qing Cheng Wang, felt rather fortunate to Wu Ling Su. Though beaten and scolded for years by the flywhisk-wielding woman, he felt not a trace of fear or respect for her. They were two grasshoppers on the same string of fate. Still, Wu Ling Su couldn’t grasp her true desires. Yet he was certain—without him, she couldn’t fulfill her grand schemes stretching thousands of miles with hidden threads. In his youth, he had strived for clues, later giving up. Now in his fifties, unless he pursued alchemy and dual cultivation to attain the Dao, how could he ever shame Long Hu’s immortal mountains? He wasn’t the sort to worry without reason. In fact, had he not been unusually clever, how could the old Daoist patriarch of Long Hu have favored him? Wu Ling Su feared one woman only—Empress Zhao Zhi. The only woman he truly revered was the Northern Liang princess of the same surname.

Whispers told of how she defied the Wu swordsman’s lineage for Xu Xiao, then a young commander in Jin Zhou, riding alone on a white steed to Liaodong. For General Xu Xiao, she donned white robes and beat the war drums beside the battlefield. When she descended the ox-driven path toward Bei Liang, she settled peacefully beside her husband and child, willingly abandoning the peerless sword path that once belonged to her.

Wu Ling Su finally regained his composure, spat in disgust, and muttered resentfully, “The capital sent me to watch the butcher, yet what can I see? My feet are bound by Zhao Yu Tai, even forbidden from descending this mountain. Compared to Xu Xiao, I’m not even a drop in the bucket! Zhao Yu Tai, if you push me to the edge one day, I shall return to the palace and file a complaint against you!”

After these angry words, the Qing Cheng Wang chuckled to himself, “Jokes, jokes. A day as husband and wife earns hundred days of kindness. I’ll play my Qing Cheng Wang, pursuing Dao through dual cultivation by day and indulging in spring nights by evening. As for the filth of secular affairs, let Zhao Yu Tai do as she pleases—just ensure my son and I enjoy a century of glory.”

Zhao Yu Tai, tall and not at all feminine, descended the bell tower wielding a white horse-tail flywhisk. As she passed the halls, every female Daoist and priest froze, heads bent low in silence. She paid no heed, exited Qing Yang Palace, and reached a secluded sword pavilion known as Chou Jian Ge—her true dominion on Qing Cheng Mountain. She did not enter, however, instead heading to a burial mound at its rear. A sword was planted before the tomb. This pavilion and tomb were Qing Yang’s forbidden land—any who approached, let alone trespassed, would lose their heads to her deadly flywhisk. Zhao Yu Tai stood there in silent contemplation for a long while before returning to the pavilion, setting down the flywhisk, grinding ink, and writing:

“After this disturbance, the capital should dispel any suspicions toward Wu Ling Su. Qing Cheng Wang is a corpse within a decaying mountain—six thousand hidden armored men remain undetected.”

After setting the brush down, Zhao Yu Tai sighed softly, “Pity the Shen Xiao sword formation wasn’t destroyed; it would have been foolproof.”

Back at the San Qing Hall, Xu Feng Nian, witnessing the retreat of the sword formation, led the way across the threshold into the hall. Turning, he cast a sweaty Wu Shi Zhen a smiling glance, jokingly saying, “Where’s this art of longevity you mentioned? My hundred riders await outside. Without a satisfactory answer, eighteen lives lost today plus thirty-six more—how many does that make?”

Wu Shi Zhen, now thoroughly unnerved, forced a laugh, “This humble Daoist shall immediately fetch my father to greet Your Highness!”

Xu Feng Nian sneered mockingly, “What an almighty air Qing Cheng Wang carries!”

The corpses had been removed from the plaza, and young Daoist disciples, trembling with fear and nausea, dragged buckets and brooms to clean the ground. Jiang Ni’s group skirted around the bloodstained puddles. Yu You Wei covered Que Er’s eyes, while Xiao Shan Cha, holding Master Wei Shu Yang’s hand, showed little fear. As Xu Feng Nian’s voice echoed from within, Xiao Shan Cha, just crossing the threshold into the hall, softly exclaimed, “Look, a fairy has come out!”

Indeed, Qing Cheng Wang Wu Ling Su fit the image of a Daoist immortal in the eyes of ordinary people. Though over fifty, he looked no older than thirty. Clad in a jade-purple Taoist robe gifted by the Emperor, his air held no trace of mundane grime. If a wandering scholar encountered Wu Ling Su in the forest, nine out of ten would mistake him for an immortal descended from Heaven, and upon conversing, find his reasoning deeply profound. To Xiao Shan Cha, who saw all Daoists as minor immortals, this was undoubtedly the greatest immortal of all!

Wu Ling Su dismissed the crowd. Inside the hall, aside from Xu Feng Nian’s group, only father and son Wu Ling Su and Wu Shi Zhen remained—a clear demonstration of sincerity.

Wu Ling Su bowed slightly, “This humble Daoist greets the Crown Prince, regretting our delayed welcome. Please do not take offense, Your Highness.”

Wu Shi Zhen was taken aback.

Xu Feng Nian smiled, “You recognize this young master, Qing Cheng Wang?”

Wu Ling Su chuckled, “Your Highness exudes brilliance; even a single glance reveals your true identity.”

Xu Feng Nian, feigning innocence, tested, “Hope the minor disturbance outside the hall won’t bother you.”

Wu Ling Su responded cheerfully, “Misunderstandings, misunderstandings.”

Xu Feng Nian feigned surprise, hiding his astonishment, and casually asked, “Will an overnight stay disturb Qing Cheng Wang’s cultivation?”

Wu Ling Su smiled, shaking his head, “Not at all. My humble abode is honored by your presence.”

Xu Feng Nian surveyed the hall, chuckling, “What a magnificent humble abode.”

Wu Ling Su simply smiled, then turned, saying, “Wu Shi Zhen, greet the Crown Prince!”

With a grimace, Wu Shi Zhen bowed deeply, his face concealed.

Xu Feng Nian mocked, “Your Highness is unworthy of your bow. Your last bow summoned the Yu Xiao sword formation; what are you plotting tonight—a surprise visit from the Shen Xiao formation?”

Wu Shi Zhen remained bowed, his expression hidden.

Wu Ling Su hastily interjected, “Your Highness, please do not reprimand my son so harshly. This humble Daoist shall personally escort Your Highness to his quarters.”

Behind Qing Yang Palace stretched a vast Jiangnan-style garden compound, intricately carved beams and painted rafters, lush with carvings of dragons, jade rabbits, auspicious beasts, and phoenixes, vivid and lifelike. Xiao Shan Cha was wide-eyed with wonder. Wu Ling Su led Xu Feng Nian into a garden named Ling Zhi Yuan, where four corridors flanked the garden east and west. At its center stood a courtyard well beside a thousand-year-old osmanthus tree, its boughs swaying gently. Seeing Xu Feng Nian, this so-called plague spirit, smile contentedly, Wu Ling Su finally spoke, “This humble Daoist shall arrange vegetarian meals for Your Highness.”

Xu Feng Nian waved him off, “After the meal, do not disturb us further. Simply provide a few worthy secret manuals before I descend the mountain tomorrow, and I shall forget Qing Yang Palace’s earlier foolishness.”

Watching the Qing Cheng Wang leave still smiling, Jiang Ni couldn’t comprehend, asking, “This Qing Cheng immortal possesses the power to summon heavenly lightning. Why doesn’t he strike Xu Feng Nian down?”

The old sword sage laughed, “Leave the Qing Cheng Wang be. Perhaps Qi Xuan Zhen might manage it. We share some camaraderie. Alas, that Daoist has ascended—otherwise, upon reaching Long Hu Mountain, I could spar with him. Then you would witness thunder rolling and purple qi surging from the East.”