Qi Xuanzhen of Dragon-Tiger Mountain ascended to immortality, and purple aura arrived from the east. As these events were linked together, the three Prince’s Mansion watchdogs—Lv, Yang, and Shu—standing in the courtyard, could truly feel as if celestial thunder roared in their ears.
Even Wei Shuyang was left speechless. This one-armed old swordsman, with peerless sword techniques, easily pierced the Fujiang Hongjia with just two sword strikes—it was indeed shocking. Yet regardless of how fierce or domineering the swordplay might be, the four of them still regarded him as merely a first-rate expert. Although reaching such a level might seem unattainable, experts of this kind could always be met along the way while accompanying the young prince on his travels.
Yet in a century of martial chauvinism, how many Qi Xuanzhens have emerged? Who else could dominate the Celestial Master Mansion, outshining even the Zhao family for half a cycle of sixty years? In the entire 1,600-year history of Dragon-Tiger Mountain, how many like him have there been? The old man in a sheepskin coat claims he can match swords with the immortal Qi, even forcing that Grand Master to draw purple lightning from the heavens and invite celestial thunder?
Hasn’t he inflated his tale just a bit too far?
No one expected Jiang Ni to merely frown and say, “Are you done yet?”
The old sword sage was about to say more, but realizing that words alone would not earn admiration from the girl, he despondently gave up. As he passed Shu Xiu, who remained suspicious and puzzled, he suddenly struck her waist with lightning speed, pinching her plump behind. By the time Shu Xiu realized what was happening, the shameless old man was already walking away. With fingers suspended mid-air, he mimed a vulgar clutching motion, muttering, “Softer than that girl Yu who carries a cat—probably. Youth in women is a real asset. No matter how well you take care of yourself later in life, the vitality fades. Still, for a woman in her thirties, that’s not bad at all. Xufengnian is too stingy. Just a bit of Huangting cultivation, and he’s foolishly trying to preserve his vitality for eternal life? Seeking immortality itself is a mistake, and practicing it so naively is just doubling the blunder.”
Yu Youwei had long grown accustomed to the old man’s mad babbling, and leading two children—Que’er and Xiaoshancha, who believed they had entered a paradise—into the corridor house.
Xufengnian picked the largest room and gestured for Jiang Ni to come closer, indicating she could earn her keep by reading.
Inside the study, Qing Niao laid out the absorbent rice paper and prepared ink and brushes. As Xufengnian listened to the sound of Jiang Ni reading, he bent over sketching the intricate details of Fujiang Hongjia. The military headquarters of Beiliang had several departments specializing in mechanisms, housing many senior craftsmen adept at mechanical and structural engineering. Fascinated by the extraordinary resilience of Fujiang Hongjia, Xufengnian planned to secretly hand over the broken red armor along with its blueprints to the Mechanism Division after returning to Beiliang, hoping to replicate some puppet toys. Yang Qingfeng, who was skilled in necromancy, ghost summoning, and spirit conjuring, would surely prove indispensable in this endeavor, making him, unexpectedly, the one figure among the trio most vital to keep alive.
As for whether Shu Xiu still harbored resentment towards the prince for his cold-heartedness, would Xufengnian—who had always been sharp-tongued and unfeeling—actually care?
After quickly eating some delicately crafted vegetarian dishes, Xufengnian took Qing Niao for a walk around Qingyang Palace. The palace worshipped Lao Tzu, the founding patriarch of Taoism, and contained statues of several Thunder Command Immortals of the nascent Divine Lightning Sect. The palace’s greatest treasure was a precious woodblock print containing the complete 5,000-character version of the Dao De Jing. However, Xufengnian had no interest in such things, not even if Wu Lingsu offered it to him, as he found it cumbersome.
Still in its early stage under Qingcheng King, Qingyang Palace lacked the deep heritage of the great Daoist centers like Dragon-Tiger and Wudang mountains. It could scarcely offer any remarkable treasures. Xufengnian failed to encounter any eye-catching female Taoist priests, most likely hidden away carefully by the father and son.
After taking a stroll, Xufengnian smiled and said, “Come, let’s go see that iron chain bridge.”
As they exited Qingyang Palace, the wind grew stronger the closer they approached Qingyang Peak’s cliff edge, flapping their sleeves in loud flutters. Xufengnian pressed his hand against his sword hilt while walking, finally arriving at the iron suspension bridge, swaying amidst the mountain gales. It appeared ethereal at a glance, and whether it could withstand actual steps without shaking remained totally untested territory for Xufengnian.
The bridge deck consisted solely of nine heavy chains as thick as large ceramic bowls, with four additional chains as handrails, leaving merely five chains supporting the path beneath—making the bridge exceptionally narrow and perilous. Each iron chain was formed by linking more than a thousand individually forged iron rings together, and the chains held wooden planks above them. The two bridge abutments were anchored by massive earth-dragon piles and Crouching Dragonstakes. According to Qingcheng Mountain records, the earth-dragon piles weighed an incredible ten tons. At both ends of the bridge stood pavilions: one at the Qingyang Peak side named Guanyin Pavilion, and the one on the opposite side called Tingdeng Pavilion. Entering Guanyin Pavilion, Xufengnian chuckled, “What kind of sound is this Pavilion meant to observe? And what light does Tingdeng listen to? Both names are utterly nonsensical.”
Looking across to the opposite mountain peak, Xufengnian sighed, “It’s a shame we won’t see the scene of ten thousand lamps facing the celestial court without any rain.”
Qing Niao smiled gently, when suddenly she turned alertly, locking her eyes onto a tall figure approaching slowly.
Such towering and muscular women were rare sights. Clad in Taoist robes, she carried a white fox tail whisk in hand. Unlike Qingcheng King’s polished outward appearance, this older female priest bore a fierce countenance, scarred and rugged. Wearing Qingyang Palace’s Divine Lightning Sect robe saved her from being mistaken for a mountain ghost.
Xufengnian turned only once, and his gaze froze, rising absentmindedly. Qing Niao seldom saw the prince so spellbound. The last time had been in the first month after Old Huang died on the city wall of Wudi City, when the prince—having just undergone the adult ceremony—sat alone on an upper floor sipping warm wine. His mind blank, Xufengnian stared at the tall, scarred Taoist priest before him. He had displayed no arrogance as when facing Qingcheng King, nor any mockery or disdain typical of a refined young man encountering an ugly country woman—only a dazed reverie remained.
Back then, mere days after being awarded the title of Great Column General, the “Butcher” was enfeoffed as a king, achieving the highest rank any official could reach beneath a single man. That year, the roads to Beiliang were packed with processions; thousands of carriages and horses made their way there. The young prince was barely a few years old, just starting to learn his letters at his mother’s side, playful and naughty. His elegant, white-clothing-loving princess mother seemed to fall gravely ill. Upon regaining her health, she took along her trusted maid and young son for an excursion among verdant hills and clear waters. The maid secretly followed them after they left that graveyard containing twenty thousand buried swords, trailing them even to the barren, desolate region of Jinzhou in Liaodong. Together with the Xu family, she weathered the tumultuous years of the Spring and Autumn Warring States. The maid, whose face was perpetually hidden behind a bronze mask, briefly removed it while fetching water on the mountain, accidentally terrifying the young prince, who burst into tears. The mother, who never scolded or punished her son but only spoiled him, surprisingly punished the little prince on their descent by ordering him to hold two thick volumes in each hand and stand silently by a wall, without food.
The maid, mask resumed, quietly brought him food but was kicked in punishment by the furious, aching child. This made the princess truly angry. The young prince felt only wronged, believing his mother no longer loved him, crying bitterly and unconsolably. The maid knelt silently beside him, watching the child cry from loud sobs to rasping hiccups, to weak whimpers. Confused and numb, the boy, having no idea what he had done wrong, obeyed his mother’s command not to eat; after a while, he could no longer lift the volumes, so he balanced one on his head and clutched another with his teeth. The image was so stubbornly pitiful it was heartbreaking.
Later, upon waking from a faint on his sickbed, the princess sat at his bedside and told him the story of the masked maid. He learned that this woman, more like an auntie than a servant, had grown up with his mother. She had suffered eighteen slow sword cuts defending against a terrible villain in her escape from a horrifying place. His mother said that back when she was young, this aunt had been dashing in appearance, capturing the hearts of countless sword experts. Throughout the years of war and campaigns, she had endured countless wounds—enough to earn admiration even from great heroes like Zhao Changling. Later, the young prince personally picked a handful of mulberries and offered them to his aunt.
That year, beneath the banner of King Xu, the armored maid knelt on one knee, accepting the mulberries. The child gently wiped the tears from her eyes and softly said, “Auntie, don’t wear the mask anymore. If anyone says you aren’t beautiful, I’ll slap their mouths! I’m small now, so if I can’t beat them, I will when I grow stronger. Look, I picked these mulberries for you.”
This year, atop Qingyang Palace’s peak, inside Guanyin Pavilion, Xufengnian walked toward the scarred, fierce-faced middle-aged priestess, reaching his hand to wipe away her torrential tears. They wouldn’t stop flowing, so he just kept wiping, his voice choked and gentle: “Auntie is beautiful. Don’t cry.”
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