The renowned White Lotus Scholar was still engrossed in his book, his head nearly buried in its pages—a sight both comical and endearing to any onlooker.
Back in the day, Zhao Ningshen had summoned the ancestral spirits of Longhu Mountain during the Battle of Chun Shen Lake, only to have his golden body shattered. Yet, after his fall from grace, he resolutely entered seclusion to cultivate the Jade Emperor’s Daoist arts, a practice rivaling Wudang’s Great Yellow Court. Through destruction came rebirth, and he reforged his destiny. A purple-gold lotus bloomed in the Dragon Pool, bearing a nascent bud of his life force. Given time and care, Zhao Ningshen might yet ascend like his grandfather Zhao Xiyi and father Zhao Danxia—perhaps even surpassing them, achieving the legendary feat of riding a dragon to the heavens. But now, by shattering his own purple-gold lotus to summon a sword from ten thousand miles away and sever Xu Fengnian’s fate, Zhao Ningshen was committing mutual destruction. Without this sacrifice, even Qi Jiajie’s mastery of the sword would not have sufficed to send a blade from Dongyue Sword Pool straight to the distant Wudang Mountain in the northwest.
Zhao Ningshen swayed weakly before collapsing to the ground, murmuring, “All along, I told myself this was for the sake of the Central Plains’ Daoist lineage, for the people of Liyang, or at the very least, for the thousand-year legacy of Longhu Mountain’s Celestial Master lineage. But in truth, it was just my own selfish desire—to conquer the demon of defeat from Chun Shen Lake.”
Bai Yu, who had been silently reading nearby, approached the young Daoist and said softly, “Mortals deceive others; true masters deceive heaven and earth. Neither is easy. But self-deception? Some say it’s effortless, others say it’s harder than scaling the heavens.”
He bent down, placing a hand on Zhao Ningshen’s shoulder. “Ningshen, don’t blame yourself. You’ve crossed this hurdle—cherish it. As for me, Bai Yu, I’ll never overcome mine. I refuse to be like Xuan Yuan Jingcheng, drawing a prison around myself, never leaving Huishan Mountain. From now on, you cultivate in seclusion on the mountain, while I—whether I become a powerful minister like Zhang Julu or die an untimely death like Xun Ping—it matters little.”
This man, once bestowed the title “White Lotus Scholar” by the late Liyang Emperor, squinted into the distance. “My eyes are failing me. What a pity I can’t witness the grandeur of that sword.”
Zhao Ningshen gazed afar, his voice bitter. “Then let me see it for you, Master.”
—
At the western edge of Bai Lu Lake, under the tight escort of Qingzhou’s navy, the elite 100,000-strong Southern Army began crossing the river in orderly fashion—a monumental task. The Qingzhou fleet, nominally under the command of Prince Jing’an Zhao Xun, had earned the respect of Southern generals like Wu Zhongxuan, dispelling their previous dismissive view of it as mere “embroidered pillows.” However, the young Prince of Liang, who assisted in the crossing, had little interaction with General Wu beyond a brief meeting at the welcoming banquet. That night, nearly every courtesan of note in Qingzhou was invited aboard the navy’s ships, earning Zhao Xun the elegant moniker “Prince of Rouge” among Qingzhou’s literati.
On one ship, stripped of its Qingzhou crew, a man and woman stood at the cabin door, watching a middle-aged scholar who had been sitting cross-legged for some time. Earlier, they had seen him inexplicably place a white bowl on the ground and drop a pebble into it. The man was dressed in fine robes, exuding charm, while the woman—having removed her veil—revealed a face that would stun the old Qing faction’s nobility. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Pei Nanwei, the late Prince of Jing’an’s consort who had followed him to the grave.
Frowning, the woman asked, “Your Highness, was that flash just now… a sword’s aura?”
Prince Jing’an Zhao Xun sighed. “Ask me? With my meager skills?”
She didn’t feign coquetry or shyness—not even a smile. Only the faintest upward tilt of her lips.
Zhao Xun’s heart still raced every time he saw her aloof expression. The rising star among Liyang’s princes clasped her hand in silence.
A white-robed man emerged from the cabin, passing them to stand near the gray-haired scholar. Glancing down, he saw a thin white line cutting swiftly through the water in the bowl.
The scholar waved his hand, and the bowl vanished. Rising slowly, he joined the white-robed man by the railing, surveying the surroundings. “Eight hundred miles of Chun Shen Lake, fed by the mighty Guangling River and four others—what grandeur! Yet even lifelong lakeside villagers don’t realize it’s withering like an old man, while Bai Lu Lake beneath us grows like a youth into his prime, destined to become the world’s greatest lake. As Huang Longshi once said, the world’s fortunes are fixed yet ever-shifting. Land is the host, water the guest—hold nothing, gain nothing.”
The white-robed man remained silent.
The scholar chuckled. “To shift the balance between Liyang and Northern Liang’s fortunes, Qi Jiajie had to abandon his lifelong ambition, discard his longsword, and seek a blade at Dongyue Sword Pool. After Qi Lianhua’s rampage at Tianjian Observatory, Liyang gathered its last Northern dragon-supporting cultivators at the Sword Pool, sacrificing their lives to imbue the furnace with their essence. All this, just to shatter that man’s newfound fortune. Truly pitiable—Liyang’s court watches helplessly as scholars flock to Liang, martial artists surge in, the Lotus Peak debates draw elites from Huainan and Jiangnan, and the world’s hearts turn northward. And what can the emperor on his golden throne do? Honestly, without Xie Guanying fanning the flames, Qi Jiajie would never have succeeded.”
Xie Guanying, ranked first on the Land Immortal Scroll, and Chen Zhibao, the unorthodox Prince of Shu who left his domain ahead of his 10,000 troops!
Without turning to the Prince of Jing’an—who, like Xu Fengnian, had inherited his title—Xie Guanying mused, “Without Lu Xu’s counsel, he’s thrived all the more.”
Teasing, he added, “Your Highness, spare her a smile. She admires you deeply. Besides, we’ll need this ‘Ten-Day Emperor’ later. Without him, things would be far trickier.”
Chen Zhibao looked northwest, where the radiant white streak grew ever more imposing—so much so that even this transcendent Prince of Shu narrowed his eyes.
—
Before Xie Guanying noticed the anomaly and cast his pebble, on the eastern shores of Bai Lu Lake, a small boat drifted among reeds. At its bow, a vivid crimson robe spun rapidly, blooming like a peony.
The spinning stopped abruptly, the robe’s joyful-faced wearer gazing skyward.
Just as she prepared to leap into the air, a reclining woman on the boat said languidly, “Men’s affairs are none of women’s concern.”
—
In the Western Chu capital, Cao Changqing—having rushed back from Bai Lu Lake to oversee state affairs—stood on the white jade plaza outside the palace. His gaze followed the sword’s light from east to west as he sighed. “Derivative Sage, this sword was meant for me outside Tai’an City, wasn’t it?”
Raising his voice, he declared, “Xu Fengnian! In the name of Li Chun’gang, Wang Xianzhi, Sword Nine Huang, and all who’ve died in the jianghu—show those courtiers what the martial world truly is!”
—
Three Daoists trekked east along the Guangling River. As the outline of Xiangfan City came into view, the young Wudang-clad priest halted.
The spirited little Daoist asked curiously, “Master, why stop?”
The sword-bearing Longhu Mountain priest traveling with them frowned. “This sword comes from Dongyue Sword Pool, heading straight for your Wudang Mountain.”
Li Yufu, the current Wudang leader who had accompanied the carp on its journey to become a dragon, nodded silently, a rare anger flickering in his brow.
Qi Xianxia, the Longhu priest who had sought them out, marveled, “This sword needs no sheath—the heavens and earth are its scabbard! To face such a blade in my lifetime would be worth dying for!”
Little Yu Fu whispered, “Life and death are grave matters. Let’s not speak lightly of dying.”
Qi Xianxia chuckled, studying the boy. “You remind me of someone. Timid as a mouse at times, bold as a lion at others…”
He left the rest unspoken.
Bold enough…
To make even celestials tremble.
—
Past Jian’ge, in western Shu, a donkey-riding middle-aged man suddenly fumed, “Liyang! This isn’t how you wield a sword! You’re forcing me, Deng Tai’a, to march to Northern Liang’s borders!”
His donkey-leading, backpack-toting apprentice groaned. “Master, must we act on impulse? We just got here—my calves have thinned from the journey, and I’ve seen no sights! Must we head to the northern frontier now?”
The Peach Blossom Sword God, who never meddled in Liyang politics, rubbed his chin. “Liyang’s gone too far. This isn’t just a stab in the back—it’s digging up a man’s house in his face. As the saying goes, uncles can tolerate, but aunts…”
The boy cut in hastily, “Aunts can tolerate too!”
Deng Tai’a stroked his donkey’s back, pondering. “No rush. Let’s tour Shu first. I sense nowhere will be safe soon except here. If you find a wife, all the better—then I can leave Shu unburdened.”
The boy grinned sheepishly. “That wouldn’t be proper.”
Deng Tai’a rolled his eyes. “Just be glad!”
Suddenly indignant, the boy said, “I don’t know what’s happening, but if I were the Prince of Liang, a grandmaster, I’d have stormed Tai’an City to pummel that Liyang emperor!”
Deng Tai’a sighed. “That’s why Xu Fengnian is the Prince of Liang, and you’re just my hopeless disciple.”
Flushing, the boy retorted, “Fine! I’ll find a wife in Shu and leave you behind!”
Deng Tai’a glanced north. “Then hurry up.”
—
At the border between Northern Liang’s Liu Province and Northern Mang’s Gusai Province, Tuoba Puyi—mid-discussion with generals like Liu Gui—strode from the tent, his expression complex.
Had you known this, Xu Fengnian, would you have stayed at Tiger Head City to fight me again?
Dying like this, history will remember you as a noble prince fallen in battle—not this meaningless death that leaves the Central Plains defenseless.
—
In Tai’an City’s now-deserted Tianjian Observatory, a young emperor in golden robes walked alongside a boy in an official’s uniform.
The emperor asked calmly, “Little Bookcase, what are the odds?”
Shielding his eyes from the sun, the boy smiled. “Who knows? But someone’s certainly defying heaven’s will.”
The emperor grinned. “A father who was a conqueror, a son who insists on being a hero—how laughable.”
Suddenly worried, the boy asked, “Brother Emperor, aren’t you afraid he’ll defect to Northern Mang?”
The emperor countered, “His father, Xu Xiao, spent twenty years conquering the Central Plains and another twenty holding back Northern Mang’s cavalry. Would he dare betray that legacy? Let half a lifetime’s toil go to waste?”
The boy nodded.
Delighted, the emperor mused, “Right? Xu Fengnian—no loyal minister, just a filial son.”
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