The young eunuch continued to stare fixedly at the well pulley, seemingly oblivious to the presence of another person beside him.
At the end of the street, an elderly man in cotton robes stepped down from a carriage and gazed into the distance. His steps quickened, growing larger and more urgent. When the dim-sighted old man could vaguely recognize the young eunuch’s face, he broke into a run. The septuagenarian, clearly unaccustomed to sprinting and burdened by his frail body, stumbled hard as he neared the well, sending up a cloud of dust. With hair and brows as white as frost, he did not rise but remained prostrate on the ground. Upon confirming the young eunuch’s identity, tears streamed down his face as he kowtowed fervently, choking out the word “Father” repeatedly. The young eunuch merely glanced down at the pitiful old man, wrinkling his brow as if trying to recall who he was. Once recognition dawned, his expression softened, yet he remained silent.
Between the furrowing and smoothing of his brow, the young eunuch, standing casually by the well, exuded an invisible pressure that made Mi Fengjie and Fan Xiaochai, watching from afar, tremble involuntarily. Their faces paled as they struggled to endure it. The moment his brow relaxed, they felt as though bathed in spring warmth, as if a thousand-pound weight had been lifted from their shoulders. Until then, the two masters of the Fushui Fang had regarded the young eunuch as merely an ordinary palace expert. Only now did they glimpse the truth—this seemingly unremarkable figure, who had served as a mere coachman for the young guardian of Tai’an City, was undoubtedly one of the world’s top martial artists, possibly even a terrestrial immortal. Otherwise, he could not have achieved such a state of perfect harmony with the world, his body and spirit indistinguishable from nature.
The kneeling old man was no ordinary figure. He was Zhao Siku, the once-powerful eunuch who had escorted Gao Shulu to Guangling Dao to deal with Cao Changqing. A remnant of the fallen Dongyue, he had been a pawn planted in Liyang by Zhao Changling. After his role as a crucial spy turned into a discarded piece, Zhao Siku devoted himself to climbing the ranks within the twenty-four departments of the Tai’an palace, earning the Zhao family’s favor through a lifetime of flawless service. He had overseen the Seal Office and the Treasure Office and was a close friend of the mentor of Song Tanglu, the current head of the Ceremonial Directorate. Even after Song Tanglu rose to become the foremost eunuch in the realm, he showed no deference to his former mentor—except to Zhao Siku, whom he treated with the respect of a junior.
Zhao Siku had managed the Seal Office for eight years, serving decades without a single misstep, earning the trust of three generations of Zhao emperors. Otherwise, Liyang would never have entrusted him with the custody of Gao Shulu, whose celestial physique had been sealed for four hundred years. The martial hierarchy of the past four centuries, especially the four realms of the first rank, had all been defined by Gao Shulu.
If the seal-holding eunuch Liu, tasked with delivering the imperial decree to Liang, had encountered the highly senior Zhao Siku in the palace, he would have had to retreat to the wall and stand respectfully. Yet here was Zhao Siku, kneeling before a young eunuch who could have been his grandson, kowtowing desperately and crying out “Father.” For eunuchs, after their castration and entry into the palace, the first order of business was often to adopt a senior as a foster father or mentor, revered more than their own fathers. Zhao Siku was no exception, though he had two mentors in his lifetime. The second, a minor official in the Imperial Stables, was a familiar face in the palace and died between the Yonghui and Xiangfu eras. Thanks to Zhao Siku’s prominence, his passing was mourned with great honor. But his first mentor had long been forgotten, and Zhao Siku himself never spoke a word of him to anyone.
Xu Fengnian’s arrival in Youzhou was prompted by Zhao Siku, who had abruptly left his peaceful retirement at Qinglu Dong Academy to reveal a monumental secret to the young prince.
Upon rushing to Qingliang Mountain, Zhao Siku spoke of his “Father”—a strange eunuch he had inexplicably kowtowed to upon entering the palace. The eunuch had appeared young then, and Zhao Siku assumed it was due to his early entry into the palace. Even then, the eunuch was peculiar, seemingly able to wander freely through all twenty-four departments of the palace. Zhao Siku had followed him on various tasks: procuring screens and beds for the imperial family, cleaning and refilling oil lamps at the ancestral temple, pasting yellow paper on the Shenwu Gate during the Double Ninth Festival, and polishing the seals of generals in the Treasure Office. Five years later, as Liyang consolidated its rule over the Central Plains, Zhao Siku’s mentor gradually faded from view, leaving even the rising Zhao Siku unable to trace him. The palace archives held no record of his mentor—no name, hometown, entry date, or duties—as if he had never existed in the Tai’an palace.
Zhao Siku saw his “Father” again one night after returning from the forbidden palace grounds where Gao Shulu’s body was sealed. In the moonlight, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a familiar silhouette. The old eunuch was certain—it was his first mentor, the true guide of the Tai’an palace, a eunuch whose surname he never knew.
Yet, for Zhao Siku, this “Father”—this mentor whose traces he could not find even after scouring the palace’s secret archives—elicited only the simplest of emotions: repaying a drop of kindness with a flood of gratitude.
To the “young eunuch,” the white-haired Zhao Siku might have been nothing more than an insignificant passerby in his shadowed and weighty existence. But Zhao Siku’s wails on the ground were utterly sincere.
Xu Fengnian, unlike the politically minded old eunuch Zhao Siku, grasped key insights through his identity as a martial grandmaster. His first question was deliberately shocking: “Was it you who convinced the peerless Wang Xianzhi to retreat to the eastern seas and never leave Wudi City?”
The young eunuch, whose delicate features belied his age, ignored him, bending slightly to turn the pulley. The creaking sound echoed starkly in the silent twilight street, punctuated only by distant barks and crows.
Xu Fengnian continued, “I’ve long wondered why Yuan Benxi, knowing his fate as a discarded tool, didn’t lash out before his death. If the Western Chu’s Grand Official, who walked through the palace as if it were a corridor, was deterred by the likes of Han Shengxuan, Liu Haoshi, and Gu Jianyang, plus the Longhu Mountain immortals in the Imperial Observatory, why didn’t Cao Changqing, after turning from Confucianism to hegemony, simply enter the city and kill Emperor Zhao Zhuan during his final siege? I couldn’t figure it out. And when I last entered the capital, I sensed no trace of you. But after Huyan Daguang visited Beiliang, he hinted to Hong Xixiang that the Zhao family might have a hidden trump card. Now, after Zhao Siku’s revelation and seeing you in person, my suspicions are confirmed.”
Xu Fengnian waved for Mi Fengjie and Fan Xiaochai to retreat as far as possible.
Gazing at the “young” eunuch, whose appearance matched the Daoist classic’s description of “attaining truth and rejuvenation,” Xu Fengnian smiled. “Do you know how I feel looking at you?”
He answered his own question: “It’s like stumbling upon a child happily eating candied hawthorns in some remote village and realizing that kid is actually the world’s top martial artist. Absurd, and a bit frustrating.”
The young eunuch straightened, his lips quirking slightly as if amused by the analogy.
Without any visible movement, the elderly eunuch was lifted from the ground and sent flying backward, landing at the street’s end—a display of transcendent skill.
Facing this man, Xu Fengnian felt as he had when confronting the unarmed Wang Chonglou of Wudang, the furious Han Shengxuan outside Shenwu City, or the invincible Wang Xianzhi entering Beiliang.
Xu Fengnian knew that, had he not been grievously wounded by Tuoba Guoshi on the Longyan Plains, their match might have been even. But now, if they fought to the death, he would surely lose—and die.
Of course, his opponent would die too.
Because this was Beiliang, not Tai’an City.
Xu Fengnian said slowly, “Lone yin cannot flourish. Only the imperial dragon’s qi is supremely yang. So you achieved the unprecedented feat of attaining immortality in the mortal realm.”
The young eunuch remained silent, but a melodious sound rose from the well, as if someone were tapping the water’s surface to compose ethereal music.
“Since you’ve uncovered the truth, you must also know that I am immortal only within Sui’an City. Beyond it, my immortality falters. That’s why you didn’t flee upon seeing me.”
Xu Fengnian nodded, then frowned. “Sui’an City? That’s ancient history.”
The young eunuch turned toward Tai’an City, his voice now emerging from the turning pulley.
“Since Liyang’s founding, I’ve served in the Sui’an palace—before it was renamed Tai’an. Over two centuries, I’ve witnessed countless lives and deaths. Those who sat on the throne, those who coveted it, scholars, warriors—all dead, even their grandchildren’s grandchildren. Yet I remain.”
Hearing this astonishing tale, even Xu Fengnian was stunned. Martial artists found ascension difficult, and immortality was said to belong only to the heavens—meaning it was impossible in the mortal realm. Even terrestrial immortals like Hong Xixiang, who reincarnated voluntarily, were exceptions. Life and death, growth and decay, were the natural order. Buddhists abandoned their flesh for the Western Pure Land, Daoists sought transcendence through inaction—all sacrifices for gains. Longevity like Wudang’s Song Zhiming, who lived two sixty-year cycles, was rare. Liu Songtao surpassed him only by confining himself to Latuo Mountain like a living corpse. Compared to this man, who had lived as long as the empire itself, they were incomparable.
Reading Xu Fengnian’s thoughts, the young eunuch “spoke” again without opening his mouth: “I’m no Daoist. Ascension never interested me. Life and death are matters of this world.”
Xu Fengnian cut to the chase: “Did the Zhao ancestors make you swear to protect their descendants and Liyang’s throne?”
The young eunuch shook his head, his voice carried by the autumn wind.
“Zhao emperors knew of me but rarely saw me. I draw upon the dragon’s qi to sustain myself but avoid the dragon’s presence. Besides…”
For the first time, the young eunuch smiled, his tone lightening.
“Besides, a thief sneaking things into his pockets is one thing. Brazenly appearing before the robbed would be shameless.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled.
The young eunuch sat on the well’s edge, neither rigid nor slouching, simply at ease.
In the distance, the elderly eunuch, now retired in Beiliang’s mountains, prayed fervently in his heart.
*Please don’t let them fight.*
A common saying went that “not even the gods could stop it” to describe certain inevitabilities.
But in the old eunuch’s eyes, these two men *were* the gods—the ones who could stop immortals, not the other way around.
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