Chapter 158: The Ominous Prophecy

The thirty-six palaces of Wudang were led by the Taixu Palace, perched highest atop the Great Lotus Peak. Its upturned eaves, known as the Dageng Horn, were famed throughout the land for the sword once belonging to the immortal Lü Dongxuan that hung there. At this moment, a young Daoist clad in robes unlike those of Wudang sat near the sword of the sword immortal Lü. Beneath his feet stood a long ladder. The refined and elegant Daoist held a wooden pail, repainting the flaking eaves of Dageng Horn. It was none other than Qi Xianxia of the Celestial Master’s Mansion of Longhu Mountain. He looked out over the rolling clouds and surging winds. The seventy-two peaks of Wudang seemed like immortal isles adrift at sea, stirring the soul and delighting the heart. The distant morning bell echoed in his ears, and for a moment, Qi Xianxia found himself lost in reverie.

In recent days, he had taken up residence in a thatched hut on Wudang, determined to surpass the Wudang sect leader who rode an ox. He had engaged in few fights, mostly verbal squabbles with the timid Daoist who often ran from confrontation. Yet, unintentionally, he had gained much insight. When he heard that Dageng Horn needed repainting, he thought of the immortal sword that had fascinated him since childhood, hanging there, and agreed to help the lazy fellow surnamed Hong. Such trivialities never concerned Qi Xianxia, nor did he fear criticism from the Celestial Master’s Mansion. Thinking of this, Qi Xianxia’s mind wandered slightly. Wudang was truly unlike the Celestial Master’s Mansion—it was as if it had gone too far in avoiding conflict. When disputes did arise, they were petty matters Qi Xianxia couldn’t even be bothered to acknowledge. He did not comment, only glancing sideways at the sword of Lü Dongxuan.

The sword bore no name that could be verified, absent from any Daoist records. Only in the whispers of alleyways and street tales had it gained names like “Dragon-Cleaver” or “Azure Heaven,” grand and imposing. Qi Xianxia, of course, did not believe such tales. Yet it was true that the sword had once lacked a scabbard. Lü Dongxuan himself had said, “Only heaven and earth may serve as this sword’s sheath.” But now, the ancient blade bore a crude peachwood scabbard. Qi Xianxia could not help but smile bitterly at this. He recalled asking the sect leader surnamed Hong about it, only to hear the fellow stammer out the truth—Hong had made the scabbard as a child. As for the reason, the young sect leader refused to say, even under torture.

Had this been the Celestial Master’s Mansion, the relic of a Daoist immortal would have been enshrined in the grand hall, sealed with layers of talismans. No one would dare to add a scabbard, let alone lay eyes on it. At the very least, if a scabbard were needed, it would be made of serpent hide or divine sinew, befitting its status.

Wudang had too few rules.

Looking down, Qi Xianxia saw Hong beginning his martial arts form. Behind the young sect leader followed nearly a hundred Daoists, young and old. At first, only the curious little sweepers had practiced alongside the ox-rider, but over time, the elders had come to appreciate its ancient grace. Every morning and evening, they gathered at Taixu Palace to practice. The form began simply, flowing naturally. The entire sequence was a series of large circles enclosing smaller ones, like silkworms endlessly spinning silk.

Qi Xianxia had never seen such a form before. Later, he learned that Hong had created it after years of watching the temple bells and drums. Though Qi had trained with the sword since childhood, he recognized its brilliance. The form concealed immense power within its softness, expansive as the heavens, yet minute as a mustard seed. Regardless of its combat effectiveness, its concept was profound and transcendent. Qi Xianxia could not help but feel a tinge of envy. This lazy fellow never trained hard, unlike Qi, who never dared to slacken his efforts. On the square, the young sect leader slowly concluded his form, followed by the other Daoists, their movements already bearing a faint resemblance.

An elder Daoist approached to discuss the form. As they spoke, he praised it, saying that with time, it would allow one to stand unmoving even on the edge of a cliff or amidst rushing waters. Yet the young sect leader remained humble, laughing and saying, “Not at all.” The elder Daoist worried, “If everyone on the mountain learns this form, outsiders might steal it.” The sect leader shook his head and smiled, “No matter. This form nurtures the body and spirit. The more who learn it, the more merit Wudang gains.” The elder Daoist smiled, no longer fretting. What did youth matter? This young leader’s vision and grace had not fallen short of the Celestial Master’s Mansion.

Hong Xixiang saw Qi Xianxia descending the ladder with the pail and ran over to help. Together, they walked down the mountain toward the Lesser Lotus Peak. The young sweepers on the square felt a surge of pride—look at the Little Celestial Master, won over by their sect leader! Qi Xianxia paid no heed to such thoughts. On the way down, Hong led the ox, still leisurely, with a scroll hanging from one horn and the wooden pail from the other, swaying comically. He said with a smile, “During the form, I felt a resonance between you and the ancient sword. When you leave Wudang, let me know. I’ll give you the sword. If you feel uneasy about it, just consider it a loan.”

Qi Xianxia did not smile but frowned, “The relic of the Patriarch Lü is Wudang’s treasure for five hundred years. How can you give it away so lightly?”

Hong shrugged, “I said it’s a loan.”

Qi Xianxia snorted coldly, “Let us not speak of this again.”

Hong sighed, “Still, the Prince was bold. If I hadn’t clung to his legs and begged, you wouldn’t have seen this sword.”

Qi Xianxia remained unmoved but sincerely murmured, “The world beyond the scabbard is vast, the sword’s aura long within. The Patriarch Lü’s grace is evident even now.”

Hong muttered, “The Patriarch Lü himself warned that emperors must bear their own fortune, not be disturbed by inner and outer alchemy. Throughout history, Daoist sorcerers have brought calamity upon nations by entering the court for profit. That’s not true cultivation—it’s false. Take your uncle Zhao Danping in the capital, who participates in palace rituals and writes elegant memorials to the gods, earning the title ‘Master of Green Lyrics.’ Does this great Celestial Master feel no shame? Because of him, countless Daoists and sorcerers dream of rising through such means. It may well bring disaster upon the Daoist tradition.”

Qi Xianxia, perhaps out of respect for his elders, remained expressionless despite his inner doubts about Zhao Danping’s actions.

Hong led Qi Xianxia to the thatched hut where the Beiliang Prince had once trained with the sword. Outside, the vegetable garden thrived, tended by Hong this year. He plucked a cucumber, brushed off the spines, and bit into it. The young sect leader sighed again, thinking of the delicate woman carried up the mountain, of the challenge she had written beneath the Dageng Horn, praised by the senior brother Wang as bearing the sword spirit. As for the entanglements between the Prince and her, he, an outsider, could only see through a fog. If the Prince truly did not care for her, Hong would never believe it. She had made him stumble many times, especially that proud maid whose stubbornness defied reason. The woman below the mountain was his mother. Looking up at the sky, Hong murmured, “The Princess Taiping lives a life far from peaceful.”

Qi Xianxia stood outside the garden, watching the sighing young sect leader, and asked, “When do you plan to leave the mountain?”

Hong replied helplessly, “I dare not.”

Qi Xianxia said flatly, “You dare to give away the Patriarch Lü’s sword but dare not leave the mountain?”

Hong remained silent, as timid and hesitant as ever.

Qi Xianxia sneered, “Afraid of delaying the rise of Wudang? Afraid of disappointing the ancestors and senior brothers?”

Hong shook his head, “No.”

Qi Xianxia turned to leave, saying, “Will you attend the Three Teachings Debate at Longhu this year?”

Hong lowered his head, murmuring, “Let me calculate.”

Qi Xianxia scoffed, “Calculate what? You’ll just stay, so why bother lying to yourself?”

The young sect leader, known for his unparalleled patience, whispered, “Go to hell.”

Qi Xianxia laughed and walked away.

※※※

The northern frontier of Beiliang was a mighty fortress, bristling with troops and iron cavalry.

That day, a sandstorm suddenly arose, scattering boulders like Fight across the sky, rolling wildly with the wind. From atop the city walls, all one could see was a landscape of violent dust and desolation unique to the borderlands. Yet amidst this chaos, a figure in white robes rode out of the city, accompanied by a woman astride a horse beside him, her face veiled, her figure graceful. The man in white led the horse, his demeanor lowly, as if no one in the six great border fortresses could deserve such respect. The woman, elegant beyond compare, held a lute, the sovereign of plucked instruments. Facing the storm, she gazed into the distance, where a whirlwind spiraled into the heavens. Sitting astride, her voice was clear and cold, “You’ve openly allowed a great enemy of Beiliang to leave the city. Do you not fear the Prince of Beiliang will grow suspicious of you, his adopted son?”

The man in white continued to lead the horse, expressionless. Around them, the wind and sand could not touch them.

The woman, dressed in black with snow-white embroidered shoes, fell silent.

At last, the man in white spoke, “Chen Zhibao knows only that Fan Bainu of the Northern Desolate entered the city. He does not know that the Azure Phoenix Princess has left.”

The woman in black and white smiled, “How dare I claim to be the finest? Xun Zigang’s right hand is fierce and mighty, plucking like iron cavalry charging. Zu Qingshan’s left hand plays the strings with divine skill, pearls large and small falling into a jade plate. They are true masters of the lute.”

The man smiled faintly, “They are skilled in plucking, but their art is monotonous. Miss Fan’s songs, melodies, and playing are all her own, seamlessly integrated.”

The veiled woman turned to look at the man in white, the military genius who had drawn her into Beiliang’s domain. His actions defied reason. Her purpose in coming to Beiliang had been clear, yet he had dragged her into ambiguity. Clenching her teeth, she said firmly, “General, Bainu can ensure that you will have a place in the Northern Desolate, higher than in the Liang Dynasty!”

Chen Zhibao shook his head slightly, “Then it would be dull.”

The woman, of special status, frowned, “Are you certain the Northern Desolate will lose? Can you achieve feats rivaling the Spring and Autumn Wars? The iron cavalry of Beiliang is indeed invincible, but bound by the imperial court, you’ve been unable to act freely for nearly twenty years. But if you take command in the Northern Desolate, Bainu can guarantee you will face no restrictions. Is there anything more thrilling than facing the iron cavalry of Beiliang? Once Beiliang is pacified, you can march south, unstoppable. With Gu Jiantang, Prince Yanxi, and Prince Guangling, the Spring and Autumn battlefield will return, and you, General, will turn the world upside down. Would that not be magnificent? Remember, our Emperor of the Northern Desolate has ambitions far greater than your Emperor Zhao!”

The white-robed Chen Zhibao seemed unmoved, smiling faintly, “When did Miss Fan learn to speak in empty promises?”

The woman first showed anger, then delight, but did not press further. She lowered her head, her hands plucking the lute strings. A sound like a silver bottle breaking, like silk tearing, rang out, clear and sharp. She sang softly:

“Fifteen years old, I flew on horseback. White hair grows, I cannot return. Cannot return! Rolling sands and stones sweep the lone rider. My youthful ambition fades today, fades today! My armor is like snow, the war drums beat. When will the White-Cloaked Overlord return? When will he return?”

Chen Zhibao listened, smiling faintly.

The woman put away her lute, the sound of metal and stone fading. She smiled, “Perhaps in this life, we are destined to be enemies, but to face General Chen on the battlefield is my fortune.”

Chen Zhibao nodded and released the reins.

The woman did not feign sentimentality. She lowered her eyes, speaking softly, “Since the General is not ready to decide, I will wait for you to command the thirty thousand iron cavalry of Beiliang.”

Chen Zhibao chuckled, “Miss Fan thinks too highly.”

The woman did not argue. She leaned forward, as if wanting to touch Chen’s face, but did not. She withdrew her hand, straightened her back, and turned her head, bitter and apologetic, “General, forgive my impertinence.”

Among the Northern Desolate’s three greatest lute players, Xun Zigang had the right hand, Zu Qingshan the left. Neither could match Fan Bainu’s two hands.

Chen Zhibao laughed and patted the horse’s flank, no longer seeing her off.

The horse galloped away.

Chen Zhibao, his heart as still as water, turned and gazed at the Xu family’s banner fluttering atop the city wall, lost in thought.

The dragon of Liyang, the serpent of Beiliang, the Dragon of the Northern Desolate—perhaps the White-Cloaked One could slay them all.

Who spoke that terrible prophecy? Huang Longshi?

Unbeknownst to him, Huang Longshi, the man who spouted nonsense and revealed heavenly secrets, was now dozens of miles away, forcing a penniless wandering swordsman to chase a whirlwind and train his sword wildly.

Chen Zhibao returned to the border city, his expression unchanged.