Xu Longxiang, in his simple-minded innocence, was like a harmless fool who enjoyed watching ants march. When in good spirits, even if servants dared to whisper “little idiot” behind his back, the second son of the Northern Liang King would simply grin without a care. But when his mood soured, he became an untouchable force, indifferent even to gods and buddhas. Such was the case now. Seeing the bamboo shoot hurtling back toward him, the snarling Xu Longxiang didn’t dodge. Instead, he reached out a clawed hand, intending to crush it. Perhaps underestimating the bamboo’s speed, he failed to grasp it, and the shoot slipped through his fingers, stabbing straight at his face. Yet Xu Longxiang showed no fear, allowing the sharp, sword-like bamboo to strike his forehead.
The middle-aged Daoist in yellow robes, however, was shaken. He had expected the brute-force fool to evade. Normally, he wouldn’t interfere in childish squabbles, given his status and composure. But the Northern Liang King’s second son had crossed a line—his last bamboo strike had been vicious, nearly paralyzing Zhao Ningyun for life. Thus, when the Daoist retaliated from his bamboo raft, he unconsciously added extra force. Fighting Xu Longxiang was already improper; injuring him would be disastrous. Behind this boy stood not only the Northern Liang King, who once nearly “pressed down the Dragon-Tiger’s head,” but also the reclusive Zhao Xituan of the Carefree Temple—someone even the Daoist’s father, Zhao Danxia, the highest-ranking Daoist in the empire, dared not defy.
To his surprise, the middle-aged Daoist realized he had overthought it.
The scrawny, sallow-skinned boy took the bamboo head-on. With a thunderous crack, it shattered inches from his forehead. As the dust settled, Xu Longxiang’s eyes burned crimson, and the unusually long strands of yellow hair at his temples floated upward. Since his first day on Dragon-Tiger Mountain, he had worn his hair loose—now it billowed wildly. His robes pulsed, swelling with each inhale and deflating with each exhale. The nearby stream mirrored his rhythm, rising and falling as if caught in an absurd tide. His breathing technique was Dragon-Tiger Mountain’s most basic meditation method, yet it had taken this “Yellow Barbarian” half a year to master. And now, once learned, its power was terrifying.
“Father, this fool looks downright monstrous. Could the rumors be true—that he’s some demonic reincarnation?” The young Daoist, emboldened by his father’s presence, still shuddered at Xu Longxiang’s eerie transformation and the pain he’d suffered twice.
“Before descending the mountain, Grandmaster Zhao Xituan said this unawakened second son of the Northern Liang King is the true reincarnation of the Dark Warrior Emperor—not that prodigy Hong Xixiang from Wudang, born with an extra meridian. Who is the immortal, and who the demon? The fortunes of Dragon-Tiger and Wudang for the next five centuries may hinge on this gamble.” The middle-aged Daoist, Zhao Jingchen, watched the murderous Xu Longxiang with curiosity but no awe. As one of the highest-ranking “Yellow-Purple” nobles of the Heavenly Master Mansion, he had witnessed far beyond ordinary comprehension.
As for Grandmaster Zhao Xituan’s words, Zhao Jingchen privately dismissed them. Staking a family’s fate on one person was one thing, but gambling an entire mountain’s destiny? That was reckless. His mischievous yet gifted son, Zhao Ningyun, satisfied him well enough. “Five centuries of fortune or ruin? That’s too grandiose. Fifty years would be impressive enough. And must it truly be either Hong Xixiang or Xu Longxiang as the Dark Warrior’s incarnation? Records show the emperor hasn’t descended in sixteen hundred years. Why now, when Dragon-Tiger dominates Wudang?”
Regaining his cheekiness, Zhao Ningyun grinned. “What if it’s true, Father? Then we’re doomed.”
Zhao Jingchen chuckled. “Doomed? Dragon-Tiger’s Heavenly Master Mansion has produced sixty-four immortals in over a millennium. Can’t they handle one Dark Warrior?”
Even the irreverent Zhao Ningyun swelled with pride at this. These sixty-four weren’t mere legends—each ascension was meticulously documented: celestial signs, earthly omens, whether they rode dragons, phoenixes, or became rainbows. No imperial lineage could rival Dragon-Tiger’s heritage.
Without visible effort, Zhao Jingchen guided the raft downstream, avoiding further confrontation. But Xu Longxiang sprinted along the bank, kicking stones at them. With a graceful press of his jade-like hand, Zhao Jingchen deflected the stones into the stream.
Yet as the barrage intensified, even Zhao Jingchen’s composure frayed. Xu Longxiang’s relentless assault left no room for counter-breathing. Stones rained down like hail. Did this brute care about “Yellow-Purple” nobility? His brother, Xu Fengnian, had drawn his blade against the Pearl Princess on Wudang. And their father, Xu Xiao—madman, fool, and the Butcher of Beiliang—had once nearly crushed Dragon-Tiger beneath his cavalry.
Zhao Jingchen’s patience wore thin. With a sigh, he grabbed his son’s sleeve, deflected a final volley, and retreated ashore.
Xu Longxiang roared, leaped back, then charged like a storm, shaking the earth with each step. He launched himself at the yellow-robed duo.
Zhao Jingchen, no placid statue, finally lost his temper. With a flick of his sleeve, he sent Zhao Ningyun to safety and met Xu Longxiang mid-air. Instead of colliding, he soared higher, appearing above the boy.
“Dare you, fool? Down!” Zhao Jingchen stomped on Xu Longxiang’s shoulders, driving him into the stream.
“You’re the fool.”
A voice sighed. An old Daoist shot from the Carefree Temple like a hawk, plunging into the water with a splash that seemed to sever the stream. He hauled Xu Longxiang back, grimacing. “Hurry to the mountaintop!”
Tossing the boy aside, the old man lamented, “This eighteen-hundred-year-old temple won’t survive.”
Zhao Jingchen, seeing Grandmaster Zhao Xituan’s distress, fled with his son. Behind them, a soul-shaking howl echoed—like the Six Demons’ Cry at the Lotus Summit.
Chaos reigned at the Carefree Temple from noon till dusk.
As twilight fell, the disheveled old Daoist sat on the ruined walls, sighing. The temple was half-destroyed.
Meanwhile, the calmed Xu Longxiang crouched by an ancient well, feeding hawthorns to an old turtle and its young.
“Brother, eat hawthorns,” he mumbled.
The old Daoist sighed. “How do I explain this to that troublemaker, the Crown Prince? Tell him or not?”
Recalling Xu Fengnian’s smiling, lethal aura, he grimaced. “Best be honest. Let it serve as a warning to the Heavenly Master Mansion.”
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