A true master understands the flow of qi, a dynasty possesses its destiny, and a sect has its own aura.
The world of Daoism stands on three pillars. Longhu Mountain, favored by the Liyang Dynasty, has held the mantle of Daoist orthodoxy for centuries. Its four Heavenly Masters, each more profound and mystical than the last, have ensured the mountain’s dominance. Moreover, Longhu Mountain has never lacked prodigies—almost every generation produces one or two reclusive geniuses destined to lead the sect.
A hundred years ago, there was Ge Hong, who penned *The Great Ultimate Golden Elixir*, dismissing external alchemy as heretical. His 200,000-word treatise directly targeted Wudang, dismantling its alchemical traditions.
Fifty years ago, Qi Xuanzhen emerged, single-handedly slaughtering six demonic sect guardians. Yet, despite his prowess, he never faced Wang Xianzhi in battle before ascending on Longhu Mountain’s Demon-Slaying Platform. Had he done so, the title of “World’s Strongest” might not have remained vacant.
Thirty years ago, a Heavenly Master skilled in internal alchemy defied fate, extending the old emperor’s life by fifteen years—rumored to be through a life-for-life exchange. This master, who once vowed to live three cycles of sixty years, passed away before reaching seventy, but secured Longhu Mountain’s prosperity for a century.
Ten years ago, a hundred-day debate between Buddhists and Daoists was decisively concluded by an unknown Longhu Mountain priest, whose eloquence and profound teachings forced the confident Liangchan Temple to concede.
And Wudang?
For a hundred years, it has produced no remarkable figures or deeds.
Where is its grand aura?
Were it not for Wang Chonglou mastering the Great Yellow Court, this mountain—save for the devout pilgrims of Northern Liang—might have been forgotten entirely, along with its Great and Small Lotus Peaks, its Jade Pillar, and the prophecy of “Xuanwu Rising.”
Today, Hong Xixiang, the youngest and most idle in the eyes of the Northern Liang heir, was refining elixirs with his eldest senior brother, Song Zhiming. Unlike the grand furnaces of Cloud Touching Peak, their setup was modest—a half-man-tall bronze cauldron on Small Lotus Peak, with no auspicious timing, no ritual altars, no talismans, and no demon-repelling swords or mirrors. To outsiders, it hardly seemed like a proper alchemical endeavor. Yet Song Zhiming, despite his age and countless successful elixirs—some even reaching the hands of nobility—treated this session with unprecedented gravity, personally tending the fire, his white brows nearly brushing the ground.
Song Zhiming knew his limits. His alchemy, like his cultivation, relied on effort rather than enlightenment. But since Hong Xixiang arrived, blending internal and external alchemy into a new path, the roles reversed. Now, the elder brother served as the fire-tending apprentice.
To the Northern Liang heir, Hong Xixiang was a lazy loafer. But to his brothers, he was the reincarnation of the True Martial Emperor, a savior. His *4,000-Word Can Tong Qi* alchemy method was, in Wang Chonglou’s eyes, the most profound Daoist scripture in five centuries—not just teaching elixirs, but the path to the supreme Dao. Even the fist technique Xu Fengnian learned, blending Jade Pillar’s essence with Wudang swordsmanship, was Hong Xixiang’s creation, born from his daily divinations.
Unaware of his own brilliance—or perhaps too timid to care—Hong Xixiang would likely just mutter, “The world is too scary. I won’t leave this mountain until I’m the strongest.”
Suddenly, Hong Xixiang yanked Song Zhiming back. “Run!”
The furnace exploded with a deafening blast, sending a plume of smoke skyward. The entire Wudang heard it but barely reacted—just another day with their mischievous grandmaster.
Covered in soot, Song Zhiming sighed as Hong Xixiang mourned the ruined furnace, painstakingly handcrafted and now lost to Wudang’s poverty. Unlike Longhu Mountain, Wudang scraped by, relying on Song Zhiming’s relentless alchemy to stay afloat.
Hong Xixiang poked the ruined elixir paste, sighing. “Still far off. Third Brother, I’ll need your furnace. Don’t scold me—Elder Wang already banned me from his bamboo grove. If I lose Cloud Touching Peak too…”
Song Zhiming chuckled. “Of course.”
Then Hong Xixiang froze, staring at the sky.
Teasing, Song Zhiming recalled, “You’ve spent a year cozying up to the Northern Liang heir. Missing that girl in red? What was her name—Xu Zhihu? That day she climbed the mountain in scarlet, you couldn’t take your eyes off her.”
Hong Xixiang groaned. “Even you? Only Elder Wang hasn’t mocked me. I was fourteen—what did I know?”
“How old are you now?”
After counting on his fingers: “Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”
Song Zhiming smirked. “Yet you remember being fourteen when you saw her.”
Hong Xixiang fell silent, lost in memory.
Years ago, the Northern Liang Prince Xu Xiao led nearly a hundred up the mountain. Fresh from conquering half the martial world, many expected him to crush Wudang too. Instead, he came to burn incense, bringing his children: the budding Xu Zhihu, the brilliant Xu Wei’xiong, the eerie Xu Fengnian, and the simple Xu Longxiang.
While Xu Wei’xiong defaced a statue with “Exile 3,000 Miles,” Xu Zhihu wandered until she found a blushing boy on a buffalo.
“How old are you, little priest?” she asked.
By the time he stammered, “Fourteen,” she was already gone.
Their second meeting was before her wedding to distant Jiangnan. Amidst cranes and mist, she teased, “This mountain’s so dull. Marry me—it’d be fun.”
He flushed, speechless.
That was the last time.
Now, he calculated again—once for whether he’d ever leave the mountain, once for whether he’d ride a crane to Jiangnan.
He didn’t know that if he ever descended, it would be as an immortal.
Above Wudang, thunder rumbled in gathering clouds.
Hong Xixiang shot to his feet, eyes fixed on Hanging Immortal Peak.
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