Xu Fengnian scooped up a handful of pebbles from the lakebed and tossed them onto the shore before diving back into the icy depths of the deep pool. He repeated this strange ritual for half a day, gathering about forty stones in total. After discarding half of them, he piled the remaining ones in a cave behind the waterfall. Only then did he pick up his blade and head toward the bamboo forest.
Though called the Purple Bamboo Forest, it was a mix of various species—phyllostachys, sinocalamus, and even some abacus bamboo. Tens of thousands of stalks formed a vast sea of green, swaying and rustling with the wind, alive with vitality.
Xu Fengnian often came here to hunt bamboo pheasants and strumming frogs for meals. After suffering a sword strike, he saw no reason not to take advantage of the forest’s bounty. He had heard from the ox-riding Daoist that winter bamboo shoots here were the most delicious, though he wasn’t sure if he’d last until then.
Deep within the bamboo sea stood a simple bamboo hut, home to the most eccentric swordsman of Wudang—Wang Xiaoping. He practiced his swordplay atop the swaying bamboo, his strikes like rolling waves, truly embodying the phrase *”splitting bamboo with unstoppable force.”*
As soon as Xu Fengnian entered the forest, he drew *Xiudong*, wary of the mad swordsman’s unpredictable strikes. But today, for some reason, Wang Xiaoping remained silent even as Xu Fengnian approached the hut.
Bracing himself, Xu Fengnian pressed forward, his robes already soaked with sweat. It was no wonder the young master was so cautious—Wang Xiaoping was truly mad, indifferent to the 300,000 iron cavalry of Beiliang, the Great Pillar General Xu Xiao, or even the four-character archway at the foot of Wudang Mountain. To him, there was only the sword. Every time he struck, Xu Fengnian had to muster every ounce of his focus to survive.
Wang Xiaoping emerged slowly from the hut and sat on a bamboo chair, without the legendary sword *Shentu* on his back.
Xu Fengnian sheathed *Xiudong* and took a seat opposite him. Without his sword, the madman was just a handsome middle-aged man in plain Daoist robes, his expression stiff. Wang Xiaoping had joined Wudang late in life; rumor had it he was once a wealthy playboy who abandoned politics for women and swords. After a heartbreak, he renounced worldly pleasures, donated his fortune, and ascended Wudang. The *Green Waters Pavilion’s Sixty-Year Sword Manual*, which took others a lifetime to master, he internalized in just three years. Eventually, he became a disciple of the previous sect master, devoting himself to forging his own path in swordsmanship.
Wang Xiaoping picked a few raw tea leaves and chewed them slowly, his face expressionless but his eyes gleaming.
Xu Fengnian sat for what felt like hours, watching the eccentric man savor the bitter autumn leaves—far less fragrant than spring or summer tea—and marveled at the sight of someone eating them raw. The rustling bamboo reminded him of a poem his second sister once wrote, likening the sound of bamboo to the cries of the suffering and the lament of fading beauty. Back then, scholars had praised her, but now, after her scathing critiques at Shangyin Academy, they probably regretted their admiration.
Bored by the endless sea of bamboo, Xu Fengnian tightened his grip on *Xiudong* and left in silence.
Wang Xiaoping watched the young master’s retreating figure, as if debating whether to fashion a bamboo stalk into a sword.
By the time Xu Fengnian exited the forest, his robes were drenched again. The bamboo grove was no place for mortals. The absence of a sword strike was far more terrifying than the strike itself.
As the mountain’s osmanthus blossoms withered and fell, Xu Fengnian continued his strange ritual—diving into the deep pool beneath Xuanxian Peak and other lakes across Wudang, gathering over four hundred black and white pebbles, which he piled inside his hut. When not hacking at waterfalls with *Xiudong*, he used its tip to carve the stones. The *Green Waters Pavilion’s Sword Manual* contained a technique as delicate as embroidery—*”Celestial Maiden Scattering Flowers”*—matching the sophistication of the Wu Family’s sword arts. Xu Fengnian applied this method to his blade, each stroke demanding immense focus. At first, he could only carve two or three stones a day, but as he improved, he managed four or five. By the time snow fell on the mountain, he could carve a dozen with his eyes closed.
Counting the days, Xu Fengnian realized it was time to leave Wudang—after all, he still had to ring the bell at Jiuhua, an unshakable tradition for the Beiliang Prince’s estate.
Strangely, his obsession with inheriting Wudang’s Grandmaster Wang Chonglou’s internal energy had faded. Perhaps it was the ox-riding Hong Xixiang’s Daoist wisdom, Wang Xiaoping’s sword and bamboo, or the *”Oath of Slaughter”* before the Tai Xu Palace.
Hong Xixiang had meticulously carved 361 stones—181 black, 180 white—matching the 19×19 grid of a Go board.
Unknowingly, Xu Fengnian’s blade work had refined from crude to exquisite.
Occasionally, he would provoke Wang Xiaoping in the bamboo forest, forcing the madman to cut down a dozen purple bamboos just to drive him out. The last time, seemingly pushed to his limit, Wang Xiaoping struck twice, cleaving a vast clearing in the northeast corner of the grove.
Outside the bamboo hut, Wang Chonglou sat across from the sword fanatic, chewing raw tea leaves with a smile. *”How’s the energy resonance?”*
Wang Xiaoping, who only spoke before the Tai Xu Palace, nodded.
Wang Chonglou chuckled. *”Your strikes in the open guide his blade and energy, while the *Green Waters Pavilion* hides the sword’s secrets, purifying and leading him. Yet Xu Fengnian stumbled upon the essence of the *Sixty-Year Sword Manual* by carving Go stones. And that turtle-breathing technique he learned from some master—training at the bottom of the deep pool—aligns with Wudang’s heart method. I thought he’d inherit at most three or four-tenths of my *Great Yellow Court*, but now, five or six isn’t impossible.”*
The sword fanatic’s face darkened. The peachwood sword *Shentu* on the table trembled violently.
Wang Chonglou gently pressed the table, calming the ancient blade. *”Fool, with that temper, how will you surpass the Wu Family’s centuries of sword heritage?”*
Wang Xiaoping smirked, grabbing a handful of fresh tea leaves and chewing them loudly.
Wang Chonglou teased, *”Do you really want your junior brother to bear the weight of both martial and heavenly Dao alone? Hong Xixiang is barely thirty. Aren’t you afraid he’ll collapse? Among us old fools, you’re the closest to the Dao. I know you act cold, but you’re the one who believes in him the most. So, after the young master leaves, take up your burden. Roam like Wu Liuding of the Wu Family—east, south, north, west. Maybe then, your sword Dao will be complete. Sitting and theorizing has never been a good path.”*
The first madman of Wudang nodded, his gaze falling on his seemingly carefree senior brother.
Wang Chonglou met his eyes and laughed heartily. *”It’s just a small *Great Yellow Court*. Compared to Wudang’s thousand-year plan, what does it matter?”*
Wang Xiaoping shook his head—*”not small.”*
Ignoring him, Wang Chonglou grinned. *”I had Hong Xixiang hide a few stones. Right now, the young master is probably scouring the lakebed in frustration. I’d better hurry.”*
The sword fanatic instinctively reached for his peachwood sword.
The Wudang Grandmaster shook his head, rising slowly and walking out of the purple bamboo forest.
Left alone, Wang Xiaoping sat blankly before the hut—then turned and sliced it down with a single stroke.
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