Chapter 23: The Little Puppy and the Little Muddy Man

**The Immortal Points the Way and Cuts the Great River?**

The Canglan River—the mightiest river in the Northern Liang territory.

Xu Fengnian spat a mouthful of tea onto the face of the old Daoist sage sitting across from him. The grandmaster, who had presided over Wudang for thirty years, merely wiped it away calmly before shooting a glare at his talkative junior brother. Xu Fengnian hurriedly offered apologies, but Wang Chonglou, ever good-natured, waved it off and continued sipping his tea. Xu Fengnian stole a glance at this foremost figure of Wudang—his forehead bore a faint red mark, like a vertical brow. Though his hair was white as a crane’s feathers, his face betrayed no signs of age.

Suddenly, Xu Fengnian recalled a passage from *Three Thousand Manifestations*, a Daoist text he had idly flipped through in the Listening Tide Pavilion during his youth. It mentioned an esoteric Wudang internal technique—*Refining the Form with the Supreme Jade Nectar*—where one first forged a “Dan Infant” that wandered the five viscera before connecting the limbs, turning red blood into white milk, preserving a youthful appearance, and rendering one impervious to heat and cold. This was said to be the first step into the realm of longevity.

Xu Fengnian had always dismissed such fantastical records as mere hearsay. But after witnessing those two fingers and sensing the towering aura emanating faintly from Wang Chonglou, he could no longer deny their truth.

After finishing his tea, the old Daoist departed. Seeing Hong Xixiang still squatting absentmindedly nearby, Xu Fengnian frowned. “Ox-riding fool, why are you still here?”

Hong Xixiang gave an “oh” and slowly made his way back to Little Lotus Peak. Along the path, countless Daoists—young and old—bowed and addressed him as “Great Uncle-Master” or “Venerable Uncle-Master.” He acknowledged them all, occasionally stopping to chat with familiar juniors.

When he reached the Ascending Immortal Cliff, he found his senior brother standing beneath the Turtle-Bearing Stele. Hong Xixiang quickened his pace and called out, “Elder Brother Wang.”

Among their generation on the mountain, they were the highest-ranking, unlike the Dragon-Tiger Mountain’s hierarchy, where the sect master still deferred to reclusive elders who had long since transcended worldly affairs. Wudang also had another senior brother surnamed Wang, a swordsman who had secluded himself on Great Lotus Peak in silent meditation for sixteen years.

Wang Chonglou, nearly a head taller than Hong Xixiang, turned and teased his sullen junior brother. “Did Senior Brother Chen confiscate your hidden forbidden books again?”

Hong Xixiang shook his head, hesitating to speak. Wang Chonglou patted his shoulder and walked away under the moonlight.

Xu Fengnian practiced a set of *Rolling Saber* techniques—formless and fluid, where the first strike dictated the angle and momentum of the dozens or even hundreds that followed. The goal was seamless execution, leaving no gaps.

This was not something the old monster had taught him; it was a simple saber method Xu Fengnian had devised himself. Compared to the standing and moving sword techniques Grandmaster Wang had mentioned, it was distinctly different.

Returning to his spartan hut—as unyielding as Wudang Mountain itself—Xu Fengnian lay down on the hard bed, unbothered, accustomed to roughing it with Old Huang in the wilderness.

On the table, apart from an oil lamp, were two stacks of yellowed books: two sword manuals, *Essence-Plucking Formula*, and at the bottom, *Greenwater Pavilion’s Sixty-Year Sword Journal*. With no desire to sleep, Xu Fengnian stayed up, memorizing them all by rote.

Wudang’s internal techniques were widely circulated in the martial world, though most were forgeries falsely labeled as *Jade Pillar* methods. Yet, even the genuine lower-tier versions were well-known, and Wudang never bothered suppressing them—because while the *Jade Pillar* techniques were indeed profound, they were only the “yin fish” in the Taiji diagram, requiring Wudang’s exclusive body-forging methods to complement them.

Xu Fengnian had little interest in the sword manuals or *Essence-Plucking Formula*, but he was utterly engrossed in *Sixty-Year Sword Journal*, the life’s work of a Wudang ancestor. Though its language was cryptic, making it difficult to grasp.

As dawn lightened the window, Xu Fengnian set the book aside, took up his *Xiudao* saber, and headed to White Elephant Pool. The closer he got, the louder the waterfall’s roar became, its spray chilling his face. A massive rock jutted from the pool’s center. Walking along the edge, Xu Fengnian followed a stone path that led behind the waterfall—where Wudang’s ancestors had hollowed out the Hanging Immortal Peak. Legend spoke of an immortal ascending here on a rainbow, leaving an ancient sword in the pool.

Xu Fengnian stood firm, just two arm-lengths from the cascading water, his clothes soaking through.

With all his might, he swung horizontally.

*If that old Daoist could halt a river with two fingers, what of my full-strength slash?*

A searing pain shot through him. The moment *Xiudao* met the waterfall, it was torn from his grip, arcing through the air before clattering to the ground. Lifting his hand, Xu Fengnian saw a deep gash.

Grinning wryly, he retrieved the saber—destined to remain obscure in his hands for a long while. Exhaling sharply, he swung again, only for the same result. Gritting his teeth, he tore a strip from his robe, wrapped it around his hand, and sat down, no longer hoping to cleave the waterfall but simply to hold onto the blade.

Switching to his left hand fared worse—he and the saber were both sent sprawling.

The young “Uncle-Master” appeared in the cave at some point, remarking in surprise, “You’re just like Senior Brother Chen when he practiced swordsmanship.”

Xu Fengnian laughed bitterly. “All masters start this way.”

Hong Xixiang murmured, “Except by your age, Senior Brother Chen could already cut a gap several inches wide.”

Xu Fengnian scowled. “Send word to the palace. There’s a white-faced fox in seclusion there—tell him to pick forty or fifty martial manuals and have someone bring them up.”

Hong Xixiang blinked. “Why?”

Ignoring him, Xu Fengnian busied himself tying the cloth around his left hand.

The young Uncle-Master obediently went to run the errand. A mile away stood the Purple Sun Daoist Temple, where he planned to enlist juniors for the task—certainly not going down the mountain himself.

Days later, a slender woman struggled up the mountain under the weight of a massive bundle.

*What’s the heaviest thing in the world?* *Loyalty? Filial piety?* *Nonsense—it’s books.*

Jiang Ni sat on a step halfway up, her back nearly broken. Nearby, several Daoists who had been watching her precarious ascent with bated breath finally relaxed.

This stunningly beautiful young woman had been escorted to the foot of the mountain by Northern Liang cavalry before climbing alone. When Wudang disciples offered help, she ignored them, her pretty face icy. They could only trail cautiously behind, wary of her toppling with her burden. A woman from the Northern Liang Palace was not to be trifled with.

Jiang Ni glared up at the endless peak, muttering curses too soft for the Daoists to hear—though compared to her daily ritual of stabbing straw effigies, this was downright gentle.

If that damned princeling were standing before her now, she’d draw *Shenfu* without hesitation and perish with him.

Rubbing her aching shoulders, she gritted her teeth and hoisted the crushing load again. In this crystalline world, she was a pitiful, solitary figure.

Hong Xixiang, wandering idly, happened upon the scene and approached to help. Before he could speak, Jiang Ni rasped, “A good dog doesn’t block the path.” Weak as her voice was, her glare was fierce—hardly befitting a lowly palace maid.

Smiling, Hong Xixiang said, “Let me guide you, miss.”

At the sight of the hut, Jiang Ni froze.

*This is where that murderous princeling lives?* *He hasn’t thrown a tantrum and kicked all Wudang’s Daoists down the mountain?*

Collapsing onto the ground, she gasped for breath, feeling half-dead.

Hong Xixiang opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by her glare.

*Women from the princeling’s household are truly something else,* he mused. *Or perhaps, as Senior Brother said, all women below the mountain are tigresses?*

Though his kindness had been spurned, Hong Xixiang still managed to carry the bundle into the hut. This time, Jiang Ni lacked the energy to protest. She was on the verge of passing out where she sat, her shoulders and back numb with pain.

Then—adding insult to injury—something hard tapped her back. The slight motion was agony to her now. Whirling around with a sob, she saw that detestable face and, summoning unknown strength, lunged to bite the barefoot princeling’s calf.

Xu Fengnian smacked her cheek with his scabbard, sending the fallen princess sprawling. “Are you a dog?” he snapped.

Humiliation outweighed pain as Jiang Ni, unable to move, scooped up dirt and hurled it at him.

Unfazed, Xu Fengnian batted the clods back with *Xiudao*, turning her into a little mud figure in seconds.

“Xu Fengnian, may you die a wretched death!”

“Come on, little Jiang Ni—bite me to death!”

“You’re not human!”

“Ah, Jiang Ni, you look absolutely adorable like this. Go on, throw *Shenfu* at me too—then I’ll really be impressed.”

“One day, I’ll stab you dead!”

“Why not now? I won’t fight back. Still sitting there? Little Jiang Ni, surely you don’t expect me to press my own neck against *Shenfu* and slit my throat? That’s just tyrannical.”

One sat on the ground, the other stood. One wept, the other laughed.

Who could imagine these two youths—one a fallen princess, the other the heir of Northern Liang?

Watching this scene, the young Uncle-Master sighed. “I think I’ll go ride my ox instead.”