Two days before Qi Jingchun set down his chopsticks, ominous signs began to manifest throughout the small town. The water level in the iron-lock well plummeted drastically; locust branches snapped from the trees and fell, their leaves withered and yellowed, flagrantly defying the natural order of spring flourishing and autumn withering. Beyond the town, in the place where countless clay and wooden deity statues lay scattered in disarray, loud bursts like firecrackers frequently echoed in the dead of night. Curious onlookers who ventured close discovered that most of last winter's clay Buddhas and wooden immortals had vanished without a trace.
Ox and horse carts had been constantly departing from Fulu Street and Taoye Alley; even in the dead of night, the clatter of hooves on the broad bluestone-paved streets disturbed peaceful slumber. Wealthy strangers dressed in splendid garments began to hurry away, their faces clouded with displeasure. Small groups would often cast resentful glances and muttered complaints towards the town's academy. Zheng Dafeng, the solitary figure once guarding the east gate, had disappeared, and the kiln bureau showed no intent to appoint a replacement. Thus, the town felt as though it had lost two front teeth—its speech now prone to leaks and weaknesses.
Liu Baqiao and Chen Songfeng retraced their steps, and by the time the silhouette of the covered bridge came into view, dusk had already fallen. Liu Baqiao followed a narrow path down to the creek, crouched, and cupped a handful of water to wash his face. Unsatisfied with the brief refreshment, he lowered himself fully to the ground, immersing his entire head into the cold stream. At last, he raised his head with a satisfied shout and glanced at the sweat-drenched Chen Songfeng, teasing, "A mere delicate scholar, utterly powerless."
Chen Songfeng took a sip of the creek water, his throat hoarse, and said, "The reason I toiled to become a Qi practitioner was simply to strengthen my body—to live a few years longer and read more books. How could I compare to sword cultivators like you? Moreover, here in this Lizhu minor cave heaven, Qi practitioners other than sword cultivators suffer the most. One false move in circulating qi can deplete one's Dao merit; the higher the realm, the greater the loss. Perhaps it is fortunate that my cultivation is low."
Liu Baqiao patted his shoulder. "Why not change paths? Join us at Fenglei Garden to practice swordsmanship. I'll have your back. Imagine becoming a sword cultivator, soaring on the wind atop a flying sword, cutting through the clouds at lightning speed—especially when thunderstorm roars echo around you..."
Chen Songfeng suddenly laughed, "I heard the sword cultivator struck most often by lightning at Fenglei Garden is named..."
Liu Baqiao raised a hand, "Enough!"
Sword cultivators are also Qi practitioners, but their physique aligns more closely with pure warriors from another path. Simply put, they pursue a harmony of sinew, flesh, and spirit; other Qi practitioners focus less on the body, merely avoiding weakness. Although Qi cultivation nurtures and refines the body like gentle spring rain, sword cultivators undergo far more intense physical training—both in effort and frequency—without the singular zeal and tireless dedication of warriors. Among Qi practitioners, it is commonly acknowledged that the mortal shell is ultimately subject to decay—adequate is sufficient. The rare few who attain an indestructible, flawless body are fortunate, but obsession over such matters risks losing sight of the Dao's essence.
Liu Baqiao casually inquired, "How advanced is your distant relative in martial cultivation?"
Chen Songfeng sighed, "How would I know such confidential matters?"
Recalling the clash at the bureau's main hall, Liu Baqiao mused, "Song Changjing is truly formidable. It's terrifying that this Dali vassal prince is so young. Most eighth or ninth realm warriors are half a century or more, some living beyond a century without being considered old. If I'm not mistaken, Song Changjing is barely forty. No wonder he was once mockingly told to 'temper his arrogance.'"
Chen Songfeng softly replied, "Destined and uniquely blessed."
Fifth realm cultivators are elusive and enigmatic, seldom seen. But among warriors, eighth and ninth realm masters are widely known, intertwined with secular courts. Martial ascension is forged in life-and-death battles; only those who have glimpsed the brink of mortality can transcend life and death, achieving a transcendental state akin to Buddhist "freedom" or Daoist "serenity." Aside from duels between grandmasters, eighth and ninth realm warriors delight in tormenting top-tier mid-fifth realm Qi practitioners. Among them, Song Changjing, the pinnacle ninth realm, is nearly invincible below the fifth realm, matched only by sword cultivators who can at best earn an honorable defeat.
This brazen confidence stems from a subtle truth: the final tier of the mid-fifth realm—the tenth floor grand cultivators—have renounced worldly disputes, caring not for family survival or dynastic fate, focusing solely on the "Great Dao."
Lost in thought, Liu Baqiao said, "Song Changjing asked me, once out of town, to claim the talisman sword by my own skill. Should I alert Fenglei Garden to prepare a celebration feast?"
Chen Songfeng could only smile wryly. Watching the shallow, flowing creek, thoughts of Song Changjing and the dashing youth beside the vassal prince stirred an impression of an emerging great trend. He resolved that after returning to the Chen ancestral estate in Longwei Commandery, he must persuade his family to bet on the Dali dynasty. Even if they cannot gamble everything, the Chen clan must integrate early into Dali's court.
Chen Songfeng murmured, "Dali's momentum is the rising tide that Heaven and Earth jointly favor. Thus, our Chen clan must support the dragon, not merely scramble to attach ourselves to it."
Liu Baqiao asked, "What are you muttering about?"
Chen Songfeng stood, shook his hand, and smiled, "You seem quite in tune with that boy from Clay Bottle Alley."
Liu Baqiao rose casually, "Chance meetings, uncertain partings. Who knows if we shall meet again?"
Together, they stepped onto the shore amid spring grass. Chen Songfeng asked, "I heard the blessed land in Nanjian Kingdom will open to outsiders this winter, permitting a few dozen entrants. You still can't break your bottleneck—why not try your luck there?"
Liu Baqiao sneered, "Absolutely not. I'd feel ashamed to swagger among ants."
Chen Songfeng shook his head. "My teacher Liu once said the mind is like a mirror—polished brighter with each wipe. Cultivating the mind, able to sit in oblivion on the Dao ancestor's lotus platform, is indeed beneficial. Yet sometimes, struggling in a muddy pond is not without merit. To descend into the blessed land as an exiled immortal, whether to enjoy blessings or suffer trials, can only enrich one's experience."
Before Chen Songfeng finished, Liu Baqiao exclaimed, "I'm too competitive. If I went to that aura-thin blessed land and couldn't break its taboo to return home by my own strength, I'd be haunted by regrets—more harm than good. And if the locals bullied me, that would be another burden. When I revive, even at great cost, I'd have to manifest my true self to strike back. But wouldn't that betray my original intent?"
He clasped the back of his head, disdainful. "Frankly, our three blessed lands in East Baoping Continent have long since lost their purity. They've become playgrounds for decadent scions of secular dynasties—no wonder people deride them as brothels under the guise of immortality, filled with filth and smoke."
Chen Songfeng smiled, "That's not always so. Among the locals, there are still prodigious talents."
Liu Baqiao rolled his eyes. "A blessed land with so many people—how many truly stand out each year? Maybe none. Among those who succeed here over a century, how many names endure in memory? A handful at best. So why are these lands so revered? Some even claim that holding partial control over one is as advantageous as possessing a fifth realm cultivator. Madness."
Chen Songfeng chuckled, "Blessed lands offer steady, long-term benefits, with occasional surprises. Most importantly, the advantages are effortless to enjoy. Who wouldn't want a share?"
Those who exit a cave heaven are often fortunate; those who rise from a blessed land are especially blessed.
Liu Baqiao asked, "You don't seem fond of that Chen youth?"
Chen Songfeng pondered, then spoke candidly, "Personally, I bear him no ill will. But objectively, his presence embarrasses our entire clan. The Lizhu minor cave heaven's Chen lineage is a joke on this continent. Within the town, one of the more populous surnames, only one remains; the rest have become servants to other families, a subject of mockery—and rightly so.
In Longwei Commandery, the Chen family views the town's Chens as distant ancestors at best—ancient history with no bond. But our rivals don't see it that way. If the boy from Clay Bottle Alley had simply become a servant to a great family, it would have been a fleeting joke. Yet his stubborn persistence, solitary existence, makes him stand out. Many bet on when this last Chen descendant in town will cease to be 'the only one.'"
Liu Baqiao frowned, "That's not the boy's fault."
Chen Songfeng smiled, "Of course not. But some things in this world defy reason."
Liu Baqiao shook his head, "It's not that reason is hard to find; it's that some people are too stubborn to accept it."
The cold spring water ran slowly under the moonlight, carrying away worries but leaving thoughts adrift.
They rose and departed in the night.