Chapter 70 | Powering Up by Meddling in Other People's Business

Lu Qinghe ran ahead, the hem of his green robe splashed with numerous spots of mud, the cloth wrapping his hair askew.

Xu Yanping followed behind him, having to steady himself against a sapling pine by the roadside every few steps.

His round face was flushed bright red, his forehead drenched in sweat.

Chen Zui watched them run over, making no move to walk back.

He simply held his spear in one hand and stood in place, a faint, half-amused curve playing at the corners of his lips.

The two halted when they were still a dozen or so zhang away from Chen Zui.

It was not that they did not want to draw closer, but that they truly could run no farther.

Lu Qinghe bent over, hands propped on his knees, panting for a good while.

Xu Yanping was in even worse shape, crouching directly onto the ground, wheezing heavily like a farm ox run ragged.

Once he finally caught his breath, Lu Qinghe straightened up and looked at Chen Zui from a distance.

Neither possessed internal energy or the skill to transmit their voices across vast distances; if they wished to speak, they could only rely on shouting.

Yet Lu Qinghe did not shout.

He merely adjusted the crooked cloth in his hair and looked down to brush the mud spots from his lapel.

Then, he brought his hands together before him in a formal, measured arc.

Pushing his hands forward in a bow, he bent at the waist in formal salutation.

Hands overlapping with thumbs tucked inward, his arms formed a complete circle.

He bowed low, his back as straight as a pine, his head lowering until it was level with his chest before coming to a steady halt.

Not a fraction too high, not a hair too low.

The entire movement was performed with deliberate slowness.

Every motion brimmed with the gentle yet unyielding solemnity of Confucian etiquette.

Seeing this, Xu Yanping quickly scrambled up from the ground.

Following Lu Qinghe's lead, he performed a deep bow from afar in the exact same posture.

The mountain wind swept through the forest.

Rustling their green robes until they whipped in the breeze.

They remained in that deep bow, not straightening for a long time.

Standing where he was, Chen Zui looked at the two scholars bowed low on the high path and fell silent for a moment.

Then he thumped his spear against the ground, its butt embedding into a crevice in the bluestone slab and standing straight.

With his hands now free, his left hand wrapped over his right, thumbs pressed together, and he pushed them forward levelly before his chest.

A cupped-fist salute.

Etiquette of the martial world.

Simple, crisp, and without a trace of hesitation.

He directed his cupped-fist salute toward Lu Qinghe and Xu Yanping.

His arms level with his shoulders, the junction of fist and palm aimed squarely at his chest.

The mountain path above and below grew utterly quiet.

Halfway up the mountain, the young spearman stood with cupped fists, his spear shaft casting a long, straight shadow.

Higher on the path, the two scholars remained bent in a deep bow, their green robes fluttering gently in the wind.

One below, two above.

Separated by a dozen or so zhang of muddy mountain path and a whole mountainside of verdant pines and cypresses.

Confucian scholars and martial artist.

Deep bow and cupped fists.

These two entirely different forms of etiquette appeared simultaneously upon the same mountain, along the same path.

Yet there was nothing jarring about it.

Quite the opposite.

In this fleeting span of time, they formed a peculiar harmony.

The mountain wind surged, the rustling pines sounding like a chant.

The two bowed shadows cast upon the damp bluestone slabs mirrored that lone figure standing with cupped fists from afar.

When a scholar bends, he bends his spine, not his knees.

When a martial artist cups his fists, he clasps his heart and courage, not murderous intent.

As it turned out, the principles under heaven were written upon bamboo slips stroke by upright stroke, and held within a spear shaft inch by unbending inch.

In the end, it was merely the same essence placed in different hands.

Chen Zui lowered his hands, pulled his spear from the crevice in the stone, and tilted his chin toward the upper path as a final farewell.

Lu Qinghe and Xu Yanping slowly straightened their backs as well.

They watched Chen Zui's figure round a bend in the path and disappear deep into the verdant pines and cypresses.

The mountain path wound downward, widening as it descended.

The pines and cypresses by the road gradually gave way to wild shrubs and an occasional crooked jujube tree.

At the fork at the foot of the mountain stood a half-man-high boundary stone.

Engraved upon the stone were the two characters “Qingya.”

The strokes had been worn smooth by wind and rain, moss creeping out from the carved grooves like green veins pulsing across the stone.

Chen Zui had just walked past the boundary stone when his steps abruptly halted.

Beside the boundary stone stood a figure in white.

A long sword hung from his waist, his long hair falling loose over his shoulders.

He was looking down at the two characters on the stone, lost in thought.

The mountain rain had just ceased, yet the mist had not yet dissipated.

His white robes resembled a streak of frozen moonlight amid the light mist.

Though clearly standing there, he gave the impression that his silhouette might dissolve into the mist at any moment.

Liu Yinsheng.

He lifted his gaze, his eyes settling upon the spear on Chen Zui's shoulder, his expression as calm as water.

Chen Zui's hand tightened slightly around his spear, his toe shifting half a cun unconsciously.

He was already in the opening stance of the 【Dragon Roam】 movement technique.

“Senior Liu.”

His voice remained steady.

“You haven't come to persuade me to stay again, have you?”

Liu Yinsheng did not answer.

He walked slowly up to Chen Zui, pressed his index and middle fingers together like a sword, and lightly tapped them toward the space between Chen Zui's brows.

Chen Zui instinctively moved to retreat.

Yet before his feet could move, he realized there was no killing intent or energy behind this gesture.

It merely hovered three cun before the center of his brow.

A gentle, water-like sword intent seeped in from his forehead, neither cold nor hot, like the first ray of spring sunlight passing through a window lattice.

“In your battle against Cao Zhengchun before the Academy's gates, you may have forcibly suppressed your internal injuries.

“Yet three hidden injuries remain in your meridians.

“One is half a cun to the left of the Xinshu point, one is three fen below the Zhongwan point, and one is in your left Jianjing point.”

Liu Yinsheng's voice was as calm as ever.

“The one at the Xinshu point is the most perilous. If left for another three days, it will not merely hurt when you circulate your energy, but cause you to cough up blood on every rainy night.”

Chen Zui froze.

He had indeed been forcibly suppressing them.

During those brutal clashes against Cao Zhengchun, the opponent's Wind-Riding Realm yin-cold internal energy had jolted through the spear shaft into his body.

At the time, he had only felt the webs between his thumbs and forefingers grow numb and his chest tighten; after circulating his breath for several cycles, he had assumed he was fine.

Now that Liu Yinsheng pointed them out one by one,

he realized those three faintly throbbing spots were precisely where he had felt his energy flow sluggishly while cultivating.

Liu Yinsheng withdrew his fingers, drew a small celadon bottle from his sleeve, and tossed it to Chen Zui.

“Medicine for internal use. Take one pill with wine every seven days; three pills will clear the blockages.

“It is no panacea, merely an ordinary remedy to invigorate blood and dispel stasis.”

Chen Zui caught the porcelain bottle, glanced down at it, and slipped it into his robes.

He raised his head, a hint of confusion in his eyes.

“Senior Liu, did you follow me all the way to the foot of the mountain just to deliver this medicine?”

Liu Yinsheng was silent for a breath.

The morning mist churned behind him, swallowing the pines and cypresses along the distant path before coughing them back up.

His white robes drifted in and out of sight in the mist; only the ancient sword with its pitch-black scabbard at his waist remained distinctly clear, like an undeniable stroke of ink embedded in the morning fog.