Hearing this, the Daoist was not angered. He merely rested the horsetail whisk in the crook of his arm, uncorked the corn cob stopper from the gourd with his other hand, and tilted his head back to take a swig.
The aroma of alcohol diffused beneath the moonlight, carrying a crisp, refreshing scent that mingled pine resin with morning dew.
“Qi Tianchen, what a thing to say.”
He wiped the corner of his mouth and chuckled, gesturing vaguely toward Qi Tianchen with his whisk.
“Did you really think I came to seize your Martial Dao fortune?”
As he spoke, he strolled into the mountain gate, stepping across the bluestone slabs that Murong Qingnü had shattered just moments ago.
As his soles pressed against the shattered stones, they silently reassembled into whole, intact slabs beneath his boots, every trace of a crack vanishing completely.
It was as if his feet trod not on the earth, but upon time itself, rolling back that fleeting instant of destruction into wholeness.
“Thirty or forty years ago, perhaps I would have done so.”
He halted five paces before Qi Tianchen.
He tilted his head to glance at Murong Qingnü, then looked back at Qi Tianchen.
His eyes held a lucid understanding that belonged only to someone who had lived through it all.
“Back then, the martial world was naturally every man for himself. Even using underhanded methods drew little criticism. It went to whoever had the strength, and no one could fault that.”
He paused, taking another swig of wine.
The sloshing of liquor inside the gourd echoed with striking clarity across the quiet mountain gate.
“Yet now, even if I seized this fortune of yours, what would it accomplish?”
His tone suddenly sank.
“Wouldn't one still be suppressed by imperial power? One more Earthly Immortal or one fewer makes no difference to the imperial court—it’s merely having one bigger tiger locked in their cage.”
He plugged the corn cob back into the gourd, turning around to gaze at the official road winding away outside the mountain gate.
Moonlight fell upon his greenish-gray Daoist robe, the night wind gently fluttering the patch on his cuff.
“In this realm today, having one more Earthly Immortal is always a good thing.”
His voice was not loud, yet every word rang as solid as iron.
“I could never commit an act that wrongs the martial artists of this realm merely for my own selfish desires.”
Hearing this, Qi Tianchen stood in place, his gaze lingering on the Daoist’s face for a long time.
The look of vigilance deep in his eyes gradually softened into complex emotion, ultimately settling into a low sigh.
“Since you did not come for my Martial Dao fortune...”
He slowly returned the Suiyue saber to his waist, his movements far calmer than before, though the suspicion in his tone had not completely faded.
“...why would an old Daoist like you dare disobey the imperial decree and run out here instead of staying put on Mount Longhu?”
Mount Longhu.
In the martial world, these three words carried more weight than anything else.
Among the three thousand Daoist sects in the world, Mount Longhu was the ancestral sanctuary of Daoism in this age. Ever since the first Heavenly Master, Zhang Daoling, built his thatched cottage there to refine elixirs and subdued the tiger to protect the Dharma, sixty-four generations had passed down to this day, its incense never once extinguished.
Among the Heavenly Masters of past generations, three Earthly Immortals and five Boundless Realm peaks had emerged, while Perfected Masters of the Wind-Riding Realm and Mountain-Viewing Realm were far too numerous to count.
Sects in the martial world rose and fell—some flourished for a time before fading into obscurity, while others were wiped out by the imperial court, their very mountain gates burned to the ground.
Only Mount Longhu remained standing through all storms and trials, its Dao arts enduring eternally.
And the old Daoist standing before him, who looked like nothing more than a ragged temple keeper, was the sixty-third generation Heavenly Master of Mount Longhu.
The person with the highest seniority and deepest cultivation in all of Daoism today.
His Daoist name was Ling Xiaozi.
The world knew him as Perfected Master Ling Xiao.
Unless it was to seize an Earthly Immortal’s Martial Dao fortune, why would such a transcendent figure appear here for no reason?
Hearing Qi Tianchen’s words, Ling Xiaozi first took a swig of wine, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and grinned.
That smile held a hint of sheepish helplessness as well as a dash of rogue-like flippancy, entirely unlike the venerable Daoist Grandmaster of legend.
“I had no choice. In my youth, I owed someone a favor. Now they’ve come knocking on my door, and this old Daoist couldn't refuse. So, I had to come down the mountain to repay the debt.”
He paused, took another mouthful of liquor, and smacked his lips.
“I was halfway on my journey when I suddenly sensed an aura soaring into the sky toward the south. This old man thought some old fossil was stirring up trouble again, so I took a detour to take a look. Who would’ve thought it was actually you, Qi Tianchen?”
He tucked the whisk into his belt, freeing his right hand to point at Qi Tianchen, tapping his index finger in the air several times.
“Qi Tianchen, oh Qi Tianchen! You were trapped in the Boundless Realm for decades. This old man thought you were done for this life—forging a few sabers, sipping some tea, and dragging it out until you died of old age, wrapping up your years. Who could have imagined that right at the very end, you actually crossed that threshold?”
He tilted his head and sized Qi Tianchen up, his gaze filled with both curiosity and heartfelt gratification.
Qi Tianchen lowered his head, holding the scabbard named Fengri with both hands.
His withered fingers repeatedly traced the coarse, unpolished hammer marks.
After a long silence, he finally spoke in a raspy, low voice.
“This old man had forgotten everything. I forgot the martial world I walked, forgot the people I met, and forgot every saber I forged. I forgot it all.”
He looked up, his gaze drifting past the mountain gate to rest upon the solitary grave shrouded in moonlight deep within the bamboo grove.
“I forgot everything, except her.”
The night wind blew through the bamboo grove, gathering his words and carrying them far into the distance.
Ling Xiaozi took a swig of wine, plugged the corn cob back into the gourd, and let out a long, complex sigh.
“In old age, one forgets much, but never the longing of love.”
Qi Tianchen nodded slightly, acknowledging Ling Xiaozi’s words.
“By the way, who in the world could make the living patriarch of Mount Longhu owe a favor, going so far as to invite you down the mountain after all these years?”
Ling Xiaozi looked up, his eyes meeting Qi Tianchen’s directly as he uttered two words.
“Wen Zhuo.”
The moment those words were spoken, not only Qi Tianchen, but even Murong Qingnü, who had been standing coldly beneath the archway, underwent a drastic change of expression.
Wen Zhuo.
In both the Grand Zhao imperial court and the martial world, this name was an inescapable legend.
Over thirty years ago, the war between the two dynasties tore the mountains and rivers apart, leaving Grand Zhao in dire peril.
At that time, factional strife raged endlessly within the imperial court while generals on the front lines fought in disarray, seemingly hurtling toward total collapse.
It was that young man named Wen Zhuo who entered the court as a mere commoner to offer his strategies. Within just three years of strategizing behind the scenes, he produced thirty-six brilliant stratagems one after another, single-handedly turning Grand Zhao's decline around.
“He’s still alive?”
Qi Tianchen’s voice held a rare trace of tremor.
“Could it be that he invited you down the mountain because he’s plotting something again?”
Ling Xiaozi shook his head, twirling the wine gourd in his hand.
“It wasn't him in person. Wen Zhuo is already dead.”
He paused, his voice tinged with a faint trace of lament.
“The one who invited me down the mountain is his closed-door disciple—a woman named Lin Jianxi.”
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