Volume 1: Embarking on the World of Mortals Chapter 121

Within the Lianyang Temple, the old Daoist pulled the little Daoist along to prepare the evening meal. The young Daoist had originally intended to lend a hand, but was gently dissuaded by the elder. Stroking his beard with a smile, the old Daoist said: “You made a breakthrough today—this is a most joyous occasion. It’s only right that we celebrate you. How could we possibly have you cook at a time like this?”

“There’s simply no reasoning that would justify such a thing.”

“Fellow Daoist, return for now and rest a while. As for tonight’s dinner, let us show you the skills of my disciple and me.”

The little Daoist Mingxin raised a wooden spatula and declared: “Skills!”

Only to earn a flick to the forehead from the old Daoist’s swift hand.

“I told you not to wave cooking tools around like that…”

“You never listen. Come along now and help rinse the rice.”

“Oh…”

Obediently, the little Daoist followed behind the elder toward the house that served as their makeshift kitchen. Suddenly, he turned back and made a silly face at Qi Wuhuo, waving his small hand. Youthful and innocent, his antics drew a faint smile from the young Daoist, who watched them enter before finally turning and pushing open the door to return to the Scripture Pavilion.

From within his sleeve robe, the little peacock wriggled out, chirping noisily.

It was truly starving, pitiful, and mournful.

Lately, its appetite had grown insatiably large. Merely feeding it meat was no longer enough—it now required copious amounts of flesh each day, in addition to the spiritual materials and liquids prepared by Old Yellow Ox. Only then could its hunger be barely suppressed. Today was no exception. After stuffing itself in a frenzy, it finally settled comfortably onto the soft cushion Qi Wuhuo had prepared for it within the pavilion.

Each day, it ate its fill and then slept. Upon waking, it ate again—without a care in the world, raised and tended to by others.

It was, by all accounts, a carefree and indulgent life.

The young Daoist gently touched the small peacock, then scratched beneath its beak with light fingers.

He took an ink stick and added some well water, slowly grinding it into ink. His heart gradually quieted. Dipping his brush into the dark liquid, he wrote a single large character upon the white paper: “Stillness” (靜). The brushstrokes were steady and composed, and as the word took shape, so too did his mind begin to settle. Earlier, everything had come far too swiftly—like a storm of thunder and rain. He had felt like a lone boat adrift in vast seas. Only now, at last, could he sit down and think in peace.

He first took up the brush and wrote four characters:

The Beginning of Calamity.

Qi Wuhuo did not believe in disasters arising without cause. Jinzhou had once been a land of prosperity—what power was it that could sever its rivers, wither all vegetation, and reduce the entire province to ruin? Mr. Ao Liu had merely gone to summon rain, yet had been scorched and wounded, the mark upon his face lingering for a full seven years without fading.

This calamity—was it born of Heaven’s wrath, or wrought by mortal hands? Where did it truly originate?

This was the most critical question.

Even the Mingzhen Dao Alliance—a vast force whose influence spanned the human realm, and even had dealings with the borders of the Underworld and the gaps between the demon kingdoms—had been unable to uncover the truth. As for Qi Wuhuo, a lone and youthful Daoist, there was naturally nothing he could accomplish alone. This matter would require time, patience, and quiet investigation.

He picked up the brush once more and wrote another line:

The one clad in black, robed in a crimson dragon garb.

Who was he?

He was one of the triggers that drew the demon kingdom forth, transforming a mere [drought] into a true [hell on earth]. It was this person who lured the demons to Jinzhou. But who was he? Was it the [Second Prince], who gained the greatest advantage from the chaos? Yet the imperial clan of the human race only wore plain dark robes. Never would they don dragon motifs—those were patterns of [foreign races].

The robes of the Human Emperor were typically adorned with symbols of the sun, moon, stars, mountains, rivers, lakes, seas, weapons, and grain—these were the twelve emblems of the sovereign.

Outside of that, they would usually wear robes of solid, unembellished color.

“Crimson Dragon robes? Could it be connected to the Dragon Clan?”

The Dragons were a mighty lineage.

There were Dragon Gods within the Heavenly Court, and the Four Sea Dragon Kings of Penglai, as well as the Five Lakes, Four Rivers, and Three Water Palaces.

Even among the demon clans, there existed Dragon Saints.

They were ancient, primordial beings—descendants of a bygone age—yet their power remained vast to this day.

Buddhist teachings once told of Garuda, the divine bird who could devour a Dragon King and five hundred dragons in a single day.

But that was just a mistake in words, the so-called dragons were legless and highly venomous, crawling on their bellies upon the ground—in truth, they were but giant pythons.

As for the Golden-Winged Garuda King, one of the Eight Heavenly Dragons, he was personally struck down by [His Majesty Guangde of the Abyssal East Sea], foremost among the Water Deities.

Within three strikes, he was slain before the Buddha, devoured in defiance.

The common folk cannot distinguish between the Garuda and the Roc, and this, too, was why Tantai Xuan’s [Record of Ascension to Immortality] stated: “Rocs are a breed of demon beast, yet now are rarely seen in the mortal realm.”

—For they were all probably devoured by dragons.

Long ago, the Human Emperor once forged a pact with the Heavenly Court, and gathered the fortune of all the people into himself. It was absolutely forbidden for him to wear the motifs of foreign races. And yet, the one who profited most from the disaster was precisely the Second Prince. Unless… were there others who also benefitted from it—only that he had yet to uncover enough to see the full picture?

The young Daoist fell into silent thought.

Or was it deliberate? Was someone intentionally wearing such garments?

Perhaps a confidant of the Second Prince, acting with purpose?

This question, too, was of vital importance. But as for tracing the identity of that person, it would require time—perhaps even the strength of the Mingzhen Dao Alliance to assist. It was not something he could uncover immediately.

Then he took up the brush again, and wrote another word:

Demon Kingdom.

Perhaps the chaos back then was simply too great. Perhaps all effort had gone into saving lives. Even the Mingzhen Dao Alliance, with its vast influence, was unable to determine the identities of the Three Great Demon Kingdoms that had invaded. It was unknown which three they were. He had to investigate the Demon Kingdom himself. He could also consult the Mingzhen Dao Alliance to determine which demon clans had participated in the battle back then—

What divine abilities they wielded.

What their true forms were.

What means they specialized in.

And afterward, he would ask Uncle Niu.

The young Daoist thought it over. That Old Yellow Ox always boasted about his past—how he once ruled over more than ten mountains and rivers, proclaiming himself a Great Sage. Though he often admitted no one had recognized him, and that it was all just him talking big for fun, he’d still lived freely to this day without trouble. That alone spoke volumes about his capabilities.

“If it’s demon clans, Uncle Niu should be more familiar.”

“But lately, both Yun Qin and Uncle Niu seem rather busy. I haven’t been able to reach either of them.”

The bronze mirror sat nearby. There were many things he needed to do lately, and on Yun Qin’s side, it seemed her master, [Lady Danhua, Celestial Monarch of Talismanic Resonance], had intensified her cultivation training. She hadn’t contacted him either. The young Daoist brushed his fingers gently across the mirror’s surface. As his Daoist power flowed, the patina on the mirror gleamed with a greenish hue, like a sky full of stars hidden within the night, carrying a deep, mysterious beauty.

Previously, Qi Wuhuo had sensed that channeling his power into the mirror would produce a unique effect.

Yet now, the mirror remained silent.

His spirit told him that—even if he were to pour a great amount of spiritual power into it now—it still wouldn’t respond.

He had a lingering feeling: This mirror might possess a function akin to the [Round Light Manifestation Technique].

Using the [Round Light Manifestation Technique] would point toward Yun Qin.

But if he did not use it directly—if he instead infused his power into it at certain specific times—it would point elsewhere.

He just didn’t know where. This object did not react at all times; rather than being something for idle conversation, it was more like an [imperial court audience]—a means of delivering messages only during particular, predetermined times.

Qi Wuhuo calmed his mind and resumed writing.

The Human Emperor.

The young man paused, then, with a flick of the wrist, he wiped away those two characters.

Then, with more force than before, he wrote a large single character across the paper: [Thief]

This Thief must be slain!

How was one to overthrow him?

And which prince should be chosen?

Who among them could truly cherish the people like his own children? Who was qualified to bear such a burden?

And—what if the one he chose were to change one day? What then?

And what of the gentleman…?

Back then, he had survived because of his teacher. But did his teacher, too, survive thanks to the efforts of the Mingzhen Dao Alliance?

The young Daoist continued writing, scattering loose sheets of white paper all around him.

Line after line, word after word—

He calculated and traced the clues, and soon felt as though he were touching the foot of a towering mountain of hardship. At last, after a long silence, he dipped his brush in ink again, and at the very center of a clean sheet, carefully wrote two large characters. He then lifted the brush, staring quietly.

The little peacock, seemingly well-rested, flapped its wings and perched itself on Qi Wuhuo’s shoulder. Noticing that the young Daoist had been staring at those two words for a long time, its spirit felt puzzled.

It lightly tapped at the youth’s hair with its wings and asked: “Ah Qi, Ah Qi, what’s that?”

“It’s a word.”

“A word? Can you eat it?”

“No,” he replied gently. “You can’t eat it.”

“Oh.”

The little peacock immediately lost interest, shaking the singular, plume-like feather on its head. “Then how do you read it?”

The young Daoist said softly: “Jinzhou.”

“‘Jin’, as in brocade flowers blooming.”

The little peacock chirped loudly in excitement.

The youth set down his brush and gently ran his hand over the two characters. He stared into space for a while. Then, he said:

“It’s a place. Once upon a time, it was very beautiful. And there was a lot of delicious food there…”

The little peacock chirped happily: “Then that must be a wonderful place!”

“…Mm. Yes, it was.”

His voice was gentle. Then he said, “I’ve only just broken through. I still need to fully master the techniques of Innate Qi before I can truly be called a [Daoist Master]—before I can truly have the strength to do what must be done.”

“Probably sometime after the new year.”

“Then, I’ll make a trip back to Helian Mountain, and after that, we’ll be heading here.”

“Even going to the capital will have to wait until that’s done.”

The little peacock tilted its head, confused: “We’re going there?”

“Mm.”

“To do what?”

“To do what…?I think it’s time to go back and see it again.”

“To avenge or to repay.”

The young Daoist thought of the lingering cries and roars still etched into the blade’s body, and finally answered:

“To walk beneath heaven and earth, that’s how one ought to be.”

“Vengeance must be taken.”

“And kindness must be repaid.”

The little peacock blinked, not understanding. The young Daoist pressed his right hand against the white paper. Perhaps he was tired. Perhaps his spirit was too greatly spent. Even though he had only just stepped into the realm of Innate Qi today, Qi Wuhuo had already—without realizing it—fallen asleep at his desk. There was a faint scent of old sandalwood, and a mist-like aura gently filled the air. Footsteps sounded quietly.

Half-asleep, half-awake, the young Daoist saw—he didn’t know when it had happened—but standing before him now was an old man with kind brows and gentle eyes. His beard and hair were entirely white. He wore a simple Daoist robe, and was looking at him with a faint, warm smile.

The youth, still drowsy, murmured softly:

“Teacher…?”
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