The town had been plunged into darkness as though a celestial dog had devoured the sun. In an instant, night fell—and every man, woman, and child could not see the hand before their face.
Outside the town walls, the stone statues of gods crumbled one after another, each explosion louder than the last. When the town fell silent under the sudden dark, those sounds pierced the air with an unbearable sharpness. The common folk, already on edge from the carriages and ox-carts that had ferried the children of wealthy families out of town earlier, grew ever more anxious. Whispers turned to dread.
Behind the towering walls of the four surnames and ten clans, not a single household was exempt. Whenever a servant or maid presumed to hang a lantern, they were met with furious shouting. The more hot-tempered stewards would swat the lantern from their hands on the spot, grind it underfoot, and fix the well-meaning servant with a look of unbridled malice—as though they were facing a mortal enemy.
At the blacksmith's forge, Chen Ping'an sat at the edge of the well with Ning Yao, eating his midday meal. The sky had gone dark, and though he found it strange, it did not stop him from hunching over his bowl and shoveling rice. The forge's meals were rather generous—every long-term and short-term laborer received a piece of braised pork belly as long and wide as an index finger, plus a ladle of cooking oil. Rice was unlimited, but the pork was limited to one piece. Chen Ping'an typically ate two large bowls of rice, so after receiving his portion, he would eat only rice for the first bowl, letting the braised pork—still glistening with sauce—slide gradually from the top of the mound to the bottom. Only then would he fetch his second bowl, clean and efficient, and finish the meat at last.
Every time Ning Yao watched him eat this way, she had to suppress a smile.
Ruan Xiu was not like Ning Yao. The girl in blue looked at Chen Ping'an as though four words were written across her gaze: kindred spirit.
Now Chen Ping'an held his empty white bowl in one hand and chopsticks in the other, straining his eyes to peer into the darkness. He could barely make out shapes within two or three zhang.
Over the past two days, besides toiling like an ox or horse for Master Ruan's forge, Chen Ping'an had carved out three hours each day for practicing his stances. One hour in the daytime—from the hour of Wu to the hour of Wei. Two hours at night—from the hour of Hai to the hour of Chou. Eventually, he had tried combining the walking stance with the Sword Furnace finger mudra, but found it disrupted his breathing and made his steps unsteady, so he abandoned the attempt. He only practiced the Sword Furnace stance during breaks in his labor, when no one was watching—nourishing his body in secret. For Chen Ping'an, it was simply a matter of swapping the kiln work he had done before—shaping clay on the wheel—for the standing posture of the Sword Furnace from the Han Shan Manual.
The midday hour of practice had initially drawn Ning Yao along in his wake. She would trail behind, occasionally offering halfhearted guidance in the manner of a practiced instructor. After a few sessions, she stopped appearing altogether. Chen Ping'an did not want gossip to follow him, so for that one daytime hour, he would jog a full li downstream from the forge before beginning his practice, then make the round trip—covering roughly ten li all told.
For Chen Ping'an, this was as unshakeable as a new household rule etched in iron.
Now, sitting at the well's edge, Ning Yao stared up at the sky shrouded like a black curtain. Her narrow, sharp brows—those features that had undone the word "beautiful" from her face—furrowed slightly.
Chen Ping'an whispered, "Does this have something to do with Mr. Qi?"
Ning Yao had no intention of telling him the truth. She offered only a vague answer: "Since Mr. Qi is the master of this small chiliocosm, it probably has something to do with him."
Chen Ping'an asked again, "According to what Song Jixin and Zhigui said before, Mr. Qi had originally planned to leave the town with the schoolboy Zhao Yao. Why did he stay in the end?"
Ning Yao shook her head and smiled. "A sage's mind is like a dragon vein—stretching ten thousand li. I cannot fathom it, and I cannot be bothered to try."
With that, she thrust her bowl and chopsticks into Chen Ping'an's hands, rose, and walked toward the yellow-mud cottage with its thatched roof that belonged to her alone. Ning Yao herself found it strange how courteous Master Ruan was toward her. Had he seen through her identity? Unlikely—the Overturned Mountain was not on the Baoping Continent, and it had virtually no contact with the outside world. Its reputation was immense, yet its guests were vanishingly few. Besides, even the people of Overturned Mountain were not certain of her identity. But Ning Yao was the sort who let the boat find the bridge on its own—and if it did not, she would carve a straight path through it with her sword. The courtesy of the Baoping Continent's greatest swordsmith was something she accepted without ceremony.
Chen Ping'an rose with his bowl and chopsticks, intending to return them to the kitchen. He noticed a man passing nearby—tall, with wide sleeves, more of a scholar than Chen Songfeng the bookish young man. There was something indescribable about him. Partly like Mr. Qi, partly like Supervisor Song of the Bureau of Stoneware Production whom he had encountered in Mud Vase Lane.
The man spotted the straw-sandaled boy sitting alone at the well. Their eyes met, and he showed mild surprise. He approached the youth and spoke with a warm, gentle smile: "I am looking for Master Ruan. Do you know where he is?"
This time, Chen Ping'an did not conceal anything as he had with Cai Jinjian and Fu Nanhua back in Mud Vase Lane. He pointed the man directly toward the forge.
First, because Miss Ning had told him of Master Ruan's formidable nature. Second, because this man did not give off the cold, calculating air that the other outsiders had.
Chen Ping'an asked politely, "Shall I lead the way?"
The young man did not rush off. He regarded Chen Ping'an and smiled. "No need—it is only a few steps. No trouble at all. Thank you."
Chen Ping'an smiled and nodded, then headed for the kitchen. The man walked toward the sword-forging hall in the distance.
After returning the dishes, Chen Ping'an found the short-term apprentices gathered in a few of the buildings, oil lamps lit, debating the cause of the sky's reversal. One man spoke with great conviction: a mountain god from some peak had crossed territorial lines, draining the streams and wells, which in turn had angered the river god who governed the waterways. Gods fighting gods—the sky itself torn asunder. Another man countered with the wisdom of the older generation: all the great mountains had been sealed off by the imperial court, so where would a mountain god come from? And as for a stream so tiny, there was no way it could produce a river god.
Chen Ping'an did not join the discussion. With nothing better to do, he relied on his extraordinary eyesight and descended alone to the bottom of the last well, carrying basket after basket of soil up and out.
Once, as he climbed back up the wooden ladder, he happened to see the man returning from the sword-forging hall. The man spotted the boy but did not approach, nor did he stop. He simply raised a hand from a distance in farewell.
Chen Ping'an felt a quiet sense of admiration. Whether the man was good or ill-intentioned, he was fundamentally different from the outsiders of Zhengyang Mountain, Yunxia Mountain, Qingfeng City, and Old Dragon City.
He continued hauling soil from the well, trip after trip. After more than a dozen ascents, the girl with the ponytail had vanished. But on the well's rim sat the handkerchief and a single pastry—the signature peach-blossom rice-wine cake from the New Year Shop on Qilong Lane. Chen Ping'an blinked in surprise, set down his basket at his feet, sat on the well's edge near the handkerchief, wiped his hands on his clothes, and pinched the cake between two fingers, placing it in his mouth.
He nodded vigorously. It was indeed delicious.
After all, he was eating a pastry worth a full ten copper coins. At the thought, it somehow tasted even better.
For the next several hours, the sky remained dark. A deep, muffled drumming echoed overhead from time to time. But apart from that, the town was unchanged. Master Ruan made an exception and gave his forge's short-term laborers two days off, telling them to go home—they did not need to wait for "dawn" to resume work.
Chen Ping'an was among them. He returned to the town, checked on Liu Xianyang's house to make sure nothing was missing, extinguished the lamp, locked the door, and ran back to his own home in Mud Vase Lane.
For reasons he could not explain, the town now felt lifeless—drained of all vitality.
Chen Ping'an did not know that as he ran through the covered corridor bridge—
Beneath the bridge, on the surface of the stream, a tall woman hovered in midair. Her robes drifted in an unfelt wind, snow-white. Her hair was snow-white. Her exposed hands and feet bore skin like finest jade.
She tilted her head, using the water as a mirror. One hand gathered her hair; the other combed it smooth. No one could see her face.