Chen Ping'an stepped out of the house in a daze, crossed into the small courtyard, and looked up. The sun hung blazing overhead, and his vision had never been clearer. The sky resembled a porcelain embryo stripped of its glaze, layer by layer—smooth and luminous.
He noticed his breathing had grown somewhat labored, so he sat down on the threshold, steadied his breath, and formed the Sword Furnace stance with all ten fingers interlocked.
After the time it took an incense stick to burn, his qi finally settled into a smooth, even rhythm. He was about to rise when a flicker at the corner of his eye made him sit back down hard. His eyes went wide.
At some unknown moment, a black stone had come to rest in the corner of the courtyard—silent, still. The finest whetstone in all the world. The Dragon-Slaying Platform.
Chen Ping'an scrambled to his feet and hurried over, crouching to examine it closely. Compared to the collapsed pedestal of the celestial official's statue, this stone looked as though a blade had sliced clean through tofu—one straight cut, and it had split into two halves with startling precision. He rubbed his chin, shifting his vantage point incrementally, crouching from one angle to the next, circling through the cardinal directions before settling back at his original position. He was now certain: this was the base beneath the statue whose head had bowed in the manner of a bodhisattva.
A chill ran through him. Ning Yao liked to speak in grand terms, but her words of cold detachment and disinterest had never once been hollow. If she said the Dragon-Slaying Platform was so indestructible that only a great sword immortal could sunder it at great cost—then Chen Ping'an believed her without reservation. So had this stone sprouted legs and run all the way to his house?
He knew now that immortals, ghosts, and spirits truly existed, and that countless mountain sprites and fox spirits haunted the world. But a stone coming alive? That seemed unlikely. Besides, if a stone spirit wanted to enjoy some fortune, it could have gone anywhere—why come to his house, where it would only suffer? Was there really such a foolish stone spirit?
He tried speaking to it, tentatively: "Hey—can you talk? Or at least understand me?"
Of course it could not.
The suspicious young man shook his head, unable to look away.
Perhaps the dream had been too vivid. Chen Ping'an still had not fully recovered from it, and now everything he saw carried a tinge of strangeness.
Many small things he had never dwelled upon in the past, strung together now, suddenly made perfect sense.
Mr. Qi had said the world truly held such things. Ning Yao had spoken at length of the bizarre wonders beyond. Even Old Yao, in his own scattered way, had said a great deal—how entering the mountains involved countless taboos. Old Yao had told him that the humble old stumps dotting the hillsides might be thrones for mountain gods, and one must never sit upon them. He had also said that all mountains under heaven, large or small, were of one lineage—differing only as ancestors from descendants.
In that moment, Chen Ping'an felt a sudden, fierce curiosity. He wanted to know how one might see the Lizhu small chiliocosm in its entirety. Was it only possible from a peak higher than Piyun Mountain, to gaze down and take in the whole?
He collected his thoughts and looked down at the black stone. He would carry it to the smithy—Ning Yao could certainly use a whetstone like this. As for what she would do with it afterward, whether she chose to sharpen her own blade or hand it to Master Ruan as a gift for forging her sword—it made no difference to him. He was merely curious about how a whetstone actually sharpened a blade. Was it anything like the way he honed his woodcutting knife?
Chen Ping'an never dragged his feet. Once he made up his mind, he acted. He gripped the whetstone with both hands and lifted—it rose a good inch off the ground, heavy but not unmanageable. That would do. He went inside and found a carrying basket.
Before long, the young man was walking down Mud Vase Lane with the basket on his back, the whetstone hidden beneath a jacket.
Once he left the lane, Chen Ping'an found the main street packed with people. After the sudden, terrifying night, the sight of the blazing sun had drawn everyone outdoors to breathe freely. Nearly all the townsfolk had left their homes and gathered in the streets, talking over one another. Here and there someone hurried past, shouting that the Iron Chain Well had gone completely dry—even the chain that had hung in it for untold centuries had been stolen by some scoundrel and hidden away. Children, who feared nothing so much as a dull world, bounced along in groups of two and three, faces alight with glee, chattering incoherently about the changes to the old scholar tree.
It turned out the great tree had been uprooted overnight, toppled across the street. Shattered branches and withered yellow leaves carpeted the ground. At first, many nearby residents saw no reason to waste good firewood—they picked up branches and carried them home for kindling. Some sluggish young men, prodded reluctantly by their wives, took up hatchets to chop the larger limbs. Not everyone approved. The old townsfolk who had lived beside the tree for generations were heartsick. They cursed the shameless men and women without restraint, or pleaded with them in earnest, recounting the tree's bond with the town—how it was a tree imbued with spirit, how over all those years, even its dead branches had waited until the dead of night to fall, never striking anyone on the head; how in seasons of poor harvest, the tree's milky blossoms had filled countless empty stomachs.
It made no difference.
The young men ignored them entirely, axes biting into wood. Those with worse tempers shoved the elders back. In short, there was a certain chaos about it.
Hearing the commotion from the old tree's direction, Chen Ping'an slowed his pace, basket on his back, glancing back every few steps. His instincts told him to go and look, yet another voice urged him onward to the smithy.
Then a figure darted past him like the wind—a small girl in a bright red cotton-padded jacket. What made him want to laugh and cry at once was that she carried on her shoulder a branch as thick as a grown man's arm, nearly as long as she was tall. Her steps were quick as a cart wheel, lively and playful beyond measure.
Chen Ping'an recognized her at once. She was the little girl who came and went alone, wandering the town like a gust of wind. She had clashed with Gu Can before they became acquainted, and he had seen her recently at Qingniu Bei. She had been in the company of those celestial figures and seemed especially close to the young Daoist nun. Chen Ping'an had even given her a small snake-gall stone.
He called out to her quickly. The girl in the red jacket turned around, and upon seeing Chen Ping'an, she flashed a grin. Those expressive autumn-water eyes seemed to say: speak quickly, I'm listening—I'm busy with an ant relocation!
He suppressed a smile and beckoned. "I need to discuss something with you. It'll only take a moment."
The girl in the red jacket charged over with the branch still on her shoulder, turning slightly to look up at him, a hint of puzzlement in her face.
Chen Ping'an asked: "You brought that branch from the old scholar tree, didn't she?"
The girl nodded vigorously and said with regret: "If I don't hurry, others will grab everything. I'm not strong—this is all I can carry. I'm going to make as many trips as I can."
Chen Ping'an's mind raced. He asked carefully: "If your home is on Fulu Street, that's quite far. If you trust me, you can leave the branches in my courtyard. That way you can make more round trips."
The girl weighed the proposal silently, watching Chen Ping'an's eyes and expression the whole time. Apparently deciding he meant no harm, she nodded: "What do you want in return? But I should warn you—I can't carry anything bigger. They're terribly heavy. My shoulders are already burning."
Chen Ping'an produced a ring of keys, detached one, and held it out. "This is the key to my courtyard gate. You don't need to do anything special—just, while you're gathering branches, keep an eye out for any green leaves that haven't turned yellow. If you spot them, collect them for me."
She did not take the key. Her eyes went wide. "That's it?"
He smiled. "That's all. You know where I live?"
"Mm," she said. "Mud Vase Lane, twelfth house from the left."
In the end, she did not take the key. "Your courtyard wall isn't high. I can toss the branches over without opening the gate."
Chen Ping'an put the key away. The girl in the red jacket had already spun around and was racing off.
He thought she must be like the version of himself that had gone into the mountains. She wove through alleys and lanes; he climbed over ridges and peaks.
Chen Ping'an walked south out of the town. When he approached the gallery bridge, he stopped short in alarm—it was gone.
In its place stood the old stone arch bridge of his memory.
For reasons he could not explain, though the gallery bridge had been grand and new, its golden plaques gleaming, Chen Ping'an found he preferred the old bridge before him.
He stood at one end and, without knowing why, recalled the inexplicable dream. He drew a deep breath and walked slowly up the slope.
The closer he drew to the bridge's center, the more tense he became. He was already drenched in sweat, and now it poured down in earnest. But he crossed all the way to the far arch without anything happening. He gave himself a self-deprecating smile and quickened his pace toward the smithy.
---
At Qingniu Bei, Old Yao sat on the edge of the blue-green cliff, drawing deeply on his pipe.
Below his feet, the pool rippled and shimmered. Beneath the surface, thick masses of water-weed swayed in the current. Even under the blazing sun, the pool gave off an indescribable air of gloom and menace.
Gradually, a haggard old woman's face surfaced on the water—blurred and indistinct—but she wore a crown of dark, raven-black hair that bloomed outward beneath the surface. Her expression was one of abject grief. She quavered: "Great Immortal, I truly did not dare approach that place last night. I tried several times, but each time I felt as though I had plunged into a cauldron of boiling oil—worse than being flayed alive. Great Immortal, please spare this humble servant. There was truly nothing I could do."
Old Yao said coldly: "I did not come to assign blame. You need only do what you can, without hesitation—that will suffice. But now an opportunity of a lifetime lies before you. Whether you dare seize it is up to you."
The old woman's ghostly green face swayed with the water, radiating an eerie chill. Hearing that the great immortal intended to point her toward a path, she promptly adopted a posture of eager attention.
The old man spoke slowly: "The small chiliocosm has gradually fallen back into the mortal realm, merging with the earth. It is at a critical juncture—rooting itself. Before long, it will become contiguous with the territory of the Great Li dynasty. The reason you are called a river crone rather than a river god is analogous to the mortal world: you remain a petty clerk of no official rank, not yet granted a true government post. A single step apart, yet the difference is as vast as heaven and earth."
He pointed the stem of his old pipe toward the stone arch bridge. "The root of the problem is not that your territory is small—it is that your domain has been severed in two. See that bridge? It has cut off your future incense and worship. All you need to do is swim beneath it, and a great destiny awaits. The stream you inhabit will become the source of many important rivers. Forget being a minor river god whose hair extends only a few hundred li—if you are consecrated by the Great Li as a river deity, with tresses spanning thousands of li, it would be no difficulty at all."
The old woman's eyes shifted slightly.
Old Yao did not press her. He smiled and said: "Lying in the mud is rather comfortable, isn't it? Why let anyone pull you out, right?"
The old woman had initially been too fearful to agree at once. Now, hearing the immortal's barbed sarcasm, she sensed the danger and immediately begged mercy. The deep pool churned violently.
The old man remained unmoved, his tone flat: "Whether you remain a mud loach wagging its tail for pity, or become a river dragon presiding over the water's fortune—this is the moment. And remember what I told you before: there is no turning back on this road. You must walk it into darkness. There is no such thing as a one-time gain that lasts forever. To put it harshly—the townsfolk may all receive good fortune, but it will never come to your lot."
The more casually the powerful immortal spoke, the more the old woman's heart pounded. At last she gritted her teeth and dove beneath the surface with a swift, violent plunge.
Moments later, her figure vanished—but in the stream between Qingniu Bei and the stone arch bridge, a dark green shadow wobbled through the water, winding its way downstream.
As it neared the stone bridge, the shadow slowed, creeping along like a turtle.
Roughly ten zhang from the bridge's deep pool, the old woman's shadow suddenly surged forward—a desperate gamble for glory at the edge of death.
She shot beneath the bridge.
Unimpeded.
The old woman swam several dozen zhang beyond before spinning in a circle underwater, unable to contain her elation at surviving. She twirled again and again, a mass of dark hair wrapping her withered, bloodless frame.
She stopped and hung suspended in the stream, looking up at the stone arch bridge. At last she saw clearly the old sword lodged there.
Still covered in rust, exactly as she had seen it in her childhood, her youth, and her years as a young wife. Not the slightest change.
But the very next instant—merely for having looked that one extra moment at the old blade—the old woman's eyes burst.
A wail of agony.
The stream churned and frothed.
A long while passed before this stretch of the brook returned to its calm. The old woman grew a new pair of eyes, but her aura had grown feeble. The immortal's voice drifted to her ear: "That one did not deign to trouble itself with you—consider it a blessing from your ancestors. Do not push your luck. In the future, when you pass under the stone bridge, never look up again."
She stammered: "I won't. Never again."
Old Yao's voice came faintly: "Just keep heading downstream. See how far you can swim. When you pass the smithy, do not be too arrogant either. But do not worry too much—your presence will make this stream especially 'yin-heavy.' If that breeds a water spirit, it will benefit the tempering of swords. So Master Ruan will not trouble you. If you perform diligently, he may even bestow a crumb of fortune upon you. Though the Lizhu small chiliocosm has shattered and its spiritual energy disperses rapidly, it can still sustain itself for thirty or forty years. Master Ruan's position as saint is secure—for him, this is rather a good thing."
The old woman exhaled in relief and said fawningly: "This humble servant obeys the great immortal's command."
On the cliff at Qingniu Bei, a voice spoke with undisguised admiration: "Truly extraordinary power, Senior. To consecrate a river crone on your own—and without disturbing the heavenly dao, no less."
Old Yao maintained his original posture, not turning his head. He scoffed: "A river crone, and a river god—one character's difference, but the distance between cloud and mud. A scholar like you—surely you understand?"
The newcomer was Cui Minghuang, the most promising student of Guan Lake Academy. He would likely be the last outsider to leave this place.
The handsome, jade-like young scholar smiled and said: "It is already extraordinary enough. To force a side path onto a dead end—such a feat commands this junior's deepest admiration."
Old Yao asked, his tone mild: "Boy, do you know my identity?"
Cui Minghuang shook his head and smiled: "The mountain master did not tell me beforehand, but I have managed to guess a thing or two."
Old Yao said impatiently: "Go on, go on—you're not yet qualified to converse with me. Your mountain master would be more appropriate."
Rather than leaving, Cui Minghuang sat down cross-legged on the cliff. Before settling, he carefully tucked the jade pendant at his waist to one side, preventing it from striking the stone. He gazed up at the unobstructed blue sky and said softly: "Possessing power vast enough to pierce the heavens, yet for the sake of protecting this Lizhu small chiliocosm—not allowing a trace of the heavenly dao to penetrate—he refused to employ even the smallest fraction of it. In the end, he could only sustain himself with two life-bound characters, holding on until the very last. Old Yao—tell me, what was our Mr. Qi after?"
The old man smoked in silence, his expression dark.
Cui Minghuang murmured: "If he sought to 'establish the fate of the people,' then it was far too costly a price. He was Qi Jingchun—the mountain master of Cliff Academy, the prized disciple of the Fourth Confucian Saint. One life traded for the next lives and incarnations of five or six thousand common folk. Was it worth it? I say it was not. In his place, I could never have done it."
Old Yao exhaled a plume of smoke. "Such words you can only say to me. If anyone else heard them, you can forget about ever becoming an academy head. Since you've at least spoken a few honest sentences, let us chat."
The scholar smiled: "This junior would welcome nothing more."
The old man gazed at the water. "But before we begin, I have a question for you."
Cui Minghuang nodded: "Please ask."
The old man spoke slowly: "Step by step, you helped corner Qi Jingchun into a position where death was the only way out. Was that your doing?"
Cui Minghuang was briefly stunned, then gave a bitter smile. At last he said with self-deprecation: "Does the senior perhaps overestimate me?"
Old Yao did not turn his head. Wisps of smoke curled before the old man. "I have few abilities, but reading hearts—I manage well enough. And for that very reason, you should never have come here."
Cui Minghuang explained with a smile: "Even counting from the moment the Fourth Confucian Saint's standing in the Temple of Literature first declined—which is when it all began—eighty years have passed. I am only thirty now. How could that possibly make sense?"
The old man turned his head, smiling thinly: "So you're saying you merely happened to come here to retrieve the nation-sealing jade scepter, and just happened to stumble upon this tragedy? Like yellow mud falling into one's trousers—whether it is excrement or not, the stain is there?"
Cui Minghuang's composure held. He smiled: "The world is full of caprice. Without coincidence, there would be no story."
Old Yao chuckled—a smile that did not reach his eyes.
Cui Minghuang, unwilling to waste further time, spoke plainly: "This junior has set his heart on Piyun Mountain. I hope to establish a new academy there. As a guest, I follow local custom—both in reason and in sentiment, I ought to inform Senior Yao. What conditions might the senior have?"
Old Yao wrinkled his face and said nothing.
Cui Minghuang, seeming not to dare press the old man, rose slowly and said quietly: "Rest assured, Senior—as long as you do not give your consent, this junior's academy will not break ground. If the day comes when you find the matter acceptable, you need only send word through the Kiln Management Office to Cui Minghuang of Guan Lake Academy."
Old Yao gave a noncommittal grunt, neither refusing nor welcoming.
Cui Minghuang bowed and took his leave.
Compared to minor pieces like the river crone, whose chances of achieving true divine status, or the fact that Guan Lake Academy sought an enclave on the Great Li dynasty's map by selecting Piyun Mountain—the old man cared little for any of it. It was all insignificant.
The only thing that truly occupied his thoughts was what Qi Jingchun had said to Ruan Qiong the night he came to the gallery bridge—and then what he had said and done during that solitary night on the bridge, before rising at dawn to return to the town.
The old man stood, gripping his pipe, and cursed under his breath: "Not a single one of them is easy to manage."
---
Inside the schoolhouse, four young students looked at one another in bewilderment.
They had not found Mr. Qi. Instead, the old janitor—whom they had always seen sweeping the floors year-round—had donned a Confucian robe similar to Mr. Qi's, a jade pendant hanging at his waist. His frost-white hair was combed neatly beneath a tall cap. The old man sat in the seat that had been Mr. Qi's and informed the four children that Mr. Qi had resigned as their teacher and as academy head. Henceforth, he would lead them on the journey abroad.
The trip had been arranged long ago by Mr. Qi, and their families had all agreed.
Gone was the old janitor's usual mild expression. His bearing was now one of authority. He asked: "Where is Li Baoping? Why hasn't she come to school?"
The cunning Li Huai, who had always clashed with the girl in the red jacket, immediately reported: "On her way here, Li Baoping heard the old scholar tree had fallen, and she insisted on going to see. I tried to stop her, but she has such a temper—nothing I said worked. She even tried to hit me."
The other three students exchanged private glances. Li Huai's talent for lying with a straight face—just like his mother—was unmatched by anyone.
The old man turned to a girl with twin pigtails. "Go fetch Li Baoping. We leave the town today."
The girl said "Oh" and rose reluctantly, trotting out of the schoolhouse.
Li Huai, young as he was, had a sharp tongue and could not resist piling on. He spoke with exaggerated gravitas: "Old Ma, a student as unruly as Li Baoping must be kept in line. Otherwise she'll never amount to anything. Now that Mr. Qi is gone, you really need to take up the mantle..."
The old man glared at him with a stern expression. Li Huai froze like a cicada in winter and obediently fell silent—though in his heart he cursed this old Ma as worthless, a monkey claiming king of the mountain while the tiger was away.
He had once resented Mr. Qi's rules. Now he found himself missing Mr. Qi's kindness.
Next door to the classroom, in the room that had belonged to Qi Jingchun, Cui Minghuang of Guan Lake Academy sat behind the desk. He looked around, this scholar who had settled into another's nest with a serene smile, and murmured with a touch of disappointment: "There are hardly any books at all."
---
When Chen Ping'an arrived at the smithy and heard the news, he was dazed.
Ning Yao had left the town before dawn. Ruan Xiu said a flying sword had delivered a message from the Hanging Mountain, and upon hearing it, Miss Ning had rushed out of the forge without delay.
Only then did Chen Ping'an realize that Ning Yao's visit to Mud Vase Lane had been her farewell.
He stood under the eaves of the house where Ning Yao had been staying, basket on his back, his lips pressed tightly together.
Ruan Xiu said gently: "Miss Ning asked me to tell you—she has borrowed the sword scabbard for the time being. She will return it to you later."
Chen Ping'an shook his head. "It doesn't matter."
Ruan Xiu seemed about to say something more but stopped. Chen Ping'an then realized that speaking these words to Miss Ruan served little purpose. He scratched his head. "I should head back to Mud Vase Lane."
Ruan Xiu nodded.
Chen Ping'an turned to go.
Ruan Xiu suddenly remembered something and called after him: "Chen Ping'an—my father says you should stay and work at the forge for the time being. He may need your help with the smithing in the future."
Chen Ping'an turned back and smiled: "Thank you."
The girl in green smiled radiantly.
Chen Ping'an walked alone along the stream. Upon reaching the stone arch bridge, he stopped. He set down his basket and sat on the edge, his legs dangling over the water. The basket containing the heavy Dragon-Slaying Platform sat beside him.
A pair of straw sandals swayed gently in the air.
He did not feel much sorrow over Ning Yao's departure. He had always known she would leave.
But there were words he had never found the time to say.
He did not know how long he sat there when a tremendous splash beneath the bridge jolted him awake. He spun around—the basket was gone.
Without a moment's hesitation, Chen Ping'an braced both hands against the stone and let himself fall into the water.
Once submerged, he quickly inverted his body, headfirst, and dove toward the bottom.
When he strained his eyes and glimpsed a faint glimmer of light, consciousness left him.
In the next instant, he found himself standing on the surface of water that mirrored glass. He stamped lightly, and ripples spread outward—yet the mirror did not shatter.
Chen Ping'an raised an arm to shield his eyes.
A blinding radiance blazed directly ahead, illuminating heaven and earth.
When the light dimmed, he lowered his arm. In the distance, a figure sat suspended in midair—one leg drawn up, the other dangling, as if perched on the edge of a cliff. The posture was one of utter languor.
The entire figure was bathed in pure white radiance, filaments of light drifting and swaying.
No matter how hard Chen Ping'an stared, he could not make out the figure's face.
It bore a resemblance to the person who had stood at the center of the gallery bridge in his earlier dream—the one in Mud Vase Lane.
But he could not be certain it was the same being.
The figure yawned, then spoke slowly: "That scholar named Qi Jingchun—he said he was disappointed in this world. What about you?"
The moment the figure opened its mouth, Chen Ping'an's breathing became labored. He clenched his jaw.
Soon he heard his own heartbeat again—like someone pounding a war drum with thunderous force. His face flushed crimson, and he pressed both hands against his chest.
A divine drum sounds the herald of spring, declaring to the world that spring is near.
When the drum falls silent, spring does not come.
The figure waved a hand casually, its great sleeve rippling like a galaxy.
On the stone arch bridge, the young man who had been nodding off woke with a start. He turned—the basket sat obediently at his side.
He clutched his head: "Again?!"
He slapped himself hard. It hurt.
Scrambling to his feet, he grabbed the basket and ran.
Chen Ping'an sprinted all the way back to Mud Vase Lane, opened his courtyard gate, and found a tangle of scholar-tree branches strewn haphazardly near the entrance.
That girl could really run—and really carry.
He set down the basket and sat on the threshold, wiping away sweat.
A flash of red came hurrying down the lane.
The little girl was drenched in sweat. Seeing Chen Ping'an, she flashed a grin.
She leaned on her branch like a staff, panting hard, and pulled a handful of vivid green scholar-tree leaves from the embroidered pouch at her waist.
Chen Ping'an accepted them and looked down. Compared to the leaves Mr. Qi had once helped him obtain, these were green as well, but their veins had already yellowed. Even after prolonged study, no trace of green luminescence could be seen within.
He looked at the girl in red, who was glancing about with wide eyes, and extended his hand with a smile.
The girl looked bewildered.
He did not withdraw his hand.
After a stubborn pause, she fished the last leaf from her embroidered pouch and slapped it firmly into his palm.
Chen Ping'an kept his hand outstretched.
She puffed out her cheeks in exasperation, turned around, and somehow produced yet another leaf. With a mournful expression, she placed it in his hand.
He held back a smile, gathered all eight leaves, then drew out three and held them out to the girl in the red jacket. "These are for you."
She did not take them. Her dark, grape-like eyes, brimming with moisture, were full of confusion.
Chen Ping'an rubbed the top of her head and explained gently: "Hiding them yourself beforehand, and me giving them to you afterward—those are two different things. Remember: if you promise something to someone, you must follow through."
He looked at that innocent, guileless face and added with a smile: "And if you try your hardest but still can't manage—remember to let the other person know."
Though the little girl felt he made a fair point, she was not about to lose face. She scrunched up her face with all the dramatic displeasure she could muster and huffed: "You sound just like Mr. Qi from the schoolhouse! I'm going to stop liking you!"
Chen Ping'an did not know whether to laugh or cry. He said: "I'll carry the branches to your house for you. I'm strong—one trip will do."
The exhausted girl in the red jacket instantly brightened, her eyes curving into crescent moons. "Then I can like you a little longer!"