Chapter 27: The Elder in the Ancestral Temple Pavilion Displays His Art; Lady Hua Is Startled by the Youth Beside Her Bed

The bright moon cast its cold shadow, gliding beneath the low eaves and turning once more at the corridor. The evening wind parted the dusk clouds, pouring moonlight that spilled from the window, cloaking the figure of Luo Qingchen who stood silently before it.

The coachman, a burly man, cupped his fists respectfully as he replied, “The young man’s life is as usual. Today he moved out of the inn and settled in a residence on Taimao Lane. Every day, as always, he goes to the Lin residence to paint and work.”

Something occurred to him, and he continued, “Oh, and the young man also drew three wanted posters for the Black Bureau, assisting in the apprehension of criminals.”

Leaning against the windowsill, Luo Qingchen heard the coachman’s words and couldn’t help but shake his head. “That boy remains utterly unaffected, living so comfortably… Because of him, my Dao heart is clouded, yet he enjoys such ease? How is that fair?”

“Such injustice,” he murmured, a fire seeming to burn within his chest. The dust upon his Dao heart made him yearn for a way to vent his emotions. Luo Qingchen walked to the window with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing at the sky where dusk clouds veiled the night. He spoke slowly, “Old Luo, did you just say that he paints for the Black Bureau to help catch criminals?”

The coachman bowed deeply. “Yes, and his paintings are so lifelike that fugitives find it hard to hide. They are doomed.”

“With Hua Jiebing protecting him, if I truly move against the youth again, she would surely kill me.” Luo Qingchen’s eyes narrowed. “It seems Hua Jiebing intends to be the boy’s guardian along his path…”

“The Jade Guanyin herself, lowering her status to protect a youth who only embarked on cultivation and broke through to meditation at eighteen…”

“She must truly admire him.”

Luo Qingchen raised his hand, as if to pinch the moonlight scattered across the sill, but his eyes betrayed little emotion.

“The criminals pursued by the Black Bureau are all notorious figures from the Jianghu, ruthless and fierce. If this boy paints for the Bureau, and the criminals seek to kill him in turn, isn’t that only natural?”

Inside the room, the coachman hesitated for a moment.

“Go,” Luo Qingchen waved his hand. “Go and make the arrangements. Since Hua Jiebing cherishes this youth, perhaps the key to cleansing the dust from my Dao heart lies with him.”

The coachman bowed low. “Understood.”

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As An Le was immersed in consolidating the realm he had just broken through, the old man took the painting and left the small courtyard, his face alight with pleasure.

He did not return to the Great Temple, with its eight-cornered, multi-eaved pavilions blazing with lamplight and the drifting scent of incense. Instead, he passed straight by its gates and stepped onto Qingbo Street.

“Though young An’s painting does not contain much spiritual power, its true worth lies in its unique style—using ink to depict bamboo, forming a school of its own. The inscription, too, is singular—strange yet upright, not wild scribbling.”

“A bamboo painting such as this should be presented to the old fellow at the Literary Institute for appraisal.”

Standing on Qingbo Street, the old man couldn’t help but smile, then strode off toward the Literary Institute, moving faster and faster, the blue stone pavement seeming to bend beneath his feet.

Before long, he arrived at the Literary Institute.

The Literary Institute, also known as the Academy, was established eight thousand years ago. After the emperor who unified the world and structured cultivation founded both the Literary Institute and the Martial Temple, he met an untimely end.

Successive dynasties had maintained both institutions, and countless scions of noble houses and rising stars of great clans would choose to enter either the Literary Institute or the Martial Temple, cultivating their talents accordingly.

Now, most high officials and nobles of the court hailed from these two schools.

The old man passed through the white jade archway of the Institute, making his way to a secluded pavilion with practiced ease, only to be told by the attendant boy at the door that no one was inside.

“Elder, the master left three days ago to visit the Lord of the Sixth Mountain,” the boy explained respectfully.

At these words, the old man stroked his long brows. “I should have gone straight to the Sixth Mountain—this trip was for nothing.”

Muttering to himself, he conjured clouds beneath his feet, a rosy glow swirling around him in the night. In the next instant, he soared into the sky and vanished above Lin’an Prefecture.

The dusk clouds withdrew, leaving a clear coldness; the Milky Way silently revolved as the moon jade disc glided across the heavens.

The Sixth Mountain.

It was ranked sixth among the sacred mountains, and thus was so named.

On the mountainside was a plateau, and upon the plateau a quiet pavilion that seemed to have existed since time immemorial, untouched by time or the seasons.

The old man alighted lightly upon the plateau, his plain robes fluttering in the wind.

Within the pavilion, two figures played a game of Go. One was an elderly scholar, hair as white as a crane, time having carved deep lines upon his face. He held the white stones, brow deeply furrowed.

The other, garbed in white, appeared to be a young man, prim and proper, his face solemn. Upon his back was a massive pinewood sword case. He sat with perfect posture upon a stone chair carved with openwork patterns, striking an odd figure.

“Hahaha! Old rascal, so you are here!”

No sooner had the old man’s feet touched the ground than he burst out laughing, seeking attention.

Yet neither of the two in the pavilion even glanced his way.

“You two, don’t pretend you haven’t seen me! I haven’t come to quarrel with you this time—I have something good to share!”

The old man, vexed at being ignored, began to stamp his feet.

“Zhao Huangting, stop making a fuss. I’m about to defeat the Lord of the Sixth Mountain in this game, and now you’ll make me lose again,” the scholar snapped, not lifting his head, his tone full of annoyance.

“Bah! Old Zhu, you rotten player, don’t blame your loss on me!”

Zhao Huangting retorted, and with his arrival the tranquil mountain pavilion beneath stars and moon was filled with clamor.

The middle-aged man with the pinewood sword case remained as serene as ever, as if nothing could disturb the surface of his heart.

After a moment’s thought, Zhao Huangting strode into the pavilion and unrolled the scroll he carried.

“You all know my bamboo painting is famed as the finest. But today, I chanced upon an ink painting of bamboo and stone—come, take a look.”

With a tilt of his chin, he spread the scroll wide.

A gentle breeze stirred, and it seemed as if the rustle of a bamboo sea could be heard, accompanied by a ringing sword intent and the resilient spirit of a nobleman.

The elderly scholar, a white stone poised between his fingers, froze mid-move.

Suddenly, from the sword case on the back of the man in white, sword energy began to ripple outward, the case trembling as if a sword were singing softly within.

Both men’s eyes flashed with surprise as they turned to the side, gazing at the scroll, now unfurled and bathed in the starlight and moon’s glow.

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The next day.

Spring sunlight bathed the earth in warmth.

An Le slowly opened his eyes in the courtyard. The old locust tree was lush with leaves, swaying gently in the spring breeze, filling the air with the freshness of morning.

After a night spent fortifying his spirit, he had successfully stabilized the second realm of Spirit Refinement—Embryonic Breath.

The once-turbulent force within his mind now flowed as smoothly as a gentle stream.

Rising to his feet, he practiced the Five Animals Forms in the courtyard—tiger, bear, deer, ape, and bird—each style performed in turn, his blood surging and strength carried on the wind.

He refrained from drawing upon the demonic energy stored in the Jade of Tempering Demons to refine his body, since he would soon be heading to the Lin residence to paint. If he underwent physical tempering, he would end up covered in blood again, which would be a troublesome mess.

After completing the Five Animals, An Le’s body radiated heat like a furnace.

Breathing out a cloud of turbid air, his spirit at the Embryonic Breath stage left him with an even more refined and otherworldly presence.

With a book of the sages in his hand, he read as he left the courtyard, stopping by the entrance to Taimao Lane for a bowl of soft tofu for breakfast before continuing on, book in hand, toward the banks of West Lake.

In the morning light, the ripples of West Lake sparkled, the wakes of flower boats shimmering brilliantly. As An Le strolled along the embankment, reading, he found a rare sense of ease and insight.

On the banks, many scholars had already gathered. Some recited poetry and essays, while others chatted about flowers and willows, gossiping about the latest happenings in Lin’an.

With his strengthened spirit, An Le accidentally caught wind of conversations about himself—specifically, about the Lin residence hiring a painter.

He smiled and withdrew his attention.

Willows by the fireworks, quietly reading the classics.

After a moment, Fairy Yunrou arrived, riding her sword as promised. An Le, book in hand, glanced over and, drawing upon his deepened spirit, extracted three strands of the “Qi of Years” from her in succession.

From twice per day, he now advanced to three times per day!

A smile curved An Le’s lips, his mood soaring.

Fairy Yunrou landed on a flower boat, sensing something, and spotted the refined and handsome young cultivator once more.

He had not appeared yesterday, but here he was again today. Though clearly a cultivator, he only watched from a distance, which was rather curious.

Fairy Yunrou nodded to An Le, then turned and boarded the flower boat, from which ethereal, melancholy music soon flowed, drifting over West Lake like a summons to rain.

With his daily harvest from Fairy Yunrou complete, An Le set off for the Lin residence.

Having drawn three strands of the Qi of Years from Fairy Yunrou today, adding to the eleven he already possessed, he now had fourteen in total—a considerable reserve. As he walked toward the Lin residence, he considered how best to allocate them.

As before, the charming young maid opened the door. Seeing An Le, her cheeks flushed pink.

An Le offered a gentle smile. “Good morning, Miss Liuxiang.”

“Good… good morning, Young Master An,” the maid replied, returning the greeting.

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At Tianbo Waterside Pavilion, the great pool rippled as flower carp swayed languidly through the emerald water, sending waves across the surface.

In the main hall, the morning breeze carried a coolness that marked the coming of spring.

Madam Hua, dressed in a light robe and barefoot, reclined on a couch, reading “On Ritual Speech” by a great scholar of the Literary Institute.

Suddenly, she froze, brows knitting as her spirit extended outward. She sensed the presence of the blue-robed youth who had just entered the Lin residence, his aura vigorous and wholly renewed.

Hmm?

Madam Hua’s expression shifted, and disbelief flickered in her beautiful eyes.

“Only two days ago he attained meditation, and now he has reached Embryonic Breath?”

“Could this youth be a prodigy in Spirit Refinement?”