Chapter Thirty-Three: The Mountain Lord Unleashes the Sword Qi to Part the Peaks, The Young Man Receives the Bamboo-Splitting Sword

Lady Hua thought of An Le, the young artist who had astonished the Lin household with his sketches, a boy who sought not wealth but spiritual cultivation, and to whom she had gifted the “Sword Waterfall Painting.” The “Sword Waterfall Painting” was truly a treasure—one of the most elite methods for refining the spirit. Had she not admired the youth’s tenacity, Lady Hua might never have bestowed it upon him. In her eyes, to begin the path of cultivation at eighteen was indeed late.

Though the boy had displayed remarkable talent—entering meditation in three quarters of an hour, establishing embryonic breath in two days—such innate ability in refining the spirit had truly caught her attention. Yet, for one who started so late to hope to shine in the Spring Examinations, to claim a top scholar’s rank and set foot in the illustrious Heavenly Profundity Palace—it was little more than wishful thinking.

To recover Dalang’s “Song of the Storm” would depend on Hua Jiebing herself.

“The Dowager Matriarch is old, her cultivation nearing its end, and she wishes not to stir trouble at this time. For the sake of the Lin household’s future, she yields at every turn.”

“But I, Hua Jiebing, have cultivated a sword of transcendent heart. If I harbor resentment and cannot vent it, my heart-sword will be tainted, and my hopes of breaking through will be lost. That is not my wish.”

“Therefore, if I cannot endure, I shall not endure at all.”

Lady Hua exhaled softly, collected herself, and smilingly continued to drink wine and savor delicacies with Lady Ye.

The Ye family was also of military nobility, but, unlike the Lin household, the pillar of their house—the Great General who had founded the Ye estate—was still alive. Though past his prime, his presence remained formidable; he was among the greatest generals of the age, leading armies beyond the Canglang River, holding off the Iron Cavalry of the Yuanmeng Empire, even securing victories that made him feared and hated by the enemy.

This indomitable General Ye, whose voice could swallow ten thousand miles, was famed for two words: “Cross the River!”

It was said that this general, who had risen from obscurity, once followed an old marshal. That old marshal, who had spent his life resisting the enemy, died with regret, crying out three times before his end: “Cross the river! Cross the river! Cross the river!”

To cross the river and reclaim the lost lands of the Central Plains from Yuanmeng—this was the inheritance of his will.

If the Lin patriarch had sacrificed himself to block the Yuanmeng army for the dynasty’s survival, then General Ye’s vow to cross the river in the northern campaign was the spark for the dynasty’s restoration.

Lady Hua held deep admiration for General Ye—a hero of his generation. Unfortunately, his ambition for a northern expedition had never received imperial approval. General Ye had submitted proposals for the campaign twenty-four times, all suppressed by the emperor who sat high in the Heavenly Profundity Palace.

The threat of the Yuanmeng Emperor, mightiest under heaven, hung over the court like a blade, poised above every minister’s head, even the emperor’s own.

The nobles dared not gamble, nor did the emperor. The natural barrier of the Canglang River could hold back the Yuanmeng army, but if it ever broke, the prosperity and wealth of the southern Zhao, built over centuries, might be trampled by the enemy’s iron cavalry.

Thus, General Ye’s life on the frontier was far from easy, burdened by immense pressure.

It was for this reason that Lady Hua was so moved by Lady Ye’s willingness to offer her help.

…

Distant mountains, cold hills, a winding stone path—amid the depths of white clouds, a solitary dwelling could be found.

The Sixth Mountain.

On the great plateau stood a leisure pavilion.

Night was silent, the evening wind howled, and stars filled the sky.

Within the pavilion, an elderly scholar in Confucian robes and a man bearing a pine-wood sword case played a game of Go. As the final stone was placed, the match concluded.

“The game is over. It is time to draft the mountain-opening decree and enter Lin’an.”

The man in white rose, the enormous pine-wood sword case on his back somewhat peculiar.

He stepped outside the pavilion, gazing over the ink-black mountains beneath the night, his eyes deep and unperturbed.

The aged scholar stood, holding in his hand the ink bamboo-and-stone painting by An Le. Looking at the man, he smiled, “Are you truly opening the mountain to choose this young painter of bamboo as your mountain warden? If I recall, this will be your second mountain warden, yes?”

“The opening of the Sacred Mountain by its master is a momentous event. It will stir a great commotion, drawing countless talents and heroes, all hoping to enter your gates. When that time comes, if you choose a quiet youth who paints bamboo in ink, will it not provoke criticism?”

The old scholar smiled.

The man folded his arms across his chest, his expression as serene and deep as the night. “Am I one to fear criticism?”

“I admire the boy’s paintings, and I praise the noble spirit within his art. I choose him as mountain warden—who would dare question me?”

“If not for the rules of the Sacred Mountain, I’d fetch him myself this instant, to see if his spine is truly as upright as the bamboo he paints.”

Hearing such domineering and proud words, the old scholar chuckled, “As expected of the Sixth Master of the Sacred Mountain. In that case, I will not attempt to dissuade you.”

The man glanced sideways at him, “Dissuade me? Wang Banshan, you just want to steal my prize. You also admire this young painter of bamboo and would fight me for him?”

“Your Academy of Letters has grown dull over the years. A true scholar should possess magnanimity and uprightness. But in your academy, how many still hold such virtues?”

“The Martial Temple is far more pleasing than your Academy of Letters.”

With these words, the man fell silent. The pine-wood sword case on his back crashed to the ground. He pressed his palm to it, opening it an inch.

Instantly, boundless sword energy erupted from the case’s crack.

The man clenched his hand, using his fingers as a brush, sword energy as ink, and wrote in midair. Once finished, the sword energy transformed into a glowing decree, shooting toward Lin’an Prefecture like a comet.

That night, Lin’an was restless, as sword energy fell from the heavens like stars breaking through the void.

For the Sixth Master of the Sacred Mountain had issued the mountain-opening decree:

Three days hence, at the foot of the Sixth Mountain, a mountain warden shall be chosen.

…

Ye Residence, in the waterside garden.

Lady Hua and Lady Ye entered the courtyard. Both were powerful spirit refiners; sensing something, they looked up to see sword energy streaking across the night sky.

“Is that…the mountain-opening decree of the Sixth Master?!”

The two ladies exchanged astonished looks; the sword energy hung in the sky like a silver waterfall.

The Sixth Mountain was to select a mountain warden? Why so sudden?

“Every master of the Sacred Mountain is a remarkable talent. The Sixth Master is the sixth disciple of the Grand Teacher, famed for his domineering sword energy. To date, the Sixth Mountain has only had one mountain warden—so this is to select a second?”

Lady Ye covered her mouth in disbelief, unable to contain her astonishment. What could have triggered such an unprecedented event?

“If memory serves, the master’s choice for mountain warden does not focus on cultivation or talent, but rather on a meeting of the eyes… In three days, the usually quiet Sixth Mountain will likely be thronged with visitors. I wonder who will be the fortunate one to catch the master’s eye.”

Lady Hua laughed softly, though doubts lingered in her heart. Still, she did not dwell on it.

Perhaps the mountain’s opening would give Zhui Feng, Qing Yin, and the young gentlemen of the household a chance to try their luck. To enter the Sacred Mountain, even as a mere mountain warden, was a rare and exalted honor.

And it was not only the Ye Residence—throughout Lin’an Prefecture that night, all were shaken by the mountain-opening decree.

The mansions of dukes, the Prime Minister’s estate, the Academy of Letters, the Martial Temple, even the deep streets near the resplendent Heavenly Profundity Palace—gazes everywhere turned to the sword energy decree blazing above the city.

All factions were stirred; some determined to seize the opportunity, some content to watch events unfold.

But all wondered—what had provoked the Sixth Master to open the mountain so suddenly?

…

The next morning.

A light rain fell from the sky.

The disturbances of the night had left An Le untouched—he knew nothing of the Sixth Master’s mountain-opening decree.

After a night spent contemplating the “Sword Waterfall Painting,” An Le felt his spirit had grown much stronger. Perhaps due to the “Innate Swordbearer” Dao fruit, his comprehension of sword arts had been specially enhanced.

His newly established embryonic breath had stabilized, and his progress was tangible.

The next stage after embryonic breath was “Transcendence”—a critical leap in the art of spirit refinement. According to the method’s teachings, the most vital feature of the Transcendence realm was the ability to project one’s spirit outside the body, to roam the world untethered.

Once transcendent, a spirit refiner could slay unseen, kill without trace.

Though An Le had consolidated his embryonic breath, the path to true transcendence was still distant—yet he could not help but yearn for it.

Breathing out like a sword, he expelled the lingering frustrations of the night, feeling refreshed and radiant.

He stepped out into the courtyard.

The first sounds of spring rain pattered softly—reminiscent of old southern dreams, full of unspeakable longing.

Spring rain had come quietly in the night.

The air was crisper, carrying a hint of cold. In the yard, Hu Jingang’s corpse remained, the bloody stench suppressed but not erased by the rain.

An Le glanced at the headless body, his face calm; a single night had been enough for him to adjust his state of mind.

Clad in white, he stepped into the spring rain, and beneath the old locust tree, began to practice the Five Beasts exercise.

His energy and blood, now at their peak, rolled like chariots, thundered like bells.

Tiger, bear, deer, ape, bird—each form flowed into the next. Enhanced by fifteen strands of “seasons’ energy,” his mastery grew, each movement more spirited.

“Well done. The Five Beasts method may not be the pinnacle of body-forging arts, but to master it is no easy feat. At such a young age to grasp its essence—your future is promising.”

After his practice, as his energy calmed, a gentle laugh came from outside the courtyard.

An elderly man in wide-sleeved plain robes entered, holding an oil-paper umbrella, straw sandals on his feet, and a worn bamboo sword at his waist.

“Senior,” An Le greeted him with surprise and delight.

The old man stroked his beard and nodded slightly.

“Little friend An, it’s been a day—how have you fared?”

An Le cupped his fists in salute. “Yesterday, I drank the old yellow wine. Since you did not come, I finished it all myself. When my work is done today, I’ll buy some more for you.”

The old man waved his hand. “No need. I took your painting, and promised a sword in return. So, I rose early this morning to keep my word.”

With that, the old man closed his umbrella, smiling as he unfastened the battered bamboo sword and handed it to An Le.

In the lonely spring rain, An Le gazed at the sword, its surface speckled with raindrops, and fell into silence.