Volume One: Turmoil in Yan and Yun Chapter Seventy: Undercurrents (II)

If Feng Qi knew that Dou Xiaotong and Li Jingxing would quarrel over him, he would probably feel tremendously honored.

But he had no idea.

So when he saw the old man dressed in a scarlet robe patterned with snakes, sitting in the middle of the road playing the zither, he couldn’t help but curse inwardly.

“Senior brother, can you defeat that old man?” he whispered to Mou Linhan.

Mou Linhan shot him a glance and replied frankly, “No.”

He then glanced at Dugu Zhe, hesitated for a moment, but still shook his head.

Feng Qi wondered in disbelief—was that old man’s cultivation truly so profound? Even Mou Linhan, half a step into the Illuminated Realm and wielding the Dragon Emperor Sword, was no match? Or rather, perhaps the information Mou Linhan shared was itself the result of being instantly defeated.

He quietly took out his Sword Order.

Suddenly, a note from the zither rang out.

The sound was long and lingering.

No matter how he tried, Feng Qi couldn’t exert any strength on the Sword Order in his hand. Or rather, he was using all his might, but not a trace of power could transfer to it.

The Sword Order remained unscathed, and thus no peerless master from Snowcloud Sect would cross thousands of miles to their aid.

“Power of one’s own is always best,” the old man spoke, his voice hoarse and chilling, marked by the weight of ages. “Whether it’s magic treasures or other trickery, they are but embellishments, never true salvation in times of crisis.”

Feng Qi managed a bitter smile.

Mou Linhan stepped forward, his sword singing loudly—only to be instantly suppressed. The force struck him first; he almost fell to his knees.

Feng Qi tried to speak, but no sound emerged.

The world was left with only the music of the zither.

Dugu Zhe collapsed, unable to rise.

Feng Qi’s face turned deathly pale, his back soaked in cold sweat.

Mou Linhan’s brow furrowed, veins bulging on his forehead, his face mottled with an unhealthy flush.

The sword’s song flared once more.

The old man squinted, his fingers, which had just plucked the zither, hadn’t even withdrawn.

The sword’s song was snuffed out again.

Mou Linhan spat out a mouthful of blood and fell to the ground.

Suddenly, the plaintive sound of a flute arose.

Almost at the same time, a cheerful melody from a qin joined in.

Feng Qi felt the pressure on his body lighten, and even the subtle internal injuries from the zither’s music seemed to have improved—he was surprised.

The old man opened his eyes, his fingers settling back on the ancient zither before him.

The zither roared in defiance.

The qin’s melody grew more joyful.

The flute’s song grew ever more plaintive.

After a long while, the old man, hair disheveled and blood seeping from his body, remained as calm as ever.

A middle-aged scholar, flute in hand, walked past Feng Qi.

A young student, cradling a qin, alighted before the old man.

Only now did Feng Qi get a clear look at the middle-aged scholar’s face—and he was surprised.

It was none other than the Scribe of the Carefree Pavilion from Jizhou, who had once enlightened him!

No, it couldn’t be—the Scribe couldn’t be this powerful. Though the Carefree Pavilion was famed for its scholarly debates, any grandmaster of the Void Dao, even one who couldn’t wield a brush in battle, could easily become a strategist of a whole province—how could he be reduced to lingering in a single land?

In just a few breaths, Feng Qi thought of several possibilities, but didn’t have time to ask, for the old man in the scarlet robe finally spoke.

“Zhou Xichen, you old man with one foot in the grave, do you not find it ridiculous to pose like a child?” the old man sighed.

The young student smiled. “A man remains young at heart till death—haven’t you heard that saying?”

“Shui Dongliu, you’re here as well.” The old man looked toward the distant middle-aged scholar standing with hands behind his back, and sneered, “It seems the Carefree Pavilion has resolved to be the royal family’s lapdog.”

Before Shui Dongliu could reply, the old man continued, “Wrong. You’re not even as good as dogs. At least dogs know to wag their tails to beg for a few bones. No matter how you wag, do you think the royal family will ever grant you anything?”

Shui Dongliu smiled and shook his head. “Swearing when you can’t win—that’s what children do.”

The old man was silent for a while, then sighed again.

As his sigh faded, blood-red light swelled within him, quickly blotting out the sky. From Feng Qi’s vantage, the old man seemed to become a blazing sun.

A sun of blood.

Within the sun, a sword flashed, cleaving through the blood-red light, straight toward Feng Qi and the others.

Zhou Xichen set down his qin and picked up a brush, frowning as he swept out a stroke.

Shui Dongliu put away his flute and took out a chess set, placing a stone with casual ease.

In front of the sword’s radiance, countless drops of ink appeared, swiftly forming four little figures, who each stood in its path.

The first little man wielded a spear; as he raised it, a dragon’s phantom coiled around the tip as it crashed into the sword’s light.

The sword’s radiance tore through him, dimming slightly.

The second little man held a sword, snowflakes swirling around its blade, which congealed into frost and fell onto the sword’s light.

The sword’s glow quickly cut through the frost, darkening further.

The third little man carried a massive sword case on his back; with a snap of his fingers, another figure the same size appeared behind him. Together they ensnared the sword’s light.

It took some time for the radiance to break free, now barely a quarter as bright as before.

Only then did it meet the last little figure.

This one carried a qin, held a sword, and had a bird perched on his shoulder, looking rather forlorn.

He swept forth a stroke of inky sword-light toward the incoming radiance.

The two beams collided and vanished like snow melting in spring.

The blood-red light faded. At some point, the old man’s robe had burst apart, revealing a muscular torso without a single wound.

Shui Dongliu and Zhou Xichen’s faces darkened. They exchanged glances, both seeing the gravity and disbelief in each other’s eyes.

They resolved to try again.

Another chess piece fell, weaving a killing formation with rivers and mountains as the board, trapping the old man inside.

The brush swept once more, painting an ancient, majestic cauldron on the paper of heaven and earth, pressing down slowly on the old man.

He ignored the cauldron and the chess formation, merely gathering his strength and unleashing another sword strike.

The sword’s radiance soared skyward, first shattering the chess, then sundering the brush’s work—in but an instant.

Shui Dongliu and Zhou Xichen coughed up blood simultaneously. Zhou Xichen, being closer, was more heavily injured, looking as if death was at hand.

The old man said softly, “Though I have never crossed that final threshold, you two are even further from it. Naturally, you are not my match.”

Shui Dongliu touched down, supporting the gravely wounded Zhou Xichen. Blood soaked their robes and pooled on the ground—a wretched sight. “It seems before long, the Weeping Blood Pavilion will become another dual-Unity sect at the pinnacle,” he remarked.

The old man scoffed. “Once, even the Six-Unity Tianshan Sect fell. What of a mere dual-Unity sect?”

Shui Dongliu coughed twice, his smile bitter. “Red Qilin Pavilion was simply too strong back then—it doesn’t mean Tianshan was weak.”

The old man replied, “Yet Red Qilin Pavilion has fallen too.”

Shui Dongliu said, “When the human race still lived in tribes, before the founding of the kingdom, there was a mountain spanning north and south called Sky’s End. It was so high that even the fittest could not traverse it in a lifetime. But look now—does any such mountain remain?”

A flicker of emotion crossed the old man’s eyes.

Shui Dongliu continued, “All things must wither in time. Perhaps that’s why the old emperor removed the word ‘eternal’ from our rituals.”

The old man said, “I find that statement questionable.”

Shui Dongliu looked at him. “What do you find questionable?”

The old man pointed to the sky. “The blazing sun has shone for countless ages—has it ever perished?”

Shui Dongliu replied, “The fundamental things of heaven and earth are naturally a different matter.”

But the old man found even this answer suspect.

At that moment, Feng Qi suddenly interjected, “My second brother once told me that the sun is just a giant fireball, constantly evaporating and shrinking. Perhaps in millions of years, it will disappear altogether.”

The old man was taken aback.

Shui Dongliu scolded, “Nonsense!”

Yet the old man found the idea intriguing. “Did your brother have any basis for saying that?”

Feng Qi replied, “He cited the Sage of Wisdom as an example.”

The Sage of Wisdom—Li Jingxing.

But what did Li Jingxing have to do with the sun? How could the two be related?

Both the old man and Shui Dongliu were elders from the founding of the Dugu Dynasty; naturally, they understood the implication. The more cultivators reached the Unity Realm, the fewer resources remained for others to rise; when Unity Realm experts ascended, they carried away vital energy, leaving the continent with less to replenish itself. Over time, the world would become a wasteland—this was the principle of constant energy.

Though many condemned Li Jingxing’s methods, no one above the Void Dao doubted the truth of the theory, for they were most sensitive to changes in the world.

If vital energy was constant, why couldn’t other things be constant as well?

“My second brother says energy cannot be created or destroyed out of nothing; heat is one example,” Feng Qi said. “And most heat comes from the sun.”

Shui Dongliu frowned in thought for a while, then his brow smoothed.

The old man’s brows furrowed for even longer; at last he sighed, “So the requirements for ascension keep rising because of this?”

Shui Dongliu answered, “If heaven has a will, surely it knows how to protect itself.”

The old man asked, “Then here is the real question—does heaven truly have a will?”

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