Chapter Seven: The Sage of the Gentle Breeze

He had no idea how long he’d been walking. Just as Wu Ming was about to succumb completely to despair, he suddenly noticed a powerful light ahead—an entire horizon ablaze, reminiscent of the sun rising over the edge of the world. Without hesitation, Wu Ming broke into a run. Having dwelled so long in this silent, unchanging place, any hint of difference, whether it was truly an exit or not, was welcome.

As he drew closer, the radiance widened in his vision, and he thought he felt a faint breeze against his face. Surely, this had to be an exit. A surge of excitement and relief welled up within him, and he quickened his steps.

Nearer now—much nearer—he was battered by gusts of wind and waves of heat. The place opened before him as a colossal aperture in a cliff face, breathtaking in its immensity. Below, magma churned in waves like a fiery sea, while above stretched a boundless, gray, desolate sky. In the midst of the molten rock stood twelve massive golden figures, their faces set in all directions, forming a circle. They were titanic, eternal as mountains, their sheer size defying imagination. The magma reached only to their ankles, as if an invisible force field emanated from the golden giants, keeping the molten rock at bay.

Within the force field behind these giants rose the roots of a gigantic tree, so vast that Wu Ming could see only its enormous tangle of roots from where he stood. It reminded him of the World Tree from games—a presence of unimaginable scale.

Wu Ming was still lost in awe when an aged voice sounded behind him, “What do you think, young friend? Are you not overwhelmed by this ‘Jianmu’? When I first glimpsed it, I too was struck dumb, my worldview utterly overturned!”

“This isn’t the World Tree, but the ‘Jianmu’ recorded in the Classic of Mountains and Seas—the sacred tree that reaches from the heavens to the underworld?” Wu Ming turned to look at the old man. He saw an elder clad in a Daoist robe, his hair snowy white, yet his complexion was rosy and clear, without a wrinkle or blemish—his skin was lustrous, translucent with a healthy glow, as tender as water. His hair was gathered in a topknot, secured with a hairpin stained red with age, a figure straight out of a celestial drama.

He guessed this must be Director Baolong’s master, though he had no idea how the old man got here. That basement Wu Ming entered had been thick with dust, not a single footprint in sight. No matter—he bowed in greeting. “Master, greetings! Are you the teacher of Fang Baolong?”

Wu Ming rifled through his memory for what he knew about Jianmu:

Jianmu was a sacred tree venerated by the ancient people, said to be the bridge connecting humans, gods, heaven, and earth. Fuxi, the Yellow Emperor, and other legendary emperors all traveled between the mortal world and the celestial court via this divine ladder.

The Classic of Mountains and Seas recounts: “There is a tree, shaped like an ox, with skin like a rope, yellow as a snake. Its leaves are like gauze, its fruit like the soapberry, its wood like the catalpa. It is called Jianmu.” Guo Pu commented: “Jianmu, green leaves, purple stems, black flowers, yellow fruit; below it, no sound is heard, and it casts no shadow.”

Another ancient text describes: “Jianmu, a hundred fathoms tall without branches, has nine knots below, nine forks, fruit like hemp, leaves like awn. Emperor Tai passed by; the Yellow Emperor cultivated it.”

Yet all the records differed from what stood before him. Here, only the immense roots were visible, not just nine intertwining roots—by his rough count, there were at least a dozen branches. As for green leaves, purple stems, black flowers, and yellow fruit, or a trunk a hundred fathoms tall without limbs, or nine twisted boughs, he could not see any of these. The tree was simply too enormous; its trunk and branches were lost in the haze above.

“I am Daoist Qingfeng. Fang Baolong is indeed my outer-sect disciple. And before you stands the Jianmu—the divine tree planted by the Yellow Emperor, as recorded in the Classic of Mountains and Seas, which reaches from the heavens to the deepest hell!” The white-haired old Daoist approached with a kindly smile.

“How do you feel, young friend? Those twelve golden figures surrounding Jianmu—they are none other than the Twelve Golden Men forged by the First Emperor of Qin!” Daoist Qingfeng’s words fell like thunder.

“The Twelve Golden Men of Qin Shi Huang!” Wu Ming scrutinized the twelve golden colossi encircling Jianmu. Their attire was strange and exotic, much like the heavenly gods and generals of legend, exuding a palpable aura of solemn righteousness.

“People say Qin Shi Huang was a tyrant for burning books and burying scholars!” Daoist Qingfeng rose lightly into the air.

“Emperor Zhao Zheng of Qin, bearing the blood of the ancestral dragon, established the central government with three lords and nine ministers, overseeing the affairs of state. He abolished the feudal fiefs in favor of a county system, unified the script, the axle width of carts, and the systems of weights and measures. He drove the Xiongnu north and subdued the Baiyue in the south, built the Great Wall and the Lingqu Canal, linking the waterways. He was, without doubt, the greatest emperor of the ages. Yet, history records that in his later years, he sought immortality, imposed harsh laws and heavy taxes, suppressed free thought, shaking the foundations of Qin. In 210 BCE, he died on his eastern tour at Shachiu near Xingtai. The most notorious of his acts was the burning of books and burying of scholars; others included amassing wealth for the state, building the Great Wall regardless of the people’s suffering, and collecting all available metals to forge the Twelve Bronze Men. He was also obsessed with alchemy and the quest for immortality!”

Daoist Qingfeng hovered above the molten sea, gliding toward the bronze figures like an immortal of legend.

“Do you know what books Qin Shi Huang burned, what people were buried, and why he so urgently built the Great Wall and forged the Twelve Golden Men?”

Wu Ming was dumbfounded by the Daoist’s supernatural display—could humans truly soar through the air? Was this old man really an immortal?

“I don’t know,” Wu Ming replied honestly.

“Then do you know about the Nine Tripod Cauldrons of Yu the Great?” Daoist Qingfeng floated far off, landing atop one of the golden figures. He appeared tiny as an ant from this distance, yet his voice reached Wu Ming’s ears with crystal clarity.

“Transmitting voice directly into the mind,” Wu Ming thought to himself.

“I have heard of it—Yu the Great cast the Nine Cauldrons to stabilize the fate of the Nine Provinces! But no one knows where the cauldrons are. Though the legends are many, there is no proof, and many historians even doubt they ever existed!” Wu Ming searched his mind for everything he knew about the Nine Cauldrons.

“Come with me. Just jump from where you are—rest assured, there is a natural force here that will keep you safe.”

Wu Ming gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and leapt. Though fear gripped him, for reasons unknown, he felt a strange obedience inside, taking the plunge without a second thought.