1. Qingyang’s Prayer for Immortality

Throughout the vast river of history, countless cultivators have swarmed forth like carp crossing the river, each yearning to leap through the dragon gate. Yet, those who attain the Way are but a precious few. Seeking immortality and enlightenment is nothing more than drifting through the world with perception, steering one’s boat by the fortune of fate. Should either perception or fate fall short, one is destined to be swallowed in the bellies of dragons and serpents. The fresh drama unfolding in the Wasteland Province may be nothing more than a night-blooming epiphyllum, a momentary splendor at midnight—who can truly say?

Zhang Huai let out a weak sigh at his lips, “Goudan, bring me the gourd.”

He collapsed to the ground, covering his sweat-soaked face with his hand, shielding himself from the sun, unmoving. The soil among the winding fields exuded a mixed vapor, steaming upon the body, alternating between chill and warmth.

“Just look at yourself.” Qin Chuan wiped the sweat and mud from his face, reaching for the gourd at his waist. Hampered by the heavy stone hoe in his hand, he tossed it aside carelessly. Goudan was Qin Chuan’s childhood nickname, so called because he once claimed to have seen a mongrel by the village lay eggs. The name had long been buried in the dust of memory, yet unexpectedly resurfaced on his lips.

He glanced up at the blazing sun, coughed lightly to clear his parched throat, and tilted his head back to take a deep draught. The icy spring water sent a thrill through his chest. The gourd was nothing special—just an ordinary one from Mount Qingyang—yet it somehow kept the spring water cool as it was at dawn.

Sunlight fills the sky with yang, spring water saturates the earth with yin. When the two energies meet, it is like a branding iron plunged into a cold spring, a furnace overturned into the river.

“Ran, catch the gourd!”

Qin Chuan’s expression shifted, a smile danced at his lips, delight flooding his heart. Today’s sunlight was threefold brighter than ever before; such a scene could not be matched even by yesterday’s finest efforts. He hurriedly tossed the gourd to Zhu Ran beside him, then sat cross-legged on the spot, silently reciting his heart’s formula, entering meditation.

His entire body was ablaze, heat roiling inside like a fierce flood dragon. When the cold spring in his belly met it, ripples spread throughout his form, dissolving and tempering the heat for a long time—much like the village blacksmith quenching iron tools.

His pores opened and closed freely, feasting upon the spiritual energy. The Profound Breath Dust Formula gathered essence, energy, and spirit together; this wondrous method of visualization brought him, in that moment, to the mysterious and silent state that countless people yearn for.

No joy, no sorrow, no happiness, no worry; no heaven, no earth, no other, no self. The Profound Breath Dust Formula drove his spirit deep into the core of his mind. The body is a bodhi tree, the heart a bright mirror stand—polish it constantly, let no dust alight.

Whether rain or dust, by whatever measure, the Profound Breath Dust Formula swept all into oblivion, leaving his three-inch spiritual platform clear and tranquil.

In an instant, the spiritual energy within him condensed to its utmost limit. After days and nights of relentless tempering, at last the moment had come.

The spiritual energy threaded tightly, unbroken, pouring into the net of dust. At this moment, Qin Chuan’s heart clenched—his dantian was full!

The arrow was on the string, but the tower was lost in the mist—what now? He stopped his breathing technique, sealed his senses, steadied his breath, and stood.

In a pavilion by the winding paths at the edge of Mount Qingyang, Xing Hua and Wen Yuan had just started a small fire, warming wine and brewing tea, washing cups and pouring again. The two were long acquainted; now they sat knee to knee, burping and farting with great satisfaction.

“Feathered Daoist, quick, quick! Look!” Wen Yuan suddenly jerked, leaping three feet high, slapping Xing Hua’s thigh hard. He pointed at Qin Chuan among the fields, eyes round as if witnessing something momentous.

“Are you daft? You’ve spilled wine all over!” Xing Hua was about to grab his companion’s beard for a scolding, but Wen Yuan’s mind had already flown to the scene before them.

“A breakthrough! Someone’s breaking through!” Wen Yuan howled, unable to contain himself, rolling up his sleeves to rush forward.

At his words, Xing Hua’s heart skipped a beat. He looked to the fields and drew a sharp breath. “Don’t! If you barge in now, this breakthrough will surely fail!” He grabbed the agitated Wen Yuan.

“Do you think I don’t know what a breakthrough means? But this is not something we can interfere with!” Xing Hua said, seeing his friend’s beard bristle with anxiety, quickly restraining him.

The two exchanged a silent glance, their eyes filled with complex emotions—perhaps admiration, perhaps worry.

“A breakthrough is no ordinary cultivation; nine deaths for every life. Success or failure is in heaven’s hands.”

With that, they sat back on their mats, sipping tea and wine once more. No longer did they speak of the bawdy tales that made faces flush. In the silence, their hands trembled as they raised their cups.

Back among the fields—

Qin Chuan stopped his breathing technique, sealed his senses, steadied his breath, and rose. Though born of farming folk, he had received some instruction from the village martial master, picking up a few flashy moves. Whether by intent or chance, he now took a stance wholly different from any before.

With the slightest movement of his heart, his seemingly loose steps mirrored the pattern of the Dipper’s stride in combat.

“Huh? Qin Chuan, what are you doing?” Zhu Ran awoke from meditation, seeing him standing with eyes closed, unable to make sense of it.

“Is he dreaming of the village mongrel?” Zhang Huai, roused by Zhu Ran’s voice, jeered when he saw the sight.

Suddenly, Zhu Ran’s expression tightened. “Something’s wrong. Quickly, go fill this gourd at the spring.”

Seeing Zhu Ran’s anxious look, Zhang Huai sensed trouble, wasted no time, grabbed the gourd from the ground, and hurried toward the stream. In his haste, he reached the streamside in moments.

“Ah!” With a startled cry—perhaps he had run too fast—he failed to spot something under his feet and tripped.

The soil by the stream was loose; under his weight, the object was unearthed and struck the back of his head as he fell hands and knees to the ground.

All he thought of was returning quickly with the spring water. Without even glancing at the object, he stuffed it into his shirt for fear of stumbling over it again.

In barely the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea, despite the mishap, he returned flushed, handing the spring water to Zhu Ran before collapsing with a thud. The wine-red flush on his face swiftly faded to pale blue.

In the field, Qin Chuan’s fists and feet flew in a whirling dance; his strikes sometimes shallow, sometimes deep, his strength flickering between fine as silk and sudden as a bean. All his tendons and muscle power twisted together, unable to release for a long time.

“Bang!” Like a snapped string on an old zither, his punch struck only air, yet shook the crooked willow nearby, causing two crescent-shaped leaves to fall.

Seeing this, Zhu Ran’s face turned white, hastening his own movements.

Around Qin Chuan, stones of all shapes and sizes appeared, each set by Zhu Ran alone. A spout of cold spring water splashed onto the stones; Qin Chuan’s right hand, as deft as a snake tamer’s, traced patterns upon them.

This was the Palace of Gen and Kan.

Enlightenment, success. Not that I seek the ignorant, but the ignorant seek me. The first divination is revealed; repeated questioning brings offense; offense, and there is no answer. Favorable is perseverance.

Like a child unlearned, he prayed to heaven and earth. Having entered the study of the heavens and earth, Qin Chuan could hardly turn back.

The spiritual energy within him clenched into a rope, entwining essence and spirit, surging up in a mighty wave. Sinking his waist and bending his knees, he rose as a wild goose spreads its wings. All the power in his body gathered in one place; his right arm ached and swelled, veins bulging and twisting like ants or blue earthworms crawling his skin.

His punch grew stronger—again, and again!

His heart was the drum, his palm and fist the hammer; he struck with absolute resolve.

“Boom!”

His fist hammered into the drum of his heart, blood reversed its flow, and his heart suddenly stopped. His wheat-colored face flushed purple-black, then the color faded in an instant. Two muffled peals of thunder sounded from the clear sky, startling the roosting birds in the forest to flight.

“Pah!” The sealed breath burst from his mouth and nose, a red arc painting three feet before him, as sharp as an arrow. The tower lost in the mist, the moon confused on the crossing—was this not the fate of all who challenge the unknown? Fist in hand, he struck the water’s mirror, shattering it to pieces.