Chapter Two: The Withered Old Monk

Yan the Blind had come on the orders of the sect, tasked with capturing the traitor He Muqing and recovering a supreme secret treasure belonging to the sect. But this treasure was no ordinary artifact. When Yan accepted the mission, he already harbored thoughts of silencing all witnesses and keeping the treasure for himself.

Now, with He Muqing dead and every soul in the town turned into wooden puppets by his hand, there was no one left alive. All scruples cast aside, Yan arrived at the hiding place he’d learned of through soul-searching, murmuring incantations as he formed a seal with his right hand. In an instant, a lustrous, translucent pearl flew up from beneath the ruined house. The orb was half black, half white, with the two colors of energy flowing in an endless circuit within—clearly an extraordinary object.

“So this is the Pearl of Fate…” The thought of this mysterious pearl—so enigmatic that even the sect master hadn’t had time to study it when he acquired it—now falling into his own hands filled Yan with immense satisfaction.

But at that very moment, Yan’s brows knit together and he sighed softly, “It seems there is still a survivor…”

Under the night sky.

A boy of about ten walked along the streets of the small town—this was Liang Yan, just returned from Mount Wenliang. He had found it odd from outside the town: tonight, Huaiyuan was far too quiet. Once inside, the sense of unease grew, and as he walked on, disbelief spread across his face.

All around, houses large and small had gaping holes in their roofs as if struck by heavenly thunder, the interiors deserted.

A chill tightened in Liang Yan’s heart. He hurried home, and when he reached his own door, his hands trembled as if he dared not push it open.

At last, he took a deep breath and gently pushed the wooden door. In that moment, he was as if struck by lightning, rooted to the spot.

Inside sat a man in green robes and a straw hat, slumped on the floor, his body shriveled as if the essence of flesh and blood had been drained, leaving only skin clinging to bone. His eyes stared wide, clearly dead for some time.

“Father!” Liang Yan’s cry tore through the night, his soul seeming to leave his body as he stumbled toward the corpse.

From as early as he could remember, he and Liang Xuan had depended on each other. When he was eight, Liang Xuan told him he was not his biological son, but had been found in a bamboo basket drifting down the river.

Yet, Liang Xuan had treated him as his own, and Liang Yan saw him as a true father. Liang Xuan had never married, raising this only beloved son as a treasure, hoping one day he’d grow up, earn honors, marry, and have children—then his life would be fulfilled.

But fate had played a cruel trick. In the brief time Liang Yan was away, calamity had struck his home. Memories of life with his father flashed through his mind, and tears gushed forth. The pain of losing his closest kin left him bereft, as if the sky itself had collapsed.

Suddenly a soft sigh came from behind.

“Such is the way of the world—fortune and calamity are unpredictable. You need not grieve too much.”

Liang Yan turned. Outside the door stood a blind old man—the same one he’d met earlier on the mountain path.

Lost in grief, Liang Yan did not question why the old man was there, merely asked, “What wrong did the people of Huaiyuan Town do? For generations we lived here, never committing evil. Why would Heaven be so cruel, bringing disaster upon us?”

Yan the Blind was silent for a moment, then slowly replied, “Have you heard the saying, ‘A common man is innocent, but holding a treasure is a crime’? The townsfolk were blameless. The fault lay in a fiend stealing a treasure and hiding among them.”

Liang Yan’s troubled mind suddenly cleared at these words. With a bitter smile, he said, “So that’s how it is. Compared to a celestial treasure, the lives of us mere mortals count for nothing. May I ask, who killed my father?”

Yan the Blind seemed taken aback, then looked at Liang Yan with a meaningful gaze. “Heh, clever boy. Don’t worry—the one who killed your father I have already dealt with.”

Liang Yan nodded. “So now I can rest in peace as I go to the next world?”

Yan said nothing, merely clasped his hands behind his back and laughed.

Liang Yan said nothing more. He turned, knelt before his father’s body, and bowed three times in silence.

A sudden fierce wind howled from behind, and a wave of burning heat slammed into his body. Every bone and muscle felt as if it were being scorched dry.

“So this is how I die…”

That was Liang Yan’s final thought. As his eyes closed, he seemed to hear a mournful Buddhist chant outside the house, then a flash of golden light filled his vision, and all consciousness faded.

…

Who knew how much time had passed. Liang Yan found himself enveloped in darkness. His whole body was wracked with pain, as if being torn apart, but then a gentle warmth flowed through his limbs, soothing the agony. A cool breeze stirred, and he slowly opened his eyes.

What he saw was a simple room: a square table missing a corner, with a ceramic teapot and cups atop it. A scroll hung on the wall, depicting a traveler in deep mountains. The whole room was somewhat shabby, dust laying thick in neglected corners.

A cool breeze drifted in again. It was late autumn. Liang Yan turned to see the window wide open, blue sky and clouds outside—just the crispness of autumn. But the image of his father’s corpse flashed before him, and his heart twisted with pain.

“Alas, the world is so vast—where can I go from here?”

With a sigh, Liang Yan rose from the bed and walked out.

He realized he was in a teahouse by a country road, and had been lying in a side room on the first floor.

“How odd—there’s not a soul here, not even a waiter, nor a single guest,” he muttered, heading for the front door.

Outside, perched cross-legged on a boulder, sat an old monk. His face was withered, his body gaunt as dead wood, his gray robes seeming not to have been washed in years. If not for the slow opening of his eyes, he would have seemed a corpse.

The old monk seemed to know Liang Yan’s thoughts and spoke gently, “Half a year ago, locusts struck this region. The villagers reaped nothing, and then bandits preyed upon them. The teahouse could no longer survive—the innkeeper and staff all fled.”

Liang Yan was silent for a long while, then ventured, “I have suffered a great calamity. By rights I should be in the underworld—is it thanks to your compassion that I am here?”

The old monk pressed his palms together and intoned a mournful Buddhist blessing, his face suffused with pity.

Liang Yan realized his guess was right. At once, he strode forward, knelt before the monk, and kowtowed three times—so hard that blood flowed from his forehead.

Alarmed, the monk said, “Young man, there’s no need for this.”

Liang Yan finished the bows and spoke loudly, “Master, to save me from the clutches of that fiend, you must be a sage or an immortal. I beg you to take me as your disciple and teach me the immortal arts!”

The old monk sighed, “Why do you wish to become an immortal?”

“To avenge my father and the three hundred innocent souls of Huaiyuan Town!”

“The one who killed your father is dead.”

“The chief culprit is dead, but the accomplices remain!”

The monk frowned, “Accomplices?”

“Hmph. My father and the townsfolk died because immortals fought over a treasure. That blind man may not have killed my father directly, but he caused it all. And if he had succeeded in claiming the treasure, he would have slaughtered all witnesses—my father would have died regardless.”

The monk regarded Liang Yan anew. “This boy is barely ten, yet his character is so intense. Still, his mind is sharp—no less than an adult’s.”

What the monk did not know was that Liang Yan had always been clever—perhaps too clever. As a child in Huaiyuan, he often played pranks on the townsfolk. The simple villagers took pity on his orphaned state and rarely scolded him, but when he went too far, his father’s discipline awaited him at home.

The monk placed his hand on Liang Yan’s head. “The boy has the root for immortality, though his aptitude is mediocre. Still, for my technique, one needn’t be a genius. He’s clever, and his fate is tragic—without help, he may not survive long…”

Moved by pity, the monk hesitated. “No—I failed with my last disciple, raising a scourge upon the world. How dare I teach another? And this boy is full of resentment—he will sow much bloodshed.”

Remembering his former disciple, the monk felt a wave of despair.

He spoke calmly, “If I take you as a disciple, there will be three rules: you will train in seclusion at the sect for a hundred years, and never pursue vengeance.”

“Then what’s the point of becoming an immortal?”

“The path of immortality is for transcendence—to sever all worldly ties.”

Liang Yan’s eyes flashed. “A father’s murder cannot go unavenged. Forgive me, Master—I cannot obey. Thank you for saving my life. If ever I can repay you, I will do so without hesitation. Farewell!”

He bowed deeply, then turned and strode east along the road.

“That boy…” The old monk pressed his palms together and gave a wry smile, but did not try to stop him, letting him go on his way.

…

Liang Yan walked alone on the road, his heart heavy with grief for his adoptive father.

“Alas, the world is wide, immortality elusive. How is a mere mortal like me to seek the immortal path, let alone revenge? All those tales I heard from traveling priests—I never believed them, and now I’ve witnessed firsthand the misery immortals bring…”

Lost in thought, his stomach growled. He realized it was already noon.

“I’d better see to my stomach first.”

Liang Yan had learned martial arts from the local hall since childhood and was quite skilled. He decided to hunt for some game.

Soon, in a secluded spot in the forest, a rabbit roasted over a campfire. A boy in gray devoured a rabbit leg with relish—Liang Yan.

Half the rabbit gone, just as he felt satisfied, a faint noise caught his ear. Years of martial training had taught him—the sound of weapons clashing. Someone was fighting nearby.

Without a thought for the rabbit, he snuffed the fire, covered it with earth, and crept toward the source of the sound.

Peering through a gap in the bushes, he saw a swordsman in blue wielding a dragon-patterned blade, fighting four black-clad bandits. Though outnumbered, the swordsman’s blade flashed with ghostly speed, leaving afterimages in the air. One bandit’s left arm streamed blood, clearly badly hurt.

Liang Yan was astonished. With such skill, this swordsman would be a first-class master in the martial world. Why was he being hunted?

Just then, the blue-clad swordsman broke free with a sweep of his blade, retreated, and said coolly, “Is this all you dogs are capable of? And you dare plot against my lady?”

A mocking voice replied—not from the four bandits, but from two newcomers emerging from the woods, one tall and one short. The tall one spoke, and it was clear the four deferred to these two.

Seeing two more experts appear, the swordsman grew anxious. Before any could react, he struck like lightning at the tall bandit, hoping to take him by surprise and escape in the confusion.

The tall bandit snorted, drawing a long saber to meet him, while the short one swung a bronze hammer as he joined the fray.

The swordsman’s heart sank. Either of these two was his equal in arms, and now, facing both, he faltered within thirty strokes.

“When did such powerful bandits appear in the martial world?” he wondered, but dared not linger on the thought, desperately seeking a way out.

Just then, a blue dagger flew from the woods, its dazzling light slicing through trees as it sped toward the swordsman.

Startled, the swordsman raised his blade to block, but the dragon-patterned sword parted like paper, split in two by the blue dagger.

With a wet sound, the blade lodged in the swordsman’s throat. Staring in disbelief at the hilt sticking out of his neck, he collapsed.

A young man emerged from the trees, clad in a purple robe, glittering with gold and silver like a wealthy city merchant.

The bandits bowed low in deference. “Master is mighty—none can oppose you!”

The purple-robed youth basked in their praise, squinting as he said, “Useless fools. Even a simple task eludes you. That man was their household’s retainer, sent to scout ahead and, by chance, learned of our plan. We couldn’t let him escape.”

The bandits broke out in a cold sweat. “We failed in our duty, Master. Please let us redeem ourselves!”

He waved dismissively. “No matter. The main event is yet to come—do well, and riches await us.”

He paused, then asked, “Have you scouted the area?”

The tall bandit replied, “Yes. Not far ahead is an abandoned teahouse. We can disguise ourselves as staff and lie in wait, as planned.”

“If the place is empty, good. If not, kill everyone. Leave no witnesses. Second Brother Cheng, gather the horses. As soon as we’ve eaten, we move out and act according to plan.”

“At once!” the tall bandit answered, then, with a lecherous grin, added, “Boss, there are a few beauties among their party. Let’s make sure to enjoy them.”

The purple-robed youth’s eyes sparkled with lust as he nodded knowingly.

But the short bandit seemed uneasy. “Boss, I don’t understand—why go to such trouble? With your immortal skills, why not just wipe them out?”

“Hmph, Stone, you’re getting nosy, aren’t you?”

“No, Master,” Stone said hastily.

The purple-robed youth snorted, “There’s a master among them, skilled enough to project inner energy. Even for us immortals, he’s a match. Don’t underestimate him.”

This youth, Chen Lin, was a lesser son of a family of cultivators. With the worst of spiritual roots, he’d neglected cultivation, preferring worldly pleasures—gold, women, wine. Banished on reaching adulthood, he’d turned to banditry, and with his first-level cultivation, he lorded over the mortal world, few able to challenge him.

The bandits set about cooking. Liang Yan crept away.

“This is bad—they’re heading for the teahouse. Will the old monk be in danger?”

He knew the old monk was no ordinary man, but had never seen immortals fight, nor witnessed the powers of Yan the Blind or the rest. In his eyes, the blue-clad swordsman had been a top expert, yet before the purple-robed youth he hadn’t lasted a single move. Liang Yan’s heart quaked—surely the old monk would not be his match.

“Though the old monk wouldn’t take me as a disciple, he did save my life. If I say nothing, I’ll be watching him die.”

“They have horses, but they’re busy cooking. If I hurry, maybe I can reach the teahouse first and warn him. Then we’ll be even.”

Resolving himself, Liang Yan gathered his strength and sprinted toward the teahouse…