The town gradually filled with unfamiliar faces from distant lands, and with their arrival, the inns and taverns flourished like never before. Meanwhile, on Fulù Street and Taoye Alley, many scions of noble families quietly began to leave the town. These were mostly brilliant young prodigies eager to set out early, alongside obscure illegitimate sons and loyal born servants—among them was Zhao Yao, heir of a prestigious lineage. An exception was the child Gu Can from Niping Alley, who caught the discerning eye of Liu Zhimao, the revered Jiang Zhenjun.
Chen Ping'an fetched the baskets and fish traps from Liu Xianyang's home and departed the town toward the stream. When surrounded by crowds, Chen Ping'an naturally refrained from practicing the "Mountain-Shaking Stance." Only upon leaving the town, where no one could watch, did he begin quietly reciting the mantra, recalling every nuance of Miss Ning's footwork, posture, and spirit, unwilling to miss a single detail, repeatedly tracing the six steps. The first time Chen Ping'an attempted to imitate Ning Yao in his humble dwelling on Niping Alley, his efforts were clumsy and awkward—less proficient than an ordinary person. There was a subtle misunderstanding in the youthful mind; Chen Ping'an had long known of his own flaw, traced back to his kiln-firing days—a sharp eye but sluggish hands. To be precise, his exceptional visual acuity ironically hindered his coordination, making it impossible for his limbs to keep pace. If anyone else had tried to mimic Ning Yao's stance, even their first attempt might have been a rough three or four points of resemblance. Chen Ping'an's barely one or two points of similarity were the result of seeing too clearly and being overly exacting in every detail, which backfired. His clumsy limbs made the imitation laughable, yet beneath the overwhelming dissimilarity hid a rare glimmer of spiritual likeness.
Ning Yao was unaware of this. For her, even a nine-point physical resemblance would pale beside a single point of spiritual affinity. Of course, no matter if it were seven or eight points, Ning Yao would not deem it a prodigious talent. In her eyes, what truly mattered was the distant, seldom-trodden path of martial cultivation, and the handful of comrades who stood alongside her atop the pinnacle of the sword's way.
Chen Ping'an sat on the steps beneath the bridge's plaque, roughly calculating. With twelve two-hour periods in a day, even if he dedicated five or six hours daily to repeatedly practicing the stance, he could manage at most around three hundred repetitions per day, a hundred thousand per year, and a million over ten years.
The straw-sandal-clad youth turned to gaze at the crystal-clear stream, murmuring, "If I persevere for ten years, I should be able to do it, right?"
Though Chen Ping'an had not revealed any unusual emotions in recent days, the revelation by Master Lu before his departure—exposing the insidious schemes of Cai Jin Jian from Yunxia Mountain—had weighed heavily on the boy. There was one thing he never disclosed to Master Lu or Miss Ning: after Cai Jin Jian struck his forehead and chest, Chen Ping'an had vaguely sensed something amiss within his body right there in Niping Alley. That was why he lingered so long at his own doorstep, steeling himself to the point of recklessness, prepared to fight Cai Jin Jian to the death.
At that time, according to the young Daoist Lu Chen, Chen Ping'an's spirit was too lifeless, unlike a vibrant youth. His attitude toward life and death was far lighter than most. Cai Jin Jian's martial intervention forcibly opened a path within Chen Ping'an's body, like a house without gates—capable of accommodating more treasures but vulnerable to collapse in harsh weather. Thus, Lu Chen predicted that barring calamity or severe illness, Chen Ping'an's lifespan would likely only reach thirty or forty years.
Then, when Cai Jin Jian struck his chest again, damaging the crucial "heart"—a vital fortress for martial cultivation—it was as if a city gate collapsed, nearly sealing off his cultivation path. This not only severed his avenue to martial progress but also accelerated his bodily decay.
What made Cai Jin Jian's twofold assault truly terrifying was that with the gates wide open, Chen Ping'an could no longer pursue longevity through mystical arts, unable to fortify his foundation. Even if he managed to advance in martial skill and strengthen his physique, great peril would always accompany opportunity. One misstep might trap him in the vicious cycle of "external martial arts inviting malevolent forces," condemning him to premature demise rather than longevity.
The urgent need was a martial art that nurtured vitality slowly and steadily—not one distinguished by fierce, overwhelming techniques or rapid advancement. Chen Ping'an's hope lay entirely in the "Mountain-Shaking Manual" that Ning Yao so disdainfully dismissed—such as the standing-stake "Sword Furnace" and the sleeping-stake "Thousand Autumns" that followed. Yet Chen Ping'an dared not practice recklessly. Having glanced briefly, he restrained himself, deciding to await Ning's confirmation before earnest study.
As long as one treads the correct path, even poor aptitude coupled with diligence and resilience yields steady progress. On the wrong path, the smarter and harder one works, the more mistakes one accumulates.
These words were Liu Xianyang's. His emphasis was on the last sentence: "You, Chen Ping'an, belong to the first type. That clever rascal Song Xiaofu is the second. Only I, Liu Xianyang, am truly the genius who is both intelligent and on the right path."
At that time, Liu's boast was overheard by Old Yao, who regarded Liu as a favored disciple. Yet something Chen Ping'an said touched a sore spot, provoking the normally calm elder into a rare fury, chasing Liu down and delivering a fierce thrashing. Since then, Liu never again uttered the word "genius."
Chen Ping'an exhaled heavily, rose, and ascended the high steps into the covered bridge corridor. From afar, he noticed a small group of four or five people gathered, seemingly guarding a woman seated on the railing. He only caught her profile—feet dangling naturally over the stream, eyes closed in meditation. Her fingers twisted in peculiar shapes, giving the impression that, though her eyes were shut, she was deeply observing something.
Hesitating, Chen Ping'an turned back, descending the steps to wade across the stream, intending to find Liu Xianyang. Today he carried two baskets—a large one and a smaller one nested inside—to return the smaller to Master Ruan's blacksmith shop, since Liu had borrowed it.
From the bridge, the group watched the shabby youth turn away and exchanged smiles, careful not to disturb the woman's profound "water observation" meditation.
This technique originated in Buddhism, no doubt, but had since been adopted, refined, and subdivided by many cultivation sects. Yet Dong Baoping Continent was long regarded as the last bastion of Buddhism, its faith waning over centuries after several brutal anti-Buddhist purges. Now Confucianism and Daoism far eclipsed Buddhism there.
"Only have heard of the Zhenjun and Tianshi, not the protectors or great virtues"—such was the current state of affairs in Dong Baoping.
Nonetheless, countless immortal sects still benefited from Buddhist teachings.
Chen Ping'an rolled up his pant legs, forded the stream, and upon reaching the far shore, heard shouts and reprimands from the bridge. Considering it carefully, he chose not to intervene.
At Master Ruan's forge, the scene was lively. Chen Ping'an stood by a well, asking someone to fetch Liu Xianyang. Expecting a wait, he was surprised when Liu quickly appeared, pulling him toward the streambank, lowering his voice:
"I've been waiting forever! Why so late?"
Chen Ping'an puzzled, "Did Master Ruan urge you to return the baskets?"
The tall youth rolled his eyes, "A worthless basket isn't the point. I have something important to tell you. After you picked up the stones and returned to my yard, that lady will come looking for you—the one whose son wears bright red clothes. The mother and son we saw at the entrance of Niping Alley last time. When she finds you, say nothing. Just hand over that big chest. She'll pay you a pouch of coins—count carefully, twenty-five copper coins. Not a single one less!"
Chen Ping'an was stunned, "Liu Xianyang, are you mad? Why sell family heirlooms to outsiders?"
Liu Xianyang gripped the youth's neck fiercely, glaring, "What do you know? Such a grand future awaits me, why waste it?"
Chen Ping'an doubted this was truly Liu's intention. Liu sighed and whispered, "That lady wants to buy our ancestral armor. The master-servant pair wants a sword manual. My grandfather told me, if things get desperate, we can sell the armor—not cheaply, but sell it. The sword manual? Even to death, it must never be admitted to be in our old Liu family's possession. I agreed to sell the armor to that lady, negotiated the price, and made her promise she'd persuade that burly old man not to trouble me for now—a delaying tactic. Once I become Master Ruan's apprentice, these matters won't matter anymore."
Chen Ping'an asked bluntly, "Why don't you stall the lady? Could she really come to the forge to cause trouble? Besides, she can't just break in and steal the armor."
Liu squatted by the stream, tossing a stone into the water, smirking, "The armor isn't unsellable. Now that there's a fair price, it's good—makes things more stable. Maybe Ning won't have to risk stepping in, so I think it's fine."
Chen Ping'an crouched beside him, urging anxiously, "How do you know she's coming?"
Liu smiled, "Old Yao told me. If she comes, just hand her the chest. Do not hesitate or fight."
Chen Ping'an mulled it over and nodded silently, understanding the weight of the decision.