Chen Ping'an led Ning Yao before a resplendent five-colored deity statue, which stood a head taller than a robust man. Originally adorned with three pairs of arms, it now retained only the uppermost, clenched in a raised fist, and the lowermost—poised in a handshake. The reason this arm could still clasp was because the statue's fingers were interwoven, so even though its counterpart was severed at the shoulder, the hand and wrist endured.
The five-colored clay effigy portrayed an armored deity, bearded and imposing, with clinking scales and armor plates bordered by twin strands of rounded beads. Compared to Liu Xianyang's hideous, wart-covered ancestral armor, its craftsmanship was leagues apart—like comparing Granny Ma's finery to a rough-hewn trinket.
The statue stood atop a square black stone pedestal. Though marred with severed limbs and flaking paint, it radiated a spirited energy and divine presence—far surpassing the decapitated figure they'd encountered the night before. Most curious of all was the deity's midsection, where a pair of arms were locked in an unusually intricate gesture.
Ning Yao immediately caught the clue and understood why Chen Ping'an had so urgently brought her here. She nodded, saying, "It does resemble the stance described in the Mountain-Shaking Manual—the post that forms the foundation of the Sword Furnace technique. Yet it differs subtly from the one depicted in the manual."
After a moment's thought, she asked, "Have you searched nearby for the missing arms?"
Squatting low, Chen Ping'an shook his head with regret. "I've looked. Not a trace. Probably crushed long ago by children playing hide and seek. Over the years, these clay gods have suffered every imaginable torment. Just look—see that upper fist? A chunk's missing at the wrist, and there are cracks all around it. Probably vandalized by slingshots or pebbles. Kids here love forbidden places—especially in snow season. They come in droves, having snowball fights, digging wild herbs, catching crickets. They climb, they trample, they go wild. Back then, we'd even compete to see who could climb higher. Some would climb to the statue's head… just to pee from the top, trying to see who could aim the farthest. Over the years, none of these statues survived intact. I remember there used to be a few wooden ones, too, but I heard some lazy fellow, unwilling to chop firewood, dragged them home in early winter and burned them."
The youth muttered, voice low and tinged with sorrow, "At the time, Old Yao said I lacked the knack for kiln work and sent me to the mountains to make charcoal. If I'd been in town and heard of this, I would've tried to stop him—maybe even offered to help him chop the wood myself. Clay gods and wood-carved Buddhas may never show miracles, but they're still deities. To reduce them to kindling—how could anyone stoop so low…"
While Chen Ping'an spoke, lost in his melancholy, Ning Yao's attention lay elsewhere. One hand cupped her chin, the other supported her elbow, eyes gleaming with insight.
"If I'm not mistaken," she said slowly, "your Sword Furnace technique originated here. Not from the hand gesture we now see, but from the vanished middle pair of arms on this Taoist guardian deity. Those missing hands formed the sword seal from which the technique was born. I don't know why the author of your manual chose only one variant, omitting this specific configuration, but I'm certain of one thing—the Sword Furnace, or rather the Taoist Sword Seal, may come in greater and lesser forms."
Chen Ping'an was thoroughly bewildered but managed to interject, "The manual belongs to Gu Can. I'm just its keeper."
Ning Yao ignored his clarification and pointed to the gesture of the deity.
"Look carefully. The manual shows the right pinky extended, but here, nine fingers are entwined in a complex knot, leaving only the left index finger pointing outward—solitary and proud. This is the sword seal, a posture meant to nourish the index finger."
She continued, speaking half to herself, "I've wandered your world for years and seen countless temple guardians and celestial statues, from the Four Heavenly Kings in Buddhist halls to the myriad Taoist guardian deities. But this clay effigy…"
Chen Ping'an waited patiently, but as silence stretched on, he finally asked, "Is there something strange about it?"
Ning Yao nodded solemnly. "It's the shortest one I've ever seen."
The boy said nothing, merely gave her a thumbs-up.
Then she turned to him, "Have you ever seen a Taoist guardian deity taller than your Pi Yun Mountain?"
"Of course not," Chen Ping'an replied, startled. "Wait… Pi Yun Mountain is ours?"
Ning Yao blinked in realization. "That's the tallest mountain near your town. Long, long ago, they say a great cultivator buried a Celestial Master's seal there to subdue the dragon veins of this land."
Chen Ping'an's eyes lit up. "Do you know the exact location? Can we dig it up?"
Ning Yao grinned, "What, hoping to sell it for gold?"
Caught red-handed, Chen Ping'an blushed slightly. "Not necessarily. If it's valuable, I could keep it as a family heirloom."
She pointed at him with mock annoyance, "If you ever found your own sect, I imagine with a head of the house so thrifty and prudent, your disciples would live in luxury without ever lifting a finger."
Chen Ping'an had no such grand ambitions and barely understood what "founding a sect" even meant. He rose and asked earnestly, "So this hand sign, no matter its form, still counts as a Sword Furnace?"
Ning Yao nodded. "Big or small, left or right—it's not really about fingers. The true essence travels upstream… all the way to—"
She closed her eyes in quiet concentration. Even without forming the hand seal or adopting the stance, she could feel its resonance. Opening her eyes, she bent her fingers and pointed to the back of her head—two acupoints: the Jade Pillow and the Heavenly Pillar.
"These are ideal places to nurture your life-bound flying sword. The left-hand seal links to here, the right-hand one to there."
Chen Ping'an asked in confusion, "Miss Ning, I've always wondered—this Sword Furnace is supposed to be a fist stance, but with all these twisted fingers, how does it help in martial training? Does it build strength?"
Ning Yao was momentarily stunned.
To explain cultivation or martial theory in detail was a tall order—even for her. Let alone recounting the many pitfalls and hurdles along the way. To her, these "boring" truths should come naturally, not require tedious explanation.
So she frowned and scolded him, "If your realm isn't there, words are wasted! Why ask so much? Just train hard! What—can't bear the hardship?"
Chen Ping'an, skeptical but respectful, asked, "Is it really like that, Miss Ning?"
She folded her arms, righteous indignation etched across her face. "What else would it be?!"
Taking her words to heart, Chen Ping'an no longer pressed the matter. Gazing up at the deity she had named a Taoist guardian, he murmured, "So this is the kind of deity Master Lu's family worships…"
Ning Yao sighed, "What do you mean, 'their family's deity'? First, 'Taoist family' might include the word 'family,' but it's nothing like the families you know in this town. The Taoist tradition is vast—far beyond your imagination. Even I don't know how many sects or cultivators walk its path. My father once mentioned there are four ancestral halls—North, South, East, and West… but explaining all this to you is like playing the lute to a cow.
"Second—'gods and immortals.' People say the phrase like it's one word, but in truth, gods and immortals tread entirely different paths. Let me give you an example. You've heard the saying, 'A man fights for pride, a Buddha for incense,' haven't you?"
Chen Ping'an nodded. "Old Priest Apricot Blossom used to say that all the time…"