At the desolate edge of the wilderness, a flying sword hovered obediently in mid-air, as demure as a well-mannered young lady raised under strict tutelage—faced with a venerable elder, the very author of her household rules, she could only bow her head in quiet deference, standing motionless with folded hands.
Beside the sword stood a travel-worn, dust-laden Confucian scholar. His temples were streaked with frost-like white, even more pronounced than before. Had Zhao Yao or Song Jixin, the two promising young scholars, been present, they would surely have noticed how in just ten short days, this gentleman's hair had grown markedly grayer.
The sword's tip pointed squarely at the silent figure of the Mountain-Moving Ape from Zhengyang Mountain, whose entire being exuded a violent, simmering menace—an aura that suggested he might erupt into a life-and-death battle at the slightest provocation.
The ape finally broke his silence, his voice low and edged with fury. "Why were those from Zhenwu Mountain permitted entry, but I was barred? Mister Qi, are you truly so snobbish?"
His blunt question brimmed with discourtesy, yet the Mountain-Moving Ape seemed to find nothing amiss in it. Though Zhenwu Mountain was revered as a sacred site of martial valor in Eastern Baoping Continent, its sect lacked cohesion. Most of its mighty cultivators were nominal affiliates at best, and the mountain's rules, famed for being grandiose yet vacuous, lacked real authority or unifying force.
Qi Jingchun, weary-faced, turned first to the flying sword and said gently, "Go now. Your master is safe."
The sword, as if granted amnesty, quivered in delight, spun about, and streaked off into the distance.
The Mountain-Moving Ape, thinking he had grasped the true nature of things, grew all the more enraged. "So the girl was your chosen successor all along? If you'd been upfront about coveting the Liu family's sword scripture, I wouldn't have stood in your way. As long as it didn't fall into the hands of Fengleiyuan, I'd not have contested your unnamed disciple claiming it. But instead, you chose secrecy and subterfuge. Tell me, Mister Qi—are you trying to act the whore while erecting a chastity monument? You take the benefits in secret while letting Zhengyang Mountain shoulder the blame?"
If his earlier accusations had stemmed from anger, these venomous words marked a deliberate breaking of all decorum. He no longer sought to conceal his hostility.
Yet Qi Jingchun's expression remained calm. "I, Qi Jingchun, have overseen the feng shui and fate of this place for sixty years as a scholar of the Confucian lineage. Some matters still warrant explanation. First, I share no personal bond with the girl. She simply possesses extraordinary talent. When she stood beneath the plaque bearing the characters 'Qi Chong Dou Niu'—'Spirit Surging to the Heavens'—those words, which hold a portion of the sword dao's destiny in Baoping Continent, resonated with her of their own accord. Unfortunately, her current sword was not strong enough to carry that destiny. So, I borrowed the momentum and placed two of those characters within her blade. That was the extent of our connection. She is not the unnamed disciple you imagine."
Qi Jingchun let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "If I truly intended to steal under the guise of duty, as the master of this house, would there be any sign for outsiders to detect? A mere sword scripture of dream-slaying techniques—do you think I would scheme for an entire sixty years just to seize it?"
The Mountain-Moving Ape, a top figure of Zhengyang Mountain and no stranger to intricate schemes and the deceptions of lofty immortals, found it hard to trust the Confucian's explanation. Still, his tone softened somewhat. He let out a cold chuckle. "Oh? So I am the petty villain measuring a gentleman's heart?"
Qi Jingchun glanced at him. "I stopped you and let those from Zhenwu Mountain pass for a simple reason. Many say Zhenwu has 'two truths'—true gentlemen and true scoundrels. Thus, when this sword cultivator of the martial lineage spoke to me, I knew I could believe him. But you… you grievously wounded Liu Xiangyang, sabotaging his path to the Great Dao, yet spared his life, just so I wouldn't expel you prematurely. A man like you—"
Here, Qi Jingchun paused, then smiled faintly. "Ah, I nearly forgot—you're not a man."
The Mountain-Moving Ape narrowed his eyes, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles cracked.
Were it his mortal enemies from Fengleiyuan, or even jealous cultivators from other sects mocking him as "not human," he would have shrugged it off. After all, he'd lived for a thousand years. But when this gentle, scholarly man uttered those words in a mild tone, the ape felt deeply insulted in a way he could not explain.
Oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to the ape's fury, Qi Jingchun went on, "Stopping you was for the sake of Zhengyang Mountain. That girl nearly unleashed her life-bound artifact. You hail from Zhengyang Mountain, a place that has tangled with sword energy and intent for a thousand years. Do you mean to tell me you couldn't sense the pressure she was emanating?"
The old ape scoffed. "She was merely flailing in desperation. That paltry display of technique—Mister Qi, are you not embarrassed to call it threatening?"
He burst into raucous laughter and feigned a moment of sudden realization. "Someone once claimed your esteemed teacher suffered disgrace in his later years—his statue removed from the Temple of Literature and shattered to pieces. I didn't believe it then. I thought, as the fourth sage of the Confucian temple, he might at least hold his own before the likes of Dao Ancestors or Buddhas. But now, I see it plainly—your lineage, from him to you, has declined in just two generations. 'A gentleman's virtue lasts five generations before waning'—who said that? Why has your line collapsed in only two? Could it be that your teacher was never a true sage, but a swindler the likes of which hasn't been seen in a thousand years?"
Qi Jingchun merely frowned slightly but listened in full silence.
The ape laughed wildly and stepped forward, jabbing a finger at the scholar as though kicking a beaten dog. "Isn't your Confucian school all about propriety and decorum? Here I stand, still within the bounds of propriety—what can you possibly do to me?"
Qi Jingchun turned toward the town and let out a quiet sigh. Then, looking back at the ape, he asked calmly, "Have you finished?"
The ape blinked, sized up the scholar once more, then lowered his hand and grinned with bared teeth. "How dull. Even a clay statue can get angry, but you scholars—your tempers are truly too mild. I wonder, would you not even fight back if I struck you?"
Qi Jingchun smiled. "You're welcome to try."
The ape seemed tempted, but restrained himself.
Instead, he asked, "Qi Jingchun, must you truly stop me?"
Qi Jingchun replied, "The consequences are too grave. Zhengyang Mountain cannot bear them."
The ape pressed, "Truly?"
Qi Jingchun, without a hint of bluster or evasion, nodded. "Truly."
The ape rubbed his chin, cast one final glance past Qi Jingchun into the distance, then snorted. "Those two brats got lucky today. Tell them this—next time, they won't be so fortunate."
With that, he turned and strode away. As he left, he suddenly raised an arm high and extended a thumb—only to slowly rotate it downward in disdain.
Qi Jingchun looked up at the grey heavens. The rain was coming.
Just then, a voice echoed from the distant town—a martial cultivator from Zhenwu Mountain, pleading for permission to summon one of their guardian deities.
Qi Jingchun nodded and said softly, "Granted."
The moment he spoke, a pinpoint of golden light appeared high in the sky—like a grain of rice upon the firmament. A thread-thin golden filament descended swiftly, landing within the small town.
"Sir Qi?"
A young voice called out behind him. Qi Jingchun turned and saw a boy and girl running toward him.
As he caught sight of the girl in the dark green robe—a foreigner to these lands—he felt a sigh rising in his chest. He recalled how the scholarly youth Zhao Yao had fallen for her at first sight. Back then, he had offered a single observation: that she was like a sword without a sheath—wounding all who came too close.