COUNTLESS HEROES had come and gone throughout the history of the cultivation realm, but only ten were memorialized as those of true eminence. Nangong Changying was one of them.
In his past life, Mo Ran had found this execrable. He had crushed Rufeng's seventy-two cities with his little finger, only to find their ethereal pavilions crawling with vermin who screamed in pain and begged for mercy before the blades even cleaved toward their throats. Ye Wangxi herself had said it in the past life, just before her death: All the gleaming cities of Rufeng, and not one real man to be found.
Back then, Mo Ran had considered Rufeng Sect no more than a handful of loose sand, and Nangong Changying merely the man who had gathered it up. What was so special about him? In a single bloody instant, Mo Ran had razed Rufeng's centuries-old towers to the ground. Their steps and courtyards were strewn with corpses, innards picked by crows.
Taxian-jun had made his way up the steps, face devoid of emotion, and pushed open the door to the Hall of Sages. Black cloak trailing behind him, he stalked down the corridor lined with portraits of Rufeng's sect leaders and elders throughout the ages and came to a stop at the end of the hall.
There he looked up. His expression was unreadable beneath the hood of his cloak. Only the set of his pale jaw, cold and combative, was visible within its depths. He tilted his face upward, scrutinizing this statue that was larger than life.
He beheld the figure of a young cultivator in flowing robes, carved from white spiritual jade, riding the wind with bow in hand. The sculptor's work spared no detail—the eyes were inlaid with iridescent gems, the robes shimmering with a dusting of finely ground crystals. From the flower lattice of the window above the statue, a bloodred dawn shone into the room, giving the statue the look of an immortal bathed in the glow of the highest heavens.
Under his hood, that shadowy half of Taxian-jun's face split into a smile. White teeth flashed, and his dimples creased sweetly as he straightened his robes and brought his hands together in greeting.
Handsome features turned toward the light, he said pleasantly, "An honor to finally meet you, Nangong Changying."
The statue, of course, didn't answer. But those glimmering crystal eyes seemed to fix upon its visitor.
Taxian-jun was deeply bored; he didn't mind carrying on this one- sided conversation. "My name is Mo Weiyu. So glad I got the chance to visit you today. You're pretty impressive, Nangong Changying."
He prattled on cheerfully, a living man spouting deranged nonsense at a stone statue. "I saw your great-great-great-great-great…" He counted on his fingers, then sighed. "Too many to count. I saw a bunch of your nephews and your sect's disciples from who knows how many generations after you." He laughed brightly. "But they've all become ghosts beneath my sword. Xianzhang, if you haven't yet reincarnated, you might see them too. It's too bad though. I didn't see your great-great-great-great-great-great- grandson. He fled like a coward before I captured the cities. I don't know if he's dead or alive, sorry."
He chattered with the statue a while longer before saying, "Oh yeah. I heard you used to be a great hero back in your day, Nangong-xianzhang.
People would pledge their undying loyalty to you wherever you went. Some of your fans even called you their emperor." He grinned. "Were you as mighty as I am? Honestly, everything I said earlier was just rubbish—I only came to ask you one question. Nangong-xianzhang, why didn't you take the throne back then?"
He paused, then took a few more paces forward, his gaze falling on a plaque behind the statue. It was too large to miss, but he had deliberately averted his eyes until now.
Nangong Changying had carved this plaque with his sword at the age of ninety-six. It had originally been simple and unadorned stone, but his heirs had later traced the characters in an eye-catching gold.
Mo Ran stared at it for some time. "Oh, I get it," he said with a smile. "As a gentleman of Rufeng Sect, I mustn't indulge in greed, resentment, deception, slaughter, obscenity, plunder, or conquest? Xianzhang, how very noble of you." He clasped his hands behind his back. "All your life, your reputation was without a single blemish, and you earnestly spread your teachings until your death. But I'm curious—did you ever imagine Rufeng Sect would end up like this?" Mo Ran pressed his lips together, searching for the right words. Finally he clapped with glee. "Like a bunch of filthy rats?"
He burst out laughing with unbridled delight, pure yet sinister. The sound reverberated in the solemn Hall of Sages like the sound of ripping silk—as if it would shred each of those gently swaying portraits, tearing up the faces of those bygone Rufeng heroes…
His laughter abruptly stopped. Standing in front of Nangong Changying's ice-cold statue, Mo Ran's smile disappeared, his features frosting over. His black eyes stared unswervingly at this eminent sage of yesteryear—this man who, like Mo Ran himself, had held the world in the palm of his hand, who'd had the power to tread every cultivator underfoot.
Time seemed to fold over itself. Within its turbulent passage, the preeminent cultivators of two eras faced one another.
"Nangong Changying," Mo Ran murmured at last, "your Rufeng Sect is a putrid swamp. There's no way you could be any cleaner."
With a snap of his sleeves, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the Hall of Sages. A wild wind rose around him, blowing the hood of his cloak back and revealing Emperor Taxian-jun's eyes, full of madness.
His looks were second to none; he was exceedingly handsome by any measure. But those pleasing features were etched with a barbaric cruelty,
vulturelike in their viciousness. His dark cloak billowed like ink spilling down the steps behind him. He was a vengeful ghost in the mortal realm, a hellish spirit prowling the earth.
Everywhere he looked he saw maimed corpses of Rufeng disciples littered over the ground. Taxian-jun hadn't conscripted any stragglers into his forces. Other than the woman Song Qiutong, he'd slaughtered the rest to a man.
In that moment, Mo Ran's heart thrummed with glee. As he gazed into the sunrise, one golden ray pierced the rosy clouds and gilded his blood-streaked face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His hands, clenched tightly in his sleeves, quivered with excitement.
His life had once been so paltry and insignificant, a mere blade of grass. When he was small, he had begged for food outside Linyi. He had watched his mother starve to death before his eyes, yet couldn't afford even a straw mat to wrap her body in. Back then, he'd implored a cultivator from Rufeng Sect to buy a coffin for him—the cheapest and shoddiest one would do. He'd never forget their reply, dripping with disdain: "The coffin should match the person. Beggars can't be choosers."
What was the child to do? He had intended to bury his mother in Linyi, but the city's regulations were strict. The nearest mass burial ground was outside Dai City; he would need to cross two hills to reach it. He dragged his mother's body the whole way. He had received stares of disgust, scorn, astonishment, and pity. But no one offered their help.
Mo Ran had walked for a fortnight—a tiny child dragging a woman's corpse for fourteen whole days. Not one person was willing to aid him.
He'd knelt by the roadside and begged anyone, everyone—gentry, stable boys, farmers—please, he'd said, give him and his mom a ride. But who would lift a stranger's fetid corpse onto their cart? As the days wore on, he stopped asking. He gritted his teeth and pulled his mother behind him, step by step. Her corpse stiffened, then grew soft, rotting and putrefying.
Passersby gave them a wide berth, covering their noses and scurrying away.
On the fourteenth day, he reached the burial grounds. The scent of the living was no longer on him; the reek of death had permeated even his bones.
He had no shovel, so he dug a shallow trench in the graveyard with his bare hands. It was all he had the strength for. The boy dragged his mother's corpse, unrecognizably decayed, into that trench. Then he sat down next to it in a daze. Many minutes later, he said tonelessly, "Mom, it's time for me to bury you."
He scooped up a handful of dirt and sprinkled it onto her chest. Yet that single handful was finally too much; he started to sob. How strange. He thought his tears had run dry long ago.
"N-no, no no—once I bury you, I won't be able to see you anymore," he wailed, clambering into the trench, throwing himself onto that festering corpse.
When he finally managed to calm down, he busied himself with the dirt again. But some mysterious lacrimal scent seemed to rise from this earth; he dissolved into tears once more.
"Why did you end up like this… I couldn't even get a straw mat… Why, why… Mom… Mama…"
He nuzzled her, rubbing his small cheek against her body. He didn't think she was dirty or stinking; he didn't care that she was dead, that her skin had rotted, that she was oozing pus and blood, that she was crawling with maggots. He sobbed into her bosom, each cry raw and desperate, ripped from his throat. The burial grounds echoed with his raspy, confused wails. At times they sounded human; at others they sounded like the howls of an orphaned pup.
"Mom… Mom! Someone, anyone… Help, come and bury me too!
Please, bury me too…"
In the blink of an eye, two decades had passed. Mo Ran returned to Linyi. He stood atop Rufeng Sect's most exquisite edifices; he stood before a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood. That tiny pup reeking of death was sleek and grown, baring a mouthful of fangs. When he opened his eyes again, they flashed with a manic light.
As he stood here today, who would dare tell him beggars can't be choosers? How absurd! He could choose—he could have—whatever he wanted! He would make all of them, all the inhabitants of the mortal realm, kneel before him. They would knock their heads against the ground and present to him any trifle he demanded. He would tread every cultivator underfoot and rule all under the sun.
He had entered the Hall of Sages and looked upon Nangong Changying. He was more certain than ever of his desires and ambitions— yes, he would grind them into the dirt, he would rule from on high. He would hold this world in the palm of his hand; he would have all on earth in his grasp. Never again would he be that child sobbing over a corpse. Never again would he allow his loved ones to die right in front of him, to rot and turn to bones and paste. Never.
A hundred years from now, he would be a god like Nangong Changying. The people would worship him, lifting their faces skyward as if looking out at a towering mountain. His form, too, would be carved of white jade, his words etched in gold.
No—he'd be more than Nangong Changying, better. His Sisheng Peak would outshine Rufeng Sect. And he—the first ruler of the cultivation world—would garner far more praise and adulation than this weak-minded hypocrite Nangong Changying.
He'd never believe Nangong Changying had no crimes to his name. How could the freak who had founded Rufeng Sect, of all things, possibly be a righteous, faultless gentleman? And his maxim—As a gentleman of Rufeng Sect, I mustn't indulge in greed, resentment, deception, slaughter,
obscenity, plunder, or conquest—what was so great about that? Anyone could learn to speak pretty words. Before his death, surely he, Mo Weiyu, could find someone to spit out some ingenious sayings worthy of the same breathless commendation. Some bootlicker to pen the scrolls of history to his liking, to expunge all the darkness from his past. After that, Emperor Taxian-jun would also be a brilliant ruler who held the welfare of the common people close to his heart, who took ultimate control in a single breathtaking move.
Wonderful. He couldn't think of a more fitting conclusion.
"As…a gentleman…of Rufeng Sect…I mustn't…indulge in…greed, resentment, deception, slaughter, obscenity, plunder, or conquest…"
The murmured words cut through the air like a thunderclap, yanking Mo Ran from his memories. But this reality, too, was a mess of sparking flames. Looking past the barrier, Mo Ran saw Nangong Changying, his chest pierced with an arrow Nangong Si had shot from the holy weapon Chuanyun. His face was identical to that old jade statue's.
"Nangong Si's been hurt so badly," someone exclaimed. "How did he manage to draw the bow?"
"Was Chuanyun prepared ahead of time?"
"Look—there's spiritual energy in the bow… It's not Nangong Si's!
It—it's…"
What it was, they never said, but everyone knew. It was Nangong Changying's spiritual energy. Only he could master the legendary bow Chuanyun. Its arrow was imbued with the last thread of spiritual energy Nangong Changying had left on this earth.
In an instant, flames blazed across Nangong Changying's chest. The inferno spread from where the arrow had landed next to his heart and rapidly swallowed his entire body. But a corpse felt no pain. Within those flames, his figure stood tall and proud, and his face was calm and composed, even peaceful.
Xue Zhengyong muttered beside Mo Ran, "He predicted this? He… He knew something like this would happen one day?"
No… He couldn't possibly have known. It was a coincidence, nothing more. Mo Ran trembled, pupils shrunk to pinpricks. It had to be a coincidence!
But could he really convince himself of this? Nangong Changying had thrown off the control of Zhenlong Chess. He had severed his own meridians. He had ordered Chuanyun not be buried with him—and there was the matter of the arrow imbued with his spiritual energy. All these painstaking details… This was not the work of blind chance.
Mo Ran took a few stumbling steps backward. He had thought they were the same. He'd thought all the world's legendary heroes merely possessed a pair of hands strong enough to blot out the light of truth. They had wiped away the trail of blood left behind in life and shrugged on a set of spotless burial clothes, presenting to posterity a pristine reputation. He'd thought Nangong Changying was no different from the Rufeng Sect Mo Ran had witnessed: a hollowed-out exterior, a beast wearing a human mask.
Had he gotten it wrong?
Mo Ran looked at Nangong Changying, consumed by the licking flames. Centuries ago, this cultivator had been like him—possessed of astonishing spiritual energy and fathomless talent.
Had he gotten it wrong?!
One's crimes were impossible to cover completely. No matter how grandiose the historical accounts, some blemishes would prove impossible to wipe clean, some gaps too deep to fill. Nangong Changying's legacy was one of great benevolence; he was known for neither seizing power nor ascending to immortality when both were within his reach. Mo Ran had assumed this tale was a fiction invented by a man at the height of his power.
Had he gotten it wrong…?
The truth could never stay buried. Just as a long winter's snow would eventually melt, endless expanses of white receding to expose the craggy landscape beneath, the truth would emerge, laying bare the filthy dirt of past misdeeds and exposing their perpetrators, hissing and screeching, to the naked light of day.
Had he…gotten it wrong…
Mo Ran slowly shook his head, staring at Nangong Changying, who now looked straight ahead. His eyes were hidden behind that dragon-embroidered ribbon. No one could see what emotions lay within, least of all Mo Ran.
He couldn't be sure. But to him, Nangong Changying looked as if he was smiling, his eyes creased with laughter beneath the ribbon. Those traces of mirth were undaunted by the flames, impossible to extinguish. He stood steadily in the center of that inferno, surrounded by blazing light.
Even a man like him wished for a moment of self-indulgence—to leave his broken body to rest among the green mountains and blue cypresses, among the heroes who came after him. After all, the mortal realm was lovely. Who would want to leave it? But leave he must, and thus he had made a plan long ago. He had severed his meridians and hidden his bow so no one could exploit his remains for evil. This world was so beautiful. The color of its flowers was enough; there was no need for the red of spilled blood.
"Sect Founder…" Nangong Si knelt on the ground, gripping the legendary bow Chuanyun. The firelight illuminated his youthful face and shone in the tear tracks upon it. "This descendant is unworthy…"
By now, Chuanyun's flames had reached the black Zhenlong chess piece within Nangong Changying. Hardly anything of him remained; his outline grew ever fainter within the fire. Finally his own master, Nangong Changying addressed Nangong Si: "How long has it been since the founding of Rufeng Sect?"
His body was but an empty shell, his souls long departed. Very little of his memories or awareness remained. He could only ask this one simple question.
Nangong Si didn't dare hesitate. "It's been four hundred and twenty- one years since Rufeng Sect was founded," he said thickly.
Nangong Changying tilted his head back, the corners of his mouth quirking up. "That's a very long time." His voice was distant, like a breeze brushing through the mountaintop trees and dispersing without a trace. "I hadn't thought it would last more than two hundred."
His words were low and gentle as they floated over the grass and leaves of Mount Jiao. "Everything in this world has its natural lifespan. When that time is up, no one can delay the end. Just as the young must succeed the aged, and the new must succeed the old. Used long enough,
anything will wear out and get dirty. It's a good thing if someone can let it go, throw it over. Don't blame yourself, Si-er."
Nangong Si's head jerked up. He'd lost too much blood, and his complexion was white as paper. "Sect Founder!" he cried, voice shaking.
"The legacy of Rufeng Sect isn't determined by how long the sect stands, or how many disciples it has." Nangong Changying's outline was nearly transparent, his voice fading to the barest hush. "It will live on as long as there are those who remember—as a gentleman of Rufeng Sect, I mustn't indulge in greed, resentment, deception, slaughter, obscenity, plunder, or conquest."
With a slight swish of his sleeves, the vegetation on Mount Jiao rustled. Vines snaked out of the ground and wrapped securely around the corpses that had previously struggled free, swallowing them fully back into the earth.
"As long as there are those who remember and live by these words, the torch will pass on."
Nangong Changying's form splintered in the flames, scattering into motes of red-gold light that drifted into the far reaches of the woods like summer fireflies. His words seemed to echo long after his remains were gone. Inside the barrier, Nangong Si was breathless with sobs. Outside, Ye Wangxi sank heavily to her knees. The rest of the crowd slowly followed suit.
They knelt to Nangong Changying, the greatest cultivator of his age—a hero in truth, in life and after death.