The mountains encircling the Soul-Suppressing Alliance were linked like the fingers of a vast stone hand. Each peak rose from the earth with its own bearing and aura, yet together they formed a single formidable bastion. Traveling from the eastern slopes to the north required no descent to the valleys below—ridges and winding paths allowed one to pass directly from one sacred ground to another.
Gene, still fresh in his duties within the stables, found his curiosity piqued by something most unusual: the three-legged golden toad he had glimpsed earlier, lazing upon a slab of white stone. Its bulging eyes and warty body did not belong to any mount he had ever imagined, yet the beast was revered among the disciples as the companion of a powerful master.
Unable to contain his intrigue, Gene finally asked the ever-talkative Old Wang about it.
The elder stablehand, who delighted in dangling secrets before revealing them, at first refused to answer. He squinted, puffed his pipe, and let Gene's impatience mount. Only after savoring the moment did he finally explain, lowering his voice as though speaking of a legend.
"That toad, boy, is no ordinary swamp creature. It is a child of fortune born in the Moon-Palace Mountains of the northeast, a natural spirit beast wrought by heaven and earth. It drinks the essence of the moon and devours the breath of clouds. Don't let its ugly hide deceive you—it can soar into the heavens and vanish into the earth itself. Laughter Thunder, that eccentric swan-spirit, spent years hunting it down before taming it as his steed."
Gene blinked in disbelief. "So it really can fly?"
Old Wang chuckled, calling the beast's master by his favorite nickname. "The 'old bird'? Aye. And don't think I'm jesting when I call him that. You see, that so-called Laughter Thunder True Person is no man at all, but a swan that attained the Dao through centuries of cultivation. That is the way of the Intercepting Sect—no barrier of species or blood. Their Patriarch, the Supreme Lord of Numinous Treasure, accepts all under heaven. Thus, their disciples are a motley band: humans, beasts, spirits, and stranger things besides."
The revelation startled Gene, though it explained much about the sect's reputation for wildness and unpredictability. He found himself liking Old Wang even more—his tongue was as loose as his heart was light.
As they walked, the old man continued, ever eager to lecture.
"The Soul-Suppressing Alliance is held together by five great sects, each as different as the winds. The Flame-Arrow Sect is the backbone—warriors of chivalry, loyal to kin and kingdom. Their ways are steeped in Confucian duty: righteousness, filial piety, justice.
"The Intercepting Sect and the Explaining Sect, by contrast, are wanderers beyond the dust of the mortal world. They meddle little in worldly affairs, save when called to contain threats such as the fallen saint Tianzhu. Though both descend from the Dao, their temperaments diverge like fire and ice. The Intercepting Sect laughs loud, acts on impulse, cares little for rules. The Explaining Sect stands for constancy, discipline, truth. Their disciples rarely leave their cloisters—few even among the Alliance ever see them face to face."
Old Wang puffed his pipe and wagged his finger.
"Between these extremes stand the other two. The Cloudshade Sect drifts in twilight, not fully worldly, not wholly apart. Their leader, Sima Red-Sleeve, is a woman of unmatched talent. Her sect is almost entirely female, masters of yin energy and the arts of the moon. Beauty and deadly skill walk hand in hand in their ranks.
"And lastly, the Shendao Sect, led by the elder Zhu Yunping. A hundred years has not dimmed his vigor, for he wields the Vast Heaven Divine Art at its pinnacle. Their numbers are second only to the Flame-Arrow Sect, and their influence is heavy indeed."
By the time his litany ended, the two men had arrived at North Mountain.
Here the air grew hushed. The Explaining Sect had made this peak their refuge, and the place bore the weight of silence. Unlike the chaotic menagerie of the Intercepting Sect, the disciples of the Explaining Sect kept only one kind of steed: the snow-white crane. Hundreds of them stood among the trees or perched upon crafted pavilions, each bird pure as jade, not a single feather marred by color.
Even Old Wang lowered his voice, gesturing reverently.
"Mark this well. Their masters demand stillness. Their cranes are fed on water grasses, arrowhead roots, and twice each month, fresh river snails. Clean their sheds, keep the air pure. And never disturb their quiet."
Gene nodded. The solemnity of the place weighed on him like a cathedral. After only a short while, he found the silence pressing on his chest, and he welcomed their departure for West Mountain.
Once they descended from North Mountain, Old Wang's voice rose again, boisterous as ever. He waved a gnarled hand, pointing at the surrounding peaks.
"See how the five sects ring this valley? Flame-Arrow at the center, rightful as the heart. To the east, the Intercepting Sect, for the sun rises there, bold and bright. To the north, the Explaining Sect, for the north is sovereign, lofty and austere. To the west, the Cloudshade women, for west is yin, the realm of moon and female grace. To the south, Shendao, for south is yang, blazing with righteous fire. Everything in balance."
Gene eyed him skeptically. "Old Wang, how do you know everything?"
The old man's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Did I not tell you? I am no common stablehand. I am a peerless master, hidden from sight, unmatched under heaven. I simply choose not to flaunt it."
Gene's expression betrayed doubt—and faint disgust. True strength was never announced with such volume.
West Mountain soon rose before them, and as they climbed, the air changed. Here lingered scents of flowers, faint traces of perfume. Though the Cloudshade Sect trained diligently, they remained women, and their halls reflected their touch—no harsh austerity, but grace, fragrance, and warmth.
As they neared the upper terraces, Gene caught Old Wang's gaze wandering upward. The old man was staring quite openly at the female disciples hanging robes and bedding in the morning sun.
"Hey! Eyes down," Gene hissed. "It is not proper."
"They're clothed, aren't they?" Old Wang snorted. "What harm in looking?"
"And if they take offense?"
The elder scoffed. "Offense? Bah. When I was young, these plain faces would not have turned my head."
The women, attuned with sharp senses, heard his words. Several turned with frowns of disdain, catching sight of the leering old man. He only grinned and waved as though greeting neighbors.
Gene sighed. "I'd wager few people in this Alliance like you much."
"Wrong again, boy!" Old Wang said with delight. "Any who keep mounts hold me dear. And you—yes, you and I are fated. Why not bow and call me master? You serve me till I'm gone, and I'll pass all my arts to you."
"Stop, stop! Who's calling you grandfather? And I've no wish to play the doctor—especially not a beast doctor."
"I can heal men as well," Old Wang protested.
Before Gene could answer, sharp whistles cut through the air. From the groves, great birds launched skyward, their wings beating the wind. Several female cultivators descended in flowing robes, alighting upon their mounts with effortless grace. In moments, they were streaking southward like arrows of silk.
Both men watched, and though Gene tried to maintain composure, he too could not help but notice the fleeting glimpse of fair skin beneath thin summer garments.
Old Wang wiped drool from his lip. "In such a rush… wonder what calls them."
Gene shot him a sidelong look. "Do you often come here?"
"Now and then. Someone must tend their mounts, after all. But mark this: only stablehands are permitted. Male disciples of other sects may not set foot here."
Gene urged him forward. "Enough gawking. South Mountain awaits."
But Old Wang's eyes had already caught something fluttering pink among the grass. He stooped, picked it up, and grinned devilishly—it was a woman's undergarment, blown astray by the wind.
Before Gene could protest, the old fool marched off, claiming to return it. The scolding he received from the disciples echoed down the path.
When he returned, sheepish yet smiling, Gene shook his head in despair. "Old Wang, you are no good man."
The elder's grin widened. "Did I ever claim to be? I said I was a master. Never said I was virtuous."