Dawn broke over the mist-covered peaks of Mount Qingcheng. The twin rotors of the Taichu heavy executive helicopter cut through the cool mountain air, casting long shadows across the terraced green tea fields below.
Sitting beside the cabin window, Chu Lingxiao looked down at the river valley. The rushing waters of the Min River glittered like melted silver in the morning light. Along the riverbank, the newly reinforced granite dykes built by the eighty-five Sichuan stonemasons stood firm and steady against the rushing current.
“When I was nine years old, my master brought me down to this valley,” Chu Lingxiao whispered softly. Her fingertips lightly touched the cold window glass. “She told me that cultivators who isolate themselves on mountain peaks often forget where their food comes from. Every grain of rice that nourished our meridians was planted by the calloused hands of these mortal villagers.”
She lowered her gaze, her expression tinged with sorrow.
“When the flood hit three months ago, the Outer-Sect Elders claimed that mortals were mere dust in the river of time,” she continued. “They drank thousand-year immortal wine in their heated pavilions while children clung to floating roof tiles. I knew then that true immortality had died on Mount Qingcheng.”
