The central plaza of Taichu Sanctuary Valley was filled with fifty thousand cultivators.
They stood in disciplined, concentric ranks across the broad stone terraces. Representatives from the thirty-six hidden cave-heavens and seventy-two blessed lands wore their traditional ceremonial robes. Deep indigo silk from Mount Wudang mingled with snow-white brocade from Mount Emei, emerald hemp from Mount Qingcheng, and dark violet damask from Zhongnan Mountain.
Floating lanterns illuminated the evening mist with warm amber light. The mountain breeze carried the rich aroma of roasted pine nuts, steaming herbal broths, and fresh scallions from the valley kitchens below.
For centuries, these thirty-six mountain sects had viewed one another with deep suspicion. Boundary disputes, secret spring water rights, and ancient family grudges had kept their swords sharp and their gates locked.
Yet today, they stood side by side without a single drawn blade.
Many of the younger disciples looked around in wide-eyed wonder. They gazed at the modern paved roads, the street lamps powered by clean spirit-converters, and the spotless public medical clinics where mortal doctors and cultivator herbalists worked together in clean white coats.
“Look at their apprentice barracks,” an Emei swordswoman whispered to her senior sister. “They have heated floors, individual reading desks, and indoor plumbing. Our sect master made us sleep on damp stone slabs for ten years because she said comfort ruined our Dao-hearts.”
