Deep beneath the highest cliff edge of the Heavenly Sword Range lay the Tomb of Nine Reflections—an underground quiet focus vault hollowed out from solid ice-slow granite. No sunlight reached these depths. Only the freezing gleam of glowing spirit crystals lit up the frozen water drops clinging to the vaulted ceiling.
At the center of the chamber, seated upon a frost-jade dais carved into the shape of a coiled dragon, an ancient figure sat motionless.
Grand Elder Xuan Ji opened his eyes.
A violent, rattling cough seized his chest, bending his spine double. He pressed a trembling, silk-sleeved fist to his mouth, shuddering as dark, clotted blood seeped between his wrinkled fingers. He drew his hand away. Then, the crimson stain was mottled with black, oily flecks of hardened fire melted rock waste.
“Fourteen years,” Xuan Ji rasped, his voice sounding like dry river gravel dragged across flint. “Fourteen short years before the Heavenly Dao reclaims this withered husk.”
He held up his right hand. The skin was paper-thin and liver-spotted, stretched taut over brittle bones. For two hundred years, Xuan Ji had stood at the total pinnacle of the Eastern Sector as a Peak Nascent Soul powerhouse. In his youth, his flying sword had cut mountain ridges and split through flood dragon dens. Yet despite consuming tens of thousands of high-grade spirit stones and hundreds of miraculous marrow-cleansing pills, his fifth try to step into the Soul Formation Realm had failed three nights ago.
His spirit veins were ruined. Decades of ingesting potent pills to force breakthrough bottlenecks had deposited lethal layers of dan du within his main channels, hardening them like stone-hard wood. Every breath flow of spiritual qi felt like shards of broken glass scraping through his veins.
Without a miraculous medicine capable of dissolving two hundred years of fire poison, his Nascent Soul would wither. He would rot in the earth like an ordinary mortal peasant.
The stone door of the quiet focus vault groaned open.
Deacon Zhao entered, bowing until his forehead scraped the frosted granite flags. In his outstretched hands, resting upon a padded velvet tray, was a solitary unglazed heavy clay jug sealed with red wax.
“Grand Elder,” Zhao stammered, his teeth chattering from the surrounding cold. “The council... The council sent me. We have got a sample of the substance causing the regional trade panic.”
Xuan Ji narrowed his hooded, cloudy eyes. “A trade panic? You disturb my secluded quiet focus over merchant ledgers, Zhao?”
“Forgive this junior, Grand Elder!” Zhao pleaded, shivering wildly. “This is no ordinary merchandise. It’s the liquor from the Grand Desolate Forest. The rogues call it Jade-Dew Wine. The apothecaries swear it purges meridional poison.”
At the word poison, Xuan Ji’s pupils squeezed tight. He extended two gnarled fingers. A strand of invisible sword-qi hooked around the vessel, lifting it smoothly through the air and depositing it onto his frost-jade dais.
With a flick of his fingernail, Xuan Ji shattered the wax seal and popped the wooden stopper.
The effect was instant.
A fragrant vapor billowed from the neck of the jug. It carried the scent of morning dew, crushed wild mint, first-flush mountain tea. The pure, uncorrupted life-force of ancient underground spring water. The stale, death-heavy air of the quiet focus crypt was swept away in a single breath.
Xuan Ji inhaled deeply. The vapor entered his nostrils, and a deep, cooling wave cascaded down his throat. The painful burning in his chest subsided slightly, as if cool mountain snow had been laid over raw burns.
“What’s this water...?” Xuan Ji muttered, his voice shaking with sudden, desperate hunger.
He tipped the heavy clay jug to his lips and swallowed a single mouthful.
The liquor was crisp, smooth, and shockingly light, tasting of sweet wild pears and autumn rain. But behind the delicate flavor lay a terrifyingly pure spiritual current. The liquid dissolved into millions of tiny droplets of Primordial Genesis water-qi. It surged through his ruined spirit veins. Then, the cool essence adhered to the black hardened pill melted rock waste, gently dissolving decades of toxic residue and carrying it harmlessly into his bloodstream.
Xuan Ji coughed once more—not with painful pain, but with relief—spitting out a mouthful of dissolved black venom.
His breathing steadied. The spiritual qi inside his dantian, stale for three decades, circulated a full rotation with never seen before smoothness.
Xuan Ji stared down at the half-empty jug, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum.
“It works,” he whispered, his eyes widening until red veins spiderwebbed across the whites. “It actually dissolves the fire melted rock waste! Just one sip restored three months of life! If I had ten jars... Twenty jars... An entire spring...”
A terrifying realization bloomed within the old elder’s mind. This liquor was not merely an alcoholic diversion. The water used to brew it possessed the legendary properties of Primordial Genesis dew. A divine liquid mentioned only in ancient myths, said to flow from the roots of the world tree.
If he could seize the source of this water, his hardened spirit veins would be cleansed fully. The barrier between Peak Nascent Soul and Soul Formation would crumble like dry sand. He would gain another thousand years of life. He climbed to become the supreme hegemon of the entire Eastern Continent!
“Zhao,” Xuan Ji said, his voice dropping into a deep-throated rumble.
“Y-yes, Grand Elder?”
“Where is the spring that yields this water?”
“The scouts tracked the merchant wagons to the heart of the Grand Desolate Forest, Grand Elder,” Zhao replied hastily. “A blue entity—a monstrous blob calling itself the Azure Sovereign—has gathered an army of five thousand beasts, mortal turncoats, and rogue smiths. They have built an unholy city atop the springhead.”
Xuan Ji’s expression hardened into a mask of righteous fury, beneath which lurked bottomless, starving greed.
“An monster,” Xuan Ji hissed, standing up from the jade dais. His golden daoist robes billowed outward as his Peak Nascent Soul aura erupted. It sent frost spiderwebbing across the granite walls. “A demonic beast occupying a divine heavenly spring, hoarding sky treasure while righteous immortals wither! What right does a disgusting puddle of slime have to touch the waters of longevity?!”
“Grand Elder... Should we send emissaries to negotiate a purchase?” Zhao asked slowly.
“Negotiate?!” Xuan Ji rounded on the deacon, his aura slamming Zhao against the stone floor. “Negotiate with demonic vermin? Have you lost your old family wits?! If we purchase from them, the entire world will know the Heavenly Sword Manor relies on beast swill! The market will remain in their hands! No... Heaven has delivered this opportunity into my grasp.”
Xuan Ji walked toward the vault exit, each step streaming choking murder intent.
“The Desolate Forest is an unholy den of depravity,” Xuan Ji declared, his voice booming through the underground halls. “That blue monster is enslaving mortal artisans and corrupting the human soul with intoxicating demonic venom. As the vanguard of the righteous path, it’s our sacred duty to exterminate the beast horde, raze their blasphemous city, and reclaim the springhead under traditional governance!”
“Summon the grand heralds!” Xuan Ji roared, his eyes burning with fanatical ambition. “Draft a world-ending righteous edict to the Five Great Sects! Call upon Crimson Flame Pavilion, Pure Lotus Abbey, Azure Cloud Sect, and Mystic Magic charm Hall! We shall assemble thirty thousand swords and march upon the Grand Defile! In the name of the Heavenly Dao, the Desolate Forest shall be cleansed in blood!”
---
Four hundred li away, clueless to the crusade being declared against him, Lin Xiao was standing inside the safe hall’s communal brewery, humming a cheerful tune.
Having shifted into his eighteen-year-old human scholar form to reach the raised stirring paddles, Lin Xiao wore loose azure linen robes with the sleeves tied back with hemp cords. Beside him, Su Ling’er stood gracefully, her nine fluffy white tails swishing gently as she checked the hydrometer floats in a row of massive cedar fermentation vats.
“Master,” Su Ling’er said, her fox ears twitching as she inhaled the sweet aroma. “The fourteenth batch of winter-sweet mash has completed its main yeast fermentation. But the acidity is slightly higher than usual. The mountain mint we picked from the eastern ridge seems more potent this season.”
Lin Xiao reached down and dipped a wooden ladle into the vat, scooping up a cup of pale, cloudy liquid. He took a sip, rolling it across his tongue with thoughtful concentration.
“It’s not bad,” Lin Xiao said, smacking his lips. “It has a sharp kick at the front, but the finish is crisp. In my last life, craft brewers would pay a fortune for this kind of natural citrus-mint profile. Still, for everyday drinking, folks prefer something smoother that doesn’t tingle their gums.”
He extended a slender hand over the vat. Transmuting his palm into his native azure fluid, he allowed a gentle stream of purified ancient spring water to trickle down into the mash. He modulated the internal moisture balance, using his innate fluid power to soothe the sharp acid notes and coax the delicate pear sweetness to the surface.
“There,” Lin Xiao said. He pulled his hand back and letting his skin solidify into smooth mortal flesh. “That should settle nicely. Two more days of cellar aging, and it will taste like a crisp autumn morning.”
Su Ling’er ladled a small sip, tasting it with delicate appreciation. Her crimson eyes lit up with delight. “It’s perfect, Master. You always know the exact balance. The mortal weavers in the lower village have already asked for five barrels to celebrate the autumn harvest festival next week.”
“Tell them they can have ten barrels,” Lin Xiao said with a warm chuckle. He wiped his hands on a clean linen towel. “Harvest festivals are meant for drinking good wine and eating roast pork buns until you can’t walk straight. What’s the point of working hard all season if you can’t sit around with your neighbors and enjoy the fruits of your labor?”
He walked to the brewery doorway. He leaned against the polished cedar doorframe to look out over the sun-drenched valley.
Down in the square, Old Man Tie was laughing boisterously as he showed a newly forged plow to three mortal farmers. A group of young shadow hounds were playing tag around the irrigation water chutes, their glossy black coats shining under the golden light. Everything was peaceful, industrious, and sweet.
“Life is pretty good here,” Lin Xiao thought, watching a pair of swallows build a nest under the brewery roof edges. “No spreadsheets, no corporate budgets, no angry delivery drivers yelling about highway detours. Just good wine, good friends, and clean air.”
Little did he know that atop the jagged crags of the Heavenly Sword Range, sixty righteous elders were already sharpening thirty thousand flying swords, determined to turn his peaceful autumn harvest into an ash-choked sea of blood.