The crackle of the hearth fire died down to glowing crimson embers, casting long, dancing shadows across the polished cedar floorboards of the council hall. Outside, the night wind whispered through the bamboo grove. It carried the distant, crisp scent of approaching snow from the mountain ridges.
Sword Saint Gu Qingfeng leaned his head back against the heavy timber pillar, uncorking his chipped baked-clay gourd. He tilted his throat and took a long, noisy swig of aged spirit wine. He wiped his dripping gray beard with the frayed hem of his patched green daoist robes.
A dry, raspy chuckle broke from his throat.
“Xuan Ji,” Gu Qingfeng murmured, rolling the name across his tongue as if tasting a rotten plum. “That sanctimonious old dog is still drawing breath? Two hundred years ago, when we were both core students roaming the Central Plains, he stole his own junior brother’s foundation-cleansing lotus during a secret realm trial and claimed the boy fell into a deep gap. Now he wears golden ermine robes, sits on a flying chariot, and calls himself the grand judge of the Heavenly Dao? What a total, pure farce.”
Patriarch Lu Feng glanced nervously at the disheveled old man. Despite knowing Gu Qingfeng’s legendary reputation, hearing the most revered grand elder of the Heavenly Sword Manor spoken of with such casual contempt made his mortal merchant instincts twitch with anxiety.
“Senior Gu,” Lu Feng said cautiously, keeping his hands tucked inside his wool blanket. “Grand Elder Xuan Ji has reached the total peak of the Nascent Soul Realm. His training is within half a step of the mythical Soul Formation stage. In the Eastern Sector, his words are treated like divine scripture. Even royal governors bow when his flying galleon passes overhead.”
“They bow because they fear his steel, not because they respect his virtue,” Gu Qingfeng spat. He leaned forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His cloudy, bloodshot eyes suddenly sharpened into twin beams of cold, piercing starlight that made Lu Feng’s breath catch in his throat.
“Let this old drunkard tell you how the righteous sects operate, merchant,” Gu Qingfeng said. His voice dropped into a low, measured growl that seemed to vibrate the very air in the pavilion. “For five thousand years, the traditional sects have told the mortals of this continent a grand, convenient lie. They tell you that without their flying swords, the demonic beasts would devour your villages. They tell you that without their marrow-cleansing pills, your sons and daughters could never touch the immortal path. They set the price of a single spirit pill at twenty silver coins, forcing mortal families into debt bondage for ages just to buy medicine for an ailing elder.”
Gu Qingfeng pointed a calloused, crooked finger toward the window. He marked the peaceful streets of the Myriad Spirit Safe hall outside.
“And then you arrive,” Gu Qingfeng continued, turning his gaze toward Lin Xiao. “A blue blob that drops from the clouds. You build homes where humans and beasts share a hearth. You brew wine that dissolves meridional poison for twelve copper coins. You build public water chutes so mortal farmers don’t have to carry buckets up mountain cliffs. You have proven that mortals, beasts, and spirits don’t need grandmasters, sect levies, or golden banners to live in dignity.”
The old Sword Saint took another slow, deliberate sip from his gourd.
“That’s why Xuan Ji mobilized thirty thousand swords, Little Sect Master,” Gu Qingfeng said, his tone softening into something resembling bitter admiration. “It’s not because he fears your fangs. It’s because he fears your grain. He fears your wine. He fears that if the world sees a beast and a mortal sitting together eating dumplings in peace, the entire fraudulent temple of traditional supremacy will come crashing down into the dust.”
Lin Xiao, sitting calmly in his human scholar avatar in azure linen robes, listened quietly. He looked down at the pale green tea in his fine china cup. He watched a single tea leaf float in gentle circles.
“It sounds exhausting,” Lin Xiao sighed softly, shaking his head. “Building entire empires just to keep people afraid and poor. In my last life, we had monopolistic shipping syndicates that tried the same trick—hoarding warehouse space and charging five times the freight rate during harvest season. You know what happened to them?”
“What happened to them, Master?” Su Ling’er asked, her fox ears perking with genuine curiosity.
“A bunch of independent truckers formed a cooperative, pooled their fuel costs, published open freight manifests on the community board, and drove the syndicates out of business in eighteen months,” Lin Xiao replied with a relaxed grin. “People want fairness. They want affordable food, reliable medicine, and honest neighbors. Xuan Ji can shout about demonic heresies all he wants. But he can’t stop folks from wanting a better life.”
Gu Qingfeng stared at Lin Xiao for several heartbeats. Then, the old man burst into a fit of coughing, wheezing laughter that echoed off the high cedar rafters.
“Independent truckers! Ha! I have no idea what a trucker is, but by heaven, your mouth is sharper than any divine blade forged in the nine peaks!”
Gu Qingfeng pushed himself up from the floor, his joints popping with a series of dull clicks. He stepped out onto the open, moonlit porch that overlooked the calm lake.
At the edge of the terrace grew an ancient weeping willow, its slender, pliable green branches trailing down to touch the calm surface of the spring water. Gu Qingfeng reached out with two calloused fingers, casually snapping off a fresh green twig roughly thirty inches long and no thicker than a chopstick.
He brought the twig to his thumb, stripping away two small leaves with a soft zip, leaving a handful of feathery green sprouts clinging to the tip. He held the twig loosely in his right hand, giving it a gentle, rhythmic flick against the night air.
The supple wood bowed and sprang back with a faint, musical hum that sent subtle ripples across the surface of the pond, perfectly reflecting the silver light of the twin moons.
Gu Qingfeng turned back toward the warm light of the pavilion, a fierce, wicked grin spreading across his leathery face.
“Little Sect Master,” the Sword Saint said. His voice carrying the was calm, total power of an immortal who had walked through the valley of ten thousand blades and found them lacking. “Leave the vanguard of Heavenly Sword Manor to this old wanderer. Eighty years ago, I threw my sect token into their sacred lotus pool and told the Grand Council their Dao was rotten to the marrow. Tomorrow morning, those arrogant whelps will march into our defile believing they’re the undisputed kings of the sword.”
He raised the flimsy willow twig. He held it before his chest in a standard introductory salute.
“With this green twig,” Gu Qingfeng murmured, his eyes glowing with an ancient, terrifying clarity, “I’ll teach three thousand Heavenly Sword students the difference between brandishing a piece of refined steel... And truly touching the Formless Dao.”
Lin Xiao blinked, looking from the flimsy willow twig in Gu Qingfeng’s hand to the old man’s frayed daoist robes.
“Old Gu,” Lin Xiao said. His tone carried the careful, protective concern of an older brother watching a toddler play with a stick in the backyard. “A willow branch? Are you sure? Those students have flying swords made of hardened cold-iron. If you poke someone in the eye with that, you might get a splinter.”
“A splinter!” Gu Qingfeng threw his head back and laughed until tears formed in his watery old eyes. “Sect Master Lin, you truly have no concept of your own magnificence! In your eyes, this old man is just a beggar with a stick. In my eyes, thirty thousand flying swords are just noisy mosquitoes buzzing on a summer night!”
“Well, just be careful,” Lin Xiao insisted. He rose from his seat and walking to the threshold. “Don’t go breaking your back trying to show off for the kids. And here—”
Lin Xiao pulled a double-walled brass empty pocket flask from his storage space. He handed it to the old Sword Saint. “I brewed some roasted barley tea with dried ginger and a spoonful of wild clover honey. It gets chilly on the ridge before dawn. Take a few sips if your throat feels dry, and don’t drink wine on an empty stomach.”
Gu Qingfeng looked down at the warm brass flask in his hands. He felt the heat streaming through the metal casing into his calloused palm.
For a moment, the mockery and arrogance vanished from the Sword Saint’s weathered face. He looked at the slender youth before him. An ancient entity capable of devouring ancient demon artifacts, who cared more about whether an old drunkard had warm ginger tea than whether thirty thousand swords were dropping upon his throat.
Gu Qingfeng lowered his head in a rare, solemn bow, slipping the flask into the wide sleeve of his patched robe.
“Understood, Sect Master,” Gu Qingfeng whispered, his voice steady and sincere. “This old wanderer won’t let a single blade touch your clover.”