Twilight settled across the valley of the Myriad Spirit Safe hall in layers of velvet indigo and cool violet.
High upon the secluded northern porch behind the thousand-year spirit willow, the gentle mountain wind carried the fragrance of blooming night orchids and cooling cedar wood. Below the terrace, paper lanterns were being lit along the residential avenues. It cast warm amber squares upon the newly paved river-slate streets. The quiet hum of five thousand citizens settling into their evening routines—the faint clatter of wooden bowls, the distant murmur of mothers singing lullabies, and the steady, rhythmic splashing of the river water chutes—drifted up into the twilight like a song of peace.
Gu Qingfeng leaned back against a carved cedar pillar, his bare, calloused feet stretched comfortably across the smooth porch planks.
His ragged green daoist robe was loosely open at the throat. He exposed a chest crisscrossed with decades of faded white sword scars. His belly was pleasantly full of eight-hour red-braised spirit boar belly. The third flagon of Aged Jade-Dew Wine sat between his shins, three-quarters empty.
The old swordsman turned his cup in his hands. He watched the twin moons reflect upon the pale emerald surface of the wine. The sharp, restless edge that had defined his stance for three hundred years seemed to have fully softened into the grain of the wood.
“Three hundred years ago,” Gu Qingfeng said, his gravelly voice dropping into a quiet, shiny rumble, “I was the First Sword Disciple of the Heavenly Sword Manor. They called me the Seven-Star Prodigy. When I drew my blade, five hundred sect elders bowed their heads in respect. They gave me golden flying chariots, jade-bound scripture scrolls. A mountain peak of my own with forty servants to sweep my courtyard.”
Lin Xiao sat across from him on a plush silk cushion, holding a cup of hot peach-leaf tea. He listened quietly, nodding with respectful attention.
“They taught us that the Sword Dao was the highest law under heaven,” Gu Qingfeng continued. He took a slow, contemplative sip of wine. “They told us that mortals were merely weeds in the field, born to cultivate spirit stones for the sects. That beasts were monsters without souls, fit only to be butchered for inner cores. Then, during the Great Southern Leyline War, the Manor ordered my division to cleanse a mortal river valley. Why? Because the mortal farmers had built their rice paddies over a minor spirit spring. The sect elders wanted the spring to nourish their private lotus ponds.”
Gu Qingfeng’s knuckles whitened around his celadon cup.
“Eighty thousand innocent farmers,” Gu Qingfeng rasped, his eyes burning with ancient, bitter disgust. “They didn’t have swords. They had hoes, wooden waterwheels, and crying babies. The elders told me: ‘Sever their heads, Qingfeng. It’s the natural hierarchy of heaven and earth.’ That was the day I snapped my immortal sword across my knee. I threw the broken steel into the Grand Elder’s face, spat on the sect monument. Then he walked out the gates. For three hundred years, those hypocrites have painted me as an apostate lunatic, sending bounty hunters after my skin while hoarding every grain of spirit rice across five provinces.”
He looked over the porch railing, gazing down at the lantern-lit valley below.
Down in the residential quarter, an earth-bear blacksmith was gently carrying two sleeping human toddlers on his broad shoulders, escorting a tired mortal stonemason family back to their cottage. Near the communal granaries, four shadow wolves lay curled in the grass, wagging their tails as a badger apprentice tossed them chunks of roasted sweet potato. And far to the north, former demonic elder Han Gu was sitting peacefully on the steps of the agricultural barracks. It soaked his tired feet in a wooden bucket of warm springwater while humming an old mountain folk tune.
“For three hundred years,” Gu Qingfeng murmured, his voice softening with wonder, “I searched from the Eastern Ocean to the Western Deserts for a place that made sense. I found sects that preached righteousness while drowning cities in blood. I found demonic warlords who slaughtered for sport. I thought the entire world was rotten to the root. But here...”
The old swordsman pointed his wine cup toward the lantern-lit lanes.
“Here, the bears forge plows. The wolves guard the children. The demonic elder hoes turnips. And an Ancient Chaos Sovereign sits in gray scholar robes, pouring vintage wine for a dusty beggar.”
Gu Qingfeng set his cup down upon the sandalwood table with a firm, deliberate click.
He turned his body fully toward Lin Xiao, resting both hands upon his knees. His expression became intensely solemn, his back straightening with the dignified, unmoving majesty of an ancient mountain peak.
“Little Sovereign Lin,” Gu Qingfeng said. His voice carried the pure, unbending power of Peak Late Nascent Soul training. “Old Gu has no gold, no spirit stones, and no sect treasures. But my sword arm can still deflect heavenly lightning. My formless sword intent can bisect a mountain fleet before they clear the clouds. If you’ll permit this old drunkard a corner of your porch, two flagons of Jade-Dew wine a week. A bowl of that braised pork whenever the pot is simmering... I’ll swear an oath by my Sword Dao.”
Lin Xiao raised an eyebrow, curious. “What manner of oath, Senior?”
“I’ll serve as your Commonwealth’s Resident Martial Uncle and Chief Martial Teacher,” Gu Qingfeng proclaimed, his eyes shining like polished steel under the twin moons. “I’ll teach your wolves how to strike with the care of starlight. I’ll teach your bear smiths how to forge blades that never chip. I’ll train your young human and beast students to defend this valley with honor. And if any sanctimonious hypocrite from Heavenly Sword Manor or any butcher from the Blood Sea Sect dares approach your gates with weapons drawn... I’ll personally introduce their throats to my willow twig.”
“System check confirms total strategic victory, Host,” the Dao Spirit’s sweet-sounding voice echoed in Lin Xiao’s mindscape. “Gu Qingfeng’s martial reputation spans three hundred years. His formal swearing-in as Chief Martial Teacher elevates the Myriad Spirit Commonwealth’s defensive military index to land-wide superpower standing. Plus, his presence provides total deterrence against traditional sect incursions.”
Lin Xiao looked at the old swordsman, whose weathered face was filled with eager, hopeful excitement.
A wide, warm smile spread across Lin Xiao’s lips.
“It sounds like a marvelous arrangement, Senior Gu,” Lin Xiao said, refilling Gu Qingfeng’s wine cup to the brim. “Having an experienced martial teacher will do wonders for our young sentries. But before we shake hands, I have two non-negotiable conditions.”
Gu Qingfeng narrowed his eyes cautiously. “Conditions? Name them. But if you want my sword manual, I burnt it two hundred years ago.”
“Condition one,” Lin Xiao said. He pointed an index finger at the old man’s threadbare green robes with a light chuckle. “You must take a proper hot bath in the cedar tubs once a day. You smell like an unwashed river otter that spent three weeks trapped in a damp wine cellar. Our fox maidens have very sensitive noses, and hygiene is a core Commonwealth value.”
Gu Qingfeng blinked, then burst into a startled, coughing laugh. “A bath a day?! Boy, that isn’t a condition, that’s a luxury! I haven’t had a proper hot soak since the Great Drought of the Tiger Year!”
“And condition two,” Lin Xiao continued, raising a second finger. “No martial sparring or sword drills on an empty stomach. Breakfast congee is forced for all instructors and students. A sour stomach makes for sloppy swordwork.”
“Deal!” Gu Qingfeng bellowed, throwing his head back in booming, joyful laughter that startled the crickets in the bamboo thickets. He snatched his wine cup from the table, thrusting it forward into the air. “Daily hot springs, forced breakfast congee, and two flagons of peach nectar a week! From this day forth, Old Gu is your Resident Martial Uncle! To the Commonwealth!”
CLINK.
Lin Xiao brought his celadon cup against Gu Qingfeng’s with a crisp, clear chime.
The screen of hanging bamboo parted softly. Tie Shan and Su Ling’er stepped onto the porch. She carried a wooden tray and a freshly pressed bundle of clothes.
“Welcome to the family, Senior Martial Uncle,” Su Ling’er said with a graceful, respectful curtsy, setting down a pair of dark-blue teacher robes woven from durable mountain spirit-silk, complete with a clean linen sash and soft leather traveling slippers. “We took the liberty of preparing clean clothes for your bath tonight.”
Tie Shan grinned widely. His golden prosthetic arm shone in the moonlight as he peered at Gu Qingfeng’s willow twig. “If you ever want a proper flying sword forged, Uncle Gu, my fiery smelting kiln can temper star-bronze down to the thickness of a moth’s wing.”
Gu Qingfeng waved a shrugging hand, picking up his humble green willow twig and twirling it between his calloused fingers with a mischievous wink.
“Keep your heavy bronze, blacksmith,” Gu Qingfeng chuckled, taking another sip of wine. “A true sword doesn’t care about metal. A willow branch is twice as sharp as any righteous elder’s tongue. If it breaks, you can just pick another one off the tree. What matters is the man holding it—and whether he’s had a hot bath.”
Down on the porch steps, Xiao Hei let out a low, approving chuff, resting his heavy black snout on his paws as the four companions shared a bowl of sweet roasted persimmons and salted lotus seeds beneath the twin moons.
The Wandering Sword Saint had finally found his home.