Chapter Eighty-One: The Boat on the River Sways

At the break of dawn, the grand ceremony of the Returning Clouds Immortal Sect commenced in full splendor. Countless disciples and elders from the sect gathered upon a vast square, leaving the rest of the grounds unusually desolate, save for a few scattered disciples patrolling the area.

Shen Yu strolled leisurely along the broad avenue of the Returning Clouds Immortal Sect, his demeanor unhurried and carefree. The bounty that the sect had issued across the Eastern Ancestral State now seemed little more than a grand farce.

Winter had already passed its zenith, and delicate snowflakes drifted down from the pale sky. Awaiting him along a secluded path stood a young woman in green, her features refined and clear. Though her face showed no emotion, a natural air of pride clung to her like a veil.

At last, the two walked side by side. The night before, before they struck their bargain, Shen Yu had made a single request: that she take him to the place where the sect’s guardian beast dwelled. This, too, was one of his purposes for coming.

Patrolling disciples, wary upon spotting an unfamiliar man, immediately softened their scrutiny when they saw the woman in green at his side.

Yun Qing stared straight ahead. “Our sect’s guardian beast prefers solitude. I do not know what you intend, but you are unlikely to get what you seek.”

Shen Yu shook his head, replying, “It doesn’t matter.”

The Returning Clouds Immortal Sect sprawled vast and wide, layered with countless formations and prohibitions. Fortunately, with Yun Qing leading the way, they avoided unnecessary trouble.

Their journey ended at an ancient pavilion, worn by the passage of years. Here, an indifferent gaze swept over Shen Yu and lingered briefly. Looking up, Shen Yu saw a middle-aged man clad in a blue robe, temples streaked with gray, his expression serene.

For once, Yun Qing—usually proud and aloof—bowed deeply in respect.

The man stood upon the pavilion’s balcony, a faint smile in his eyes as he nodded slightly.

“I will wait for you here,” Yun Qing said softly.

Shen Yu glanced at the man above. The latter smiled and remarked, “Indeed, untainted by the breath of the mundane world.”

Shen Yu considered this, then nodded slightly and continued on.

The path ahead narrowed, sheer cliffs rising on either side, twisting and winding, leading deeper into seclusion. Shen Yu walked for a long time. Rounding a final bend, the view suddenly opened up.

A vast plain stretched before him, impossible to see its end. Upon it, a colossal stone Buddha sat cross-legged, towering into the sky. The Buddha’s visage radiated compassion, its legs rooted to the earth, its head lost among the clouds, as if it alone filled the heavens and earth.

Shen Yu’s gaze was calm as he slowly lifted his eyes to where the Buddha’s hands were pressed together in prayer.

There, nestled between the great palms, sat a small, furry creature—neither tall nor imposing, nothing more than a black speck from a distance.

It was, unmistakably, a monkey.

Around its neck hung a string of prayer beads. Mimicking the statue’s posture, it sat cross-legged, hands pressed together, its little face solemn.

Shen Yu raised an eyebrow. That such a great Daoist sect would have a guardian beast devoted to Buddhist ways was already an intriguing oddity. Yet that was not what truly caught his attention.

What mattered more was the boundless vitality within the little monkey, surging like rivers and seas, without the slightest sign of age or decay. It was hard to believe this creature had survived three millennia.

As Shen Yu studied it, the monkey vanished from between the Buddha’s hands.

The next instant, Shen Yu glanced down—the guardian beast stood before him.

Its eyes were filled with curiosity and a trace of doubt.

…

Once Shen Yu had disappeared down the path, Yun Qing entered the spacious pavilion nearby.

The room was filled with the scent of old books, distinct from the spiritual energy that permeated the sect. Bookshelves lined the walls, ancient tomes stacked neatly, dustless despite their age.

Without hesitation, Yun Qing ascended to the top floor, where the middle-aged man stood, hands clasped behind his back, gazing at the distant mountains and rivers. Wisps of tea steam curled from the table beside him, and scattered chess pieces lay artfully arranged upon a board.

“Uncle Jiang,” Yun Qing said quietly.

He turned, the breeze ruffling his robe; a smile played at his lips, a charm that could leave even the most composed woman spellbound.

“He is the one you chose? I think I have seen him before,” he said with a gentle laugh.

Yun Qing’s deference was unusual. She nodded. “He is the man upon whom the bounty was placed. His name is Shen Yu.”

The man’s eyelids lifted in mild surprise. “The Shen Yu from the Daoist Sect?”

“Yes.”

“It seems our sect is finally due for some hardship.”

The scholar sighed, then, as if sensing something, a ripple of invisible force swept over the pavilion.

From within, the outside world was laid bare; from without, not a trace of life could be seen.

In the space of a few breaths, a shadow—vague and insubstantial—flitted past the window, crossing hundreds of yards in the blink of an eye.

The man watched in silence, then spoke. “You are serious this time?”

Yun Qing’s answer was calm. “Since the day I began my cultivation, my only goal has been to live free from anyone’s control. If even the Daoist Sect’s chief disciple cannot help me now…”

For the first time, confusion flickered in her eyes, but it swiftly vanished, replaced by resolute determination. “Then I would rather perish than be caged.”

His tone gentle, the man asked, “Is it not all happening too fast?”

“Uncle, do you know why I still stand here today?”

She gazed into the distance, a cold smile curling her lip. “This time is not like the threats and temptations of the past. A few days ago, my master finally revealed his true intentions—he wants me to become his dual-cultivation vessel. If I refuse, I will not be allowed to attend the Academy.”

Her smile grew mocking and cold. “I was not surprised; I had long since seen through him. I pretended to agree, promising to fulfill his wishes after the ceremony. Then I went to the sect leader. Uncle, do you know what happened?”

Her hands clenched into fists, her voice icy. “They are all the same. Ximen Guan covets my body, and that decrepit old man is worse—he would steal my fate, asked if I was still a maiden, even offered to adopt me as his foster daughter. How do such sanctimonious men dare call themselves leaders of great sects? Now I know: if I do not fight back, I will never have another chance.”

From childhood, Yun Qing had been hailed as a cultivation prodigy, destined for immortality as a disciple of one of the most prestigious sects in the world. To outsiders, her path seemed smooth and blessed. But who could know the intrigue and filth she had endured along the way?

The master she once revered above all, the sect leader she’d believed an immortal sage—both had long hungered for her body. How bitterly ironic.

The gray-templed man’s eyes were filled with sympathy. “You have faced hardship since birth. But if you can endure, there will be one who helps you find freedom.”

Yun Qing sighed and lowered her gaze, a bitter smile upon her lips.

Had anyone else spoken such words, she might have beaten them half to death in a good mood, or crippled them outright in a bad. But this man was different—the only one in the entire sect she truly trusted and admired.

He suddenly asked, “You want Shen Yu to deal with Ximen Guan? What if he fails?”

She nodded. “That is the agreement between us. If he dies, no one will know the truth. After all, he himself sent word to Ximen Guan. Ximen Guan adored Yang Yiqing above all, so he will surely come seeking revenge for his disciple.”

The man said nothing.

Suddenly uneasy, Yun Qing asked, “Uncle, am I… too cold-hearted?”

“No. You have done more than enough.”

He smiled kindly, continuing, “I am merely a bookish scholar, perhaps too pedantic for my own good. Do not concern yourself. As the ancients say, only the drinker knows if the water is hot or cold—outsiders see only the surface, never the truth beneath. In this, you surpass me.”

Yun Qing bowed respectfully. “I would not dare.”

She spoke these words with utmost sincerity.

Among Confucian cultivators—especially the disciples of the Academy—status was not measured by power, but by the heart and its clarity. Thus, divisions of cultivation among them were far less complex than among Daoists, swordsmen, or martial artists.

Above the third realm was the Sage’s Realm, attained by those who had achieved the Three Pillars of Confucian accomplishment, just a step from true sainthood.

Long ago, an unremarkable scholar of the Returning Clouds Immortal Sect labored for decades in obscurity, his learning deep as an ocean. Then, in the span of nine days, he broke through several realms in succession, stepping into the Sage’s Realm and becoming one of the most powerful cultivators in the world.

On that day, storm clouds gathered atop the mountain, thunder roared, and lightning flashed. Only a scholar in a Confucian robe stood at the summit, reading aloud the classics with measured, unhurried grace.

Each word and phrase overflowed with elegance and spirit.

His name was a poem in itself: Jiang Zhouyao.

The very man standing before her now.

…

Elsewhere, far from the pavilion.

Shen Yu turned, glancing back.

Behind him, as if conjured from thin air, stood an imposing old man.

Ximen Guan said coldly, “So you are the one who crippled my disciple?”