The two men looked at each other, shock mirrored in their eyes.
“Let me get this straight.” Mu Gesheng raised a hand, cutting off whatever Chai Shuxin was about to say. “We came to the Mirage to retrieve the Pan Geng Oracle Bones. The method to enter the top floor was told to you by Lao Er, and the way to open the door was also told to you by Lao Er—yet after we step inside, what we see is Shifu’s memory.”
Was this a coincidence, or was it a deliberate design?
“The possibility of it being a coincidence is slim,” Mu Gesheng continued to himself. “It’s most likely Lao Er’s doing. But why would he have Shifu’s memory?”
The answer was obvious: the Master of the Ginkgo Archive had instructed him to do so.
“Then Lao Er probably watched this memory himself,” Mu Gesheng murmured.
Given Song Wentong’s personality, even if the Master had told him not to look, he would have certainly pried into it. And after seeing it, he chose to seal this memory within the ancestral resting place of the Pan Geng Oracle Bones.
It was as if he had planned for the two of them to come here years later and open it once more.
In Mu Gesheng’s impression, Song Wentong was the most carefree person in the Ginkgo Archive. No matter how the world turned upside down, he lived a life as long as the southern mountains, finally passing away with a clean break, leaving others with the trouble of sweeping his grave.
It was hard to imagine that many years ago, he had left a memory here and remained silent about it until his death.
This clearly wasn't Song Wentong’s usual style. If it were just a simple memory, he would have excitedly shared it with everyone so they could all enjoy their master’s old scandals together.
But he hadn't. Instead, he had solemnly sealed it in the ancestral grounds, told Chai Shuxin the method to open the door, and even renovated the Mirage to pave the way for their arrival.
This was clearly a setup—one devised by the Master of the Ginkgo Archive many, many years ago, passed on through Song Wentong, and finally delivered into their hands across the span of ages.
“I have a bad feeling about this.” Mu Gesheng rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Usually, Shifu says what’s on his mind. Taking such a long, winding path to get a message to us never bodes well.”
Chai Shuxin gave a low hum of agreement. “Do you want to keep watching? If not, I can break this illusion.”
“Of course I want to watch,” Mu Gesheng pulled himself together. “We’re already here.”
Despite living together day and night, they truly knew nothing of their Master’s past. They never would have guessed he actually hailed from Penglai.
“The relationships between the Seven Houses are truly a tangled mess,” Mu Gesheng shook his head, then smiled. “Though, I’ve been curious about Shifu’s real age for a long time.”
“Since we have this chance, I have to see if he’s just an old man pretending to be young.”
Chai Shuxin remarked, “You are one now, too.”
Mu Gesheng replied, “Takes one to know one.”
Mo Qingbei entered Penglai at the age of eight and won the top rank in the Trial of Swords at twenty.
When the current Sect Leader of Penglai spoke of this disciple, he offered only four words: *A talent that eclipsed his generation.*
According to Penglai’s rules, the winner of the Trial of Swords was granted a rare exception: one night in the Sutra Library.
Penglai’s collection of books was as vast as the sea, containing the world’s ultimate techniques, unknown secret arts, and ancient truths buried in history. For five watches of the night, the one who entered could read anything. In other words, for those ten hours, he possessed the entire mortal realm.
The Sutra Library opened only once every ten years, and those who entered were always the most peerless geniuses of their time.
—And Mo Qingbei was the sole exception.
On that day, this genius carried a wine flagon and swaggered into the Sutra Library. Before the five watches were up, he was thrown out along with his flagon, dead drunk. He sprawled on the green stone steps and slept until dawn.
When he woke, the young man, still smelling of wine, wiped his mouth, refilled his flagon, and rode away on a green ox.
He left the mountain just like that.
At noon that day, news spread through Penglai: Mo Qingbei, a disciple under the Sect Leader’s personal tutelage, was expelled from the sect.
His cultivation was stripped, and he was sent to wander the mortal world.
Years passed in a flash, winters turned to spring, and much time flowed by.
The young man’s elegance did not fade. He changed his appearance several times, wandering the martial world and occasionally taking an interest in the imperial court. Among the three religions and nine schools, among scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants—he was the man lying on an ox cart soaking up the sun with a straw in his mouth; he was also the one discussing swordsmanship amidst the misty rain, or leaning against the railings of the pleasure quarters, debating national affairs with a brilliance that startled princes. He was a commoner with the soul of a statesman.
When sorrowful, he played the flute; when wild, he drew his sword. He was less like a banished immortal and more like a guest of the red dust.
Mu Gesheng sat in a tavern cracking melon seeds, watching and asking, “Which lover is this for Shifu now?”
Chai Shuxin poured a cup of tea. “I’ve lost count.”
“To think even you’ve lost count.” Mu Gesheng shook his head repeatedly, brushing the crumbs off his hands. “Shifu’s journey down the mountain... if nothing else, the sheer number of his 'confidantes' could last several lifetimes for anyone else.”
“No wonder the old man lived such a celibate life in the Ginkgo Archive. If all these 'Mistresses' moved in, Baishui Temple would turn into a Kingdom of Women.”
Chai Shuxin calmly did the math in his head and said, “They wouldn't fit.”
Mu Gesheng nearly spat out his tea. “Good heavens, he’d need a whole imperial harem.”
“Beauty fades; it is but a moment of fleeting joy.” Chai Shuxin refilled his tea. “The Master went to sweep a grave just a few days ago.”
“Wasn't that to commemorate the brother he fought alongside at Mount Hua decades ago?”
“That was one. He also went to pay respects to the medicine girl he saved when he first left the mountain.”
Mu Gesheng remembered. When Mo Qingbei first entered the mortal world, he had saved a female physician. The two became close friends. Later, she became famous throughout the land as a divine healer.
They were called friends, but she never married.
One look ruins a lifetime; her hair turned white, yet he remained as elegant as ever.
Mu Gesheng said, “I can’t tell if Shifu is compassionate or heartless.”
Chai Shuxin said flatly, “They simply weren't walking the same path.”
“True.” Mu Gesheng took a sip of tea. “Soulmates on the same path are few and far between in a lifetime.”
He looked out the window. “Today is the Great Cold.”
Mo Qingbei had been in the mortal world for a hundred years. Though he was officially struck from Penglai’s records, the mountain’s protective array couldn't stop him; he had his ways.
Every year during the Great Cold, he would return to Penglai.
He would go to the Jade Terrace to catch a few fish for a snack, see if his short junior brothers had grown any taller, take a stroll through the pine and maple forests, and finally hit the storehouse to steal some items for next year’s travel expenses—treating it as New Year’s money from his master.
And, he went to see one person.
On the lake was a small skiff. Mo Qingbei held a long pole, wearing a bamboo hat, green robes, and wooden clogs, with a wine flagon hanging at his waist.
“...A talent emerged from north of the Great Wall; his poems are being recited all over the capital. The new top courtesan in Jinling plays a mean pipa. There are new patterns in Shu embroidery. Lord Wang, who was my contemporary, has retired and is staying home to mind his grandsons; looks like he’s got another ten or so years of life in him. Oh, right, the green crabs in Dongting Lake grew well this year. I brought some back for you.”
He kicked the wicker basket at his feet, which emitted the rustling sound of crab legs crawling. Heaven knows what method he used to keep them alive all this way.
A red clay stove sat on the skiff, with fish soup simmering in a copper pot. A man held a cattail fan to stoke the fire, smiling. “You’ve certainly had a lively year.”
“Lively is as lively does. It’s like a firecracker—one loud pop and it’s over. Good times are hard to keep.” Mo Qingbei tossed aside the bamboo pole and lifted his fishing line, catching a trout. “It’s better here with you. You can catch any kind of fish. I heard there was a Kun sleeping at the bottom of this lake; is that true?”
“It is. If you come on a sunny day, you might even catch a Wenyao fish.” The man lifted the copper lid. “The soup is ready.”
Mo Qingbei leaned over. “This is so thin and watery. I only come back once a year, and this is how you treat me?”
“Never mind you; I only leave the Sword Pavilion once a year.”
“You’re not a young maiden; why are you talking about 'leaving the pavilion'? Are you preparing to get married?”
“If you won't eat it, I’ll pour it out.”
“Wait, wait—”
The young man sitting with Mo Qingbei wore simple, clean clothes. He was steady and refined, with a gentle and noble character.
The lake where they fished was situated above the sea of clouds at the mountain’s peak. Snow fell there year-round, and the cold was bone-chilling. Both wore only single layers of clothing, yet neither seemed to feel the cold.
Mo Qingbei tasted the fish soup. “Your cooking is still as terrible as ever.”
“I only cook one meal a year. It’s bound to be crude.”
“We’ve known each other for over a hundred years. I’ve been away for a century, so you’ve made at least a hundred meals. How have you not improved?”
“If you’re not satisfied, we can spar with swords after you finish. I’ll show you what 'improvement' means.”
“Forget it. I’d rather teach you how to boil soup.”
Mo Qingbei had met him many years ago; they could be called friends of a century. Back then, he was just a new disciple who had recently joined the sect, looking exactly the age he was. Usually, the disciples practiced their swords at the Golden Summit. During breaks, he would listen to his seniors chat about Penglai’s ten wonders and eight sights. The eldest senior said he had seen nine of the wonders, leaving only the last one.
The final wonder was called "Watching the Steed in the Sea of Clouds." One had to climb to the highest peak of Penglai and quietly watch the rising and falling of the cloud sea, as time passed like a white steed glimpsed through a crack. It was said that a predecessor once saw the cloud tide galloping like ten thousand horses; when he came to his senses, it was like waking from a grand dream—one dream spanning three lifetimes.
Mo Qingbei had fallen asleep halfway through the story. He didn't really understand what was so great about it. Most of Penglai’s famous sights didn't live up to their names—the scenery was beautiful and the names were poetic, but the names didn't fit the scenes.
*A white steed through a crack, white clouds turning into grey dogs*—wasn't it just watching clouds on a mountain top and taking a nap? Instead of a tooth-achingly elegant name like "Watching the Steed in the Sea of Clouds," it should have been called "Looking at Dogs on the Peak." It would be much easier to understand.
He had been asleep then, so he didn't hear the second half of his senior’s sentence—why, for so many years, no one had ever reached the highest peak of Penglai.
Six months later, Mo Qingbei was punished for a mistake. Unfortunately, he drew the worst lot among all the punishments: going to the Sword Pavilion to watch the stars and record celestial phenomena.
Seeing the sympathetic looks from his fellow disciples, he realized he might have missed some very important information while he was napping.
The peak of Penglai was covered in snow year-round, and within that snow stood the Sword Pavilion.
Most Penglai disciples practiced the sword, but very few could enter the Sword Pavilion. Those who sought to prove their Dao through the sword had to have resilient minds, tempering their bodies as one would temper a blade. The Master of the Sword Pavilion had been dead for many years. In his life, he had taken nine disciples. The first died from qi deviation, the second died from qi deviation, the third perished from qi deviation, the fourth passed away from qi deviation... and so on.
The last disciple was a fool whose mind was closed. He had been taken in purely out of boredom in retirement. Eventually, he had vanished without a trace.
“Penglai hasn't had a sword cultivator in years. The Sword Pavilion has been empty for nearly a century. They say it’s haunted.” A senior handed him a large stack of yellow-paper novels. “These are the stories your senior sisters pass around; they’re all about the hauntings in the Sword Pavilion.”
The senior patted his shoulder and comforted him, “But there are plenty of 'ghostly romance' plots in there. Maybe you’ll encounter a fated love up there.”
Every profession has its specialty. Although the Penglai sect sought immortality and the Dao, they were not the School of Yin-Yang; they didn't have many opportunities to deal with ghosts. Mo Qingbei read the entire stack of novels overnight, packed a large basket of garlic from the kitchen, and headed up the mountain with a "the wind sighs and the river runs cold" resolve.
He didn't know what new species of ghost his senior sisters' novels were writing about, but apparently, they were quite the gentlemen who stayed away from the kitchen—they were afraid of garlic.
Because he was being punished, he couldn't fly on a sword. It took him a full day and night to climb to the summit.
He saw a tall building standing on the peak. From afar, it looked majestic and towering; up close, it looked a bit dilapidated from years of neglect.
Just as he stepped forward to knock, the door opened on its own. A pale hand reached out. “Did Master send you?”
Mo Qingbei had watched *Journey to the West* a few days prior. He was just about to shout, "What manner of demon are you!" but then he heard the question. So he replied, “Master was captured by a monster. The Eldest Senior Brother sent me to scout the way.”
“I wasn't referring to the storybooks.” The other person actually understood what he was saying. He let out a soft laugh and pushed the door open, revealing a refined and handsome face.
“Judging by your clothes, you must be a fellow disciple.” The young man bowed slightly toward him. “I am a disciple of the Sword Pavilion, Hua Bucheng.”
***
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