Chapter 590: Journey to Kunlun (3)

Regrettably, this was not a cozy hour of tea, basking in the simple joy of beholding a lovely granddaughter—well, a junior sister young enough to be one.

“In truth, I came with something urgent for the Sect Leader. On the way here I heard that bandits were running wild near Hainan.”

“Tut, tut. What bandits would dare thieve in the face of the Alliance and Shaolin? Is self-execution by public farce fashionable in the Central Plains now?”

“Oh— not that Henan Province. Hainan County, straight south of here.”

“Ah. I see. That Hainan—the rural Hainan.”

So they call it “rural Hainan,” it seems.

No one in the party found it unfair.

“Hm? You mean you came up by the Sichuan road in this bitter cold? Hm, youth truly has its uses.”

“Nana— I stopped in Sichuan to see a poison master home. Mm. No—this is a grave matter.”

“Grave, you say.”

Cheon Bija, who had been smiling lightly, composed his face at last.

Qing then unfolded what she had seen and heard in Hainan County.

There were suspicious “bandits” in Hainan.

But it turned out they were Tibetan monks and unorthodox hands from Namnyeong come to make money.

And from the interrogation conducted by the mad monk who joined the raid, they had pried out a plan—an attempt by the Tibetan martial world to infiltrate.

“What? Such a thing—hm—then what should—heavens, what are we to do.”

Cheon Bija was deeply flustered.

No wonder: since the sect’s founding, Kunlun had never once faced an external invasion.

Before the move, Kunlun Sect was in the Kunlun Range.

And what is the Kunlun Range?

Land counted as Tibetan, yet a back-of-beyond so remote that even Tibetans do not set foot there!

A countryside that even country bumpkins keep away from!

A frontier treated as frontier by the frontier itself!

It’s three thousand li in a straight line from the Heavenly Mountains to the Kunlun Range.

And even that “shortest” line means desert-crossing and then climbing a range fifteen hundred jang high—about 15,000 feet.

To cover two thousand li is like going from Qing’s hometown to its two biggest cities and back by national road—then setting out again—only then do you make three thousand li.

No wonder even the Demonic Church never bothered—“a land we don’t need,” and they never so much as lurked.

The Demonic Church rose and invaded four times, and people joked that the Great Righteous–Demonic War would be over before Kunlun’s reinforcements ever arrived.

Even from Kunlun’s old home to here, Xining, is thirty-six hundred li—and beyond that to the Central Plains is another lifetime.

It got so bad even the Daoists said, “We cannot live here; this is no land for human beings,” and the sect abandoned its ancestral mountain and moved—a near-unique event in martial history.

“Near-unique,” because one other force moved first:

the Green Forest Stronghold abandoned Mount Green Forest and moved to Emperor’s Mountain.

They had the opposite reason: if they kept squatting across Henan and Hebei, they’d be crushed—below by the Martial Alliance, above by the Imperial Palace.

Of course, they collapsed again anyway.

They’re the sort who fail and re-form and fail and re-form; nothing new there.

“The Tibetans—the Tibetans mean to invade? I must summon the disciples at once—but if they strike while the summons go out—first we must inform the Alliance and ask for aid, but—hm—will aid arrive in time? The Sichuan road is blocked; we should send to the nearest Hollow Mountain Sect—”

“Sect Leader, please—calm yourself. It’s not as if they’re marching from Tibet this instant. And Amu—no, the mad monk—said he would do his utmost to check them.”

“Ahem.”

Cheon Bija snapped back to his senses.

Mortified, he cleared his throat loudly and pretended to settle his voice.

“I’ve made a poor show of myself. Such staggering news, and I lost my composure without knowing it. Heh—foolish. What good are fifty years of cultivation if this is me.”

“It’s not foolish at all. Anyone could be shaken. If the one responsible for every soul in the sect looked serene and indifferent at the hint of danger—that would be the oddity, wouldn’t it? If even a single disciple were hurt, it would pain you.”

“Mm. It is a great kindness to hear you say so, junior sister—thank you...”

How could a child speak so sweetly?

If it were his own senior, the first thing to fly would be a fist—then a string of curses: “If the sect leader panics like this, who will tend the juniors?”—and then another fist.

For such a senior, this junior is too precious—a blessing so excessive that one could only lament and grumble at the Three Pure Ones for placing such fortune under that senior.

“Very well—we must first do what we can. Put our formations in order, repair and raise the walls, and prepare a defense.”

“Ah—about notifying the civil authorities...”

At that, Cheon Bija gave a sorrowful smile.

“I know. We are Daoists who offer rites daily for the peace of all under heaven. If we would spare our own blood by shoving cruel karma onto the common folk, we would not deserve to wear a Daoist crown.”

It was a smile in name only—tinged with sadness.

A thorn in one’s own finger hurts worse than a neighbor’s broken leg; even saying the right thing can sit ill in the gut.

“Perhaps settling on Sun and Moon Mountain was all ordained by the Primordial Heavenly Venerable. We have taken a position of exquisite leverage.”

There are two roads from Qinghai to the Central Plains.

But the southern Sichuan–Hanzhong mountains are famed as an impregnable barrier; and of the forking ways there, the northern track runs straight into Hollow Mountain.

Go out the lower road and you hit Sichuan—home to Emei Sect, Green Peak Sect, and the Tang Family of Sichuan—three colossal orthodox powers. A terrifying land.

The only true corridor is the gentle hill country east of Xining.

Yet Sun and Moon Mountain lies to the west of Xining.

Leave it alone and you risk an enemy in your rear; poke it, and you find that an old sect’s ancestral seat is itself a heaven-made fortress.

Qing is easy to read unless she manages her face.

Seeing her expression, Cheon Bija chuckled.

“On second thought, there’s less to fear. Many seniors of the previous generation are still vigorous. If the outside martial world truly invades, there is no reason for our seniors to remain in seclusion.”

Masters of the Translucent Realm—in Qing’s homeland terms, they are like strategic weapons.

If a Translucent master moves, the other side will inevitably field a Translucent master.

Of the known Translucent masters, nine are counted among the top ten in the martial world; the ratio is six to three—six orthodox, three unorthodox.

Of course, the consensus is that some hide their realm and move about.

Even Shedding Fate Saber pretended to be Flower Realm all along and was exposed only by chance—

a war of words turned into a fight, and in a single exchange he cut down a Flower Realm master, weapon and all, and so his realm was revealed.

But if it is an invasion from Tibetan martial circles?

Translucent masters need heed no one’s gaze; and with mastery comes duty.

As Cheon Bija judged it, there was not one among them who would ignore Kunlun in danger.

With thoughts running so far, his mind found a little ease.

Mm. Perhaps Senior Yeo Gwanggyeon could be excused—

No. No.

Let the Tibetans taste Senior Yeo Gwanggyeon.

Truly, if the measure is how women are treated, nowhere matches the Central Plains.

Those barbarians scarcely count women as people—if our senior will disdain anyone, let it be those barbarians.

Amazingly enough, Cheon Bija’s thought was correct.

In this age, there is no land that honors women as the Central Plains does. (A tribe here or there may be an exception.)

Of course, being better than others does not make it good.

“Was this what troubled you so that you ran straight here? Your heart alone is gift enough. In that case, on your way back, send word to the Alliance—”

Then Cheon Bija waved his hand.

“No—no. Since you’ve come all this way, you must rest in comfort, visit Qinghai Lake, and take in its singular sights. You didn’t come this far to turn back at once. I was about to make a fool of myself again, rushing about in haste.”

“If you’re preparing defenses, you’ll be short a pair of hands. If there’s anything we can do, we should, of course, lend aid.”

“Even to say so—no, the words alone are a great kindness. But Kunlun’s disciples are each and all the finest messengers under heaven. So, set it from your mind and enjoy yourself—hmm?”

Cheon Bija was smiling fondly, about to shoo them off to make merry—then, hmm?

“No, that won’t do. If you learned of bandits in Hainan, then you were already bound for Kunlun, were you not? Tell me—what brings you to this backcountry? If it’s our junior sister’s request, I cannot refuse, no matter how difficult. Speak freely.”

“Ah—yes! First, I wanted to ask about sorcery. By any chance, do you know of the Corpse-Blood Poisoner?”

“Oh-ho. If it’s sorcery, Kunlun’s Eight Immortals Palace is the finest under heaven. Of course, we practitioners of martial studies don’t know much—but go ask the alchemy Daoists. They’re dying to lecture—if you ask, they’ll be so pleased you’ll regret asking, clinging to you as they explain everything.”

“Hehe—thank you. And also—I’ve come to request an appraisal of Senior Heavenly Martial Emperor’s Sword-Cut Wall. If you would permit it.”

“Ah! Yes! I had quite forgotten! When our junior sister comes to Kunlun, that must be your errand—I thought as much, but I must be getting old; I failed to call it to mind. Kunlun welcomes it, of course. In fact, I’d ask it of you.”

Then Cheon Bija lowered his voice a touch and asked:

“By the way, how many cuts of the Sword-Cut Wall have you seen? I hear Shaolin holds one form, Zhongnan seven. Mm—nine forms I won’t dare hope for; but if it were five, I would be more than satisfied.”

“Ahaha—I’ll do what I can...”

Qing scratched the back of her neck, embarrassed.

Say that to me, will you.

You’ll have to petition the Heavenly Martial Emperor; I can’t paste them up in whatever order pleases me.

“Good—then let’s begin with the Sword-Cut Wall—no, wait. We’ll need to gather the disciples; that will take time. Space is tight, hm, and if we draw lots—that too will take time. Come. Bungsain, would you guide them to the Eight Immortals Palace?”

When a sect leader “asks” a disciple, it is not a question of will-you-or-won’t-you but a command—do it.

Not that it was any hardship for Bungsain; and guiding guests is a joy to Kunlun Daoists.

Naturally: “At once.”

Originally, Kunlun’s sorcery lineage was handed down by the Spirit Wheel Palace—to the Spirit Wheel Daoists.

But while the study of martial arts advanced and rose in attainment,

sorcery remained forbiddingly abstruse, talent was crucial, and because it fundamentally borrows the power of others rather than following one’s own tempering, its popularity waned.

You cannot force unwilling students to inherit a sorcery lineage; and if you do, the result will never be proper.

Inevitably, its strength dwindled.

In time it was folded into the Eight Immortals Palace of alchemy; the alchemy Daoists inherited the records and became their custodians.

So went the clear, easy explanation from the booming voice of that sentimental man, Bungsain.

Guided by him, they pushed deeper into rough mountain ground beside the Three Pure Palaces, until, beyond the Eight Immortals Gate, the Eight Immortals Palace revealed itself.

Though sorcery itself has largely fallen out of practice, Kunlun’s sorcery school still keeps the finest records in the Central Plains.

If anywhere had something on the Corpse-Blood Poisoner—this grateful yet bizarre immunity—it would be here.

Qing swallowed, and stepped into the hall of the Eight Immortals Palace, where a deep medicinal fragrance hung in the air.