Chapter 656: Joint March (12)

Qing was at ease.

And for the faithful of Lanzhou, a day like a dream had passed.

Word of the banquet that she had bestowed (had been made to “bestow”) upon the believers last night had already spread everywhere.

Those who couldn’t attend merely confirmed that the Celestial Majesty was alive and well just within reach.

Even so, their hearts grew calm and their worries fell away; they offered fresh thanks and prayed for the peace of the Divine Body and the flourishing of the Church.

This is the joy of believing in a god who truly exists.

If the point is comfort for the heart, isn’t venerating a living human more likely to shed some crumbs your way than worshiping a nonexistent being?

(Only when the object of worship doesn’t demand your property.)

In that sense, the Celestial Demon Church is rather practical—and even rational.

So, after a simple, filling breakfast, the party mounted the carriage at once.

Only—why are there so many people out from morning?

It was the season to ready the fields for spring sowing; this was not like midwinter, when one could idle.

Even so, it wasn’t a time when the whole city would have so much work that everyone would pour into the streets at daybreak.

Amazingly, these were not ordinary folk.

They were true-blue cult faithful!

Perhaps they’d hoped, like yesterday at lunch and dinner, to seize a chance to “co-bestow” and share a meal—yet word was, she was leaving.

So with a wistful heart, they filled the streets just to fix in their eyes, from a distance at least, even just her retreating back.

As Qing saw it—mm, they came to see me. This damned face—being too pretty is a problem. It should be pretty in moderation.

That wasn’t the preening they accuse people of back home.

Because it was true—and heartfelt.

It is your face that should be beautiful, my lord.

What good is my face being pretty?

Aside from the fun when I look in a mirror, it’s not much use, is it?

Well, that’s not entirely true either.

Beauty alone drops life’s difficulty a few levels—people’s baseline reaction tilts favorable.

Compared to when they spat at me and cursed and turned their heads while I was a beggar—night and day.

While the faithful sent her off with fervor only in their hearts, Qing left Lanzhou.

The destination: Hollow Mountain.

Hollow Mountain lies west of Lanzhou, a long north–south range that forms the border between Gansu and Shaanxi.

Meaning there’s a well-made road into Shaanxi; they could ride the carriage comfortably until the foothills of Hollow Mountain showed.

And the skilled driver—

JOLT!

“Ah! Forgive me! A stone by the roadside!”

From the driver’s bench came an apology, nearly a scream.

A familiar voice—the same Guard Ji who had changed his surname just last night.

Sensing his chance, he had volunteered to serve at her side; he’d also managed—what a handsy operator—to snatch the glorious duty of escorting her carriage all the way to Hollow Mountain.

No sooner had Qing thought of him than Guard Ji ran over a stone.

But if he were truly clumsy with the reins, he wouldn’t have dared to volunteer, glory or no, for fear of troubling her.

He had never driven with more focus than now.

Man-and-horse-as-one—or rather, man–horse–carriage as one—veins raised with concentration to deliver the finest ride.

Thus they rolled west in comfort, an eight-day journey through Jeongseo County, Huizhe County, and Yungdeok County.

In that time, Jayeo learned a total of four characters.

Teach three in a day and, by the next day, they vanished—such was her uncanny memory.

It was the grand moment when the original plan—three characters a day, finish the Thousand-Character text in a year—collapsed with a crash.

Well, one character every two days isn’t nothing.

Five hundred in a thousand days; a thousand in six years... mm. A bit, no, rather, quite illiterate.

Still, perhaps it was a mercy she remembered the easy ones:

one 一, two 二, three 三, seven 七, eight 八, mouth 口, ten 十.

But can you really count those as characters?

As for anything like a proper character, they were: Ximen, Jayeo, Surin, Gyeon, Po, Hee—and, next after her own name, Qing.

Ten in all.

Even so, remembering my name—she muttered it all day, wrote it out—thinking on that, our Jayeo is a flaming paragon of filial piety.

So why can’t she remember Seol Iri?

She can even write Hee-mae, yet she keeps forgetting Seol Iri.

Perhaps because our “Gunyeong” isn’t the most confidence-inspiring mother.

Anyway—thus, Yungdeok County.

Not Hollow Mountain itself—but a small town under Yuktan Mountain.

And the slopes behind Yuktan were Hollow Mountain, seat of the Hollow Mountain Sect.

Originally, to reach Hollow Mountain by carriage alone, one had to detour north and come up from the Shaanxi side.

But here, after all, they had masters—and some not-quite-masters but still serviceable hands.

No need to go around when you’ve got sturdy legs.

Which is to say, Guard Ji’s happy time ended here.

“Kh-hrk... Please, live long in ten thousand years of health. If you would grant the grace of remembering that this lowly one always prays for your radiant future, you would permit me to consider it an honor, and I would be happy for life.”

It was a very heavy farewell.

Still, if he promised lifelong happiness—after all his volunteering as driver and dogsbody—how could she not offer a word?

“You’ve worked hard. I won’t forget your kindness, Guard Ji.”

“Huuk—khh—kha-up.”

Guard Ji clapped a hand over his mouth, overcome.

His eyes flushed red as if tears would pour any second—was it truly that moving?

Long long ago—in the ancient past—there lived on Hollow Mountain a transcendental adept of astounding attainment.

His name was Master Guangxing.

His attainment was so great that the ruler of the world at the time, a god-man who governed humans as a hobby—Gongsun Xuanyuan, the Emperor Xuanyuan—respected Master Guangxing and sought instruction from him in cultivation.

Who was Gongsun Xuanyuan?

In Qing’s homeland’s framing, akin to Dangun—the progenitor of the nation, a demi-god.

If even Emperor Xuanyuan had to seek his instruction, what an exalted immortal Master Guangxing must have been—one can hardly imagine.

Thus, Hollow Mountain is counted among the birthplaces of the Dao—its sacred mountain.

Of course, since Laozi, who systematized Daoist thought, would not be born for nearly a thousand years yet, some leave it at “that’s what certain folks believe”—a mere legend.

Even so, the people of this land call Hollow Mountain “the foremost famous mountain of the Dao.”

And the Hollow Mountain Sect, enthroned upon such a peak, held the pride of being the most orthodox Daoist school.

Granted, one ought to hear the opinions of the other Daoist sects.

Kunlun flat-out claims: Are we not Kunlun itself? Born on the land of the immortals, we are the most orthodox Daoists.

Qingcheng, seated at the birthplace of the Heavenly Master’s Way, inheriting its spirit—and, above all, being the oldest Daoist temple in this land—declares itself the most orthodox.

Zhongnan, the legitimate heir of Quanzhen, says that because it profoundly influenced the foundings of Huashan, Wudang, and Qingcheng, it is the most orthodox.

Perhaps that’s why, when “orthodoxy” comes up, Huashan and Wudang quietly change the subject.

Yet all of them acknowledge Hollow Mountain’s title as “foremost Daoist famous mountain.”

Even aside from that, it is one of the most renowned mountains of the realm.

Hollow Mountain is praised as holding all the land’s beauty—north’s dangerous cliffs like Mount Tai’s and south’s graceful woods, woven together to perfection.

Thus—the rear gate of the Hollow Mountain Sect.

With the blazing dusk setting fire to the foothills, human silhouettes fell long.

A Hollow Mountain disciple, Myeon Seon, rested his hand on his sword hilt and quietly watched the figures.

The sect’s western side was rugged—and beyond that lay another mountain—so few ever came and went; it was a lonely quarter.

At sunset, anyone coming from the west appeared only as an ink-black silhouette before the blinding afterglow.

It was natural for Myeon Seon to toy with his hilt, debating whether to ring the bell.

At last, when the strangers drew close enough to be seen despite the dying sun’s glare,

Myeon Seon recognized Qing’s party on sight.

Among the Orthodox Sects, no “young master of the next generation” would fail to recognize the Heavenly Flower Sword—and Ice-White Beauty’s face.

Qing, too, found Myeon Seon’s face familiar.

She didn’t remember the name; she’d seen him somewhere—but if a swordsman of one of the Nine Great Schools looks familiar, there’s only one likely venue.

“Hello. Mm, we met at our Young Dragon & Phoenix conclave, didn’t we? Right?”

“Oh—you remember me even though I only offered a greeting. Are you not Lady Ximen? What brings you at this hour—through the rear gate, no less?”

“Ah, we visited Kunlun on some business and stopped by on the way back.”

“Ah—then you come from Gansu. The mountains are rough—you must be tired. I would lead you to the guest hall immediately, but my duty at the rear gate is weighty, so I cannot guide you—please wait a moment; I’ll send a signal.”

Myeon Seon received her with punctilious courtesy.

No wonder—the scene at the Young Dragon & Phoenix conclave, her question—“How are you divvying the spoils?”—still rang clear in his ears.

He drew from his back a strangely shaped rod and tapped it—tak, tak.

A crisp, tidy tone—some traditional percussion instrument of the realm?—or so one might think.

It wasn’t an instrument; it was a type of stratagem weapon called an Iron Clapper.

After a short wait, a Hollow Mountain swordsman flashed down with agile movement to land lightly.

“Oh—Daesan, isn’t it. Still roaming, I see. Lady Ximen—well met. And Lady Seol, too. My, my.”

The Hollow Mountain swordsman, with a roguish grin, tapped Peng Daesan’s shoulder.

Peng Daesan let out a long sigh.

“I can see what you’re imagining. Forget it. The picture in your head, Myeon-ak, isn’t the one.”

The reason he named him was obvious.

For Qing to hear.

Damn. What was this man’s name again?

I know his face—I heard his name.

Changbin’s friend—though I can’t exactly call him “Changbin’s friend.”

Seeing Qing’s face working, trying to pull the right name from a hazy memory,

he took the hint and slipped her the answer.

“Ah—Daoist Myeon-ak. Long time.”

“Haha—Heavenly Flower Sword, well met. And the lovely little fairy there? Hello? I’m called Myeon-ak.”

He waved to Jayeo.

Jayeo, shy, burrowed her face deep into Qing’s chest.

“Ah—this is Ximen Jayeo. I’ve taken her in as my daughter. And this is my sworn sister, Gyeon Pohee.”

“Ah.”

Myeon-ak paused.

Only for a moment.

He swiftly guessed the child must carry a hard story and switched the subject right away.

“Well now—has the age of the Eight Beauties of the Martial World dawned? Two peerless beauties I didn’t even know about appear at once. But enough talk—you must be tired from the climb. Let’s get you to the guest hall and unload your things first.”

A remarkably affable fellow.

Only, Peng Daesan didn’t look particularly pleased. Well—hence why he has no friends.

Anyway—Ximen Qing enters the Hollow Mountain Sect.