Chapter Fifty-Five: Journey to Zhongnan

After a year had passed, Yuanye had finished studying all the medical books Liu Xingtang had retrieved from Butterfly Valley, once collected by Hu Qingniu—treatises such as The Yellow Emperor’s Inner Canon, Hua Tuo’s Illustrations of Internal Reflection, Wang Shuhe’s Pulse Classic, Thousand-Gold Wings, Wang Tao’s Secret Essentials from the Outer Terrace, The Emperor’s Toad Scripture, Xifangzi’s Hall of Brightness Moxibustion Classic, Thousand-Gold Prescriptions, and others.

By the third month of the thirteenth year of the Zhiyuan era, Hu Qingniu and his wife had nothing more to teach him. Packing their belongings, they left with Liu Xingwu escorting them safely back to Butterfly Valley in the Kunlun Mountains of the Western Regions.

Liu Xingwu, having learned the simplified version of the Dugu Nine Swords and grown obsessed with martial arts, had practiced for years and was now on par with second-tier fighters of the martial world, so he had no fear of encountering trouble. Moreover, there were still two or three years left before their old adversary, Granny Golden Flower, was due to come for Hu Qingniu’s life, so Yuanye felt no particular worry.

On the summit, upon a slab of green stone, Yuanye was practicing a slow set of movements—this was the Five Animal Frolics of Hua Tuo, which he had learned from Hu Qingniu. Originally devised for health and longevity, this practice, in his hands, carried the solemn bearing of a true martial master.

Once, Yuanye believed that the more mysterious and powerful a technique, the better. Yet over the past year, as his medical knowledge deepened and his understanding of the human body grew, he gradually realized that his relentless pursuit of esoteric martial arts had, rather, left him with lingering injuries.

Thus, over the year, he reduced his practice of martial skills, devoting himself instead to health-preserving exercises, and learned ancient Daoist inner cultivation methods passed down through the ages.

During this time, Yuanye often discussed martial arts with his master, but the deeper their understanding grew, the more disappointed they became. When they first reached the stage of acquired cultivation, despite the limitations of heaven and earth, at least there was a clear path forward. But now, after achieving the innate stage, not even Zhang Sanfeng’s century of cultivation had enabled him to touch upon the next realm—that of the grandmaster—let alone Yuanye.

After staying on the mountain for another month, Yuanye decided to depart and see more of the world, for reading thousands of books could not compare to traveling ten thousand miles. First, he needed to supervise and guide the growth of the Black Banner Army and the Nine Provinces Trading Company. Second, he wished to seek the grandmaster’s realm from another direction.

Although he had learned Hu Qingniu’s medical skills and read the classics, his practical experience was lacking—there were few opportunities on Mount Wudang, where most were strong and healthy martial artists. Furthermore, Yu Daiyan’s injuries had now fully healed, and he was training daily in Taiji Fist and Taiji Sword under Zhang Sanfeng.

With Yuanye’s help in recent years, and through their frequent exchanges over the past year, Zhang Sanfeng had created Taiji Fist and Taiji Sword ahead of the time foretold by history. Yuanye was the first to master these arts, but they did not suit his own path. Instead, by incorporating the strengths of Taiji and combining them with his Dugu Nine Swords and the countless martial arts manuals he had studied, he sought to create a style uniquely his own.

One day, after bidding farewell to his master and his senior brothers Song Yuanqiao and Yu Daiyan, Yuanye set off down Mount Wudang with Wuji at his side.

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The terrain of Mount Zhongnan was perilous and the roads treacherous. There were five great valleys and more than a hundred smaller ones, stretching for hundreds of miles.

In the Song Dynasty, Mount Zhongnan was the sacred ground of Daoism and home to the Quanzhen Sect, the foremost martial school of the time. The area bustled with travelers and the foothills thrived with activity.

But since the Quanzhen Sect was annihilated by the Mongol Yuan dynasty, Mount Zhongnan had fallen into desolation and ruin. For a hundred miles, not a soul was to be found; for a thousand, not even a rooster’s crow was heard. Abandoned towns and deserted villages dotted the land, bearing silent witness to this devastation.

In the wild villages and deserted inns, weeds grew taller than a man, proof that no one had lived in these places for decades. Yet, on this day, two figures—one tall, one small—approached from afar at the foot of Mount Zhongnan. Both bore the marks of long travel on their faces.

“Master, we’ve arrived at Mount Zhongnan,” said the smaller child on the left, who looked eleven or twelve, with dark skin and a somewhat simple expression. Gazing at the towering mountain ahead, he tugged on the hand of the youth beside him, his voice bright with delight.

“Let’s go. The day is still young—let’s climb while we have the light,” replied the youth on the right, about eighteen or nineteen, his face sallow, dressed in plain white robes, a medicine basket strapped to his back—like a wandering physician. Yet his eyes were covered with a strip of white cloth; any passerby would surely think, “A blind man who claims to heal? He must be a charlatan, endangering lives.”

But fate is ever unpredictable. In the last year or two, the martial world had indeed been abuzz with tales of a blind miracle doctor—his skill in healing was unmatched, and he saved countless lives. Yet his temperament was strange: he might labor tirelessly to save a beggar in the street, refusing any reward, but would decline to treat even the wealthiest of officials for any price.

Hand in hand, the youth led the child up the mountain path, pondering, “It’s a pity nothing remains of the once-glorious Quanzhen Sect. Their Daoist texts must have been the richest in the world—what tremendous help they could have given me.”

After traveling for an hour or two, they reached halfway up the mountain when the child suddenly seemed to fall ill. A greenish pallor rose on his face, and he shivered violently. The youth’s hand trembled, as if a red light flashed between them; in an instant, some of the green faded from the child’s cheeks.

“Wuji, practice your exercises now,” he said, lifting the child onto a sun-warmed boulder by the path.

The child nodded and sat cross-legged to begin his practice. Anyone with profound knowledge would have been amazed at the depth of the internal method he employed. As he moved his internal energy, warm and nourishing, it flowed from his dantian and into the locked passages of the Ren, Du, and Chong meridians, then turned to pass through the Weiyan Gate at the base of the spine, splitting into two currents that ascended past the fourteenth vertebra through the Pulley Gates, up the back, shoulders, and neck, to the Jade Pillow Pass. This was the legendary “reverse circulation of true energy through the three gates.”

The energy then surged upward past the Crown of a Hundred Convergences atop the head, branching into five streams, gathering all the body’s channels at the Sea of Tranquility, then dividing again before returning together to the dantian, entering the gate and returning to the source. With each circuit, his body felt as if drenched in sweet dew, his dantian filled with fragrant energy, swirling and serene—this was the so-called “misty purple qi.”

When this practice reached a certain level, it could dissolve the cold poison in the dantian. The greenish hue on the child’s face was due to a severe cold toxin within him.

After three rounds of practice, the frightening green flush on the boy’s face gradually faded, returning to its former dark hue—not exactly an improvement in appearance, but at least healthier. Fortunately, being young, the boy cared little about looks. As his condition improved, he cried out happily, “Master, what are we doing on Mount Zhongnan? There’s no one here!”

“We’ve come to see someone. In my life, I’ve dared attempt anything, except speak a single word to one person. Isn’t that absurd?” The young man’s voice was full of regret and loneliness.

Behind Mount Zhongnan, in a secluded and tranquil valley, though it was only early spring, hundreds of flowers were already in bloom. Countless bees, pure white as jade and the size of ordinary wild bees, flitted among the blossoms.

In the center of the valley stood a pavilion, where a young woman in yellow sat with her back turned, a scorched-tail zither on her lap, playing softly. Though beautiful, her expression was shadowed with melancholy, an unshakeable sorrow settling between her brows and in her heart.

With nimble fingers, she coaxed clear notes from the strings. Listening closely, one might discern birdsong woven into the music—at first seemingly chaotic, but, upon deeper attention, the zither and the birds called and responded in perfect harmony.

Any true expert in zither music would have been astounded to recognize that the piece she played was the long-lost “Birdsong in the Empty Mountains.”

After a while, the music grew louder but increasingly mellow, as if the answering chorus of birds had fallen silent—she had changed to another tune, “A Hundred Birds Facing the Phoenix.”

Suddenly, the air was filled with the beating of wings as birds flocked in from all directions, settling on the pavilion or soaring above, their brilliant feathers a dazzling spectacle.

At some point, the youth in white and the dark-faced boy had entered the valley. The youth had removed the white cloth from his eyes.

Delighted by the sight of the birds, the boy wanted to run over and play, but dared not disturb the young lady’s music.

Soon, the music faded, and the gathered birds slowly took flight, seemingly oblivious to the bees scattered throughout the valley, as if there were no enmity between them.

The young woman brushed aside a lock of hair and, sensing movement behind her, turned around.

She was eighteen or nineteen, tall and slender, draped in a yellow dress. Her brows were like painted arches, her eyes almond-shaped and alluring, her skin white as snow, her beauty ethereal—almost otherworldly.

Yet her skin was so pale it seemed untouched by sunlight.

At a glance, she saw that two strangers had appeared in the valley. Alarmed, she realized that anyone who could approach without her noticing must possess truly terrifying martial skills.

But as she looked more closely, her brows instantly knitted together, her face turning cold as frost.