Chapter 43: Crushing

The three attacked simultaneously, three blades of light instantly enveloping her, sealing off all escape routes.

Leng Yanling let out a cold snort, flicking her sleeve.

A surging wave of qi energy poured out like a tide, silent and invisible, yet heavy as a thousand jun.

The three black-clothed figures were like crashing into an unseen wall, sent flying backward in unison, tumbling to the ground five zhang away. 

The blood they spat out stained their masks red. 

Their weapons flew from their hands, embedding into the soil.

Entry-to-Dao realm against acquired realm—it was utter crushing.

Like an adult beating children, not even needing techniques.

“Go back and tell the State Preceptor.”

Leng Yanling looked down at them from above, her purple eyes devoid of emotion.

“Though the Daoist sect has declined, its backbone remains. Wanting me, Leng Yanling, to become the court’s running dog is utterly impossible. If you insist on forcing the invitation, remember to bring more people next time.”

“Sect Leader Leng, we’ve offended much today. Please forgive us. Another day, we’ll come with great gifts to make amends… Let’s go.”

The leading black-clothed person struggled to their feet, cupping fists in salute, their words still carrying a hint of bravado, putting on a jianghu airs.

Likely a surrendered expert—bah, a thing that forgets its teacher and ancestors.

Leng Yanling cursed inwardly.

As for those black-clothed people, who knew how many ribs they’d broken—they dared not say more, supporting each other as they staggered down the mountain in escape, vanishing into the woods in moments.

Not killing them was already this mature woman holding back.

Ji Zimo breathed a sigh of relief, sheathing her sword. 

The blade scraped against the scabbard, producing a clear, resonant sound.

“Master, you’re amazing! What technique was that? I didn’t even see it clearly!”

Leng Yanling said nothing, merely staring in the direction the three had vanished, her brows tightly furrowed.

The court suddenly coming to their door—it was definitely not good. 

Either they truly wanted to recruit her, after all, entry-to-Dao realm experts were countable on one hand across the world, or… the Daoist sect still had something they desired.

What could it be?

The Hanyu sword? 

But no one could pull it out.

Or the manuals? 

The Daoist sect’s true core scriptures had been secretly relocated by the elders before the purge—even she didn’t know where.

“Master, will they come back?”

Ji Zimo asked softly, the earlier excitement on her face replaced by worry.

“They will, and next time, it won’t be trash like this.”

Leng Yanling turned and walked back, her purple robes shimmering in the morning light.

“Then what do we do?”

Ji Zimo followed her steps, her voice somewhat strained.

“When soldiers come, generals block.”

Leng Yanling’s tone was calm, not taking the matter to heart.

“Starting today, intensify your training—no slacking. From now on, add three hours of practice daily, and before sleep, change breath regulation meditation to circulating the minor and major heavenly cycles three times.”

“Yes.”

Ji Zimo responded, gripping her sword hilt tightly.

Back at the plaza, Leng Yanling stood before the Hanyu sword for a long while again.

As the sun set in the west, the horizon ignited with evening glow: orange-red, deep purple, golden-red, layers of radiant clouds stacking across the sky.

The sword body reflected the afterglow, emitting a bleak cold light, utterly incompatible with the warm hues.

She reached out to touch it, her fingertip only an inch from the hilt, then withdrew.

Fourteen years.

Shuang Feixue, where exactly are you? Alive or dead?

She suddenly recalled the words her junior sister had said before leaving—that phrase which had enraged her then, but now often echoed in her ears.

“Senior Sister, some things aren’t about worth it or not, but willing or not.”

At the time, she thought her junior sister foolish, abandoning everything for an infant—nothing stupider in the world.

Thinking back now, perhaps the fool was herself.

Guarding an empty mountain, guarding an empty title, missing so much that should have been cherished.

Missing perhaps the time with a child like Ji Zimo bringing joy at her knee, missing the warmth life should have.

“Master,” Ji Zimo approached at some point, holding a cup of hot tea, steam curling upward, “have some tea. I just brewed it with spring water from the back mountain. Try it.”

Leng Yanling took the teacup, the warmth seeping through the thin porcelain to her palm, making her fingertips tremble slightly.

She looked at her disciple’s young face, those eyes filled with trust and reliance toward her, so clear they reflected her own shadow.

Perhaps she wasn’t entirely without anything.

At least there was this child—this one who would quietly brew tea for her during practice, carefully ask if she was unwell when she frowned, remember to bring in her drying clothes before rain.

“Zimo.”

“Hm?”

Ji Zimo looked up, her eyes bright.

“If one day…”

Leng Yanling paused, gazing at the floating tea leaves in the cup.

“If one day Master is gone, you must leave this place—go to North Zhou or elsewhere. Don’t guard this mountain, don’t follow my example. You’re still young; you should see the outside world, experience what you should, like who you should.”

Ji Zimo was stunned, her eyes slowly widening.

“Master, what are you saying! How could you be gone? Your martial arts are so high—you can live at least two hundred years. I still need to follow you to revive the Daoist sect. Once it’s reopened, I’ll help you teach disciples. You’ll be sect leader, I’ll be enforcement elder. We’ll make the Daoist sect flourish, even more prosperous than before!”

She spoke quickly and urgently, her face flushing red.

Leng Yanling smiled—a faint smile, like a dragonfly skimming water, gone in a flash. 

She said no more, merely lowering her head to drink the tea.

The tea was bitter, but upon aftertaste, a hint of sweetness slowly bloomed at the tongue’s root.

Like these fourteen years—mostly bitter, but occasionally, a touch of sweetness.

Revive the Daoist sect…

Perhaps it was time to think about the future.

Not for herself, but for this child—she couldn’t let her be trapped to death in this empty mountain too.

She was young, with plenty of time. 

Away from the mountain gate, perhaps she could become wealthy, no longer enduring this austere life; perhaps become the great hero she dreamed of, without suffering her master’s temper and toil; perhaps meet someone she truly loved, live a happy life with husband and children.

Not like herself, guarding a desolate mountain gate, unknowing of her own future.

Leng Yanling hoped her disciple could become happy in the future—that way, she would have at least done one right thing.

Her master had once divined for her, saying that in her later days, though she would live unhappily, as long as she seized the opportunity when it came, she could grasp her own happiness.

Night fell, stars lighting up one by one as usual. Dao Mountain sank into silence once more—that oppressive silence that made breathing difficult.

Leng Yanling sat on the stone steps before the hall, watching the sparse stars in the sky. 

Ji Zimo lit a lamp in the side hall, warm yellow light seeping through the window paper, spreading a small patch of brightness, adding a touch of life to this cold mountain gate—like a firefly in the night, faint yet truly shining.

She lifted the now-cooled tea and took a sip.

Bitter.

But upon aftertaste, that hint of sweetness remained.

Like these fourteen years, like this perhaps still long, perhaps already short latter half of life.