Chapter 52: Trouble’s Arrival

The summer on Dao Mountain was stifling, making it hard to breathe.

There was no wind, only sticky hot air steaming up from the valley.

Cicadas screeched on the trees, one after another, tireless, as if shouting out all the heat of the entire summer.

Leng Yanling stood on the stone steps in front of the Three Pure Ones Hall, carrying a bucket of water in her hand.

The water was carried from the spring at the back mountain, cool and still emitting chill.

She scooped up a ladle and splashed it on the bluestone slabs.

The water made a sizzle as it splashed open, raising fine white mist, quickly evaporated by the hot air, leaving only dark water stains.

She was washing the ground.

Last evening, three more people had come.

This time, they weren’t dressed as private soldiers, but in jianghu attire, yet their skills and moves were clearly those of court hounds. Three people: one in the innate realm, two at the acquired peak—top-notch experts outside.

They had called out at the mountain gate, saying they were on the State Preceptor’s orders, inviting Sect Leader Leng down the mountain for a talk.

Leng Yanling ignored them.

She just walked out from the hall, stood on the stone steps, glanced at them, then turned back into the hall and closed the door.

Those three stood at the mountain gate for the entire night.

Today, as dawn broke, when Ji Zimo got up to practice her sword, she saw them still standing there, like three stone statues, only their faces looked awful, foreheads covered in sweat, eyes holding both fear and a humiliated anger.

They didn’t dare make a move; they couldn’t win.

Ji Zimo ignored them. Following her master’s instructions, she practiced sword when it was time, meditated when it was time, cooked when it was time.

Just when passing the mountain gate, her steps quickened a bit, to avoid getting stuck with shit.

Now those three had already left, of course not on their own—it was Leng Yanling who splashed a basin of water this morning, mixed with a trace of her chill qi.

The water splashed out, turning into ice mist, enveloping the mountain gate. Those three grunted, retreating three steps in unison, blood seeping from the corners of their mouths. They dared not linger, turning and fleeing.

When Ji Zimo returned from practicing sword at the back mountain, she saw her master washing the ground.

One ladle after another, splashing water, rinsing away the messy footprints, traces, and the slight bloodstains left by those three at the mountain gate, all cleaned away.

“Master.”

Ji Zimo walked over, wanting to take the ladle, but Leng Yanling shook her head.

“You go rest.”

Ji Zimo stood without moving, looking at her master’s profile. That face, always without expression, now revealed a fatigue she couldn’t understand.

Not physical tiredness, but heart tiredness.

This was already the fourth wave this month.

Like leeks, cut one crop and another comes. The three who came yesterday were clearly death warriors raised by the State Preceptor’s mansion, each time stronger, each time more troublesome.

They were probing, testing Leng Yanling’s patience and bottom line.

“Master, will they come again?”

Leng Yanling didn’t answer. She splashed the last ladle of water, watching it snake down the stone steps, rushing into the grass by the path.

Then she straightened up, set the bucket aside, and looked up at the sky.

The sun was scorching, dazzling the eyes, the cicadas screeching even louder, as if piercing the eardrums.

“What should come will always come.”

She finally said, her voice faint.

As soon as the words fell, footsteps came from the mountain path.

A group of people’s footsteps, very orderly, neither hurried nor slow, very uniform—typical of trained practitioners. From the sound, at least twenty people.

Ji Zimo’s hand gripped the sword hilt.

But Leng Yanling just turned around, facing the mountain path direction, standing quietly. 

She didn’t even circulate her energy, didn’t gather qi, just stood there like a green pine growing by the stone steps.

Figures emerged from the bend in the mountain path.

Indeed twenty people, all in black tight-fitting clothes, long blades at their waists, iron masks on their faces, revealing only pairs of eyes.

Eyes very cold, without emotion, like looking at dead people.

They stopped at the mountain gate, parting left and right, making way.

One person slowly walked from behind.

Moon-white long robe, strikingly conspicuous under the scorching sun. 

The fabric was ice silkworm silk, carrying its own coolness, sleeves embroidered with flowing cloud patterns in silver thread, swaying gently with the steps.

Hair bound with a simple, elegant wooden hairpin, a few stray strands scattered on the forehead, dampened by sweat, sticking to the skin.

Face handsome, looking in his early thirties, but the vicissitudes in the eyes couldn’t deceive— at least forty.

Most distinctive were those eyes, pupils light gold, like two pieces of amber polished by time. 

When looking at people, they carried a smile, but that smile didn’t reach the depths, like covered in a thin mist.

The State Preceptor, Feng Xuanyin.

She walked to the mountain gate, stopped, looked up at the mottled plaque on the lintel. 

The four words “Heaven and Earth Righteous Path” had faded, but the spirit in the strokes remained.

Then she looked at Leng Yanling and smiled slightly.

“Sect Leader Leng, truly lives up to her reputation.”

Voice mild, words polite, like meeting an old friend not seen for years.

Leng Yanling didn’t speak, just quietly looking at her.

Feng Xuanyin didn’t mind. She stepped into the mountain gate, the black-clothed guards wanting to follow, but stopped by her raised hand.

She alone, empty-handed, without weapons or attendants, walked up the stone steps step by step, stopping five paces from Leng Yanling.

Between them was a patch of bluestone slabs wet from water, the stains glistening in the sunlight.

“The weather is hot, disturbing Sect Leader Leng’s quiet cultivation.”

Feng Xuanyin said, taking out a silk handkerchief from her sleeve, gently wiping the sweat from her forehead.

“I wonder if I may ask for a cup of tea?”

Leng Yanling looked at her for three breaths, then turned.

“Follow me.”

………………

The tea was drunk in the tea room of the side chamber in the Three Pure Ones Hall.

The room wasn’t large, furnishings simple: an old elm wood tea table, a few bamboo chairs, a yellowed portrait of the Dao Ancestor hanging on the wall.

The window was open, but no wind, only hot air surging in waves.

Ji Zimo guarded outside the door, standing in the shade under the eaves, hand always on the sword hilt, eyes fixed on those black-clothed guards standing at the mountain gate.

Those people stood like wooden stakes, motionless, not even breathing audible.

In the tea room, Leng Yanling was brewing tea.

The tea leaves were the most ordinary mountain tea, picked and roasted by herself. The water was from the back mountain cold spring, boiled, poured into the coarse pottery teapot, raising white mist.

The tea fragrance was faint, mixed in the stuffy hot air.

She poured two cups, one pushed to Feng Xuanyin, one kept for herself.

Feng Xuanyin picked up the teacup, not rushing to drink, first bringing it to her nose to smell, then sipping lightly, closing her eyes to savor for a moment, before slowly opening them.

“Good tea, the charm of the mountains and wilderness, the taste of nature—more enduring than those tribute teas in the palace.”

Leng Yanling didn’t respond. She also picked up her teacup, drank a sip, then set it down, looking at Feng Xuanyin.

“The State Preceptor personally coming up the mountain today isn’t just for tea, I presume.”

Feng Xuanyin smiled. She set down the teacup, her fingers gently rubbing the rim, movements elegant.

“Sect Leader Leng is straightforward, so I’ll be direct… I want to ask Sect Leader Leng for a favor.”

“What favor?”

“Kill a person.”

Those terrifying words were said lightly by her, Feng Xuanyin’s face still smiling, that smile mild and proper, as if what she just said wasn’t some life-taking evil, but some elegant amusement.

Leng Yanling didn’t move. She looked at Feng Xuanyin, waiting for her to continue.

“Liang Kingdom’s Emperor’s ninth daughter, Feng Anlan, that imperial princess who was a hostage in Zhou Kingdom for two years, is now on her way back to the capital.”

The tea room fell silent for an instant.

Only the cicadas screeching outside the window, one louder than the next, piercing and irritating.

Leng Yanling picked up her teacup, drank another sip. The tea was already somewhat cool, slightly bitter on entry, faint aftertaste.

“Why?”

Not asking why kill Feng Anlan, but why find her.

Feng Xuanyin understood, she smiled, that smile carrying some helplessness.

“Because I have no one available. I’ve lost power in the court. That Majesty isn’t incompetent; these years tolerating me was just tolerating what was behind me, just fearing the forces behind us.

Now my backer is gone, that force has scattered. Majesty has started closing the net.”

Leng Yanling listened quietly. She didn’t understand court affairs, but she understood human nature. When the rabbit dies, the dog is cooked; when the birds are gone, the bow is hidden—this was an unchanging truth through the ages.

“So now you’re all alone.”

“Yes.” Feng Xuanyin nodded, not hiding it, “Those fence-sitters in the court, seeing me lose power, hide faster than rabbits. The old subordinates in the army, under Majesty’s pretext of rectification, transferred or demoted. Now what I can mobilize is only this bit of private soldiers in the mansion.”

She turned her head, looking at Leng Yanling, a sharp light flashing in those light gold eyes.

“But I don’t want to admit defeat yet.”

Leng Yanling didn’t speak, waiting for Feng Xuanyin to continue.

“Feng Anlan must die on the way back to the capital.”

Feng Xuanyin said, each word bitten clearly.

“But she can’t die by my people’s hands; she must die by ‘Zhou Kingdom’ hands—or rather, make people believe she died by Zhou people’s hands.”

Leng Yanling understood.

Frame, shift blame, stir conflict, create chaos—this was the most underhanded yet effective method in power struggles.

“Her death will surely cause chaos in the court and beyond.”

Feng Xuanyin continued, voice lowered further.

“Majesty’s cultivated pro-war faction these years will seize the chance to make trouble, demanding war against Zhou Kingdom. But Sect Leader Leng, tell me…”

She leaned forward a bit, eyes fixed on Leng Yanling.

“An army hollowed by corruption, a bunch of officials who only shout war in the court, a treasury that can’t even gather provisions… What does such a Liang Kingdom have to fight Zhou Kingdom’s iron cavalry with?”

Leng Yanling was silent.

She didn’t understand military matters, but she understood reason: a person terminally ill couldn’t withstand a great war.

“If the war is lost, someone has to take responsibility. The ones responsible are the pro-war faction, those who’ve opposed me these years, and I, as a minister friendly with Zhou Kingdom, will have a chance to return to the power center.”

She finished.

The tea room fell into silence again, only cicadas screeching, only breathing sounds, only the faint ripple of tea in the cups.

Leng Yanling looked at Feng Xuanyin, looked for a long time, then asked.

“Why me?”

Feng Xuanyin smiled, taking out a token from her sleeve, placing it on the tea table. The token was cast in black iron, palm-sized, front engraved with “State Preceptor Mansion” three words, back a star map.

“This is the guest elder token. The holder can mobilize thirty percent of my State Preceptor Mansion’s resources, freely enter and exit forbidden areas, see officials without kneeling, and… be exempt from death once.”

Leng Yanling had no interest in the token; she still looked at Feng Xuanyin.

“And?”

Feng Xuanyin’s smile deepened; she liked talking to smart people—saves trouble.

“And, the Dao sect’s grudge. Back then, purging the jianghu, the order was from Majesty and me, but execution was by the Ministry of War, Ministry of Justice, those ‘loyal ministers’ still pontificating in the court. I can give you the list, evidence, and… chance for revenge.”

Leng Yanling’s fingers tightened slightly.

Fourteen years, three hundred lives, fourteen years of empty mountain solitude, those fellow disciples dead under the forbidden army’s blades, those disciples scattered to the ends of the earth, no longer daring to show their true faces… these debts, she hadn’t forgotten, not for a moment.

“And?”

She asked again.

Feng Xuanyin looked at her, looked for three breaths, then slowly said the last sentence.

“Jade Sword Immortal, are you still familiar with this title?”

Leng Yanling’s breathing stopped for an instant.

The tea room suddenly became terribly quiet, even the cicadas outside seeming separated by a layer, distant and unreal.

“What did you say?”

Leng Yanling’s voice was very light, almost inaudible.

“Shuang Feixue, your good junior sister, is now escorting Feng Anlan back to the capital. My private soldiers found their tracks near Qing shi Post Station: three people, two maids, one woman in gray clothes, using a sword, extremely high martial arts.”

She paused, adding.

“They encountered an ambush, jianghu people, dead all over. From the wounds, left by Dao sect sword techniques. One of my people is an old coroner, worked in the Ministry of Justice back then; he said those wounds could only be made by Dao sect sword techniques.”

Leng Yanling sat there, motionless.

Her hand still held the teacup, knuckles white from gripping, but her face showed no expression. Only her eyes, those always calm as an ancient well, now surged with stormy waves in their depths.

Shock, worry, anger, and a trace suppressed for fourteen years, even she wouldn’t admit—concern.

Feng Xuanyin watched her reaction, knowing she had won.

She picked up the now cold tea, sipped lightly, then set down the cup and stood up.

“What I want you to do is simple,” she said, voice back to its previous mildness, “On the night Feng Anlan dies, save Shuang Feixue, let her owe you a life, let her… have a chance to return to the sect.”

She walked to the door, stopped, without turning back.

“As for how to choose, Sect Leader Leng can consider herself.”

With that, she pushed the door and left.

In the tea room, only Leng Yanling remained.

She sat there, looking at the cold tea on the table, at her reflection in the tea water, looked for a long time.

Outside the window, cicadas still screeched, louder each time, as if shouting the entire summer to pieces.

Outside the door, Ji Zimo heard footsteps, turned her head, saw the State Preceptor leaving down the mountain with those black-clothed guards.

She quickly ran into the tea room, saw her master still sitting there, motionless.

“Master?” she called softly.

Leng Yanling slowly raised her head, looked at her. In those eyes, something had shattered, and something was regrouping, heavy, pressing down making it hard to breathe.

“Zimo.” She spoke, voice hoarse.

“This disciple is here.”

“Pack up.” Leng Yanling said, each word squeezed through her teeth, “We’re going down the mountain.”

Ji Zimo was stunned: “Down the mountain? Where to?”

Leng Yanling stood up, walked to the window, looked north. The scorching sun baked the distant mountains, heat waves steaming, everything in sight twisting, deforming.

“To… bring your martial uncle home.”

……………………

No ideas for writing.

Head empty, won’t turn.

Anyway, eat first.

Haiku is still fun.