Chapter 40

Forty: A Maiden of Yue, a Sword of Yunmeng (Seeking Follows and Votes)

“Brother, don’t you think I’m stupid?”

“No.”

Ouyang Rong shook his head without looking away, meeting his younger sister’s gaze—yes, he cared not at all about the future size of the disciples’ dining hall.

“I fell for such an obvious ploy to lure me away.”

“The more refined the trap, the plainer it appears.”

Xie Ling felt a small pang of melancholy: “Is that so…? I’ve read so many books, and Father always told me to think before acting—but the moment I see an enemy wounded and fleeing, I chase after him, thinking I can catch him quickly.”

Ouyang Rong thought a moment, then comforted: “Normal. I used to charge recklessly into towers, convinced I could kill someone with one health point left—only later did I realize that was a life illusion.”

"Charge into towers... weak point... what do you mean?" Xie Ling blinked and asked tentatively: "Brother, are you also a Qi Refiner?"

“No… but close enough. I understand that impulse when the kill slips through your fingers.” He sighed.

“Brother.” Xie Ling’s nose grew slightly numb.

“So you’re not stupid—you just have a big brain… no, wait—slightly dull. Train more with your brother, and you’ll grow sharp.”

“...” Xie Ling.

“If you can’t comfort someone, don’t try.” She nodded stiffly.

Ouyang Rong smiled, picked up half a bronze beast mask from the table, and studied it. “So, did you see the demon’s face clearly?”

“No. He had paint on his face, playing tricks—escaped by leaping into Butterfly Creek, wounded as he was.”

Seeing the regret on Xie Ling’s small face, Ouyang Rong murmured:

“Judging by this, it’s almost certainly the Liu family’s doing—likely with accomplices waiting. You were right not to rashly dive into the water. And you couldn’t have outswum him anyway—you weigh two jin more.”

Xie Ling remained indignant: “Mainly because I’m not skilled with the sword—if I were, all these false demonic arts would be shattered by a single strike, striking straight at the core.”

Ouyang Rong, about to comfort her, twitched his mouth, glancing at her long sword at her waist. “You call this being unskilled with the sword?”

“This is nothing. Brother, this is your first time meeting a Qi Refiner, isn’t it?” Xie Ling shook her head. “The path I follow isn’t known for swordsmanship. The true path that can shatter ten thousand arts with one sword belongs to another hidden sect.”

“So you follow the scholar’s path?”

“Yes. Brother has heard of Qi Refiners?”

“I’ve heard a little from Liu Liu, but not clearly.” After a pause, Ouyang Rong asked curiously: “Do the Qi Refiner paths have ranks? What realm are you in?”

Though he’d return home after quelling the flood and slaying the dragon, he couldn’t help being curious—because he always suspected the merit tower in the heart lake was connected to Qi Refiners…

And judging by this little sister, Qi Refiners seemed like martial arts masters from wuxia novels, just renamed—they cultivated not hardened body techniques, but something called “qi.” Even this slender, delicate girl weighing two jin more could walk on walls—clearly, it was quite miraculous.

Moreover, the origin of this power system traced back to fragmentary mentions in ancient texts of pre-Qin Qi Refiners.

But where did those pre-Qin Qi Refiners themselves originate? The mythic age?

And what of the top figures among today’s Qi Refiners? Could they truly live forever? Did the First Emperor of Qin ever obtain the elixir of immortality…? Hmm, surely not—if Brother Ying still lived, there’d be no Li Gan or Wei Zhou today.

"Don't meddle in Jianghu affairs, Brother," said this Xie Shigui lady, still annoyed—he had just ruined her moment of emotion.

Ouyang Rong smiled, peeled an orange, tapped twice on the white filaments, and offered it to her. “Sister, calm down.”

Xie Ling sniffed: “No. It’ll make me heaty.”

The young county magistrate thought a moment, silently pushed the pile of orange peels and white filaments toward her.

This cools the heat.

“...”

Xie Ling flicked her sleeve, snatched the peeled orange Ouyang Rong was about to retract, and glared at him—half-angry, half-amused.

“Eat the peel yourself. Peel two more for me.”

Ouyang Rong nodded with a smile, peeled a few more and handed them over. “Let’s talk business.”

Xie Ling turned serious.

“Qi Refiners have nine ranks.”

“But actually… only six.”

“The final three ranks leading to ‘myth’ have been lost.”

“It’s like the official ranks of Zhou Ting—top ranks like the Three Masters and Three Dukes are honorary titles with no real power.”

"The first three ranks of Qi Refiners are similar. In today's Jianghu, within or beyond the world, no one has reached these realms in nearly a century."

"Yet even though lost, the entire Jianghu still uses the nine-rank system—it was established during the Wei-Jin era alongside the Nine-Rank System."

“Ninth and eighth ranks are beginner Qi Refiners, their spiritual energy blue; seventh and sixth are mid-level, their energy red; fifth and fourth are upper-level, their energy purple; beyond that lie the lost Heavenly-Person ranks—ancient texts call them… Shenzhou Heavenly Persons, said to fly through the sky, vanish underground, and ride the wind.”

Xie Ling sighed.

Ouyang Rong asked: “Spiritual energy has color? I never saw yours.”

“One, I haven’t reached the stage to emit it externally; two, you can’t see qi.”

He understood, then asked: “What do you mean by the nine mythic paths?”

Xie Ling stuffed an orange segment into her mouth, tapped her cherry lips with a slender finger, and chose her words carefully:

“All current Qi Refining arts originate from the nine mythic paths passed down from the pre-Qin era.”

“Some say the end of each path leads to myth; others say the final goal of climbing the nine ranks is immortality; still others claim ascending to first rank allows flight to Penglai Immortal Isles… but who knows?”

“Myth has been lost. Immortality and Penglai are now pursued only by mad alchemists overseas and the most fanatical Daoist Qi Refiners.”

“The nine mythic paths have changed beyond recognition since ancient times.”

“Some, like the Mohist path, vanished into history’s river—like a whale’s death, giving birth to ten thousand lives.”

“Some, like the Military and Yin-Yang paths, declined during two great dynastic struggles, falling into the hands of imperial power and secret clans.”

“Some, like the Scholar and Daoist paths, have endured for a thousand years, remaining towering orthodox sects, saving lives and upholding destiny.”

“Or… they retreated beyond the world, each with their own mission, their own obsession, their own… madness.”

Xie Ling sighed softly.

Ouyang Rong pondered, then asked: “So the intact Scholar path belongs to our Confucian sect?”

Xie Ling shook her head: “The Scholar path isn’t exclusive to Confucians or Confucian families—some Legalist and Diplomat disciples follow it too. But Confucian lines are the most prominent, having risen above the Hundred Schools of Thought during the Han Wudi era, when Confucianism was made supreme. Yet all Hundred Schools were Scholar paths.”

Ouyang Rong wanted to ask why his past and present life as such a bookish man hadn’t earned him Qi Refining instruction—did the academy not know the value of eighteen Metropolitan Graduates?… But seeing how his sister avoided the topic to spare his feelings, he understood the reason.

He thought, then nodded: “What rank are you now?”

"Scholar path, eighth rank—Gentleman." She paused, then added: "Also, the Jianghu collectively refers to beginner Qi Refiners from Confucian lines as 'Gentlemen'; mid-level ones are 'Sages'..."

“No wonder you kept stressing you were a Gentleman—you truly are honest, never lied to your brother…”

Xie Ling shook her head softly:

“I thought you knew a little… and holding a rank title is a luxury—it’s accumulated wisdom from past Qi Refiners, each sect’s own classification, subtly pointing toward a path of ‘qi’.”

"Only intact mythic paths receive such treatment—like the three orthodox sects. In the Jianghu, those without a stable lineage are simply called 'X-rank Qi Refiner'..."

“Then what was your previous ninth rank?”

“Scholar.” She remained calm.

“And seventh?”

Xie Ling glanced at her brother, tilting her head slightly, smiling faintly: “Why do you care so much?”

Ouyang Rong coughed, pointed at the broken bronze beast mask on the table, and nodded: “Since this demon is tied to the Liu family, I must ask—just in case. Do you know what path he follows and his rank?”

Xie Ling hesitated, then answered honestly: “He’s likely from the Immortal Alchemist path—also eighth rank. If I recall correctly, the title for this rank is… Seeker of Immortals.”

Xie Lingjiang hesitated, then replied honestly: “It should be the Immortal Artisan lineage of the Dao, also eighth-rank, but likely only recently entered the eighth-rank, and if I recall correctly, this eighth-rank title… is Immortal Seeker Artisan.”

“The Alchemist path is as ancient as the Scholar path, but they’re… sinister. Their morality is unpredictable. They favor seeking immortals overseas, excel in external alchemy, and have long peddled immortality elixirs to dynastic rulers since Qin—this is precisely why our Confucian Qi Refiner ancestors clashed with them.”

“When Qin first unified, Confucians and alchemists both served the First Emperor. Confucians helped him perform the Fengshan rites and promote the Way of Kingship. But these alchemists went further than even the Legalists—they constantly urged the Emperor to seek immortality, then betrayed him, fled, framed others, and triggered the Burning of Books and Burying of Scholars. That’s when the feud began… Brother, be extremely cautious around such people. Don’t believe in immortality.”

Seeing Ouyang Rong’s unimpressed expression, Xie Ling nodded in relief, then frowned slightly: “Still, these alchemists usually seek immortals in the northern seas—they rarely operate in the south. How did this demon come from the Liu family—or someone else—and dare come so close?”

Ouyang Rong asked curiously: “Why are alchemists rare in the south? Isn’t Lingnan also coastal? Can’t they seek immortals there?”

Xie Ling smiled: "Because the Jiangnan and Lingnan regions together form the Tiannan Jianghu—the home of a deadly enemy of the Immortal Alchemists."

Ouyang Rong realized: “Wait—could it be that path that shatters ten thousand arts with one sword?”

Xie Ling pointed upward: "At the peak of the Tiannan Jianghu lies a supreme hidden sect—the ancestral home of all sword arts. Its name is... Yunmeng Sword Marsh."

“This sect holds one of the original nine mythic paths—the Yue Maiden path. It accepts only female cultivators, with brutal standards, and hides beyond the world, rarely entering it.”

“And Yunmeng female cultivators most delight in killing alchemists.” Xie Ling smiled.

“Yunmeng Sword Marsh… wait, why does that sound familiar?” Ouyang Rong frowned.

Xie Ling finished her last orange segment, rose, and stepped out the door. Leaving behind only the pile of orange peels, she added:

“Correct—it’s right next door, in Yunmeng Marsh. Come to think of it, it was their rising waters that flooded your county.”

“...” The young county magistrate.

“That’s right, right next door in Yunmeng Marsh. Come to think of it, it was their family’s flood that drowned Master’s county town.”

West of Donglin Temple, a simple yet tidy three-room house.

Inside a bright room, windows reopened and no longer dim.

A tall, thin man with the character “Yue” branded on his face was packing his bag.

An anxious old woman beside him tugged at his arms, her white temple hairs trembling in the air: “Don’t go down the mountain, Ashan. Don’t go down. Let’s live peacefully here in the temple.”

Liu Ashan remained silent, his movements unchanged, continuing to pack—though occasionally he covered his mouth and coughed, his body swaying weakly, still frail from long illness.

Yet his motions were clean and efficient: he left all remaining money at home, packed only a few changes of clothes and essentials, and prepared to descend the mountain.

“Ashan, don’t go down. Mother begs you…”

Liu Ashan was silent and moved as usual, continuing to gather items, though he occasionally covered his mouth and coughed, his body slightly unsteady and frail—still weakened from long bed rest.

Yet the man’s movements were clean and efficient; he left all remaining money at home, simply packed a few changes of clothes into his bundle, and took only essentials down the mountain.

“Ashan, don’t go down—I beg you, Mother begs you…”

Liu’s mother, tears in her eyes, held his hand, while Liu Ashan, turned away, shook his head.

At the room’s entrance, the curtain was quietly lifted, revealing a pair of bright, intelligent eyes. Aqing silently watched the quarrel between her mother and older brother inside.

Her brother’s illness had largely healed; last night he was already able to get out of bed and walk. Yet after just one night’s rest, he rose at dawn to pack his things, saying he was going down the mountain to find the County Magistrate.

Aqing wanted to speak but held back. She didn’t understand her mother’s worries, nor did she understand her brother’s stubbornness.

Still, she knew the County Magistrate was a good man. Her brother going to seek him made Aqing genuinely happy—and now, when she went to visit her brother, she might even get a chance to see the Magistrate too.

But Aqing worried about her brother’s health. Also… her mother had never seemed so heartbroken before. Even when her brother had been diagnosed with a terminal illness, she had merely accepted it with a deadened, resigned expression…

Liu Ashan slung his pack over his shoulders, turned, and knelt before his weeping mother, bowing his head three times with heavy thuds. Then he rose without a word, stepped out the door, patted his obedient younger sister’s head, and silently turned away from the courtyard.

Liu’s mother chased after him, crying out:

“Ashan, the nobleman doesn’t care whether we repay his kindness—we can burn incense and pray for him all our lives, be his ox or horse in the next life. Don’t go down! This debt can never be repaid…”

Liu Ashan did not stop walking, did not look back, his voice hoarse and dull:

“The Young Master told me to come find him once I was healed. Mother, go back.”

The old woman, helped up by Aqing, stared blankly at her child’s retreating back, murmuring:

“A nobleman’s grace—we poor folk can never repay it. Even his small kindness is greater than heaven to us. What can the poor offer in return? We have only one life…”

But beside her, only Aqing, bewildered and clueless, heard—no one else listened, nor would anyone ever listen.

From afar, the man’s muffled voice came again:

“Aqing, take care of Mother. Your brother is leaving.”

…