Chapter 670: The Xie Family

The Xie family’s Daguan Garden, north side.

One must take a boat across the lake, pass through a lush, emerald bamboo grove, before glimpsing the small secluded courtyard.

Above the gate hung a simple, ancient plaque inscribed with three characters: “Dengchun Tower,” their strokes strong and vigorous, exuding a refined elegance.

Though early spring had arrived, the chill lingered; the bamboo remained dark green as ink, and wisps of white mist rising from the lake curled among it, enhancing the courtyard’s literary serenity.

This was the residence of Second Court Master Xie Hong; ordinary folk were forbidden to approach, and daily, servants came to clean and maintain its tidiness and quiet.

Now that Xie Hong had departed for the academy, the place lay vacant, save for the rustling of bamboo leaves and the whispering breeze through the halls.

Today, the gate was gently pushed open.

A beautiful woman in golden robes stepped in gracefully, followed respectfully by a young man.

The woman wore a luxurious sable fur coat in autumn style, hands folded at her waist, a jade bracelet glinting on her wrist, her bearing regal and composed.

She was the mistress of Second Court, Xie Hong’s lawful wife—Madam Zhao.

Though she had borne two sons and was past thirty, her face remained as youthful and delicate as a girl of twenty. Today, she had adorned herself meticulously: her black hair coiled into a lofty cloud bun, exuding dignity and grace.

Madam Zhao stepped into the courtyard, her gaze slowly sweeping over every blade of grass and tree, then approached a pot of spring chrysanthemums, her eyes filled with tender pity.

She sighed softly: “I haven’t come here in a long time. These are the chrysanthemums Master Hong loved most.”

The young man behind her whispered: “Madam, though Master is away, this place remains unchanged—thanks entirely to you.”

A bitter smile touched Madam Zhao’s lips as her ivory fingertip lightly brushed the courtyard’s desk.

She looked up toward the bamboo grove behind the pavilion and murmured: “Yet I have served Master for years, borne him two children… yet in his heart, they are worth less than these plants.”

The bamboo rustled, the mist curled—as if bearing witness to her words.

Madam Zhao glided forward, stepping into Xie Hong’s bedroom.

The young man followed close behind, his steps so light they made no sound, afraid to disturb the stillness.

The bedroom was sparsely furnished: only a plain bed, and beside it, a carved wooden cabinet neatly stacked with books, their pages folded with perfect precision.

Madam Zhao turned, her beautiful eyes fixed on the young man.

He dared not meet her gaze, lowering his eyelids to stare at the delicate, tiny shoes at her feet.

“Look up.”

Only then did he raise his head, revealing a face strikingly similar to Xie Hong’s.

Madam Zhao reached out, her fingertip gently tracing his face, her voice tinged with obsession: “You resemble him—your nose, your eyebrows, even your lips… just a hint of his spirit, and you’re this handsome.”

The young man’s eyes burned with heat and fear; his entire body tensed, fists clenched inside his sleeves, knuckles white.

“Slap—”

Madam Zhao struck him hard across the face, the force snapping his head to the side, his cheek instantly swelling red.

Madam Zhao frowned slightly, her voice icy: “Who told you to show such a pitiful, worthless face? Filthy, lowborn scum…”

Her voice pierced like ice, sending shivers through the young man.

“Master’s gaze has always been cold, aloof—how dare you cower like this?”

The young man nearly collapsed to his knees, voice trembling: “Madam, forgive me! I—I know my fault!”

Madam Zhao snorted, withdrew her hand, and turned toward the bamboo grove outside the window, her tone laced with disdain and disappointment: “Leave. Tomorrow, return to where you came from… don’t set foot in the Xie household again.”

The young man turned deathly pale, trembling all over. He was but the son of a lowly stable slave in the Xie Fu, his indenture stamped in red ink—he and his ancestors had been slaves, with no right to redemption. Even if the mistress killed him, it would be no more than routine.

He had lived since childhood in the stable, surrounded by manure, until a year ago, when Madam Zhao noticed him and took him in like a caged golden oriole.

Silk robes, fine food, brocade garments—suddenly, his dark days seemed lit by light. He revered and feared this beautiful lady, having long worshipped her as a goddess.

In the past year, he had seen Madam Zhao only a handful of days; each meeting filled him with both longing and dread.

He knew well that his only privilege stemmed from his uncanny resemblance to Master Hong, and over these years, he had deliberately imitated the Second Master’s speech and habits.

Now, hearing Madam Zhao order him back to the stable, terror seized him—he felt as if he had fallen from the clouds into the abyss.

He fell to his knees, pounding his forehead against the ground with heavy thuds.

Blood streamed from his brow, staining the floor, yet he felt nothing, only continued to bang his head, voice shaking: “Madam, spare my life! I know my fault! I’ll never dare again!”

Dizzy, his vision blurred—he could see only her slender back, cold and distant.

Madam Zhao spoke coldly, devoid of any emotion: “Go.”

She turned and walked toward the door, her fingertip idly stroking the jade bracelet on her wrist, as if nothing had happened.

Master has gone to the academy—no telling when he’ll return. It’s all that First Court’s Xie Guan’s fault. He won’t enjoy his triumph much longer.

His death is imminent!

She sneered inwardly, stepped forward, and was about to leave the bedroom.

Suddenly!

A familiar voice echoed behind her, low and commanding: “Madam, did I tell you to leave?”

Madam Zhao froze, an inexplicable tension gripping her; her hands instinctively folded at her waist, fingers trembling slightly.

She turned slowly—and saw the young man standing, his gaze fixed on her, his expression now bearing a faint shadow of Xie Hong.

“Close the door.” The young man’s voice was calm, yet brooked no refusal.

Hearing that voice, Madam Zhao involuntarily swallowed.

“So you no longer obey your husband?”

She raised her hand and struck her hard across the face—the force sent her sprawling to the floor.

Her long robe fanned out like a blooming flower; she clutched her cheek, fallen to the ground, yet her face showed no shock or anger—only a dazed, dreamy expression.

“Close the door!”

Madam Zhao scrambled up and shut the door.

The young man had already seated himself on the bed.

“Madam, come and attend your husband.”

Madam Zhao approached slowly, timidly, her steps hesitant, torn.

The young man pulled her into his arms—her warm, supple body pressed against him, jolting his spirit. This was the lady he had dreamed of, whom he had never dared touch.

His face remained cold as ever; with a sharp “rip,” he tore open her outer robe.

Madam Zhao’s face flashed with panic; before she could react, another slap landed hard on her cheek. Her chest heaved violently, her struggles ceased.

The fur coat stripped away, revealing her skin like snow—soft, boneless, smooth as congealed fat.

Her breath came sweet as orchids, her eyes glazed, whispering softly: “Master…”

The young man’s gaze burned with desire; the rumors of her bound chest were true.

Where once tightly bound, now burst free—two great mounds, trembling gently.

One large hand could not hold them.

Madam Zhao tilted her head slightly, her black hair spilling loose, brows furrowing in pain: “Master, please be gentle.”

The young man’s eyes blazed like fire; he gripped harder: “You bore such an unnatural thing—bigger than my head—and you dare ask me to be gentle?”

“Tie your hair up. I’ve tamed wild horses from Longxi Road… let’s see how you fare.”

Madam Zhao obediently climbed onto the bed, its sheets perfectly smooth, not a single wrinkle.

At this moment, the windows and doors of Dengchun Tower were tightly shut; outside, heavy rain poured down, striking the lotus flowers on the lake; inside, muffled breaths were barely audible.

Carp surfaced through the rain to gaze at the lotus, adding a quiet, elegant charm.

【Time flowed on, never pausing; the grass and trees in the courtyard grew ever more lush, as if vying for spring.】

【The Yellow River rebellion, as your father led troops south to quell it, gradually subsided in Bianjing.】

【The nine great clans of the city still reveled in music and dance; the night banquets at Xixiang Pavilion lasted until dawn, as if the rebellion had never happened.】

【Another half-month passed!】

【Your cultivation advanced further—the fifth realm of martial arts, “Spring Thunder,” was now perfected, leaving only one step to break through to “Wrapping Finger.”】

【The “Wrapping Finger” realm is when a martial artist refines their primordial qi to its utmost, fully tempering the body’s meridians.】

【After this realm comes the upper three realms: the “Snow Mountain” realm, requiring the dantian to be fortified as a foundation, beginning to infuse it with true qi—adding stones and sand—hence the name “Snow Mountain.”】

【Upon reaching “Wrapping Finger,” all the body’s acupoints are fully opened, with no blockages left; one can now internally observe one’s own body.】

【Every pore and acupoint can breathe; one can even breathe underwater, and the body becomes as heavy or light as desired.】

【Simply activate the qi in your dantian, and you can suddenly gain hundreds of catties of weight—or become as light as a feather, at will.】

【At this stage, the martial artist has escaped the limitation of ordinary fighters who must pause to breathe; their true qi flows endlessly, without obstruction.】

【Ordinary primordial spirit cultivators or groups of dozens will wait for the martial artist to exhaust their breath before striking.】

【After “Wrapping Finger,” every pore can breathe—hence the name: true qi can be expelled not only from the hands but from every acupoint, with devastating power.】

【You sat bare-chested, cross-legged in the courtyard, sensing the flow of true qi within; residual medicinal power from blood marrow and bodhi seeds still lingered—this time, you intended to exhaust them all to break through “Wrapping Finger.”】

【You sat in meditation, your vital blood burning, golden Buddhist light swirling around your body, your hands forming a Buddhist mudra, yet within, a dark demonic aura lurked.】

【This was the strange manifestation of practicing both the “Vajra Indestructible Body” and the “Purple Mist Cave Demon Scripture”—Buddha and demon intertwined, mysterious and unfathomable.】

You had only one acupoint still sealed—the “Tiantai Point,” located between the upper dantian and the Nìwán Palace.

【You drew a deep breath, then suddenly opened your eyes and roared: “Break!”】

【Your vital blood surged, forming a crimson dragon that shot straight toward the Tiantai Point.】

【The Tiantai Point shattered open like a dam bursting—true qi surged like a river, instantly flooding through every meridian.】

【You felt power surge through you like a tide; every inch of your meridians rejoiced, thrumming with overwhelming strength.】

【“Wrapping Finger realm—achieved.”】

【You closed your eyes, sensing the flow of true qi within—each thread refined through countless trials, brimming with boundless vitality and potential.】

The cultivation of martial arts can never match the speed of Primordial Spirit cultivation. You know well that to forge a True Name, only by uniting the Primordial Spirit’s Tenth Realm, “Yangshen,” with the Martial Path’s Ninth Realm, “Xuandan,” can it be accomplished.

At your current progress, it will take but a short while before you reach the Primordial Spirit’s Ninth Realm, “Ziwei Hengjie.”

Your speed in Primordial Spirit cultivation is truly astonishing, perhaps due to your lifelong cultivation of the heart. The clarity and resilience of your inner state have made you thrive on the path of the Primordial Spirit.

To forge a True Name is to become a Grand Master of the world—the pinnacle of all cultivators.

Even the Master himself resides in this realm. Yet, True Names vary in strength.

Like Second Master’s True Name, “Zhanxian,” which can sever karmic ties—even the Master fears it to some degree.

As for what kind of True Name you will forge, it is intimately tied to the divine art you cultivate.

You stood in the courtyard, gazing upward as the morning sun rose, casting ten thousand rays of radiant light.

You thought to yourself: “The path of the True Name concerns one’s entire cultivation. Now that I cultivate the Yin Fu Jing, Yang Fu Jing, Golden Immortal Body Divine Art, Purple Mist Cave Devil True Scripture, and Second Master’s Nine Swords—perhaps drawing from Confucian, Buddhist, and Daoist traditions, I may forge a unique True Name.”

You have settled all matters in the courtyard and now intend to deeply contemplate Second Master’s Eighth Sword—“Jianshi.”

This sword and the Ninth Sword were the fruit of years of agonizing thought by Second Master on his sickbed, culminating in his final act of slicing open the Heavenly Gate.

Their realm is so exalted it may surpass even the Master’s, profoundly mysterious and beyond the reach of mortal martial arts.

A month has passed since you left the Gathering of Flowers, yet you have still not unraveled the Eighth Sword.

“Jianshi” leaves no written record—only a faint, hazy shadow left behind by Second Master.

In your mind-sea, the shadow stands tall, gripping a long sword, unmistakably resembling Second Master.

You can expend Primordial Spirit energy to project this sword-shadow into the courtyard, but like the Yin Spirit, it is insubstantial and elusive.

This sword-shadow seems to possess sentience; it does not require your command to fight you, yet the duel is limited to techniques alone—no Primordial Spirit or martial qi is involved.

You gradually understand: unless you can defeat this shadow in swordplay, you cannot receive the inheritance of the Ninth Sword.

You have tried several times; even with all your strength, you cannot withstand ten strikes before being subdued.

To your shame, this is still the result of your daily practice over the past month.

Second Master’s sword moves like a deer’s antler hung on a tree, or a celestial immortal descending from beyond the heavens—sometimes soaring to the highest heavens, sometimes sinking to the deepest earth, ever-changing, perhaps exhausting the very limits of mortal swordplay.

Yet, whether this sword-shadow was deliberately left by Second Master or simply inherently so, it happens to compensate for your weakness.

Though your cultivation advances swiftly, you lack a sparring partner to refine your techniques—a clear shortcoming.

Now, with this sword-shadow, you train with it daily, and your swordplay improves at an astonishing pace.

You stood in the courtyard, long sword in hand, eyes closed and mind focused, once again projecting the sword-shadow.

(End of Chapter)