Chapter 211: Arrive at Wuqing Temple, Meet Shen Shulan

Lu Yuan pulled back the carriage curtain and leapt down from the coach.

The morning chill here was sharper than at Tianlong Temple, carrying a crisp scent of pine needles mixed with cold spring water that instantly sharpened his senses.

Raising his eyes, he took in the mountain that held Wuqing Temple, which presented a completely different atmosphere from Tianlong Temple’s “coiled dragon” grandeur.

Tianlong Temple was domination.

Wuqing Temple was concealment.

The whole peak seemed still immersed in primordial mist, the mountain path narrow and winding, disappearing among hardy ancient pines and oddly shaped firs.

Half-hidden, it looked like a hanging ladder to a fairyland, leading straight into the ethereal clouds.

The mountain gate was not built from celestial iron and glazed tiles like Tianlong Temple’s ostentatious entrance.

Instead, a few thick, rough pillars—seemingly grown straight from the mountain—of obsidian supported a wooden paifang.

They were inlaid with unknown beast bones, their tones dark, yet in the faint dawn light a warm, mysterious sheen flowed across them.

Like ancient jade: at first glance unremarkable, but the more you look, the more its charm deepens.

On either side of the gate, there were no fierce stone guardian sculptures like at Tianlong Temple; instead stood two so-called “welcoming pines,” each said to be over a thousand years old.

Their trunks gnarled, branches dripping with verdant green, and between the leaves faint firefly-like spirit lights flickered, giving off a vivacious sense of life and a harmony of the Dao following nature.

Lu Yuan drew a deep breath. The spiritual energy here, while not as dense and immersive as at Tianlong Temple, was purer and clearer.

It entered his lungs and refreshed his soul; unlike Tianlong Temple’s heavy, oppressive “imperial” air, this felt soothing.

“A sacred place for immortals…”

Lu Yuan sighed inwardly.

If Tianlong Temple was a magnificent city built on a mountain, then Wuqing Temple was more like an actual reclusive immortal’s grotto in the deep woods.

Tianlong Temple showcased the utmost human luxury and the authority of power.

Wuqing Temple exuded a transcendent simplicity and mystery, a return to natural authenticity.

Here you would not sense a Celestial Master barking orders; you would instead feel that truly enlightened sages resided within.

At the gate, two young Taoist disciples in bluish-gray robes were sweeping.

Their movements were unhurried, their breaths long and serene, their expressions calm, as if they were one with the mountain, the clouds, and the trees.

When they saw an outsider arriving, they only inclined their heads in slight salute.

There was none of the scrutinizing arrogance of Tianlong Temple’s disciples; instead they demonstrated the composed ease of transcendent hermits.

Lu Yuan adjusted his clothes and composed himself, shedding the tight alertness he’d maintained at Tianlong Temple, letting his mindset become as tranquil as the morning mist among the peaks.

He stepped onto the mountain path; the bluestone steps underfoot were slick and moist, their crevices thick with moss, giving off a warmth leached by time.

It was a stark contrast to Tianlong Temple’s polished black jade steps.

This place lost some of the “man-made” pomp and gained a natural elegance.

Along the path, ancient trees towered.

Those venerable pines and cedars had trunks knotted like dragons, their crowns interlaced and almost blotting out the sky.

Only when the morning breeze passed did thin silver threads of sunlight leak through.

A milky fog spread through the woods, blurring distant views; all that could be heard was the roaring of pines, crisp bird calls, and the burble of streams.

It felt like walking inside an ancient scroll painting.

Midway up the mountain, the view suddenly opened.

Clinging to the cliffside, a cluster of pavilions had been built suspended in midair.

These structures lacked Tianlong Temple’s overwhelming scale and gaudy glazed tiles.

They were primarily constructed from native timber and bluish-gray stone, with upturned eaves and clean, simple lines, as if they had naturally grown from the mountain itself.

Dark-roof tiles held patches of unmelted snow, blending with the hardy trees and drifting mist.

From a distance, the pavilions seemed not built but perched.

They conveyed a lonely clarity and aloofness.

More pilgrims appeared on the mountain path, but unlike the shoulder-to-shoulder hustle and smoky bustle of Tianlong Temple, the visitors here were sparse and quiet.

Most wore plain cotton robes, moved with calm steps, and kept their voices low as if afraid to disturb the mountain’s stillness.

Lu Yuan noticed many of the pilgrims dressed peculiarly: some had medicinal gourds hanging at their waists, others carried bamboo baskets filled with freshly collected herbs.

Clearly these people were not mere worshippers.

Many were herb-gatherers, itinerant town physicians, or practitioners seeking Taoist methods to aid their medicine.

An old man carrying a huge bamboo basket passed by Lu Yuan; the basket exhaled a faint bitter medicinal scent.

He glanced at Lu Yuan, his aura peaceful and profound; he only inclined his head slightly and continued upward, his steps light and far from old.

A few plainly dressed women carried bamboo trays not filled with expensive incense or candles, but homemade rice cakes and wild fruits.

In hushed conversation, they did not discuss vows and offerings.

Instead their words touched on practical matters: “The Daoist priest here granted a prescription last month that really helped,” “The lingzhi on the back mountain seems ripe.”

Lu Yuan understood then.

Tianlong Temple sought presence and worldly offerings, so it built vast halls to accommodate crowds.

Wuqing Temple sought the Dao—that combination of nature, medicinal knowledge, and Taoist practice.

The incense here was light, more like neighborhood offerings and mutual aid than grand worship.

The higher he climbed, the more refined the buildings became.

There was a courtyard called the “Hundred-Herb Garden,” its walls low and the air inside thick with medicinal aroma.

Disciples in Taoist robes were quietly grinding herbs, their movements as graceful as a dance.

Nearby was the “Listening-to-Waves Pavilion,” suspended beside a waterfall, where the water’s roar was ingeniously guided indoors into a lingering, clear sound for people to play zither and meditate.

Here there was none of Tianlong Temple’s domineering authority.

Only a scholarly, tranquil spirit and mountain-air simplicity.

Lu Yuan inhaled deeply. The spiritual energy was not as heavy as at Tianlong Temple, but it was like drinking sweet spring water—it penetrated and soothed his heart.

After days of travel, he felt genuine relaxation for the first time.

This was not a mere Taoist temple; it was a herb lodge perched among the clouds, a true immortal’s training ground.

He kept climbing. The farther up he went, the stronger that airy, otherworldly sense of a sacred place became.

Mist flowed at arm’s reach yet could not be grasped.

The bluestone steps, polished by years of moss and fog, gleamed slippery like oil; standing on them, he had the illusion of walking on clouds.

The world fell silent; only the rustle of pine needles and a distant, muffled boom wove together into a natural Dao resonance.

Approaching the summit, the scene suddenly shifted.

What had been scattered elegant pavilions among ancient trees began to take on a highly ordered, imposing layout.

The buildings remained timber and stone, but the style changed from concealment to defense.

Every so often along the path stood stone pavilions not filled with benches and tables but holding massive bronze medicine cauldrons or forging furnaces.

Though there was no visible smoke, the residual warmth from their fires could be felt.

The clean pine-and-spring scent gradually faded, replaced by a harsher, more forceful atmosphere.

It smelled of weapon sharpening, the heat of pills being formed, and the lingering resonance left by raw power in motion.

“So this is the other side of Wuqing Temple.”

Lu Yuan thought.

If the mountain’s foot was a misty paradise, the summit was a forge of countless trials.

After all, Wuqing Temple—Wuqing Temple—was above all about martial strength.

Passing through the final moon gate called “Through the Seclusion,” the true main hall area of Wuqing Temple came into full view.

This place had neither Tianlong Temple’s all-encompassing luxury nor Zhenlong Temple’s sparse austerity.

Dozens of halls and pavilions lined the mountain according to the contour in an almost arcane formation.

Each structure felt heavy and ancient.

From the eaves hung not ornamental bells but bronze bells and iron pieces of various sizes.

There were even giant weapon prototypes without sharpened edges.

When the breeze moved them, they did not tinkle but struck one another with low, grave metal tones, like the roar of thousands of troops.

On the plaza, there were no finely dressed disciples with arrogant looks like at Tianlong Temple.

Instead, young Taoists wore short, sturdy training clothes with frayed cuffs and hems.

Some practiced sword forms, sword qi slicing the fog.

Pairs sparred on specialized platforms; each collision produced a dull boom and sent qi and blood surging.

Others lifted massive logs or stones, each heavy step on the stones thudding in demonstration of perfected physical power.

Lu Yuan even saw a white-bearded old Taoist standing bare-chested in the plaza center while two young disciples struck his back acupoints with cloth-wrapped wooden staves.

The old man did not flinch; a faint golden light flowed beneath his skin, producing a metallic, resonant clang like struck metal.

“Such domineering golden-body qi…”

Lu Yuan’s pupils contracted.

This was Wuqing Temple’s strength as the foremost mountain temple beyond the Great Wall.

Wuqing Temple relied on tangible martial might, a fusion of repeatedly tempered martial arts and Taoist methods.

At that moment, the large plaque above the main hall bearing the characters “Wuqing Temple” was not written but cast from unknown metal, its dull color harboring an edge that seemed to sever all things.

The plaza stones had been worn pitted and uneven by generations of training and sword testing.

Here the spiritual energy was still pure, but it no longer invited quiet contemplation alone.

Instead it brimmed with a vigorous, upward, cloud-piercing martial will.

Lu Yuan inhaled; the air tasted of rust and sweat—a true environment for the survival of the strong.

He gazed up at Wuqing Temple’s main hall cluster, distinct in aura from Tianlong and Zhenlong Temples, and felt a rising surge of admiration.

If Tianlong Temple’s grandeur could be imitated with money and manpower, creating Wuqing Temple’s atmosphere was not something money could buy.

Every stone and timber here blended perfectly into nature.

He intended to approach a sweeping temple boy to inquire after Shen Shulan’s whereabouts and deliver a message.

“Dong—”

A primitive, heavy bell note, as if from a primordial age, suddenly exploded across the plaza!

This bell did not sound like Tianlong Temple’s summoning call, nor like Zhenlong Temple’s morning drum.

Lu Yuan raised his brow. The disciples practicing swordplay, sparring, and hauling materials all stopped mid-motion at the bell’s first toll.

They grew solemn, moved with coordinated precision, and quickly converged toward a massive open-air platform for lectures located to the side and rear of the main hall.

Not only disciples, but pilgrims and herb-gatherers on the mountain path also changed direction.

Their faces carried a pilgrimage-like reverence as they quickly surged toward the lecture platform.

“What is—?”

Lu Yuan caught a young Taoist hurrying past and politely asked.

Though the disciple was busy, seeing Lu Yuan’s unfamiliar face he answered briefly:

“Today’s lecture, the Celestial Master will deliver the main address.”

“Miss this, and who knows when the next will come.”

Having said that, he spoke no more and quickened his steps to merge with the flow.

“Celestial Master delivering the main address?”

Lu Yuan’s mind flickered with understanding and surprise.

Everyone knew Wuqing Temple once aimed to have two Celestial Masters; because of circumstances involving Lu Yuan, that plan had failed.

At present, the only one in Wuqing Temple who could be called Celestial Master was Shen Shulan.

After all, Shen Jizhou no longer held that position.

Of course, some disciples might still call Shen Jizhou Celestial Master out of habit; the matter had been painful for the temple.

But practically speaking, even when Shen Jizhou had been Celestial Master, disciples rarely addressed him that way—he was the temple master.

So the one delivering today’s lecture had to be Shen Shulan.

Lu Yuan watched the crowd flow like rivers into the sea and felt the martial will in the air deepen because of the bell.

He too followed the crowd toward the imposing open-air lecture platform built on the cliff’s edge.

The enormous platform hung over an abyss. Its base was cast from a dark unknown metal that shone a cold iron-gray in the morning light.

Against the surrounding plain wooden structures it presented a stark contrast, radiating unmistakable severity.

The area around the platform was already densely packed with people.

Wuqing Temple disciples stood in ranks by seniority and cultivation level, their breath weighty.

Pilgrims and herb-gatherers voluntarily stood on the periphery with respectful expressions.

Lu Yuan’s light passed over the crowd and instantly locked onto the solitary figure standing at the center of the platform.

At that moment all surrounding noise—the sword qi, the clanging of metal—seemed to fall away from him.

At the platform’s center, Shen Shulan stood on the dark base in a plain white robe as pure as snow, like a white lotus blooming among steel.

Her posture was upright; she did not adopt the usual sermon posture of clasping hands behind her back. Her arms hung naturally by her sides.

At her fingertips fine lightning coiled faintly—that was tightly condensed hostile qi seeping outward.

She appeared around twenty-seven, at the height of a woman’s allure.

Her features were clear and cold like an ice-peak snow-lotus, so refined they verged on sharp, as if the world’s spiritual energy had condensed into a masterpiece devoid of mortal dust.

Her brows arched like distant hills, her eyes like a cold pool holding stars; her gaze moved with an incisive, detached insight into human hearts.

That coldness was not cruelty but an innate purity, like millennia-old ice.

Her beauty was aggressively sublime—so stunning it was intimidating, commanding awe.

A second look might wound you with that untouchable sword intent.

As the breeze passed, she had neither radiant glory nor drifting immortal veils.

Only faint, visible filaments of lightning danced across her robe.

These streaks of electric qi hissed softly, tearing at and lifting nearby mists.

She had not spoken, yet the disciples below seemed struck by some summons; each straightened his spine and felt qi and blood surge.

They spontaneously entered a state of “comprehending the Dao.”

Then her crimson lips parted; her voice was cold and devoid of emotion, yet it rang clear in every ear, striking directly at hearts and souls:

“Today I will teach the seventh form of the Supreme Formation-Breaking Chapter, number twelve: ‘Thunder Shakes the Nine Heavens.’”

Before her words had faded, she pointed like a sword and drew a light slash through the air.

“Zui—!”

A blinding cyan-purple thunderbolt sprang into existence from nothing!

The whole assembly fell silent; even needles could be heard.

And that person was—clearly—

Shen Shulan!