Chapter 31

Zhao Ti slid down the cliff; the rope, made of whale tendon, was incredibly tough and resilient, strong enough to serve as the winding cable for a siege engine, and even two or three men together might not snap it.

The short sword, sharp enough to cut through iron, could be driven into the cliff face to secure his body, and after retying the tendon rope midway, roughly half an hour later, he reached the cliff’s great fissure.

Zhao Ti carefully examined the fissure—it was indeed climbable—so he struck the cliff wall hard, swung his body lightly, and dropped into the crack.

After resting a moment, he descended toward the valley floor, using hands and legs together, moving slowly.

The valley was deep; even the fissure still lay some distance above the bottom, but the slope grew increasingly slanted, no longer a sheer precipice, until finally it became a hillside, free of danger, and soon he entered the valley.

At this moment, the roar of the waterfall opposite grew louder than above, revealing a vast lake that, under the night sky, seemed like a green mirror, surrounded by camellia thickets swaying gracefully—a scene of otherworldly seclusion.

Zhao Ti gazed upstream at a smooth, jade-like rock wall and thought: this must be the Yuliang Jade Mirror. Now that he had seen it, the entrance to the Langhuan Fudi would be easy to find.

He turned back to search for the sour fruit bushes in his memory, and soon spotted a large cluster; after parting the branches, he found a stone wall, luminous and jade-white, just like the one by the waterfall.

Zhao Ti nodded—this must be where Wu Yashu and Li Qiushui had once trained; the moonlight had cast their shadows onto this stone wall, which then reflected onto the large cliff behind the waterfall, causing the Liangjian disciples to mistake it for the divine image of the Jade Mirror.

Now, as the moonlight first rose, Zhao Ti fixed his gaze on the stone wall below and saw a faint sword shadow appear—it was the reflection of moonlight shining through a hole in the western cliff.

Following the diagonal direction of the sword shadow, he spotted a massive boulder, approached it, and pushed—it felt slippery with moss, and he estimated its weight at one or two thousand jin.

Zhao Ti thought for a moment, pulled away all the surrounding vines, then bent down to clear the mud and sand beneath, and pushed again; the rock slowly turned, like a great door, and when it had rotated halfway, a cave over three feet high appeared behind it.

He suppressed his emotions, pulled out a fire-striker and candle, lit them, and stepped inside.

After walking a dozen steps, he saw a metal door inlaid with bowl-sized nails; he knew the interior was unbarred, pushed hard, and the door opened.

Inside, the space was brightly lit—he approached and saw crystals embedded in the walls, with fish and shrimp swimming through them; it was clearly the bottom of a lake, channeling in the water’s glow.

Zhao Ti continued to examine the chamber: there were stone tables and stools, with combs and hairpins on the table; on the walls, east and west, dozens of bronze mirrors were embedded—over thirty in total. Using their reflections to search, he found a crack in the southwest corner.

He walked over, pushed hard, and indeed it was a door—stone steps descended; after going down, he saw another door, which he opened, and suddenly the space before him blazed with light.

There stood a palace-dressed beauty, holding a long sword, its tip pointed directly at him.

Zhao Ti looked at her and smiled faintly.

The beauty was a jade statue, life-sized, with eyes glowing like fireflies, radiating vitality, her skin as smooth as congealed fat.

He judged her to be about eighteen or nineteen, her brows and corners of the eyes still holding a trace of youthfulness, yet overflowing with irresistible charm and grace—a beauty unmatched in this world.

Her eyes, carved from black diamonds, grew deeper the longer he looked; within them, faint light shimmered, always fixed upon him—no matter which way he turned his gaze, they followed, as if brimming with boundless joy, yet tinged with sorrow and longing, as if waiting for something.

Zhao Ti’s heart skipped a beat; then he smiled slightly and murmured to himself: “Should I call you Li Qiushui, or Little Sister Li, or Li Qiushui as she was before twenty?”

The gemstones in the statue’s eyes flickered with shifting light, as if understanding his words, radiating a sense of melancholy.

He reached out and gently touched the statue’s cheek, then paused in thought, and began to survey the surroundings.

The walls were carved with many inscriptions—mostly passages from Zhuangzi’s Nan Hua Jing, and phrases written by Wu Yashu for “Little Sister Qiu”: “In this cave, days and months vanish; earthly bliss is supreme.”

He looked again at the statue and saw two mats before it: a small one for bowing, a large one for kneeling; on the inner side of the statue’s embroidered slippers, characters were stitched—on the right: “A thousand prostrations, to serve you”; on the left: “Obey your command, a hundred deaths, no regret.”

Zhao Ti blinked, reached out, tore open the small mat, revealing the rush stuffing—and beneath it, a silk pouch. The words written on the white silk matched his memory: “Train here in Langhuan Fudi, slay all members of the Xiaoyao Sect.”

He opened it and found a silk scroll, slightly unfurled, revealing the words: “Beiming Divine Art.”

Zhao Ti remembered that Lingbo Microstep was at the very end of the scroll; he turned further, skipping past the depictions of women lying and reclining, in alluring poses, gazing tenderly, pouting or scowling—the illustrations of female cultivators—and reached the scroll’s end.

There, inscribed, were the words: “Lingbo Microstep,” followed by countless footprints, annotated with characters such as “Gui Mei” and “Wu Wang.”

These were all directional references from the I Ching; he had studied them before, and now, as he gazed deeper, he lost track of time—whether outside was light or dark—he finally exhaled a long breath and stood up.

He thought of the sword lake palace duel at his own home; the Liangjian Sect’s affairs might have deviated somewhat—he wondered if Duan Yu would still come here.

If he did manage to find his way here, he recalled that originally, one had wandered outside for two or three days before entering the cave—but now, having opened the boulder at the entrance, if Duan Yu truly came, he would likely enter quickly.

Thinking this, Zhao Ti tucked the silk scroll into his robe, walked around the chamber, and in the left moon gate found a stone bed and cradle—likely used by Li Qingluo in childhood; on the wall hung a broken-stringed qin, surely torn apart by Li Qiushui.

He then saw on the stone table to the left of the bed nineteen carved chessboards, filled with black and white stones; he thought inwardly: could this be the Zhenlong Chess Puzzle?

Zhao Ti had left Dongjing without choosing to go to Leigu Mountain to seek out Wu Yashu and solve this puzzle to receive seventy years of internal power—he had weighed the decision carefully.

First, Wu Yashu had transmitted power but not the techniques—he had not passed on Lingbo Microstep or Beiming Divine Art; though Xu Zhu possessed immense Beiming internal energy, he could not use either Lingbo Microstep or Beiming Divine Art.

Second, he recalled a theory, absurd though it was, that given the boundless subtlety of Xiaoyao Sect arts, it still gave him pause: after Wu Yashu poured his Beiming energy into Xu Zhu, Xu Zhu was no longer Xu Zhu—he had become Wu Yashu. Though ridiculous, the notion made his heart uneasy.

And third, since he had learned Huan Yin Finger, he wished to see what Yiyang Finger was like—hence his choice to come to Dali.

Zhao Ti walked further and came to another moon gate; on the wall beside it were carved the words: “Langhuan Fudi.” Inside, he found a vast chamber lined with wooden bookshelves—but not a single book remained on them; only labels were pasted, naming sects such as Kunlun Sect, Qingcheng Sect, Penglai Sect, and others.

He also saw inscriptions lamenting: “Shaolin lacks Yi Jin Jing; Dali lacks Yiyang Finger and Six Meridian Sword; Beggar’s Sect lacks Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms.”

He shook his head and turned to leave; the hidden passage out of the valley led from the statue’s side—he would have to return there to exit.

But just as he had taken a few steps, faint footsteps echoed from outside…