51: Chapter 51 Worldly Ties and the Path of the Dao

Xuanyuan Zhandao's gaze shifted slightly. Those deep eyes, which had once pierced through ten thousand miles of clouds and mist to discern the reality of the battlefield, now, like a weary wild goose returning home, slowly folded their wings and settled steadily upon Xuanyuan Zhanxian's face.

He reached into his robes, his movements so solemn they were almost devout—a palm-sized piece of warm jade quietly appeared in his palm.

The jade was as warm and smooth as suet, its luster contained within, flowing with a soft, glowing light like the first thaw of a thousand-year-old snow peak.

Its surface was covered in complex cloud patterns, resembling a tapestry woven of galaxies, or perhaps the naturally formed trajectories of the Dao. Time had condensed a mellow, ancient patina within the grooves of the patterns. A light touch of the fingertip seemed enough to lift the weight of a lifetime of military campaigns and ten thousand miles of wind and sand.

"This was your mother's... protective spiritual jade from back then."

His voice was deeper than the most biting northern wind, and raspier than the coldest winter night at the border.

He firmly pressed the jade pendant into Xuanyuan Zhanxian's palm. The pressure was heavy and profound, as if he were entrusting not just a piece of jade, but the entire Family's unfinished concerns, the deep affection that had spanned life and death, and the protection flowing within their Bloodline.

"Sealed within this jade is a wisp of her Origin True Qi." He enunciated every word heavily, as if chiseling an inscription onto a stele. "That fire during the palace coup... if this jade hadn't spontaneously protected its Master and blocked that fatal blow for you, you and I would have been separated by the Yin and Yang of life and death long ago."

As soon as Xuanyuan Zhanxian's fingertips touched the jade pendant—a gentle, warm sensation, like a spring breaking through ice, suddenly overflowed through his fingers, instantly flowing through his limbs and bones, reaching straight into the depths of his spiritual consciousness.

Within that warmth, there was a faint yet unforgettable fragrance of orchid grass.

It was elegant, serene, and carried the cool scent of a mountain stream after rain.

It overlapped perfectly with the memories deep within his mind—the warmth of his mother's embrace, the faint fragrance clinging to her clothes, and the gentle breath she exhaled when she lowered her head to soothe him.

It was just like an ancient painting that had been silent and covered in dust for many years, suddenly swept clean by a clear breeze, causing all its colors and warmth to awaken with a roar—so tender it made his heart tremble, so bitter it was suffocating.

He abruptly lowered his eyes, his long eyelashes trembling violently like the wings of a startled butterfly. The emotions in his eyes were like a raging sea, surging ceaselessly:

At first, there was the shock of a boulder thrown into a lake, exploding into a thousand waves in his dead, silent heart; then, nostalgia grew wildly like vines, tightly binding his heart, tightening, and tightening again, until he was so sore he could hardly breathe; finally, all the intensity settled, turning into a bottomless sense of loss, condensing into a shattered, almost invisible glimmer in his eyes.

His fingertips repeatedly caressed the fine patterns on the jade, patterns that his mother had already caressed thousands upon thousands of times.

His fingertips trembled slightly from the force. Finally, he slowly, ever so slowly, closed his fingers, gripping the jade pendant tightly in his palm, so hard that his knuckles turned white, as if he wanted to burn that bit of warmth and that wisp of scent deep into his bones and blood.

When he spoke again, his voice was so hoarse it was unrecognizable, like gravel grinding against rough pottery: "...Thank you, Uncle."

"Take care." Xuanyuan Zhandao gave his shoulder a heavy pat.

This pat was as heavy as a collapsing mountain, as if he wanted to push all his unfinished advice, all the unspoken worries, and all the concerns that not even the crossing of mountains and seas could sever, through this flesh and blood, kneading them into his bones and melting them into his blood.

As the words fell, he did not look back again, turning abruptly!

His black robes fluttered like the wings of an ink-colored butterfly taking flight one last time in the twilight. The spiritual light around his body surged explosively, as blazing as an exploding sun, transforming into a brilliant stream of light that split the darkness, tearing through the firmament and vanishing in an instant.

Only the residual, gradually dissipating fluctuations of spiritual power remained in the air, like the last lingering warmth in his palm after a departure, slowly dissolving into the wailing mountain wind.

Xuanyuan Zhanxian stood alone in place.

His thin figure was wrapped in the rising evening wind of the mountains, his robes dancing wildly, as if he could be swept away and swallowed by this vast twilight and howling wind at any moment.

Yet he remained as motionless as an iron stake driven into the mountain rock, gazing for a long, long time at the horizon where the stream of light had vanished, until the last trace of light was extinguished in the heavy twilight mist.

The jade pendant in his palm had been warmed to a scorching heat by his body temperature.

This warmth stubbornly penetrated his skin, spreading along his blood vessels, and it seemed that even his heart, frozen for many years, was being ironed into some semblance of vitality by this temperature, inch by inch.

"Dust karma is like silk; being entangled is a tribulation, seeing through it is karma."

Chu Changsheng's gentle voice, like a drop of clear dew falling into a lake of the heart, quietly rippled in his ears, carrying a transparent indifference that had seen through the affairs of the world:

"There is no need to force yourself to sever it, nor is there any need to indulge in it. Let it flow through you, like wind passing through sparse bamboo, or wild geese crossing a cold pond. Following the natural course of things is Cultivate."

Xuanyuan Zhanxian snapped back to reality.

All the surging waves in his eyes returned to a deep, still pool the moment he turned to face Chu Changsheng.

He lifted his robes, bowed, and paid a deep obeisance to that moon-white figure. His movements were respectful and slow, every inch of the arc revealing a firmness like bedrock:

"Disciple... understands."

"Senior Brother!" Jian Tanghuang's voice, crisp as the sudden shattering of silver bells, exploded suddenly, instantly shattering the stagnant twilight on the mountain peak.

Like a spiritual sparrow that could no longer suppress its curiosity, she hopped a few steps to Xuanyuan Zhanxian's side and gave his shoulder a light, firm punch with her pink fist, her strength full of pure excitement and amazement:

"You are actually the eldest legitimate prince of the Great Wu Dynasty! Such an illustrious background, you hid it so well!"

Xuanyuan Zhanxian raised his hand, his fingertips gently rubbing his shoulder where he had been punched. Through the fabric, he could seemingly still feel the heavy residual warmth left by his uncle's palm.

A faint, helpless ripple spread across his face. He slowly withdrew his hand, which was tightly gripping the jade pendant, back into his wide sleeve. In the darkness where no one could see, his fingertips pressed, ever so lightly and cherishingly, against the warm, smooth surface of the jade.

When he raised his eyes again, his gaze was clear and calm. His voice was not loud, but every word was clear, falling into the twilight with the sound of metal and stone:

"Background is merely a mark left by the past. Now, I am just a Disciple of Changsheng Peak, a student under Master, Cultivate and seeking the Dao together with all of you, no different from anyone else."

Jian Tanghuang's eyes suddenly brightened, as brilliant as the stars. Like a true curious sparrow, she circled around Xuanyuan Zhanxian, her tone filled with irrepressible eagerness and inquiry:

"But I have heard legends of the Great Wu Dynasty since I was a child! It is said that the royal Family holds the secret ancient weapon diagrams, capable of forging peerless spiritual weapons that can slay immortals and slaughter gods, illuminating the nine provinces! And that Dragon vein Secret Realm, which draws upon the Heaven And Earth Spiritual Essence and can only be opened by the royal Bloodline—it is rumored that Cultivate inside for one day is worth a hundred days of hard Cultivate outside! Senior Brother, are you truly... not even half curious?"

Chu Changsheng chuckled from the side.

The laughter was warm, like a spring breeze brushing over a surface of melting ice. His gaze fell upon Jian Tanghuang's slightly flushed cheeks from excitement, full of the indulgence of an elder:

"This girl Tanghuang is like a walking record of strange tales; she wishes to stuff all the secrets of the world and ancient legends into her little head. Always thinking about these things all day long, where is the... domineering and profound demeanor that a Reincarnation Immortal Emperor should have?"

After saying this, he turned his gaze to Xuanyuan Zhanxian, the warmth in his eyes gradually receding, settling into a calm of earnest instruction:

"The past is like a mirror; it can straighten one's clothes and reflect gains and losses. But if you remain trapped in the phantom images within the mirror for too long, it is merely a waste of time and will cloud your Dao Heart."

"Since you have already severed your past and embarked on the path of Cultivate, you must always remember: true strength is never tied to Bloodline or status, but only to the Dao one holds in one's heart and the path one walks beneath one's feet."

Xuanyuan Zhanxian's expression became solemn, and he bowed again: "Revered Master's teachings, this Disciple will keep in mind."

He raised his eyes and looked into the distance. The twilight was closing in, and the clouds and mist were surging like an ink sea, as if to swallow the last of the daylight and engulf the rolling mountains.

The jade pendant in his sleeve quietly transmitted an even clearer warmth. That temperature followed the blood vessels in his arm, steadily spreading into his cold heart, turning into a silent, yet incomparably firm force.

He spoke slowly, his voice somewhat scattered by the mountain wind, yet it carried an unprecedented firmness that broke through the fog:

"Regardless of who I was in the past, from now on, I only need to remember—with a sword in hand, I can cut through the thorns on the road ahead. With a Revered Master before me, I can understand the direction of the Dao. With friends by my side, we can weather the storms together. This is enough."

Jian Tanghuang pouted, putting away her playful expression, and gave his arm a light, firm pat, her tone becoming a bit more serious:

"That makes sense. However..."

Her eyes rolled, a lively light flickering again: "If there is ever a chance to go to the Great Wu Dynasty in the future, you must take me with you! I want to see for myself if those ancient weapon diagrams are truly as miraculous as the legends say, and if they can forge a peerless spiritual weapon that even I would be tempted by!"

Xuanyuan Zhanxian did not answer immediately.

He looked to the west—that was the direction of the Great Wu Dynasty. The twilight was deepest there, the clouds thickest, as if covering countless unsolved mysteries and unrequited grievances.

A moment later, he withdrew his gaze, his voice returning to a deep calm, but in the deepest part of his eyes, a spark quietly ignited.

The firelight was not large, but it was exceptionally firm and blazing, as if it could pierce through the thickest night: "Rest assured. The Great Wu Dynasty, I will return sooner or later. It is just that at this moment... it is not yet time."

[part:gemini-3.5-flash]

Past worldly ties might still linger in the heart like invisible threads, not yet completely severed.

But the path ahead was already as bright as a candle in his heart, leaving no room for any confusion or hesitation.

The mountain wind howled, and the twilight grew deeper.

On Changsheng Peak, that upright figure stood amidst the vast sea of clouds, straight as a sword and steadfast as a pine.

---

Meanwhile.

Ten thousand miles away, in the royal capital of the Great Xia Dynasty.

Inside the Golden Throne Hall, it was as silent as a tomb.

The air had frozen into ice, heavy and suffocating.

Even the auspicious cloud patterns carved on the gilded coiled dragon pillars in the corners of the hall seemed to warp and twist in the dim light, exuding a chilling dread like countless peering ghosts.

Emperor Xia Quan of Great Xia sat upright on the dark-black dragon-patterned throne atop the nine-tiered jade steps.

His dark dragon robe, vast as splashed ink, draped heavily onto the cold jade steps. The five-clawed dragon densely embroidered in gold thread on the robe had dull scales and lifeless eyes under the dim, flickering palace lanterns. It had lost all its former majesty of soaring through the clouds, leaving only a coiled gloom and an unspeakable... despondency.

His brow was deeply furrowed, as if carved by knives and axes, the heavy clouds of worry gathered between his eyes too thick to disperse.

His gaze slowly swept across the civil and military officials below the red steps, who were bent low like ripe ears of wheat, their heads almost touching the ground. His fingertips unconsciously rubbed the cold armrest of the throne repeatedly, nearly smoothing out the exquisitely carved dragon scale patterns.

A bottomless sense of powerlessness, like the most piercing cold current from an ice cave, surged from the soles of his feet and rushed up his spine, freezing his blood and gripping his throat, nearly dragging him and the dragon robe that symbolized supreme authority down into the abyss of despair.

"My beloved ministers..."

He waved his hand with an inescapable fatigue. His voice squeezed out of his throat, dry and hoarse, devoid of any imperial thunderous majesty, leaving only the weakness of a spent arrow.

"If there is nothing else... you may dismiss."

The officials below the steps felt as if they had received a grand pardon.

No one looked up, and no one made a sound. With even humbler and more hurried postures, they bowed, stepped back, turned, and filed out in an orderly line.

Their brocade boots stepped on the mirror-like golden floor tiles, making a messy, muffled rustling sound that echoed through the unsettlingly empty hall before completely fading away after a moment.

Silence, an even heavier silence, rushed in like a tide, drowning every inch of space.

Inside the Golden Throne Hall, only Emperor Xia Quan remained.

It was so empty that he could hear the sound of his own blood flowing and the heavy, slow beating of his heart in his chest.

The occasional gust of wind passing outside the window filtered through the high lattices, turning into a howling, bizarre noise. Intertwined with his own heavy breathing, it made this supreme imperial hall seem like a lonely grave in the wilderness.

Slowly, extremely slowly, he stood up.

It was as if his dragon robe weighed thousands of pounds. His steps were heavy and sluggish, as if wading through a swamp, as he moved step by step toward the carved long window that overlooked half of the royal capital.

The setting sun was like blood.

The last struggling ray of twilight penetrated the intricate window lattices, casting a slanted glow that stained the gilded furnishings, the coiled dragon pillars, half of his face, and his dark-black dragon robe with a shocking, ominous dark red, as if the entire hall had been splashed with wet blood.

In the distance, the lights of the royal capital's streets were just beginning to turn on. The faint sounds of voices, carriages, and street vendors intertwined into a false, superficial clamor of prosperity.

But Emperor Xia Quan knew that beneath this prosperity, undercurrents had already surged into monstrous waves.

The military reports from the borders grew more urgent by the day. The urgent feather-dispatches piled up on the imperial desk like snowflakes, each one stained with the blood of the border soldiers.

When the memorial regarding the empty state treasury was tremblingly presented by the Minister of Revenue, his withered fingers were even more shocking than the numbers on the memorial.

Factional infighting in the court was intensifying daily. Today brought an impeachment, tomorrow an accusation. The core ministers of the past now glared at each other like fighting cocks when they met.

Public resentment spread silently like subterranean fire in unseen places. Last night, the City Patrol Censor secretly reported that rice prices had skyrocketed in several regions, and the commoners gathered before the grain shops, their gazes...

The shadow of the Hundred Dynasties War was even more like a sword hanging overhead, ready to strike at any moment.

It was said that someone from the immortal sects of the Upper Realm had already declared that if Great Xia failed to produce anyone extraordinary in this grand competition, its thousand-year Luck would likely be completely carved up by the surrounding nations.

All of this was like a ferocious beast lurking beneath the skin of a prosperous age, opening its bloody maw and biding its time, ready to swallow the teetering Great Xia Dynasty whole, skin and bones.

"Your Majesty..."

A soft, hoarse voice, like a venomous snake slithering over dry leaves, rang out without warning from the deepest, darkest corner of the hall.

"Are you still worrying about... the matter of the Hundred Dynasties War?"

Emperor Xia Quan did not look back.

He did not even move, merely staring at the blood-red setting sun outside the window that symbolized doom, as if wishing to melt himself into this final light.

After a long time, a very low, hoarse reply, filled with fatigue and decay, escaped his throat:

"This matter concerns the destiny of the nation, the ancestral temple, and whether this realm of mine... can still bear the name Xia. How can I not worry?"

The shadow writhed.

A hunched old man dressed in dark purple eunuch robes silently "flowed" out of the shadows like a ghost emerging from the ground.

His steps were so light that they made no sound at all, as if his feet did not even touch the ground.

He walked to the foot of the imperial steps, bowed low, and humbled himself to the dust. Raising his deeply wrinkled face, which resembled dried tangerine peel, his muddy eyes flashed with a serpent-like glint in the dim light.

He lowered his voice even further, speaking with a cold, almost cruel urgency, hammering each word into the dead silence:

"Your Majesty, the 'Night Owl' that this old servant stationed near the Xuantian Sect has just sent back a secret report."

He paused, his muddy eyes staring intently at Emperor Xia Quan's instantly stiffened back, a bellows-like wheeze squeezing from his throat as he delivered the news that caused the temperature of the entire hall to plummet:

"The rumors among the commoners... are not false."

"There truly is a Mahayana Cultivator presiding over the Xuantian Sect!"

"And, I'm afraid... more than one!"

*Crack.*

A very soft but incredibly clear cracking sound.

It was Emperor Xia Quan's unconsciously tightening fist, crushing a corner of the incredibly hard carved armrest made of Black Ironwood.

Wood chips rustled down.

He still kept his back to the old man, facing the blood-red scene outside the window.

Yet his dark-black dragon robe seemed to freeze instantly into ink-colored ice; every fold solidified, and even the drape of the hem locked rigidly in place.

His entire silhouette exuded an almost hopeless, deathly rigidity.

Only his violently contracting pupils and his suddenly halted, almost suffocating breath betrayed the tempest raging in the heart of this monarch—a storm powerful enough to overturn the Dynasty.

A long time passed.

So long that the old eunuch thought His Majesty had turned into a statue.

The stiffly standing figure finally moved.

Very slowly, extremely slowly, he turned around.

Against the blood-red setting sun, most of Emperor Xia Quan's face was hidden in the shadows, dark and obscure.

Yet his eyes shone with astonishing brightness at this moment—bright like a drowning man who, at the final moment of sinking into the abyss, catches a fleeting glimpse of light on the distant water's surface, whether real or a hallucination.

He spoke.

His voice was hoarse, yet it carried a near-frenzied urgency, like a dying man grasping at the last straw:

"Investigate it for me."

"Find out who that Mahayana Cultivator is, find out who his Disciple is, and find out what their relationship is with the Xuantian Sect..."

"I must know from which heaven this great deity has descended!"

He walked down the high steps step by step, his dragon robe dragging on the floor with a dull rustling sound, each step feeling as if he were treading on knife edges.

"If possible..."

He stopped in front of the old eunuch and leaned down. His eyes, burning with a strange light, stared intently at the wrinkled old face as he said, word by word:

"I will pay a visit in person."

"I want to see if there is still a glimmer of hope for Great Xia!"

The old eunuch shuddered violently and bowed deeply, his withered body trembling like a candle in the wind.

Yet beneath his lowered eyelids, in his muddy eyes, a deeper, dark light flashed and vanished.

"This old servant... obeys Your Majesty's command."

Outside the hall, the last ray of the setting sun sank below the horizon.

Twilight, dark as ink, completely swallowed the entire royal capital, the magnificent Golden Throne Hall, and the lonely, resolute figure standing by the window, staring intently at the distant horizon.

In the distance.

On Changsheng Peak of the Xuantian Sect.

Xuanyuan Zhanxian stood by the cliffside, the jade pendant in his sleeve as warm as before.

He raised his head and looked at the completely darkened sky.

Stars were lighting up, one by one.