Chapter 575: Breaking the Dream to See True Martial (6)

Chapter 575: The Dream Shatters, Revealing the True Martial (VI)

Since the spring snow melted, the mountain path before the Wudang Sect's mountain gate archway has never been clean.

Fresh red bloodstains, not yet dried, are immediately covered by a new layer.

All manner of shattered dao implements are carelessly tossed aside by the panicked Wudang disciples returning to the mountain, piled beneath the roadside pines into ominous mounds.

On Heavenly Pillar Peak, the tolling bells for delivering heroic souls never cease, the air thick with incense smoke from the halls' sacrifices.

The whole sect's atmosphere is heavy and oppressive, like a dreary cloud hovering in the midair, everywhere a gloomy, sorrowful sky.

Even Chen Qisheng's black-and-white world grows ever dimmer, as if soon to fall into utter darkness.

"That bunch of grandsons from the Zi Xiao Palace are truly petty— we didn't kill them, why take it out on us?"

Zhao Yanlong now crouches on the mountain path, head bowed, laboriously scrubbing the blood that has seeped into the cracks between the bricks, muttering curses under his breath.

After being transferred to the Heavenly Gate Hall, sweeping the mountain path became his and Chen Qisheng's daily chief task.

Such menial work originally required no personal effort; it was handled by the dedicated Yellow Turban strongmen.

But for some unknown reason, the rumor spread through the mountain gate that they were transferred from the Subduing Demons Hall to the Heavenly Gate Hall because they feared death and fled battle.

The various halls of Wudang grew ever more hostile toward them, open and veiled mockery becoming commonplace.

Moreover, as the fighting down the mountain intensified, it gradually turned into deliberate spiteful targeting.

The Zi Xiao Palace, which oversees all internal affairs of Wudang, issued an order: on one hand demanding the Heavenly Gate Hall sweep the sect's mountain paths day and night, ensuring not a speck of dust; on the other hand, it withdrew all Yellow Turban strongmen and sweeping implements from the Heavenly Gate Hall.

The implication was clear: to humiliate Chen Qisheng and Zhao Yanlong, these two 'cowards'.

"Damn it, before we all called each other elder and younger brother with affection; now that I, the Daoist, have lost favor, they turn face, refuse to recognize me, and find ever‑new ways to humiliate the Daoist. Truly, human feelings wax and wane, and hearts are no longer what they were."

A corner of the rag was wound around his finger; only with great effort did he manage to wipe clean the blood that had dripped into the stone cracks.

Zhao Yanlong wiped the sweat from his brow, flopped onto the path, angrily flung the rag at his feet, then turned to look at Chen Qisheng, who was clearing away the broken dao implements beneath a nearby tree.

"Junior brother, take a rest for a moment. You’ve just cleaned it up, but before long it’ll be piled again."

Gazing at the scattered dao implement fragments strewn everywhere, Zhao Yanlong felt a pang and pursed his lips.

"I don’t know what the sect elders are thinking— can we even go on living like this? Though these dao implements are smashed, they still have recasting value, yet they’re just thrown away?! Even with supplies from the new‑school sects, such waste is unforgivable."

Zhao Yanlong complained while patting his sore waist.

Since his transfer to the Heavenly Gate Hall, he felt his dao‑body and poise deteriorating day by day, the true qi nurtured in his dantian growing ever thinner; in just a few months he seemed on the verge of slipping to the ninth rank.

Zhao Yanlong had a vague suspicion of the cause, but he never mentioned it to Chen Qisheng.

"Junior brother, can’t you stop being a mute gourd? At least throw a word to your senior brother."

"Get lost."

Zhao Yanlong hadn’t finished speaking when a furious roar suddenly erupted from down the mountain.

A squad reeking of thick blood‑scent surged up the mountain path, their faces still bearing the fierce, murderous aura.

They were from the Subduing Demons Hall!

Zhao Yanlong instantly recognized the insignia on their dao robes, his heart jolted, and he hastily darted aside.

The figures rushed past, not deigning to give even a glance to Zhao Yanlong, who stood with clasped hands in salute by the roadside.

After they had passed, the freshly cleaned blue‑stone path was again speckled with a trail of bright blood spots.

Zhao Yanlong let out a quiet sigh; just as he lifted his eyes, they tightened suddenly—a figure loomed before his junior brother.

"Do you know who was just sent up the mountain?"

He Zhuzhong stared dead‑eyed at Chen Qisheng, his stubble‑lined lips clenched tight.

"It’s Wu Yin! The one who once fought shoulder‑to‑shoulder with you, facing the Black Banner Sect’s martial warriors in Suzhou Prefecture— he’s dead, slain by the Black Banner Sect, body and dao extinguished, never to return."

He Zhuzhong drew a deep, heavy breath, suppressing his inner fury, his gaze falling on the dao implement fragments Chen Qisheng held.

"Look at what you’re doing now— do you still know how to summon a flying sword, how to ignite a talisman? Chen Qisheng, why have you become so afraid of death?"

"Senior brother, don’t be angry; I understand how you feel. But each palace and hall on this mountain has its own duty— our Heavenly Gate Hall’s duty is not to resist external enemies; guarding the mountain gate well is also a contribution to the sect."

Zhao Yanlong bowed, clasped his hands, and gave an apologetic smile, rushing forward to smooth things over.

"Is this a place for you to speak?!"

He Zhuzhong gave him a sideways glance; his sleeve flashed, shooting a cold light straight at Zhao Yanlong’s brow.

*Pu‑zhi!*

Zhao Yanlong’s figure froze mid‑air, a blood line trickling from between his brows.

A razor‑sharp sword tip halted a hair’s breadth from his brow, seized bare‑handed by Chen Qisheng, who had flashed in.

*Hum.*

The blade trembled in his five fingers, its keen edge slicing his palm, blood pouring down between his fingers.

"You"

Having just walked through the Gates of Hell, Zhao Yanlong felt shock and rage mingled; the curse he was about to shout was swallowed back by gritted teeth.

"Senior brother, we are no longer members of the Subduing Demons Hall; if you have any grievances, you may petition the Zi Xiao Palace. But remember, we are still disciples of Wudang— to slay fellow disciples is a capital crime of the sect."

He Zhuzhong ignored Zhao Yanlong’s threat, his gaze still fixed on the silent Chen Qisheng.

"You are not Chen Qisheng."

He Zhuzhong shook his head, muttering to himself: "Just stay hidden here; here, the blood from below cannot reach you."

Having spoken, the daoist turned and walked up the mountain path, his green robe stained everywhere with dried blood, his back forlorn yet straight as a sword, upright and proud.

*Clang.*

The extinguished tail‑flame flying sword fell to the ground, its crimson blood slowly seeping into the cracks of the blue stone.

The blood of Wudang’s mountain path still refuses to dry, still cannot be wiped clean.

*Boom.*

The bell atop Heavenly Pillar Peak tolls without cease, day or night.

Before the threshold of the Heavenly Gate Hall, Zhao Yanlong gulps wine, head down.

Since breaking his alcohol ban the day Chen Qisheng returned to the mountain gate, Zhao Yanlong has been unable to stop, drinking all day, never sober.

Especially today, he finds the wine unusually fragrant, unusually intoxicating.

"The Yin‑Rock Palace’s Lü Xinzhong died in Shu; the Fu‑True Observatory’s Ning Shan died in Liaodong; even the Jade Void Palace’s Li Xiangzhao, that usual slippery old bastard, I hear was hacked to death on the shore of Fuzhou, and his body still hasn’t been found."

Zhao Yanlong murmured: "You lot, who can’t even tell your own weight, aren’t from the Subduing Demons Hall, yet you insist on playing at life‑and‑death with others? Wouldn’t it be better to just stay on the mountain? Now, all the smiling faces I could still see on this mountain are dead."

Zhao Yanlong lifted his hazy, drunken eyes, raised his wine cup high toward the black night sky where neither moon nor star could be seen.

"Lü Xinzhong, Ning Shan, Li Xiangzhao— if your souls have not yet been reborn, then hurry out and come drink with me!"

A wind brushed his shoulder, slipping into the shadow of the daoist hall behind him.

Beneath the mottled god‑image, several carved‑block talisman tablets, made into spirit tablets, were enshrined on the divine platform.

The seal‑script surface, smoothed by hand, bore in neat rows the names Zhao Yanlong had just muttered.

In the incense burner before the spirit tablet, countless incense sticks, burnt down to their cores, were stuck upright.

“You’ve come?”

A gentle breeze brushed his face as Zhao Yanlong lifted his wine jar, laughing loudly: “What’s the rush? Drink this first, and I’ll go light the incense for you—there’s plenty, plenty!”

Without the usual bustle, the peach blossoms on Mount Wudang this year bloomed exceptionally well.

Zhao Yanlong, nursing a hangover from the night before, could not rise; only Chen Qisheng went alone to sweep the mountain.

The bell of Heavenly Pillar Peak finally fell silent at dawn, and the endless stone path, vanishing from sight, lay unusually still.

Yet Chen Qisheng unexpectedly spotted a familiar figure on the path.

It was He Zhu.

A month had passed, and He Zhu’s stubble had grown into a wild, tangled beard, his eyes brimming with weariness.

Chen Qisheng frowned, his solemn gaze fixed on the empty sleeves of He Zhu’s left and right arms.

There, at that moment, was nothing but void.

“You’ve come?”

He Zhu seemed to have been waiting here a long while; dew still clung to his shoulders.

This time he bore none of his former sharp edge; for the first time he offered Chen Qisheng a faint smile.

“Your hand?”

Chen Qisheng spoke slowly, his voice hoarse.

“I lost them a few days ago in Daming Prefecture.”

He Zhu glanced at his two empty sleeves, then lifted his head with a calm smile: “Still, trading them for two lives of the Martial Order isn’t a loss.”

“You’ve swept the path well.”

He Zhu bent, turned his shoulder, and his sleeve brushed the steps.

“Sit down, let’s talk.”

They sat side by side, gazing at the horizon blushing red, and fell into silence together.

During this time, with so many corpses brought up the mountain, you must have been exhausted, right?

After a moment, He Zhu broke the hush, speaking softly: “You won’t need to trouble yourself anymore; I’ve notified the Purple Cloud Palace, and they’ll send a squad of Yellow Turban laborers to do the sweeping.”

A ripple stirred in Chen Qisheng’s heart as he asked: “Is the business down below finished?”

Yes, it’s finally over.

He Zhu nodded: “Four hours ago, word came from Liaodong that the Zhenlu Garrison had been breached. The ten gates of the Martial Order, once mighty, have now been utterly destroyed; though a few fugitives remain, the outcome is settled. In this division of the world by martial might, we have prevailed.”

But from now on, I fear there will be no more Demon‑Subduing Hall on Heavenly Pillar Peak.

He Zhu’s voice darkened: “The brothers who once fought shoulder‑to‑shoulder with me are gone; only you remain.”

Few words, yet they sufficed to convey the horror.

For months the bell of Heavenly Pillar Peak had tolled, each chime marking the death and dissolution of a Wudang disciple.

Was it worth it?

Chen Qisheng had no answer.

If later generations were to look back, the sacrifice of Wudang would surely seem in vain; all they did was serve as a bridal veil for the new Daoist order, and their fate mirrored that of the destroyed Martial Order sects.

Yet to say it was not worth it—why did Wudang insist on taking part?

Could the empty fame of a ‘Daoist Ancestral Courtyard’ truly justify trading the lives of so many disciples?

I once thought your choice was wrong—a betrayal of the sect, born of fear of death. But now, seeing so many brothers fall dead below the mountain, I suddenly understand.

He Zhu gazed at the sun, just about to break through the distant mountains, and spoke softly: “We Daoists are favored by Heaven; amidst the fog of samsara we awaken the sequence genes, temper our bodies, cultivate true qi, nurture the Dao foundation—after countless trials we finally enter the Way, yet this is merely the first step of a journey spanning ten thousand miles.”

To fight for the sect is certainly praiseworthy, but to stubbornly survive sometimes demands more courage than to die for it. And as long as someone lives, the True Martial Way will not be severed; that, too, is a contribution to the sect.

He Zhu turned his head toward Chen Qisheng, smiling: “That day’s affair—I owe you an apology.”

No need.

Chen Qisheng shook his head, yet he heard He Zhu chuckle and scold: “What do you mean, no need? I’m telling you to pass word to Zhao Yanlong. As for you, brat, if your senior brother doesn’t beat you to death, that’s already generous—still you want an apology from me? What spring‑autumn daydream are you having?”

Wait till he sobers up; if he knew this would happen, he’d probably regret his guts till they turned green, slapping himself hard a few times. That day you pierced him with a flying sword, and afterward he cursed you for a full half‑month.

Zhao Yanlong is a good man; though I don’t approve of his conduct, having such a senior brother is your blessing.

He Zhu, as if suddenly recalling something, teased: “A man like him doesn’t belong on Wudang; if he joined the New Daoist Order, I’d wager he’d at least be a fifth‑sequence master.”

Remember this—I’ll go back and persuade him to turn to the mountain gate.

He Zhu glanced askance, a cold smirk curling his lips: “You can try.”

Chen Qisheng gave a faint smile; his left hand, resting on his knee, moved without a trace to the step, gently lifting the sleeve that had fallen there.

Now the division of the world by martial might has ended; for the next few decades, the empire’s interior will likely see no further strife.

He Zhu said: “Don’t linger in the Heavenly Gate Hall; go elsewhere, for you are born to walk the True Martial Path—don’t waste yourself.”

Mm, I’ll remember.

Chen Qisheng replied softly.

I’m going down the mountain.

Perhaps sensing Chen Qisheng’s sudden dark expression, He Zhu laughed and explained: “Don’t think the sect so wicked; this is Wudang—there’s no such bloody tale of rabbits dead and dogs cooked.”

The sect granted me a post as chief of a branch observatory; to descend the mountain maimed and establish a view is, I suppose, a precedent for the order.

He Zhu’s shoulder twitched, as if he meant to pat Chen Qisheng’s shoulder, but only his empty sleeve swung in vain.

The Daoist staggered, a flicker of self‑mockery crossing his eyes, and he smiled: “The place isn’t bad either—just in Suzhou Prefecture, with clear waters and green hills, perfect for retirement. If you ever get the chance, do come see me.”

But I’ll say it now: if you’re still sweeping the mountain paths for the sect when the time comes, don’t blame your senior brother for casting you out.

Having spoken, He Zhu set down his last worry, rose with ease, and strode down the mountain.

In the distance, the sunrise had risen, its red light spilling across heaven and earth.

Chen Qisheng clasped his hands toward that retreating back, yet suddenly a chill crept into his heart.

The suffusing red faded in an instant, replaced by the night’s black light filling the heavens; the countless stars made one’s innermost feel cold.

Senior brother!

Huh?

Hearing the shout from behind, He Zhu turned blankly, his eyes reflecting Chen Qisheng’s figure lunging forward.

Heaven and earth overturned; killing intent flashed into being.

Boom!

A bolt of lightning grazed Chen Qisheng’s fingertips and crashed down, utterly engulfing He Zhu’s form.

The explosion’s after‑blast flung Chen Qisheng outward, where he crashed onto the mountain path.

Thud!

Thesilent bell atop Tianzhu Peak rang again, only to be instantly drowned out by a succession of ever‑louder thunderclaps.

“Zhang Jiji, how dare you betray righteousness and invade my Wudang?”

Heavenly thunder rolled on, while human voices grew scarce.

Temple after temple, already empty as void, were shattered to dust beneath a rain‑like barrage of lightning.

“Today I will not let this vile wretch die and vanish without trace, lest I have no face before the ancestors of Wudang!”

A voice like a great bronze bell echoed between heaven and earth, and a stout blade of light shot from the summit of Tianzhu Peak, straight toward the Celestial Bull.

One after another, the astral stars of the heavenly orbit burst in the sword’s glare, turning into ribbons of fire that swiftly faded on the horizon.

It was a spectacle worthy of immortals at war, yet Chen Qisheng, standing on the mountain path, had no leisure to behold it.

He Zhuzhu’s body had already turned to flying ash, leaving only a deep pit where he once stood.

Further down the path, as far as the eye could see, a tide‑like host of Yellow Turban warriors from Maoshan surged upward.

“Junior brother, why do you stand there? Run!”

Zhao Yanlong, startled awake by the thunder, stumbled from the Hall of Heaven’s Gate, shouting anxiously.

Though he did not know what had transpired, the killing intent that filled heaven and earth made his limbs go weak, every movement a struggle.

“Go, hurry!”

Zhao Yanlong lunged with all his might to Chen Qisheng’s side, reaching out to grasp his sleeve.

“Senior brother, this time I will not flee.”

Chen Qisheng seized Zhao Yanlong’s wrist in a reverse grip and gently shook him off.

“What madness possesses you?”

Zhao Yanlong bellowed in disbelief: “This is Mount Wudang; no matter how fierce these invaders, the temple’s masters and elders will ensure they never return—there’s no need for you to play the hero.”

“Senior brother, I am not showing off.”

Chen Qisheng gazed upon the endless tide of foes surging over the hills; his inner true qi surged and roiled, a faint white mist rising from his body.

“It’s merely that some people and matters truly outweigh life itself.”

More important than life.

These words struck his mind like a thunderclap; Zhao Yanlong stared blankly at Chen Qisheng’s back, his expression shifting between shame, anger, and bewilderment.

Out of the blue, he recalled the few spirit tablets he had secretly enshrined within the hall.

Lü Xinzhi, Ning Shan, Li Xiangzhao—he remembered the cool breeze of that night, the incense, and the wine.

At this moment, the emotions churning in his heart were strangely calm.

“I never imagined that one day you, a mere brat, would be the one to instruct me in the Way.”

Zhao Yanlong raised a hand to rub his face, revealing a relieved, carefree smile.

“You’re right—behind us lies Mount Wudang; where else could we flee?”

He stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with Chen Qisheng, pointing at the thick ranks of Yellow Turbans before them and asked with a smile: ‘Junior brother, do you think a few characters will be carved into Wudang’s history, bearing my name, Zhao Yanlong, and the deeds I perform today?’

“They will.”

Chen Qisheng turned his head, his voice firm.

At this moment, in his eyes the world was no longer a bleak black‑and‑white void, but suffused with splendid color.

He finally made out the face of the person before him, and the mountain behind.

“If I can leave a name, that will be enough.”

Zhao Yanlong’s smile faded, his eyes blood‑filled, he gazed down the mountain and roared aloud!

“Whoever dares to offend Wudang shall die!”