Chapter 342: Kunlun Yuxu

Chapter 342 Kunlun Jade Void

Zhao Changhe didn’t even feel like going anymore for the moment, with a pile of matters to handle.

Meeting the Jade Void True Person was merely to probe for clues about the Heavenly Book, but he had no idea how to probe—he couldn’t just ask, “Hey, do you have the Heavenly Book?” That might stir up trouble even if there was none, and he’d get beaten to death.

Besides, the Heavenly Book was what the Blind Man wanted; though he himself was interested, it wasn’t that strong. At his current level, going to contend for the Heavenly Book with the fourth on the Heavenly Ranking? He might as well jump off a cliff and be done with it.

But he had already sent word requesting an audience, and the other party had replied that they were willing to meet—it wouldn’t be good to stand them up.

Zhao Changhe put away the sword blank and the book, then stepped into the mountain.

Kunlun City was built against the mountain; if one entered from due west, that would be Jade Void Peak.

All the things he had done earlier at various peaks were just on the side summits. The real Jade Void Peak was off-limits to others. According to Yang Qianyuan’s earlier words, Jade Void only accepted great villains whose identities had been verified; those who couldn’t be identified or who were too lazy to enter the mountain, preferring the convenience of the city, gathered in the city.

Could this Jade Void True Person, who harbored villains to form a vast evil force, really be that woodcutter with the wide world in his gourd? Zhao Changhe had no confidence.

There was only one perilous path into the mountain, formed along a stream, trodden by who knows how many people over time.

Snow lay white on both sides, even the dangerous path thick with untouched snow, showing no one had set foot here for a long time. But the stream was clear, flowing quietly, not frozen.

There were no guards either; after walking for a long time, everything was vast and silent, with no human sound.

No guards were needed—others simply dared not enter the mountain casually. The deterrent power of the fourth on the Heavenly Ranking was no joke; if they said no entry, no one dared enter.

Zhao Changhe looked up at the mountain peak shrouded in clouds, its top invisible, and walked slowly upward. As he went, his tangled thoughts gradually scattered, his mind grew clearer, and his steps became more leisurely.

What use was haste? Thinking too much was meaningless.

Better to slow down, to see the snow of Kunlun, to see the clouds of Jade Void.

Don’t wait until he returns and meets Wan Zhuang, and she asks, “You went to Kunlun—do you know what Kunlun looks like?”

Then he would only gape, unable to answer a single word.

That day, the woodcutter’s song still echoed faintly in his heart: Cloudy mountains, cutting off the mortal shore; roaming and gazing, the wide world in a gourd.

A slight coolness at his crown point; the external qi communicated back and forth with the internal, turning into warmth within his body, scattering in the wind and snow. The cycle proper to the Nine Barriers, the transformation of true qi from postnatal to innate, and the gradual growth of his cultivation—he had never even properly experienced it before.

A faint throbbing at his brow’s mud ball, a kind of insight he couldn’t articulate, as if about to burst forth, but when he tried to grasp it, there was nothing.

This was what they meant by the threshold—always able to sense the existence of the next realm.

In essence, the path of a master was the path of seeking the Way—a process of comprehensive sublimation and transformation, whether in state of mind, accumulation and mastery of techniques, or cognition and understanding of martial arts.

He was indeed lacking that one step.

Unconsciously, his leisurely climb had taken four or five hours, from noon to sunset. He had climbed very high, yet the summit still seemed hidden. The mountain clouds and mists seemed to swirl around him; looking back down, the haze was thick, as if in a fairyland.

At some point, the sound of chopping wood came faintly from ahead, at first very distant, then gradually closer.

Thud after thud, leisurely and rhythmic.

Zhao Changhe walked slowly, feeling his steps unconsciously matching the rhythm of the chopping, and then he noticed that the intervals between each chop were perfectly consistent.

Chopping that went on for hours, yet every interval was the same, as if not even a millisecond off, precise as a machine.

The clouds and mists parted, revealing several wooden huts ahead. Snowmelt turned into a stream, winding past the huts and flowing down the mountain.

Zhao Changhe gazed at the huts from afar; in the swirling clouds, he felt as if these huts were not built by human hands—they were born with Kunlun, existing here since the dawn of heaven and earth.

Of course, it was just an illusion—they were built by humans, but the builder had long achieved unity of heaven and man, mastering the natural way to its peak.

Zhao Changhe’s eyes finally fell on the wide yard in the middle of the huts. A pile of firewood lay there, seemingly casually stacked. An old woodcutter leisurely reached for a thick log, swung his axe, split it precisely in two, tossed it aside, and took another.

He watched quietly, not disturbing.

From start to finish, all the woodcutter’s movements seemed like mechanical repetition of the previous one, yet there was none of the stiffness of a robot. Each stroke merged with the wind and snow, as if the air itself flowed and swung naturally—the axe was the wind, the snow was the axe. Not only was it not robotic, but it was a beauty of natural harmony.

But the wind and snow were clearly not in the direction of his swing—it was hard to understand how he did it.

Was it not the axe merging with the wind and snow, but the axe leading them?

Yet the wind and snow remained unchanged.

Zhao Changhe let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and replayed the movements in his mind, only to feel dizzy.

His realm was insufficient; he couldn’t comprehend it—the gap was too wide.

“Smack!” The woodcutter finished the last log and tossed it aside.

The split logs stacked neatly, crisscrossing into a perfect square shape, as if measured—length, width, and height all identical.

Zhao Changhe didn’t need to measure to know there could be no difference. This old fellow seemed to be showing off to him... Well, to put it kindly, he was demonstrating something? But the gap was too big; the demonstration was useless, though the show-off effect was complete.

He finally sighed: “Old man, I’ve come to drink with you.”

The old woodcutter stood up and went into the hut, laughing: “The wind and snow are heavy tonight—come inside and drink.”

Zhao Changhe followed him into the side hut. A stove was burning inside, quite warm. On the stove, a large jar of wine was warming. The old woodcutter, as if feeling no heat, grabbed the jar and set it on the table, his face stern: “You picked a bad time. I could have said, ‘It looks like snow tonight—can you drink a cup?’ But when you came, it was already snowing. The good poem doesn’t fit—it’s frustrating.”

Zhao Changhe twitched his mouth, his expression turning very strange.

You’re the fourth in the world, damn it.

These few wooden huts were the Jade Void Palace.

The woodcutter took two large bowls, hugged the wine jar, and poured for him, saying, “Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be the one treating me to wine? How did it turn into me playing host...”

Zhao Changhe said, “Why should I treat you? I’m a guest, after all...”

“If I hadn’t reminded you about your heartfire, could you have handled the Kun Ridge Flame?”

“Uh...” Zhao Changhe said, “I should thank you, senior. Was I supposed to carry a wine vat up the mountain?”

“Couldn’t you?”

Zhao Changhe thought for a moment: “Maybe I could. Next time for sure.”

As they chatted briefly, the two bowls were filled exactly. The woodcutter set down the jar, raised his bowl, and clinked: “It’s been a long time since anyone drank a few cups with this old man... It’s good that you’ve come.”

Zhao Changhe said, “Doesn’t the Thief Saint come?”

“He doesn’t like to come... Because every time he does, I can see him holding back like his fingers are cramping, wanting to steal my things. But these three huts of mine have nothing else—he can’t stand it.”

Zhao Changhe couldn’t help asking, “I heard many villains enter the mountain, and Jade Void Palace is a villain organization—why are you the only one here?”

“If that were true, would you dare to come drink?”

“Why not? I’m no good person either.”

“Ha...” The old woodcutter said calmly, “The villains who entered the mountain are all dead, of course... If I didn’t carefully screen them, I wouldn’t casually let people in to die, would I?”

Zhao Changhe: “...”

So the place people thought was a refuge for villains was actually a pit for them to die in?

“Drink.” The old woodcutter drained his bowl with abandon, wiped his mouth cheerfully: “Don’t ask too much about what I’m doing here—too many questions bring no benefit... A young man who, seeing the cold wind and snow, was willing to drape a coat over an old woodcutter—I’m happy to offer him a drink, that’s all. After that, from where you came, to where you go—your path to mastery is not here.”