Chapter Seventy: The Celestial Tome

The next morning, as the first warm rays of winter sunlight reached the riverside and the grass by the river was still veiled in a light mist, the group had already set out on their journey.

What surprised Qin Yi was that the old groom had sobered up so early and resumed his duties as if nothing had happened. It seemed the old man’s boasts about his drinking capacity were not empty after all. After all, the groom was neither a cultivator nor young—he was an elderly man with gray hair—his body could hardly compare to theirs, who were both young and practitioners of the Way. Of course, one had to make an exception for Old Jiang—he was not only likely older than even He Anjian among the cultivators present, but his cultivation was also the deepest of them all.

What disappointed Qin Yi somewhat was that he did not find a single speck of dirt on Jiang Fengnian’s white robes. They remained immaculate, pure as snow, even his white shoes were unblemished. Whether he had managed not to soil them at all, or had washed them before the others awoke, or perhaps simply carried a spare set to change into, Qin Yi could not say.

Riding the great white horse, Qin Yi slowly drew up alongside Old Jiang and matched his pace. “Old Jiang,” he said, “tell us about the ‘Heaven-Piercing Talisman’.”

Zhang Chen also spurred his horse to ride beside Old Jiang, eyes shining with anticipation.

Old Jiang looked at Qin Yi and Zhang Chen with great interest, and once again played coy. “I’ll give you a hint, but I won’t pour everything out all at once like beans from a bamboo tube.”

Zhang Chen, unable to wait any longer, said, “That’s fine, elder, just state it simply and clearly. We’ll work out the rest ourselves.”

Qin Yi scoffed, “Old Jiang, perhaps that’s all you know yourself—no need to pretend to be a sword master, and now a master of talismans as well?”

The straw-hatted old man was evidently well-accustomed to boasting and doubting looks; his skin was as thick as the walls of Emperor Wu’s city by the Western Sea, unflushed and unperturbed. He replied with supreme disdain, “Tch! Even if I’m not a master of talismans, those so-called masters may not understand the ‘Heaven-Piercing Talisman’ as well as I do, believe it or not.”

Qin Yi, long tired of his self-aggrandizing, grew impatient at once. “Fine, fine, I believe every word—now will you tell us?”

Old Jiang, surprisingly, did not argue as he usually would, but after a long silence, under the expectant gaze of Qin Yi and Zhang Chen, finally began to speak, “The ‘Heaven-Piercing Talisman’—as its name suggests—is a branch of the talismanic arts, yet it is intimately connected to the Way of Heaven.”

Upon hearing this, Qin Yi immediately thought of the runes Zhang Chen had used the previous day. “Like the ones Zhang Chen used yesterday?” he asked.

Zhang Chen shook his head, for he knew those runes were merely the result of Old Jiang’s impromptu guidance—they could not even be considered the threshold of the true essence of the ‘Heaven-Piercing Talisman’.

Old Jiang shook his head as well, then lifted his gaze to the newly risen winter sun, seeming to drift into distant memories. “The ‘Heaven-Piercing Talisman’ is so named because it should pierce the heavens and reach the earth. Its similarity to the Way of Heaven lies in drawing upon the power of the world itself. They both represent the universe—the talisman uses itself as a medium to channel the forces of heaven and earth. As for the Way of Heaven itself…” Old Jiang returned from his reverie and glanced at Jiang Fengnian nearby. “That, you would have to ask him, or perhaps consult the book his senior carries.”

He continued, “Thus, your proficiency with the ‘Heaven-Piercing Talisman’ is measured by how much of the world’s power you can draw through your talismans. I have spelled it out for you—if you still do not understand, then your comprehension is sorely lacking.”

Qin Yi rolled his eyes, thinking that Old Jiang was simply deflecting again, unwilling to admit his own ignorance, and so tossed out this answer to send them away.

Noticing Qin Yi’s eye roll, Old Jiang, once again uncharacteristically, did not bicker, but rather spoke as though he genuinely wished them to comprehend the rest for themselves. “That’s as much as I’ll say. Whether you can grasp the rest is up to you. If a cultivator needed help with every step, what would be the point?” He then narrowed his eyes, stroked his snowy beard, and finally returned to his usual self-satisfied boasting. “When I studied the sword, I crossed the river by feeling for stones myself, all the way to where I am today.”

Alas, Qin Yi and Zhang Chen seemed to have taken his earlier words to heart, quietly riding away, deep in thought, paying no attention to his posturing.

Finding himself suddenly surrounded by silence, Old Jiang squinted open his left eye for a glance—Zhang Chen was gone. He closed it and opened his right for a look—Qin Yi, too, was gone, only the dust and pebbles swirling as his horse kept pace with him.

Old Jiang shut his eyes and tried to calm the turmoil within, which surged wilder than the tides beyond the Western Sea. Once, even the faintest utterance from him would have been treasured by others; now, his precious experiences were disregarded as mere wind. The realization left him shaken. At last, he muttered to himself, “They’re just children, ignorant and immature. I am magnanimous; I won’t stoop to their level.”

Yet, even as he sought to console himself, Old Jiang could not help but feel deeply vexed.

…

The company traveled on, unhurried, so that it was not until sunset that they crossed a low hill and finally beheld Fish-Dragon Fortress, its walls alive in the red glow of dusk.

“Hyah—!”

Catching sight of the fortress’s silhouette glowing in the sunset, both Qin Yi and Zhang Chen spurred their horses forward, racing ahead in a cloud of dust.

“Whoa—!”

Before long, they arrived near the southern gate of Fish-Dragon Fortress. As they drew closer, they saw several large, dark shapes lying on the ground outside the gate—human-sized, unmoving. Qin Yi and Zhang Chen exchanged a glance, both seeing the worry in each other’s eyes, then dismounted and hurried forward. But before they had covered much ground, it was as though invisible strings had seized them—they stopped abruptly, unable to take even half a step further.

Bathed in the blood-red light of the sunset, by the southern gate lay the corpses of a man and four horses, sprawled in a pool of blood. The crimson liquid still flowed slowly toward Qin Yi and Zhang Chen, forming a thin, winding river of blood. Under the dying sun, both the pool and the stream appeared especially ghastly, sending chills up their spines despite the warmth of the light.

With a mounting sense of dread, Qin Yi and Zhang Chen slowly approached, brushing past that blood-red stream as they drew nearer to the ghastly pool. As they came closer, Qin Yi nearly stumbled and fell, while beside him, Zhang Chen broke into a run, his voice cracking with grief as he cried out toward the bloody scene at the gate, “Old Ma…!”