The night on Shuxi Mountain was utterly still.

This year’s winter seemed to have arrived earlier than usual. Though the Start of Winter had not yet come, the leaves on the mountain had already fallen by more than half. In a matter of days, the first snow would likely descend.

Pilgrims had descended the mountain before sunset. Travelers on the road had long since found places to rest their feet, and even the few stragglers still out had whipped their horses and rushed toward the post station at the foot of the mountain.

Yet halfway up the mountain, several ox-drawn carts were still making their way upward.

These were carts trimmed with gold and silver, ox adorned with fresh flowers and bells, and even the manservants driving the carts and the maidservants in attendance were of striking beauty, every one of them dressed in light gauze and feathered crowns in the dead of winter, scattering gold-flecked fragrant powder as they went. Seen from afar, it looked like a wedding procession escorting a bride to some mountain spirit or demon.

“Stop scattering that. This desolate wilderness — who is there to see it?”

The cascading golden powder finally ceased.

Fuqiu hooked the curtain open with one finger, sneezing all the while as he peered out.

Outside the window was pitch blackness — not even a ghost’s shadow to be seen. He had no idea where on Shuxi Mountain they were, let alone where Yongye Temple might be.

He really should not have made this trip.

Word had come some days ago of strange celestial phenomena near Buxu Valley in Wancheng — dark clouds pressing low, rolling thunder, and an unearthly light reaching the heavens. No one could say whether it was some spirit or demon ascending through tribulation or a scene of the apocalypse. Whatever it was, after a full night of chaos, everything settled back to calm, and no one could explain what had actually happened.

But the fact that no one knew did not mean nothing had occurred. When something is out of the ordinary, there is always something afoot. Moreover, in troubled times, one ought to be cautious in all things.

He let the curtain fall back and exhaled deeply, then picked up the half-damp cloth beside him to wipe away the sweat.

It was already the start of winter, and yet the sweat on his forehead had not stopped for a moment.

“What kind of charcoal are they burning? It’s stifling in here.”

The young Taoist acolyte attending him dared not be careless, and quickly turned over the coals in the basin, then quietly urged the manservant driving the cart to hurry.

But ox carts are always far slower than horse carts, and the mountain road ran uphill, making things slower still. By the time the coals had burned white, the cart finally stopped.

Fuqiu leaned on the acolyte and climbed out of the cart. He thought they had arrived, but when he managed to straighten his stiff neck and look up, he found this was nothing but the mountain gate. And not only that — this gate looked no different from the wilderness they had just passed through. Not only was there no gatekeeper or novice monk to be seen, there was not even a perpetual lantern hanging outside.

This was no temple. It was clearly a haunted place.

Fuqiu gazed up at the stone steps that seemed to have no end, and cleared his throat heavily.

The several acolytes standing behind him immediately understood. From the second ox cart they retrieved a palanquin, and in no time at all they had spread fur rugs on it, set up a small warming brazier, and prepared everything swiftly.

Shortly after, the palanquin carried the elder master, surrounded by a cluster of his disciples, and headed up the mountain.

The night was deep, the mountain path rugged, and the palanquin swayed with every step, rocking its passenger into drowsiness.

Fuqiu struggled to keep his two feuding eyelids open, barely clinging to his last scrap of wakefulness.

After the time it takes to burn one incense stick, level ground finally appeared on all sides. On that flat ground, wedged between the mountain’s crevices, a temple loomed dimly.

The temple was not small by any measure, yet the entrance gate that greeted visitors was in a rather dilapidated state — clearly it had not been repaired in a long time. Even the plaque above the gate was missing a piece, and every corner of it exuded the look of a place too short on incense-money to maintain itself.

Not only a haunted place, but a poor one at that.

Fuqiu waved his hand to signal those on either side to set the palanquin down.

With the warming brazier keeping him comfortably warm below, he reluctantly extended one foot, and the moment his toe touched the ground, a voice rang out from beneath the temple gate.

“Who approaches? Why have you not dismounted?”

Fuqiu had traveled widely for many years, always with grand entourages, and it had been a long time since anyone had challenged him in such a manner.

He steeled himself, climbed down from the palanquin — acolytes rushing to support him on both sides — and the whole company swept imposingly toward the figure standing beneath the temple gate.

The torches at the gate illuminated the face of the impertinent speaker: dimly, it appeared to be a young man dressed in black, looking like a guard. His eyes were long and narrow, his features softly defined, and the light in his eyes was cold indeed.

But the lead acolyte was no pushover either. Though young, he already had a face fit for a senior Taoist, puffing two jets of white breath through his nostrils with his nose raised high.

“We are the Dharma Protector and friends of the Northern Hongjimen. This gentleman is the Sect Leader, Celestial Master Fuqiu. Our Sect Leader has traveled through the night and is greatly fatigued. Who are you to question him? Go inside at once and announce us.”

The other man’s brow arched, his voice cold and sinister.

“Fuqiu? Which Fuqiu?”

At these words, silence fell over the assembled company for a moment.

Never in his life had Fuqiu been asked such a question. He stumbled back half a step on the spot and nearly had to be caught by someone.

The cluster of acolytes and immortal-maidens behind him suddenly transformed into something resembling shrewish street ruffians, each sprouting three or four extra mouths, and together they launched a raucous assault on the guard.

“How dare you, you insolent wretch! Such disrespect?!”

“If it weren’t for your wretched temple sending someone to beg our Sect Leader to come, do you think he would abandon his half-finished ritual and condescend to travel to this barren place?!”

“Don’t forget that this year’s Spring Rites were accomplished entirely through our Sect Leader’s efforts. Should word of today’s conduct reach His Majesty’s ears, ten heads wouldn’t be enough to cut off!”

“Our Sect Leader’s virtue and merit extend to all under heaven — how many people await him to save their suffering! If you don’t feel grateful, that’s one thing, but is this how you treat a benefactor who has come from so far away?!”

After that torrent of spittle and noise, Lu Songping finally turned his gaze unhurriedly toward Fuqiu, who stood at the center.

“Did your Sect Leader not mention who invited him here?”

Fuqiu had just steadied himself and was about to pull open his many-layered, multi-colored robes to reveal the imperially bestowed gold tablet — but at those words his hands froze, and he suddenly felt a chill all around him.

Three days ago he had received a handwritten letter, signed by the abbot of this temple, but stamped with an official seal from the palace.

Now that he thought about it, what he had received was not an invitation at all, but an imperial decree.

What great Buddha was concealed within this dilapidated temple remained to be seen. He could not afford to act rashly and offend whoever stood behind it.

At this thought, Fuqiu’s expression instantly softened into one of benevolent warmth.

“These disciples of mine have long been devoted to cultivation, and have been out of touch with worldly affairs for some time. Their social graces leave something to be desired in places — I beg your pardon.”

The guard did not hesitate for even a moment, and immediately became cooperative, switching to an agreeable expression as well.

“I was blind just now — I beg the Celestial Master to be magnanimous and not lower himself to argue with a rough man like me. That the Celestial Master, at his distinguished age, was willing to travel ten thousand li and risk his life to come to our aid — I thank the Celestial Master on behalf of everyone in this temple.”

Wait.

Fuqiu’s mind rang with alarm. He opened his eyes a crack.

“Danger? What danger?”

The guard smiled with guileless innocence, returning to pleasantries.

“Ah, the Celestial Master’s skill at driving out demons and subduing monsters has reached the realm of divine mastery. Witnessing such things day and night, you must have achieved a heart as still as water. It is only my own limited experience and poor choice of words — I have made the Celestial Master laugh.”

The other party talked in circles without saying anything of substance. Fuqiu was in a state of alarmed uncertainty, and before he could press further, he heard a commotion at the temple’s side gate, and several people walked out.

He glanced over from the corner of his eye — and what a glance that turned out to be. He saw two monks carrying out a Taoist in a gray robe, the man’s life status unclear.

The guard had presumably seen this too, and a look of regret crossed his face.

“Ah, that makes the ninth person in the past few days. I’m told he is the Abbot of Songling Mountain — not very old, with exceptional courage. What a pity…” He paused at just the right moment, then looked toward Fuqiu, “But fortunately, the Celestial Master has arrived in time. Surely such tragedies will not recur.”

Fuqiu was inwardly horrified, his legs going weak — yet somehow his face still retained a few shreds of composure. He pretended to wipe sweat and said:

“Ah, now that I think about it, a certain ritual implement I need for driving away demons has been left in the palanquin. I shall just go and fetch it.”

With that, he made to retreat swiftly. His legs had not yet cleared the temple gate when a voice called out and stopped him.

“Might you be Celestial Master Fuqiu? The Celestial Master has graced our humble temple in person — this little monk failed to come out to meet you. I am truly ashamed!”

Fuqiu turned half his head and saw a smooth-skinned, fair-complexioned monk smiling at him warmly.

“Little monk, I came just a few steps too late and happened to pass by the Celestial Master’s palanquin. There was nothing on it — could the Celestial Master have misremembered?”

Where had this demon monk come from, meeting him for the first time and determined to make trouble for him?!

Fuqiu’s temple throbbed. He forced himself to calm down.

“And you are?”

The young monk smiled gently.

“This little monk is Yikong, the one who wrote the letter. Does the Celestial Master not remember?”

He remembered. Of course he remembered.

Judging by the young man’s apparent age, Fuqiu immediately brought out his superior-elder’s bearing to apply pressure. He stepped to the side and gestured for the other to come close and speak.

“My late master and I were acquainted back in the day. I have a few questions for you, and you must answer honestly.”

Yikong nodded.

“Please ask, Celestial Master.”

“What manner of demon or evil spirit is inside this temple?”

“This little monk does not know.”

“And from where does this demon or evil spirit come?”

“That… this little monk does not know either.”

Fuqiu grew furious, his voice rising.

“Then who is the person in charge here, and who has been harmed by the demon — surely you know that much?!”

Yikong wore an expression of great difficulty, and Fuqiu watched the veins at his temple throb wildly. After a moment, the young monk finally crooked a hesitant finger. Fuqiu quickly leaned over half an ear.

After a brief murmur too low to be heard clearly, those watching from a distance saw their Sect Leader’s narrowed eyes fly wide open in an instant.

Yikong stepped back a measured distance, and finally offered this gentle parting thought:

“The Celestial Master has come today to accept a charge in a time of peril. Should he choose to stay, the blessings that follow will surely be abundant. But should he change his mind and make a hasty exit, not only will it cost the Northern Hongjimen its dignity — in the days ahead, I fear the Celestial Master will find it difficult to move freely through the Chizhou region.”

* * *

Fuqiu ultimately followed one of Yongye Temple’s young novice monks through the gate.

It was not that he truly believed the smooth-talking monk. He believed the seal on that letter.

Besides, he had seen some storms in his time — not just anyone could claim his old bones. And this place was, after all, a temple practically at the foot of the imperial capital. Surely nothing too outrageous could happen here?

Weighed down with thoughts, he followed the novice monk toward the main hall, too preoccupied to look around, head down and mulling things over — when suddenly he heard the sound of a zither.

The music seemed to come from the direction of the main hall. It had passed through several layers of sutra banners and wound through a few covered corridors, and yet it somehow found its way to his ears through all those twists and turns — clear evidence of the player’s profound skill.

The melody was clear and distant, harmonious in all eight tones, as though only a monk who had cultivated in solitude for decades could have attained such a timbre. Yet for reasons he could not name, listening closely, one found the music infused with boundless sorrow and desolation — bleaker even than the old singing-girl’s pipa at Wangchen Tower on a winter’s day, enough to break the heart utterly. It was a contradiction impossible to put into words.

“We have arrived.”

The novice monk stopped ahead, and Fuqiu came back to himself.

Looking up, he found himself in the rear courtyard of the main hall. The courtyard was not large, yet it was already crammed with a dozen or so people in disorderly fashion.

They say those in the same trade meet as rivals, burning with envy at the sight of each other. Envy was too strong a word, but distinguishing their own kind at a glance was effortless. Fuqiu swept his eyes across the crowd and recognized three or four of them immediately. As for the rest, there was no need to look closely — they were all more or less from the same mold.

Just how many letters had Yikong written? And why had he gathered so many Taoists, high monks, and celestial masters together? Could this be some demon lord’s scheme — some plot to eliminate all of these renowned righteous sects in one fell swoop?

He suddenly felt uneasy, his gaze repeatedly wandering toward the main hall.

Not far away, a lone lamp cast its light over a blue-clad guard with a long saber at his hip. He stood with his arms crossed at the rear door of the main hall, and hearing the commotion, he glanced over.

Fuqiu was craning his neck and nosing about, trying to climb the steps, when the guard blocked his way.

“Please wait here, Celestial Master.”

He would have liked nothing better than to wait quietly, but he could not bring himself to sit still.

Fuqiu hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice.

“May I ask, good sir — what is the purpose of tonight’s gathering, exactly?”

The “good sir” gave him a look and politely pointed behind him.

“What the Celestial Master need do is wait right over there.”

Fuqiu was dubious.

“Just that? Nothing more?”

“If nothing unusual occurs, nothing more.”

Unusual? What could be unusual about this?

Fuqiu shook his head and could only return to the courtyard. Looking up at the sky, the stars were strewn as chaotically as scattered sesame seeds — he truly could make nothing of them. He gave up and simply mingled with his fellow practitioners, striking up conversation. It was at any rate better than standing idle.

In the dim main hall, the zither continued without pause.

The piece was nearly finished — only the final phrase of Sanskrit harmonics remained — when the player could hold on no longer, and a mouthful of blood spattered onto the strings.

“Your Majesty!”

The shadow that had been standing all along at the doorway finally could not hold still, and rushed forward in quick strides. The usually composed face was filled with anguish.

“Your Majesty, please play no more — this servant cannot bear it!”

The flickering light of a thousand oil lamps filtered through the sutra banners and fell upon the depths of the hall doorway, dimly revealing a blood-red stain spreading across the chest of the young emperor. The vivid crimson bloomed like a flower in the height of summer, tormenting with pain the flesh and blood it had taken root in.

Yet that person seemed to have lost all sense of pain. He simply raised his hand to wipe the corner of his mouth, then lifted his hand to brush the blood from the strings, and was poised to play again.

Dan Jiangfei prostrated himself over the zither table, his voice wretched with grief.

“Your Majesty has been injured in the vital channels of the heart. You only walked back from death’s door three days ago — how can you treat yourself so carelessly now?”

There was no anger on the man’s pale face — only boundless desolation. Those eyes, once as still as an ancient well, now resembled a bottomless abyss. One glance was enough to make the breath catch.

“The Prayer of Universal Peace is a composition of lofty aspiration — it calms the heart and steadies the spirit most powerfully. If I stop, I fear it will be difficult to turn back.”

The chief attendant’s voice took on a note of choked grief. He seemed to recall something from the past, and only after a long while did he slowly continue.

“For more than twenty years, Your Majesty has endured in precisely this way. This time, Your Majesty can surely do the same. There are people waiting outside — Ding Zhongwei is out there with men at the ready. Your Majesty need only wait a little longer, just a little longer—”

Wait. He had been waiting in this inescapable hell for far too long.

He had not known. He had not known that time could be such a torment.

In the past, he had never thought that the drops falling from the water clock held any pain worth speaking of, had never understood what it meant for time to be worth its weight in gold. During the years he had spent in the tower, his greatest skill had been withstanding the endless, formless void of passing years.

But now, watching that blood-drop roll slowly along the string, it was as though his heart were being flayed alive across the edge of a blade.

“Has there been any progress from Qu Mo’s side?”

“The third furnace was refined today. The Abbot of Songling Mountain just gave out a while ago — now only Qu Mo remains. If Your Majesty wishes to know the details, this servant can send someone to inquire.”

“There is no need.” The man refused almost instantaneously — if he did not ask, he would not have to hear that terrible outcome. “Leave.”

Dan Jiangfei removed the bowl of medicine that had long gone cold, and replaced it with a freshly heated decoction. He started to say something several times but stopped himself. Before leaving, he draped a set of clean outer garments over that person’s shoulders — garments he had prepared well in advance.

“The robes Your Majesty requested — this servant had someone find them.”

The cloth was moon-white, light and soft — no longer suitable for this time of year. But even an extra thin layer, enough to cover the garish bloodstain on his chest, was something.

Dan Jiangfei dared not linger, and withdrew with his head bowed.

The zither rang out again.

Only this time the melody had changed.

The player did not know how it happened himself — as his fingertips fell, what emerged was a tune he had never played before. Not even one of the named compositions.

The melody was strangely familiar, like a fragment of a folk tune. But this folk tune was missing several phrases, repeating only the first few passages of melody.

The hands on the strings paused. He finally remembered why the tune had only a few phrases — because he did not know what the rest of it was. On that silent night in the marsh, with only fireflies for company, she had hummed a little folk tune before him — and that was all there had been of it.

He smiled. But the smile froze where it was, and at last gave way to a grief he could not conceal.

He played that passage of melody over and over again. The exhaustion and numbness of three days without sleep took turns gnawing at his will, and in a daze he had already slumped against the side of the zither table — heavy and drifting, unable to distinguish day from night.

He did not know how much time had passed when a faint sound of footsteps rose from outside the hall.

That sound went heavy and light, fast and slow, and at last stopped not far from where he lay.

A finger moved on the string, plucking one note — the man opened his eyes and raised himself to look forward.

Beneath the swaying sutra banners, a pair of bare feet appeared, hovering and hesitant, before finally drawing closer.

The next instant, the ancient fabric of the banner parted softly, and she appeared — just like that, catching him completely off guard, peeking her head through.

Her eyes still held that familiar brightness, and the moment she saw him, they all but blazed with light.

“I heard someone playing the zither. The melody sounded a little familiar, so I felt my way here in the dark to look — I never expected it would really be you.”

He said nothing. He could not find the words.

Seeing him silent, she grew awkward in an instant. She stood beneath that swaying banner, her left hand picking at the gold thread embroidered on it, her right hand scratching at her loose, disheveled hair.

She was wearing only an inner garment, her hair down, but her whole person was tidy, and her bare face was flushed with vivid color.

She was awake? She was unharmed? How had Dan Jiangfei been attending to his duties — why had no one come to report? Why had she come here alone…

But then, suddenly, he understood. He nearly stumbled to his feet and walked toward her, one step at a time.

Yet just before that final step, he stopped.

The hand he had reached out hung there suspended. He dared not take another step forward, dared not touch her.

Because he knew that everything before him was nothing but an illusion.

But she seemed entirely unaware of this, and kept staring at him steadily.

“What’s wrong? Are you unhappy?”

He finally spoke, his voice hoarse as though mixed with sand: “How can you be here?”

She seemed to recall something, and a flush crept across her face.

“How would I know…”

She seemed eager to change the subject and circled around him once, tilting her head back to look at the patterns on the ceiling of the main hall, then twisting around to peer at the sky outside.

“What time is it now? What are you doing here?”

He pressed his dry lips together and said softly:

“It just passed midnight. I am playing the zither.”

“Didn’t you say before that your hand was injured and you could never play again? Were you just saying that to put me off?” She leaned closer, undisguised laughter and smugness written all over her face. “You’ve been caught this time — there’s no escaping. You might as well play a piece for me to hear. Let’s see whether what was written in that Nanting Manual is all nonsense.”

He gazed at her without moving his eyes away for even an instant.

“All right. What would you like to hear?”

She clearly had not expected him to agree so readily — her expression visibly froze for a moment, and she quickly looked away to conceal the expression of frantic racking of her brains. After a long while she finally recalled the name of a piece.

“Play Presenting the Sandal at the Bridge.”

“All right.”

He almost dragged his feet back to the zither table. Turning around, settling into his seat, raising himself up — all things he had done countless times — felt impossibly difficult this time, as though he were doing them for the very first time.

Staring at the dried bloodstains on the strings, he could not bring himself to sound the first note.

He did not know why he was sitting here to play Presenting the Sandal at the Bridge. Their reunion had been so hard-won — there should have been so many other things to do. But she wanted to hear him play the zither, so here he sat.

The blade at the tip of his heart began to drag and tear again. He could no longer tell whether that was pain from the wound or anguish from the depths of his soul.

And then, she reached across the space between them and caught his trembling fingertips.

“All right, I was lying to you. I actually can’t make heads or tails of it — don’t put yourself through this.”

This time, he kept his head bowed.

He dared not look up, yet he knew precisely with what sincere and careful expression she was gazing at him. He dared not look at that face — because he knew that a single glance would cause him to collapse utterly, to shatter beyond repair.

The young woman sensed the despair and anguish in his expression. Her intangible fingertip fell gently upon the space between his brows.

“You must have something troubling you. Don’t worry — whatever happens, I will face it with you. If you are in danger, I will not stand by and do nothing. Set your heart at ease — everything will be all right.”

As long as she was here, everything would be all right.

But what if she were no longer here?

He raised his head, and only managed to catch her one last, hurried glance back.

“It sounds like someone is calling me — I might have to leave. Don’t be unhappy.”

Her figure wove through the billowing sutra banners, growing distant and indistinct in the shifting light and shadow.

“No—” He shoved the zither table aside and lunged toward her like a madman. “No, you cannot go—”

The headboard struck the floor. The bridge shattered. The strings snapped, and the music ceased.

He looked wildly around — the main hall had only him in it.

The main hall had always had only him in it.

The originally silent hall door was suddenly caught by a wind, and a thousand oil lamps were extinguished in an instant.

The white-robed physician stood alone at the doorway of the main hall — his white robes streaked all over with the traces of smoke and fire. No one knew how long he had been standing there.

“Your Majesty. This humble physician has done his utmost…”

A low, muffled voice rose from the depths of the main hall — one heard the voice but saw no person, and it inspired an inexplicable unease.

“Is it life, or death?”

The figure at the hall doorway closed his mouth and did not answer. Perhaps he did not know how to answer.

“I am asking you — is she alive, or dead?”

“A single breath remains, but…” The words broke off abruptly. Hao Bai felt that what came next was more agonizing to say than swallowing needles. Only after a long moment did he say, quietly: “All people must pass through the trial of life and death — it is merely a matter of sooner or later. Your Majesty has devoted yourself to the Buddha for so many years, and surely understands these principles far more deeply than most. Perhaps you might go in while her face and voice are still with us, and see her one last time.”

From within the darkness, a soft laugh rose from the unseen figure.

What trial. It was nothing but an excuse the suffering told themselves — because there was no escaping it, so they had no choice but to endure. They comforted themselves through their trials, telling themselves that once they survived, they would ascend. And when one trial ended and a new one began, they said life and death were the greatest of all things, equally fair to everyone.

But for him, death was no trial at all. The secret seal, the Bai family, the faces of all living beings, the prophecy of gods and demons — all of that rotted past, none of it was his trial.

His trial was losing her.

The sutra banners in the main hall, which had been drifting softly, suddenly went still — as though something terrible were gathering and building behind them.

“Is it not you who boast that your medical skill is supreme, that you save only those who cannot be saved by ordinary means? Is it not you who claims your remedies can commune with gods and spirits? Is it not you who once brought that scoundrel Zou Sifang back from the dead? Then why could you not save her? WHY?!”

The white-robed physician opened and closed his mouth without daring to speak. This time it was because he truly had no answer.

Around them was a silence like death, so oppressive it made breathing feel difficult.

Then he heard a clear sound from within the darkness.

Thin — like the sound of something snapping. Then a rapid series of soft, bright clicks — prayer beads striking the floor.

He stared blankly downward. He watched one bead roll out from behind the sutra banners and come slowly to rest beside his foot.

He recognized that bead. Long ago, he had used one of them as a medicinal catalyst to save Zou Sifang.

“Your Majesty—”

He opened his mouth again, feeling his voice turn hoarse and begin to tremble.

“Your Majesty, this humble physician is filled with dread—”

His voice echoed through the main hall, and then was swallowed by the darkness behind the sutra banners as though it had never been. The silence around him grew so profound it was nearly an auditory illusion.

After a frozen moment, the sound of something gnawing — fine as insect teeth — crept closer. First the sutra banners, then the painted wooden beams overhead, then the great Buddha statue at the center of the hall. He watched everything, beginning from its outline, crumble into dust and be consumed by that darkness and swallowed into it.

He turned to cry out. A tremendous force struck him from behind, eating through the fabric of the robes on his back. He only had time to stumble a few steps before he was flung out through the hall doors.

In the night, invisible blades of wind — like demons that walk in darkness — poured out from the main hall of Yongye Temple, spinning and expanding and devouring everything around them.

A moon-white figure slowly walked out through the hall doors. The blood-threads spreading wildly across his chest wound around him like the branches of a tree, making him appear all the more ghastly pale.

He clutched his chest and stood at the center of that vortex. His downcast eyes slowly opened, and two jet-black pupils — dark as holes — swept across the courtyard: the plants, the stones, the tiles, and the frozen, terrified crowd. His voice was hollow and drifting.

“I want to see her. Why does she keep leaving—”

With every step forward he took, the howling of the wind rose another degree.

After three steps, the ancient towering cypress in the courtyard — large enough for three people to wrap their arms around — and the full acre of golden camellia planted before the main hall had been gnawed to nothing by those blades of wind in an instant, crumbled to dust and scattered into the air.

Pitiful were the gathered exorcists and defenders of righteousness in that courtyard — most of them had never in their long lives encountered a single genuine demon or specter, and today, beholding one with their own eyes, four or five of them fainted on the spot. The rest stood frozen like startled roe deer, until Ding Weixiang drew his blade and roared.

“What are you all standing there for? Charge!”

The Taoists and masters scrambled frantically for their implements — chanting sutras, writing talismans, reciting incantations.

After that chaotic, fumbling response, everyone had been driven back against the courtyard wall with nowhere left to retreat.

Yikong stood alone, holding his scriptures, still chanting his incantation with unyielding determination.

All around him people were falling back steadily, crying out in misery.

“Abbot Yikong, we — we truly cannot hold on any longer!”

The raging wind-blades slashed Yikong’s robes to shreds, yet he stepped forward on his lame foot and stood in front of everyone.

“Even if I meet my end here today, even if Yongye Temple ceases to exist — I will not let him leave this place!”

“Nonsense!” Fuqiu steadied the golden crown on his head, scattering protective rice as he retreated and cursing at the top of his lungs. “If you wish to meet your end, don’t drag the rest of us along for the next life — open the temple gate! Open the gate—”

The words broke off halfway. He suddenly caught a gleam of cold light atop the surrounding temple walls — and realized that at some point, over a hundred bows had been set in place.

The black-clad guard he had seen at the mountain gate was perched on the roof of the side hall, his gaze sweeping coldly across the people in the courtyard.

“You were all handsomely paid to come here today — the evil has not been cleansed, and no one may leave. This is an extraordinary moment, and all must advance and retreat together.”

The situation became clear in an instant. Fuqiu’s heart turned cold, and he had no choice but to bow his head and shrink back.

The assembled celestial masters and elder Taoists gathered behind the young monk, every one of them bringing out their best skills, making a final desperate stand to preserve their own lives.

No one noticed a small figure flip over the top of the courtyard wall.

His legs were too short, and no matter how he tried, he could not reach the ground. When he finally dropped, he landed in a squatting thud on the ground and let out an “Ouch!”

Yikong caught it from the corner of his eye — Zhu Yu had come charging in from somewhere, something raised in his hands.

With the full force of his righteous expression, the little novice monk charged through the scattered wind-blades and airborne debris and hurled with all his might the thing in his hands straight at the center of the vortex, at the figure of the man standing there.

A gold-and-green flash of light swept through mid-air — it was a bronze bowl, well-seasoned with countless meals of oil and grain, weathered by no small measure of wind and frost.

“Evil demons and monsters, begone!”

That battered bronze bowl spun through the air in a long arc, and as though breaking through an impenetrable wall of wind, it plunged straight into the vortex and shot directly toward the figure at the center.

Clang.