Canglang Temple sat atop Tiancang Mountain in the northern outskirts, its incense thick and its devotees constant as a flowing river. Though the temple was said to have been constructed by the imperial family for the National Preceptor Tantai Qing as a place of Daoist cultivation and a site for praying for the nation’s blessing, the true founder was the National Preceptor himself. An entire hall within was dedicated to enshrining a golden effigy of him — the weight of faith and votive power contained therein went without saying — and how many secrets that could not bear the light of day were hidden within its walls, no one could know.

At this hour, the mountain gate stood wide open. Worshippers pressed shoulder to shoulder, incense smoke curling and drifting all around. Lang Jiuchuan blended into the stream of devotees and climbed the nine hundred and ninety-nine steps of the Passage to Heaven, a path paved with green stone bricks, ascending all the way to the great open Propagation Square at the center of the temple grounds.

There, she noticed several white marble banner poles bearing engravings of the four divine beasts — the Azure Dragon, White Tiger, Dark Warrior, and Vermilion Bird. At the top of each pole hung a banner embroidered with mystical talismanic inscriptions, and her brow lifted slightly.

She stood in the square and surveyed her surroundings, carefully sensing the elemental energy carried by the cold wind. The corner of her mouth curved in a slight, slanted arc.

Quite the method for bolstering the spiritual atmosphere of a Daoist temple.

“Am I wrong? Canglang Temple is the temple that brings the greatest peace to one’s heart and that holds the greatest spiritual efficacy in all the land — even if you do nothing but stand in the square, you will feel all the stifling frustration in your heart swept away.”

Lang Jiuchuan turned her head slightly and caught sight of a female lay devotee in plain robes speaking to a sorrowful-looking woman: “The main hall is even more so — when you enter Canglang Hall and kneel before the National Preceptor, you must be sincere in your reverence, and do not stint on the offering of lamp oil. The great National Preceptor will surely bless you and grant what your heart desires. Oh, and remember to ask the little Daoist attendants for some incense ash to take home with you — it wards off evil and cures all manner of ailments.”

The woman’s eyes lit up with a flicker of anticipation and hope. She gave a nod, her hand drifting to rest against her abdomen.

She was here to pray for a child!

Lang Jiuchuan wanted to laugh. Old fox — since when did you become the Goddess of Mercy who grants children?

Watching the two figures move away, she let out another derisive little laugh. Standing here, of course she felt none of the oppressive stuffiness others might expect — after all, a Five Elements Formation had been laid down here. With the temple built at the summit of the mountain, the crisp and abundant vitality of the mountain’s flora was drawn into circulation through the formation, so that those who came as worshippers would naturally feel refreshed in both body and spirit, far more at ease than they would be anywhere down below. And so they came to believe in the temple’s spiritual efficacy all the more.

Indeed — without some substance to show, how would one inspire belief, and thereby ensure that Canglang Temple’s incense and devotion would flow without end?

A single Five Elements Formation to achieve it all. For that old fox, something accomplished with the flick of a wrist.

Lang Jiuchuan lowered her eyes and twisted her fingers together. I want so badly to cause some damage here.

The thought had barely risen before her gaze drifted to an elderly grandmother and young grandchild making their laborious, stumbling way up in prostration. The old woman’s eyes were sightless, and the thin little child she brought with her carried a somewhat battered bamboo basket filled with incense and candles. Lang Jiuchuan’s gaze lingered on the child for a moment, and she let out a quiet, faint sigh.

She did not linger in the square. She restrained the sharp edge of her presence, even veiling her appearance, causing anyone who looked upon her to forget her the instant they looked away — like a drop of water vanishing into the river. She slipped soundlessly into the crowd and made her way into this temple that appeared solemn and spiritually pure on the surface, but concealed all manner of filth within — without drawing the attention of a single soul.

She kept her eyes lowered in a posture of mild submission, and did not even bother paying respects to the deities in the main hall. Instead, she walked directly toward the place where, earlier, she had traced the aura she had identified from the murky energy veiling the palace of children and progeny on Wen Yue’s face.

Skirting around the imposing main hall, Lang Jiuchuan’s footsteps paused slightly. Her gaze fell on the grand and magnificent hall to the left — resplendent gold and jade, soaring vaulted ceilings, carved beams and painted rafters, extravagance taken to its utmost extreme.

Canglang Hall.

This was the personal shrine housing the National Preceptor’s golden effigy — a hall that belonged to him alone.

It stood there, looking down upon all living beings, like an immovable and towering mountain that could not be toppled.

A surge of emotion rose in Lang Jiuchuan’s chest, as though something were drawing her, pulling her toward the entrance. Her eyes darkened, her gaze filling with revulsion.

You are no god. On what grounds do you receive so vast an offering?

How dare you.

Her gaze drifted slowly upward, settling on the divine beast carved into the roof of the hall — a Bi Xi, the sixth son of the dragon, symbol of longevity and endurance. Her fingertips lightly touched the surface of the Dizhong, a contemplative look in her eyes.

No rush. Wait a while…

Lang Jiuchuan left with a cold expression and came to a row of Daoist dwelling quarters. There, she concealed her presence entirely, withdrew a talisman paper from her sleeve, and pinched it between her fingers, while her spiritual perception spread out soundlessly and continued to penetrate deeper.

That talisman paper had been stained with a single drop of Wen Yue’s heart’s blood — using it to forge a sympathetic connection with her child of blood and bone. It would make the search twice as effective with half the effort.

Watching as a faint, barely perceptible thread of blood-red stretched out before her, Lang Jiuchuan followed its guidance. Moving like a wandering shade, she drifted through one dwelling quarter after another, moving ever farther from the halls and the crowds, until she reached the restricted zone — a place where ordinary worshippers were not permitted to enter, and even the common Daoist attendants of the temple dared not trespass without permission. There, she stopped and looked up.

Quiet Contemplation Hermitage.

The thread of life force connected to Wen Yue by blood — its origin lay somewhere beneath this hermitage.

Lang Jiuchuan’s silhouette flickered and she melted like a wisp of green smoke into the shadows of a covered walkway. With a seal formed at her fingertips, her presence fused entirely with the surrounding environment and became indistinguishable from it.

Her sharp gaze swept over the area around the hermitage, her eyes deepening. The trees and plants that looked perfectly ordinary, the lotus-pedestal stone lanterns, the rooftops, even the green bricks laid across the ground — all of them faintly emanated an aura that, though barely perceptible, was laced with the energy field of talismanic inscriptions.

Her Daoist resonance coalesced. She extended a finger and let it drift like a breeze brushing through willow fronds, sensing that energy field — and in an instant, she had identified it completely.

The Eight Trigrams Spirit-Locking Formation crafted by the National Preceptor, overlaid with a layer of Illusory Mirage Formation. Layer upon layer, stacked upon one another — any intruder who triggered these restraints would be plunged immediately into a trap of absolute killing intent.

The abbot Dao Jicang had also taken the National Preceptor as his master, and had followed him in cultivating the Dao since childhood. By all accounts he was already a hundred years of age, yet his face appeared that of a man merely past fifty. He was not the most brilliant of the National Preceptor’s disciples, but he was the most devoted and faithful.

These formations — they must have been laid down with guidance from the old fox. For though the formations had undergone certain modifications, their core technique unmistakably bore the familiar scent of that fox.

Since it all arose from the same lineage of method, this became far more manageable.

Lang Jiuchuan held her breath. Her ten fingers shifted through seals with rapid precision, her mind and intent moving as one. She flashed into the formation — gliding through it like a wraith, her toe-tips brushing the ground at intervals as lightly as drifting catkins, her fingertips lifting now and then like a sparrow tapping its head, small points of light falling into stone lanterns, her body pausing at moments to stamp lightly on the earth. In an instant, she had already slipped through to the Gate of Life.

To any onlooker, Lang Jiuchuan would have appeared to be dancing. Yet few would know that every step she took was the product of precise and exacting calculation. Even in dancing, she danced upon the edge of a blade — one misstep, and she would fall into the killing ground.

At last, she passed through the final invisible barrier and alighted before the window of the hermitage like a shadow — yet she did not rashly force her way inside.

Something is not quite right.

Before she had time to think further, she heard from deep within the hermitage the faint and exceedingly feeble sound of an infant’s cry. Her chest tightened. In her hand, a sudden warmth — the guide talisman she held between her fingers had ignited of its own accord, without flame.

Lang Jiuchuan’s brow furrowed deeply. Her gaze seemed to pierce through the latticed window. Her spiritual perception charged forward without hesitation.

At that very moment, a low, deep Daoist invocation resonant with barely restrained fury rang out from behind her.

“Boundless Heavenly Venerable!”

The moment the Daoist invocation sounded, a tremendous pressure descended without warning — like the vast and towering mountain beside the hermitage, bearing down upon Lang Jiuchuan with crushing force. An enraged shout followed:

“What manner of petty wretch dares to trespass upon the restricted personal cultivation grounds of the abbot of Canglang Temple!”