Chapter 16: The Tale of a Young Taoist

In the dimly lit world, the imperial palace lay silent deep within its halls. Its vast roof stretched like the wings of a mythical bird, while the glazed tiles, wet with rain, glistened in hues neither loud nor still.

Within the palace, floor lamps burned brightly. The young emperor stood beside a golden pillar coiled with dragons, gazing out at the rain-drenched landscape.

He recalled the moment earlier when a blue-and-white sedan chair had entered the palace. As the supreme ruler of the realm, he had been ignored—the woman inside had not even stepped down to pay her respects. She seemed not to see him at all as the sedan sped deeper into the palace grounds.

Fortunately, his ministers had all bowed low, so none should have noticed his awkward moment.

He sighed, recalling the fleeting, enchanting glimpse of light and shadow between the white curtains and blue-and-white porcelain. His heart stirred. Though they had never met, in that instant, all the women in his harem seemed mere commoners, pale in comparison.

Alas, he had no fate with the immortal path.

Lost in thought, he suddenly noticed a figure scrambling frantically up the distant steps.

“Minister Song?”

The emperor narrowed his eyes, a sense of foreboding rising within him.

Minister Song, umbrella-less, lifted the hem of his robe as he dashed through the autumn rain.

“Minister Song, why such haste today?”

The emperor raised a hand, his tone gentle and unhurried.

Song Ce knelt to pay his respects.

“Your Majesty…”

The emperor helped him up, brushing the rain from his robes.

“Is this a matter of great urgency?”

Song Ce replied anxiously,

“We just received intelligence that assassins infiltrated the imperial city at dawn. They have likely dispersed throughout the palace grounds by now.”

The emperor’s brow furrowed, though his composure did not break.

“Have you traced their origins?”

“Most are from the Song Kingdom,” Song Ce answered. “But one stands out. He has been sighted in several places. Intelligence says he is the foremost assassin of the Ying Kingdom—the Ghost in Colorful Garments.”

The emperor’s heart tightened. He forced calm.

“Who let them in? Who is their target?”

“We’ve discovered they are gathering outside the State Preceptor’s residence.”

At those words, the emperor understood at once and secretly exhaled in relief. Yet outwardly, he feigned concern.

“Though the Preceptor is aged, he remains a pillar of Zhao. These villains from Ying seek to undermine our very foundation! My sister Xiang’er is also in the Grand Preceptor’s residence… I have always felt guilt over her mother’s death. Now this danger falls—this is my failing. I shall order the palace guards to surround the Grand Preceptor’s residence. Will that not ease their peril?”

Song Ce bowed quickly.

“Your Majesty, as long as you stand, Zhao stands. I came today precisely to urge you to fortify the palace against infiltration!”

The emperor nodded with quiet confidence.

“All Zhao’s finest warriors are gathered here. Within the temple grounds, the immortal sect maiden holds sway. They dare not step into their deaths. Moreover…”

A faint smile touched his lips.

“I wield the Vermilion Bird’s Burning Fire Staff. Should they dare to attack, once the Vermilion Bird Killing Array is activated, I shall be as divine within this palace. What is there to fear?”

Song Ce relaxed and lowered his head.

“Your Majesty speaks wisely. I have been overly cautious.”

This conversation took place before Xue Yujun had even reached the city walls.

The young emperor watched the rain fall harder, the gloomy downpour growing ever more desolate. His mind returned to that blue-and-white sedan chair. Jealousy and envy tangled within him. He longed to grasp the Vermilion Bird Fire-Burning Staff at once, to see whether he—seated like a deity in his palace—or that celestial maiden truly held the greater power.

Could that immortal sect truly be so arrogant?

Beside him, Song Ce whispered a report. Seeing the emperor’s weary expression, he thought of his own exhaustion after twenty days of ceaseless toil. The young emperor’s face, once bright, now showed the shadow of age.

Then, a deafening roar shook the city walls. A piercing bird cry split the sky—the Bloodfeather Lord had descended.

Masters hidden in the dark encircled the palace, their vigilance sharp.

The young emperor, stunned by the news, then saw a white rainbow surge upward, piercing the palace sky and the endless autumn rain.

He trembled uncontrollably, clutching Song Ce’s robes.

“Quickly, follow me into the palace!”

Song Ce was panicked as well. The Bloodfeather Lord’s name had haunted Zhao for decades, even serving as a monster in mothers’ tales to frighten children. Now, legend had become reality. Fear rose cold from the depths of the heart.

“Your Majesty intends to…”

The emperor’s gaze was resolute.

“Retrieve the Vermilion Bird Fire-Burning Pestle. I shall activate the Vermilion Bird Killing Array!”

Song Ce grew frantic.

“Your Majesty, you must not! The artifact brings terrible backlash. Your body, worth ten thousand gold, cannot risk such peril. Better to find a prince of royal blood—”

He cut himself short. The emperor’s eyes blazed with wrath, enough to devour him.

Song Ce instantly understood—he had touched the emperor’s sorest wound. The Vermilion Bird Fire-Burning Pestle was the dynasty’s sacred authority, meant only for the emperor. How could another wield it? To entrust the great array to another could plunge the realm into chaos.

The emperor’s fury ebbed. He sighed.

“I know you, Minister Song, only wish me well. But I cannot let my people suffer at the hands of demons. The Bloodfeather Lord’s return signals a grand conspiracy. My mind is made up. No need to dissuade me.”

Song Ce bowed deeply.

“Your Majesty truly lives up to the name of ruler of Zhao.”

The emperor nodded.

“No time to waste. The situation is still manageable. Come with me to retrieve the Fire-Burning Pestle.”

Song Ce hesitated.

“Your Majesty… This is the nation’s most guarded secret. How can I enter the forbidden grounds?”

The emperor replied,

“Though the Vermilion Bird Fire-Kindling Rod is divine, its backlash is severe. Minister Song, you have served me faithfully for decades. I trust you. Come with me.”

Song Ce instantly realized the truth—the emperor meant for him to retrieve the pestle. His “trust” lay only in the fact that Song Ce lacked imperial blood and could never wield it.

He sneered inwardly, yet his face remained resolute.

“Your servant will brave fire and water for Zhao.”

It was late autumn. The heavy rain beat down with only desolation. Yellow leaves, unable to cling to branches, fell in torrents, piling thick upon the ground.

In the side courtyard of the Prince’s mansion, Ning Changjiu stood by the window, watching the rain. Ning Xiaoling sat slumped in a chair, wrapped in a fur-lined coat, bundled in so many layers she looked round and plump.

“Senior Brother, I’m scared…”

Ning Xiaoling clutched her clothes tightly, eyes full of dread.

Ning Changjiu closed the window.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Something terrible must be happening in the city,” she whispered. “They say when the city gate burns, the fish in the moat suffer. We should have left earlier. We shouldn’t have gotten caught up in this.”

“Junior Sister, do you have a wish?”

She flinched.

“Is the capital truly so dangerous now?”

“I was only asking,” Ning Changjiu said with a faint smile.

Ning Xiaoling tilted her head back, rocking her chair.

“I wish to become a Taoist priest.”

“Aren’t we already?”

“I mean a true priestess!” she insisted. “Not like me or Ning Qinshui now. I want to be the kind who subdues demons with swords and commands spirits with talismans… that kind of priestess.”

“Why such a thought?”

She pursed her lips.

“It used to be just a fancy. But a year ago, when I cultivated my innate spirit, that moment made it feel clear and real.”

He asked gently,

“Now that I’ve confined you here, are you angry?”

“Why would I be?”

“There is a great demon in the city now. Since you wish to be a true priestess, I should take you to see it.”

She shook her head.

“I’m not foolish. What if I lose my life?”

Ning Changjiu met her gaze, his voice soft.

“Junior Sister, whenever hardship comes, now or in the future, just tell me. I will always stand by your side.”

Her eyes flickered, words unsaid. She curled deeper into her chair.

“I’m fine… Senior Brother, tell me your story instead. How did you become so powerful? You used to be so dull.”

“I don’t have much of a story,” he mused. “Shall I tell you a tale of a young Taoist instead?”

“Yes, tell me.”

“Once upon a time, on a mountain stood a Taoist temple. In the temple were seven disciples. The youngest disciple locked the gates each night.”

“And the master?”

“The master had been in seclusion for decades, never interfering. The eldest sister and second brother led the disciples. The youngest had been brought in by the second brother. When he was very young, he saw a list—his twelve-year path of cultivation laid out in detail. Each step, each breakthrough, even the marriage he was to have, all written clearly.”

“Did the master write it? Life can’t be so fixed,” Ning Xiaoling said.

“No. The master was a true immortal. The disciple followed each step, each year falling neatly into the framework.”

“How could such a being exist? What happened next?”

“At sixteen, the disciple refused the arranged marriage, choosing only cultivation.”

“Wouldn’t that be a deviation?”

“No. That was the final year of the twelve-year cycle. After he refused, the second brother gave him a new list—for the next twelve years, each step exact.”

“And if he had agreed to marry?”

“For such divine beings, any choice already has its arrangement.”

She thought deeply.

“And then?”

“Twelve years later, the disciple perfected the Dao. On a full moon night, he ascended with his six seniors.”

She waited.

“That’s all,” Ning Changjiu said.

“So boring! You’re just fooling me.”

He smiled faintly.

“Indeed. Such a life would be dull.”

“And the master? Did the disciple ever see her?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes shifted.

“As the disciple ascended, the master struck him. One sword pierced his heart, another shattered his spirit. He fell from the cliff, fate unknown.”

Ning Xiaoling froze, remembering how she and her brother had nearly been slain by their own master.

If not for blood ties, what could not be killed?

“That monk was pitiful,” she whispered. “If only there were a next life…”

“Next life? There is no such thing.”

Outside, the bells of the imperial city tolled. Thunder rolled.

The wind burst open the window. Rain and withered leaves swept in, scattering poetry and manuscripts across the desk.

Ning Changjiu did not close it. He gazed silently at the storm.

Ning Xiaoling studied his profile. So near, yet he seemed as distant as a man watching stars.

Only the light was visible, not the flesh.

The rain grew heavier. By the lake, the Bloodfeather crouched beneath a crimson umbrella, too drained to use its demonic power for shelter. Soaked, it looked like a drowned rat.

It stared at the water without shedding a tear.

The lake froze in thin frost, hardening into ice.

Lightning split the sky. Thunder shook the clouds.

Three figures clashed across the lake, vanishing into the rain, their storm of power the only trace.

Within the palace, the young emperor stumbled out into the storm, regal bearing cast aside.

“Someone! Someone… Song Ce! Song Ce has rebelled!”