Chapter Twenty-Seven: On the Road

Nearly ten days had passed since he descended the mountain. Chen Yu remembered leaving Qingtai on the sixth day of the fifth lunar month; today was already the fifteenth. To someone like Qian Xuanzhong, an old hand at roaming the martial world, this stretch of time would have seemed fleeting, but for Chen Yu, his longing for home grew ever more urgent.

For him, the many objectives of his journey down the mountain had already been fulfilled. There was no reason to tarry. The bustling prosperity of Pingcheng was of no use to him; he found himself yearning instead for the tranquil leisure of his mountain retreat.

He had gained much from attending the recent Dharma assembly. First, he had purchased a number of medical texts, leafing through many volumes and committing their contents to memory, ready to process and absorb them at his leisure upon his return. Second, his self-created art of Internal Organ Transmutation had progressed with astonishing speed, saving him considerable time and energy.

He had also acquired a new skill in sonic attack.

Beyond this, his knowledge, combat experience, and social connections had all advanced to varying degrees. Yet what preoccupied Chen Yu most was the unexpected discovery of the fetal breath coiled within his elixir field, and the vital energy seed nurtured from it.

After experiencing how even the faintest wisp of this vital breath could strengthen his liver, he sensed that perhaps at last he possessed the confidence to pursue the new path he had long envisioned.

His talent for martial arts was, at best, mediocre; the mystical methods of the Daoist sects were elusive and intangible. Only the fetal breath, the vital energy, and his own spiritual strength felt tangible and reliable—something he could truly depend upon.

They were far less illusory.

“Return to the mountain! Return to the mountain!”

Having packed his belongings, Chen Yu wasted not a moment, leaving Pingcheng straightaway. He walked from the city onto the broad main road, and soon onto a dirt path.

The sun shone brightly as he traversed the rough lanes, the sprawling ancient city stretching behind him. Faintly, the clamor of human voices could still be heard.

But it no longer concerned him. He strode on, heading toward the dilapidated Daoist temple.

…

The return journey was far smoother than his arrival—at least, so Chen Yu thought at first. But he had not gone twenty li before misfortune struck: he encountered a band of refugees.

Their clothes were tattered, hair matted, faces gaunt and sallow. A withered, decaying stench clung to them—less the scent of the living than of rotting wood.

Chen Yu skirted them from afar, brow furrowed, unwilling to meddle in their affairs.

“Five-dipper Immortal…”

The group knelt and kowtowed toward the north, their parched lips murmuring in hoarse, rasping voices like iron filings scraping rawhide.

As he passed, Chen Yu listened, catching a few words with his keen hearing. Their dialect was not local; they hailed from the north.

Another ten li on, he entered a different county. His expression grew grim as he noticed many groups of vagrant children huddled by the roadside.

This road could barely be called an official thoroughfare, and he distinctly remembered seeing none of this on his way out.

As he continued, the situation worsened instead of improving, growing ever more dire until, upon entering Chenzhong, the refugees disappeared.

“What has happened in the north again?”

Pingcheng bordered Taoyang, and among the counties of Guangyong, it lay toward the north. Further east lay Taiding Prefecture, the easternmost region of Xizhou, separated from the lands of Jiangzuo only by a great river and two towering mountain ranges.

Beyond the rivers Jiangzuo and Jiangyou, the Hexi region was not far off—already near the Central Plains.

From what he observed, most refugees spoke a northern dialect from Taiding and beyond, quite distinct from the speech of Guangyong and all of Xizhou.

Fortunately, he could still understand them.

The Five-dipper Immortal… Chen Yu recalled that disaster had struck the Hejian and Hebei regions. Many monstrous cults had emerged to sow chaos, the White Lotus—perverted from its original teachings—being one among them.

From what he had heard in Pingcheng, the White Lotus was not alone in wreaking havoc in Hejian; numerous wild factions, such as the Five-dipper Sect, were also active. Though not part of the orthodox Daoist tradition, they cloaked themselves in the trappings of Daoism. Summoning wind and rain was beyond them, but invoking the names of myriad True Lords to deceive the common folk—they dared indeed, and with little fear.

The Five-dipper Sect, also called the Five-dipper Faction, was in fact not a Daoist sect at all, but a thoroughly martial organization. They did not teach the Daoist scriptures or philosophy. The similarly named Way of the Five Pecks of Rice, on the other hand, was a legitimate Daoist legacy, closely tied to the flourishing Way of Great Peace.

As for the Five-dipper Sect, calling them a heretical cult was no exaggeration. Their deeds were little better than those of the White Lotus, and in the north, they were universally reviled.

Yet perhaps, in times when heaven, earth, and men aligned, even such lowly sects could stir up storms, growing bolder and more brazen by the day.

Much of this, he knew, lay at the feet of the authorities.

He’d heard from Daoist Jiang that the north was all but abandoned. The court cared only for two things: first, securing the imperial succession, as rival factions vied for power in a capital mired in chaos; second, preparing for the Empress Dowager’s fiftieth birthday, with the Minister of Rites even proposing the construction of a grand celestial staircase at immense cost.

As for the displaced commoners of the north, from gatekeepers to high officials, few truly cared—a few pious words at best, to be wielded as rhetorical weapons against rivals.

Had it been otherwise, would the pretender Qi still hold vast swathes of territory, dozens of cities, from March to mid-May—two full months—without being fully routed?

That northern bastion, Zuofeng Fortress, had already fallen more than a month ago.

It had yet to be reclaimed.

The local generals and nobles were still squabbling over trivialities. Heaven knows when order would be restored.

Chen Yu shook his head and sighed. Though not as consumed by concern for the nation as Daoist Jiang, he could not help but feel pity at the sight.

He knew well that one must first secure one’s own success before aiding the world. Alone, with no connections and little ability, he was powerless to change anything, no matter his intentions.

“So be it.”

His thoughts turned to the spring millet he had planted at the temple.

If, one day, he could truly cultivate a strain capable of yielding a thousand catties per mu—high-yield grain, perhaps…

But all that lay far ahead, still uncertain.

The sun had climbed to mid-slope, its rays fading to dusk.

Crows cried with blood-chilling sorrow, their voices echoing from heights and distances, brushing the ear with eerie melancholy.

“Daoist! Hand over your silver!”

He had no idea where these people had come from. Looking them over, Chen Yu saw fifteen or sixteen men gathered together, their demeanor fierce and threatening. Their northern dialect revealed they were outsiders, certainly not locals of Guangyong.

The dialects of Xizhou were unique; indeed, the entire southwest boasted hundreds of dialects, with mutual incomprehension common between neighboring valleys.

Before him, these outsiders had formed a band.

He sized them up. Compared to the refugees he’d seen earlier, these men were in far better shape—their leader’s face was fleshy, his frame sturdy, not the look of someone long starved.

“To flee so far—have you been bewitched by the White Lotus as well?”

Muttering words the bandit refugees could not understand, Chen Yu took a single step forward.

Bang!

The leader saw a dark blur; two yellowed teeth flew from his mouth, blood streaming. He reeled and collapsed, unconscious.

Chen Yu paid him no further mind. In a matter of moments, he dispatched the group of refugees-turned-bandits.

And then saw to it they became prisoners instead.

After a few simple questions, his suspicions were confirmed: the drought in the north had not abated, and refugees multiplied. With various rebel factions fighting ceaselessly, many families fled south.

Hedong was the first choice, but with government troops stationed there, many cities, citing grain shortages, refused entry to the refugees. The lands south of the river, separated by vast marshes and deep currents, were even more chaotic than Hejian—utterly out of reach.

So they had come west.

Compared to the turmoil elsewhere, the southwestern provinces, though remote, seemed almost a paradise.