Chapter 2#

The Moon Reaches Its Zenith#

Deep in the night, Snow-Intent Peak lay utterly still. After Xiao Man left, even the birds hidden among the trees fell silent.

Moonlight fell through the high windows. A wind that seemed to come from nowhere drifted into the Hall of the Dao and stirred the flowering branches beyond the corridor. A cool, delicate fragrance seeped through the tightly shut doors and touched the cheek of the one within, deep in seclusion.

Unlike most cultivators, Yan Wushu never sat rigidly upright during seclusion. He had been reclined in his chair, folding fan in hand, for three months and two days. When the seventh quarter of the hour of Hai passed, it would become three months and three days.

The wind in the courtyard grew stronger. Yan Wushu’s lashes stirred, his breath shifting from soundless stillness into something long and even, and after a moment he released a slow, steady breath.

The wind stopped.

A thread of flowing light swept across the silver sword-scar between his brows. As his eyelids lifted, it transformed into a surging wave of qi that spread outward like ripples on water, expanding across the whole of Snow-Intent Peak.

The doors burst open.

The folding fan in Yan Wushu’s hand spun a beautiful arc. He rose and swept into the courtyard, drew back — and struck forward.

Sword-qi shot skyward. A vast, blazing light sliced from east to west across the heavens, brilliant and unyielding, so radiant it dimmed the full moon hanging in the night sky.

“Congratulations, Peak Master — your realm has risen yet again.” Rong Yuan, who had been waiting nearby, stepped forward with a cup of tea, his eyes bright with delight.

Yan Wushu was accustomed to drinking a cup of clear tea after emerging from seclusion. He raised the cup and took a sip — then frowned.

The tea leaves were the kind he was used to, but the spring water used to brew them had been left too long, and far too many leaves had been added. Rather than a clean, refreshing taste, the result was nothing but astringency. Clearly, it had not been prepared by Xiao Man’s hand. He looked around — and found no trace of Xiao Man at all.

On every previous occasion, Xiao Man had counted down the hours and come to welcome him the moment he emerged from seclusion. That he was nowhere to be seen this time made Yan Wushu raise an eyebrow slightly. He set the teacup back in Rong Yuan’s hands and asked: “Where is His Highness?”

Rong Yuan lowered his eyes. “He went out,” he said quietly.

Yan Wushu glanced at the moon, which was nearly at its zenith. “At this hour? Did he say why?”

“He did not.” Rong Yuan shook his head.

“Alright. You may go.”

Xiao Man had been at Gushan with him for three years; Yan Wushu had never confined him, and he did not take it to heart now. He swept his sleeve and turned back into the Hall.

He did not enjoy his peace for long. Within moments, someone came riding a flying sword — one hand swinging a large jug of wine — passing through the restriction on Snow-Intent Peak as though walking into his own home and sauntering into the courtyard.

Yan Wushu stood on the covered walkway, back against a pillar, watching the newcomer. “What are you here for?”

“The Lord of Radiant Light has broken through seclusion and his realm has ascended to the Taixuan Upper Realm — naturally I’ve come to congratulate you.” Yuán Qū raised the jug in his hand, his smile warm and genuine. Then something struck him as off; he glanced around, and asked Yan Wushu: “Speaking of which — where’s your little Phoenix?”

“He has his own affairs to attend to,” Yan Wushu said.

Yuan Qu looked genuinely astonished. “That’s a first in recorded history. I always assumed that apart from studying the Buddhist sutras, he had no other affairs whatsoever.”

Yan Wushu stepped out of the corridor, and the two of them settled at the stone table beneath the trees and began to drink.

The wine was famously potent — its name was Drunk for a Thousand Years. Cultivators of lower realms who drank it would be intoxicated on contact; only those at the Guiyuan Realm or above could drink and converse simultaneously.

Yuan Qu pulled the stopper from the jug, and a rich, heady fragrance immediately overwhelmed the clean sweetness in the wind. After several cups back and forth, he said: “Three years ago, Gushan changed masters. As the previous sect leader’s passing was not from natural causes, the entire sect observed mourning for three years and held no celebrations. Now that the period is over, the formal binding ceremony between you and the little Phoenix should be moving up the agenda, shouldn’t it?”

“Before I entered seclusion, it was decided — the third month of next year.” Yan Wushu lifted his cup.

“You really intend to go through with it just like that?” Yuan Qu asked.

Yan Wushu clicked his tongue. “Heaven’s Dao arranged this match. How could I refuse?”

The man across from him extended one finger and wagged it. “Not so, not so. Cultivators walk a path that defies heaven by its very nature. If you were unwilling, you could defy its decree — at the cost of a few extra heavenly tribulations when you ascend. That’s all.”

“You think heavenly tribulations during ascension are easy to weather?” Yan Wushu said, with a smile that was not quite a smile.

“And that is the difference between you and me — I have never believed I would ascend in the first place.” Yuan Qu took a sip of wine, his tone easy and untroubled.

Then, abruptly, he changed direction: “But before long, Lín Wù will be returning from the Western Wastes. Chances are he’ll arrive right around the time of your binding ceremony. That history between you and him — we all know at least a little of it. When the time comes, you’ll be dressed in wedding robes, taking a partner at the altar, and he’ll be somewhere nearby, watching. Don’t you feel…”

Yuan Qu had been smiling as he spoke, but mid-sentence he caught the coldness settling over Yan Wushu’s face. He stopped himself immediately, drained his cup in one swallow, and pretended he had said nothing.

“He will not return,” Yan Wushu said quietly. Then he swept his sleeve and stood. “The wine is finished. You may leave.”

“Impossible! I brought a whole large jug!” Yuan Qu didn’t believe it — but when he grabbed the jug and looked, it was exactly as Yan Wushu said: not a single drop remained. There was no need to wonder who had arranged that. Yuan Qu rolled his eyes. “I only mentioned it in passing. Was that really necessary?”

Yan Wushu was already walking away.

It had been a very long time since anyone had spoken Lin Wu’s name in front of Yan Wushu.

He was Yan Wushu’s martial brother — gentle in appearance, easy in temperament, beloved by peers and elders alike without exception.

For Yan Wushu, that name was the blazing, reckless glory of his youth. They had met at the most willful and unbridled age, when everything was luminous and beautiful. Lin Wu had been like a butterfly in flight — and in the end, like a butterfly, he had beaten his wings and left Yan Wushu without a backward glance, flying away toward somewhere far beyond.

The moon climbed to the zenith. Snow-Intent Peak settled back into quiet, while White Blossom Peak — one of the Twelve — blazed with lantern-light.

The free-for-all had come to its end. The Peak Master of White Blossom Peak dispelled the formation array, and the elders and instructors who had been watching from above began moving through the grounds, carrying the unconscious lower-ranked disciples — scattered here and there across the peak — back to their dormitories.

“Are they not being sent to the Minghua Hall for treatment?” Xiao Man stood beside Tan Wenzou and asked, puzzled.

“The formation that blanketed White Blossom Peak just now was a half-real illusory realm. Everything you heard, saw, felt, and experienced was genuine — but the effects of your strikes were suppressed by the illusion, reduced by a considerable margin. So no one is truly injured.”

The speaker was the Peak Master of White Blossom Peak himself. He stroked his beard, walked over to stand beside Xiao Man, and explained in his unhurried manner. “One night’s sleep, and they’ll be fine by morning.”

Xiao Man had only just noticed that although these disciples were grey with dust and thoroughly disheveled, none of them bore any wounds. He turned his gaze to the White Blossom Peak Master, intending to ask about his own request — and saw the Peak Master smile:

“As per our agreement, Highness has passed the trial and is now a disciple of White Blossom Peak. Morning practice on this peak begins at the fourth quarter of the Mao hour, in the Zhaoyu Pavilion. Highness must not be late.” The smile was that of an old fox. He finished his words and actually folded his hands toward Xiao Man in a bow.

Xiao Man realized the Peak Master’s manner toward him was unusually warm — strangely so.

A thought occurred to him: perhaps even without going through Tan Wenzou, White Blossom Peak would not have refused him. Gushan’s rules were strict, yes — but his spiritual root and natural gifts were there for anyone to see, and he was of the Phoenix Clan. There was probably not a single sect in the world that would turn him away.

He had been played. No — he had been swindled, and he had walked right into it himself. Xiao Man nodded to the White Blossom Peak Master with a composed expression, and quietly sighed inside.

“The hour approaches midnight, and morning practice comes early. I can see Highness carries an internal injury — please go rest.” The White Blossom Peak Master added.

“I am now a disciple of White Blossom Peak. Should the Peak Master not arrange lodging for me?” Xiao Man asked. He had absolutely no desire to return to Snow-Intent Peak.

The White Blossom Peak Master looked regretful. “Unfortunately, the disciple dormitories on this peak are full. However, every peak has a relay station — and I would think traveling between Snow-Intent Peak and White Blossom Peak is quite convenient.”

There was nothing more Xiao Man could say to that. He bowed his thanks to the White Blossom Peak Master.

Tan Wenzou summoned his flying sword and invited Xiao Man to ride with him again. “Shall I escort Highness back?”

Xiao Man did not refuse. “I’d be grateful.”

Above in the heavens, the arc of sword-light Yan Wushu had cut still hung high and undiminished — the stars and moon were pale beside it, and the light itself blazed like a brand-new silver river. Snow-Intent Peak lay to the east; Xiao Man’s encounter with that light was unavoidable. Drawing nearer, he could feel the sword-intent still pulsing within it, not yet dissipated.

That sword-intent was fierce and unbridled, its realm deep and profound. With Xiao Man’s current cultivation, he could not have withstood it at all — fortunately, Tan Wenzou flew the sword swiftly, and they left it behind in moments.

Xiao Man shifted his gaze from the sky. He heard the man steering the sword ahead of him ask: “Has Highness had some falling out with the Lord of Radiant Light?”

“Why would Peak Master Tan say such a thing?” Xiao Man’s brow moved slightly.

“Intuition,” said Tan Wenzou.

Xiao Man lowered his gaze and gave a quiet, small smile. “Peak Master Tan’s intuition is mistaken.”

Snow-Intent Peak had come into view as they spoke. The sword came to rest at the head of the rope bridge; one step forward, and there was the boundary stele — and the invisible restriction beyond it. Xiao Man dropped to the ground and was about to bid Tan Wenzou farewell when Tan Wenzou stepped down from the sword as well and extended something toward him: “This is Bright Moon Dew. It will help with Highness’s injury.”

“Does Peak Master Tan need something from me?” Xiao Man met Tan Wenzou’s gaze.

Tan Wenzou turned his feathered fan gently, his sleeve rising and falling, and smiled with easy frankness: “Trading one Ice Soul for the standing of a White Blossom Peak disciple — the advantage was Tan’s.”

Bright Moon Dew was not something one could easily come by, and it was precisely what Xiao Man needed. It was not that Snow-Intent Peak lacked such things — but everything there belonged to Yan Wushu. This vial, on the other hand, was something he had earned himself. Xiao Man reached out and took it. “Thank you, Peak Master Tan.”

“I don’t imagine I could make it up to Snow-Intent Peak, so this will have to do.” Tan Wenzou said.

Xiao Man nodded. “Until we meet again, Peak Master Tan.”

They parted, and Xiao Man crossed the rope bridge and stepped into the bounds of Snow-Intent Peak.

Yan Wushu had already emerged from seclusion and would be in the main Hall of the Dao — going there was out of the question. His own secluded dwelling, Qiyinchu, should be quiet and empty, but it lay far from where he now stood.

He raised his head and looked up toward it, then let out a slow breath.

If he could, he would have simply flown there. On White Blossom Peak, he had loosed three arrows — each one clean and precise — and that final strike with the bow counted for no less. But the more precisely he had moved, the more spirit-force and focus he had spent. Right now, there was not a scrap of energy left to ride the wind.

Xiao Man’s steps grew slower and slower. His complexion was as white as paper — white enough to unsettle the birds in the trees, who set up a fretful chattering. A mountain tit fluttered down to his shoulder; he tilted his head, raised one finger, and pressed it to his lips in a hush — gesturing both at the bird and at the dense forest around him.

The tit gave his cheek a gentle nuzzle before flying away. Xiao Man tightened his grip on the Bright Moon Dew and looked around for a nearby spot where he could sit and use the medicine to settle his qi and restore his spirit.

The light that fell across the mountainside was bright and white. The night air carried the fragrance of late-summer flowers, and somewhere in the distance a stream ran quietly. Xiao Man looked up and around, chose a direction, and was about to move — when a figure swept through the darkness and stopped directly before him.

The newcomer wore dark robes, with silver hair and a single sword-scar between the brows. Narrow, slightly lidded phoenix eyes. A face of unparalleled beauty.

It was Yan Wushu.

Xiao Man looked at him. For a moment something flickered — a trance — and then he steadied himself and took one step back.

Yan Wushu moved forward and closed his fingers around Xiao Man’s wrist. His brow furrowed. “You are badly injured.”

Xiao Man lowered his eyes and said nothing. Yan Wushu asked: “Who did this?”

“A backlash during training. I was careless.” He turned his face aside and fixed his gaze on a small, crumbling pebble at the edge of the path, and said quietly.

The answer clearly did not satisfy Yan Wushu, but he did not press the matter here and now. He drew Xiao Man against him and dissolved into a stream of light, moving toward the Hall of the Dao partway up the mountain.

A moment later, Yan Wushu set Xiao Man down on a couch, pressed his palm to Xiao Man’s chest, and began channeling spirit-force into him.

Xiao Man moved away.

“What are you doing?” Yan Wushu stared at him.

“Don’t trouble yourself.” Xiao Man’s expression was utterly neutral. “I’ll return to Qiyinchu.”

He moved to leave. Yan Wushu did not argue with him in words — he simply formed a hand seal, and locked Xiao Man in place. Then he resumed channeling spirit-force.

Finding himself unable to move, Xiao Man tried to push Yan Wushu’s spirit-force back — but he could not summon the strength, and had no choice but to let it happen. Even so, his color improved visibly before long: the piercing pain from deep within his spirit-sea diminished, and gradually fell quiet.

Yan Wushu arranged Xiao Man into a cross-legged seated position. In the process, he noticed a small porcelain vial in Xiao Man’s hand — some kind of medicinal preparation. He picked it up and examined it, recognizing it as Bright Moon Dew. He fed it to Xiao Man, then asked: “You went out tonight, but you can’t have gone far — so you were injured somewhere on Gushan?”

“I only went to the Mirror-Bright Platform,” Xiao Man said.

“What for?” Yan Wushu was genuinely surprised.

“To learn how people on Gushan fight,” Xiao Man said.

Yan Wushu laughed. “Fighting is what I know best. Once you’re healed, I’ll teach you.” Xiao Man’s realm was not high; he could not absorb too much spirit-force at once. Seeing that he had improved somewhat, Yan Wushu withdrew and released the hand seal he had placed on him — and then Xiao Man spoke:

“There is no need to trouble the Lord of Radiant Light.”

It was rare for Xiao Man to be cool toward Yan Wushu. Colder than cool was rarer still. Yet right now, the emotion in Xiao Man’s eyes was almost absent, and his voice was clear and sharp — as though wrapped in frost.

The smile left Yan Wushu’s face. He studied Xiao Man for a long, steady moment, then asked, with mild uncertainty: “Are you… angry?”

“The Lord of Radiant Light is joking.” Xiao Man rose and straightened his robes, and repeated what he had said before: “I’ll return to Qiyinchu.”

He walked toward the door — pace slow, but carrying a stubborn, unshakeable resolve. Yan Wushu’s folding fan turned in his hand. “I’ll take you.”

He gave Xiao Man no chance to refuse. A hand reached out, and in an instant they were at Qiyinchu, which stood not far from the Hall of the Dao. Yan Wushu settled Xiao Man in, turned, and called for Rong Yuan, instructing the sword-attendant to take careful care of Xiao Man. Then he said:

“Your injury is in the spirit-soul — it is not a trivial matter. Rest quietly for a while first. Cultivation matters can wait until you have recovered.”

Xiao Man lowered his eyes and did not respond.

The room was unlit; only half of the window had been pushed open, and little light came through. His white robes were swallowed by the dim, his back straight and his waist — bound by a sash — slender enough to look as though it might snap at a touch. Yet his expression was resolute. After a long, slow breath, he raised his head and called to Yan Wushu, who was about to leave: “There is something.”

“Say it.” Yan Wushu turned back.

Xiao Man lowered his gaze again and looked away from the man before him. “Let’s not hold the binding ceremony,” he said.