Xue Cuo soaked in the lotus pond for over an hour before being hauled out. When he emerged, he looked like a steaming glutinous bun, replete with spiritual energy, steeped in lotus fragrance—like a walking elixir.
Mosquito coils swirled lazily in Xue Cuo’s eyes.
The Goddess of the Great Loch, ethereal in bearing, regarded him with a faint sigh… as though… he had been over-steeped…
Through the mist, the deity lowered her gaze to him. His round little belly gave a gurgle, and when he opened his mouth, a golden lotus slowly bloomed between his lips.
Goddess: [……]
She tapped his spiritual crown; the golden pool rippled faintly, the lotus snapped shut at once, and the strange Daoist vision scattered like clouds in the wind.
Another breeze swept past. [Go.]
Xue Cuo’s body drifted away with the wind, plummeting into emptiness. He had no idea how long he fell before waking with a start, the scent of lotus still lingering at the tip of his nose.
He lifted his little quilt, rubbed at his sore backside, and sniffled. “Her Ladyship really is a petty deity.”
A muffled thunderclap rolled across the heavens.
Xue Cuo flopped back down, tugging the little white cloud quilt over himself. Palms pressed together, expression devout, he chanted: “Majestic and virtuous, peerless in kindness and severity, the Goddess of the Great Loch—whose virtue is fragrant, whose countenance is veiled, whose being is naturally wondrous, the Goddess of the Great Loch—“
“Sweet dreams, Goddess~”
He pulled the quilt up to his eyes, leaving only a pair of large, liquid pupils peeking out.
A short while later, the thunder subsided, and a fine drizzle began to fall.
Xue Cuo silently recited the words nine times, yawned, and blinked back a tear: Ah, already soaked through anyway; what else could be done?
He gave a few sniffling sighs, hugged his knees, and eventually drifted off again.
Outside the cave, mountains and rivers lay equally silent, wind and rain drifting through the world. Inside, dim light fell on white fish-pearl that glimmered softly. Inside, the shadow of a figure was faintly visible, unnoticed by any.
The little boy lay curled beneath his white cloud quilt, sleeping soundly, unaware of the flower-viewers by the empty Luoyue Spring far away, and how they would pass their night.
Drip… drip…
Raindrops fell on the fiery-red Dragon Might Sword and rolled to the ground.
Xue Zhenzhen stood outside the cave, hands clasped behind her back, a fine line of blood showing at her left shoulder. Her gaze was cold as she watched the rain-swept world for a long, silent while.
In her hand was a length of stick—neither thick nor thin, long nor short—just right for beating people with. At its tip a green bud trembled with droplets, dampening her plain white robes.
Lowering her eyes, she turned and stepped slowly into the cave. It was empty but for a stone bed.
Xue Cuo slept curled at one corner, clothes neatly folded at the head, beside them a pair of half-worn shoes.
A small white cloud peeked out, trembling, and tucked itself more snugly around its master.
A black shadow seated itself by the bed, sifting through Xue Cuo’s clothing: all standard-issue disciple robes, protected by simple formations. However, since they had been scratched here and there by some bird or beast, their enchantments were gone.
Xue Zhenzhen removed her hairpin; it shrank to a sewing needle. She picked up the clothes to mend them.
Riiip—
Xue Zhenzhen: …
She frowned, easing her touch.
Riiip—
The shadow sat in silence for a while longer, then departed. The little white cloud gave a relieved sigh, turning back into a soft quilt to cover Xue Cuo.
He slept the whole night through, and in the morning woke refreshed. Stretching luxuriously, he hopped out of bed, slipped into his shoes, and turned. “Eh? Where are my clothes?!”
Baffled, he snatched up the little white cloud quilt and draped it over himself. “How odd. Where’ve they gone?”
The little white cloud quivered, saying nothing.
Xue Cuo, unable to fathom it, changed into a fresh set.
First, he gathered a thread of dawn’s glow for the little cloud, which drank it in eagerly until it puffed up enough to bear a rider.
He leapt aboard and, following the disciple rules he had been given upon entry, set off for Fei’e Palace to attend the Daoist lecture.
The white cloud floated gently upward with Xue Cuo.
It was just as the morning glow spread, the silver moon sinking as a fiery sun rose from the Great Loch.
The bronze bells of the Wendao Palace tolled, their deep, ancient sound renewing the world. Cultivators gathering the Dao’s essence sat atop peaks, meditating on heaven’s truths. The Sky Kun awoke from its nest in the clouds, leading a hundred creatures in circuit about Oxhorn Mountain, not to return until midday.
The newly admitted disciples hurried to Fei’e Dao Palace.
At its gates, many were already gathered, most with pale and wan expressions. Even if the [Dao Theory] was but sixteen characters, three thousand recitations would drain anyone.
Each group kept to its own circle, yet the preaching of the previous day remained the chief topic. They gathered together and chatted: “I listened to Xue-shixiong speak yesterday, and gained much insight. I feel close to a breakthrough.”
Another rapped his forehead: “The Daoist texts are nowhere near as clear as shixhiong’s words. I couldn’t help pondering last night… just what Dao is it we cultivate?”
“Did any of you see that Nine-Bend Yellow River yesterday? It felt strangely familiar, yet I’ve never heard of such a river in the Eastern Lands.”
“Oi… fellow disciples, I have something to say……”
Kong Yun stood in the crowd, arms folded in thought. He was about to speak when a light, crisp laugh rang out.
“So absurd, it’s laughable.”
Petals drifted down before Fei’e Palace. All eyes turned upward to see a young maiden step lightly upon the falling blooms.
She moved with unhurried grace, immortal aura curling about her.
Her face was fresh and radiant, delicate as a princess of flowers, pure as a mortal lily, her white gown shimmering softly.
From a distance, Lang Cui and Zhuo Qingyuan watched.
Zhuo Qingyuan snapped open his folding fan with a languid smile. “Yesterday’s events have had their effect. Why not let Bai Luoluo-shijie take these disciples down a peg, lest they grow unruly?”
Lang Cui coughed twice into a handkerchief. “If Bai Luoluo steps in… it may not end well.”
Zhuo Qingyuan shook his head. “They’re only junior disciples. You worry too much.”
The petals touched the ground, and so did the maiden’s spotless white boots.
The crowd involuntarily stepped back.
Bai Luoluo clasped her hands behind her back, gaze sweeping the gathered cultivators. With a face like peach blossom and eyes bright as stars, she suddenly pointed at a female disciple whose face bore a flaw, and smiled sweetly. “Why are you so ugly? What sort of Dao are you cultivating? I’ll have my father chase you out.”
The woman froze, then flushed scarlet. “You!”
Bai Luoluo ignored her, bounding up the steps with light, cheerful strides. From her higher perch she looked down, her voice like a golden oriole leaving the valley, clear, ringing, and pleasant: “And what “Dao” were you just speaking of? Looks to me like the evil, unorthodox Dao.”
“I’ve no idea where you lot heard such nonsense. Wendao Palace has stood for tens of thousands of years, our collection of Daoist lineages immeasurably vast. Instead of taking up the true scriptures, you chase after some fake rubbish from who knows where. Utterly laughable.”
Among the disciples, a few who had come away with nothing from yesterday’s enlightenment session leapt out at once, eager to defend orthodoxy.
“Too right! I’d long thought something was off. Daoist scriptures are treasures only the great sects can possess. Any random brat can preach? It must be fake!”
“This shijie is a phoenix among women, blessed with celestial gifts. What she says must be true! Such beauty and kindness… I am in her debt. Fairy, you have opened my eyes!”
Xiaofeng, seeing the cut of the girl’s robes, knew at once she must hail from a top immortal sect. Regretting he’d missed his chance to ingratiate himself, he sprang forward and shoved the female disciple: “That face of yours is a blight on the eyes. Withdraw from the sect at once!”
The woman suffered the insult in broad daylight, tears pricking her eyes, cheeks trembling. But she was, after all, a sect-appointed immortal seedling. She bit back her anger and turned her face aside.
A fellow cultivator bristled. “Who are you to spout such filth and insult my shijie?”
Bai Luoluo laughed lightly. “What’s your name? Which sect are you from?”
The cultivator stepped in front of his shijie. “Qixia Sect, Chen Zongping.”
Bai Luoluo’s expression sharpened. “Qixia Sect? A mere third-tier immortal sect. What would you know of the Dao? You’re hardly fit to address me. I do not bandy words with third tier rabble.”
Xiaofeng moved to stand before Bai Luoluo, waving his sleeve to drive the man away. “Quite right, quite right. Who are you, to speak to shijie?”
Chen Zongping’s temper flared. “Xiaofeng, isn’t your own Qingping Sect also third-tier?”
But Xiaofeng only chuckled. Bowing respectfully to Bai Luoluo, he said, “Indeed, we’re third-tier. Shijie speaks the truth. We in our sect are ignorant mud that can’t be moulded. But unlike you, I know how to show respect to an immortal sect. I, Xiaofeng, observe propriety and courtesy.”
From among the crowd, a disciple hefting a great overlord blade could not hold back. “Fairy, since you claim we’ve been listening to false Dao, where are we to find the true scriptures? Could you not tell us of them?”
“I for one don’t believe my scriptures false. On the contrary, they seem most reasonable!”
“You say it’s false? Then what’s the truth?”
Bai Luoluo gave a couple of lilting chuckles, contempt in her eyes. “All of you do nothing, and yet expect to hear the true scriptures?”
A clear child’s voice suddenly cut in. “Oh? And what must we do to hear the true scriptures?”
She glanced over, and the crowd parted to reveal a boy of seven or eight, arms folded. His features were exquisitely fine; emerald plumes adorned his temples, and a golden-feathered sword of rare beauty hung across his back.
Bai Luoluo looked him up and down. “If you wish to seek the Dao, you must pass through Wendao Palace. In my Sutra Pavilion lie a hundred thousand volumes, each more precious than gold.
“Scriptures are graded: upper and lower tiers, earlier and later generations, celestial and earthly ranks, true and false.
“Those with immortal fate, like myself, are born to read the Heaven-grade True Scriptures, drink Dao-infused spirit spring, and use ten-thousand-year angelica. My standing as sect’s eldest shijie places me at the very top. Achieving immortality is merely a matter of time.
“Those with modest blessing, like you, if you work hard, serve your sect, and bide your time, may be permitted to borrow the Earth-grade True Scriptures, break through to the Original Void Stage, and enjoy a thousand years—respectable enough, for the middle tier.
“The lowest sort, those misshapen, sickly, ugly from birth…… even if they take up cultivation, have no immortal fate. They merely eke out their allotted years. Better to quit early, go back to farming and mulberry-picking, and live out their mayfly’s span in peace.”
Smiling sweetly, she cast her gaze over the plain-faced female cultivator and wrinkled her brow. “Well? Do you understand me now?”
