Women’s clothing

Whenever Wen Chaoxuan had to descend the mountain for errands during his younger years, Lin Langyao would invariably pose the same question to him.

“I’ll be back swiftly,” Wen Chaoxuan would always reply, invariably adding a final admonition, “Do not incite any trouble.”

Such warnings, however, rarely proved effective.

Lin Langyao waved a dismissive hand, acknowledging the warning, and once they had departed, he settled into a meditative state, eyes closed, within the room.

Meanwhile, the small medical cultivator felt utterly suffocated.

Still paralyzed by the fear of pursuit, he dared not venture outside, and Lin Langyao offered him no solace, ignoring his attempts at conversation.

Consequently, the young man could only pace awkwardly about the room, meticulously organizing the medicinal herbs stored within his Qiankun Bag (TL Note: A magical storage pouch in cultivation novels).

Annoyed by the constant fidgeting, Lin Langyao opened his eyes.

“If you truly have nothing better to do,” he drawled, “go downstairs and order some tea and snacks for me.

Make sure the tea is of the finest quality; Young Master Qi has already settled the bill, after all.”

“Yes, yes!” the small medical cultivator exclaimed, as if granted a great reprieve, and with a flurry of his short legs, he flung open the door and darted out.

No sooner had Lin Langyao closed his eyes once more to resume his cultivation than a distinct “thump-thump” echoed from the door.

‘That short-legged fellow is surprisingly quick,’ he mused inwardly, only to be struck by a sudden premonition.

The steady, heavy footsteps that followed the door’s opening unequivocally belonged to a tall, adult man.

Lin Langyao’s eyes snapped open at once, just in time to witness a gleaming long blade arcing down towards him.

His pupils constricted sharply.

With a swift roll, he tumbled from the bed onto the floor, then raised a hand, summoning the Azure Cloud Sword, which materialized as a streak of emerald light directly into his palm.

Lin Langyao swiftly parried the assailant’s strike.

Thwarted in their initial attack, the attacker was clearly taken aback by Lin Langyao’s rapid reflexes, likely realizing they had chosen a formidable opponent.

They leapt back to the farthest corner of the room, weapon poised, confronting Lin Langyao with a chilling demand: “Where is that medical cultivator?”

‘Are they here to hunt down Zhou Shaoyang?’

Lin Langyao narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the figure before him.

He discerned the assailant was a masked adult male, clad in a dark inner garment beneath a gray outer robe.

Intricate patterns of snow-covered pine branches, woven with silver-white silk threads, adorned the misty gray fabric.

Recognizing this distinctive attire, Lin Langyao immediately deduced their origins.

“You are from the Lu Clan,” he stated.

The Lu Clan habitually donned gray robes, a practical choice for stealthy movement across snow-laden plains and frosty forests.

Furthermore, reflecting the bold and unrestrained combat style characteristic of northern cultivators, they predominantly wielded long blades.

This assailant appeared to be a more senior disciple of the manor, a stark contrast to the middle-aged cultivator they had previously encountered, who seemed more akin to an outer-sect servant or thug.

Lin Langyao’s mind quickly assessed the situation, simultaneously marveling at the Lu Clan’s relentless persistence and wondering how they had managed to track them down so swiftly.

He briefly considered capturing the man for interrogation.

Before he could fully form a plan, however, the chamber window violently shattered, sending splinters of wood flying.

Through the swirling dust, several more gray-clad figures burst into the room, launching a coordinated assault!

A deafening crash reverberated through the air.

****

“What kind of hero relies on numbers against a single opponent?!” Lin Langyao roared, crashing through the door and into the hallway.

Several assassins, long blades glinting, pursued him relentlessly.

Seizing the stair railing, Lin Langyao vaulted over it, landing precisely on the floor below, only to collide head-on with a familiar figure.

“Eh!” the small medical cultivator gasped, nearly spilling the tea from his tray.

He was still reeling from the shock, yet a flicker of annoyance also crossed his mind—who could be so utterly oblivious as to walk into someone?

However, due to his unassuming appearance, he was accustomed to being easily intimidated, and even in anger, he merely dared to glare.

As he glanced up, the tray was abruptly yanked from his grasp and flung aside, shattering with a cacophony of crashes.

Moments later, he found himself hoisted by his collar, as Lin Langyao, dragging him along, leaped directly from the first-floor height.

“Are you going to move or not?!” Lin Langyao demanded.

“Are you waiting for the Lu Clan disciples to butcher you?”

Upon hearing this, the small medical cultivator instantly lost all composure, letting out a terrified shriek.

“How did they catch up again?!”

“I was about to ask you the same thing!”

The inn erupted into pandemonium.

Lin Langyao plummeted directly onto a diner’s table, narrowly avoiding a scalding soup pot, and quickly hopped away.

The small medical cultivator shrieked like a banshee: “Faster, faster, they’re right behind us—ahhh!”

“Silence!” Lin Langyao snapped.

He vaulted from the table and sprinted forward.

Behind him, the square table was cleaved into fragments by a pursuing Lu Clan disciple’s blade, sending soup and dishes scattering and terrifying diners scrambling across the floor.

Bursting from the inn, Lin Langyao let out a piercing cry, summoning his spirit-falcon.

A shrill shriek answered from behind the building, and a colossal, snow-white falcon soared into view.

Just as Lin Langyao and the small medical cultivator were about to be cleaved by the blade-light from behind, the majestic bird extended its talons, snatched them into the air, and vanished into the clouds like a fleeting gust of wind.

****

“Allow me to ask you something.”

Lin Langyao’s smile held an inscrutable, dangerously edged quality.

Across from him, the small medical cultivator, bound tightly with ropes, stared with wide, terrified eyes, suddenly convinced that his unremarkable yet remarkably ill-fated life was about to meet its untimely end.

Lin Langyao brandished his sword, its sharp tip tracing a menacing path across the small medical cultivator’s form.

“When you departed from the Lu Clan Manor,” he queried, his voice a low threat, “did you happen to take anything with you?”

The small medical cultivator shook his head so vigorously that tears threatened to fly, his voice thick with a wail.

“I’m innocent, fellow Daoist! What thing? I didn’t take anything, truly I didn’t—”

Lin Langyao considered this for a moment, presuming the young man would not dare to deceive him.

“Remove your clothes,” he instructed, “and let me see your back.”

With a swift flick of his sword, he severed the ropes binding the medical cultivator.

Though the small medical cultivator had no idea why his back was of interest, he swiftly peeled off his garments, shivering involuntarily in the cold wind.

Lin Langyao pressed down on the back of his head, urging him to lower it, and just as he suspected, a faint, shimmering talisman mark was visible on the nape of his neck.

Just as Lin Langyao had surmised, the relentless, almost supernatural pursuit by the Lu Clan had been far too peculiar.

It was highly probable that a tracking talisman had been placed on the small medical cultivator, unbeknownst to him, likely in a spot he couldn’t see—such as his back.

Lin Langyao released him, sheathing his sword.

Understanding the true reason behind their relentless pursuers only exacerbated his headache.

“This is truly problematic now,” he sighed.

“I don’t know how to dispel curses.

For something like this, I’ll have to consult my master.”

The small medical cultivator shivered as he pulled on his clothes.

“Then,” he stammered, “let’s quickly go find your esteemed master.”

“You speak as if it’s simple,” Lin Langyao retorted, turning his head to gaze out of the alley at the bustling market beyond.

Having escaped the inn, they were now concealed within the vibrant heart of Jiuyuan City.

He knew it wouldn’t be long before the Lu Clan disciples tracked them even here, and the thought alone ignited his fury.

“If I could simply infiltrate the Lu Clan Manor,” Lin Langyao scoffed, “would I still be stuck here with you?”

‘He has a point,’ the small medical cultivator conceded, his face falling into a mournful slump.

“What are we to do then? You can’t abandon me, fellow Daoist.

Perhaps we could change our attire, disguise ourselves, and slip inside?”

Lin Langyao’s interest was piqued.

“Do you possess the means to disguise yourself?” he inquired.

He had heard whispers that some medical cultivators indeed mastered esoteric techniques of facial alteration and physical transformation.

If such a skill were at hand, it might prove to be an excellent strategy.

After all, the adage held true: the most perilous place was often the safest.

Once they infiltrated the Lu Clan Manor, it would be the Lu Clan disciples who found themselves at a loss for tracking, for surely they couldn’t conduct a full-scale search within their own sect?

The small medical cultivator, however, nervously twirled his fingers, shaking his head with an embarrassed chuckle.

“No, no, I meant… well, perhaps we could simply acquire some distinctive attire, at least something that wouldn’t immediately make others think of *you*…”

“How distinctive?” Lin Langyao mused, a puzzled frown on his face.

“Dress as an old person? A child? A corpse?”

“It wouldn’t go as far as impersonating a corpse…”

The small medical cultivator’s hand trembled as he pointed.

Lin Langyao turned, his gaze falling upon a silk shop on the street behind them, its wide storefront open to reveal an array of precious fabrics.

Under the sunlight, the exquisite bolts of cloth shimmered with dazzling, vibrant hues.

His eyes narrowed, and he froze completely.

“…”

****

The disciples guarding the gates of the Lu Clan Manor had heard from their shift-changing brethren that esteemed guests had arrived at the manor today.

They were said to be from the Wuling Sword Sect.

Sword Master Qiu Yan of the Wuling Sword Sect had recently emerged from his seclusion.

Prior to Lin Langyao’s meteoric rise, Qiu Yan had been widely regarded as the most celebrated sword cultivator of his era.

Having been in isolated cultivation for decades, his current re-emergence left many wondering just how profound his mastery had become.

Yet, the true purpose of this Sword Master’s visit to Jiuyuan remained shrouded in mystery.

“It appears to be connected to Lin Langyao,” one of the disciples remarked.

For years, the death of the Lu Clan Manor’s former master, an act attributed to the havoc-wreaking Lin Langyao, had festered as a deep-seated grievance in their current master’s heart.

Recent whispers across the cultivation world spoke of Lin Langyao suffering grievous injuries and the complete destruction of his cultivation—news that had been met with widespread jubilation among those seeking vengeance.

Alas, Lin Langyao had vanished since that day.

Now, however, it was rumored that Qiu Yan’s current visit carried vital intelligence regarding Lin Langyao’s whereabouts.

Any matter concerning Lin Langyao was of considerable import.

As their Clan Master was currently in secluded cultivation, the Young Master, accompanied by the elders, was acting as host and was presently engaged in discussions within the manor.

Their conversation abruptly ceased at this point, as all of them, as if on cue, turned to peer into the distance.

Amidst the vast, desolate expanse of snow, a single point of blood-red suddenly emerged into view.

It was a woman, draped in a crimson cloak, slowly traversing the winding path.

From a distance, the manor disciples, their blades glinting, called out, “Who approaches?”

The woman offered no reply.

Only when she drew closer did the disciples notice the tightly swaddled child clutched in her arms.

Their voices softened as they reiterated their questions.

“Who are you? What brings you here?”

The woman lowered the hood of her cloak, her gaze sweeping over the disciples before she lowered her head.

In a soft, hushed voice, she stated, “…I am seeking Qiu Yan.”

The manor disciples exchanged a bewildered glance.

****

When a Lu Clan Manor disciple entered to announce that someone was requesting an audience with Sword Master Qiu, Qi Zifeng was the first to spring to his feet.

He had long grown restless in his seat.

Lu Zhuo, the Young Master of the Lu Clan Manor, was his contemporary and, like himself, a young master of a prominent family.

By all accounts, their paths should have intersected frequently, yet Qi Zifeng found him utterly insufferable, his very presence, with that sanctimonious smirk, grating on his nerves.

He quickly murmured a word to Qiu Yan before abruptly excusing himself, bolting from the room and instructing the manor disciple to lead him to the person seeking Qiu Yan.

The disciple guided him towards the lake pavilion situated at the heart of the manor.

As Qi Zifeng pondered who might possibly seek out Qiu Yan here, his gaze fell upon a red-clad figure by the lake, their back turned to him, even from a considerable distance.

It was a tall, slender woman.

As she turned her head, a stretch of pale, elegant neck was revealed.

Her features, though not strikingly beautiful, were heavily made up, lending her complexion an almost bloodless pallor, yet her lips were a vibrant, tempting red.

She fixed her bright, dark eyes on Qi Zifeng, staring without a blink.

Under her unwavering gaze, an unfamiliar sensation, a peculiar shyness, inexplicably blossomed within Qi Zifeng’s chest.

Spoiled by his family, he possessed a somewhat arrogant disposition, but he nonetheless knew to adopt the refined manners of a noble young master when addressing a lady.

He cleared his throat lightly, then approached the woman.

“Young lady,” he began, “are you seeking Qiu Yan?”

The red-clad “young lady” beckoned to him.

Qi Zifeng hesitated for a fleeting moment before stepping closer.

The red-clad “young lady” lowered her voice, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Are you looking for a beating?” she whispered.

Qi Zifeng: “……………………………………………”

Qi Zifeng instantly recognized the voice.

His eyes widened in disbelief, and every hair on his body stood on end.

“!!!!!”

****

Within the hall, Qiu Yan was engaged in a drawn-out, almost conversational tai chi with the Lu Clan Manor representatives.

Wen Chaoxuan, meanwhile, sat silently beside him, eyes closed.

As no one in the Lu Clan Manor, save for Clan Master Lu Wenhan, had ever met him, Wen Chaoxuan had adopted the guise of an ordinary accompanying sword cultivator from the Wuling Sword Sect.

Yet, a true master’s presence was undeniable; no matter how diligently he attempted to appear unassuming, his innate aura and striking appearance inevitably drew attention.

Young Master Lu Zhuo had already, on more than one occasion, feigned casualness in steering the conversation towards Wen Chaoxuan.

In his own sect, Qiu Yan typically maintained a reclusive and enigmatic presence, functioning as a profound and formidable guardian.

It was hardly his usual role to navigate such intricate social dealings, and he had only undertaken this task out of sheer necessity, gritting his teeth through the ordeal.

He was swiftly reaching the limits of his patience with Lu Zhuo.

‘Where on earth did Qi Zifeng disappear to?’ he mused inwardly, just as Qi Zifeng’s figure materialized at the doorway.

Beside Young Master Qi stood a slender, red-clad female figure.

This woman was leading a child, who wore a tiger-head hat and was so thoroughly bundled in cotton clothes and a scarf that only a pair of wide, round eyes peeked out.

The child, craning their neck and peering around, looked up and, upon seeing him, immediately broke free from the “woman’s” grasp.

With a flurry of short legs, they scurried forward, launching themselves at him with a joyful shout: “Father!”

Qiu Yan was utterly dumbfounded.

Even more astonishing was the red-clad “woman” who then addressed him with an icy tone.

“I’ve had such a trying time finding you, husband,” she declared, her voice devoid of familial warmth, sounding more like a declaration of vengeance than a reunion.

Even Wen Chaoxuan could not resist opening his eyes for a quick glance.

As both sword cultivators finally discerned the “woman’s” true appearance, they simultaneously fell into a protracted, stunned silence.

“…………………………………………………………..”

Wen Chaoxuan tightened his grip on his sword, drawing a deep, steadying breath.