Mountains and Rivers Doubled, Seemingly No Path Forward, Part 1

The temporary palace brought by Fuyu Palace comprised thirteen towers.
At the peak of Mist Mountain stood the foremost of these, Lingxiao Pavilion.
This was also the residence arranged by the Immortal Alliance for Mu Hanyuan.

Unlike its usual serene elegance, today the inner courtyard of Lingxiao Pavilion buzzed with clamor, the noise echoing ceaselessly beneath the corridors.

“Junior Brother Wu, we’re only here under the personal orders of Palace Master Wen of Fuyu Palace to visit Lord Hanyuan. Why are you stopping us?”
“This is the fifth disciple of the Medical Saint of Jiuxia Valley—step aside!”
“Junior Brother Wu, you dare defy Elder Lu’s command?”
“Lord Hanyuan’s safety concerns Qianmen and the entire Immortal Alliance—Junior Brother Wu! If your obstruction delays his recovery, can you bear the consequences?”
“Wu Fengming!”

In Lingxiao Pavilion’s inner courtyard, the vast space resembled a bustling mortal marketplace. Disciples from various immortal sects crowded together, blocked at the pavilion’s entrance.

Naturally, Qianmen disciples rushed upon hearing of Lord Hanyuan’s injury.
Other sects were no less present. Of the four major immortal sects in the immortal realm, aside from Fantian Temple, all were represented here. Add to that a portion of mid-tier sects who came to Hidden Dragon Mountain for the spectacle, and today they gathered as well—each sect’s robes varied in style and color, mingling like a swarm of dazzling butterflies.

The noise was even more chaotic.

At the center of the entrance, Wu Fengming, barring the way, finally reached his limit.
His sword, retrieved from Hidden Dragon Mountain, slid from its sheath, pointing at the white jade steps adorned with floral patterns.
With a sweep of its hilt, a radiant arc carved a trench an inch wide into the stone.

“Cross this line, and don’t blame my sword for being blind!”

“…”

His shout silenced the courtyard crowd.
Disciples’ expressions shifted, even Qianmen members looking at Wu Fengming in surprise, as if wondering what potion he’d taken.

As the standoff persisted, a graceful figure in a flowing, ribboned gown emerged from a side chamber of Lingxiao Pavilion, crossing the corridor and arriving elegantly at the entrance.

“Senior Sister Jianxue!”
Ding Xiao, standing behind Wu Fengming, called out, drawing everyone’s attention.

Chen Jianxue, the only daughter of Qianmen’s sect leader and the champion of the last Immortal Sect Competition, possessed a natural spiritual body and radiant beauty. Many disciples harbored admiration for her.
Now, seeing her appear, they saluted with clasped swords.
“Friend Chen.”
“Senior Sister Chen…”

Chen Jianxue returned their courtesies, then turned to Wu Fengming, asking softly, “Junior Brother Wu, what’s happening here?”

Wu Fengming frowned, glancing at the sect disciples blocked below the entrance.
“Senior Sister, since returning from Hidden Dragon Mountain last night, Uncle Yun has been inside treating Lord Hanyuan’s injuries. She sealed the pavilion and declared that no one may enter without her permission.”

No sooner had he spoken than murmurs of dissent arose from below.
Someone, fishing in troubled waters, sneered, “Who is this Uncle Yun? In Fuyu Palace’s temporary residence, in Lord Hanyuan’s own pavilion, we need *her* permission to enter? Such arrogance—she clearly doesn’t respect the four major immortal sects.”

“Friend, haven’t you heard the immortal realm’s recent tales? This Uncle Yun is Qianmen’s rising star—Sect Leader Chen took her as a disciple on behalf of Uncle-Grandmaster Yun Yao, even giving her the surname Yun, calling her Yun Yaojiu, Lord Hanyuan’s fellow disciple.”

“Hah, Yun Yao closed herself in cultivation for three hundred years, and now she has such a formidable disciple?”

“So young and acting so boldly—she risks tarnishing the reputation of the immortal realm’s foremost figure…”

Chen Jianxue’s brow furrowed slightly. Turning, she noticed the odd expressions on Wu Fengming and the others—especially Ding Xiao, the most mischievous, who looked like she was suppressing a laugh.

Suspicious but unable to ask now, Chen Jianxue suppressed her emotions and addressed the two dissenters.
“Friends, the matter of Sect Leader Chen taking a disciple on behalf of Uncle-Grandmaster is Qianmen’s internal affair. For propriety’s sake, please speak cautiously.”
She paused. “As for Lord Hanyuan’s condition, since Uncle Yun… Uncle Yun has spoken, we juniors naturally defer to our elders. Please return.”

“…”

Within or beyond the sect, Chen Jianxue, as the sect leader’s daughter and last competition’s champion, carried weight Wu Fengming’s words lacked.
Her statement, though met with reluctance, forced the crowd to respect Qianmen’s face.

As some began to disperse, barely taking a step, a stern voice rang over the courtyard.

“Oh, defer to elders? Then does my word, as a Qianmen elder, mean nothing to you?”

“…”

On the white jade steps, Wu Fengming’s resolute expression shifted.
“…Master.”

Chen Jianxue frowned.
Her gaze fell below, where, amid cries of “Elder Lu,” the crowd parted—
Elder Lu Changan led a group of Qianmen disciples to the pavilion’s entrance.

Lu Changan stopped, glaring fiercely at the rigid Wu Fengming.
Suppressing his anger, he snapped, “Even your Third Senior Brother you dare block? Step down!”

“…”

Wu Fengming’s grip tightened on his sword, hesitating as he lowered his head.

Lu Changan clearly hadn’t expected this reaction from his disciple. Stunned, his face reddened further.
“Master and disciple face off, under the renowned Elder Lu’s lineage no less—such drama is rare in the cultivation world.”
The crowd, initially leaving, stayed to eavesdrop, lingering loosely around the courtyard.

“Thirteenth Junior Brother, what are you dazing for?” Behind Lu Changan, his fifth disciple stepped forward, whispering urgently, “Master’s calling you—come down!”

“…”

Wu Fengming’s gaze lingered complexly on his sword hilt, recalling something, his grip steadying.
“Sorry, Master. Uncle Yun’s orders come first—I cannot yield.”

“You rebellious disciple, do you know what you’re saying? Have you lost your mind!?”
Shocked, Lu Changan’s face flushed crimson.

He’d sent Wu Fengming to plant a wedge in Sect Leader Chen Qingmu’s disciple faction!
How did this wedge end up stabbing his own foot?

Seeing Lu Changan’s spiritual energy surge in fury, nearly ready to act, Chen Jianxue stepped down the jade steps.
“Elder Lu.”

“Master…”
His disciples echoed.

Lu Changan snapped back, glaring at his wayward disciple, stopping his hand with a cold huff.
“What, you’re learning to defy elders too?”

“I wouldn’t dare, but Elder Lu seems mistaken on one point.”

“Oh?” Lu Changan glanced sideways.

Chen Jianxue lowered her head slightly, suppressing a light cough.
“Since Uncle Yun is registered under Uncle-Grandmaster, she’s a second-generation Qianmen disciple.
Elder, if I recall correctly, when you entered Qiyuan Peak, you took the third-generation disciple title, one rank below Uncle Yun…?”

“So what?”

“If we speak of deferring to elders, shouldn’t you heed Uncle Yun’s arrangements first?”

“You—”
Lu Changan choked, his face purpling.

Even if taken to the Immortal Alliance, rank was undeniable.
Unless he wanted the stigma of disrespecting ancestors and tarnishing the sect, he couldn’t deny Chen Jianxue’s point on lineage.

“Fine, fine! When Lord Hanyuan awakens and your Uncle Yun emerges, I’ll personally pay her a visit!”
Spitting harsh words, Lu Changan turned to leave, glaring at his rebellious disciple before storming off.

With Lu Changan rebuffed, the other sect disciples, seeing Wu Fengming’s unyielding stance, no longer lingered, dispersing to report back.

Once Lingxiao Pavilion cleared, Chen Jianxue turned with a frown.
“Has Senior Brother’s condition worsened, or is something amiss?”

“Uncle Yun strictly forbade anyone from entering—we don’t know either, Senior Sister,” Ding Xiao replied.

Chen Jianxue sighed softly.
“She’s not a medical cultivator. Just now, the fifth disciple of Jiuxia Valley’s Medical Saint was here—why not let him check?”

“…”

Ding Xiao and the others exchanged glances.

After a pause, Wu Fengming answered, “Uncle Yun said no one enters, no exceptions.”

“Just because of Yun Yao… her word?”

“Yes.”

This time, even Chen Jianxue couldn’t help furrowing her brow, eyeing Wu Fengming and the others with puzzlement.

“What is it about Uncle Yun that earns such trust?”
She paused, her gaze landing on the disciples behind Wu Fengming.
“To defy Elder Lu for her, there must be reasons we don’t know?”

The male disciple she eyed, who was in the secret realm, had heard Yun Yao’s shocking self-reference as “Master” to Mu Hanyuan in the dragon palace.

Under Chen Jianxue’s gaze, he lasted three breaths before lowering his head.
“Actually, Uncle Yun is—”

“Silence.” Wu Fengming cut him off sharply.

The disciple froze, hastily bowing his head.

Chen Jianxue’s expression grew odder, fixing on Wu Fengming.
“You…”

“Amitabha.”

A Buddhist chant hushed the courtyard.

On the jade steps, they turned to see—
“Master Liaowu!”
“Why is the Buddha’s Son here…”

The Red Dust Buddha’s Son, the renowned monk Liaowu, held his glazed Buddhist staff, his monk shoes stepping lightly, arriving before them in a blink.
He made a palms-together salute, the auspicious mark on his brow lending solemnity.
“I’m here to perform a requiem for the two inside.”

Chen Jianxue paused.

Wu Fengming frowned, straightening his sword warily.
“Master Liaowu, do you also intend to force entry?”

“No, no.”
Liaowu slowly turned his prayer beads, smiling as he raised his eyes.
“I’m not like them. I have an old acquaintance inside.”

Ding Xiao boldly peeked from behind Wu Fengming.
“Buddha’s Son, we know you and Lord Hanyuan are old friends, but even so, we can’t let you in.”

Liaowu waited for her to finish, then smiled.
“No, I meant the other one.”

“Uncle Yun wouldn’t—”
Ding Xiao’s words halted.
She turned to Wu Fengming with a subtle expression, and he met her gaze.

Their eyes met, sharing an unspoken awkwardness.

After all, within three hundred years, tales of the Red Dust Buddha’s Son and their Uncle-Grandmaster weren’t earth-shattering but were known.
Of course, she had rumors with more than just him…

Ding Xiao and the others squirmed awkwardly, as if young disciples caught glimpsing elders’ romantic entanglements.

Wu Fengming’s expression was complex, his grip tightening on his sword.

Only Chen Jianxue, an outsider, remained oblivious to the undercurrents.
“Master Liaowu, you’re also an old acquaintance of Uncle Yun Yaojiu?”

“We share a certain fate,” the monk said, lowering his brows with a smile.
“Amitabha.”

Ding Xiao and the others: “…”

“Dear benefactors, may this humble monk enter?”

“…”

Facing one of Yun Yao’s former suitors, Ding Xiao and the others couldn’t hold out, stepping aside.
The pavilion doors opened before them.

****

Lingxiao Pavilion, second floor, inner chamber.
Amid layered gauze curtains, the scent of Canaan incense swirled around the beams, filling the room with a refreshing breeze.
Beside a carved incense burner, on a rosewood couch with cracked patterns, reclined a cold-faced beauty with flowing dark hair, bare-chested.
Naturally, it was Mu Hanyuan.

Across from him, Yun Yao, who had been healing him for hours, finished her energy circulation and opened her eyes.

Last night, the gruesome wound on his chest was gone, fully healed.

Seeing this, Yun Yao exhaled in relief, sliding off the couch.
“An illusion’s wound actually harms the body… deceiving people into mutual slaughter for a blood sacrifice—this dragon soul is vicious,” the red-clad woman muttered, stretching her stiff waist and legs.
“Good thing my dear disciple still has those blood-red threads in his body. Anyone else would’ve died ten times over.”

She turned, glancing at the couch where the beauty with lowered lashes and chilly profile lay.
“You’re too reckless. Is your life not a life? Throwing yourself at blades like it’s nothing—what’s that about?”

“…”

The figure on the couch seemed in deep slumber, motionless, like an exquisite jade statue.
Though, a half-naked jade statue.

Yun Yao glanced twice, belatedly sensing something amiss—last night, in urgency, his blood-soaked robes stained red, she’d stripped them without much thought.

Now, looking…
The scene was somewhat brutal?

“…Cough.”

Yun Yao awkwardly averted her eyes, hesitating before approaching the couch to pull Mu Hanyuan’s robes up.
His robes were meticulously elegant, a hassle to wear, unlike her preferred slip-on styles.
She fumbled behind him, managing a sloppy fit that looked worse.
With no choice, she turned to face him, smoothing the layered robes properly.

Midway, touching his chest near his heart, Yun Yao paused.

She recalled last night in Buried Dragon Valley, the silver dagger in his chest.

Strangely, that silver dagger differed entirely from the dragon scale dagger she’d plunged into Dragon Lord Yuyan’s heart in the illusion.
More bizarrely, it seemed a mere phantom.
When Yun Yao rushed to Mu Hanyuan’s side, the dagger vanished like starlight dissolving into the sea, leaving no trace.
If she hadn’t seen it in the illusion, she’d think it was her own hallucination.

The dagger came from the imposter Mu Hanyuan in the illusion—could there be another issue?

Yun Yao frowned, deep in thought.
A cold, slightly hoarse voice sounded above.
“Master.”

“?” Yun Yao looked up in surprise. “You’re awake? Is there—”

Before her joy settled, she heard Mu Hanyuan sigh softly.

“Master, you’ve gone astray again, haven’t you?”

“Huh?”

Baffled, Yun Yao followed Mu Hanyuan’s half-lowered gaze downward—

Her guilty hands.
One clutched his collar, the other slipped inside, resting on his chest.

Mu Hanyuan lifted his eyes indifferently from beneath his robes.

The look seemed to say: *Go on, make your excuse. I’m listening.*

Yun Yao: “…”
Yun Yao: “?”

Though caught in a compromising act, Yun Yao raised her slender neck without hesitation, speaking earnestly.
“Trust your Master—this isn’t what it looks like. I was only—”

Before “healing” left her lips.

The gauze curtains stirred.
An unfamiliar aura appeared in the room.

Yun Yao turned warily.
“Who!”

Her eyes met, a few paces away, a monk in blood-red robes holding a glazed Buddhist staff, standing amid the curtains.

Their gazes locked.
Liaowu’s eyes moved from Yun Yao’s face to her hands, then to Mu Hanyuan’s disheveled robes and his cold, detached profile.

Mu Hanyuan seemed distracted, his expression faint.
Noticing Liaowu’s gaze, he glanced coolly at the red robes, then away.
The Red Dust Buddha’s Son was certain: that glance held no shame or panic for being caught in such a scandalous scene.
At most, a touch of irritation at being disturbed.

After a few breaths, Liaowu paused his prayer beads, making a palms-together salute.
“Amitabha.”

Yun Yao, frozen like a statue, snapped back, swiftly hiding her hands behind her.
“…Master, don’t ‘Amitabha’ yet—this isn’t what you think!”

As her words fell, she hurriedly rose from the couch.

Behind her, a shadow’s faint shade fell over Mu Hanyuan’s ethereal, icy features.

A ripple stirred in his untouchable eyes.
His hand, about to lift, hesitated, ultimately lowering as he adjusted his robes.

Yun Yao, forcing a stiff smile to explain to the Red Dust monk—or perhaps “silence” him—took barely a step when, from behind, Mu Hanyuan spoke, tying his robe’s sash, his voice clear as jade, low and refined.

“Master, next time you do such things, could you be more discreet?”

Yun Yao froze: “…”
She turned to the couch: “???”