Chapter Seventeen: Rivalry—The Qionglin Contest

“I am Liu Xiangyi,” Liu Xiangyi rose and said, “Now that your master has arrived, I can take my leave. Until we meet again.”

In the blink of an eye, Liu Xiangyi vanished without a trace. Xuanqiong Immortal had intended to scrutinize her, but she disappeared so swiftly.

“This person’s origins are unclear; it’s best to avoid unnecessary dealings,” Xuanqiong advised Murong Luohua with utmost seriousness.

“She’s been very good to the disciples, and has helped them,” Murong Luohua briefly summarized the events of the past three years.

“Helping you for no reason at all—is that truly possible?”

“So you are Xuanqiong Immortal?” Shen Mufeng, while they spoke, studied Xuanqiong Immortal closely. Her demeanor was cold and distant, her voice calm and indifferent, betraying no emotion, making it impossible to discern her intentions. This Immortal seemed even more mysterious than Liu Xiangyi, and perhaps should herself be avoided.

“I am Xuanqiong Immortal of the Yunshu Sect. Do you have any questions?” Upon hearing Shen Mufeng’s voice, Xuanqiong finally turned her gaze toward him.

“With someone of your cultivation, no matter how low-key, it’s impossible to have no reputation at all. I wander far and wide, yet I’ve never heard your name.” Shen Mufeng recalled that Liu Xiangyi was similarly enigmatic—she could sever the arm of a first-tier demon beast with a mere wave, and the barrier she erected lasted so long that it seemed her spiritual power was inexhaustible.

“Luohua can explain this matter to you.”

“My master was injured and fell unconscious a hundred years ago, and has been recuperating at Lingyu Peak. She awoke three years ago. The sect leader thought she was too lonely, and had her take on a disciple—me.”

“So that’s how it is. I apologize for my earlier rudeness,” Shen Mufeng quickly apologized.

“The Qionglin Tournament is about to begin. You must return to represent your families, must you not?”

“Yes, my elder brother sent me a letter a few days ago, asking me to return to the Shen residence. But my master instructed me to return here after three years, so I lingered a few days longer to avoid leaving her unaware of our whereabouts.”

“So did I,” Beiming Ling added.

“Now that Immortal Xuanqiong has returned, A-Ling and I will take our leave.”

With those words, Shen Mufeng and Beiming Ling departed, riding their swords. Xuanqiong watched him go.

“You are of the Murong family, but as your master I do not know where your home is. Luohua, will you lead the way for me?”

“Certainly.”

Murong Luohua summoned the “Illusion” sword and flew ahead to guide her. Xuanqiong, without using any magical implements, simply followed behind.

It was the early spring in the cultivation world, the customary time for the Qionglin Tournament.

After a day and a night, the two returned to the Shen residence. The grand threshold and the gilded characters “Shen Residence” greeted them.

Though Murong Luohua was the host at the Shen residence, he let Xuanqiong enter first, intending to follow behind.

“You should go ahead. I am unfamiliar with this place,” Xuanqiong said.

“Very well.”

“Master, do you plan to stay at the Shen residence?” Murong Luohua asked as they walked.

“Yes. Why, is there not space enough at the Murong residence for your master?”

“There’s certainly room,” Murong Luohua hurried to explain, thinking perhaps she disliked crowds.

“Would you like to meet my father?”

“Yes, I should, lest he worry about you.”

Finding the main hall empty, he decided to find his master a place to stay first. Xuanqiong noticed a courtyard named “Luohua Pavilion,” where the branches were filled with buds, not yet in bloom.

The blossoming trees made the courtyard seem unsuited to a man’s residence.

“I’d like to stay here—it’s spacious.”

“This is my courtyard,” Murong Luohua replied, embarrassed. He couldn’t possibly share quarters with his master.

“Is that so? Your residence doesn’t match your temperament.”

“I’m not sure why, but I’ve always liked peach blossoms since childhood. I haven’t seen them these last few years, and I miss them,” Murong Luohua said, stroking the peach buds, a smile blooming on his face.

“May I stay here? You have many rooms—any one will do.”

“Of course,” he replied.

Murong Haoran, hearing from the gatekeeper that his son had finally returned, hurried to Luohua Pavilion.

Entering, he saw the scene: two figures beneath the peach trees, the white-haired woman gazing at his son with an expression he couldn’t quite read, and his son, unchanged from childhood, smiling foolishly at the blossoms.

“Luohua, at last you’ve returned! I’ve missed you dearly,” Murong Haoran jogged over. “Hmm, where is Nianchu? Didn’t she return with you?”

“Father, I traveled with my master, so I returned faster. Nianchu may need two more days,” Murong Luohua explained, then introduced Xuanqiong, “This is Xuanqiong Immortal of the Yunshu Sect—my master.”

“Xuanqiong Immortal? I’ve never heard that name.” Murong Haoran frowned, wondering if his son had been saddled with a master of no repute.

Murong Luohua repeated the explanation, and Murong Haoran’s brows finally relaxed; he smiled like a child.

“So that’s how it is. An immortal master, surely her abilities are remarkable. Forgive my ignorance.”

“It’s nothing. A father worries for his child—this I understand.”

“Which room would the Immortal prefer?”

“I’ve already arranged with Luohua to stay at ‘Luohua Pavilion’ with him.”

“Isn’t that a bit improper?” Murong Haoran recalled the way she looked at his son, glancing at Luohua, then at Xuanqiong. It wasn’t the gaze of a master to her disciple, but rather...

“You’re concerned about propriety, yes? But I already have someone I care for. Luohua merely resembles them; the sight brought back memories and I lost myself for a moment. I am his master, nothing more,” Xuanqiong explained, seeing his doubts—no doubt from her earlier expression.

“That’s good,” Murong Haoran replied. As a father, he didn’t want his son to do anything against propriety.

But Murong Luohua, hearing this, suddenly felt a wave of melancholy. Gazing at her face, he couldn’t bear the thought of her loving another. Why was that?

After a few more polite exchanges, Xuanqiong left a word and retired to her room, leaning against the door, then sliding down to sit on the floor. Never before had she been so distraught. Tears traced her cheeks and fell onto her robe.

He wished to ask if she truly loved someone, but as a disciple, what right had he?

Elsewhere, on the road to Northern Yao, Beiming Ling and Shen Mufeng traveled by sword, the journey long and arduous.

Night fell as they reached the border of Northern Yao, finding an inn to stay the night. Beiming Ling wanted to eat, though she had already mastered fasting techniques. But good food should not go to waste.

They found a corner in the hall, ordered a table of delicious dishes, and Beiming Ling popped a piece of meat in her mouth.

“Master Shen, aren’t you going to eat?” Beiming Ling asked.

“Aren’t you fasting? Why eat?” Shen Mufeng scolded lightly, though he still picked dishes for her.

“If we don’t let food enter our stomachs, its value is wasted—it’ll feel embarrassed to linger in this world,” Beiming Ling mused whimsically.

“If you put it that way, you’re quite right. I shouldn’t let it go to waste either.”

Shen Mufeng noticed she only ate meat, neither vegetables nor water.

“If you feel overwhelmed, have some porridge and greens,” Shen Mufeng suggested, wondering why she was so thin despite eating so much meat.

“No need, I never tire of meat,” Beiming Ling replied, her mouth full and words unclear.

Seeing her enjoy her meal, he said nothing more, simply watched her, the scene peaceful and harmonious. Yet, some would inevitably disrupt this tranquility.

Two or three men entered, found no seats, and rudely drove others away. Those at the table resisted—they were cultivators, though not particularly gifted.

“You seem rather rude,” someone challenged.

“Rude? I was born without knowing what manners are,” the leader retorted. Shen Mufeng recognized him as the foolish son of a local landlord.

“You’re asking for trouble!” The group drew their swords.

“My father is the hall master of Qianhe Hall. What, do you want to oppose us?” Yang Murong’s behavior marked him as a spoiled scion; Beiming Ling saw it too.

Qianhe Hall ruled this small region, oppressing those without cultivation or with weak abilities. What could be done? The law of the jungle governed the cultivation world, though evil-doers would eventually face retribution.

“So what if you’re from Qianhe Hall? Cultivation demands righteousness. You oppress the people here—I’ll stand against you today. What can you do? Will you kill us all?”

He hadn’t intended to intervene, but those words caught his attention. The man had righteousness, though not enough strength; in this world, strength and virtue rarely coexist.

“You’re courting death,” Yang Murong lifted his sword and stabbed at the man. Qi Shun defended himself, but was no match for Yang Murong.

As Qi Shun was about to be killed, Beiming Ling intervened, sending a blast of spiritual power that knocked Yang Murong to the ground.

“Who dares challenge me?” Yang Murong exploded.

“You’re interrupting my meal,” Beiming Ling replied, not even looking at him.

“Oh, such a pretty little beauty,” Yang Murong followed the voice, his eyes lighting up, his gaze fixed on Beiming Ling.

Shen Mufeng, seeing the way he ogled her, wanted to gouge his eyes out. He hadn’t yet moved when Beiming Ling acted first, reaching out to pluck his eyeballs.

Not a drop of blood spilled—Beiming Ling used a special technique, so they could be restored. She finished her meal, ignoring his screams of agony.

After eating, they left the inn, dragging Yang Murong along to Qianhe Hall. Upon arrival, they tossed Yang Murong before the hall master, Yang Luohe.

“Who are you to cause trouble at Qianhe Hall?” Yang Luohe couldn’t see through their cultivation, but spoke with bravado.

“I’ve long heard that these border halls oppress the people. Today, I witnessed it myself. Do you think I can ignore it?” Beiming Ling declared, infusing her unique princess mark into his mind.

“Are you going to reveal your identity?” Shen Mufeng asked nervously upon hearing her self-reference.

“This is a matter of Northern Yao. As the princess, it’s my duty,” Beiming Ling replied, whispering in his ear, “In such a remote place, they shouldn’t know your identity.”

“Greetings, Princess!” Yang Luohe, seeing the unmistakable mark of Princess Beiming Ling, collapsed to his knees, his subordinates following suit.

“These eyes are your punishment. If you mend your ways, I’ll restore them,” Beiming Ling said loftily.

“Yes, I will reform and raise my son properly,” Yang Luohe stammered.

“If I return and find no change, Qianhe Hall will cease to exist,” Beiming Ling finished, leaving with Shen Mufeng.

“Father, what will I do without my eyes? Are you just going to let her leave?” Yang Murong complained.

“If you could defeat her, you’d be welcome to try. Beiming Ling is not only the most respected legitimate daughter of the Northern Yao ruler, but also the most gifted. Three years ago, she became the disciple of the Yunshu Sect leader. Who among her peers would dare provoke her? Even elders cherish her,” Yang Luohe replied angrily.

“Shen Mufeng, wasn’t I fierce just now?” Beiming Ling asked foolishly.

“A-Ling is the fiercest,” Shen Mufeng praised her naturally. “A-Ling is well suited to rule; you could have punished them, but you gave them a chance.”

“I believe no one is perfect; everyone makes mistakes. If the offense isn’t severe, a little punishment suffices, and if they can find new life, all the better,” Beiming Ling paused, then added, “But I don’t like being a ruler. That’s not what I long for. I want to live unrestrained, following my heart.”

Originally, Beiming Ling was Northern Yao’s sole female heir, but she disliked the role and passed the throne to her younger brother, Beiming Lin. Their father had long since abdicated.

“But who in this world can truly escape restraint?” Beiming Ling, thinking of how her relationship with him must remain secret, grew somber.

“A-Ling, look on the bright side. Since our worldly identities can’t be avoided, do what you wish, and let your conscience be clear,” Shen Mufeng comforted her, though he felt helpless himself.

“You’re right—why worry so much? Let’s hurry back.”

Seeing her jumpy, startled nature, Shen Mufeng thought the princess must be easy to fool. He smiled, or perhaps she’d already been tricked as a child.

“Alright, let’s go,” he said, and together they flew away on their swords.

By the time they reached Northern Yao, it was a moonless, windy night. Meanwhile, Xuanqiong was instructing Murong Luohua in sword techniques, having him demonstrate the “Nine Modes of No Regret,” observing that he had mastered them to perfection.

“You’ve mastered these. Now I’ll teach you the use of the fan, whip, dagger, and so on. You only need to understand them—know thyself, know thy enemy, and you can use cunning to win even against experts.”

“Master, do I need to learn so much?” Murong Luohua asked, hearing her list so many weapons.

“The more you learn, the more you know.”

Without another word, Xuanqiong summoned “Ice Feathers,” holding it in her hand. The fan was like a sharp sword, radiating murderous intent. When she opened it, thirteen fan bones flew out, circling her like daggers, both offensive and defensive.

“If the fan is of high enough grade, it can form its own array, binding the enemy’s hands and feet.”

Murong Luohua watched her fan intently, feeling as if some memory was about to break through, yet something blocked him, preventing him from knowing what it was.