HCAW 136

Chapter 136: Road’s End, Path Exhausted

The tides surged with ceaseless roar, and the sky stretched vast and gray. The glimmering waves upon the sea looked like drifting white feathers.

Ji Zhi sat in his leather-drawn carriage, gazing out beyond. Ever since touring the outer edges of Xian Mountain, he’d grown fond of visiting Zhenhai Pass to stare out toward the Ming Sea in silent contemplation.

The Tianfu Guard sat beside him in the carriage. Of late, while the emperor had grown increasingly quiet, the guard himself had grown oddly fidgety—brighter and more animated than before. Now he spoke up:

“Your Majesty, would you like me to tell you a story?” Without waiting for permission, he continued, “It’s something I heard in the streets recently. Long ago, a fisherman lost his way and stumbled into a grove of peach blossoms. At the end of the grove, he found a land called the ‘Peach Source’—a paradise untouched by war or winter, where the people lived in ease and peace. But when the fisherman later tried to return through the mountain cave, he found he could no longer locate that land, no matter how he searched.”

Ji Zhi gave him a sidelong glance. The Tianfu Guard chuckled and added, “They say that cave held great mystery. Stones quarried from within were called ‘Taoyuan Stones.’ If you made a door out of them, stepping through it could carry you into another world. But since no one could grasp its secrets, no one ever found the spring again… Why the silence, Your Majesty? You don’t like the tale? Shall I sing you a tune instead?”

Before Ji Zhi could answer, the guard cleared his throat and began singing a street tune he’d learned in Wuju Alley:

“An iron pressed brow won’t smooth these creases,

Scissors can’t cut the sorrow within,

No embroidered stitch can bind a mandarin knot…”

Still receiving no response, he said, “If Your Majesty still won’t smile, I’ll dance for you! I just learned a water-sleeve dance!” With that, he got up and performed an awkward, clumsy jig that was completely absurd.

At last, Ji Zhi’s tightly furrowed brows loosened, and he burst into laughter.

“Fang Minsheng, what’s gotten into you? It’s only been a short time, and you’ve already picked up all these amusing tricks.”

The Tianfu Guard replied with conviction, “Your servant saw Your Majesty downcast and wished to share your burden.” Over time, his features had grown far livelier than when they first met, and Ji Zhi felt a wave of quiet warmth in his chest.

The young emperor chuckled softly, then turned again toward the Ming Sea. The rare smile at his lips slowly faded. “I suppose you already understand what troubles me. The northern wind in Penglai grows bitter, and my people go without food. What must I do to save them from such suffering?”

The waves rose and fell, sometimes surging like mountains, other times flat and still. The Tianfu Guard was silent for a while before speaking:

“If there truly were a ‘Peach Source’ in this world, where one need only walk through a mountain to reach it, then perhaps Your Majesty wouldn’t feel so burdened.”

Suddenly, his eyes lit up. He leaned toward Ji Zhi, like an eager pup wagging its tail, startling the emperor:

“Your Majesty! I just remembered something. Have you heard? Some time ago, a fisherman dredged up a black stone from the sea. And wouldn’t you know—it was also called ‘Taoyuan Stone’! No one knows if it has anything to do with that old tale, but it’s rare and fetches a high price among the nobles. If Your Majesty likes, I can gather a few to show you.”

“I’ve seen the stone before,” Ji Zhi said with a laugh. “But what use is there in stirring up such fuss over it? Let it be.”

“Even so, Your Majesty has lingered here these many days without ever taking a closer look at the Zhenhai Stone Gate,” the Tianfu Guard said. “Before the stone became a prized treasure, it was used by the Ministry of Works to forge that gate. Look, it’s right ahead.”

Ji Zhi lifted his gaze and saw, under the fading evening sun, a solitary black stone gate standing in the distance. He relaxed his brows and murmured, “I wonder, if I pass through that gate—could I truly reach the Peach Source?”

“Would Your Majesty like to try it?” the Tianfu Guard asked with a grin. The setting sun cast a soft blush across their faces, and for a moment, they seemed to shed all titles and pretense—no longer emperor and guard, but simply two boys of similar age, thrilled by wonder. Ji Zhi replied, “I fear that if I walk through it, I’ll lose my way and never return.”

“So what if you don’t return? That’s the Peach Source we’re talking about—the utopia men have sought since ancient times. Most would never want to leave it.”

“But if I couldn’t find you again,” Ji Zhi said with a rare, boyish smile, “what good would paradise be?”

“If you weren’t there, even the Peach Source would seem dull and gray.”

_____

Clang. Clang.

The smith pounded his blade upon the anvil. Sparks flew as the blade glowed a bright, searing red—like a wound laid bare across heaven and earth. Ji Zhi stood by, watching it in a trance.

The past was distant and dust-covered—he could no longer recall it clearly. Born to the imperial family, he had been burdened with the gaze of all from the moment he first cried. He had never lived for himself—just like the Tianfu Guard once was, bound and shaped by the blows of others, like a bird in a cage.

Day after day, he lingered by the forge pool, lost in thought. To guard Penglai—this was the duty carved into his very being. As long as he drew breath, he could not abandon it.

One day, dozens of smiths solemnly dragged out a stone pedestal from the furnace. Upon it stood a single blade—bright and sleek, inlaid with pearl-like studs that gleamed like eyes.

“Your Majesty,” said the smiths, “this is your blade, forged from crimson gold of Ying Mountain and tempered with dragon bone. Its edge is sharper than any other—but the hilt burns like fire. Please take care when handling it.”

Ji Zhi looked at the blade and murmured, “It’s a fine sword.”

Though meant for ceremonial use, Ji Zhi did not treat it as an ornament. He ordered the smiths to grind its edge to razor sharpness. When he gripped the hilt, scorching heat seared into his flesh, and the stench of burning skin rose to the air. The craftsmen panicked.

“Your Majesty!”

Ji Zhi raised his hand, silencing their cries.

“The scriptures say, ‘When the Buddha Vipashiyin appears in the world, to hear his name is to never fall into evil paths.’ I will use this sword to slay all evil spirits.” He ran his fingers over the flowing ripples in the blade.

“From this day on, its name shall be—Vipashiyin Blade.”

“Thank you for bestowing the name, Your Majesty!” the smiths chorused, falling to their knees.

Ji Zhi gripped the hilt and pulled. His veins bulged with force as a cry like tigers and dragons echoed—the sword grinding against the stone. A blinding light pierced the eyes of all present, and the Vipashiyin Blade—heavy as a mountain—was drawn from its pedestal, revealed at last to the world.

Ji Zhi held the sword as if it weighed nothing. A craftsman presented an enameled sheath inlaid with gold and silver, and he sheathed the blade. Descending the long steps from the forge, he looked up at the sky. Snow was falling again. Wind and mist turned everything white, the whole world like a sculpture carved from jade and frost.

He spoke, white mist curling from his lips, then turned his head and said to the attendant behind him:

“Convey my command to all Xian Mountain Guards: the day before the Year’s End, I shall hold the Grand Sacrifice to the Hundred Gods. After the rites, I will immediately set out to seek the Nine Provinces.”

The day before the Year’s End, at the break of dawn, Emperor Bai donned a tall mountain crown and plain silk robe, and rode forth in a golden chariot from the purification hall. His ceremonial guard numbered five thousand nine hundred and ten, packed densely beneath the altar at Zhenhai Pass. As common folk were permitted to watch from afar, crowds surged from all sides, bustling like a tide.

Atop the altar, Emperor Bai held the sacrificial text in both hands and recited in a sonorous voice:

“From ancient times, the Son of Heaven receives Heaven’s mandate, establishing rule with the Way, passing it through generations. I, having inherited the grand chart and mandate, hold aspirations vast and solemn. Yet in recent years, bitter cold and frost have ruined crops, and the people are ever more exhausted. Now that Penglai is settled, I must set out to relieve the people from their dire plight!”

Then the youth drew his blade and pointed it to the heavens. The blade shone like piercing stars, seeming to illuminate the firmament. The ritual official echoed his words aloud, and the gathered masses roared in acclaim like thunder. This was not merely a sacrificial rite—it was Emperor Bai’s moment to explain to his people why he must raise troops and embark on this campaign.

But just as the rite concluded and Emperor Bai approached Zhenhai Pass, he was suddenly stopped by urgent voices:

“Your Majesty, please stay!”

Ji Zhi turned and saw eight Xian Mountain Guards in feather-leaf scale armor, all drenched in cold sweat, kneeling before him. Yu Yin Guard bowed and said, “We beg Your Majesty to reconsider this expedition. A nation cannot be without its ruler even for a day! The ‘Nine Provinces’ are as intangible as mist—how can we allow you to risk such peril in seeking them?”

The young emperor grinned, and casually pointed a finger: “You worry there will be no one to govern once I depart? Very well. Gu Bi Guard, Bi Bao Guard—you two remain to guard Penglai and the heartlands of Xian Mountain. Yu Ji Guard and Yu Jue Guard—you’ve both fought countless battles over the years. Go defend the borders. The rest shall accompany me. Upon my return, all shall be richly rewarded.”

“But—” Bi Bao Guard hesitated, yet before she could argue, Ji Zhi slowly drew his blade.

It was surely a sword heavy as a mountain. As it was unsheathed, it howled like a tiger’s roar. An unseen force shuddered in every onlooker’s chest. The cold gleam flared like the morning star, blinding the eyes. Suddenly, Jizhi brought the blade down in a sweeping arc—wind lashed forth as if the heavens split.

When the crowd could open their eyes again, they saw a massive chasm had opened between Emperor Bai and the Xian Mountain Guards. With a single strike, the emperor had split the altar in two. Those present stared at the crevice, chilled to the bone.

“Enough,” the emperor’s gaze swept down from on high, as cold as spring water. “My mind is set. I will no longer listen to your timid counsel. Any who defy this will be as this altar.”

The Xian Mountain Guards gazed at the rift, speechless. They had nearly forgotten—Emperor Bai had fought through battles at their side, had drunk the “Immortal Elixir” granted by the Great Immortal Yonghe. He was no longer a youth they could sway at will.

A loud cry split the air. The people looked up and saw the young emperor thrust the Vipashiyin Blade deep into the stone gate of Zhenhai Pass. In a voice that shook the square, he proclaimed:

“My will is as firm as this blade. Only when someone can move it, may they speak against my decision!”

At last, the Xian Mountain Guards bowed their heads in surrender. Ji Zhi gave them one final glance, turned on his heel, and departed. The people watched the blade lodged in the stone gate—whispers murmured through the crowd. Its shadow, cast in the morning sun, stood alone like a solemn monument.

No one could have foreseen that nearly a century would pass before anyone would draw that blade again—until eighty-one years later, it was finally pulled free, brought once more into the light.

______

Snow blanketed the skies in the Guixi. Jade dust drifted down. In the city of Emperor Bai, the old man’s tale came to a pause.

“Eighty-one years ago, Emperor Bai set out from Zhenhai Pass to cross the vast sea. The perils of the journey need no elaboration. They traveled by moonlight, cleaved waves, broke through maelstroms, endured the tempests stirred by ao-turtle—and finally arrived at the Guixi.”

The old man turned toward Chu Kuang, seated on taoyuan stone. “These legends have mostly been passed down. As for what happened after—you may already know.”

Chu Kuang had been dozing through the long-winded tale, only vaguely aware that it was about Emperor Bai meeting a Tianfu Guard of the same name as him, and the expedition across the sea. He muttered,

“Still not finished? I’m… dying of boredom. I was injured, you know… at least let me nap a while.”

The old man chuckled. “You’re already in a dream now—where else do you think you’re going to rest?”

Chu Kuang glared at him. His body felt heavy, his wounds still throbbed. Yet oddly enough, he wasn’t even sure if he was awake or dreaming—only that he still had consciousness, so he must not be dead. One thought nagged at him: I wonder how Fang Jingyu’s doing now? That old man snatched me off in the middle of the night—Jingyu must be panicking by now.

“Fine then, finish your damn story.” Chu Kuang coughed. “And… that Fang Minsheng in the tale… is that me?”

“Both yes and no,” the old man said, smiling cryptically.

“The Xian Mountain Guards… and my father… are they the same people we know now?”

The old man gave no reply. Chu Kuang, frustrated, opened his mouth again, but a violent cough choked him, blood rising to his lips. When he came to, sweat slicked his body, and he felt dizzy and faint. The old man watched his pale face and said gently, “Easy now. With injuries like yours, you’re no different from a corpse. Don’t strain yourself. Just listen.”

What was there left to tell? Everyone knew the story—after reaching the Guixi, Emperor Bai returned in defeat. The old man seemed to sense Chu Kuang’s irritation and continued:

“You find this tale tedious, no? No different from the gossip in the streets? But do you know why Emperor Bai gave up here, in the Guixi—why he finally lost hope and returned to Penglai?”

Chu Kuang shook his head.

“You can guess—it was the unbreakable ice wall. After countless perils across the sea, the emperor reached this place, and was stopped. He lost so many men on the way—he set out with 5,215 soldiers. Guess how many remained after they tried to carve through the ice wall?”

Chu Kuang shook his head again.

“58!” the old man cackled, like a wounded beast. “A grand procession, reduced to just fifty-eight men! The rest—5,157—were lost at sea or perished in Guixi.”

The bitter wind howled, snow whirling. The words chilled Chu Kuang to the bone.

“After months at sea, Emperor Bai finally saw a towering ice wall ahead—so tall, so solid, it could not be breached. He sent scouts, who learned it stretched thousands, even tens of thousands of miles, encircling Xian Mountain entirely. Worse yet—Penglai itself was sinking into the depths. The wall would only rise higher, and become ever more unbreakable.”

“The Xian Mountain is… sinking?”

“That’s right. Do you know the meaning of ‘Guixi’? There’s an old book called Liezi which says: ‘East of the Bohai Sea, countless millions of miles away, lies a vast abyss—a bottomless pit, known as the Guixi.’ It is the place where all rivers converge, the abyss of the sea—a realm of deepest cold. In other words, everything within this ice wall… is part of the Guixi. And Penglai lies within it!”

Chu Kuang shivered from head to toe. The Xian Mountain had been slowly sinking for a century. Now, the walls encasing it were like insurmountable cliffs—no one could pass. This land was doomed. From the beginning, they had always lived within Guixi.

“Why did the Xian Mountain… grow cold? Why the ice wall?”

“The wall may have existed since ancient times—only now have we begun to perceive it. It’s high and sheer, with no foothold. Emperor Bai expended a thousand soldiers trying to scale it. None succeeded.”

“Then… can it be carved through?” Chu Kuang asked. “You said earlier… the emperor tried to chisel through it.”

The old man shook his head. A whiteness clouded his eyes, like snow swept across a river. In that moment, his figure seemed to shrink, as if aged by decades.

“No. He calculated every possibility. And that—precisely that—was what crushed his spirit. That was why he turned back from Guixi.”

The snow howled through the palace, a killing chill in the air. Though Chu Kuang said nothing, his gaze asked the next question.

“Emperor Bai calculated: even if every single person in Xian Mountain joined in to carve through the ice wall—it would still be impossible.”

The old man drew a long, pained breath, and his gaze grew unbearably heavy.

“Penglai… is doomed to perish.”