Within a modest thatched study devoid of any nameplate in the rural academy, the middle-aged scholar Qi Jingchun sat in a meditative stillness, engrossed in recording a game of Go—not a legendary masterpiece nor a grandmaster's replay. Just as he prepared to place a white stone upon the board, he sighed deeply. The move, once predetermined, now seemed uncertain; Qi Jingchun hesitated, withdrawing his hand, yet the stone remained suspended midair, lingering inches above the board. Upright and composed, Qi Jingchun—the venerable sage presiding here, former headmaster of Shanya Academy, one of the seventy-two Confucian schools—though exiled and compelled to redeem himself, remained the undisputed paragon of erudition in his era.
To the town's common folk, the cycles of nature passed unnoticed, teachers came and went, differing in appearance and age, yet all bore the same ineffable scholarly demeanor—stuffy, exacting, taciturn, invariably dull. None suspected that these itinerant tutors were one and the same man, who beyond the town's borders commanded a lofty status and bore a righteous, unparalleled spiritual power.
In the next instant, Qi Jingchun's spirit detached from his body like a celestial draped in flowing white robes, breaking free from its earthly cage to drift toward an alleyway in the town. There, he first observed a woman collapsed in a pool of blood—Cai Jinjian of Yunxia Mountain—her soul flickering and dissipating like a candle's dying flame in the wind. Pausing briefly, Qi Jingchun then arrived beside two figures: the young lord of Old Dragon City, clad in regal robes, leaning backward with stunned eyes, his handsome, jade-like face a tangled web of shock, confusion, and despair.
The youth maintained a fierce, forward-lunging posture, clutching a shard of porcelain sharp as a blade. Even in this life-or-death moment, his gaze was unwavering, his expression serene—far from the ignorance one might expect from a boy raised in a humble mountain hamlet. The only sign of his true age was the resignation hidden deep within his eyes. Such resignation was all too familiar to scholars long removed from their studies—akin to watching a farmer endure a parched field under the scorching sun without bitterness, only helplessness and bewilderment.
As the provisional lord of this land, Qi Jingchun was well versed in the history of the Chen family over three generations, able to trace back centuries even without witnessing the ancestors firsthand—much like a magistrate consulting the household registry to discern a subject's lineage at a glance. The town had flourished over three millennia, its branches sprawling beyond its borders, nourished by generations of exceptional talents. Though few returned home adorned in glory, many secretly supported their families, fostering the prosperity of the town's four principal clans.
Chen Ping'an's lineage was likewise ancient and once affluent, but after two turbulent rises and falls amid the myriad fiefdoms and dynasties of Eastern Pebble Continent, it gradually faded. By his father's generation, the Chen family was thoroughly diminished—practically the most declined clan within the entire realm. Their fate was akin to officials condemned by imperial decree to eternal obscurity, stripped of all hope for resurgence.
For over sixty years since Qi Jingchun assumed stewardship of the grand array, he adhered strictly to the principle of "uprightness and harmony," never altering the townsfolk's destinies out of personal whim. Otherwise, the scholar's keen eyes would have perceived the filth within the grand households as well as the ruthlessness among the poor alleys. Over time, Qi Jingchun, like a lofty deity, neither sought reverence nor human favors, silently observing the world's affairs.
Surprised, Qi Jingchun stepped forward, focusing his gaze and nodding slightly. Though the impoverished youth appeared utterly resolute, intent on slaying Fu Nanhua at all costs, the boy's final move was merely a heavy strike to Fu Nanhua's neck—far less lethal than Cai Jinjian's fate. Fu Nanhua was thrown sideways against a wall, dazed, before the youth pressed close with an elbow to his abdomen. Despite the critical moment, the youth's eyes remained steadfast and composed, betraying no hint of the rustic ignorance expected from his upbringing.
Qi Jingchun's curiosity piqued—why did the boy refrain from delivering the fatal blow when the opportunity was ripe? A scholar devoted to propriety, Qi Jingchun was no rigid pedant but understood Fu Nanhua's nature thoroughly. Though temporarily cowed by the boy in the alley, Fu Nanhua would regard this as a grave humiliation, enough to drive him to madness, and it would provoke the ire of Old Dragon City itself.
Qi Jingchun's interference bore personal motives and a sense of justice. The town was like a cracked porcelain vessel, destined to shatter. He sought to delay this inevitable rupture, arranging retreat routes for as many as possible—ideally entrusting the final fate to the blacksmith "Master Ruan." If the town could endure through the last cycle, all might yet find peace—the mountain dwellers seizing opportunity, the town's people living securely. For those stalwart souls, the lives of countless mountain footsoldiers meant little amidst epochal upheaval and the promise of immortality. The ruthless heavens of mortal kingdoms were insignificant compared to the impartial grand Dao revered by cultivators.
After a moment's reflection, Qi Jingchun vanished silently. The universe's flow resumed seamlessly.
At the limit, the fragile boundary finally shattered. The youth's wrist came down heavily on Fu Nanhua's neck, the latter's head jolting before crashing sideways against the alley wall, battered and dazed. The youth swiftly closed in, delivering a brutal elbow strike to Fu Nanhua's abdomen, forcing him to double over in pain. One hand gripped Fu Nanhua's throat while the other pressed the jagged porcelain shard against his stomach.
Fu Nanhua could scarcely fathom how a boy nearly a head shorter could wield such overwhelming strength. The shard's icy sharpness brought the young lord face to face with death—a mere breath away from the abyss. Unbeknownst to him, the boy's prodigious power stemmed from a burning determination to survive that had driven him, since childhood, to traverse mountains in search of medicinal herbs—an unyielding spirit forged through hardship, from foraging to pottery making, each task a trial of endurance.
Outside the town, Fu Nanhua could easily overwhelm a hundred or a thousand boys with a single spell. Yet here, in this narrow alley, his luck had run dry—he had met his match.
Tormented by agony and humiliation, Fu Nanhua snarled, "If you kill me, you're doomed! If you don't, death still awaits you! You brat, you're finished either way!"
Chen Ping'an lifted his chin, eyes locked on the deranged man. "You know I don't want to kill you. We have no grudge. You sought to harm me; I merely defended myself."
Fu Nanhua sneered, "You brat, you dare lecture me?" His voice sharpened, "Do you even deserve it?"
Chen Ping'an remained silent a moment, then asked, "Are you determined to kill me?"
At the gaze from the dark-skinned youth's eyes, Fu Nanhua suddenly calmed. His face flushed, then turned blue and purple as the grip tightened—enough to suffocate a vigorous man. He rasped, "If I swear I won't kill you, will you believe me?" He struggled weakly.
The youth only tightened his grip further, rendering one of Fu Nanhua's arms limp. Chen Ping'an shook his head.
Dizziness overcame Fu Nanhua. Though seething with rage to crush the boy's head, he forced a conciliatory tone: "What if I swear by Heaven? People like us can't make vows lightly."
Fu Nanhua resorted to cunning: Buddhist vows and cultivator's oaths bore great weight, but he only half told the truth—his vows were hollow, mere lip service, not the solemn, unspoken pledges inscribed on one's soul. Whether he kept them depended on whim. Besides, cultivator's oaths could be broken, at varying costs depending on one's level and vow's gravity.
Unexpectedly, the boy still shook his head.
As Fu Nanhua's breath grew shallow, bargaining spirit extinguished, his mind wandered—was this to be his end? No different from poor Cai Jinjian's fate, slain by a lowly brat? If such news reached Old Dragon City, would it become a town-wide jest? He never even had the chance to trigger the hidden mechanism in his jade belt, which housed a fragment of a subterranean dragon's essence.
"Enough," a celestial voice whispered in their ears—the sweetest sound to Fu Nanhua, though he was already faint, unsure if it was a hallucination.
Chen Ping'an turned in astonishment to see a radiant, ethereal figure—the venerable Qi Jingchun—smiling silently. Resolute once more, Chen Ping'an's hand never loosened its grip.