It was just that the direction was reversed—now the western slopes basked in scorching summer heat, while the eastern slopes were locked in bitter winter. The land was split by an otherworldly icy belt, its origin unknown.
Zhao Xunan took a deep breath, nodding slowly. This was no natural formation—it must have been crafted by some ancient power in the distant past.
He urged his horse forward, cutting through the mist. The once-hazy landscape gradually sharpened into focus.
Green grasslands stretched out, dotted with grazing cattle and sheep. White tents, fluffy as clouds, dotted the horizon. Thin tendrils of smoke curled from chimneys, carried gently by the breeze—a scene of peace and harmony.
Zhao Xunan grinned. After days in the wilderness, seeing signs of human life felt like a warm embrace.
But according to past rumors, Little Kunlun should have appeared after crossing two mountain ranges. Yet, scanning the area, he saw no trace of it.
He'd have to press westward. Where was Little Kunlun?
Spurring his horse into an unpopulated stretch, he avoided the watchful eyes of the grasslanders. The tribes were notoriously xenophobic; a clash would only stir trouble. Since there was no national grudge at stake, Zhao had no desire to shed blood.
But fate was unkind. Even miles away, a group of spear-wielding horsemen thundered toward him.
Zhao shook his head, not bothering to flee. If conflict came, he'd face it head-on.
"Hey, stranger!" the leader of the group called, raising his steel spear. "You're dressed oddly—where do you hail from? State your name and lineage!"
A dozen riders surrounded Zhao, their spears glinting in the sun.
Zhao sized them up. Their clothing was strange—pure white cotton robes, not the fur-lined coats of typical grassland herders. Cotton was rare in the grasslands, more valuable than silk, worn only by nobles. These people's attire, too, felt familiar, echoing styles from ancient dynasties.
"…So you're outsiders," the leader said, lowering his spear. "I am Mingren Shan Kui. State your name and origin."
Mingren? Zhao raised an eyebrow. He'd never heard of this people. Still, he returned the gesture. "I am Zhao Xunan, of Great Qin."
"Great Qin… I've heard whispers of your land," Shan Kui nodded. He swept a hand around the camp. "Follow us to our settlement. Beyond these two mountains lies the Mingren homeland. To pass through, you'll need the Great Shaman's approval."
Zhao agreed. Curiosity tugged at him—these Mingren were unlike any grasslanders he'd met.
Entering the settlement, the contrast sharpened. A tent near the center blared with the sound of recited classics—the Thousand-Character Classic, an ancient text used in Central Plains education.
"Shan Kui," Zhao asked quietly, "where did your people inherit their writing traditions? From which ancient kingdom granted by the Ancestral Court?"
Shan Kui hesitated, then nodded. "We are not of the Ancestral Court. Our script traces back to another source."
Zhao frowned. All humans were said to descend from the Ancestral Court—even savages believed this, for blood bore witness. But the Mingren claimed otherwise…
Dismounting, Zhao followed Shan Kui to a grand tent. As he reached for his sword, a guard blocked him—unexpected. Strangers were rarely allowed weapons in such places.
Inside, the tent was spacious. The ceiling was open to the sky, bathed in bright light. At the center sat an elder in a pure white robe, cross-legged on a white bed. His eyes held flecks of ink-black, as if blending into the fabric.
Shan Kui bowed. "Great Shaman, this is Zhao Xunan of Great Qin, whom I found beyond the mountains."
The Great Shaman smiled faintly. Before he could speak, the tent flap burst open. A hulking giant strode in, his voice thunderous: "Is that white spear outside yours?"
"Yes," Zhao replied calmly.
The giant lunged, hands like sandbags, to grab Zhao's throat. Zhao caught his wrist with ease, a twist of his fingers enough to pin the man to the ground.
The giant's face flushed crimson. "You… you filthy—!"
His words cut off as Zhao's grip tightened, bones creaking. The tent fell silent, all eyes on Zhao.
"To insult a guest without knowing their worth… is that your custom?" Zhao's voice remained steady, but the room trembled with barely suppressed awe.
The giant, Shan Hu, was a prodigy of the Two Realms Mountain tribe—body like solid rock, strength unmatched. Yet this slight man had pinned him effortlessly. What level was he?
"Great Lord, Shan Hu is but sixteen, still a child. Forgive his rudeness…" the Great Shaman soothed. Zhao released Shan Hu, who was hauled out by the others, still yelling threats.
"Stranger, wait outside—I'll fight you later!" Shan Hu roared.
Zhao laughed. "After visiting the Great Shaman, I'll oblige."
The Great Shaman forced a smile. Shan Kui sighed—this fool had no self-awareness.
But the elder's gaze lingered on Zhao's exposed "beauty mark" (a birthmark), his expression shifting. "Shan Kui, explain to Shan Hu. I need to speak with the Great Lord alone."
Shan Kui bowed and left. The Great Shaman rose, gesturing to the door. "The tent is stuffy. Shall we walk the Two Realms Mountain lands, Great Lord?"
Zhao nodded. Clearly, the elder had something to say.
They stepped outside, treading on soft grass. A washerwoman near the river bowed deeply, her daughter presenting a handful of wildflowers. The Great Shaman stroked the girl's head, handing her a handful of nuts. As she skipped away, he murmured: "Great Lord, do you know the Mingren's origin?"
"Never heard of it. Their customs differ from the grasslanders, but they feel… familiar, like Central Plains folk."
The Great Shaman chuckled. "You've read much. Ever heard of the group that left the Ancestral Court in anger after the Human Emperor severed the Heavenly Path?"
Zhao shook his head.
"Or the Heavenly Secret Pavilion in the mountain-secluded realms?"
"Of course. They divine fate, trace the Great Dao—every cultivator knows of them."
The Great Shaman pressed: "The Heavenly Secret Pavilion raises mortals as ants, siphoning their lifeblood. Does the Heavenly Secret Pavilion in the Two Realms Mountain have such practices?"
Zhao's heart jolted. He pinched his palm, gasping. "Ah—so the Mingren hail from the Pear Blossom Secret Realm!"
Mountain-secluded realms were cut off from the mortal world, their inhabitants (mostly cultivators' descendants or ancient beings) treated as chattel by their rulers. But the Pear Blossom Secret Realm, home to the Heavenly Secret Pavilion, was different. Its master, the Heavenly Mechanism Deity, took only disciples, no mortals.
"Before the Human Emperor severed the path, Pear Blossom had a custom: three years in the mortal realm, three in the secret realm, to glimpse the Heavenly Will," the Great Shaman said. "When the path closed, we lost our way home. But the Heavenly Mechanism Deity found us, and we wait here—waiting for the cycle of Heaven to turn, that we might return."
"For five thousand years, the Pavilion's disciples have visited every five years, taking talented children. Better to wait here than suffer as mortals in the world."
Zhao listened, silent. Why share this with a stranger?
The Great Shaman smiled. "Living in the mortal realm has its perks. It's the true form of Heaven—deeper than any secret realm. This is why Heavenly Secret Pavilion disciples train in the mortal realm before ascension."
"And we call ourselves Mingren because, six thousand years ago during the Cosmic Shift, we glimpsed Heaven's true countenance!"
"Heaven's true countenance?!" Zhao gasped. Heaven was the will of the Central Plains—its "true countenance" was the world itself. What else could it be?
The Great Shaman saw his confusion. "To us, Heaven is pure light—not the sun's surface, but a guide for soul and body. When that day comes, believers will march to an endless realm of light: the Other Shore."
His tone held conviction. Zhao's eye twitched. "But Heaven is associated with Daoism, the Other Shore with Buddhism. Are you… conflating them?"
"Heaven is Heaven—both, neither. It is all. No need for labels."
The Great Shaman continued: "Over time, some Mingren began to sense Heaven's will. We call them Shamans; the most gifted hear the Divine Voice and become Great Shamans."
"Through contact with the world and Heaven's guidance, we learned there are Thirty-Six Disciples of the Heavenly Path, chosen by the Heavenly Mechanism Deity. They are the 'Eyes of Heaven.'"
His gaze locked on Zhao. "Great Lord, you are extraordinary. In your life, you've met at least five of these disciples—including me."
Zhao frowned. Only five of thirty-six? Who were they?
Before he could ask, the Great Shaman smiled. "I know one who's tied to you well. Ever heard of Old Taoist Bo Zhan of Tongshan Temple?"
Zhao's eyes lit up. Old Taoist Bo Zhan was a legend—of course he was a disciple.
"To tell you this is to say: you are no ordinary soul in this world."
Zhao opened his mouth to protest, but the words died. Reincarnation, divine intervention… he was extraordinary.
"Most 'extraordinary' people are born under Heaven's favor—noble birth, talent, luck. But you…" The Great Shaman chuckled. "You are different. To the Central Plains, you are a variable."
Zhao blinked. "I don't understand."