On the mountain road beneath the falling night, the autumn wind whistled sharply. Fallen leaves drifted with the breeze, and the last glow of sunset slanted across the towering peaks. The steel-saber bandit leader and his gang had been beaten back again and again; all bore wounds, their condition wretched. Yet the leader himself was not ready to concede defeat. His eyes stayed fixed on Zhao Rou, a complex expression flickering within them.
At first, he had assumed this handsome young "scholar" was merely agile. But now, on closer scrutiny, he realized—skin like jade, brows fine and eyes bright—this was in fact a woman! A flush of embarrassment and anger rushed to his face. Not only had they been outmatched barehanded, but even with blades in hand, they still could not prevail. Where would his dignity be if word spread?
Burning with humiliation, he suddenly noticed Wu Tong sitting easily astride his horse. A cunning thought crossed his mind—perhaps he could turn the tables. He bellowed,"No true man fights a woman! Hey! You there, on the horse—relying on a woman, what sort of hero are you? If you've got any guts, come down here and face me!"
The bandits burst into raucous laughter, hoping to salvage some pride. But Wu Tong's eyes chilled, the corner of his lips curling in a contemptuous smirk. He gave the reins a light pat and said, in a voice devoid of emotion,"This ends here. If you still refuse to make way, don't blame me for showing no mercy."Though his tone was quiet, the unyielding weight behind it made the bandits glance uneasily at one another.
The steel-saber leader, unwilling to be cowed, barked back,"Then let's see if my blade agrees with you!"
"Very well—I'll show you a little of my skill." Wu Tong smiled faintly. As the words left his lips, he swung down from the saddle. His long robe fluttered in the wind, his movements unhurried and poised, as if strolling in a courtyard."Come at me, all of you!" he called out.
Hands clasped behind his back, he surveyed the bandits with steady steps, calm and immovable as a mountain—regarding them as nothing more than a rabble.
"Kill!" someone roared, charging with blade raised.
In an instant, dozens of cold flashes lit the air, steel whirled in the wind, and killing intent spread like frost. One bandit lunged first, his saber sweeping down toward Wu Tong's head with blinding speed. The blade was almost upon him when Wu Tong remained perfectly composed, eyes calm as still water.
Smack!
At lightning speed, his paper fan snapped open and flicked upward, tapping the attacker squarely on the forehead. A dull thud, and the bandit saw stars, staggering backward several paces, nearly collapsing.
Before the others could react, anger flared among them. They surged forward, weapons swinging, the air filled with interlacing steel and the hiss of blades.
But Wu Tong showed no panic. His lips curled faintly, and with a light step he moved like a swallow through the storm, his paper fan whirling in his hand. Employing the technique "Unceasing Advance and Retreat", he slipped between foes as a swimming dragon might wind through reeds.
Fan shadows danced. One bandit saw only a blur before a crisp pa! rang in his ears and pain seared his cheek—he collapsed in a heap. Wu Tong drifted past, fan flicking out several more times—each motion punctuated by dull impacts. Several more assailants tumbled away, groaning in pain.
Blades still flashed, but Wu Tong's footwork was light and precise, weaving through the assault like a butterfly among blossoms. Every turn of his fan struck true—some were left clutching their faces, some holding their heads, some sprawling on the ground. Not one remained unscathed.
The steel-saber leader's face darkened to iron. His fists clenched, shock filling his heart—never had he imagined that this refined, scholarly Wu Tong possessed such astonishing skill. The surrounding bandits, seeing their leader's dismay, felt their own courage drain away. They glanced at one another, retreat in their eyes, yet none dared move first.
The leader's face flushed pale, then dark again, but there was nothing he could do. No one else dared approach; all eyes were wary.
Wu Tong gave a cold snort, turned, and vaulted onto his horse. His voice was calm, yet carried an authority that brooked no refusal."Rou'er, let's go."
Zhao Rou laughed lightly, spurred her mount, and rode alongside him. Together they galloped away, leaving the bandits staring after them in fearful silence. The drumming of hooves faded into the night, leaving only the wreckage of the skirmish and the shaken bandits behind.
The two rode swiftly along the mountain path, and by evening they reached the White Cloud Mountain Taoist Temple. Twilight shrouded the peaks in violet haze, and the long stone stairway wound upward, flanked by pines whose rustling branches seemed to play a silent welcoming song.
As they entered the temple, the main hall glowed with lamplight, solemn and ancient. The White Cloud Immortal sat upright upon the dais, his gaze deep, as if long aware of their coming.
Night deepened, the hall's flickering lights casting shadows across its venerable timbers. A breeze carried the fresh scent of pine, mingling with the quiet gravity of parting.
With hearts full of respect and gratitude, Wu Tong and Zhao Rou stepped inside. At the sight of the master, both halted, then knelt as one.
"Wu Tong pays his respects to Master White Cloud Immortal!" Wu Tong's voice rang firm, his forehead touching the floor in a gesture of utmost sincerity.
Zhao Rou followed, her clear voice respectful:"This humble woman Zhao Rou greets the White Cloud Immortal."Her bow was proper and steady, her eyes filled with reverence.
The master nodded slightly, his gaze gentle, a smile warm as spring. Raising one hand, he said,"Rise, both of you."His voice was calm and even, carrying the kindness of an elder.
Wu Tong stood slowly."Your disciple will soon journey far, and has come today to bid farewell, to thank Master for years of teaching and guidance." His tone was steady, his hands clasped in salute, his eyes bright with gratitude and reluctance to part.
White Cloud Immortal sighed softly."Time flies—twelve years have passed in the blink of an eye. I still remember when you came to seek apprenticeship at just five years old." His words were tinged with nostalgia, his eyes reflecting old memories.
Wu Tong's thoughts churned, recalling his years of training on White Cloud Mountain. Emotion welled up in his chest, and his eyes shone faintly."This disciple, before setting out on his long journey, wishes to express boundless thanks for Master's deep kindness. Such grace is as vast as the sea. This journey will take me beyond mountains, into unknown fates. I can only hope Master will take care."
The master nodded."You are destined to roam the world, walking the path of chivalry and bringing good to others. One day, your name will be known far and wide. To have a disciple like you—this old man has no regrets in this life."Wu Tong's chest tightened at these words; his eyes prickled with heat, his respect for the old master deepening.
The White Cloud Immortal rose, his robe swaying as he walked unhurriedly to a wooden cabinet. From it, he drew two swords gleaming with cold light. His gaze turned solemn."Years ago, the sage Qian Kun Zi divined your fate, instructing me to prepare this sword. He foretold that on the day you journeyed forth, a young woman would accompany you. Today his words have proven true—Qian Kun Zi's foresight was indeed remarkable."He handed the swords to them both.
Startled and awed, Wu Tong and Zhao Rou exchanged a glance, then knelt to receive the weapons with both hands, their hearts filled with gratitude and excitement.
The master smiled."As you set out, I have, in recent meditation, realized a set of palm techniques well-suited to you both. Master it, and you will walk the martial world without fear."
Joy lit their eyes, and they spoke together:"We ask Master to instruct us!"
White Cloud Immortal laughed heartily."Come—the night is still young. Let me pass it on to you myself."
With a sweep of his sleeve, his breath gathered and surged. In the hall he demonstrated, his steps steady, his palms pressing forward. An invisible gale roared out, the air quivering, candle flames shivering under the force, the momentum seamless and complete.
Wu Tong and Zhao Rou held their breath, studying every motion. This was no crude display of brute force—it was a balance of hardness and softness, steeped in Daoist wisdom. It could both strike and defend, turn power aside, or return it upon the attacker. One palm sent ripples through the air like waves on water, spreading across the hall. The force brushed them, warm yet unyielding.
"This set is called the Six Phantom Palms, realized after three months in seclusion. Its essence lies in the flow of movement and the circulation of strength—transforming hardness into softness, borrowing force to strike. Learn it well, and you will be unharmed on your travels."
He resumed his stance and demonstrated the first form.
Wu Tong and Zhao Rou followed without hesitation, copying each move with full attention. Each strike carried the rhythm of heaven and earth, flowing as clouds and water, blending power with lightness. Though awkward at first, as they repeated the forms they began to grasp a glimmer of its essence.