White Cloud Immortal slowly stepped to the center of the grand hall, his long sleeves brushing lightly through the air, his gait steady, his gaze as deep and still as an ancient well. Standing firm, he set his feet parallel, drawing his breath inward. Then, with deliberate calm, he raised his palms—movements unhurried yet containing the weight of a thousand catties.
His gestures slowed intentionally, allowing Wu Tong and Zhao Rou to observe every nuance. With fluid grace, he began to arc his hands in circular motions, the palms turning and reversing with ease before opening into strikes and closing into fists. Each form merged reality and illusion, power hidden within the palm like a river—at times tranquil as still water, at times surging with fierce waves.
As he demonstrated, White Cloud Immortal spoke slowly:"This palm art is called the Six Phantom Palms. The six forms are—'Palm within Fist,' 'Fist within Palm,' 'Truth is Illusion,' 'Illusion is Truth,' 'Truth within Illusion,' and 'Illusion within Truth.'"His tone was steady, each word resonant, carrying the profound Daoist philosophy of martial arts.
This style hinges on the interplay of real and feigned force—solid and empty palms used in harmony. In each move, the real conceals the feigned, and the feigned hides the real; every strike and retreat follows the laws of nature itself. With every turn of his hands, phantom palm-shadows flew, the force filling the entire hall, stirring the hearts of those watching.
Wu Tong and Zhao Rou fixed their full attention, imprinting every detail in their minds. They could tell this palm art was not only infinitely variable but also carried deep inner power—mastery would require relentless practice.
When White Cloud Immortal concluded, he slowly withdrew his force, his movements returning to their natural state. With a long sigh, his gaze fell upon them."The forms are learned, but without being tempered a thousand times, they cannot become great. You must train diligently to grasp their true essence."
Wu Tong and Zhao Rou clasped fists and bowed in unison."Master, please instruct us!"
They took their places on either side of him, imitating his earlier demonstration, studying each movement and mnemonic formula with care, striving to match their master's precision. At first their motions were awkward—Zhao Rou, used to light and nimble techniques, found the fierce strikes harder to wield; Wu Tong, though well-trained, struggled with the shifting between reality and illusion. Yet both were diligent. After several repetitions, their moves grew smoother, their inner force beginning to flow in unison.
They exchanged glances, each sensing the art's power and subtlety, knowing only perseverance would bring it to perfection.
By then, night was deep. Candle flames wavered, casting three different silhouettes upon the hall's walls—shadows that reflected the unspoken bond between master and disciples. This night's training would become a cornerstone of their future journeys through the martial world, and a memory they would carry for life.
At sunrise, the eastern sky glowed pale, the crow of roosters echoing from the forests. A fresh mountain scent filled the temple. That morning, White Cloud Immortal was already seated in the courtyard, regulating his breath. When Wu Tong and Zhao Rou approached, he opened his eyes, nodding gently, his gaze warm with kindness.
"This morning, you will practice inner cultivation with me," he said evenly.
In the open space before the temple, the master sat cross-legged, hands resting upon his knees, inner force faintly circulating. The morning sun poured over him, as if he were cloaked in rosy light. Wu Tong and Zhao Rou sat as well, closing their eyes, steadying their minds, listening to his guidance.
"The way of inner power lies in the movement of breath—gathering qi in the dantian, circulating it through the whole body. Without deep internal strength, even the finest martial arts cannot show their full might."
Zhao Rou, practicing internal arts in earnest for the first time, felt her qi move slowly, her meridians warming. It was wholly unlike the light-footed techniques she was used to—this required patience and gradual cultivation. Wu Tong, though already possessing a foundation, found that under his master's direct instruction his understanding of qi circulation deepened, sensing new layers of subtlety.
The three of them trained, discussed martial principles, and sipped tea together. The atmosphere was tranquil and harmonious. To White Cloud Immortal, it felt like the old days, when he guided a young Wu Tong through the basics—watching the boy stumble, pout, falter, yet never give up. Now that boy had grown into a refined young man, about to venture into the wide world. The old master sighed inwardly: "Time flows like a swift stream—gone in an instant."
As the sun climbed higher, the mist dispersed, and the White Cloud Temple basked in peaceful light.
That morning, Wu Tong and Zhao Rou bade farewell to their master and set off on their journey.
A verse says:
Why not lean on a sword with soaring will,To roam the jianghu—who can rival still?Gazing to the ends of earth with a fearless cry,While the west wind follows at twilight's sigh.
After two days' riding, the road wound through mountains and streams. Autumn leaves fluttered in the forest, morning mists lingering. By midday they passed Jiao Ridge, the sun high overhead, heat spilling across the stone-paved road. Spotting an inn ahead with a wine flag reading "Welcome Guest" swaying in the breeze, they decided to rest and eat.
Inside, the inn bustled with voices and the rich scent of wine. The busy waiter darted between tables, shouting orders. Wu Tong and Zhao Rou found a corner seat and ordered a few dishes.
They had barely begun to eat when light, crisp footsteps approached and the door swung open. Three figures entered—two middle-aged men in dark fitted tunics, their bearing steady and formidable, and a young woman in a pale yellow gown, silver sash at her waist, her slender form moving with refined grace.
The three scanned the room, then sat at a table next to Wu Tong and Zhao Rou.
As they ate, the young woman spoke in a clear, gentle voice tinged with concern:"I've heard the 'Two Venerables of Black and Yellow' came here to investigate the Two Demons of Jiao Ridge. Why is there still no word? Could something have happened to them?"
Wu Tong's chopsticks paused, his ears pricking up. The grey-clad man beside her replied in a low voice,"Even if something befell them, we've scoured Jiao Ridge these past days and found nothing. There's something strange about this."
Just then, the young woman turned her head toward Wu Tong and Zhao Rou's table. Startled, Wu Tong quickly lowered his head to his food. But she smiled, rose, and stepped over—her robes swaying gently—as she said with an easy smile,"Gentlemen, I am Liu Yun. I've been seeking acquaintances these past days, and by chance we meet—may I have the honor of knowing you both?"
Wu Tong answered politely,"What brings you to us, miss? We are but scholars, on our way to the capital for the exams, stopping here for lunch."
But Liu Yun seemed not to take his words to heart. Her eyes, clear as water, were fixed on Zhao Rou, admiration and curiosity mingling within them."And this young gentleman's name?" she asked with a smile.
Zhao Rou kept her head down, eating in silence, ignoring her. Wu Tong quickly interjected,"My surname is Wu, hers is Zhao—"
Before he could finish, Liu Yun laughed."So, Zhao Gongzi—pardon my manners. I am Liu, known in the martial world as 'Golden Blade Liu,' given name Yun. Meeting you today is truly fate."
Zhao Rou simply sipped her tea, unmoved. Liu Yun's smile turned faintly playful as she called,"Waiter!"
"Yes, miss?"
"Put these gentlemen's bill on my tab."
"Yes, right away!"
Wu Tong rose and bowed."Many thanks, Miss Liu."
This young beauty Liu Yun was the treasured daughter of the Heavenly Sovereign Sect. The two middle-aged men with her were Heavenly Venerable Ding Ren and Earthly Venerable Wei An—two of the sect's Four Venerables. The three had traveled far from Jiao Ridge, searching for the missing Black Venerable Yuan Pei and Yellow Venerable Tian Zhi.
After the meal, the three continued discussing the Two Demons of Jiao Ridge, but Liu Yun's eyes drifted often toward Zhao Rou, as if intrigued by this "Zhao Gongzi."
Suddenly—a cold gleam!
A hidden weapon whistled through the air toward their table."Careful!" Wei An barked, and the three leapt aside. The projectile struck the tabletop with a thunk—a dart, with a note attached.
"What's this?" Ding Ren snatched it up, read quickly, and his face changed. Exchanging a glance with Wei An, the two tossed some silver on the table, then rose and strode out with grave expressions.
Wu Tong frowned. Something was afoot. Meeting Zhao Rou's gaze, the two slipped from the inn to follow.
Outside, Liu Yun and her companions mounted and spurred their horses toward the city outskirts. Wu Tong and Zhao Rou quietly did the same, keeping their distance.
The pursuit led into the mountains, ending at a dilapidated temple. There, a group of black-clad men waited.
At their head stood a burly, hawk-eyed man with a high nose and a fierce air. His voice rang out:"I hear you three have been asking after the Two Demons of Jiao Ridge—is that true?"
Heavenly Venerable Ding Ren and Earthly Venerable Wei An's gazes sharpened."Indeed. Our sect's Black and Yellow Venerables went to investigate the Two Demons days ago and vanished. Do you know their whereabouts?"
The man was none other than Southern King Hong Qi of the Black Dragon Sect. He smirked coldly."We thought you'd found their trail. Why were they snooping into the Two Demons?"
Wei An's voice was calm."Nothing much—just to exchange a few moves."
Hong Qi laughed harshly, then his tone turned grim."The Two Demons aren't so easily dealt with. I fear your Black and Yellow Venerables have met ill fate."
Ding Ren laughed in turn."I think it's the Two Demons whose fate is grim! Otherwise, why would the Black Dragon Sect send men here?"
At that, the air between them grew taut as drawn steel, the atmosphere brimming with killing intent…