Chapter Fourteen: A True Gentleman Does Not Fret Over Trifles

In this world, the variations and magnitudes of true energy are beyond measure—countless millions and more.

Once a cultivator comprehends embryonic breathing and achieves fullness in their innate nature, they must seek out a method of refining energy to nourish and strengthen the primal breath within. Only then can true energy be generated, laying the foundation for the Way.

Thus it is: only by following the grand and upright path can one enter the orthodox lineage of immortals.

The “Primordial True Classic as Expounded by the Sage of the Divine Chamber” is precisely such a method for refining energy. More than that, it is an extraordinarily profound art, likely a superior approach to cultivation.

However...

“To be wholly devoted to the sacred Way, the immortal path is not far off. Consuming the Three Yellows, burning baits in the Eight Gates—these are the fruitless methods of heterodox sects; the practice of breath retention, entering trance and sending forth the spirit—these cannot escape the fate of aging and death; drawing and adding to life, advancing energy to nourish blood—these bring only the suffering of restlessness and displacement; as for the battles of the Three Peaks, discerning form through contemplation—these are deviations from our path, unworthy of mention!

There are countless side paths in energy refinement; it suffices not to describe them all. Only the Primordial True, mysterious and subtle, based in the essence of harmony, formless and nameless—without the classic, the Way cannot be understood; the Way resides in the classic, deep and lofty, and without a master, its principles cannot be grasped—”

Throughout its pages, this scripture takes the voice of a certain Sage of the Divine Chamber, instructing how to draw forth nature from the void, ultimately circulating the method so that, upon reaching the ninth stage of energy refinement, one’s embryonic breath is transformed into the Primordial True.

“Yet to draw forth nature from the void is unspeakably difficult: each step is fraught with peril, a single misstep leading to body and spirit’s extinction. All these days I have practiced endlessly in the Realm of True Law, dying countless times, yet remain unable to cross the threshold.”

Chen Heng shook his head.

This art sets its sights terrifyingly high—who was it meant for? Who could ever truly master it? Among the thirty-six grades of energy refinement, where does it place?

“If, at the embryonic breath stage, one could navigate the void unwaveringly, and anchor the root of nature in the body, then surely the path ahead, all the way to the Purple Mansion and Mystic Grotto stages, would be free of confusion and hindrance... But how could my father in my previous life have possessed such a scripture? What was his origin?”

Rising, Chen Heng carefully tucked the ancient book against his chest.

His father from his previous life had passed away early. Before Chen Heng was old enough to remember, his father, struck by an old illness during a meditation, lingered bedridden for a few days before dying, leaving only an orphaned mother and child behind.

“As for the rest of the clan, they are ordinary folk, ignorant of the Way. When confronted with the dangers and twists hidden in this scripture, they took fright, dismissing it as some heretical sorcery—that’s understandable.

Yet this method for refining energy is clearly of the highest intent. The Primordial True it produces is ineffably wondrous, harmonizing the primal energy for all uses, shaping it according to the Ultimate Way—it is truly a teaching of the divine, of pure truth, of utmost void and nature.

How could the one who passed down such a scripture die coughing blood from a single meditation? What did he see? And those talismans he left behind—I still cannot fathom their purpose. It is all too strange!”

With a sigh, Chen Heng sat again at his desk, taking out the ancient book to study anew.

But he had barely turned a few pages when there came a knock at the door.

“Enter.”

Chen Heng put the scroll away and spoke.

“Brother Heng... young master.”

Wang Duanbao stepped carefully over the threshold. Spotting Chen Heng seated at the desk, he opened his mouth to call out, but the cool indifference in Chen Heng’s eyes sent a chill through him, and he hurriedly corrected himself.

“Today is my father’s—no, that old bastard’s—wedding day. The hour grows late. Shouldn’t we set out for Yang Mountain?”

Chen Heng took down the great bow and quiver hanging on the wall.

Outside the quiet chamber, Clan Chief Chen Kuang and a group of Chen clansmen were already waiting. Xu Zhi had changed into a servant’s garb, a short sword at his waist.

“Senior brother, we still know little of this Daoist of Yang Mountain. I fear Wang Duanbao may be holding something back. On this journey, we should first probe for his secrets before we strike to kill him!”

Chen Heng turned to his uncle, Chen Zhan:

“All those yellow-robed disciples who came from Yang Mountain to Lanliang City are dead—I’ve heard the Daoist is impatient with teaching, so I asked you to find a few clever house servants to impersonate them. Are they ready?”

“They’re ready, they’re ready. All born in the household, each with weaknesses in my grasp—they wouldn’t dare betray us.”

Chen Zhan nodded, then, catching Chen Heng’s meaning, quickly brought forward a beautiful young woman dressed in bridal finery:

“Heng’er, this journey is perilous. Do look after Xi’er—don’t let her come to harm.”

The girl was already delicate, and in wedding robes she glowed with a beauty like blossoming peach and plum. Yet faced with so many eyes, her legs trembled uncontrollably. If not for Chen Zhan’s quick support, she would have collapsed.

“At this rate, how could you accomplish anything? How can I use you?”

Chen Heng glanced at her.

Under his gaze, Chen Xi was even more frightened, her eyes reddening, tears threatening to spill.

A ruler careless in secrecy loses his ministers; a minister careless in secrecy loses his life. Let slip a few secrets and harm will follow.

Not to mention the enmity already established between his former self and the Yang Mountain Daoist—in their current weakness, the Daoist was sure to come seeking revenge.

Besides, after so many years in Yang Mountain, the Daoist must have amassed considerable wealth—an irresistible temptation for one so impoverished.

The plan was to bide their time, blending into the wedding party, waiting until the Daoist’s guard was down, then he and Xu Zhi would strike him down with a thunderous blow.

But seeing Chen Xi in such a state, she would likely break before even reaching Yang Mountain.

If the Daoist grew suspicious and questioned her, all Chen Heng’s schemes might unravel.

...

“The spiritual energy of Yang Mountain is abundant. This stronghold is vital for my descent to the Abyss—there can be no mistakes.”

Chen Heng frowned. “Chen Xi need not go.”

“This…” For a moment, Chen Zhan was at a loss.

“Find a bridal gown of my size. I will don it and take her place.”

“What?” Xu Zhi, standing by, was dumbfounded. “Junior brother, you…”

“What, am I not fit to play a woman?”

Chen Heng, expressionless, waved his hand.

“Those who achieve great things do not quibble over trifles. Heroes of old could endure even the shame between their legs—what is a little cross-dressing compared to that? To cut out hidden dangers, to secure the foundation of Yang Mountain—what does this matter!”

...

Half a day later.

The sound of pipes and flutes, drums and music, filled the air.

A long procession, festive and jubilant, made its way up the mountain path, the commotion disturbing a cave-dwelling where an old Daoist was vigorously toiling atop a beautiful young matron.

“So it’s today? I nearly forgot!”

The Daoist of Yang Mountain stopped his motions and, making a quick calculation, was utterly overjoyed.

He had no time to placate the disgruntled woman; he threw on a black robe, stepped onto a black cloud, and soared high into the sky, casting his magical sight to the foot of the mountain.

There, he saw the bridal sedan bearing a maiden in the bloom of youth—peerless beauty, skin like congealed cream, radiance unrivaled.

The Daoist was even more delighted, dancing with joy upon his cloud.

“A beauty! A beauty! Truly a stunning beauty—Chen clan never fails to produce such charm! Heaven favors me—today, at last, fortune smiles upon this old Daoist!!”