Chapter Thirty-Four: I See the Green Mountains Charming—A Parasol, a Sword, and a White Robe

Staring at the shabby bamboo sword, Anle truly did not know what to say. Were it not for the elder’s aura of years—swaying around him like enchanting seaweed, dense and profound, marking him as a peerless master—Anle would have thought the old man was toying with him.

The spring rain fell in a gentle, endless drizzle, casting a hush over the small courtyard.

Anle accepted the bamboo sword the elder handed to him. It felt weightless in his grip, far lighter than any metal sword. The hilt, guard, and blade were all carved from bamboo, resembling one of those toy swords grandfathers might whittle with a hatchet to amuse their grandchildren.

“What is it? Are you disappointed?” The elder seemed to sense Anle’s bewilderment and smiled mischievously.

“A gift from an elder is not to be refused by the young,” Anle replied, gripping the sword. “Besides, a bamboo sword is still a sword. Since you have given it to me, it is a gift. How could I display disappointment simply because I am not satisfied with it?”

The old man gazed at Anle, as if seeing straight through his thoughts. “I know you seek a fine sword. This bamboo one is not much to look at, but it has accompanied me through many long years—a loyal companion. I wished to find it a good new master.”

“That ink-and-wash painting of bamboo and stone you gave me suited my taste well. In it, I saw the proud and upright character of a gentleman. Perhaps you will make a fine wielder of the sword—a fitting new home for it.”

“If you are truly suited to it, you will one day discover its worth.”

The elder withdrew the wide sleeve of his plain robe, now damp with rainwater. His gaze lingered on the bamboo sword, and deep in his pupils there flickered a trace of reluctance, even regret.

Anle looked down at the sword. No matter how he examined it, it seemed utterly unremarkable. It was two feet and seven inches long—not quite a long sword, yet possessing a swordsman’s bearing. It had no sheath, not even an edge; who could say if it would even cut the skin of a cultivator when swung?

Yet the elder’s words made Anle take it seriously. This was no simple sword—it was a trust, an entrusting of something precious.

“I will take good care of this sword,” Anle said solemnly, as if making a vow.

At this, the old man burst into laughter, stroking his beard. “You’re an amusing young man. Though it’s made of bamboo, it’s not fragile. There’s no need to coddle it—swing it as you would, clash it as you must, don’t be afraid of damaging it.”

“Even the greatest warrior in the world could not break this battered bamboo sword—what have you to fear?”

“A sword is a sword. It is a weapon meant for battle; protecting a sword is an insult to its purpose.”

The elder looked at Anle, instructing him.

Anle understood instantly and nodded; his gaze sharpened. Since the old man said so, this sword must have hidden qualities yet to be revealed.

“This sword is nameless, crafted by chance from a green bamboo. I named it ‘Green Mountain.’ That happens to connect with the lines of poetry in your painting—it seems a bit of fate. Green Mountain has been my companion for many years, but for you, it’s a new beginning. If you wish to rename it, feel free.” The elder spoke with great ease.

“‘The green mountain shows me its loveliness; I should regard the green mountain thus.’” Anle suddenly recalled, and smiled softly. “The name suits it well.”

The old man paused, his eyes flashing with delight, and laughed aloud.

After that, he spoke no more of the sword; once gifted, it would never be reclaimed.

Looking at Anle, the old man smiled. “You must be off to work at the Lin residence, yes? Remember to ask for leave in three days; I’ll take you somewhere.”

Anle didn’t ask where, simply nodded in agreement.

“Off I go now. I’ll return in the evening to discuss your ink bamboo painting. Make sure there’s wine and food—the old rice wine from the Yan Spring Restaurant has a fine flavor, but their meat is ordinary. For good beef, you’ll need Dingya Lane.”

Waving his hand, the elder opened an umbrella and left the small courtyard, his chuckling voice drifting down the alley: “The green mountain shows me its loveliness…”

No sooner had he left the courtyard than hurried footsteps echoed through the Imperial Temple Alley.

Chief Constable Huang Xian, clad in official uniform and drenched from the rain, arrived at the courtyard gate. He glanced at the plain-robed elder walking away, but paid him no mind—the old man gave off no spiritual aura, appearing to be but an ordinary person.

“Master An…”

Finding the gate wide open, Huang Xian stepped quickly inside, calling for Anle. The moment he entered, he caught sight of a headless corpse on the ground; his words caught in his throat.

“Chief Huang, you’ve come at just the right time—I was about to look for you.”

Anle, holding the yellowed bamboo sword, greeted him with a smile.

But Chief Huang could not bring himself to smile; his face was grave. “Hu Jingang?”

Standing in the spring rain, Anle’s smile was gentle and ethereal, like an immortal descended from the clouds. He nodded slightly.

“You killed him?” Huang Xian drew a breath, disbelief mingling in his tone.

Anle walked inside, retrieved a towel, and began drying his hair. “Hu Jingang attacked last night. He said my wanted poster brought the authorities down on him, that he could bear it no longer, so he came to kill me.”

“Of course, I couldn’t just sit and wait for death. I defended myself and killed him.”

Slowly collecting himself, Huang Xian recalled how the constabulary received a report from a night watchman this morning—a nameless head was found on Qingbo Street. Upon confirming the identity as the notorious bandit Hu Jingang, the case was handed over to the Black Constabulary.

Huang had led his men here, noticing the location was near the entrance to Imperial Temple Alley, and immediately thought of Anle. It turned out, astonishingly, that Anle really had slain Hu Jingang.

“Master An, so long as you are safe. Hu Jingang was a heinous criminal; by killing him, you have done a great service. The Black Constabulary won’t pursue the matter, and you may even receive a reward.” Knowing this was likely Anle’s first killing, Huang tried to reassure him.

Anle had earned considerable wealth painting sketches for the young masters of the Lin family, and had little interest in the reward. He went inside, changed into clean white robes, fastened the battered bamboo sword at his waist, took up an oil-paper umbrella, and prepared to head to work at the Lin residence.

“Chief Huang, since Hu Jingang was wanted by the Black Constabulary, please send someone to handle the body.”

Anle opened his umbrella. Raindrops drummed heavily against the oiled paper.

Huang, wearing a bamboo hat, smiled. “Rest assured, I’ll take care of everything.”

Soon, men were called to deal with Hu Jingang’s corpse. Huang said little more, but saluted Anle with a cupped fist, his respect for the young man growing.

Though he had only begun his cultivation at eighteen, Anle was like a hidden dragon in the depths, ready to dazzle the world.

“One day soon, I’ll return to share wine and meat with you, Master An, to thank you in person for slaying that villain Hu Jingang.”

Huang saluted solemnly, and Anle returned the gesture.

Once Huang and his constables had disappeared down the alley, Anle locked the gate, took his umbrella, sword, and white robes, and stepped out into the rain-soaked street, heading west toward West Lake.

Distant peaks gathered like dark brows, hinting at the lingering chill of spring.

The misty rain over West Lake rippled in circles, each one adding its own charm. Among the crowd of scholars and poets, Anle waited a while but did not catch sight of Fairy Yunrou flying in on her sword, which left him rather disappointed.

Today, he would not be able to collect that precious wisp of the aura of years.

Without seeing Fairy Yunrou, even the scenic mists and rains of West Lake seemed dull. He did not linger long by the embankment, but turned and made his way to the Lin residence.

As usual, upon arrival, it was the maid Liuxiang who opened the door. Seeing Anle in white, pure as snow in the spring rain, the young woman’s eyes shimmered with budding affection.

“Miss Liuxiang, please inform Lady Hua that I wish to see her on some business,” Anle said gently.

Liuxiang blushed. “Master An, Lady Hua said if you ever wished to see her, you may go straight to the Waterside Pavilion.”

Nodding, Anle bid farewell and, umbrella in hand and bamboo sword at his waist, made his way to the Pavilion, his white robes fluttering elegantly behind him.

At the Waterside Pavilion, the spring rain fell from the sky like countless crystalline beads, cascading to earth.

The droplets struck the black-tiled eaves and corners of the pavilions, creating a lively chorus.

In the main hall, a breeze carried in the fine mist of the rain, blurring the air and lifting the gauzy skirts beneath Lady Hua’s embroidered robes as she reclined on a couch.

Every morning, Lady Hua would brew tea and read in the main hall of the pavilion—a habit of many years.

Anle closed his umbrella and entered, the tip tracing a faint, fading line of rainwater across the floor.

Lady Hua set aside her book and looked toward the visiting young artist, her features as exquisitely carved as a sculpture.

But on seeing him, Lady Hua was momentarily stunned. Her spiritual sense could not perceive Anle’s bodily energy or spiritual mind; it was as though a veil of mist obscured his cultivation, making it impossible to discern.

Such a situation was exceedingly rare.

Her long lashes quivered as her gaze drifted from Anle’s handsome face down to his waist, where she caught sight of the tattered, yellowed bamboo sword.

At first, Lady Hua thought it merely an ordinary, broken bamboo sword.

But after a closer look, her soul shuddered, as if recalling something long forgotten.

A look of shock appeared on her delicate, elegant features.