Chapter Forty-Four: A Thunderclap Echoes in the Literary Academy, Piercing the Ink Pool Beneath the Peach Tree

Since the establishment of the Academy of Letters by that emperor who, ten thousand years ago, seemed to devour the land with the ferocity of a tiger, it has been intimately bound to the rise and fall of every dynasty.

The Holy Mountain stands aloof and independent; in truth, the Academy of Letters and the Martial Temple once sought to emulate such detachment. Yet, as the ties between the ruling dynasty and the Academy grew ever deeper, any attempt at imitation became an impossibility.

What began as a power focused on cultivating spiritual practitioners gradually evolved into a gathering place for the learned of the realm. Drawing scholars from all corners, the Academy became a crucible for diverse thought, with Confucianism eventually reigning supreme. Court scholars and masters of the Academy emerged, and even a mighty force distinct from physical or spiritual strength was nurtured—a grand and upright power unique to the scholarly path.

Unlike the Martial Temple’s purity and singularity, the Academy is far more complex. Its three Master Scholars each lead different factions, their philosophies clashing like hidden currents beneath the surface.

Spring rain pattered gently, draping the white walls and black tiles of the Academy’s buildings in a veil of beauty, as if painting a delicate ink landscape reminiscent of the southern riverlands.

Beyond the Academy’s white jade archway, through secluded paths strewn with blossoms dampened by rain, a thatched cottage could be glimpsed, half-hidden among several banana trees.

A simple dwelling amidst the world of men, untouched by the clamor of carriages and horses.

Beneath the thatched eaves, the spring wind drifted lazily, tilting the steam rising from a charcoal brazier. Droplets gathered into shimmering curtains, falling to the earth, their rhythm joining the rain’s song upon banana leaves—a music of silk and bamboo, delicate and clear.

Within, two elderly figures sat with a chessboard between them. Scattered black and white stones bore witness to their silent contest.

The elder from the Ancestral Temple played black, narrowing his eyes as he studied the board.

Opposite him sat the aged scholar in Confucian robes glimpsed before in the mountain pavilion: the third Master of the Academy, Wang of the Half-Mountain.

Wang, holding the white stones, captured one of Zhao Huangting’s black pieces.

“You seem to think highly of that young painter, even gifting him Green Mountain. Why, then, do you have leisure to seek me out for a game?” Wang asked with a smile.

“Nothing worth watching—there’s little suspense. He who wields my Green Mountain is sure to be extraordinary,” Zhao replied, sipping fine West Lake Dragon Well tea. Arching his long brows, he reached to retrieve his just-played black stone, only for Wang to lightly slap his hand away.

“Oh? You have such confidence in this painter? The contest for the Sixth Mountain’s keeper draws many formidable contenders: Ye Chong of the Ye clan, Zhong Shunchao of the Zhong family, and even Luo Qingchen, who is said to have set aside his pride to join,” Wang remarked, dropping another white stone and capturing a swath of black ones.

Zhao’s face darkened. He gulped down more tea, his long eyebrows quivering with exasperation. What harm was there in regretting a move?

“Luo Qingchen? That soft-hearted lad? With the Sixth Mountain Lord’s temperament, he’s unlikely to favor him. As for the Zhong and Ye families, if Ye Wenxi herself were to compete, victory would almost be assured. But that girl’s talent rivals even the great general of the Ye clan who guards the Canglang River—her ambition is high. She will never settle for mere stewardship; her sights are set on the Young Saints’ List and a dialogue with the Sage, perhaps opening the Seventh Mountain,” Zhao said, abandoning the game for his tea.

After all, if he continued, he was certain to lose; so long as he did not play, defeat could not claim him.

Wang recognized Zhao’s shameless ploy but chose not to expose it, merely smiling.

“In that case, the young painter’s entry into the Sixth Mountain could be good news for the Lin family,” Wang sighed. “The Lin clan has been loyal and valiant for generations. Yet it is precisely this loyalty that has led to their current predicament. The imperial house is the coldest of all. The noble within the Celestial Palace is waiting to see the outcome of the dragon-heir struggle; the influence of the Lin, Zhong, and Ye families is too great.”

“Let’s not speak of that one. Hearing his name irks me and shames the Zhao family,” Zhao muttered, chewing on tea leaves as their fragrance burst on his tongue. He shot Wang a slightly annoyed glance.

Wang smiled, unconcerned by the mention of the palace noble’s exalted status. Between the two old friends, there was no need for caution.

“There is one thing you have misunderstood—young An may not necessarily enter the Sixth Mountain,” Zhao said, deftly shifting the topic.

Wang stroked his beard and chuckled, unsurprised. “I’d like to hear your reasoning.”

“Never mind the Jade Guanyin of the Hua family. Based on my understanding of young An, he may not choose to become a mountain keeper,” Zhao replied, brewing another pot of hot tea and blowing away the steam.

“In truth, if he were to accept the post, I’d be disappointed. Though the role is honorable and confers status as a disciple of the Holy Mountain, it is, in some sense, a servant’s station—restrictive and stifling. I doubt he could bear the burden of Green Mountain under such constraints,” Zhao continued.

Wang narrowed his eyes.

“Though young An only began his journey recently—at eighteen, a late start, missing the golden years of building a solid foundation—his talent is undeniable, especially in the way of the sword,” Zhao went on. “That’s why I hope he will take up the Young Saint’s Token, walk the hardest path, earn a chance to speak with the Sage. Who knows? He might even become the long-awaited Seventh Mountain Lord.”

“My expectations for him are high. Green Mountain has long lain dormant in my hands; I hope he will one day unleash its hidden sword force—and perhaps, even challenge that supreme emperor of Yuanmeng.”

Zhao smiled, gazing into the misty rain, his eyes distant.

“My intentions are all within the sword aura of Green Mountain. Amidst its tangled energies, the Sixth Mountain Lord should understand my will. Should the young man wish to be a mountain keeper, so be it; if not, I’ll call in an old favor, and the Sixth Mountain Lord will grant him a Young Saint’s Token. But since Hua Jie Bing from the Lin family has gone, she’s surely after that token as well—so perhaps I can save my favor after all.”

“But with the token in hand, one must enter the Young Saints’ List. Only those who stand out there can truly prove themselves,” he concluded.

As his words faded, the spring rain intensified, each drop sounding more forceful. A peal of thunder rolled behind the clouds, and the downpour grew wild—within it, the sword’s intent shimmered.

Both Wang and Zhao turned their gazes to the distant horizon, where, in the hazy torrent, the outline of Green Mountain appeared.

“There now—the Jade Guanyin draws her sword,” Wang murmured.

...

An Le stared in astonishment at Madame Hua, whose aura was as deep as an abyss.

Her presence seemed to twist the very light of heaven and earth, as though she were a bodhisattva seated alone upon a lotus. With a flick of her finger, the sky was filled with sword energy!

In his name as An Le’s protector, Madame Hua was seeking a Young Saint’s Token for him...

An Le recalled that Madame Hua had explained: the Young Saint’s Token was the second requirement for an audience with the Sage!

So, the token must be obtained from the Mountain Lord’s own hand?

In the half-mountain pavilion, the man in green regarded Hua Jie Bing, whose sword intent blossomed from a single finger, his expression once more turning cold.

“You wish to claim the Young Saint’s Token for him?”

His palm fell upon the sword case at his side; within, the blade quivered.

Madame Hua’s refined face was earnest, her head bowed in solemn respect, her formidable spirit coalescing into the shadowy image of Guanyin.

“The mind-sword of Ganye Monastery is indeed impressive,” the man acknowledged. “But save your strength for the troubles soon to befall the Lin household—there’s no need to contend with me. Someone has already used a favor to secure him a Young Saint’s Token.”

At these words, Madame Hua’s solemnity faltered. Glancing at the battered bamboo sword at An Le’s waist, she realized: that venerable elder had done so much for An Le.

It made sense. To gift the bamboo sword and have An Le strive for the keepership did not match the elder’s domineering spirit—one who dared to draw against the emperor of Yuanmeng.

Understanding this, Madame Hua’s lips curled in a smile. With graceful composure, she bowed to the Sixth Mountain Lord. “Then I must trouble you, Mountain Lord.”

The Sixth Mountain Lord’s mouth twitched. “Favors are best spent sparingly.”

Madame Hua covered her mouth and laughed softly. True enough.

She could already picture that elder’s exasperated, chest-thumping frustration.

...

An Le, holding the ink-black Green Edge sword, met the eyes of both Madame Hua and the Mountain Lord, his expression growing solemn.

The Sixth Mountain Lord flicked his finger, and the black blade flew from An Le’s hand, hovering at his side.

“This sword comes from my own case, named Ink Pool. It is fated for you. The Young Saint’s Token is sealed within,” the Mountain Lord declared, tracing the sword with a shining finger that left golden light hidden in the blade.

With another flick, the Ink Pool sword streaked out, embedding itself in the trunk of a peach tree three hundred steps down from the pavilion.

“Climb the mountain and claim the sword. If you succeed, the token is yours. If you fail, you will serve as my mountain keeper and abandon dreams of opening a new mountain. Well?” asked the Mountain Lord.

Madame Hua frowned. “Mountain Lord, An Le’s cultivation is still shallow—climbing the Sixth Mountain...”

“He need only climb three hundred steps, not reach the summit. Besides, the steps of my mountain test one’s attunement with the sword, nothing excessive,” the Lord interrupted.

Madame Hua said no more. This was An Le’s opportunity; to win the token himself meant far more than if she claimed it for him.

Moreover, to climb the Sixth Mountain was a chance coveted by countless cultivators.

An Le looked up at the mountain peak, at the black sword beneath the peach tree.

As his innate sword talent trembled, the sword seemed to call to him across the distance—longing, hopeful, beseeching.

Drawing a steady breath, An Le declared, “I am willing to climb and claim the sword.”

The Mountain Lord and Madame Hua both nodded in approval.

With a sweep of his sleeve, the Mountain Lord wrapped An Le in sword light, transporting him in a flash to the foot of the mountain.

As the rain fell anew at the mountain’s base, the cultivators—still reeling from the white-robed youth’s earlier ascent—were astonished to see him return.

All were bewildered.

Luo Qingchen, Zhong Shunchao, and Ye Chong, just descending the mountain, were equally surprised to see An Le.

Wasn’t he just chosen as a mountain keeper?

Why had he come back down?

Ignoring the startled gazes, An Le’s face took on a rare gravity. He exhaled softly, then began to climb.

The moment his foot touched the path, the entire mountain’s sword aura seemed to awaken. The clangor of sword-song rang out like ancient bells and drums, pressing down with invisible force.

The three others instantly understood what was happening, their eyes changing as they looked at An Le.

“He gave up the keepership to seek the Young Saint’s Token, daring to gamble for a chance to speak with the Sage?!” Zhong Shunchao and Ye Chong exchanged glances, astonished—and even filled with respect.

Luo Qingchen, meanwhile, felt as if he’d been stabbed in the back. The role he so coveted had been offered to someone who didn’t even want it.

For a moment, Luo Qingchen felt as though the dust upon his heart, stirred by this youth’s actions, was spreading like ink—ever darker, ever wider.

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