Chapter Seventy: Do You Know, Do You Know? Let Us Drink a Cup of Spring Wine

The white crane tore through the spring rain, wings beating as it descended from the First Mountain—so distant as to be unattainable in mortal eyes—to the Academy of Letters, where it was caught by the master. The message it bore was the update to the Young Sages List.

Wang Qinhao, down to nineteen.
An Le, up to eighteen.

It was a change that caught everyone by surprise, sudden and abrupt. Wang Qinhao, who had reached the fourth level of Body Tempering and the third realm of Spirit Refining, was overtaken... The given reason was that An Le, previously ranked nineteenth, had broken through to the third realm in both disciplines. Yet, there remained a gap of an entire major realm in Body Tempering—how could this be?

The update and dissemination of the Young Sages List had always been handled by the Academy of Letters, and so it was this time as well. The white crane served as proof, its arrival symbolizing the First Mountain’s stance and providing evidence for the change in ranking.

No matter the multitude of doubts in everyone’s hearts, none could deny the altered ranks.

Across the Academy, the Martial Temple, the Lin and Ye residences, the Chancellor Qin’s mansion, and even the vast imperial palace deep within the still streets, the revised yellow scroll of the Young Sages List arrived.

On each face, a different expression flickered.

Such circumstances were not without precedent, but those who found themselves pushed down the ranks rarely accepted it. No one liked to admit inferiority—least of all holders of the Young Sage Token.

Those who wielded the Young Sage Token all harbored hopes of conversing with the Sage Master and were naturally confident, filled with ambition and self-assurance. None would be content to fall behind.

Of course, the Young Sages List seldom changed—unless the prodigies upon it achieved significant breakthroughs, prompting adjustments to spur them into challenging one another.

Thus, it was common knowledge that, true to his temperament, Wang Qinhao would be unable to rest easy and would likely challenge An Le before the night was out.

Many, entertaining the thought, took up their umbrellas and set out to witness a fine spectacle.

...

Qingbo Street, Ta Temple Lane.

The rain-soaked alley was quiet, beads of water trickling down the black-tiled eaves on either side.

The small courtyard within was equally tranquil. The old locust tree stood in silent support, two tree holes in its trunk—one still holding an inkstone. Inside, An Le had just finished a painting that expressed his innermost feelings; the scent of ink and books wafted outward, absorbed by the inkstone.

Within the house, the old man from the Grand Temple held a candle lamp, his hair frosted white, gazing in a daze at the youth standing by the window, from whom emanated a surge of gallant spirit that felt both familiar and deeply enviable.

As the sword sang amidst green mountains, memories of bygone years surfaced like drifting mist.

In his youth, he had possessed exceptional talent, the pride of the royal clan, venturing into the world alone with his sword.

He had once raised his blade atop Rotten Ke, debated swordplay with the Buddha’s child, seeking enlightenment through the sword.

He had once journeyed on foot to the Celestial Master’s residence, striking the gates with his sword to challenge the young master, engaging in philosophical debate until dawn.

He had once roamed carefreely through Kunpeng Mountain, conversing with great demons, charming female spirits.

Those years, looking back, drew a sigh from his lips.

In a blink, five centuries had passed; the boundless pride of youth had receded into silver at his temples.

From this youth, he glimpsed a shadow of his own younger self, a flush rising to his nose as old memories welled up, stirring his heart.

In this moment, as he watched the boy, his gaze grew ever gentler. Perhaps gifting the youth with “Green Mountain” had been more than appreciation for his painting—perhaps it was because he saw in him a reflection of the self he once was.

“No... He is himself, and I am me. Each life is its own. My journey is not yet ended—there are still glories left for me.”

“Time spares no one; does the silver in my hair know this, know it, know it? Let us drain a cup of spring wine.”

Suddenly the old man laughed, his spirits no longer waning.

Just then, An Le awoke as well, his eyes clear and bright, a vigorous and bold aura seeming to sweep through him. The confidence and heroic spirit radiating from the youth now far surpassed before.

This transformation puzzled the old man, until his gaze fell upon the signature on the painting of bamboos in clear weather.

“The bamboo in the chest is not the bamboo seen by the eye; the bamboo in the hand is not the bamboo conceived in the heart...”

Could a single painting have inspired such gallant spirit in the youth?

What had he comprehended?

The old man found An Le’s talent increasingly unfathomable, more and more extraordinary. With such brilliance, he ought not to have begun cultivating so late at eighteen, missing the chance to lay his foundation.

“Young friend An, have you gained insight?”

The old man smiled, holding up the lamp.

An Le returned a gentle smile, gazing at the elder’s frost-white temples, suddenly feeling a bit dazed—within the golden years, the elder had still been young, daring to challenge the world’s greatest with a bamboo sword.

Now, that hero whose spirit once soared to the heavens had grown old, his hair turned pitifully white.

Time, perhaps, is the most wounding force in this world.

“I have indeed gained some enlightenment.” An Le pressed his hands together in salute, bowing slightly—a gesture of gratitude for the elder’s golden years and his aid in forging the Dao Fruit, “Guide of Gallant Spirit.”

The old man, watching An Le, sensed a subtle change in the youth’s demeanor, but paid it no mind.

“In this world, can none as strong as you, senior, attain immortality?” An Le inquired with curiosity.

The old man’s hand froze mid-stroke of his beard, his eyes tinged with emotion. “Immortality... It is a difficult path, exceedingly so. To reach the sixth realm of cultivation is to gain a lifespan of three hundred years, with every realm thereafter adding a century. At the ninth, one may live six hundred years. Yet, in this world, how many have reached the ninth? The tenth extends life even further, but even then, the end comes... Immortality is but an illusionary word.”

He sighed.

An Le sensed the helplessness in his words.

But soon, the resignation vanished from the old man’s gaze, replaced by earnestness as he fixed his eyes on An Le. “We who cultivate should not set immortality as our goal, but rather, seek to become stronger. When you are powerful enough—beyond all others—immortality will naturally follow.”

An Le nodded solemnly.

Suddenly, the elder, lamp in hand, approached the window. Outside, spring rain pattered in the courtyard, and faint footsteps could be heard.

Boots rose and fell, splashing through puddles, a sharp blade-aura ringing out in the night like a chime, its reverberations sweeping in from Qingbo Street.

“This blade-aura... It’s the young lord from the Duke’s house,” the old man remarked, raising an eyebrow in surprise. Then, as if recalling something, his expression grew wry as he looked at An Le with a hint of mischief. “You may have moved up a rank on the Young Sages List.”

An Le wore a look of confusion. He had done nothing; he hadn’t even challenged Wang Qinhao, the eighteenth rank—how did he rise?

“Now, it’s not you challenging Wang Qinhao, but he coming to challenge you,” the old man said, his face flushed with mirth, clearly relishing the unfolding drama.

An Le’s expression calmed, his mind racing. Likely, his breakthrough to the third realm of Body Tempering had triggered the change.

“Updates to the Young Sages List are rare, but if the First Mountain’s master, whose calculations seldom err, deems your strength superior and raises your rank, it’s not unheard of. Usually, those who drop in rank refuse to accept it and launch challenges that very night—it’s common practice. Some even overturn the outcome and reclaim their spot, as real combat and technique can’t always be predicted.”

The old man smiled. “They were waiting for you, the newcomer, to challenge, but when their own rank fell below yours, their pride could not endure it. He can’t sit still.”

An Le finally understood.

...

Qingbo Street. Millions of drops of spring rain poured down, battering the ground, only to be sliced into mist by a sweeping blade-aura.

A lone figure strode along, saber at his side, clad in splendid attire, his visage stern.

Step by step, he arrived from the direction of Still Street, entering Qingbo Street. In the cold spring night, only the sound of rain remained; his footsteps shattered the silence, echoing emptily.

Wang Qinhao harbored a sense of stifled frustration—understandable for anyone in his place.

The Young Sages List had automatically shifted him below a youth who had been listed only days before, whose cultivation was still lower by a major realm.

To be surpassed in this way—was it not an insult?

Those who dared to wield the Young Sage Token were never mediocre. Wang Qinhao was certainly not. Pride burned in his heart.

He halted on the long street, gazing into the empty, dark Ta Temple Lane, and suddenly felt a strange calm.

He drew the Dragon Spine Saber, its tip scraping the ground, the sound echoing like a dragon’s cry.

Standing in the spring rain, his clothes were quickly soaked, water dripping from his chin in rivulets.

He took out the yellow scroll of the Young Sages List, wrapped it in his spirit, and tapped it with a finger.

At once, the scroll shot through the rain, racing toward the small courtyard in Ta Temple Lane, guided by his spirit.

Inside the courtyard, An Le stood by the window, watching as the yellow scroll, wrapped in an alien spirit, sped toward him. His expression did not change; he felt no pressure at all.

He too had reached the third realm of Spirit Refining, and was fearless.

Within the Palace of Mud Pills, his sword-forge trembled, a surge of sword-aura bursting forth, shattering the opposing spirit on the scroll. He caught it, turned to the last page, and there it was—his rank had risen to eighteenth.

With the Spring Examinations approaching, such an elevation pleased him greatly.

On Qingbo Street, Wang Qinhao, sensing his spirit shattered, remained impassive. In the rain, saber in hand, blood and energy surged, his fighting spirit climbing higher as he spoke, his voice booming like thunder.

“Wang Qinhao, nineteenth on the Young Sages List, has fallen a rank, and cannot reconcile it. Tonight, I come to challenge—will Young Master An accept?”

His fighting spirit blazed, his shout resounding through the street and alley.

Wang Qinhao had once declared he would wait for An Le’s challenge, wanting to see what the youth who had earned the Young Sage Token by his own strength was capable of.

But now that things had changed, his challenge was inevitable.

From all around Qingbo Street, subtle mental probes and curious eyes watched, eager to see whether An Le would accept.

Of course, An Le could refuse—but only once. The challenge could not be avoided; after one refusal, it could be made again in three days, and then must be accepted.

Once accepted, there would be a victor and a loser—a result of great significance for holders of the Young Sage Token.

It was not only a blow to one’s state of mind, but a shock to one’s very conviction.

The rumbling call, like a biting spring wind, sent the old locust tree’s leaves trembling in the quiet courtyard.

The old man, lamp in hand, looked on with curiosity, wondering if An Le would accept.

An Le closed the scroll, his face untroubled.

A surge of heroic spirit rose within him—now that he had surpassed Wang Qinhao in rank, what was there to fear?

He had just witnessed the golden years—the old man of the Grand Temple wielding the bamboo sword Green Mountain, battling the Emperor of Yuanmeng, his heroic spirit soaring to the heavens.

How could An Le shrink away?

In fact, he even anticipated this battle, hoping to nurture that heroic spirit in his heart.

Having just acquired the Dao Fruit “Guide of Gallant Spirit,” he would not back down.

He had fought above his level before—against the coachman Zhu Shan, who, even at a higher realm in Body Tempering, had still been defeated.

Wang Qinhao was far superior to Zhu Shan in both talent and cultivation method—but so what?

An Le slowly closed his eyes. The scene of the Grand Temple elder wielding Green Mountain against the Emperor of Yuanmeng resurfaced—their heroic spirits breaking through the painting itself.

At that time, the Emperor had already reached the tenth realm, the strongest in the world. Zhao Huangting could not compare, yet still dared to fight sword to sword, undaunted.

Today, An Le would not retreat.

Though this was not a duel with the Emperor of Yuanmeng, it was still a battle against a genius above his realm.

It was a chance to cultivate his own heroic spirit!

When he opened his eyes again, battle intent surged within them. He turned to the elder and saluted. “I’ll be back soon. When I return, let’s finish the old yellow wine together.”

The old man stroked his beard with a smile. “Go on! I’ll keep the wine warm and save you a cup.”

An Le couldn’t help but smile.

“The Young Sage Token will protect your life. Don’t hold back—fight as if for life and death, for so it should be,” the elder called over his shoulder, returning to his painting.

An Le responded affirmatively, stepped out into the rain, and opened his oil-paper umbrella. Raindrops exploded on its surface, water splashing and misting all around.

With a thought, the inkstone embedded in the old locust tree quivered, slipped free of the hole, and flew to An Le’s side, joining Green Mountain at his waist.

Umbrella in hand, he strolled through the quiet, lonely rain alley, feeling the fierce energy and fighting spirit surging from Qingbo Street.

The tiger hidden in the young man’s heart seemed to raise its head, baring fangs and claws.

On Qingbo Street, Wang Qinhao stood in the spring rain, saber grounded.

From the shrouding darkness and rain, a multitude of spirits and eyes watched the mouth of Ta Temple Lane.

There, a youth in blue appeared, strolling out as if in his own courtyard.

At his waist hung a bamboo sword and an ink-black sword.

His features were striking and handsome, almost otherworldly, his eyes dazzling.

“Let’s fight atop West Lake—let’s not disturb the neighbors’ rest,” An Le said softly.

At his words, the blade-aura around Wang Qinhao pulsed, his gaze sharp as he stared at An Le, sensing the youth was somehow greatly changed since last they met.

More confident, more bold, more domineering...

Body Tempering, third realm... and yet so assured?

“Very well,” Wang Qinhao replied in a low voice.

The two of them, like old friends, walked side by side through the rain, down Qingbo Street and toward West Lake.

Mist drifted over the water, distant mountains dim beneath low clouds.

On the rainy night, West Lake rippled with circles upon circles.

On the flower boats, lanterns were just being lit, laughter and music drifting faintly across the water.

Wang Qinhao and An Le reached the lakeshore.

Without pause, they both stepped onto the surface, walking as if on solid ground.

They faced each other, ten paces apart.

Wang Qinhao gripped his Dragon Spine Saber at an angle, blood and energy surging beneath his skin, vaporizing the falling rain before it touched him.

“By rights, you should have challenged me on the Young Sages List. Yet now, our positions are reversed.”

“I do not accept it,” Wang Qinhao declared.

An Le had long since set aside his umbrella on the causeway.

Now, standing in the rain, the ink sword at his waist sang, rising to float and vanish into the night and spring rain.

“If you refuse, then I’ll fight until you accept,” An Le replied.

But before he finished, Wang Qinhao was already on the move, crossing the ten-pace distance in a flash.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Only then did the lake surface erupt into a chain of leaping ripples!

Wang Qinhao had seen An Le’s battle with the saber-wielding coachman, Zhu Shan, and knew that An Le’s sword technique, learned from the Young Sage Token, was extraordinary.

But his weakness was in Body Tempering.

Wang Qinhao would not make Zhu Shan’s mistake—besides, he was not Zhu Shan!

He closed the distance rapidly, leveraging his advantage in Body Tempering.

But just as he entered within a single pace of An Le, intending to strike, his pupils shrank in shock!

For An Le shifted into a tiger stance, unleashing a tiger’s palm. His blue robes billowed, blood and energy swirling like a furnace, and blood-red script flickered beneath his skin.

Demonic energy, blood energy, spiritual force, and raw strength all gathered at once!

The handsome, refined youth suddenly transformed into a primordial, fearsome demon tiger, roaring as if to bring down the stars!

The ancient demon’s Five Beasts technique was revealed in battle for the first time, baring its fangs to the world.

Wang Qinhao’s mind was shattered by the impact!

What kind of Five Beasts technique was this?!

Before his saber could be raised, An Le pressed it back and, with the tiger’s palm, struck down.

A horrifying force crushed him, leaving him dazed and incredulous as blood spurted from his mouth.

Boom!

A thunderous crash exploded across the lake!

He was slammed straight down to the lakebed!

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