Chapter 80: A Sword Drinks the Vast Spirit in the Green Mountains, Time Revealed Within the Stele of Literary Stars

Along a secluded path, one walks straight into a thatched cottage. Starlight and moonbeams drape the roof with a veil as pure as new-fallen snow. Beneath the eaves, two figures sit facing each other, brewing tea over a charcoal stove.

At first, the water simmers gently, tiny bubbles like the eyes of crabs surfacing in clear waves; then, the sound grows like a light cart rolling over smooth stones. Soon, the water roils and crashes, unstoppable, and the tea leaves unfurl, releasing a sweet fragrance as delicate as sparrow tongues. On the charcoal stove, the boiling water bubbles noisily, and the tea leaves dance and tumble within.

The two elderly men, gathered around the warmth, drive away the lingering chill of early spring. Upon the paper before them, the times they have written match exactly: they both believe Anle should emerge from the Heart-Questioning Grove in a quarter of an hour.

Yet, identical answers yield an identical verdict—both are wrong. Anle, from the beginning of his trial to his exit from the grove, took only half that time—he was far swifter than they had anticipated.

“Half a quarter to pass the Heart-Questioning, and the road opened smoothly before him, as if the path itself was made for his steps. This youth… he has found a new way,” Master Scholar Zhu Huoxi sighed softly, “You and I are old now, after all, and it seems there are times when our eyes deceive us.”

“A quarter of an hour to traverse the grove—that was the fastest in our Great Zhao’s thousand-year history, and the record was set by the illustrious Su Zhanxian, whose brilliance summoned a breath of mighty spirit,” replied Third Scholar Wang Banshan, stroking his beard, his eyelids lowered as he watched the tea leaves rise and fall in the pot, shaking his head with a faint smile. “Yet who would have thought that today, this record would be broken.”

“It seems the boy has gained much in the Heart-Questioning Grove—perhaps he has clarified his path ahead, laid out a clear plan for his journey, and so emerged unimpeded,” he continued.

Zhu Huoxi chuckled, stroking his beard. “He truly is suited for our Academy of Letters. Banshan, will you not try once more to persuade him back?”

“The Academy cannot keep him; why bring humiliation upon ourselves?” Wang Banshan replied quietly.

At this, Zhu Huoxi fell silent.

“When a scholar is tainted by poor habits, he loses his purity, and the fog upon his road grows ever thicker. For such a prodigy, what means does the Academy have to retain him? In these years, the heroes of the Martial Temple have arisen, all bent on reclaiming lost lands—Ye Longsheng, Zhong Shiji, Di Zang, Han Zhongyuan… and who does our Academy have to match them?”

“Li You’an? Su Zhanxian? They never even joined the Academy,” Wang Banshan murmured, his tone tinged with helplessness.

“It’s not just the Academy. Look at the vast court—decadence and rot cling to its bones like hungry maggots. If it were up to me, I would wield a mighty blade and reform it all.” Wang Banshan seemed to drink his tea in anger.

Zhu Huoxi sighed, glancing at Wang Banshan and glimpsing a fire in his old colleague’s eyes, as if ready to ignite the land.

Wang Banshan poured Zhu Huoxi another cup of hot tea, and the two of them, cradling their cups, sat beneath the eaves and gazed up at the endless Milky Way on this spring night.

After a long silence, Zhu Huoxi smiled gently. “Do what you must. The world has its principles, and within their bounds, I will aid you.”

Wang Banshan grinned, raised his cup, and clinked it lightly against Zhu Huoxi’s.

In that moment, it felt as if they drank not tea but the finest wine.

With a single draught, all worldly cares were cleansed away, and cool clarity lingered on the lips. Though their chests held not five thousand scrolls, new poetry could still chase the glories of late Tang. A scholar bears no sign of riches—so why boast of privilege when fortune smiles?

...

Above the sea of bamboo, the evening breeze drifted softly. Several spectral figures appeared, each shining with the brilliance of starlight. Zhao Huangting laughed heartily, his spirit perceiving clearly the bamboo sea within the Heart-Questioning Grove. Upon seeing the lively, almost lifelike ink bamboos, Zhao Huangting knew at once—these were Anle’s own creation.

“No wonder the Heart-Questioning Grove has been the Academy’s legacy for ten thousand years. Though in recent years it’s produced the likes of Qin Lishi, men with no fire in their bellies, the Academy’s foundation is beyond reproach,” Zhao Huangting laughed, unconcerned about offending the Academy.

Li You’an, Lady Hua, and the secretly arrived Lord Lin Si all smiled as well, tinged with emotion. To exit the Grove in half a quarter meant only one thing: Anle’s heart and mind had undergone a profound cleansing, dispelling all confusion within. The road ahead would be untroubled; no garden of wild flowers could lure him astray, nor sway his devotion. The brittle resolve seen in Lu Qingchen would never be his.

“Well, the Academy has truly spared no expense this time. Yesterday’s commotion with the Literary Stele prompted them to unveil even the Heart-Questioning Grove, hoping to win favor and sow goodwill,” Zhao Huangting saw through the intentions of the three master scholars at a glance.

“Anle indeed benefited from the Grove—his spirit is steadied, his mind purified, and the Academy’s aim of building a good relationship is achieved,” Lady Hua’s ethereal figure glimmered, her gaze shining as she spoke.

“The boy’s style of painting ink bamboo has changed—before, though he pioneered the school, his bamboo always echoed the ancients. Now, at last, it is truly his own,” Li You’an nodded, more concerned with the transformation in Anle’s art.

“That is the Grove’s true purpose; after all, a legacy of ten thousand years cannot be shallow,” Zhao Huangting declared with satisfaction.

“Indeed.” Li You’an’s spirit, hands clasped behind his back, looked beyond the bamboo sea and beheld the Literary Stele in the pavilion, bathed in starlight. His eyes flickered, lost in thought.

The gathered spirits did not disperse—rarely did they appear here in unison, and all wished to see if Anle would find fortune before the stele. Passing the Grove was one kind of destiny; whether he could seize a greater one at the stele remained to be seen. Their curiosity grew.

The Literary Stele could gather literary spirit, even condense righteous energy. To achieve both would be limitless in its promise!

...

Anle emerged from the Heart-Questioning Grove, clad in white brighter than snow. At his waist, the swords Qingshan and Mochi trembled, as if a song of steel rang out, making the bamboo leaves keen with sharpness. The clouds met the waves at dawn, the Milky Way about to turn, a thousand sails dancing. Anle’s white attire glimmered in the starlight, his hand pressing down on his sword hilt, stilling the restless Qingshan and Mochi.

The pavilion stood quietly, nestled in the depths of the bamboo sea, beneath the vast mantle of stars. The surface of the Literary Stele reflected the celestial glow, as if summoning the very star of literature. The stele was remarkably tall, its surface smooth as a mirror; characters formed from starlight, imbued with knowledge, and steeped in the weight of history.

To gaze upon the stele was to gaze upon the ancients, and in Anle’s eyes, it appeared even more wondrous. Upon the stele, wisps of time’s essence swirled and drifted like seaweed in the current. Anle’s eyes narrowed, his heart shaken. He verified again and again—was this truly the breath of time itself? For a cultivator, yes, but never before had Anle seen such a thing clinging to an object.

Could something other than a sage gather the breath of time?

Thus, Anle was stunned.

White-robed, sword at his side, he strode up the steps of the stele’s pavilion, treading on layers of bamboo leaves, the seasons ever turning. Within, he sensed a vast will, as if countless eyes peered through the ages to settle upon him. The weight was palpable, but bearable—as if the spirits of every scholar who had left their mark upon the river of time now watched him.

Step by step, he approached the stele, drawing near. The smooth surface glimmered with star-maps, like a patch of night sky. As he gazed for a long while, his thoughts grew tranquil—his recently perfected spirit flowed as a clear spring.

At close range, Anle noticed something different about the breath of time on the stele—it was veiled in a misty haze, all the more ethereal. He drew a deep breath, reverence softening his features. With a focused mind, he began to absorb a wisp of the breath of time. Then another, and another still.

A gentle breeze stirred, carrying drifting bamboo leaves that seemed to unfurl a vision before his eyes.

He saw an elderly, gaunt figure leaning on a bamboo staff beneath the stars, reciting poetry. A lady in scarlet robes, writing the chronicles of spring and autumn. A swordsman, hat pulled low, reciting verses as he killed. A scholar drinking, a wild artist splashing ink, a general wielding a spear… Again and again, the glories of past heroes who had stood before the Literary Stele flashed by like white horses across a crevice—each figure, battered by time, returning once more to the world.

With every vision, pearly white energy surged within the stele.

Within the Academy, the three master scholars watched intently. Zhao Huangting, Lady Hua, Li You’an, and others also observed keenly. The officials of the Ministry of Rites, tasked with recording every detail, were already beside themselves with excitement.

Starlight spilled endlessly from the stele, enveloping the white-robed youth. Faintly, silhouettes gathered from starlight drifted about him. Anle’s face grew increasingly pale as his spirit was consumed at a pace visible to the naked eye. Yet he pressed on, absorbing the breath of time, never once seeing golden years or condensing the fruit of time’s Dao. Still, the breath of time within him grew—he seemed to be conversing with the heroes and scholars of ten thousand years, knee to knee.

This night was both wondrous and painful.

From the stele, Anle drew forth eighteen wisps of the breath of time; his spirit was spent, and he could see no more visions nor seek wisdom from the ancients, nor travel the river of years. It felt as if a boat, sailing far, suddenly sprang a leak—the water rushed in, and the vessel sank.

A night wind blew, and Anle, his spirit depleted, opened his eyes. He steadied himself with the Qingshan sword, barely keeping upright.

He saw a surge of white energy billow from the stele, like mountain mist at dawn. Dimly, he glimpsed the smiling, nodding figures of those ancient masters within the mist.

At the very instant the white energy appeared, the spirits of countless onlookers were seized with excitement—hearts trembling, they murmured in awe.

“Righteousness!”

In the splendor of starlight, righteousness appeared!

But in the next moment, that excitement was doused cold. They watched in shock and regret as the white energy, instead of merging with the youth, poured instead into the battered bamboo sword he leaned upon.

Qingshan drank the righteous energy.

The bamboo sword flickered briefly, then fell silent once more.

Beneath the stars, the gathered spirits could only sigh in disappointment.

“Righteousness was summoned, but not bestowed upon the youth—what a pity,” Second Scholar Pang Ji sighed outside the Grove.

“How could Qingshan… even absorb righteousness?” Zhu Huoxi was equally astonished in the cottage, a little bewildered.

Third Scholar Wang Banshan stroked his long beard, at a loss for words.

The youth had indeed drawn out righteousness, yet it was the sword that drank it—like summoning meat buns only to feed them to a dog… Though Qingshan was extraordinary and could not be so compared, still, the scholars felt just such a frustration.

The first summoning of righteousness before the stele is always the easiest; it grows ever more difficult thereafter, as hard as reaching the sky. For Anle to draw it again seemed now impossible.

With the Heart-Questioning Grove vanished, the many scholars lost within regained their clarity, no longer stumbling blindly. They, too, saw the youth standing before the pavilion, who had summoned righteousness.

Those ranked on the Literary Roll felt as if struck by lightning; their pride shattered. Yet, seeing righteousness absorbed by the bamboo sword rather than Anle himself, they felt an odd satisfaction mixed with schadenfreude.

Seeing that Anle had not received righteousness after all, they could not help but be secretly pleased—he, too, was not so high above them, not so unapproachable.

Night wind stirred, silence deepened.

Lady Hua’s spirit turned to Zhao Huangting in confusion; even Li You’an could not help but glance his way.

It was as if they were asking, “What’s the story with this Qingshan you gave him?”

Just as righteousness was about to descend, Qingshan had intervened…

Was Qingshan Zhao Huangting’s planted agent?

Zhao Huangting was speechless. “Don’t look at me. How should I know what’s going on? Back when I stood before this stele, I never drew righteousness—if I’d known Qingshan liked to drink it, I’d have chopped at the stele myself.”

Had Anle received righteousness, he would have been surrounded by upright energy—his path would be clear, no evil could approach, and reaching the ninth realm would be within grasp. But with righteousness seized by Qingshan, all felt a pang of loss and regret.

“Still, Qingshan is a mystery. All I’ve learned about it is but scratching the surface. Perhaps, now that it has drunk righteousness, it will transform in ways even I could not predict, and return the favor to Anle,” Zhao Huangting said after a moment’s thought.

“In truth, with Qingshan as his sword, righteousness within, it’s almost as if Anle himself possesses it,” Li You’an observed.

But all knew this was mere consolation—righteousness in sword or in man were vastly different.

“Anle seemed greatly exhausted just now—perhaps Qingshan is saving righteousness for him?” Lady Hua mused. It was the only explanation she could offer.

Still, the sense of regret could not be dispelled—none had witnessed the birth of a new righteous scholar.

Their spirits dispersed, and the watching ceased.

...

Within the pavilion, Anle lifted Qingshan, stroking it gently. He could sense subtle changes in the sword, now that it had absorbed the white energy. Qingshan seemed to enjoy his touch, a shimmer of light moving along its blade. The other sword, Mochi, dared not stir before such power, let alone absorb it.

Though he had not personally received righteousness, Anle was far from empty-handed—his spirit, depleted, would surely grow stronger after rest. Moreover, he had drawn eighteen wisps of the breath of time from the stele—well beyond the usual quota, as if discovering a new function of the curtain of light. This pleased him greatly.

The visions of the ancient heroes inspired Anle; in both cultivation and knowledge, he had advanced. Though denied righteousness, he felt no great regret—in fact, a sense of anticipation stirred within.

Holding Qingshan, he could faintly sense the righteous energy within the stele mingling and merging with the sword’s aura. When the change was complete, it would surely return some benefit to him.

He sheathed Qingshan at his waist, still pale from exhaustion, stepped back, and offered a deep bow before the Literary Stele. He lingered no longer, turning and leaving the pavilion, bathed in starlight.

Behind him, the stele’s brilliance faded, returning to its silent, ancient austerity.

Second Scholar Pang Ji sighed, his gaze appreciative as he watched the youth, denied righteousness yet walking away unbowed.

“The results are in. Gentlemen, have you recorded everything?” he asked the Ministry of Rites officials.

They closed their registers and saluted the master scholar.

When the Heart-Questioning Grove vanished, they had already used their spiritual sense to judge each candidate’s performance. Naturally, Anle, who reached the pavilion, ranked first. The rest were judged by their proximity.

Han Shi, the young soldier from Cangzhou, ranked fifth, surpassing many scholars of the Literary Roll—a surprising feat.

Second Scholar Pang Ji was deeply disappointed in the Literary Roll’s results. The Chief Scholar, often in seclusion pursuing the ultimate principle and seeking the path beyond the tenth realm; Third Scholar Wang Banshan, always dissatisfied with the Academy, eager for radical reform but suppressed by the court. Thus, the real work of nurturing and teaching the Academy’s scholars fell to Pang Ji.

Regrettably, this year’s results chilled his heart.

“Master, we will take our leave. With both cultivation and written results in hand, the honor roll for the spring examinations can be finalized, and the names for the palace examinations as well,” the officials bowed respectfully.

Pang Ji returned the salute and saw them off.

Anle left the stele. Han Shi, the border soldier, was flushed with excitement as he hurried over. “Master An, you are truly remarkable! To reach the stele and even summon righteousness—even if it did not descend upon you, your name will resound through Lin’an again!”

“We must celebrate—let us drink!” Han Shi was thrilled, having surpassed many scholars to place fifth.

Anle laughed. “Very well, I’ll take you for a drink.”

The two bid farewell to Second Scholar, and as they walked away, Han Shi could not help but laugh loudly with joy, heedless of the complex stares of the scholars.

Anle and Han Shi left the Academy and made their way to the bustling streets of Lin’an Prefecture.

Starlight and moonbeams streamed down the avenue.

The Ministry of Rites began the urgent task of calculating both the literary and martial examination results, drawing up the honor rolls.

Meanwhile, as the spring examination drew to a close, Lin’an’s pent-up extravagance and splendor burst forth once more. The long night grew ever more radiant, lanterns lighting the city until dawn.

On West Lake, flower boats bloomed with light, music and revelry carrying on through the night.

At the Linhua Pavilion, no seat could be found for love or money; the air filled with birdsong, music, and dance with no end in sight.

In high spirits, Anle, leading the dazzled Han Shi who was nearly blinded by Lin’an’s nightscape, took him to a small tavern in a secluded lane called Yan Spring Alley.

No decadence touched them, the city’s glamour left behind.

Returning home in plain robes, the wind at their sleeves, they remained as ever—men of modest means.

“Madam, bring us wine.”

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(End of this chapter)