Chapter Twenty: Six Years of Silent Vigil, Half a Step Through the Door

Flowers bloom and wither, snow blankets the green mountains—another year has passed.

Nan Luo gazed at the swirling snowflakes, lost in thought. Behind him was the alchemy chamber, its doors untouched throughout the year, an unnatural silence reigning within. Not a sound escaped, no sign of life.

Over the past year, he still had not succeeded in cultivating qi, yet his spirit, tempered by calm meditation, grew ever sharper and more refined. The falling snow drifted gently from the gray sky, each flake’s tranquil descent, its final transformation into running water, all fell beneath Nan Luo’s watchful eye. There was no agitation within him; the sound of snowflakes landing, merging into the murmuring of melted streams, the dripping from the eaves—everything seemed to be reflected in his heart.

Time blurred; clouds gathered and scattered countless times, and another year slipped by. Snow began to fall once more. As it descended, Nan Luo came to the cliff edge before the Taiji Palace, gazing at the plum blossom blooming amidst the snow... Ice and snow had already crusted the petals. Nan Luo squatted down, extending his hand to gently brush them.

“I wonder if you, too, are waiting, striving. I wonder if, come this time next year, I’ll still be able to see you. Perhaps, a hundred years from now, you’ll still stand here, proud against the wind and snow, while I’ll have long turned to dust and bone... I wish I could return home, to the Yangping clan at the foot of Yangping Mountain. I wonder if they’re well, if the priests and elders have already chosen someone else to inherit the mantle. My little sister must be ten by now—no, eleven, I think. It’s been so long since I left; so much has grown hazy in my memory.”

Nan Luo muttered, crouched at the cliff’s edge, gently brushing the snow from the withered plum petals. Snow fell ceaselessly, settling on his shoulders and head, dyeing him in shades of gray and white...

Time stretched on, years ebbing away.

“Another year,” Nan Luo murmured to himself, standing before the alchemy chamber of Taiji Palace. “Is it going to snow again?”

Just as Nan Luo thought to step outside and see the plum tree, the alchemy chamber door swung open. He approached, surprised at his own calm—no surge of excitement, only a gentle joy, light and clear as a mountain spring.

It was Silver Horn who opened the door. He regarded Nan Luo as if meeting him for the first time, as if he had long forgotten him; curiosity and confusion filled his eyes, unchanged from three years before. He said nothing, did not step out, only poked his head out and, seeing Nan Luo approach, moved aside to let him in.

At the moment Nan Luo entered the chamber, snow began to fall from the sky, and the plum tree before Taiji Palace swayed in the storm...

Though Nan Luo’s body was mysteriously immune to cold and heat, upon entering, he felt a warmth like spring—soft and penetrating to the bone.

At the heart of the alchemy chamber stood a great black-green cauldron, taller than Nan Luo himself. A pale flame burned quietly beneath it. Gold Horn and Silver Horn sat on meditation mats to either side, each holding a small blue fan. They weren’t fanning the fire; instead, they seemed bored, their eyes following Nan Luo’s every movement.

On the eastern side of the room sat an old man, his brows, hair, and beard all white, yet his complexion was rosy. He wore a robe the color of moonlight, with a Taiji emblem at his chest, and a fly-whisk rested in the crook of his arm—he looked every bit the immortal sage.

Nan Luo hurried forward, but before he could draw near, a meditation mat appeared at his side... He guessed it was meant for him, yet did not stop, and instead approached the seat of Master Tongxuan, bowing deeply.

Master Tongxuan sat with eyes half-closed, seeming not to notice Nan Luo’s gesture. Nan Luo said nothing. When his bow was complete, he seated himself on the mat that had appeared for him.

The chamber was silent.

Gold Horn and Silver Horn fanned idly, their golden and silver horns glinting in the firelight as they glanced at Nan Luo.

“Gold Horn, Silver Horn, mind the flame. Do not be distracted,” Master Tongxuan said suddenly.

Nan Luo wondered if it was his presence that made things so quiet, or if this was always the way. He could do nothing, only sit still...

Unknowingly, he sat there for three more years. In that time, the cauldron was opened and closed a dozen times, yielding three batches of pills. Nan Luo never moved; he simply watched. He understood nothing of alchemy and could not help, nor did he dare offer to fan the fire, lest Gold Horn and Silver Horn accuse him of getting them punished again.

So he sat, unmoving, for three years, watching Master Tongxuan refine pills, watching Gold Horn and Silver Horn get scolded for staring at him instead of tending the fire. Nan Luo felt as if he existed in another dimension, observing events in a world apart from his own.

“Come with me,” Master Tongxuan said abruptly, rising. The pills were finished, though the fire beneath the cauldron burned on, as silent and steady as Nan Luo’s heart—burning in solitude. Even as Gold Horn and Silver Horn fanned with all their might, the flame remained unchanged, quietly consuming itself...

Nan Luo bowed his head and quickly followed. Gold Horn and Silver Horn exchanged a glance, then trailed after, eyes shining with excitement and curiosity.

Master Tongxuan’s figure drifted ahead, seeming slow yet impossibly swift; with a single turn, he vanished from sight.

Nan Luo paused, glancing back at Gold Horn and Silver Horn, wanting to ask if they knew where Master Tongxuan would go.

The two looked the same as six years before, unchanged in the slightest—faces still innocent, eyes as pure as spring water.

They gazed up at Nan Luo, unconcerned with anything else. Their eyes seemed to ask, “Why stop here?” Nan Luo, seeing this, swallowed his question.

“Master Tongxuan called me to follow. Could it be he’s about to teach me the Dao?” Nan Luo’s heart pounded. After six years of quiet endurance, he felt hope stir within him.

“Where would he be... If he truly means to teach me, surely he’ll take me as a disciple in the main hall.” Thinking this, Nan Luo hurried toward the central hall.

He had sat outside the alchemy chamber for three years, inside for three more. His appearance had not changed at all—Nan Luo himself was unsure how—but he could feel his body growing ever stronger, a latent, explosive power within.

The main hall of Taiji Palace bore no special name—it was simply called the Taiji Hall. Entering, Nan Luo found Master Tongxuan seated there as expected.

“Nan Luo of the Yangping clan thanks the Master for saving my life...” Nan Luo stepped forward, kneeling in gratitude.

Master Tongxuan opened his eyes, which had been only half closed: “Since you have declared yourself of the Yangping clan, what relation is Daoist Kong Xuan, who brought you here, to you?”

Nan Luo’s heart skipped. He quickly recounted how he had been captured and taken to Azure Python Cliff, how he was caught in the battle between Eagle Nine and the Azure Dragon King, swept down the mountainside by the wind, wandered lost in the mountains for a month, only to be recaptured by Eagle Nine, and finally, how he came under the protection of Kong Xuan. He told all, swiftly and truthfully.

Master Tongxuan sat unmoving, inscrutable. Nan Luo spoke plainly, without embellishment.

“It seems from your words that you are not eager to serve as a child attendant in the Peacock Hall,” Master Tongxuan observed.

Nan Luo was silent for a while, then said quietly, “It was never my wish to become a child attendant in the Peacock Hall...”

“Are you aware that Daoist Kong Xuan said, when he brought you here, that if I saved your life, he would grant me one request, anything I wished?” Though six years of meditation had left Nan Luo’s heart as still as an ancient well, at these words, a strange feeling stirred within him, one he could not name.

Since childhood, Nan Luo’s parents had died hunting in the mountains, leaving him to raise his younger sister alone. Though, as he grew, his progress in cultivation made him the foremost in his clan and the chosen successor for the priesthood, that was the result of countless nights of hard work. While others played, he trained; while others slept, he trained still. So, when he finally excelled, he felt no particular excitement, only that it was natural.

Kong Xuan’s promise now weighed on his heart like a thousand pounds. In this moment, he forgot the cause of his grievous injuries altogether...

Before Nan Luo could respond, Master Tongxuan continued, “Your body contains a trace of Wu clan blood. It has already fully merged with you.”

“How can that be? I grew up among humans; my parents were human. How could I have Wu clan blood?” Nan Luo asked, perplexed, though he could not bring himself to doubt Master Tongxuan’s discernment.

“When you arrived, Kong Xuan came with Daoist Zhurong of the Wu clan. The trace of blood within you comes from her. Otherwise, you would never have survived the journey to Kunlun Mountain,” Master Tongxuan said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion.

Nan Luo realized then that the Wu clan’s Zhurong must have saved him with her blood at Kong Xuan’s request. He knew little of the Wu clan’s essence, but thought, “If even a single drop could save my life, it must be exceedingly precious to them.”

Understanding dawned—he grasped Master Tongxuan’s hidden meaning, and knelt again, saying, “Thank you, Master.”

“What are you thanking me for?” Master Tongxuan opened his half-lidded eyes, gazing at Nan Luo with a look that seemed to pierce the soul.

“Thank you, Master, for enlightening me, so that six years of quiet endurance did not numb my heart or make me forget the kindness of others.” Nan Luo met the Master’s gaze and spoke loudly.

“Hm. It is well that you understand this. You may go now.” Master Tongxuan’s tone was light, his eyes closing once more as he finished.

It had been so hard for Nan Luo to have this chance to speak. If he let it slip, who knew how many years he would wait for another.

“Master, I sincerely seek the Dao. I beg you to accept me as your disciple, to guide me.” Nan Luo knelt, pressing his forehead to the ground. Silence enveloped him; he dared not raise his head, fearing both discourtesy and that Master Tongxuan might vanish in the meantime.

After a time, Master Tongxuan’s unhurried voice reached his ears: “I know well your sincerity in seeking the Dao. Your nature is admirable, but you are not suited to inherit my teachings.”

Nan Luo was silent, for the Master had spoken—he was not suitable. Seeing Master Tongxuan’s unchanging expression, he could only mutter, “Disciple... Disciple...” yet could say no more.

Six years of waiting, and this was the answer. As despair was about to settle upon him, he suddenly heard Master Tongxuan speak again: “Though you are not suited to my path, I can accept you as a registered disciple to cultivate here.”

“Thank you, Master... thank you, teacher... thank you, teacher...”