Chapter Thirty-Nine: Master

Soaring through the void, though invisible to the eyes of true masters, was not something any genuine master would bother to intercept. Moreover, the golden-winged roc that Southfall rode soared at an astonishing height, reached only by a rare few birds with a fondness for high-altitude flight. Were it not for his concealment in the void, those watching from the ground would have glimpsed a streak of golden light flashing across the heavens. The cycles of day and night unfolded one by one upon the gray mirror in Southfall’s hand.

In a fleeting moment, Southfall opened his eyes—it was already Kunlun Mountain. When he left, it had been winter; now, barely a month had passed, yet once again the sky seemed heavy with impending snow. Guided by memory, he came to stand before the Palace of the Supreme Ultimate within the mountains of Kunlun.

Mists curled and clouds wound about, as if the place were an earthly paradise.

Yet aside from this, there was nothing—only emptiness and mystery.

Where was the Palace of the Supreme Ultimate? How could it have vanished?

Southfall strode quickly toward where the palace should have stood, even forgetting his ability to traverse space in a single leap. He searched around, turning in circles, gazing in all directions—immortal clouds drifting, birds soaring in distant realms.

He did not shout or cry out, but ran and wandered amidst the mists and clouds…

He did not know when the sun had set; a lone wild goose drifted slowly across the sky, its solitary call echoing through the mountain valleys.

In his haste, Southfall came to the edge of a cliff, where the branch of a plum tree, buds poised to bloom, stood in the sunset.

He sat again upon the same block of green stone where he had passed hundreds of days and nights.

“You are still here—plum blossom, oh plum blossom, you are still here! Thank goodness for you, else I might have thought I’d come to the wrong place,” Southfall murmured softly.

“Master, I am here as well!” At some unknown moment, the little green snake had emerged, still no larger than a pair of chopsticks, its body now gleaming with a jade-like radiance, more spirited than ever.

Southfall could not help but smile at the sight of the little green snake. “So you are here too, eh? Why didn’t you make yourself known sooner?”

The little green snake cocked her head. “But Master, I came out long ago—I thought you had seen me!”

“Is that so?” Southfall bent down, unable to resist tapping the snake’s dainty head with his finger. “To this day, I still don’t know your name.”

The little green snake shivered at his touch, twisting her body to escape his finger. “I haven’t any name yet, Master. Please, give me one!” Her voice, still that of a child, no longer carried the awkwardness or uncertainty from before; where once her tone was genderless, now it was clearly that of a young girl.

Southfall smiled gently, squinting as he pondered for a moment. “Your body is green—let’s call you Qingqing.”

“Oh…” The little green snake sounded somewhat reluctant, but Southfall failed to notice.

He sat up, turning once more to look behind him, only to find the place as empty as before.

“Master, where have you been all this time?” the little green snake asked.

Southfall answered absentmindedly, “To a very, very distant place.” Suddenly, he said, “You’ve called me Master for so long, yet I have taught you nothing. Today, I shall impart to you a method of cultivating qi, one that points directly to the path of the primordial spirit.”

The little green snake wriggled excitedly. “Yes, yes!” she cried.

After saying this, Southfall looked over his shoulder again, as if fearing the Supreme Mystic Master might appear at any moment to stop him from passing on his teachings.

“The Daoist arts I practice were transmitted by your grandmaster, the Supreme Mystic Master. Though I was only accepted as a nominal disciple, you must still show him respect. However, you need not call me Master—I am merely repaying your kindness for bringing me the mirror.” Southfall sat up straight again. Night gradually enveloped the world, the last rays of sunset bathing him in light, lending him a faint aura reminiscent of the Supreme Mystic Master—ethereal, tinged with an ancient air.

“This method is called ‘The Treatise of Supreme Purity and Response.’ By attuning oneself to the resonance of Heaven and Man, one refines essence into qi…” Southfall’s voice was gentle, yet the surroundings were unusually silent—not even the chirr of an insect, not the whisper of a breeze.

Heaven’s moon had risen, its full orb veiled in a hazy golden glow, shining through mountain mists with an unearthly charm.

When Southfall finished imparting the entire Treatise of Response, he looked up—the moon was already at its zenith.

Suddenly, he felt a faint warmth in his chest. Reaching into his robe, he took out the mirror; its surface was now as clear as water, and the moon above was reflected perfectly within it.

Ordinarily, a mirror could not capture the moon itself in its surface, even under moonlight. Yet Southfall clearly saw a moon in the mirror; not only that, but the dark clouds beside the moon were reflected with perfect clarity, as if a whole world existed within the glass.

He looked from the sky to the mirror, not daring to make a move, fearing that any disturbance would break the spell and the mirror would revert to its former haze.

So he sat upright, quietly watching. After a long while, he slowly closed his eyes, his mind growing tranquil as the world fell into silence. In that instant, Southfall seemed to forget all things, his heart becoming transparent and clear—like the surface of the mirror, limpid as water.

Cloudy qi swirled gently within his dantian, forming a great circuit through his meridians. As it reached his palms, his inner breath began to flow toward the mirror. Southfall’s consciousness followed, merging with the breath as it entered the mirror. Instantly, he sensed a dim, gray space—no sky, no earth, just a boundless, murky realm. Soon, the gray mist enveloped the breath he’d sent in, and his spiritual awareness vanished in a flash.

The moon set, the sun rose, filling the world with dazzling light.

Southfall sat as if unmoving. The moon in the mirror had vanished, but now a crimson sun appeared, a half-orb at the mirror’s edge. As the sun rose, it moved steadily toward the center. When it reached the heart of the mirror, the sun above and the sun in the glass aligned perfectly, golden rays merging into the depths of the mirror.

Three days passed.

Southfall slowly opened his eyes; the mirror was still as clear as water. Suddenly, he raised it to the sky and gave it a shake. Looking again, he saw a white cloud within the mirror, perfectly still, frozen in place. He turned the mirror toward a distant mountain—within, a giant centipede lay coiled in what seemed a damp cave.

Southfall was surprised. He had not expected this mirror, with a single glance, to reveal the hidden beasts deep within mountain caverns. Excited, he began to sweep the mirror across other places.

As the mirror’s surface shifted, the scene within changed. This time, it showed a coiled flood dragon deep within a pool, its entire body a pale blue-green, exuding a formidable presence.

His heart stirred. Standing on the spot, he swept the mirror over each mountain peak. Almost every one revealed monsters lurking in the depths—some in beast form, swallowing clouds and spitting mist, others transformed into human shape, sitting in silent meditation.

Suddenly, Southfall turned and directed the mirror at the place where the Palace of the Supreme Ultimate should have stood. The image shifted. He quickly turned the mirror back to look; all he saw was a swirl of white cloud, rolling and tumbling, as if concealing something within.

Unwilling to give up, Southfall tried again. Though the white mist changed slightly, he still could not make out what was hidden inside.

Then, as if understanding something, he strode forward, lifted the hem of his robe, and bowed deeply.

“Master, I know you do not wish to see me; thus, I dare not disturb you further here. But Crown Prince Kongxuan has shown me great kindness. Before I came, he asked me to pass on a question.”

“Kongxuan asked that I inquire of you: Is it possible for a phoenix to be immortal?”

Southfall called out loudly toward the swirling white mist, repeating the question three times before bowing deeply.

He remembered the gravity in Kongxuan’s voice before he left. The answer to this question was of utmost importance to Kongxuan. In Southfall’s heart, he felt that this was the true purpose of his journey—not the trip to the Dragon Palace of the Celestial Lake.

Kunlun loomed, vast and majestic, stretching for ten thousand miles.

Amid the endless green mountains, mists drifted and white fog spread.

When the sun set behind the western peaks and rose again, a voice echoed once more through the valley: “Master, is it possible for a phoenix to be immortal?” The sound lingered, the waves of its echo entwining with the mountain fog.

A wind arose—no one knew when—a mountain breeze sweeping down as if from the ninth heaven, bearing a trace of otherworldly chill. Fine rain, mixed with the wind, drifted through the mountains, dampening the blue-robed figure kneeling in the wilderness.

Darkness slowly descended, cloaking the green hills, the fine rain, and the solitary figure in the mountains. Suddenly, amidst the night, white specks began to dance—snowflakes swirling in the sky.

The world was hushed, all things silent.

From the moment Southfall sat down and closed his eyes on the green stone, the little green snake had curled up in a crack beneath him. Three days later, she saw her master leap up with delight, mirror in hand, sweeping its gaze in every direction, a smile never leaving his face. But before long, she saw her master suddenly kneel, say a few words, and then bow deeply, not rising again.

She knew there had once been a palace here, said to have housed her master’s own master. But why was he gone? Or did he simply refuse to appear? She pondered for a moment, found no answer, and set the question aside.

Curling up in the crack beneath the plum tree’s roots, the little green snake dozed. Though she no longer needed to hibernate, winter still made her drowsy.

When she next opened her eyes, the sky was gray; snow was falling soundlessly.

So it was snowing at last. She quickly looked toward Southfall’s spot and saw that snow and ice had built up thickly on him, black hair strewn across the ground, half-buried beneath the snow.

“Master… Is it possible for a phoenix to be immortal?” As the little green snake was about to slither over, from beneath the snow Southfall called out again in a loud voice.

Delighted, the little snake wriggled her shimmering body, meaning to tell her master not to keep asking, not to keep kneeling. But before she could reach him, Southfall had already moved—three deep bows, then rising, a wave of the hand summoned a golden bird from thin air. In a flash of golden light, the great bird and Southfall soared into the distant, snowy sky.

“Master… Master…” the little snake called plaintively into the snowy void, then dejectedly slithered to the plum tree by the cliff’s edge. She murmured to herself, “Master has left again. This time, I fear he will not return.”

By now, the plum tree’s branches were covered with blossoms whiter than snow, yet not a single flake had landed upon the petals.

As the little green snake was about to slip into a crack at the plum tree’s root, she turned and shouted down the cliff, “All of you down there, you heard my master teach the Treatise of Supreme Purity and Response that night—so from now on, you all have to call me Master too. I’m your elder sister now!”

No sooner had she finished than the snow-laden forest stirred with the rustling of many beasts. After a while, silence returned.

Vexed, the little green snake gave a snort, looked around for something to vent her anger on, and, finding nothing, slowly slipped into the crevice beneath the plum tree.

A mountain wind stirred, and the plum blossoms on the branches swayed silently amidst the falling snow.