The Qingyun Mountain Range loomed vast and towering, crouching over the Central Plains like a great tiger. On its shaded northern slope flowed the great river known as Hongchuan, while its sunlit southern face was home to the garrison town of Heyang City—a chokepoint gripping the vital passage, its strategic position of supreme importance.
Qingyun Mountain stretched for a hundred li, its ridgelines rising and falling in endless undulation. At its highest stood seven peaks that soared into the clouds; on ordinary days one could see only white mist coiling about the mountain's waist, the true faces of the summits forever hidden from view. Dense forests blanketed the slopes, where cascading waterfalls, strange rocks, rare birds, and exotic beasts abounded in great number. The scenery was at once secluded and precipitous, wondrous and majestic—renowned far and wide.
Yet what was even more renowned was the cultivation sect upon this mountain—Qingyun Sect.
The Qingyun Sect boasts a history stretching back over two thousand years since its founding, and stands today as the preeminent force among both the righteous and demonic paths. Legend holds that its founding patriarch was once a wandering fortune-teller, who spent half his life in poverty and obscurity, unable to find his footing in the world. In his forty-ninth year, he set out to roam the land, and upon passing through Qingyun Mountain, recognized at a single glance that the mountain was a place of extraordinary spiritual beauty, where the earth's Spiritual Energy gathered in abundance — a truly singular and auspicious ground. He ascended the mountain without delay, sustaining himself on wind and dew as he devoted himself to Cultivation and the refinement of the Dao. Before long, deep within a hidden cave on Qingyun Mountain, he made a remarkable discovery: an ancient scroll bearing no title, filled with all manner of profound techniques and mystical arts — dense and abstruse in the extreme, yet of boundless utility and tremendous power.
The diviner seized upon this extraordinary encounter and devoted himself wholeheartedly to its study. Twenty years slipped by in a flash; having achieved a measure of mastery, he emerged into the world. Through many a storm and trial across the jianghu, he could not claim dominion over all under heaven, yet he became a lord of his own domain nonetheless. He thereupon founded a sect upon Qingyun Mountain, naming it: Qingyun. As the ancient scroll's teachings ran close to the Daoist path, he donned Daoist robes and styled himself "Qingyu Zi"; later generations of disciples would come to revere him as "Perfected Qingyun."
Qingyu Zi lived three hundred and sixty-seven years. In his lifetime he took ten disciples, and on his deathbed he exhorted them: "All that I have learned in half my life is contained within the art of physiognomy, and I am most accomplished in the reading of feng shui. This Qingyu Mountain is among the rarest spiritual lands in the mortal world. Our Qingyu Sect holds this mountain, and we are certain to flourish in the days to come — you must never abandon it. Bear this in mind, bear this in mind!"
At the time, all ten disciples nodded one by one, utterly convinced and without the slightest doubt, and only then did Qingyu Zi pass away. Yet in the hundred years that followed—whether by fate's cruel hand, or simply because Qingyu Zi's art of divination had never been as keen as believed—the Qingyu Sect not only failed to rise, but dwindled with each passing year.
Of the ten disciples, two died young, four perished in rivalries and duels of the jianghu, one of the remainder was left crippled and one went missing, leaving only two lineages intact. Fifty years passed in this manner, until within a hundred li of Qingyun Mountain there struck disasters the like of which had never before been seen — earthquakes, mountain floods bursting forth, the earth shaking and mountains trembling — with countless dead and wounded. Yet another lineage was thus extinguished. And the sole remaining heir, limited by his meager aptitude and modest abilities, was far from recapturing Qingyu Zi's former glory. Worse, because of that ancient scroll, he drew the covetous eyes of outside enemies; after several bloody battles, had it not been for the powerful sealing artifacts Qingyu Zi had left behind, the Qingyun Sect would surely have been destroyed long ago.
This situation persisted for a full four hundred years. Qingyun Sect showed no signs of recovery — it could almost be described as barely clinging to survival. In the end, they were bullied right to their own doorstep: of the Seven Peaks of Qingyun, all but the main peak, Tongfeng, had been seized by outside enemies, among them bandits and outlaws who used the peaks as strongholds, plundering in every direction and running rampant beyond all law. Many who were uninformed harbored misunderstandings, believing that Qingyun Sect had truly fallen to such a state. Though the disciples of Qingyun offered explanation after explanation, and though they burned with the desire to slay their enemies and restore the Sect's name, they were willing in heart yet powerless in deed — a plight both pitiable and lamentable. Even now, looking back, those were truly the most bitter and sorrowful days the Qingyun lineage had ever known.
Not until thirteen hundred years ago did things begin to change.
Perhaps Qingyu Zi's art of physiognomy had finally proved its worth, or perhaps fate had simply grown weary of tormenting the Qingyu Sect — for at this very juncture, from among the Sect's eleventh-generation disciples, there emerged a figure of breathtaking genius, one who would stand supreme above all his peers: Daoist Qingye. Daoist Qingye's secular surname was Ye. By birth a poor and humble scholar, he possessed a mind of rare brilliance, yet time and again he failed the imperial examinations. Then, by a stroke of fortune, he was taken as a closing disciple by Wufang Zi, the tenth-generation Sect Master of the Qingyu Sect — at the age of only twenty-two.
Within a single year of joining the sect, Qingye had mastered every sword art and Daoist method that Wufang Zi had imparted, standing head and shoulders above all his fellow disciples. A year after that, even Wufang Zi himself could do no more than barely hold his own against him, drawing on the full depth of his cultivation. Both astonished and overjoyed, Wufang Zi made up his mind and produced the ancient scroll passed down by the founding patriarch, entrusting it to Qingye to study and comprehend on his own. Qingye went into closed-door seclusion in the Phantom Moon Cave on the back mountain of Tong Peak — and there he remained for thirteen years, until at last he broke free and emerged.
The night he broke through his seclusion happened to be the night of the full moon. That night, the cold moon hung high overhead, and every peak of Qingyun Mountain was bathed in light as bright as day. Without warning, a fierce wind surged forth, and from the rear mountains rose a long, reverberant dragon's cry that shook the earth for a hundred li — all who heard it could not help but change their expressions. Then a pale violet auspicious radiance erupted skyward; with a thunderous boom, the Huanyue Cave Abode flew wide open. Daoist Qingye stepped out unhurriedly, his beard turned entirely white, a serene smile upon his face, his body wreathed in a luminous clarity. The crowd was struck dumb, convinced he had transcended to immortality.
Thereafter, Qingye formally entered the monastic path. Taking his family name Ye and borrowing the character *Qing* from Qingyu Zi's name, he styled himself Daoist Qingye. On that very day he took his leave of his master Wufang Zi with a smile: "Master, please wait—your disciple has an errand to run and will return within the day."
None could fathom his purpose. Yet after a single day and night, Daoist Qingye returned riding his sword — every enemy that had besieged the six peaks of Qingyun Mountain had been slain to the last. The formidable power of his Dao arts and the ruthless precision of his methods shook the world in an instant, and the might and renown of Qingyun Sect soared to new heights.
Another year passed, and Wufang Zi handed the position of Sect Leader to Qingye, withdrawing into solitary cultivation and no longer troubling himself with the sect's mundane affairs. Once Qingye held the reins, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the sect's advancement—lending great support to his fellow disciples, selecting his successors with exacting care—and brought to bear the profound insights he had drawn from that nameless ancient scroll, wielding an authority so deep that neither gods nor ghosts could fathom it. Qingyun Sect flourished from that day forward: within fifty years it had become a cornerstone of the righteous path, and two hundred years on, it stood as the undisputed leader of all the orthodox sects and factions.
Daoist Qingye lived to the venerable age of seven hundred and fifty. Rigorous throughout his life in the acceptance of disciples, he passed his teachings to only seven. Thus he apportioned the Seven Peaks of Qingyun among these seven, commanding that the Seven Lineages together carry on the sacred flame. Of them, the Senior Lineage dwelled within Qingyun Temple on Tongfeng, the main peak — the very heart of the entire sect.
To this day, the Qingyun Sect counted nearly a thousand disciples among its ranks, with masters as plentiful as clouds and its prestige unrivaled throughout the realm—standing alongside Yinsi Temple and Fenxiang Valley as the three great sects of the age. At its helm, True Person Daoxuan had cultivated a mastery that touched the very workings of creation, transcending mortality to attain the sacred, and was without question the preeminent, peerless figure of the current age.
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At the foot of Qingyun Mountain, fifty li to the northwest of the great city of Heyang, lay a village known as Grass Temple Village. Home to more than forty households, its people were simple and honest folk who made their living by cutting firewood on the mountain and trading it to the Qingyun Sect in exchange for silver. In their daily lives, the villagers often caught sight of Qingyun disciples moving with uncanny swiftness, performing feats that seemed nothing short of miraculous, and held the Sect in deep reverence, believing them to be immortals who had attained the Dao. For its part, the Qingyun Sect had always looked after the people in the surrounding countryside and treated the villagers here with considerable kindness.
That day, the sky hung dim and heavy, dark clouds pressing low, leaving one with an almost suffocating feeling.
Viewed from Caomiao Village, the towering Qingyun Mountain thrust straight toward the skyline, its strange peaks and grotesque crags faintly suffused with a trace of menace.
Yet the villagers had dwelt here for generations, having witnessed such scenes more times than they could count. They paid it no mind — to say nothing of the ignorant children.
"Hey, brat—where do you think you're running?" The shout carried a trace of laughter, coming from a half-grown boy of about ten. Clear-eyed and fine-featured, he led four or five other children, boys and girls alike, chasing after another child ahead. That child was a couple of years his junior and a little shorter, yet his face was all smiles as he sprinted forward with everything he had, glancing back every now and then to pull a face.
"Zhang Fan, stop right there if you dare!" the boy behind him shouted at the top of his lungs.
The boy up ahead—the one called Zhang Fan—let out a cry and shouted back without breaking stride: "You think I'm an idiot?!" If anything, he ran even faster.
Chasing and running all the way, the children gradually drew closer to the dilapidated thatched shrine at the eastern end of the village. Seen from the outside, the shrine was in a state of utter disrepair, having weathered who knew how many storms of human life.
Zhang Fan was the first to charge inside, but in a moment of carelessness he caught his foot on the door plank — with a loud thud, he tumbled head over heels. The children behind him erupted in delight, swarming forward and piling on top of him. The refined-looking boy wore a smug expression as he laughed: "Got you now! You have nothing to say for yourself, do you?"
Who would have thought that Zhang Fan would roll his eyes in that peculiar way. "Does this even count? You ambushed me — how can this possibly count?"
The boy was taken aback, and asked in bewilderment: "When did I ever scheme against you?"
Zhang Fan said, "Well, well, Lin Jingyu — you dare claim this door plank wasn't put here by you?"
The child named Lin Jingyu cried out, "There is no such thing!"
Zhang Fan pressed his lips together and tilted his head to the side, every inch of him radiating stubborn defiance, utterly unwilling to yield. Lin Jingyu felt fury surge in his chest; he grabbed Zhang Fan by the throat with one hand and snapped, "You were caught fair and square — do you admit defeat or not?"
Zhang Fan paid him no mind.
Lin Jingyu's face flushed crimson. He bore down with all his strength and shouted, "Do you submit?!"
Zhang Fan had his windpipe seized in the man's grip; breathing grew increasingly difficult, and slowly his face began to flush crimson—yet young as he was, his temperament proved extraordinarily stubborn, and he refused to utter a single sound.
Lin Jingyu's fury only mounted, his grip tightening with every passing moment, his voice hammering out in rapid succession: "Do you submit? Do you submit? Do you submit?"
By now the other children, sensing that things were going wrong, quietly slipped away one by one, leaving only these two ignorant youngsters — driven by stubborn pride and their own hot-headed natures — holding their ground against each other.
Just as a great calamity was about to erupt out of nowhere, a Buddhist invocation rang out from deep within the thatched shrine, and a voice called out: "Amitabha! Stop at once!"
A gaunt, skeletal hand shot through the air, two fingers extended, and flicked sharply against Lin Jingyu's hands. Lin Jingyu jolted as though struck by lightning, his whole body shuddering violently, and his hands fell open of their own accord.
Zhang Fan gasped heavily — he had clearly been holding his breath far too long. The two of them stood rooted to the spot. As their wits returned and the events of moments ago came flooding back, they exchanged a glance, and the dread creeping over each of them only deepened.
Lin Jingyu stood there in a daze. "Fan, I'm sorry. I don't even know how to…"
Zhang Fan shook his head, his breathing gradually steadying. "Who was it?"
The children followed his gaze and saw that standing within the temple was an aged monk, his face deeply furrowed with wrinkles, clad in a tattered cassock, filthy from head to toe. The only remarkable thing about him was the string of jade prayer beads he held — crystal-clear and translucent, catching the eye with a faint emerald glow. Strangely, among the dozen or so uniformly sized, smooth and lustrous green jade beads, there was nestled a single round bead that was neither jade nor stone, deep purple in color and utterly devoid of luster.