Chapter 1 Chapter 1: Tianpa Shuiyu
A solitary, aloof moon.
A tall, towering pavilion.
The bright moon uses the pavilion as its seat, spreading its silvery light far and wide; the pavilion uses the bright moon as its garment, reflecting in a pool of heavenly springs, with heaven and earth gazing at each other from afar.
Su Mengzhen was in the building, which was the Golden Wind and Fine Rain Pavilion.
The cold, pale moonlight filtered through the windowpanes, casting a frosty autumn glow on the wooden desk. The flickering candlelight elongated the shadow of the man bent over his desk, casting it onto the bookshelves and maps lining the walls.
Su Mengzhen put down his pen, a drop of ink lingering on the corner of the open file. He raised his hand to his lips, suppressing a surge of pain in his throat, but a cough eventually broke the silence of the study, muffled and deep—it was too cold tonight.
Yang Wuxie stood in the shadows with his hands at his sides until the coughing subsided before stepping forward: "The patrol outside the building has reported that everything is safe, and the accounts of the three branch offices in the south of the city have been settled. That's all for today."
After he finished speaking, he paused, his gaze sweeping over an inconspicuous ebony box on the table. The lid was slightly ajar, revealing a gap in the silk lining inside, about the size of a quail egg.
"There is only one thing left, Master." Yang Wuxie lowered his voice even further, "Today is the Mid-Autumn Festival, and also the thirtieth day since Master Du'e passed away."
Su Mengzhen remained silent, his fingertips tracing the cold ebony box, tapping it lightly. The name entered his thoughts, like a magic thread, suddenly pulling his mind far away in this moonlit night in the building.
Passing through the still night, through many heavy snowfalls, I returned to Bianliang City on a medicinal afternoon. That was twenty years ago.
Five-year-old Su Mengzhen was curled up in the quilt, another high fever making him burning hot. In his blurred vision, he saw a tall figure sitting by the bed. It wasn't his father, Su Zhemu, but his father's friend with the broad, warm hands. This uncle carefully held him and fed him the bitter medicine little by little to his chapped lips. To this day, Su Mengzhen only remembers that his surname was Jiang.
This was a very short time, and it never happened again. Uncle Jiang left soon after. Before he left, he was no longer the hearty-laughing wanderer of the martial world. He wore coarse monk's robes, his face was calm, but his eyes were deeper than before. The sudden calamity that befell his family had made him see through the vanities of the world. He squatted down, looking at the sickly but surprisingly stubborn Su Mengzhen, and placed his broad hand on his thin shoulder.
He stared at him for a very, very long time.
"Pillow." His voice was barely audible in my memory. "Your life has been full of hardship, you are plagued by serious illness, like a candle flickering in the wind. I will cast three divinations for you as a final act."
"The first divination indicates that you will surely wield great power in this life, turning the world upside down, but you will also face thorns and misfortunes at every turn."
"The second divination says that you have weak ties with your closest relatives, and that you will find it difficult to overcome emotional obstacles. What you care about will eventually turn to ashes."
Uncle Jiang—no, Master Du'e—paused, gazing at the prematurely ignited flame in the child's eyes, his gaze filled with sorrowful pity.
"The third divination... is the most elusive. It says your destiny is bleak, your death is imminent, and your opportunities are lacking. Even if you pursue great things, you will only end up with nothing. Your success depends on a single opportunity. An opportunity that may not be known when, where, or with whom, or even if it exists. If this opportunity arrives, you may be able to defy fate and have a chance to survive; if it is lacking... it will be a situation where your life is exhausted."
Su Mengzhen simply pressed his pale lips together, remaining silent. As a child, he believed in Uncle Jiang's kindness, but not in this vague notion of fate. If it came to great achievements, he would earn them with his own two hands. Death was inevitable for everyone. As for life… he only believed in the knife in his own hand.
Master Du'e sighed, clearly having seen through his obsession. He left behind the Buddhist prayer beads he had played with as a child, then drifted away, entering a monastery to live a life of quiet contemplation, and was never heard from again until a month ago—
A dusty ebony box was delivered to the Golden Wind and Fine Rain Pavilion. Inside were only two things: an unremarkable relic and a letter with withered but still vigorous handwriting.
"...This old monk's time has come, my earthly ties are about to end. My only thought is of the son of an old friend, a knot in my heart that is hard to untie. Of the three divinations of yesteryear, the first two have already proven true; you should know they are not false. Only the third divination concerns the 'fate' that hangs by a thread between life and death, elusive and difficult to find. This old monk's lifelong cultivation has yielded meager merits, but the relic left after my death may contain a trace of Buddhist spiritual light. I wish to use this remaining ashes of my body to forcibly continue a 'fate' for you...to sink this relic to the bottom of the Heavenly Spring Pool, drawing upon the essence of the moon and the energy of the buildings...perhaps...on the Mid-Autumn Festival when the moon is full, it can summon that missing 'fate'...hoping to cure your chronic illness and break your deadlock...this is this old monk's last wish, I hope you...will give it a try..."
Su Mengzhen looked at the letter for a long time under the lamp. The letter paper was clean, carrying the faint sandalwood fragrance unique to the Zen room. The sentiment between the lines was heavy, spanning decades, as hot as the medicine from back then.
Decades have passed, and many things have changed, but Su Mengzhen still doesn't believe it.
But this disbelief was no longer the same as before. He had weathered more than a decade of storms, brushed with death, and experienced both triumph and despair in an instant. He had once been full of vigor, as if he were saying, "To repay your kindness on the golden platform, I would wield the jade dragon and die for you." But now he understood that "the cold moon and warm sun only bring suffering to one's life." He gazed at the relics, but could see nothing.
But he did it anyway. The very next day, in the dead of night when the moon and stars were hidden.
He dismissed his attendants and stood alone by the Heavenly Spring Pool. The water was pitch black in the night, deathly still. He opened the ebony box, took out the relic, and in his palm remained the elder's last breath. Without ceremony or prayer, Su Mengzhen silently, almost casually, cast the relic into the center of the pool. A soft "plop" sounded, water splashed, ripples spread quickly, and were then swallowed by the darkness, returning to silence.
He adjusted his fox fur coat, coughed a few times, turned and left, his heart undisturbed—it was merely fulfilling the last wish of an old friend and ending a worldly connection.
"Master?" Yang Wuxie's voice pulled him back from his long memories.
Su Mengzhen looked up and saw that the moonlight outside the window seemed brighter, pouring in with a cool, clear light.
"Okay," he replied, standing up. "Let's go take a look."
.
Tianquan Pool, a famous pool in the world, has a wide expanse of water that reflects the almost unreal, perfectly round silver disc in the sky. The pool is deep and dark, as if it absorbs all the moonlight, condensing it into a mirror-like surface. Ancient trees surround the pool, their branches rustling softly in the night breeze, further enhancing the magnificent scenery.
Su Mengzhen stood with his hands behind his back by the pond, Yang Wuxie half a step behind, neither of them speaking. The night breeze stirred the hem of Su Mengzhen's black cloak. He gazed at the bright moon reflected in the center of the pond, his eyes unfocused and devoid of expectation.
He appreciated his uncle's kindness, but the relic had sunk; what did it matter? So-called fate would give him nothing; it would merely bear witness to everything he would have, everything he had given himself. Despite his illness, he would still move forward. What could this indifferent pond, this pale moonlight, bring him?
Such is the cold-hearted nature of the world.
Now twenty-five years old, he has indeed made some requests. He seeks the fulfillment of his last wish, the company of capable and wise men, and the swift completion of his great undertaking. These are the only things he desires, the only things he truly believes in. And these are things that cannot be obtained through mere request.
Su Mengzhen knew in his heart that this was just a futile memory.
Thinking of this, Su Mengzhen felt the moonlight was too bright, almost blinding. She squinted slightly, as if she hadn't thought of anything at all. Her gaze swept over the smooth, mirror-like surface of the pool, the jagged artificial rocks along its edge, and finally fell upon the night sky, where, apart from the silvery moon, there were only a few wisps of thin clouds.
Just as he was about to turn and leave, completely forgetting about the ceremony—
A sudden change has occurred!
At the very highest point, at the edge of the full moon's radiance, a cloud vanished without a trace.
Immediately afterwards, a glimmer of starlight suddenly fell from behind the clouds.
No, it wasn't a star, it was a human figure!
The moonlight poured down, clearly outlining a falling figure—slender and frail, like a dew-kissed petal carelessly blown from a branch by the autumn wind. Rather than a heavy fall, she seemed to be suddenly severed by invisible threads, plummeting straight from the heavens towards the cold mirror of the imprisoned moon.
Her long, dark hair spread out in the rushing wind like splashed ink, her clothes billowing and swirling beneath it. Under the cold moonlight, she exuded a fragile beauty that seemed otherworldly.
"Thump—!"
With a deafening roar, a massive spray of water exploded, scattering droplets carrying fragments of moonlight in all directions, leaving brief streaks of light in the cool air. The spray flashed by, and the silver moon sank in the west with it.
"alert!"
Yang Wuxie reacted with lightning speed. As he shouted, his body instinctively shifted half a step to the side, blocking Su Mengzhen's path, his right hand resting on the weapon at his waist. From the surrounding shadows, several sharp auras instantly rose, locking onto the churning water in the center of the pool.
However, Su Mengzhen was even faster!
The instant the flower shadow appeared and crashed into the water, an unprecedented and incomprehensible premonition, like icy water, pierced through his entire body.
The words on Master Du'e's letters about "dead ends," "life," and "the destiny of inspiration," along with the warm, kind hands he had held in his childhood and the withered yet deeply affectionate handwriting before his death, exploded in his mind like a revolving lantern. There was no logic, no weighing of options, only an almost instinctive impulse from the depths of his soul!
It was as if he could reach out and grasp something, as if something he didn't believe had gracefully landed, and his ambition and his unspeakable ideals burned together!
He ignores falsehoods; he only gambles on a fraction of truth. With that fraction of truth, even nine parts falsehood can be blown away. He is never afraid to gamble, which is why Su Mengzhen is truly Su Mengzhen!
"slow!"
He gave a sharp shout, his voice not loud, but carrying an undeniable pressure that instantly suppressed Yang Wuxie's command and the surging shadows around them. Just as Yang Wuxie turned around in astonishment, Su Mengzhen had already raised his hand and ripped off the black cloak from his shoulder.
The soft sound of tearing fabric was masked by the sound of water as he carelessly tossed the cloak that symbolized his status and also enveloped his frail body to the ground.
Immediately afterward, under Yang Wuxie's horrified gaze and the incredulous stares of the surrounding guards, Su Mengzhen, the master of the Golden Wind and Fine Rain Pavilion, who was frail, coughing incessantly, and whose body seemed as if a gust of wind could blow him over, plunged into the icy, still-rippling pool where the moon had just set.
Water splashed up again, engulfing the gray figure. The surface of the pool rippled, and the fragmented moonlight swayed lazily, leaving only concentric circles of ripples.
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