Chapter Seven: The Crossing of Fates, the Thatched Hut, and the Turmoil of the Heart

The laryngeal bone, a thing born in the throat, blocks the passage of human speech.

Among all living creatures besides humans, most are born with this feature. The laryngeal bone is without form or substance, invisible to the eye, and even if one were to open the throat, it could not be seen. It is much like the true qi within a cultivator’s body—though it exists, no matter how the body is dissected, it cannot be found.

Many beings in the world possess intelligence, and some even understand human speech, yet because of the laryngeal bone, they are unable to speak. Only a rare few, such as parrots and mynahs, are exceptions.

However, monsters who cultivate their powers can, through the ceaseless washing of magic, gradually refine away this barrier. When their cultivation reaches fruition, they can utter human words. Yet such creatures, having attained significant power, are rarely weak.

But the mountain sprite was different. Its powers were still unformed; it was merely a spirit, not even a true monster. Its laryngeal bone was shattered, a result of the previous blow.

Just now, when Qingyuan struck, he did not break the sprite’s throat, but instead shattered the laryngeal bone.

“How strange,” Qingyuan thought to himself, deeply surprised. Lacking any magical power himself, how could he possibly strike something so intangible, existing between reality and illusion? Even monsters with considerable cultivation must labor day and night for many years to dissolve this laryngeal bone.

The mountain sprite, however, seemed fixated on the iron staff. Yet this staff, though retrieved from the Celestial Palace, was no treasure.

It had been cast into the storeroom by Senior Qingyang, later retrieved simply to serve as a fire-stoking stick. It was regarded as nothing more than a piece of scrap.

If there was anything remarkable about it, it was that—beneath the celestial flames—it remained unscathed, always cool and comfortable to the touch. Perhaps, then, the material was extraordinary, but since it had been discarded, it could not be anything precious.

Qingyuan always believed the staff’s resistance to the celestial fire was due to Qingyang’s spells upon it. He had never considered it an important treasure; it was simply handy from long use, fit for self-defense, and a last memento of the Purple Cloud Palace above.

How then did this iron staff shatter the mountain sprite’s laryngeal bone?

“Could it be that, after so long stoking the fires beneath the celestial furnace, it absorbed some trace of the flame’s aura?”

He could not quite make sense of it, but leaned toward the idea of the staff having taken on the essence of the celestial fire.

Carrying little Yu in his arms, Qingyuan walked along the mountain path, glancing sideways at the mountain sprite, who kept a respectful distance.

The sprite kept its head lowered, unusually quiet, and perhaps even a bit fearful. Since its laryngeal bone was broken, it could speak a little, though not fluently. Its demeanor was docile, quite unlike its earlier ferocity, perhaps because it now recognized Qingyuan’s true abilities and secretly wished to learn the Way.

In any case, this was a good outcome.

Even so, Qingyuan remained cautious. Though most monsters are straightforward—once subdued, they remain loyal and unchanging—the mountain sprite’s kind closely resemble humans, and their temperaments are far more varied. Among them are many who are cunning and sly, as treacherous as wolves.

...

The thatched hut stood at the mountain’s summit.

The peak was not high, and few living creatures ever passed through these wilds.

Qingyuan, carrying Ge Yu’er, came to the hut and called out, but received no answer. Circling to the window, he peered inside and found it empty.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he said, pushing open the door and stepping in.

The mountain sprite followed, closing the door behind them.

Inside, the hut was cramped; should the sprite turn hostile, there would be little room to maneuver. Qingyuan gripped the long blade at his waist just in case.

“Go and rest over there,” he said, pointing to a corner. “At dawn, you’ll come with me to return this little girl, and then I’ll teach you the method of nurturing true qi.”

The mountain sprite’s voice was hoarse and low; it moved its lips before finally managing a response.

Qingyuan then set Ge Yu’er down in another corner.

Searching the hut for a moment, he found a candle and lit it, casting a dim glow across the room.

“That’s odd…”

He noticed a small table by the wall, with a pot of water still boiling, steam rising in delicate curls. Two teacups sat there—one drained, the other full and untouched. The fragrance of tea was pure and delicate, filling the air.

Strangely, before lighting the candle, he had not noticed this at all, but now the aroma was unmistakable.

After the prolonged struggle with the mountain sprite, Qingyuan was exhausted, his mouth parched and his throat dry. Without hesitation, he drank the untouched cup in a single draft.

The tea was fresh on the tongue, at first astringent, then sweet, and his mind cleared at once.

“Tea is said to refresh and nourish the spirit, but this cup’s effect is truly extraordinary.”

Qingyuan marveled at this, then remembered that, though the mountains were rife with fearsome beasts, someone had chosen to build a hut here—a true recluse, no doubt. His surprise faded.

He took out a few silver fragments from his pouch and left them on the table as payment for the tea.

“No one was here at noon, but now there’s fresh water and tea. Could the master of the hut have returned just recently?”

He glanced around; there was no dust, nor any sense of abandonment. Clearly, someone still lived here.

“Let’s hope they won’t mind.”

...

Late at night.

The candle had burned out.

A bamboo pole propped open the skylight, letting moonlight spill into the hut.

“Tonight is the fifteenth; if the Great Immortal is free, it should be a day for expounding the Way.”

“When I left the Celestial Palace, it was truly a fit of youthful blood. The mortal world is full of dust and trivialities; in terms of immortal teachings and fate, it cannot compare to the Celestial Palace…”

Qingyuan sighed softly. “I should have stayed in the palace a few years longer, listening to the Great Immortal expound the law, poring over the immortal tomes, building my foundation, and strengthening my roots. Only then, with a solid base, should I have descended to the mortal realm to seek my fate.”

“In all these years below, I have found no opportunity, accomplished nothing. Compared to the Celestial Palace, I have missed many of the Great Immortal’s teachings, and can no longer study the immortal texts. Truly, it is a pity.”

Having wandered the lower world for years, Qingyuan’s temperament was now far steadier and more thoughtful than in his youth.

After a moment’s reflection, he looked up at the bright moon, then sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and calmed his mind for cultivation.

He possessed no immortal root and was not fated to cultivate. Yet the Pure Contemplation of June was truly extraordinary, allowing him to visualize the Ninefold Jade Towers—the first step in cultivation, the act of visualization.

This step was still outside the true path, not yet entering the gate of cultivation. He had neither true qi nor magical power, and was not truly a cultivator.

But for Qingyuan, being able to see the road ahead and dispel confusion and doubt was already a rare blessing.

Whenever he could visualize the Ninefold Jade Towers, he knew for certain that the Way of cultivation truly existed in the world, and was not mere fantasy or conjecture.

“The Ninefold Jade Towers reveal the nine heavens of cultivation, showing the path clearly so I need not wander or grope in the dark. Yet…”

Qingyuan sighed wistfully. “There is, in truth, no shortcut on the road to cultivation.”