Zhou Chun held his daughter's hands, his eyes filled with relief and pride. He had long intended to seek Master Canxia's help to defeat Maotai, but the urgency of slaying the demon had left him no chance to speak. Now that Qingyun had arrived, he could ask her to intercede—to beg her master to descend the mountain and stand with him.

  He pulled her aside, his voice low, and told her everything: Maotai's vow to kill him, the attack on his home, his journey to find help, and his fear for Zhao Yan'er, who had gone missing after being taken as a disciple by an immortal. “I need Master Canxia's help,” he said, his tone desperate. “Maotai is a Sword Immortal now—his skill is far greater than mine. I cannot defeat him alone. Please, ask your master to come with me to Chengdu. We must stop him before he kills again.”

  Qingyun's smile faded, her expression growing serious. She shook her head, but not in refusal—there was sorrow in her eyes. “Such a small matter, Father, but there is no need to trouble Master. I came here for exactly this reason. Since I followed Master to the mountain, I have already refined my flying sword—I am a Sword Warrior now, just like you once dreamed of being. I have asked her many times to teach you, but she said you and she are not fated. Master has never accepted a male disciple in her life—her path is hers alone.”

  Zhou Chun's heart sank, but Qingyun squeezed his hand, reassuring him. “Do not despair. Master said your opportunity will come soon enough—you will meet a worthy master, one who is meant to teach you. Go to Chengdu as you planned; someone will meet you ahead, someone who can help. But Father, you must be careful—Maotai is not working alone. He has allied with the Wutai Sect, a group of evil monks who walk with demons. They are hunting swordsmen like you, those who stand for good. They have already killed three innocent warriors in Chengdu, and they are looking for you.”

  The words sent a chill down Zhou Chun's spine. Maotai had allies—powerful ones. But hearing that Qingyun would help him lifted a heavy stone from his heart. “You will come to Chengdu?” he asked, hopeful.

  “I will,” Qingyun said. “After I return to the mountain and report to Master, I will head to Chengdu at once. I will help you kill Maotai, Father—I promise. But until then, you must not act recklessly. Do not seek him out alone. Gather information, find his hideout, and wait for me. The Wutai Sect is dangerous—they have flying swords, too.”

  Zhou Chun nodded, memorizing her words. He knew she was right—recklessness would get him killed. “I will wait for you. But tell me—have you heard anything about Zhao Yan'er? My disciple, the boy who was taken by an immortal. Is he safe?”

  Qingyun's expression softened. “I have heard of him. The immortal who took him is a friend of Master's—he means no harm. Yan'er has great talent; he is being trained well. But Master warned me—there is something off about his training. She said it may not be voluntary, that the immortal may have an agenda. Keep an eye out for him, Father—he may need your help someday.”

  Zhou Chun's heart tightened. Yan'er, his young disciple, trapped against his will? He made a silent vow to find him, to set him free. “I will. I will not forget him.”

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  Qingyun bid the three farewell, her eyes lingering on her father. “Be careful, Father. I will find you soon.” With that, she leaped into the air, flying back toward the mountains, her black robes fading into the distance.

  Zhou Chun watched her go, then turned to Master White Cloud and Bearded Taoist, both renowned Sword Immortals. A deep wish stirred in him—to become their disciple, to learn the ways of the immortals, so he could protect those he loved. “Masters,” he said, bowing deeply. “I beg you—teach me. I want to become a Sword Immortal. I want to be strong enough to defeat Maotai, to save Yan'er, to keep my daughter safe.”

  Master White Cloud saw his sincerity, but she shook her head gently. “You are over forty, yet your roots and character are excellent. Sooner or later, you will walk among us—why rush? The sects of sword cultivators are many, and conflicts often arise. You need not know them all now, but know this: the Wutai Sect is evil—they use dark magic and feed on innocent lives. They are the enemies of all good immortals, including the Emei Sect, who stand for justice.”

  She paused, then added, “Maotai's revenge is only the beginning. Much more is to come. For now, focus on Chengdu—find Maotai's hideout, gather clues, and wait for Qingyun. That is your path.”

  Bearded Taoist spoke next, his voice gruff but kind. “I have been ordered by my master, Ancestor Jingxu, to urgently guide someone with great immortal roots before they are recruited by the Wutai Sect. I cannot stay—my duty calls. But I will leave you with this: trust your instincts. The Wutai Sect hides in plain sight—look for places where darkness lingers, where the air smells of rot and fear.”

  He let out a long, clear whistle. From the clouds descended a giant sacred crane, its feathers white as snow, its eyes sharp as eagles. Bearded Taoist mounted it, waving to Zhou Chun and Master White Cloud. “Farewell. May we meet again, when you are ready to walk the path of the immortal.” With that, he soared into the sky, the crane's wings beating loudly as it disappeared into the clouds.

  Only then did Zhou Chun realize the sacred crane that had fought the serpent in the mountains belonged to him. He turned to Master White Cloud, still hoping for guidance. “Will you come with me to Chengdu? I know you said I must go alone, but I fear I am not ready.”

  Master White Cloud smiled, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I cannot go with you, but I will watch over you. When you face true danger, I will come to your aid—it is not yet needed. Take this.” She pulled a small, red pill from her gourd and handed it to Zhou Chun. “It will protect you from poison—Maotai and the Wutai Sect use it often. Now go—Chengdu awaits. Do not wait for Qingyun to act. Find Maotai first. Prove your courage, and your master will find you.”

  Zhou Chun took the pill, tucking it into his pocket, and bowed deeply. “Thank you, Master. I will not let you down.”

  Master White Cloud nodded, then vanished in a flash of purple light, leaving Zhou Chun alone in the valley. The serpent's body lay in pieces, the centipede's small form gone with Qingyun. Zhou Chun took a deep breath, his hand resting on his sword. He was not alone—not really. His daughter was coming, and he had a mission: find Maotai, gather clues, and prepare for the fight ahead.

  He set off toward Chengdu, his steps firm. He did not waste time—he walked day and night, stopping only to rest and ask for directions. On the seventh day of his journey, he reached the outskirts of Chengdu, a bustling city surrounded by walls, its streets filled with people. But beneath the noise and activity, Zhou Chun sensed darkness—a faint, foul stench in the air, like rot and magic.

  He entered the city, keeping his head down, his sword hidden beneath his robes. He asked everywhere for Maotai—a one-armed monk with a scarred face, known as the Eight-Finger Chan Master. No one dared speak his name; when he mentioned Maotai, people would shake their heads and hurry away, fear in their eyes.

  On the tenth night in Chengdu, Zhou Chun wandered the streets, searching for any sign of the Wutai Sect. He had heard rumors of a grand temple on the edge of the city—Ciyun Chan Temple—where strange things happened at night, where monks in black robes were seen sneaking out to kidnap villagers. He decided to investigate.

  As he approached the temple, its large gates closed and locked, he noticed a faint light coming from a window at the back. He crept closer, his steps silent, and peered inside. There, sitting around a table, were several monks—one of them had only eight fingers, his face scarred, his eyes filled with malice. It was Maotai.

  Zhou Chun's heart raced. He had found his enemy. But before he could react, a hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind, a cold voice whispering in his ear: “Looking for someone, Zhou Chun?”