The Great Zhou Dynasty’s capital was safeguarded by six fortified cities: Beiluo, Drunken Dragon, Tong’an, Pingnan, Yuanchi, and Wangtian. These six cities formed an impregnable shield around the capital. As long as they stood, the emperor could rest easy, untouched by any threat.
*Drunken Dragon City.*
One of the six guardian cities, led by General Jiang Li, a loyal martial commander who had served the previous emperor. In his prime, he had repelled the western barbarians and subdued the ghost tribes, intimidating the five nomadic tribes into retreating far beyond the dynasty’s borders. Back then, the Great Zhou Dynasty was at its zenith—General Jiang Li commanding the frontiers, National Advisor Kong Xiu stabilizing the interior, and the nomads不敢 stir.
But with the sudden death of that great emperor, the dynasty descended into chaos. Internal strife, martial unrest, and the contention of the Hundred Schools turned the world into a boiling cauldron of turmoil. The dynasty’s golden age had faded, leaving heroes to lament its decline.
*Night deepened.*
In a secluded corner of Drunken Dragon City, within a humble farmhouse courtyard, a young woman in coarse cloth clothing, clutching a small chick, snapped awake. She stumbled, falling onto her backside, still reeling from shock.
“An… immortal?!” she gasped, glancing around. Save for the chick nestled in her arms, the other chicks waddled sleepily behind their mother hen under the moonlight. The scene was peaceful, almost idyllic.
“Could there really be immortals in this world?” she murmured, taking a deep breath. She held the chick up to her face. “Hey, I’m talking to you…”
The chick, pinched gently by its neck, stared back with bewildered eyes.
Her face flushed under the moonlight, and she patted her chest—rather generously endowed—as if to calm her nerves. Suddenly, a warm current surged through her mind, and a scripture seemed to come alive, pulsing in her thoughts.
“Nine Phoenix Transformation… Is this the immortal technique the immortal granted me?” she wondered, her eyes widening with confusion.
The technique’s description read: “Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west; all things evolve by their own laws. The weak can become strong, and a chick can rise to become a phoenix.”
She blinked, baffled. “What? This is supposed to be my immortal fate? It’s about turning chicks into phoenixes—what does that have to do with me?”
As she delved deeper, she learned the Nine Phoenix Transformation allowed her to nurture nine phoenixes, with whom she would share a spiritual bond, their power feeding back to enhance her own spiritual energy. She couldn’t help but laugh and cry at the same time. “So I go from raising chickens to raising phoenixes?”
With a thought, she followed the technique’s guidance, channeling a strand of the immortal’s gifted spiritual energy into the chick in her hand. The chick’s wings flared, its claws stiffened, and it let out a contented cluck. Its eyes sparkled with newfound clarity, as if awakened with intelligence.
The young woman’s heart melted at its adorable gaze. “No way, you’re no ordinary chick anymore. I can’t turn you into soup now. You need a name… How about Little Phoenix One? Since the technique can nurture nine chicks, your siblings can be Little Phoenix Two, Little Phoenix Three, and so on…”
Rubbing the chick’s head under the moonlight, she grinned brightly. Little Phoenix One’s eyes rolled, as if unimpressed by the name.
Footsteps rustled outside the courtyard, followed by the creak of the wooden gate. “Qingniao,” a hoarse voice called.
She hurriedly tucked Little Phoenix One into her collar. The chick poked its head out, beak open as if protesting its fate.
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“Granny!” she called back cheerfully.
An elderly woman, hunched and white-haired, carrying a basket and a flickering candle, shuffled into the courtyard. Her wrinkled face beamed with affection. “Qingniao, your Uncle Jiang is coming tomorrow. Make a pot of your chicken soup—he loves it.”
Her face lit up with genuine joy. “Uncle Jiang’s coming? That’s great! I’ll wake up early, slaughter a chicken, and make a fine pot of soup.”
Little Phoenix One, nestled in her collar, seemed to sense a chill of danger, shrinking its neck as its rebellious spirit fizzled out.
The old woman left, and the young woman, too excited to study the Nine Phoenix Transformation further, rushed back to her room. She pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle of rouge and powder, planning to dress up the next morning.
Outside the courtyard, the old woman’s candle flickered out. Her hunched posture straightened, her white hair dissolved, revealing a graceful woman. In the distance, under the moonlight, a figure clad in armor stood with hands clasped behind his back.
“My lord, I’ve spoken to Qingniao,” the woman said respectfully, her eyes brimming with fervent admiration.
The man was none other than Jiang Li, the grandmaster and lord of Drunken Dragon City. “Tonight is a night for killing. Return to your post,” he said coolly.
“Yes, my lord.” Her adoration faded like water, and with a swift leap, she vanished into the night.
Jiang Li turned slowly, his armored face softening into a faint smile as he gazed at the humble courtyard.
---
*The Capital.*
In the second-floor study of the library pavilion, the Confucian disciple stirred awake. Across the room, the National Advisor sat in a rocking chair, gazing at the moon, his eyes deep with thought. Nearby, another disciple, Mo Tianyu, sipped wine while reading, a stark contrast to his former carefree self. Since his trip to Beiluo, he had become diligent, though his penchant for divination remained unchanged.
The Confucian disciple coughed lightly, breaking the silence. “Master…”
The National Advisor turned to him. “Finished studying the immortal fate from Wolong Ridge?”
He shook his head, rising from his chair and straightening his Confucian robes, his eyes alight. “Master, my spirit just wandered and was drawn into the Land of Immortality, where I met an immortal.”
The words hung in the air, freezing the room. The National Advisor’s weathered eyes gleamed, and Mo Tianyu’s hand, holding a bamboo scroll, trembled.
---
*South County, Nanjiang City, Tang Manor.*
In the darkness of a woodshed, Tang Yimo opened his eyes, his face bruised and swollen. He coughed softly, struggling to sit up, lost in thought.
A scripture pulsed in his mind, a flash of blood-red light flickering in his eyes. He recalled the immortal’s words, his resolve hardening. “Eight Meridians Demon Armor Technique: sacrifice the body to become a demon, protect what you cherish. Each meridian broken sacrifices vitality for sixty years of power. When all eight meridians are opened, you can shatter mountains and rivers.”
His murmured words echoed in the dark shed. His lifeless eyes now sparkled like stars.
---
*Within the Platform of Transmission.*
He floated silently, deep in thought. He had considered creating another secret realm but decided against it. The Wolong Ridge realm had just opened; the world needed time to adapt and process. Haste would serve no purpose, and he, too, needed a moment to rest.
Abandoning the idea, he exited the platform, exhaled softly, and closed his eyes to sleep. As his strength grew, a good night’s rest might soon become a luxury.
But no sooner had he closed his eyes than he opened them again, sighing into the darkness.
---
*Beiluo City.*
A carriage rolled slowly, its horses’ hooves shattering the night’s stillness. On the city wall, the city lord frowned, his companion standing behind him, eyes grave. “My lord, should we open the gate?”
“The Mohist Leader himself has come to Beiluo—his intentions can’t be good. I say we keep the gate shut,” the companion advised.
The city lord sighed, his brow furrowed. “Tonight will be restless. Open the gate. It’s not just the Mohists coming.”
His companion started. “Not just the Mohists?”
The city lord stood firm. “The young master’s ploy of playing the oriole behind the mantis has drawn the Mohists’ attention. Their disciples are often rangers and assassins, allied with the Mechanism and Yin-Yang Schools. Their strength is unfathomable, and their covert actions are hard to guard against. Send Luo Cheng with a thousand men to protect the Lu Manor and the young master. Let the Mohists enter the city where we can watch them closely with heavy guards. That way, we can rest easier.”
“Yes, my lord,” his companion replied, taking a deep breath before departing to carry out the order.
Luo Cheng led a thousand men to the Lu Manor, securing it tightly under the cover of night. Meanwhile, the city lord descended the wall himself.
The gate’s heavy bolt was lifted, and with a deep groan, Beiluo’s gates swung open. Before them stood an old carriage bathed in moonlight, flanked by several Mohist disciples in veiled bamboo hats, guarding it on horseback.
The city lord stepped forward with his generals. An elderly coachman lifted the carriage curtain, and the Mohist Leader, trembling slightly, stepped out. His wrinkled face broke into a smile as he regarded the imposing city lord in the distance.
