Nine Hundred Daoist Scriptures, Entering the Sword Immortal Gate

The setting sun dyed the heavens, and the evening glow lit the clouds like fire.

Floating Cloud Mountain, Truth-Seeking Abbey.

A figure emerged from the Scripture Pavilion.

Wind swept through the treetops and brushed across the mountain forest. White hair fluttered, and a gray Daoist robe snapped in the breeze.

Xuanming stood tall upon the summit, gazing into the distance. The brilliant crimson sun on the horizon stirred a surge of boldness within him, leaving his heart light and his spirit refreshed.

"Nine hundred volumes!"

He had finally read nine hundred volumes of Daoist scriptures and could once again study the Outer-Scenery Yellow Court Qi.

As long as he ignored outside affairs, kept clear of trouble, and devoted himself to reading scriptures and cultivating, drawing principles from the worlds within books and contemplating all things through the cosmos within scriptures, he could remain a mountain recluse untouched by worldly dust. His Dao heart would naturally stay pure, and his Dao Path would shine bright.

White clouds and yellow cranes marked a Daoist's home; one scripture, one sword, one cup of tea. His feathered robes forever bore the hues of mist and sunset, untouched by the mortal world's peach and plum blossoms.

At that thought, Xuanming's spirits soared. On a whim, he gently raised his hand. On the writing desk on the Scripture Pavilion's second floor, the Peachwood Sword hummed, then shot out with a whistle, crossing a hundred zhang to land in his palm.

With a sword in hand, he began to dance.

The sword followed his heart, and his heart moved with the sword.

He wielded the Peachwood Sword as naturally as his own fingers. Each move flowed seamlessly into the next, smooth as drifting clouds and running water.

At first, he adhered to form and observed the prescribed sequence.

Then he broke free of those shackles and moved as his heart desired.

Whatever move came to mind, he used; whatever form he wished, he performed. Soon, a mass of sword light enveloped the cliff.

Sword Qi crisscrossed, sword intent raged, and sword winds howled.

Their might was formidable, yet none escaped the tiny space of a single zhang.

Beneath the setting sun, the Daoist danced with his sword.

Every stroke was like an antelope hanging by its horns, leaving no trace to follow.

Every move was like a stroke of Divine inspiration.

Every form was like a heavenly steed galloping through the skies.

No one could have known what move his next stroke would take, where it would fall, or from where it would rise.

There was no trace to follow, no way to fathom it.

Clearly disconnected sword moves felt perfectly natural in Xuanming's hands, as though they had always belonged together.

His sword intent remained contained, without the slightest leakage, whole and seamless.

His sword light gathered without scattering, dense as rain.

As time passed, Xuanming entered a wondrous state. His sword intent, Sword Qi, sword light, and more all entered a new realm, as though washed clean of all ornament, undergoing a transformation as profound as being reborn.

His understanding of the Eight Trigrams Sword Art reached an unprecedented depth. Seizing this opportunity, he stepped through the gates of the Sword Dao, grasped its true meaning, and beheld its vistas.

At last, the Peachwood Sword and Xuanming became indistinguishable. There was a sword in his hand and a sword in his heart; man and sword became one, blending together. His Dao Heart nurtured his sword heart, and his sword heart strengthened his Dao Heart. The two hearts connected, each echoing the other.

With a slight flick of his wrist, the Peachwood Sword hummed, ringing with a metallic cry. His sword intent, sword light, Sword Qi, and more abruptly contracted, then burst outward. Between that gathering and release, an Eight Trigrams Diagram appeared on the ground.

It cut three feet deep, its lines vigorous yet ancient and vivid, suffused with rich Dao resonance and flowing with layer upon layer of sword intent.

Whoosh!

With a whistle through the air, the sword flew a hundred zhang.

The Peachwood Sword landed in the Path-Seeking Courtyard, settling steadily onto the writing desk beside the window of the thatched cottage.

Its radiance withdrew, leaving it plain and unadorned.

It seemed no different from an ordinary peachwood sword.

After putting away his sword, Xuanming stroked his beard as he admired the sunset scenery, his eyes bright and his face beaming.

He had never expected that a willow planted without intent would grow into shade. A sword dance born of a passing whim had cleared his thoughts and purified his Dao Heart, allowing his swordsmanship to advance by leaps and bounds and carry him across the threshold of the Sword Dao.

The Great Dao truly was subtle, profound, and unfathomable.

When opportunity refused to come, racking one's brains and exhausting every thought and method achieved nothing; when opportunity arrived, admiring the scenery or dancing with a sword—any action at all—could lead to enlightenment.

Most importantly, from this day onward, he could just barely count himself as a Daoist cultivator who commanded Sword Immortal Divine Powers.

Though his cultivation currently limited their strength, once he became a True Person, they would surely shine:

Riding the wind upon a sword, he would come to vanquish demons between Heaven and earth.

Even without descending the mountain, he could send a flying sword to take a person's head.

And that day was not far off.

Especially after this sudden enlightenment, Xuanming's accumulated foundations had deepened considerably. He was closer to the Qi Refining Realm, with one foot already through its gates.

For the remaining half step, he intended to polish himself a little more.

The deeper his foundations, the steadier his future steps would be.

Only when night fell did Xuanming lightly tap his toes and cross a hundred zhang through the air. Like an Immortal strolling through his courtyard, he drifted away with effortless grace, transcending worldly dust.

Before leaving, he glanced into the distance, the corners of his mouth lifting. "You three certainly have good luck."

His gaze pierced the mountain forest, where three figures were rapidly approaching: Chang'anzi, Chang Ning, and Changqingzi.

They sparred as they traveled.

The three exchanged blows in a lively flurry.

More precisely, Chang Ning and Changqingzi had joined forces against Chang'anzi.

Changqingzi was Daoist Xuan Yang's disciple.

He possessed a decent root bone and had recently attained enlightenment beneath Sword Cliff, entering the third essence refining realm.

Chang Ning had happened to be there on the day he broke through.

The two had broken through their bottlenecks one after the other, then faced off and sparred several times.

Though Chang Ning possessed a Superior Dao Foundation, Changqingzi had considerable attainments in the Sword Dao. His understanding of the Eight Trigrams Sword ranked among the best of the younger disciples. She held the upper hand, but defeating him was difficult.

After several bouts, they had instead struck up a friendship.

Later, they began taking on Chang'anzi together.

As time went on, the three Daoists sparred regularly.

Chang Ning and Changqingzi always teamed up to beat Chang'anzi, yet they never gained the slightest advantage. Instead, they fell behind, pinned down beneath Chang'anzi's attacks.

Had the lad already entered the Third Realm, even a few more opponents would not have been enough for him to beat.

Since their battle had brought them here today, it meant they had a fated connection with the sword intent and Dao resonance now dissipating on the summit.

How much they comprehended would depend on their fortune.

At that thought, Xuanming quickened his pace.

A few bounds later, he vanished from sight.

A strip of white silk writhed like a snake, a longsword swept through the air, and a heavy sword slashed sideways. The three Daoists fought ever more fiercely, techniques and moves flowing effortlessly from their hands, and soon reached the summit.

The next instant, their movements abruptly halted. Sensing something, they all rushed toward the same spot.

A few breaths later, the Eight Trigrams Diagram lay before their eyes. The three Daoists' spirits stirred. They exchanged glances, reached an unspoken understanding, and each began studying it in their own way.

Chang Ning sat cross-legged with her eyes closed, her approach the most conventional—and the most abstract.

Chang'anzi sat directly in the center of the Eight Trigrams Diagram, drawing sword intent into his body in gradually increasing amounts. His was an experiential approach.

Changqingzi took a block of wood from the Wish-Fulfilling Pouch he carried and slowly carved the Eight Trigrams Diagram with his sword. His was an approach of imitation.

Dao-Treasuring Peak, Path-Seeking Courtyard.

Xuanming had no interest in finding out what the three juniors experienced.

After returning to his residence, he did not immediately read the Yellow Court Scripture. A good meal was worth waiting for; he intended to read it only after becoming a Qi Refining True Person.

By then, his cultivation would be higher, his understanding of all things beneath Heaven more penetrating, and his view of the workings of the universe clearer. Perhaps he would gain an even greater fortune.

For that very reason, he went to sleep upon returning.

Clear moonlight shone through the window and fell across the floor, illuminating the room's floorboards and desk.

Lunar essence seeped from the silvery moonlight and curled around his nose. With each breath, Xuanming drew it into his body, instinctively refining it into Magic Power. Within his breathing lay a mystery all its own.

This was a method of sleeping Xuanming had developed through study.

Previously, he had needed to control it consciously.

Now, it had become a habit.

Without any deliberate effort to maintain it, his circulation cycle operated on its own as he rested. Even while he slept, his Magic Power could grow.

Early the next morning.

After gathering the Dawn Purple Qi.

For once, Xuanming did not go to the Scripture Pavilion.

Having finally finished nine hundred volumes of Daoist scriptures, he decided to rest for a few days.

Beneath an Ancient Pine, he had just brewed his tea when he saw Xuan Yang hurrying over.

Thanks to lunwenjun for one monthly vote, and to Lonely-Hearted Scholar-Bb for two monthly votes.