The mountains and rivers bear witness, the old lights of the past Chapter Twenty-Nine: Words of an Old Friend
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“Myth, the pinnacle of martial arts…” Chen Zhiming’s heart blazed with fierce ambition, longing unbounded.
Perhaps sensing his unusual excitement, the girl beside him struck coldly, “Do you think it’s easy to ascend these realms? Some spend their whole lives stuck at one stage, unable to break through. Even peerless geniuses with enormous fortune find advancement far from simple. You, well, dream if you like.”
Chen Zhiming scratched his head, offering a sheepish smile to show he understood.
Seeing this, the girl fell silent, uninterested in watching the bustle below. She closed the window, and the room fell quiet. Chen Zhiming followed suit, closing his own window, then returned to the table, dipping his finger in tea to doodle idly.
“A real fool,” the girl’s murmured words slipped through her teeth, drifting gently into the air.
On the third day, the streets of Tianyu were congested with crowds. At the city’s northern and southern ends, two pavilions stood with arenas—one for martial contests in the north, the other for literary competitions in the south.
The final round would be held at Tianyu’s parade ground. On this day, the city’s guards were present in numbers several times greater than usual, with rings of spectators surrounding the platform.
At the martial arena, as the crowd chattered noisily below, a tall man in silver armor strode onto the stage. Each step rang with the scraping of metal, a sound that struck the hearts of those nearby, tightening the atmosphere until silence reigned. In contrast, the literary arena was filled with lively commotion. A scholar ascended the stage, surveying the boisterous crowd, cleared his throat and said,
“Quiet please.”
After he spoke, the noise diminished. He knew the respect was not for him, but for the Prince’s residence behind him. He could only sigh inwardly.
He continued, “I am the judge presiding over today’s contest. Let me explain the rules. The literary and martial competitions share the same structure: each province determines its top sixteen, then the top three advance to the final eight. Since there is one extra participant, we will use a drawing system. The winners from each province will come forward and draw lots. Among the nine, one will draw a bye and advance directly to the next round without competing.”
“I wonder who will get the lucky draw.”
“If someone does, their ancestors must be smiling upon them.”
The crowd whispered among themselves.
“Quiet,” the judge gestured, then added, “Will the winners from each county please come up.”
The crowd parted to form a path, and two girls and a boy emerged. Seeing them, some spectators exclaimed,
“That boy is Lin Mo, eldest son of Jingxian’s county lord. He bested all the calligraphy masters there last year. The two girls following him—one is the top student of Jingxian’s foremost musician, the other of its greatest painter.”
“Jingxian’s sending such a lineup? They’ll surely take first place in the literary contest.”
“Don’t be so hasty—there are still two counties yet to appear.”
As he finished, another path opened and three young women walked out together.
At their arrival, the crowd gasped,
“Oh heavens, is that the Three Beauties of Zizhu?”
“It’s really them!”
“The Three Beauties of Zizhu? What’s that? Explain!”
Someone was puzzled.
“It’s said Zizhu County has a mountain called Fuyue. Atop it stands a pavilion named ‘Watching the Moon,’ meaning the mountain cradles the crescent moon and the pavilion gazes upon it. Every ten years, this pavilion recruits girls of exceptional talent and beauty, training them from childhood—not only in music, chess, calligraphy, and painting, but also martial arts. Don’t let their delicate looks fool you; if you provoke them, you might not survive a single blow.”
“With such prowess, perhaps the contest’s outcome is less certain.”
A third path opened, and a handsome young man walked forward, followed by a girl of about ten, dressed in a pale blue gown embroidered with white plum blossoms. A white brocade sash cinched her slender waist, her hair coiled into a graceful bun adorned only with a jade plum blossom pin—simple yet fresh and elegant.
Lastly, another boy stepped forward. He appeared thoroughly ordinary, with nothing remarkable except for an intangible aura of menace.
“Who are these three?”
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Someone asked.
“They must be the winners from Lingwu,” another replied. “The boy in front seems familiar, but I don’t recognize the girls.”
“I think he’s known as Lingwu’s Little Teacher—said to be skilled in music, painting, and medicine, and proficient in all.”
“Stop exaggerating. If he’s so talented, why have I never heard of him?”
“That’s because you never leave your house and know nothing of the world. And why should he make himself known to you?”
“What’s with your tone?” The man raised his fist, ready to strike.
Another hurriedly intervened, “Let it go, it’s not worth it.”
The handsome youth, oblivious to the near altercation, was still caught up in the events he’d witnessed moments ago.
“Chen Zhiming, you won’t live much longer,” sneered the third winner from Lingwu, whose face was twisted with hostility. He appeared beside Chen Zhiming, taunting him in a low voice.
Chen Zhiming easily guessed the source of his resentment. When the scruffy uncle had chosen him as the winner, few knew the details—just the three of them. The girl had no complaints, but the boy bore a deep grudge.
He was furious at being ranked third, furious that Chen Zhiming was first—believing Chen Zhiming wholly unworthy. As for the girl, he’d tried to challenge her that night, intending a martial contest after losing at literature. No one knew what happened, but ever since, he never dared oppose her, and even trembled when he saw her.
On stage, the scholar waved his hand and a servant brought forth a box. He intended for them to draw lots in turn, but a sudden idea struck him. With a signal, the servant grasped one end of the box and yanked—splitting it apart and sending nine balls flying.
No one moved until the balls neared the ground. Then, the Zizhu girl swept her sleeve, sending the balls toward her group. The hostile youth grinned, reaching out to halt several balls midair. The spectators were stunned speechless.
“Isn’t this a literary contest? Did I come to the wrong place?” one whispered.
Another steadied him, “I don’t know either.”
The scholar on stage simply smiled, unfazed by the strange scene.
On stage, Chen Zhiming and the mysterious girl, along with the Jingxian trio, showed no reaction. The Jingxian girls were pale with fright, though Lin Mo quickly regained composure, sparing his group embarrassment.
Lin Mo was inwardly cursing, “Isn’t this supposed to be a literary contest? Did I end up in the wrong arena? Who are these monsters?” He patted his chest, looked around, “Luckily no one’s watching me. If they’re so good at fighting, surely their skills with the brush can’t match mine. Yes, that must be it. Once the judge eliminates them, I’ll be first.”
The thought nearly made him laugh aloud. He covered his mouth, glanced around, and seeing no one noticed him, quickly stifled his thoughts.
Back on stage, the nine balls hovered midair, showing signs of cracking. At this rate, the balls might shatter before anyone could draw.
While the four groups struggled, the mysterious girl smiled faintly, her sleeve concealing a subtle gesture.
Suddenly, the balls shot upward. The four competitors staggered back, losing their grip. In the opening, the balls fell, and each grabbed one. Chen Zhiming bent to pick up the ball rolling at his feet.
The scholar stepped forward and announced, “Now that you all hold your balls and know your numbers, I’ll declare the matchups. Number one versus two, three versus four, five versus six, seven versus eight, and nine gets a bye to the next round. Whoever drew number nine, please step forward.”
The crowd leaned in, curious.
Chen Zhiming scratched his head and stepped forth.
All eyes turned to him—admiration, envy, resentment—but the outcome was now fact. The others withdrew to focus on their matches.
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Chen Zhiming sat aside, watching the stage with keen interest.
The Three Beauties of Zizhu faced the mysterious girl and the two Jingxian girls. Lin Mo, meanwhile, had the misfortune of matching against the hostile youth.
The audience cheered as the competitors produced elegant calligraphy, vivid paintings, and melodious music.
After half an hour, they laid down their brushes.
As Chen Zhiming had expected, the winners were: the mysterious girl, the hostile youth, and the two girls.
The five drew lots again—unsurprisingly, Chen Zhiming drew the bye once more.
His streak of luck left the others helpless.
The two sisters then faced their opponents and lost. At the moment of defeat, the crowd’s faces were filled with anger and confusion—angry that Chen Zhiming had advanced solely on luck, confused that the least favored contestant now surpassed the three who seemed almost otherworldly. Now, only the three from Lingwu remained on stage. Another round of drawing followed—this time, Chen Zhiming faced the hostile youth, while the mysterious girl drew a bye.
“Let’s see how you handle this,” the hostile youth sneered at Chen Zhiming, hoping to see fear in his eyes. But he was disappointed.
Chen Zhiming’s expression was calm. His years of being bullied by neighboring children had taught him to endure. Now, as then, it was not life or death that unsettled him, but partings—like those with his father, with Jiang Baiyi, or with the girl in the painting, that dreamlike yet achingly real farewell.
He raised his head, his eyes deep as an abyss.
Meeting his gaze, the hostile youth felt a chill of fear and trembled, as he had before the mysterious girl that night. Not understanding, he poured all his power forward, the immense pressure shattering the desk.
Spectators believed Chen Zhiming doomed, certain the contest had turned lethal.
But neither the scholar nor the mysterious girl reacted.
At that moment, Chen Zhiming lifted his head, revealing a pristine fan in his hand, the attacks intercepted by its surface.
He waved the fan, declaring, “With one sweep, old embers stir, rivers and mountains emerge, the four corners awaken. This fan is called: ‘Words from an Old Friend.’”
As he finished, everything around—leaves, landscape, clouds—became ink in a painting. With a single sweep, the hostile youth was sent flying.
Chen Zhiming took up his brush, drawing two strokes:
“With one stroke, your ears, eyes, and body are cleansed; with another, your angry spirit is quieted. From now on, within rivers and mountains, you will not rage, and your efforts will flow smoothly.”
The hostile youth seemed to fall into a painting, into the depths of the sea.
“I know you bear hatred for me, so I use myself as the vessel, wishing to help you cross this sea of suffering and turn over a new leaf.”
The surroundings became like a painting, shadows and images. Chen Zhiming drew again, feeling as though his strength was drained, staggering several steps back. The hostile youth fell from midair, gazing at Chen Zhiming with complex emotion. He had not expected Chen Zhiming to use a method that harmed himself and benefited him nothing. Now, a vast power within him seemed sealed—unusable for now, but someday it would truly belong to him.
He stood, looking at Chen Zhiming, and said,
“Don’t think this means I forgive you. I won’t kill you—at least not now. If you don’t want to die by my hand, you’d better live well and grow stronger. Otherwise, death will be close at hand.” With that, he vanished into the distance.
Chen Zhiming smiled faintly as he watched him leave, then slowly collapsed.
Atop a tall building, the scruffy man stood with several others, gazing down at the street. He waved his hand, the others bowed slightly, then leapt from the rooftop, vanishing in midair.
Standing with hands clasped behind his back, the scruffy man looked into the distance. A breeze stirred, and he murmured,
“The wind rises, stirring memories and dust. Song rises, old friends speak.”