Chapter 6: Ointment

Zhu Sheng had no idea that a mass of netizens had been banned for making thirsty comments about him. At the time, he was practicing swordsmanship in the back courtyard.

In the cultivation world, everyone said the Sword Sect’s First Disciple was a once-in-a-thousand-years genius, as if he didn’t need to do anything at all for his cultivation to surge ahead.

Only the Sword Sect’s inner disciples knew the truth. Every morning and evening, they could hear the sound of their senior brother’s sword cutting through the air from his courtyard.

Their senior brother was practicing again.

Every day, without fail.

Immortal Lord Wuyang devoted himself wholeheartedly to the Dao. His mind was free of distractions, and he cultivated whenever he wasn’t sleeping.

The Sword Sect had built its reputation on the sword. Even now that he was in the celestial realm, Zhu Sheng hadn’t abandoned his Budu Sword.

The forms were etched into his bones. With a sweep of his blade, a few green leaves trembled loose from the peach tree in the distance.

He settled into a ready stance, lowered his sword, and breathed out the stale air in his chest. Then he looked up at the sky.

By the celestial realm’s reckoning, he’d practiced for only two hours—far less than usual.

He hadn’t put his sword away because he was tired or because the change of surroundings had made him slack. His clothes had grown damp with sweat and clung to his skin. He was unused to the feeling.

Water was hard to come by on the mountain. A pipe in the temple brought in spring water, but the trickle was only enough for cooking.

The three monks got water for washing up by having Xuan Kong fetch it from the pool behind the temple and heat it.

The big water jar was nearly empty, so Zhu Sheng headed for the small pool Xuan Kong had told him about.

Xuan Shi, who was bent over his summer homework, saw him carrying a bucket. “Are you going to fetch water?”

“Yes.”

Ever since Zhu Sheng’s whoosh and swish, he’d risen dramatically in Little Xuan Shi’s estimation. When he realized Zhu Sheng planned to fetch water for washing up, he offered, “It’s a pain to carry water back. It’s hot out—you could just wash up there and come back.”

The pool flowed down into a stream. The water came up only to their shins, and it was constantly moving, so it was convenient for washing.

The temple was on a side peak outside the scenic area, and few tourists came there. At this time of day, they were unlikely to run into anyone.

In the summer, Xuan Shi and the others brought their clothes and washed there. It saved them the trouble of carrying water back and forth.

Zhu Sheng paused and looked at him. “Is there a hot spring there?”

Xuan Shi shook his head without thinking. “Of course not.”

There wasn’t a single hot spring on the side peak—or anywhere on Sangshan, for that matter. There were plenty of pools, big and small.

He’d never even been in a hot spring.

If it wasn’t a hot spring and there was no privacy, Zhu Sheng couldn’t possibly bathe out in the open.

When he saw that Zhu Sheng was determined to fetch water and heat it for washing up, Xuan Shi watched him go and muttered, “He may not have seen much of the world, but he’s pretty fussy about this stuff.”

Before the old monk had brought him to Sangshan, Xuan Shi had lived somewhere poor. In the summer, plenty of people had no fans or air conditioners. They’d go to the river and jump right in, naked as the day they were born.

Zhu Sheng had never done manual labor, but he carried a full bucket of water back without breathing hard.

After several trips, he’d fetched enough. But the handles had rubbed his palms and fingers bright red.

The temple had electricity, but bathwater still had to be heated in a big, wood-fired stove. Starting a fire proved a greater challenge to the Crown Prince than carrying water. He struggled with it for ages without success.

Xuan Shi, working on his summer homework, sensed something was wrong. When he went to check, he was so startled that he rushed into the kitchen with his eyes shut, shouting, “You’ll go to prison for setting the mountain on fire!”

“Stay calm, devotee!”

Zhu Sheng sat at the stove, surrounded by smoke and holding a stick of firewood.

He looked up at Xuan Shi, composed and unruffled.

When Xuan Shi saw him through the smoke, he swallowed the cough rising in his throat.

For a moment, it seemed as if the choking smoke filling the room were not smoke at all, but the ethereal mist of a celestial palace.

And Immortal Zhu was gazing back at him through the haze.

Xuan Shi: “…”

After a long stare, Xuan Shi knitted his brows, chased the immortal out of the kitchen, and started the fire and heated the water for the man who knew nothing about mundane life.

Little Xuan Shi muttered to himself, “If he can’t even start a fire, then he definitely didn’t come from some village.”

He seemed more like a rich young master who’d never lifted a finger.

By the time Zhu Sheng finished all that and returned to the small courtyard, night had fallen. Clouds covered the moon, and it looked as though a summer rain was coming.

As soon as he stepped into the courtyard, he caught the faint, bitter scent of medicine.

The room next door was brightly lit. The light fell through the window in narrow strips, some of them reaching into the courtyard and illuminating the path back to Zhu Sheng’s room.

He thought of the restrained cough he’d heard the night before. So that person spends all day shut up in his room because he’s sick?

Or did he come to the mountain to recuperate?

Zhu Sheng followed the warm yellow patches of light back to his room. As soon as his own lamp came on, the one next door went out.

The timing was so exact that, for an instant, Zhu Sheng thought the other person had left the light on for him.

Then he pushed the baseless thought aside.

They’d never even met. It had to be a coincidence.

His trip into town had taught Zhu Sheng how important money was.

He looked at the storage pouch and Budu Sword by his bed. He still couldn’t use the pouch, so he couldn’t trade anything inside for money to tide him over.

As for Budu, it was the most renowned divine weapon on the famous-sword rankings, powerful enough to split mountains and part rivers.

But this priceless treasure, the envy of every cultivator in the world, had no jewels or valuable stones set into its blade or scabbard—only patterns.

The sword was sentient. Its sleeping spirit seemed to sense its master’s thoughts, and the blade quivered faintly.

The movement was tiny. Lost in thoughts of his poverty, Zhu Sheng didn’t notice.

That night, the Immortal Lord lay awake, penniless.

As the night deepened, mist flowed through the mountains, cool as a drifting cloud. A temple guest rose in the night and appeared silently in Zhu Sheng’s room.

Xi Chengu gazed down at the sleeping man, his emotions surging in his eyes before he forced them back under control.

Immortal Lord Wuyang slept soundly. He tended to wake in the same position he’d fallen asleep in.

Xi Chengu knelt beside the bed and gently lifted Zhu Sheng’s right hand, which rested outside the covers. Just as he’d expected, two blisters had formed on Zhu Sheng’s palm from carrying water.

One had already broken.

Zhu Sheng’s hands were always wrapped around a sword, yet he didn’t have a single callus. They were slender and pale as jade, making the two raw blisters look even more jarring.

Xi Chengu carefully pricked the blisters and applied ointment.

When he was done, he gently blew on Zhu Sheng’s palm before laying his hand back down. Then he tucked in the covers.

Zhu Sheng had cut his hair short. His fringe barely reached his eyebrows, making him look even younger.

Xi Chengu gazed at his slightly mussed hair for a couple of seconds. His hand twitched at his side, but in the end he didn’t reach out and touch it, despite the urge.

He let the bed curtains fall and left the room with the medicine.

Throughout it all, Zhu Sheng hadn’t even furrowed his brow. His breathing remained steady and even. He had no idea what had happened.

The old monk stood in the dim courtyard. When he saw Xi Chengu come out of Zhu Sheng’s room in the middle of the night, his eyes gleamed.

He clasped his hands together, his face full of the smug delight of someone who’d known Xi Chengu wouldn’t be able to resist.

“There are gods watching from three feet above your head. Sneaking into someone’s bed in the middle of the night is hardly gentlemanly.”

Xi Chengu ignored the old monk’s nonsense and tossed him the porcelain bottle.

“Apply it twice more in the morning. Keep it away from water.”

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” The old monk caught the bottle with ease and curled his lip. “They’ll heal on their own in a couple of days, even without the ointment.”

Despite what he said, he tucked the bottle into his sleeve with great care.

The person sleeping inside was too precious to neglect.

In the past, if the Crown Prince had so much as scraped a hand, countless attendants would have panicked.

The old monk watched Xi Chengu with his hands tucked into his sleeves. “You heard what happened today. He wants to go down the mountain and find a job. What exactly are you planning to do?”

They’d known each other for years, but the old monk still couldn’t read Xi Chengu’s mind.

He’d done so many reckless, life-threatening things, yet now he was being so restrained and conflicted…

“I expected this.” Xi Chengu wasn’t surprised. “He needs to understand and adapt to this society.”

The old monk raised an eyebrow. “You’re willing to let him go down the mountain?”

The world below was much more complicated than life on the mountain.

Xi Chengu had rushed over in the middle of the night to treat two blisters from carrying a few buckets of water. And he was willing to let Zhu Sheng go down the mountain and struggle to make a living?

The old monk had thought Xi Chengu would do everything he could to keep Zhu Sheng in Sangshan.

Given how far Xi Chengu was willing to go, he might even have tried.

After all, Zhu Sheng had lost his cultivation. He couldn’t fight back, even if he wanted to.

Xi Chengu glanced at the old monk and said nothing. He went straight back to his room.

His refusal to talk was unmistakable.

The old monk, who’d rushed over in the middle of the night and still hadn’t gotten any gossip: “… Came here full of anticipation, going home disappointed.”

…

The next morning, the hand that had been stinging faintly before bed had mostly healed. It hadn’t swollen or filled with fluid, and it was in much better shape than Zhu Sheng had expected.

When he returned from the dining hall, he had two oranges in his hand.

He wasn’t especially fond of oranges. More accurately, Immortal Lord Wuyang had never cared much about food and had little interest in eating anything.

But thinking of that patch of quiet light in the courtyard the night before, he’d brought two back anyway.

Citrus fruit helped soothe the throat and ease a cough.

Without knocking, Zhu Sheng set the two bright orange fruits on the windowsill of the next-door room. It was a small way to repay the kindness, intentional or otherwise, of that light in the courtyard.

Then he picked up Budu and left the courtyard.

The pool where he’d fetched water the day before was surrounded by a stretch of open ground, more suitable for practicing swordsmanship than the small courtyard.

The mountains were quiet and secluded. In the early morning, the mist still hadn’t lifted, and the only sounds around the pool were running water and birdsong.

The stillness helped calm the mind. It was a good place to practice.

“Wow!”

The sound of surprise caught Zhu Sheng’s ear. Distracted from his sword forms, he turned and noticed the two strangers for the first time.

They stood about fifty feet away, a man and a woman staring at him in a daze.

The man had been the one to gasp.

The sound of the water had covered their footsteps, so Zhu Sheng hadn’t noticed them approaching.

He folded the sword behind his back and studied the two of them. His eyes lingered for a moment on the dark object resting on the man’s shoulder.

They were crew members sent by a director to scout locations on Sangshan.

They’d come up the mountain early the day before, but though Sangshan was a famous national scenic site and beautiful to look at, it didn’t quite have the right feel on camera.

They’d heard that the side peak had a distinctive little temple and a mysterious forbidden area. So that morning, they’d hauled up a camera.

They hadn’t found the forbidden area or seen the temple. Instead, they’d stumbled upon Zhu Sheng practicing swordsmanship in the woods at dawn.

His movements were as graceful as a startled swan and as fluid as flowing water. Every motion carried power without sacrificing beauty…

A master really could turn up anywhere. They were instantly in awe.

The man carrying the camera couldn’t hold back a “Wow!”

Realizing he’d interrupted Zhu Sheng, he smiled apologetically. “Sorry, sorry. Please, go on.”

Judging from his face alone, the man looked much older than Zhu Sheng. But after seeing that display, he’d found himself calling him “sir.”

Sword practice required complete concentration. The slightest distraction could ruin it. Zhu Sheng couldn’t possibly continue now.

When he gave the two of them a slight nod and sheathed his sword, they exchanged a glance and hurried to call after him.

“Sir, wait!”

Zhu Sheng stopped.

The day before, he’d learned that in this world, “sir” wasn’t just a respectful way to address a teacher. It was a general form of address.

The two hurried over and showed him their work badges to prove who they were. Then the woman asked cautiously, “Sir, do you live on this mountain?”

A tourist wouldn’t come all the way up here to exercise so early. The only explanation was that he lived on the mountain.

And the only place to stay on the mountain was the temple.

Zhu Sheng nodded. “I’m staying there for now.”

The two looked pleased. The man asked, “Are you a lay disciple at the temple?”

He’d been about to ask whether Zhu Sheng was a monk at Shaolin Temple, but seeing his hair, he’d changed his wording.

Zhu Sheng shook his head. “I cultivate the sword. I’m a disciple of the Sword Sect.”

Both their expressions went blank.

“The Sword Sect?”

Was there really a sect called the Sword Sect?

The name sounded like something from a novel or a TV show.

Seeing that neither of them had ever heard of the Sword Sect, Zhu Sheng frowned. “You…don’t know the Sword Sect?”

The sect had existed for more than a thousand years. When its founder had ascended, the sky had filled with auspicious clouds in a spectacle unlike anything the world had seen. And no one in the celestial realm had ever heard of it?

That same vague feeling that something was wrong rose in him again.

The two glanced at each other. The woman asked, uncertainly, “Are you joking with us?”

“Do you mean the Sword Sect that shows up all the time in novels and TV shows?”

Zhu Sheng: “?”

A few minutes later, Zhu Sheng learned from them that the “celestial realm” the old monk had told him about had another name—

Modern society.

People in the modern world were free and open-minded. They believed in science, not ghosts or gods.

Spiritual power, immortals, cultivation…those things existed only in stories and opera.

As for cultivators who sought immortality and the Dao, they were nothing more than legends and figments of people’s imaginations…

Zhu Sheng, hearing the truth: “…?”

Immortal Lord Wuyang, who’d devoted himself to the Dao only to discover that the Dao had suddenly vanished: “………………”

I must have ascended at the wrong time!