Chapter Twenty-One: Bright Moon Manor

The foothills of Mount Qilian remained much the same as always—at least to Qiu Wan’er, who found little had changed. The flower buds that once dotted the branches now appeared even more vivid, poised on the verge of blooming. In the past, such a sight would have easily caught the girl’s eye, perhaps even prompted a gasp of surprise. Whether the peach blossoms’ rosy hue or the plums’ pale white, though they bloomed each year, she always found them wondrous. Yet today, she was unusually silent, her steps purposeful, with no inclination to admire the scenery—let alone anything else. Since leaving the valley behind the mountain, Qiu Wan’er seemed to have become a different person altogether.

Following the mountain path upward, it took but half an hour before she reached the mountain gate. The slanting road grew sharply steep, and at its end, the two characters for “Qilian” stood out, brilliantly eye-catching. Once painted a bright vermilion, the surface had peeled in places from the passage of time, leaving patches of exposed, blackened wood. Compared to these bold characters, the couplets on the gate’s pillars seemed much more restrained—neatly squared, perfectly aligned. On the left: “Riding the wind, embracing the moon, I soar to the ninth heaven;” on the right: “Borrowing a boat to roam the rivers and lakes, heroic spirit from the hair.” Though not perfectly balanced as couplets go, their literary flair was considered top-tier in the martial world.

The sun was nearing dusk. Elsewhere, the sunset might already have dipped beyond the horizon, but here, the scenery was different. The saying goes: the higher the mountain, the wider the view. From atop Qilian, sunlight still slanted across the slopes; though its warmth waned, the light remained strikingly beautiful. Standing atop the abrupt boulders facing the gorge, the expanse below seemed to unfurl at one’s feet—breathtaking in its vastness. Of course, beholding such beauty was no easy feat. Time aside, few dared to tread these narrow stones, for a single misstep would mean certain death, shattered upon the rocks below.

The Qilian Sect was neither large nor small, numbering around forty or fifty disciples. Han Tanyi, though the eldest senior brother, had only entered the sect a little earlier than the others; in age, he was not the oldest. Sha Wan’er was not technically the youngest junior sister, but among the women, she was nearly so, and thus everyone, regardless of seniority, had grown accustomed to calling her “junior sister.” At first, she resisted, instinctively wanting to object, but as more and more people called her so, she eventually relented. Mischievous by nature and often in trouble, her reputation as a junior sister became impossible to shake, though it suited her just as well, offering an excuse to shirk certain responsibilities—a blessing in disguise, perhaps.

It was the hour for evening practice, and nearly everyone was gathered on the main courtyard. Row upon row of disciples in blue-green robes stood in orderly formation. Though their numbers were modest, the unity was striking—their sword forms in perfect unison, each movement mirroring the next, expressions rapt with focus. So absorbed were they that Qiu Wan’er’s arrival went largely unnoticed. The setting sun cast its last rays upon their sword blades, scattering light into shimmering, multicolored brilliance.

Qiu Wan’er’s gaze swept the grounds, her purpose clear: she was searching for one particular man. But disappointment crept in as she failed to spot Han Tanyi anywhere among the assembled disciples. Just then, her master, Daoist Tianji, emerged from the main hall. His eyes fell upon Sha Wan’er, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a gentle smile that warmed her heart.

At this, the young woman could not help but feel a pang of melancholy. In the past, she found this old man endlessly irritating—if she didn’t exchange a few barbed words or find something to quarrel over each day, she felt unsettled. Daoist Tianji used to jest that Sha Wan’er was his fated nemesis, a constant source of trouble and vexation, yet his affection for her never waned, treating her as his own daughter. Though she often found him tiresome, after just half a month apart, she found herself missing him.

“Master!” Even a woman as spirited as Sha Wan’er could not help but soften. Gazing at the old man, her emotions stirred; after a brief pause, she ran to him, her voice ringing out and drawing the attention of all the disciples. One by one, they halted their practice, turning their eyes toward the pair.

Elsewhere, the situation was quite different. The Mingyue Manor, one of the four great sects of the world, had recently lost face in the martial realm. Shen Wansan, reputedly the greatest martial artist of the age, had been outwitted by a petty thief named Golden Leaf, whose origins were unknown. The news spread throughout the martial world in five or six days, even reaching the wanderers and boatmen upon the rivers and lakes. As the saying goes, repeated gossip makes legends—Golden Leaf, once a nameless thief, became a mythic figure overnight. Jokes abounded: “Has your house gained a Golden Leaf, too?”

As the master of Mingyue Manor, Shen Wansan, perhaps out of pride, refrained from any rash action despite the gravity of what had occurred. Instead, he maintained remarkable restraint, rarely leaving the manor, his intentions hidden. Meanwhile, self-styled heroes with ties to the Shen family and bounty hunters alike entered the fray, eager for the reward. To retrieve the luminous pearl, the Shen family would spare no expense, for in the eyes of the martial world, honor was paramount—worth more than life itself.

“At last, you have come. I have waited long for you,” Shen Wansan said with great courtesy. The vast Mingyue Manor, unrivaled within Xinyang City, easily surpassed even the northwest governor’s estate in grandeur. Shen Wansan was an older man, his hair streaked with white and deep wrinkles marking his face. Yet his attire was sumptuous—gold-threaded silk robes and a jade thumb ring on his left hand, flawless and worth a fortune. Such wealth was unimaginable for ordinary folk. His gaze had been fixed upon a peach tree in the corner of the wall, where, thanks to the lower elevation compared to Qilian, spring arrived earlier and the blossoms bloomed brilliantly. The faint fragrance was a rare pleasure. But when a single drop of water slipped from the petals, the old man moved suddenly, murmuring softly.

His words were polite, but in the blink of an eye, he was at the foot of the wall, moving so swiftly the eye could scarcely follow. Almost simultaneously, a figure leapt over from beyond the wall. Most striking was the small pink parasol she held, its color vivid against the sky. She descended lightly, landing before Shen Wansan, her green gauze robes fluttering like an immortal from the heavens. Only the deep scar crossing her once-fair face marred her beauty, lending her an uncanny air.

“Master Shen, your reputation is well deserved. Even behind such a thick wall, you knew I was coming. I am impressed!” The woman stood straight before Shen Wansan, her words respectful, yet her bearing showed no sign of retreat; her gaze was calm, her presence faintly proud. Shen Wansan, seasoned as he was, revealed nothing, his heart as still as a quiet lake. “Your edge is too sharp, your temper too fierce,” he replied.