Chapter Thirty-Seven: Divination and Judgement

Shangguan Hongyun instinctively spun his blade around himself once more. Shangguan Chuanyun let out a small laugh—so it was true, “the fool’s saber, the scholar’s sword.” Mistaking his intent for aggression, Hongyun performed the spinning blade technique used to deflect arrows. This move was purely defensive, meant for the battlefield to ward off flying arrows or thrusting spears.

Yet, Chuanyun hadn’t even attacked; using this move now was a complete waste of energy, a mere unconscious reaction. After observing just two moves, Chuanyun lost interest. With his mind clouded, Hongyun fought as if blind, relying on feeling rather than seeing, not realizing that insight lay in the eyes. One who fights blindly has never become a true master.

Chuanyun decided not to waste any more time. In an instant, his hand, eye, body, and footwork became one. He stepped forward from Hongyun’s blind spot, making Hongyun panic and stumble backward uncontrollably.

With a light tap, Chuanyun’s sword touched the saber, sending it flying sideways until it struck the wall with a loud clang, the hilt still vibrating.

Chuanyun sheathed his sword and formed a sword-finger gesture with his left hand, pointing it at Hongyun’s ribs. Hongyun’s body stiffened, and he collapsed, convulsing violently.

Watching Hongyun writhing on the ground, Chuanyun felt satisfied with his technique. In truth, Hongyun was not wounded by Chuanyun, but by his own internal force. After executing the spinning blade move, Hongyun should have followed through with a waist twist to unleash his strength. Chuanyun had simply intercepted the flow of force at the critical moment, blocking it with his own energy, causing Hongyun’s internal power to rebound and injure himself.

Hongyun, still convulsing with pain, stared at Chuanyun in terror and stammered, “W-what do you want?”

“Oh, brother, your skills aren’t much to speak of,” Chuanyun remarked casually.

Hongyun’s face turned crimson, whether from anger or pain, and a flash of malice flickered in his eyes, quickly suppressed.

Chuanyun caught this instantly and was secretly delighted. He stepped forward and kicked Hongyun twice in the stomach.

Hongyun screamed miserably and buried his head, his body trembling uncontrollably.

A low hum emanated from Chuanyun’s sword.

He thought to himself: the guardian sword trembles at the presence of killing intent. Hongyun’s desire to kill him was now overwhelming—just as he had hoped.

He gave Hongyun one last kick, turned without a backward glance, and gently patted the quivering sword at his side. Instantly, the blade grew calm.

As Chuanyun’s footsteps faded, Hongyun glared after him with venomous hatred. His murderous gaze seemed to chill the very air.

After resting a while, Hongyun slowly got up and left the marquis’s residence.

...

Night fell. A day had passed since Chuanyun’s return. He sat cross-legged on a meditation cushion, three copper coins before him—the very ones he had taken from the fortune-teller.

He cupped the coins in his hands, gave them a gentle shake, and tossed them into the air. The coins clinked as they landed, casting flashes of golden light across the room.

He cast the coins six times in quick succession, then recorded the hexagram according to the hour.

The divination was ominous: favorable to the south, disaster to the north. The hour was the “zi” (midnight), one chance in ten to survive.

Chuanyun had anticipated a dire reading—nine out of ten of his recent divinations had been unfavorable, with only one neutral result.

But the purpose of divination wasn’t to surrender to fate, but to analyze the stakes, combine the augury with his current situation, and act for his own benefit.

The “Qi Men Dun Jia” he had encountered in his previous life was even more miraculous. The art of “Dun Jia” was to conceal the commander; the commander’s interests were always central. The other elements—Yi, Bing, Ding—were powers at the commander’s disposal, while danger always lurked in Geng, which signified killing. There were thousands of possible configurations and just as many ways to solve each dilemma. Only by employing these methods and strategies could he secure greater advantage for himself.

Analyzing the omen, Chuanyun deduced that the threat came from Hongyun. The south pointed toward his father’s direction—if he fled there, he would no doubt be safe, but that was not his intention.

As for the north, the most immediate location was the imperial palace. The imperial Chen family would not harm him, nor would the border general stationed in the north, but Hongyun had come from the north, and with him was the centipede spirit, Cihang Pudu, who currently resided in the palace—the north. There was also the monk Wuchen in that direction. If he stayed put, he would be waiting for death; only by fleeing to that direction did he have a chance. With the enemy in the open and himself in the shadows, he could act according to circumstances.

He might not return from this journey. He packed his belongings and brought some silver. After offering incense to the Celestial Venerable and saying a prayer, he checked the time—midnight was not far off.

He gazed into the pitch-black night, steeled his resolve, plunged into the darkness, and gradually disappeared.

...

After being beaten, Hongyun’s hatred for Chuanyun reached its peak. He no longer considered his long-prepared money reserve at the Jia family, nor did he think of alternatives elsewhere. For years, he had grown accustomed to extracting money from the Jia family under various pretexts—it felt as natural as taking from his own household. If they refused, they became his enemies.

Chuanyun’s intervention had thrown his plans into disarray. Hongyun’s hatred burned so fiercely that he dared not show a trace of it during the beating, for fear that Chuanyun would kill him outright.

But nothing mattered more than this. He was no match for Chuanyun, and Prince Xin would never consent to kill Chuanyun, as it did not serve his interests.

After much deliberation, he decided to seek out Cihang Pudu, whom he had introduced to the emperor. As long as the centipede spirit acted, all would be settled. Yet this would cost him a favor, and his leverage with the spirit would be diminished.

Still, Hongyun considered it worthwhile. This was a disgrace; as long as Chuanyun lived, he would always be a stone on his heart, forever unable to lift his head.

Hongyun waited in the meditation room where Cihang Pudu stayed. Although all his needs were met, with tea and vegetarian meals served, he could not sit still for a moment.

He wanted to lose his temper, but he knew Cihang Pudu’s status was no longer one he could afford to offend. He even regretted introducing him to the emperor so soon. Being left to cool his heels for a day only made him more uncomfortable.

A crisp sound of footsteps outside interrupted his thoughts. With a hearty laugh, the door opened, and in came a plump, kindly-faced monk, wearing a bright yellow kasaya and holding a string of prayer beads—Cihang Pudu, the centipede spirit. By appearance alone, he seemed no demon at all.

He greeted Hongyun, “Haha, my apologies for keeping General Shangguan waiting. I was delayed refining elixirs for His Majesty. Forgive my tardiness.”

Hongyun snorted coldly. “Master, now that you’ve achieved success, you must look down on small fry like me.”

Cihang Pudu took no offense, smiling as he replied, “I never forget the favors General Shangguan has shown me.”

“Oh?” Hongyun’s tone was skeptical, his face betraying hesitation.

Cihang Pudu, seeing through his discomfort, took the initiative. “Is there something important General Shangguan wishes to discuss? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

Hongyun spoke up, “I want to ask the Master to kill someone.”

Cihang Pudu chanted a Buddhist verse, “Amitabha. Though I have killed, I do not take lives without cause.”

Hongyun snorted again and fell silent, the air thick with awkwardness.

After a long moment of hesitation, Cihang Pudu’s expression sharpened. “I shall help you this once.”

Hongyun shot him a cold glance. “The person I want you to kill is Shangguan Chuanyun.” With that, he flung his sleeve and left.

“Amitabha,” Cihang Pudu sighed helplessly.

...

After leaving the marquis’s residence, Chuanyun concealed his movements, cautiously scouting his surroundings and evading all spies, moving slowly. It was almost midnight when he reached the outskirts of the imperial city, near where he had found the monk Wuchen the previous day. Though the monk wore a Taoist robe, his cultivation was fundamentally Buddhist, so Chuanyun regarded him as a monk.

He saw no sign of Wuchen and dared not use magical arts to search, lest Wuchen detect him. Chuanyun found a high vantage point nearby and waited quietly.

He trusted his own divinations—they were rarely wrong, with only minor deviations.

He surveyed the palace in the distance: torches every seven paces along the wall, archers every five. The bustling marketplace nearby was gradually quieting. Remembering the splendor of his previous life, he felt a sense of unfamiliarity.

He touched the sword at his side, his resolve hardening again. No matter the place or moment, he always strove toward a single goal.

He had met many people, many had walked with him for part of the journey, but in the end, only he remained—with a single sword and an unwavering Daoist heart, capable of cleaving all things.

“Few walk the path of immortality; only the immortal and the Daoist meet upon the road.”

Unnoticed, the armillary sphere in Chuanyun’s mind turned, drawing a wisp of primordial qi into his body. The flying sword on his back flickered within its case, the black scabbard shimmering with hints of silver.

Suddenly, the sword at his side let out a low hum, pulling Chuanyun from his meditation.

He did not regret being roused—insight came with fortune, but every step he took was solid and genuine. He never believed in mere luck or happenstance; even enlightenment came only through constant refinement of the Daoist heart and absolute sincerity to the sword. Only then, at a fortuitous moment, could one enter a state of sudden enlightenment.

Chuanyun saw this as a sign that his opportunity had nearly arrived, and let his awareness settle naturally.

With a thought, he spun his sword intent within his mind, sweeping away all distracting thoughts.

Clear-minded, he gazed into the distance. There, like a ribbon, something twisted around a flagpole at the palace’s corner, soldiers with spears patrolling nearby.

Chuanyun saw everything with perfect clarity. Ever since taking the Minor Elixir, he possessed night vision; even in total darkness, nothing escaped his gaze.

No wonder his sword trembled—the presence of a deadly threat had been detected.

His guardian sword, the Three-Foot Azure Edge, did not respond to mere demonic energy. Only those with true murderous intent toward him—man or monster, good or evil—provoked its warning. If something threatened him, the sword would always make it known.