Chapter Forty-Seven: The Hummingbird Messenger

Baihui fell to the ground, the tailgate never to return home.
If the Zhangmen point is struck, nine out of ten perish.
The Taiyang and Yamen points—certain death awaits.
To seek out meridians and recognize acupoints is the foundation of all skill; without understanding the meridians and points, the cycles of the five elements, and the transformations of yin and yang, few can ever reach the higher realms of cultivation.
Martial artists know only of muscles, bones, skin, and membranes, perhaps at most the marrow. They practice some rudimentary methods to refine essence, energy, and spirit, and thus at best may achieve a blood and energy pill, earning the title of a “personal immortal.”
But they cannot truly enter the inner sanctum. All because they do not know the circulation of the microcosmic orbit, nor the principles of yin and yang and the cycles of generation and conquest. Though they may temper every inch of flesh and blood, they are ignorant of the mysteries of the acupoints and meridians, and so their achievements are inevitably limited.
Lacking in spiritual responsiveness, their living spirit—what is known as the “retained spirit”—moves sluggishly.
This lantern monk is a prime example. Though he appears to have some method of holding the primordial and nurturing unity, it is more Daoist in origin, yet his dantian is a dead wasteland. There is neither the circulation of the microcosmic orbit nor the guidance of energy through the meridians.
His muscles are strong, his organs robust, his bones hard—if not at the stage of concealed power, then certainly transforming power. Yet when I struck, he could not react at all.
Clearly, he abandoned the path of building the foundation and nourishing the primordial, choosing instead to follow martial cultivation.
Luckily, he had some foundation, or else my simple acupoint strikes would have killed him outright.
As things stand, he will not survive twelve hours unless someone expends their own energy to push the blood through his palaces and expel the residual force; otherwise, he is doomed.
Yet when I struck the Baihui point with my final Heaven-Penetrating Finger, I unintentionally sensed a faint Buddhist light at the wheel in the center of his brow—it seems he has cultivated the chakras. As long as these are not scattered, he cannot die just yet.
Shangguan Chuanyun had not intended to concern himself, but this monk—released by someone he did not know—was so infuriating in his words that it was obvious he hailed from Nanguo County; only Nanguo County had such a great monastery, and Li Hualong had mentioned their years-long campaign for head-shaving.
He had merely intended to pass through and, if ignored, would have gone on safely.
But after witnessing the lantern monk’s conduct, he thought, “Birds of a feather flock together; it’s no wonder Nanguo County behaves as it does.” He had wanted an excuse to look into the matter, and now one had delivered itself into his hands.
He took out a slip of paper, wrote a series of symbols with a charcoal stick, removed the small birdcage from his back, and caught a hummingbird. Rolling up the note and sliding it into a message tube, he sealed it with wax and fastened it to the bird.
As he opened his hand, the hummingbird flapped its wings, circled Shangguan Chuanyun twice, chirping as if it relished his company. He had noticed this one was the most intelligent when choosing among the birds, and so he had singled it out.
Seeing its cleverness, he thought perhaps this little bird would come in handy in the future, making matters easier with its keen spirit.
He then circulated a wisp of primal energy, letting it spiral around his fingertip, and gently touched the bird’s beak. The hummingbird instantly swallowed it, and he massaged its back using his Heaven-Penetrating Finger technique, merging his energy into its body. The bird gleefully circled his head a few times, then with a whoosh shot down the mountain.
Watching the bird depart, then glancing at the monk lying on the ground, Shangguan Chuanyun turned and continued up the mountain.
...
At the foot of the mountain, in the dilapidated Daoist compound, two exotic steeds had already been unharnessed and now grazed idly by the mountain path.
Several guards bustled busily within the compound, sorting supplies with great enthusiasm and vigor.
Ever since discovering their young master’s abilities, they had changed completely.
After all, if the young master has meat to eat, would they not at least get the soup?
Jia Cheng, at the stone table, was taking inventory of what resources he could marshal. Beside him, Jia Liang—just past twenty, younger and sharper, loyal and skilled in martial arts—had been assigned by the lady of the house to accompany the young master. He now assisted Jia Cheng, tallying the assets at their disposal to maximize their usefulness.
Both knew their master was no ordinary person. As long as they followed him, their prospects were limitless.
Jia Cheng reviewed the results: the Jia family’s merchant network spanned the entire Liang Dynasty, with branches even among the western barbarians overseas.
Judging from the young master’s demeanor, he was not one to stay in one place, so complete logistical support was essential.
As he pondered this, a chirping sound caught his attention.
“A hummingbird.”
Jia Liang looked up to see a little green bird circling overhead.
“It’s from the young master.”
Jia Cheng quickly extended his hand, and the bird landed on it. He detached the message tube, checked the wax seal—intact.
From his pocket, he produced a cloth pouch, took out a pellet of flower nectar mixed with medicinal herbs. The bird nibbled one, then turned away, shook its tail feathers, and flitted back up the mountain.
The two men were stunned. This feed was specially made for the hummingbirds—herbs and insects ground to powder, blended with pollen and honey. Usually, the birds fought over it, but this time, it seemed almost disdainful.
Moreover, the bird had flown back the way it came—unheard of. Normally, once returned, it would never leave again; its flight made it clear it was not heading into the wild, but perhaps returning to the young master.
Though the notion seemed absurd, considering their master’s abilities, it was not so surprising.
They opened the note, exchanged a few words, and called over Chief Jia. The three conferred quickly; Jia Liang and Commander Wu, with two guards, dashed up the mountain.
Soon, they returned, carrying a monk tightly bound. They discussed briefly, bundled the monk in a sack, placed him on a horse, and set off toward Nanguo County under cover of night.
In the Daoist temple, Priest Ren, after expelling his former disciple—now a monk—with a gust of righteous wind, was preparing a meal when he sensed someone below using magic. With his spiritual awareness, he saw a young noble entangled with the monk.
He watched as the lantern monk attempted his usual tricks—intimidation, deceit, flattery, and persuasion to win a convert. If that failed, he would resort to cursing, and, if that too failed, to violence. Priest Ren was just about to break the monk’s leg to teach him a lesson.
But then he saw that the young noble was not one to be trifled with either, launching a sudden attack with fists, palms, and finger strikes, hitting several of the monk’s death points in succession.
Especially the final move: an acupoint strike delivered from a distance, which made Priest Ren’s eyes light up. This was unmistakably the work of a cultivator; even a martial artist who had reached the level of “personal immortal” could not project force in this way.
Though the life force was similar to that of a refined energy cultivator, the core energies differed greatly: one drew on internal force from the bone membranes, the other on primal essence, vital energy, and spirit.
One was as simple as three coins for divination, the other as complex as an armillary sphere capable of measuring the stars, the cycles of heaven and earth, the fate of nations.
The two could not be compared.
Clearly, this was a fellow cultivator. Priest Ren readied himself to greet him, but glancing around, realized his disciples had all run off, finding little prospect in following him.
Thus, he was left to rely on himself. He tidied his somewhat worn robe of the Black and Yellow Eight Trigrams, straightened his Lotus Five-Thunder Crown, took up a whisk, and stood at the temple gate to await his fellow practitioner.
Shangguan Chuanyun climbed the stone steps, mist swirling around him, enveloped in a celestial atmosphere—lush flowers, dazzling blooms, strange stones everywhere. Though the mountain was small, it had a unique charm—a veritable abode of immortals.
Admiring the scenery as he walked, with each seemingly light step he traversed nine feet—a Daoist art of “compressing the earth into inches,” simple yet practical, taught to him by a temple-keeper at a small shrine not far from Mount Emei in his previous life.
After the establishment of the great monastery at Emei, all Daoist schools had been driven from the mountain, but the tradition survived.
He had inherited this art, receiving the seal of the Three Mountains and Nine Lords, and perfected the technique. In his past life, it was of little use, but in this one, it was ideal—for travel and leisure, it was perfect.
Suddenly, a flash of green appeared—his hummingbird had returned. Evidently the message had been delivered. Shangguan Chuanyun caught it and placed it back in its cage, continuing upward.
He sensed someone watching him and found, as he neared the Eastern Peak Temple, a Daoist standing on the steps above.
He wore a Lotus Five-Thunder Crown, a robe of Black and Yellow Eight Trigrams, with bright eyes and square pupils, a nose like a mountain ridge, a face as smooth as an infant’s, three strands of beard falling down, and lines running from the corners of his mouth to his chin.
Shangguan Chuanyun thought to himself:
“What a deeply cultivated and truly accomplished Daoist.”
This was clearly a master, and from the Five-Thunder talisman on his crown, it was evident he practiced the thunder arts. Such a crown was not worn lightly; only those who had reached a certain level in cultivation, and received approval from their ancestral master, were permitted to wear it. In his past life, whether in the Orthodox Unity sect or others, every rank required both tests of cultivation and character before one could receive the corresponding seal and learn the related techniques. Without virtue to match, calamity would inevitably follow.
He recalled a trickster in his former life who, changing between monk and Daoist, dressed as a high-ranking ritual master to gain trust and raise funds for a temple, only to be struck mad by the energies he invoked, and ultimately hanged himself—a fitting consequence for virtue not matching position.
Shangguan Chuanyun observed the man’s aura, fused with nature itself, and thought he had come to the right place. He ascended the steps in a few strides and was about to speak when the Daoist formed a Taiji seal before his chest and said:
“I sensed a current of noble qi from the north, and now, young master, you arrive. I am Ren Shouquan. Forgive me for not welcoming you sooner.”
Though not a Daoist, having received the sword arts of Mount Hua, Shangguan Chuanyun returned the courtesy, forming the Taiji seal before his chest and saying:
“Greetings, Master. I am Shangguan Chuanyun. My visit to your temple is by destiny, and to meet a true adept such as yourself is my great fortune.”
Priest Ren nodded with satisfaction, seeing the naturally fluent Taiji seal, and hearing himself addressed as “Master”—a sign of a disciple of the mysteries.
He further observed the youth’s restrained breath, but his face was broad and noble, his nose straight and prominent, lips red and teeth white—a man of wealth and distinction. His sword-like brows and starry eyes shone with pure light, faint traces of sword energy visible. Clearly, he was skilled in the sword arts; judging by the sword case on his back and the three-foot blade at his waist, this youth was a swordsman of some accomplishment.
Priest Ren flicked his whisk, gestured invitingly with his right hand, and said:
“Please, young master, come inside.”
“After you, Master.”