Chapter Fifteen: On Martial Arts

In truth, even though bandit uprisings were rampant, Guangyong Prefecture remained largely stable. Chen Yu heard Daoist Jiang speak of the devastation in Hejian and Hedong, where chaos had swept across a thousand miles, leaving corpses scattered everywhere. The disorder was unimaginable—so severe that the authorities no longer bothered to suppress it, openly conceding the territory to the false Qi regime.

“I truly don’t know how we’ll find our footing in the future,” Daoist Jiang had sighed deeply then, his chopsticks barely able to grasp the noodles. Compared to the secluded Yunhe Temple on the mountain, Haiyun Temple—a prominent sect within the county—had far more cause for concern. When turmoil struck, their position was much more precarious.

Yet these matters were far removed from Chen Yu, lying beyond the furthest horizon; he did not worry over them, offering only a few words of comfort to Daoist Jiang. After all, Haiyun Temple possessed considerable foundations, and the trouble might not reach them.

He returned to the present: after the ritual, the grand debate continued, though the hour was late and its end drew near. The Daoists conversed with great enthusiasm, discussing all manner of topics, while the martial artists gathered nearby were equally unwilling to be left out. Some admired the Daoist teachings and joined the debate; others lounged on wooden chairs, gnawing on roast chicken and treating the proceedings as entertainment.

With today’s debates concluded, tomorrow would bring the martial contest. These warriors had little aptitude for philosophical discourse, but when it came to combat, their expertise shone.

“I want to see if the Zhengyuan Temple is as extraordinary as you all claim!”

“I’ve heard Daoists have supernatural techniques—Palm Thunder, for example. I wonder if any of these Daoist priests can perform it.”

“Palm Thunder? Who’s ever seen such a thing? I’d rather witness the Crescent Cold Blade wielded by the Goat Daoist from White Camel Mountain.”

“That’s not quite right—true martial prowess lies with the young. Those old fellows are dull. I hear Haiyun Temple’s senior disciple has recently made a name for himself, said to have slain a band of White Lotus cultists and beheaded Yue Haiping in a single stroke—he’s quite formidable…”

“Beheading Yue Haiping in one stroke? I wonder how that compares to the famed Green-Clad Swordmaster.”

The martial artists debated animatedly, all awaiting the contest that would begin tomorrow.

The sun set, the sky grew dim.

As the debate drew to its close, most of the crowd—commoners and martial artists alike—had dispersed, leaving only a few gathered nearby. Having spent the whole day amidst such excitement, none felt weary.

Dong, dong, dong!

The drum sounded again. The Daoists, reluctant to part, rose from their seats—some faces showed doubt or fatigue, but most had gained much from the day.

Chen Yu returned early to his lodgings, not lingering outside. After washing, he lay on his bed, neglecting even his daily practice as he pulled the covers over himself and fell swiftly asleep.

Within him, his spiritual energy was drawn by the prenatal breath. Without the control of the Invocation Technique, it was continually consumed and fused, while the prenatal breath slowly grew stronger.

The next morning, he awoke feeling much lighter and refreshed. Closing his eyes to sense within, he found that the prenatal breath in his dantian had increased, overflowing and wandering through his flesh and blood, offering a faint nourishing effect.

Somewhat surprised, though the effect was very weak—not even a fifth of what spiritual elixir could achieve. A single night merely banished his fatigue. After a careful examination with his mental energy, Chen Yu ceased to pay it much mind, for the prenatal breath so far served only this single purpose.

Its usefulness did not compare to his growing spiritual power.

“I’ve absorbed quite a bit more,” he thought, returning his focus to the Niwan Palace and noticing the outermost layer of spiritual energy had diminished somewhat.

Fortunately, his consciousness continually generated new spiritual energy, though not much, at least it would not be exhausted.

Originally, his spiritual energy had been cultivated from spiritual elixirs and the divine fruit from Lanting, but now it was as if he had ignited the first spark—henceforth, if he wanted more “flame,” he need only add “fuel.”

Here, the fuel referred to his living consciousness.

He was uncertain whether his current spiritual energy was simply too meager or if other factors were at play, but he saw no limit to its production—perhaps this was related to the boundless ocean of awareness within him.

Brushing aside stray thoughts, he practiced the Invocation Technique.

The prenatal breath could not yet be freely nurtured—not until he had fully understood it. For now, only the Invocation Technique could suppress the mysterious attraction it exerted.

Yet, when he slept at night, his cultivation ceased.

If only he could achieve the legendary Sleep Immortal Art.

Quickly dispelling such fantasies—these were far too unrealistic. Even Daoist Jiang, who was well-versed in myriad teachings, admitted he had only heard of the Sleep Immortal Art, never witnessed it.

Let alone possess it himself.

“By comparison, the scriptures concerning the five viscera seem much more practical,” he mused.

Through two rounds of debates, Chen Yu had not only listened, but also made the acquaintance of many fellow Daoists. After all, Daoists spoke elegantly and imaginatively, and years of cultivation rarely produced mediocrity—some shabby temples aside, which were not even listed in the registry and thus not invited to the ritual.

Though Chen Yu often joked about Yunhe Temple, it was worth remembering that ten years ago, the name Yunhe Temple atop Qingtai Mountain was well-respected within Shiya County.

And thirty years prior, it rivaled Haiyun Temple in prestige.

It was the orthodox Daoist sect.

In those days, Yunhe Temple maintained a genuine Daoist Canon—a collection spanning hundreds of volumes!

Otherwise, they could never have produced elders so deeply versed in Daoist studies.

Regrettably, most of those texts had been devoured by bookworms.

Leaving the courtyard, Chen Yu walked to yesterday’s venue.

Today was the martial contest; the platforms and ritual altars had been cleared, leaving only bare wooden pillars.

The world of martial arts was small, but everyone was part of it. Cultivation, in the end, relied not only on philosophical debate, but upon the strength of one’s limbs.

Compared to regular martial tournaments, the ritual contest was much more peaceful—a matter of friendly sparring, not deadly combat. Though accidents were inevitable, with masters from all sects watching, very few dared to act recklessly.

“I am Jia Zongxian of Feiyue Sect. I have always admired the Dao and greet you, esteemed Daoists. Please do not hesitate to instruct me.”

As Chen Yu approached, he saw a middle-aged martial artist clad in white, wrapped in a narrow-sleeved robe, holding a sword and saluting with a fist.

Was this a challenge?

The martial contest at Daoist rituals followed its own rules, unlike others. These past days, under Daoist Jiang’s guidance, Chen Yu had learned much: ordinarily, the Daoist sects would demonstrate their skills first, expound mystical principles, and promote their own reputations.

Daoist sects must maintain their position in society—transcendent words are fine for listening, but even the leaders of major sects cannot subsist on them alone.

Perhaps only those elder cultivators, wholly devoted to the Dao and half-withdrawn from society, could truly live so.

Speaking of elder cultivators, the one who had presided over the ritual and debate had vanished, likely returning to Yuanyang Peak, indifferent to worldly affairs.

In truth, if Yunhe Temple were not so depleted, with so few scriptures remaining, Chen Yu would not have needed to descend the mountain, preferring the leisure of life above.

“Now that I think of it, I wonder how the chicks are doing,” he thought.

He had fashioned a large, inverted funnel-shaped feeder from wood, filled it with plenty of rice.

It should last until he returned.

After today’s contest, another day’s delay, and he could finally go back.

Chen Yu was eager to leave now—the grand debate had concluded, and he had gained much. Yet the scriptures concerning the five viscera and medical texts had not yet come into his possession; he would have to wait a little longer.