Volume One: The King's Mandate Chapter Forty-Seven: The Essence of the Dao Lies in Its Application

The most astonishing thing was the talismans wielded by Meng Qiaoqiao, which could transform at will, stacking and merging to form a fiery phoenix soaring into the sky, trailing blazing flames. The higher the grade of the spirit beast a spell emulates, the more it tests the strength of the Daoist; to conjure a fire phoenix was proof of Meng Qiaoqiao’s solid foundation. Her opponent summoned a green luan, surrounded by radiant colors that tangled and clashed with the flames. In a single exchange, Meng Qiaoqiao spat blood, her eyes nearly bursting with pain.

After summoning the green luan’s shadow, the blind old man’s expression remained calm, clearly demonstrating he held the upper hand over Meng Qiaoqiao. Two against three, he was still slightly dominant, pressing the three young disciples until they could barely lift their heads.

“Little Yi Liu! Are you going to help or just stand there daydreaming?” Meng Qiaoqiao bit her silver teeth, turning to find Liu Xiaoyi still in a daze, not making a move.

Only then did Liu Xiaoyi snap back to himself. He knew no spells and, after much deliberation, decided to draw his sword and join the fray personally. As he took two steps forward, golden light blocked his path. Li Jue asked, “When Daoists duel, we first contest our magical arts. My golden light protects inside and out; use a ranged spell!”

Unable to break through the golden barrier, Liu Xiaoyi was at a loss. “Would you believe me if I said I’ve never learned any ranged techniques?”

Meanwhile, the two birds clashed in the sky. The green luan gained the advantage, repeatedly shattering the fire phoenix’s form. Though Meng Qiaoqiao managed to reassemble it each time, its shape grew dimmer with every defeat. Once it vanished, Meng Qiaoqiao’s life would be forfeit, as her strongest spell was this phoenix—her true spirit beast—linked to her mind and heart, sharing both glory and harm.

Magical arts, magical arts—what were they? Could true energy really conjure such a spirit beast? Liu Xiaoyi paced anxiously, unable to find a solution. He had met few Daoists; the crane hermit who once saved him spoke only in cryptic, archaic phrases, profound yet incomprehensible. Liu Xiaoyi muttered the fragments he remembered, uncertain if any would work. Suddenly, a fierce wind arose, scattering the diving green luan.

Both the blind old man and the lame boy were momentarily stunned. This young Daoist in white seemed newly initiated, his swordplay sharp but otherwise lacking in advanced arts. No one had expected such a turn.

The clay tiger swallowed the faceless general whole. Guo Shuda’s breath faltered, and he collapsed. With their triangle formation now broken, the golden shield was breached. Over a dozen puppets surged forward to seize them.

In desperation, Liu Xiaoyi concentrated, mimicking the crane hermit’s tone: “The yellow crane has flown, never to return!” Instantly, the fierce wind transformed into a celestial crane, sweeping through the field and tearing the puppets to shreds. The lame boy’s already pale face grew even paler.

Unconvinced, the green luan unleashed a rainbow light, striking the crane and causing it to wail in agony. “A thousand years of white clouds drift in vain!” Liu Xiaoyi quickly recited another line. The crane’s form dissolved, becoming billowing white clouds that enveloped and bound the green luan.

Liu Xiaoyi felt his arms suddenly weighed down, as if grasping something. He hugged it tightly, and the clouds wrapped even more firmly. Able to control the clouds with his movements, Liu Xiaoyi felt as if he had discovered a new world. Following the principle that strength begets miracles, he kneaded the clouds with all his might. The blind old man could not bear to watch and raised his hand, retrieving the green luan back into his sleeve.

“Fellow Daoist, where did you study? You seem familiar.” The blind old man fixed his blank eyes on Liu Xiaoyi, as if he could truly see through him.

Liu Xiaoyi’s mind raced. He lifted his hand in imitation, dispelling the clouds. “My master lives in seclusion atop White Crane Mountain. I doubt you’ve heard of him.”

This was no fabrication; Liu Xiaoyi had indeed met the old Daoist on White Crane Mountain. Everyone searched their memories, but could not recall such a master—nor even the location of White Crane Mountain.

Guo Shuda, having caught his breath and hearing the silence around him, looked up in surprise at the white-robed figure, thinking Bai Yiting had come to their rescue. Steadying himself, he looked closely and realized it was Liu Xiaoyi who had single-handedly held off two opponents. The green luan was gone, the tiger returned to its cage—by what method, he did not know.

This method was quite effective; magical arts proved easier than swordplay. Liu Xiaoyi mused that many spent years honing their martial skills, only to find that a few words wielded more power.

What he did not know was that the crane hermit had chosen to save him because his soul was exceptionally strong—an innate spiritual body. Even if his soul shattered, he would not die easily. Otherwise, he never would have had the chance to forge a golden dragon soul to protect it.

Therefore, when he recited spells, they were far more potent than those of ordinary Daoists. On top of that, the crane hermit’s arts were exceedingly rare, so it was no surprise he could suppress the two opponents.

Though he had never heard of White Crane Mountain, the blind old man dared not act rashly. His task was to ambush disciples of Heavenly King Dao and prevent their return to the mountain. Of the four, only Guo Shuda wore the sect’s robes; for now, retreat seemed wise.

He needed an excuse to withdraw. The blind old man took out a teacup and said to Liu Xiaoyi, “Today, we have encountered a true master. If you can withstand this next move, the road is yours.”

The teacup was crafted from purple clay, intricately carved with a scene of the Eight Immortals playing chess. As the blind old man rubbed it between his hands, a mist rose from within, faintly echoing the voices of the Eight Immortals.

The Eight Immortals were revered Daoist figures of high attainment. The blind old man could use a magical artifact to conjure their forms, a testament to his deep cultivation.

“Borrowing the power of the Eight Immortals to subdue my foes; radiant light fills the sky, golden palaces tower above!” The blind old man shouted an incantation. The swirling mist condensed into a figure—a bald, bearded beggar carrying a gourd of wine, who staggered out from the mist.

At his appearance, Meng Qiaoqiao and Li Jue exclaimed in unison, “Lan Caihe, one of the Eight Immortals!”

Liu Xiaoyi did not know who this was, and summoned the celestial crane once more, sending it forth with the wind. Lan Caihe, holding a basket, scooped it up, capturing the crane entirely.

“Lan Caihe attained immortality riding a drunken crane; when the celestial crane sees him, it is as if it recognizes its master, obeying his will!” the blind old man boasted. He saw that Liu Xiaoyi had no other tricks; with the crane gone, he could be dealt with at leisure.

After taking the crane, Lan Caihe raised his wooden staff and struck from seven or eight meters away, closing the distance in an instant, yet coming to a sudden halt before Liu Xiaoyi’s face.

The blind old man was puzzled, repeatedly urging Lan Caihe in his mind, but the apparition remained motionless. Just as he was perplexed, he saw through the mist that Liu Xiaoyi was bleeding from every orifice, a grim smile twisting his lips as he forced out a single word: “Lin.”