Chapter Twenty-Five: Discussing the World

Su Mo had always been puzzled. This junior brother, with whom he had only spent a few days, seemed so serene in temperament, his words betraying no concern even for the great matters of Daoist inheritance. If so, what, then, did he care about?

“Southern Barbarian Demon Domain, Northern Alien Border, Jade Pool Immortal Realm, Sword Immortal City, and East King Island…” Shen Yu gazed at the sea of clouds on the horizon, as though striving to recall something, then asked, “Do these places still exist now?”

“East King Island is now one of the nine great sacred grounds of the continent. Its lineage is even older than the Daoist sects, so naturally it endures,” Su Mo replied, his tone calm as he spoke of the continent’s secrets. “Jade Pool Immortal Realm has not seen anyone travel the world for centuries; its gates are sealed.”

“As for the Southern Barbarian Demon Domain, three thousand years ago, after the Demon Emperor went into hiding, another peerless Demon Emperor, Shang Yang, emerged. Now, he stirs restlessly on the southwestern frontier.”

“And the Northern Alien Border…” Shen Yu seemed especially concerned with that place. “What happened there?”

Su Mo answered, “The Great Wall of the Northern Border has stood for millennia. The arrays and wards have grown somewhat lax, but it is not a major issue, as the Academy and Sword Immortal City have long stationed people there.”

“So, Sword Immortal City and the Academy still remain…” Shen Yu replied quietly, his voice full of nostalgia, lost in memories.

Su Mo said nothing.

“The Southern Barbarian Demon Domain, Northern Alien Border, those sacred grounds, the hidden immortal realms—these places nearly represent all of the Spirit Wilderness of Mountains and Seas,” Su Mo thought to himself. So, the major issues that junior brother spoke of actually encompass the whole world; no wonder he said only a master of such stature could answer them.

The setting sun was like blood, and night slowly unfolded.

One read beneath the darkness, while the other youth lay beneath the stars, deep in thought.

The only two disciples of the Daoist sect’s head passed tranquil hours in such indolence, not even considering that they ought to use their limited time for cultivation.

“You truly do speak well together,” came a voice. At some unknown hour, Master Daofan arrived at the summit. His slender figure stood upright, but a smile softened his aged face.

Su Mo offered a slight salute and withdrew with his scroll to the house.

Shen Yu rose, somewhat drowsy.

“Are you used to things here?” Daofan asked.

Shen Yu considered and replied, “It’s adequate.”

Daofan took a timeworn book from his sleeve. “If you can’t sleep, look at this. It will help pass the hours.”

Shen Yu accepted it casually, glanced at the title on the cover, and after a moment’s silence said, “I thought you were here to offer instruction on cultivation.”

Daofan, not noticing the youth’s subtle change, shook his head. “In the whole sect, only the master has the right to guide your cultivation.”

Shen Yu, holding the ancient book, asked, “Is this a technique only for the sect’s personally taught disciples?”

Daofan shook his head. “No. This is the inheritance of the Abyssal Holy Hall. Each of the four halls and seven peaks has its own tradition.”

Shen Yu set it aside. “Thank you.”

Daofan, seeing the youth’s indolent manner, could not help but say, “The Daoist sect’s inheritance stretches back thousands of years. The four halls and seven peaks each possess peerless techniques, but among them, the Abyssal Holy Hall is the strongest.”

He spoke seriously: “Our master learned this very technique. In all the Spirit Wilderness, there is none stronger than him.”

“I understand,” Shen Yu replied, still nonchalant even after Daofan had highlighted the book’s importance, as if it were merely a common storybook.

Daofan sighed, knowing the youth’s disposition, and said no more.

Shen Yu looked toward the distant courtyard, watching the tall figure walking with a book, and suddenly asked, “Has he always been like this?”

Daofan followed his gaze, smiling. “When Su Mo first received this technique, he was much like you.”

Shen Yu asked with curiosity, “Back then, who ascended the mountain first, him or me?”

Daofan was briefly taken aback, then his cool expression grew amused. “What do you think?”

Shen Yu, seeing his expression, sighed, “So it’s as I thought.”

Daofan said earnestly, “In the entire sect, and for hundreds of years before, no one ascended the mountain faster than he did.”

Shen Yu nodded. One favored by Heaven—pure of heart and steady in temperament; those so-called trials were as simple to him as eating or drinking.

He watched the tall figure and said, “Remarkable.”

Daofan nodded. “Indeed. I have never seen such talent and character in a disciple. Sadly, he prefers reading.”

Shen Yu was silent.

Daofan did not linger, turning to leave.

The mountain breeze tugged at the ancient book’s cover, its blue binding fluttering in the wind.

Shen Yu turned and gazed at the characters engraved on the cover.

The Supreme Profound Dao Canon.

Four characters, ethereal and extraordinary, imbued with an indescribable immortal aura.

Of course Shen Yu knew this was the strongest technique in the sect, perhaps in all the land.

Because it was the technique he had created in the past.

He had passed it on to Zhang Xujing, never expecting Zhang would leave behind the Daoist tradition, allowing this technique to be handed down for thousands of years to this very day.

...

The next day, Su Mo was still walking through the woods, engrossed in his book.

Shen Yu, feeling bored, picked up the ancient text and began to leaf through it.

After so many years, he had forgotten what was written within, only remembering its name, for it was taken from his own.

He read it casually and quickly finished the entire book.

Su Mo stopped and exclaimed, “Junior brother, your talent for reading is remarkable. It took me three whole days to finish that book when I first read it.”

Shen Yu smiled. “Senior brother, what do you think of this technique?”

Su Mo pondered and replied earnestly, “There are many techniques in the sect, the four halls and seven peaks have countless books, and over the years I’ve visited various academies and sacred grounds. Yet this technique is the most attuned to the Dao I’ve ever seen. It’s profound, though, and somewhat awkward to read.”

Shen Yu nodded lightly. “Page seven, sentence six; page thirteen, the last sentence; page twenty-seven, the entire page.”

Su Mo thought carefully. “And the ending.”

Shen Yu gazed at the book and said, “With time, many things become impossible to preserve. Always, there are those who consider themselves geniuses and think this part is lacking, that part is flawed, so they alter it. After thousands of years, naturally it differs from the original.”

His spirits lifted, Shen Yu smiled. “But it doesn’t matter. We can restore it ourselves.”

Su Mo was shocked. “Junior brother, you want to revise the technique?”

“Is it forbidden?” Shen Yu asked.

Su Mo shook his head. “It’s a serious matter—we should ask the master’s opinion.”

Shen Yu turned toward the void of the cave-heaven and called loudly, “I wish to revise the technique. Is it allowed?”

No reply came.

Shen Yu said seriously, “See, senior brother, the master has no objection.”

Su Mo smiled helplessly, unable to find words.

...

In the days that followed, Shen Yu suddenly grew serious, asking Su Mo for brush, ink, and paper, and began to write and draw.

At first, Su Mo was curious, watching from the side. Half an hour later, he squeezed in and began to discuss the technique.

“The path the spiritual energy takes in the meridians is simple for us, but for new disciples, few can grasp it. Shouldn’t it be made simpler?”

“Good point.”

“And here, the wording is obscure and awkward, easy to misinterpret.”

“Indeed.”

“I think we should refine this technique.”

“Agreed.”

...

Most of the time, Su Mo spoke and Shen Yu wrote. But as time went on, when Su Mo stopped speaking, the youth’s face grew paler, as though depleted in spirit.

The Dao Canon was finally completed.

Su Mo, holding the newly bound book fragrant with ink, grew ever more delighted as he read. He looked toward Shen Yu, who did not even glance at it, heading straight for the courtyard.

“Junior brother, do you need to check it again?” Su Mo asked.

Shen Yu closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and replied wearily, “No need. There’s no issue.”

Su Mo, seeing his pallor, understood at once and said with concern, “I spoke too much—who would have thought your talent was so high? I was careless.”

Shen Yu shook his head. “It’s nothing. My realm is lower, so deducing its contents is still taxing.”

Su Mo sighed, “You needn’t push yourself—slower is fine.”

Shen Yu’s gaze drifted far away, and he said nothing.

Years ago, he had walked this path quickly, never pausing to admire the scenery, destroying every obstacle as he went.

But now, walking it again, he had to cultivate anew, to see each scene, and to kill, one by one, those who blocked his way.

Shen Yu said, “When a perfect essay is lost after completion, if you pick up the pen to write it again, can it be exactly the same?”

Su Mo thought for a moment. “If you write slowly, you can achieve it.”

Shen Yu, hearing this, looked at him earnestly. “So, this is your Dao.”