One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

The journey back to Beijing from Xining took nearly twenty hours. The two SUVs took turns driving on the highway, stopping only for twenty minutes at a service area for refueling and supplies. Zhang Chulan leaned back in the passenger seat, a Qinghai tourist brochure he had swiped from the guesthouse receptionist lying on his lap, but he flipped through a couple of pages and tossed it aside, turning his head to look at the endless gray-yellow hills sweeping past the car window, muttering to himself about the legendary Zhenwu Sword.

"The Zhenwu Sword..." He rested his chin on his hand, his gaze unfocused. "It's the sword that Master Zhang Sanfeng used for over a hundred years; it's worth a fortune these days. If we could find it, wouldn't that mean we'd have established a connection with the Great Master?"

"What do you want it for?" Wang Zhenqiu asked from the back row, his eyes closed but his mouth never stopping. "To hang in the living room as a decoration? Or to auction it off on Taobao?"

"No way! How can we sell a treasure of this caliber?" Zhang Chulan turned halfway around, his face serious. "Of course we're keeping it for ourselves!"

"Can you even use it?" Wang Zhenqiu finally opened one eyelid to look at him. "Your thunder magic relies on talismans and qi, not swordsmanship. How many times have you even touched a sword hilt? More than three times?"

"I may not be able to use it, but I can watch Brother Nie use it! Brother Nie's peerless sword has been around for so many years, it's time for a change. For a dignified Nie Lingfeng to use a sword that someone else has used—it's so embarrassing."

"I don't need it," Nie Lingfeng's voice came from the driver's seat, his tone flat, as if he were talking about the weather. "The Snow Drinking Blade and the Peerless Sword are enough."

"Then—then Linglong can have it too! Linglong just learned the 'Holy Spirit Sword Technique' and the 'Overlord Sword,' and she's just missing a good sword that suits her!"

Lu Linglong, who had been leaning against the car window admiring the scenery, was suddenly called upon. She was taken aback at first, then somewhat embarrassedly tucked a stray hair behind her ear: "With my current cultivation level... I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to control that level of divine weapon. I don't want to end up disrupting my own energy channels before I can even wield the sword."

"Just use it for now!" Zhang Chulan waved his hand. "Like a good car, you have to drive it to get used to it. It won't just sit there and call itself your owner."

"Divine weapons possess spirits and will choose their masters." Wang Zhenqiu rolled over in his seat, shifting to a more comfortable position. "It's not the same as driving a used car. A sword that has been submerged in Wudang Mountain for hundreds of years knows its own limitations—it knows better than you whether you're qualified to touch it."

"Is it really that mysterious?"

"It's that mysterious."

The usual banter resumed in the carriage. Lu Linglong turned her gaze back to the window, but her hand unconsciously touched the cover of the old sword manual in the side pocket of her crossbody bag. She was thinking that Nie Lingfeng had said he would find her a sword after finding Li Muxuan—could this Zhenwu Sword be the one her master had mentioned? She didn't dare ask, but her heart skipped a beat.

The convoy returned to Beijing in the early hours of the next day. It was still dark, and the streetlights below the NaDuTong headquarters were still casting a dim yellow glow. Nie Lingfeng told the others to go back to their lodgings and rest, then washed his face and went straight to Chairman Zhao's office.

Chairman Zhao had clearly only recently arrived. His teacup was steaming, and several open folders lay on the table, brass paperweights pressed against the edges of the pages. After listening to the information Nie Lingfeng had brought back, he remained silent for a long while, his fingers slowly circling the rim of his teacup.

"Zhu Jiuyou," he finally spoke, his voice a half-degree deeper than usual, "something from the ancient 'Classic of Mountains and Seas.' I thought it was just legend. I never imagined it was buried beneath Mount Kunlun."

"I saw it with my own eyes." Nie Lingfeng sat opposite him, placing his hot tea on the table. "The dragon soul was sealed within the ice wall in the form of Qi. Although its physical form was invisible, the oppressive feeling was unmistakable. Li Muxuan said that only the True Martial Sword could stabilize the seal."

"The Zhenwu Sword..." Chairman Zhao repeated the two words on his tongue, then looked up at the person opposite him. "I've heard some rumors about this sword. It's said to be the personal sword of the immortal Zhang Sanfeng, which he used from middle age until his old age, and its whereabouts became unknown after his ascension. Some say it was buried with him, some say it's hidden in a secret chamber in Wudang Mountain, and others say it developed a spirit and escaped on its own. But none of these claims have any conclusive evidence."

"Senior Li Muxuan only said that the True Martial Sword is in Wudang Mountain, but he didn't know its exact location."

Chairman Zhao nodded: "The Wudang Sect and our company have always maintained a good relationship. I'll pass on a message to them and ask them to cooperate with your investigation. You've worked hard; take a couple of days off before heading to Hubei."

"Thank you, Chairman Zhao."

The corridor was still quiet when he came out of the office. Nie Lingfeng walked down two floors of stairs and saw Chen Duo already asleep on a bench, holding Xiao Yun. The little girl's head was nestled in Chen Duo's shoulder, her fingers clutching the corner of Chen Duo's clothes. He didn't go over to disturb them, but simply took a thin blanket from the nearby table and gently draped it over them before turning and leaving.

Two days later, the Dawn Team of seven, plus Xiaoyun, departed from Beijing by high-speed train to Shiyan, Hubei. The carriage wasn't crowded, and those by the window could see the scenery gradually transition from the vast plains of North China to the hills and mountains of northwestern Hubei. The tunnels became increasingly frequent, and the flickering light outside the windows cast flowing silhouettes on everyone's faces.

Zhang Chulan leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed and dozed off for half an hour. When he woke up, he rubbed his neck and turned to ask Wang Ye in the next seat, "Master Wang, how long has it been since you went back to Wudang?"

Wang Ye closed the half-read thread-bound book in his hand, thought for a moment, and said, "It's been almost three years. The last time I went back was for my master's seventieth birthday. I stayed for five days and then left again. After that, I was tied up with worldly affairs and haven't been able to find the time since."

"Your master will be very happy to see you go back."

Wang Ye smiled but didn't reply. He looked down at the faded ink on the book cover and lightly pressed his fingertip on the paper.

After transferring to a minibus in Shiyan city, we drove up the winding mountain road, where the vegetation on both sides grew increasingly dense. In late November, Wudang Mountain still clung to the last vestiges of autumn; the leaves of maple and smoke trees spread across the slopes in shades of ochre and orange-yellow, interspersed with a few ancient pines and cypresses, resembling a meticulously painted landscape scroll blurred by water. The air was several degrees cooler than on the plains, but moist and crisp; inhaling it felt like drinking a mouthful of minty spring water.

When the car stopped in the square in front of Zixiao Palace, Lu Linglong was the first to jump out. She looked up at the palace standing among the mountains—the red walls cascaded upwards in layers, following the contours of the mountain, the green glazed tiles gleamed warmly in the afternoon sun, and the eaves stretched towards the misty mountain ridge. The stone steps in front of the hall were worn smooth and shiny by thousands of footsteps, and the ancient cypress branches on both sides were gnarled and twisted like dragon claws.

"It's so beautiful..." she whispered, "Much prettier than in the photos."

"Zixiao Palace is one of the best-preserved ancient architectural complexes in Wudang Mountain." Wang Ye walked up from behind, his tone carrying the restraint of someone who has wandered far from home and is stepping back into an old home. "The leaders of the sect have all lived here. The thatched hut that our founder originally built is long gone, but the location of this hall is said to have been personally chosen by him."

"That Zhenwu Sword—" Zhang Chulan leaned closer and whispered, "could it be buried beneath this hall?"

"It's hard to say," Wang Ye shook his head. "There's an underground palace beneath Zixiao Palace, but only the sect leader knows the entrance. According to the established rules, only the sect leader can see what's inside; even I, a disciple of the sect, have never been down there."

"That strict?"

"The rules left by our ancestors have been upheld for hundreds of years."

The group walked up the stone steps. Two young Taoist priests stood at the entrance, their blue robes faded from washing, but the collars and cuffs were neatly pressed. Seeing Wang Ye approach, they simultaneously clasped their hands in a respectful greeting: "Senior Brother is back."

"You're back." Wang returned the greeting, then stepped aside to introduce, "These are friends from the company. Is Master here?"

"The sect leader has been waiting in the Sanqing Hall for quite some time."

Passing through several courtyards, the blue brick floor was worn into a slight indentation by footsteps. Wooden couplets, with ink on a gold background and steady, powerful strokes, hung on the pillars on either side. The last courtyard was quieter than the previous ones, with only an old ginkgo tree with an iron-like trunk, its golden, fan-shaped leaves scattered on the ground, making a soft rustling sound underfoot. Above the gate of the main hall, facing the courtyard, hung a black plaque with gold characters—"Sanqing Hall."

Wang Ye walked to the door, straightened his collar, and gently pushed open the palace door.

The light inside the hall was filtered into a soft, warm hue by the thick, carved wooden windows. Three statues of deities sat regally in a high niche, looking down over the space in front of the hall. On the offering table in front of the statues were several plates of vegetarian fruit and a censer of incense that had not yet burned out, the delicate scent of sandalwood permeating the entire space.

Two people were standing next to the prayer cushions in front of the offering table.

A man dressed in a purple Taoist robe, around fifty years old, with a lean face and three long strands of beard hanging down his chest, stood with a relaxed posture, his hands tucked into his sleeves, yet his shoulders were steady and composed, clearly someone who had practiced martial arts for decades. He was Master Yunlong, the current head of the Wudang School.

Another man sat in a grand chair against the wall, wearing an old, faded Taoist robe. His white hair was loosely tied in a bun at the back of his head. His face was gaunt, his eyes slightly sunken, and the skin of his lips was so thin that the lip line was almost visible. His eyes were slightly lowered, as if he were dozing, but his chest rose and fell extremely slowly, each inhale surprisingly long. The whisk in his hand rested on his knee, its white tip almost touching the ground.