Song Shijun scanned the empty seat reserved for Taichu Observatory's leader. "It's almost time. Still no sign of them. What does Sect Leader Qi think?"
Qi Yunke's expression tightened, but Venerable Fakong smoothly filled the silence. "As this old monk passed Fengyun Peak earlier, I saw Master Qiu and his group just beginning their ascent. Taichu Observatory brought many people this time. They'll be a little while yet."
Song Shijun clicked his tongue. "He always has to cut it to the last second."
Yang Heying bristled as if personally insulted. "Coming to an ancestors' memorial, why drag so many people along? Showing off at a time like this!" He said this, conveniently forgetting that he had also wanted to bring an army of disciples for exactly the same reason.
Qi Yunke fixed his gaze somewhere neutral in the distance. Since taking a wife and inheriting the sect leadership, he had learned that strategic deafness was the single most useful skill a man could possess.
Zeng Dalou approached. "Master. It's time to strike the gong."
Qi Yunke glanced once more at the empty seat. "We don't delay for the gong. Begin. Brother Qiu can observe proper respect when he arrives."
Song Shijun brightened like an oversized child who had just been given sweets, praising Qi Yunke's decisiveness at considerable volume.
Zeng Dalou ordered disciples to throw open all sixteen doors of the main hall. Outside, on the broad stone platform, stood a vermilion gong frame rising nearly twenty zhang into the sky. From it hung an enormous dark iron gong — half a chi thick, suspended on chains as thick as a man's wrist.
The mountaintop wind was savage. Nearby banners, barely five or six zhang high, cracked and whipped in the gale. Yet the massive gong barely stirred. Its stillness said everything about its weight.
Led by the five leaders of the Northern Chen sects, the gathered crowd filed out onto the open platform. Everyone held their breath.
Cai Zhao leaned toward Fan Xingjia. "What exactly are they doing?"
Fan Xingjia had drifted over without quite meaning to. "That gong was left by our ancestors. Forged from deep-sea dark iron, brought from ten thousand li away. During major ceremonies — or the birthdays of the Three Pure Ones — it's struck to carry word to the deities in every direction."
Cai Zhao looked at it, thinking that Luoying Valley almost certainly owned nothing like this.
"Naturally, only Qingque Sect has one," Fan Xingjia confirmed. "Though it's fortunate the ceremony isn't at Guangtian Gate. We'd have to move the thing there."
Chang Ning said dryly, "And once it arrived, Guangtian Gate probably wouldn't give it back." He caught Cai Zhao's glance and added, just as dryly, "Sect Leader Song seems to have only a superficial connection to Luoying Valley," which was his way of noting that Song Shijun wasn't really one of her elders.
Cai Zhao stared at him.
Fan Xingjia stifled a laugh. He was going to stay close to these two.
Qi Yunke stepped forward. He drew a single calm breath, then pushed his palm outward toward the distant gong. A deep, resonant boom rolled across the platform a moment later — not sharp, not percussive, but heavy, like a sound that had weight. The dark iron gong shuddered as though something massive had struck it invisibly. Decades of settled dust rained from its face.
The crowd erupted. Yin Sulian, watching from the side, was practically glowing.
Song Shijun should have gone second, but he abruptly turned modest and insisted Zhou Zhizhen take the turn instead. Zhou Zhizhen didn't argue. He smiled, settled his stance, and struck. The second boom rolled out across the stone platform — equal in force, perhaps more polished in technique. The applause was slightly quieter than it had been for Qi Yunke, but Zhou Zhizhen's expression didn't change by a hair.
Cai Zhao watched the exchange carefully, then asked, "If someone doesn't have enough power to make it sound during the ceremony, what happens to them?"
Chang Ning kept his voice low. "Don't be naive. This has nothing to do with informing deities. This is a demonstration of power. It tells every other sect in attendance exactly where the lines are drawn. If you can't ring that gong, you have no business sitting among the Northern Chen Six Sects."
Fan Xingjia nodded.
Then it was Song Shijun's turn. He stepped forward wearing a solemn expression, assumed a weighty stance with equal solemnity, and struck — with the careful calculation of a man who appears effortless precisely because he has put in the most effort. The third boom rang out.
Then someone in the crowd shouted: "Look at the gong!"
People strained to see. In the center of the dark iron face, a clear palm print had been pressed roughly half an inch deep into the metal.
The platform erupted. It was like throwing salt into boiling oil — the crowd hissed and crackled with excitement:
"That's dark iron. No blade can mark it. And yet—"
"No wonder Guangtian Gate has been climbing in recent years, even pressing Qingque Sect back a step!"
"I heard that if Sect Leader Song hadn't needed to inherit Guangtian Gate's leadership, old Sect Leader Yin originally wanted this son-in-law to lead Qingque Sect instead!"
Qi Yunke could only smile helplessly. Yin Sulian had gone pale.
Cai Zhao muttered, "Uncle Qi and Uncle Zhou could probably do the same thing."
Fan Xingjia grumbled in agreement. "Exactly! He deliberately gave way to Master Zhou first because he was afraid Master Zhou might leave a mark too. Master is just too dignified to compete over something like this."
Chang Ning said, "I suspect if Sect Leader Qi slapped Song Shijun across the face it would make an even more satisfying sound."
Fan and Cai both turned to look at him.
Song Shijun, buoyed on a cloud of praise, floated through the crowd while gesturing humbly for everyone to settle down.
Next came Yang Heying. He wanted to show Siqimen's strength without making Song Shijun look bad, so he thought carefully, then punched upward instead of striking with his palm. A sharp clang. Everyone looked up to find a shallow fist print beside Song Shijun's palm print. The applause came — warmer than it had been for Qi and Zhou, but not as loud as Song Shijun had received.
The calculation was sound: a fist concentrates force to a smaller point, so equal power leaves a shallower mark than a palm. Yang Heying had earned his applause without stealing the moment.
Fan Xingjia and Cai Zhao produced synchronized sounds of contempt.
Chang Ning said suddenly, "Yang Heying's power is considerably lacking."
Cai Zhao looked at him in confusion. Chang Ning didn't look away from the gong. "Look at his print. The middle and ring finger marks are deepest. The index and little finger barely registered. When you channel internal energy through a strike, the force should be even — every point of contact reads the same. Look at Sect Leader Song's palm print. Perfectly uniform, no variation. Yang Heying had to concentrate everything into one point because he didn't have enough force to distribute evenly. The first three sect leaders made it look like nothing. Yang Heying was working very hard."
Fan Xingjia and Cai Zhao looked. He was right. They glanced around and saw Venerable Fakong standing perfectly still, Master Jingyuan watching from the side with cold amusement, and both Qi Yunke and Zhou Zhizhen wearing polite smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.
The last to strike was Cai Chunqiu. Cai Zhao pressed her fists together.
Cai Chunqiu's face showed nothing. Without waiting for the crowd noise to settle, he raised his palm and struck. The gong rang out — not spectacularly louder, not dramatically different in tone. Just a single clean impact.
Then people looked at the gong face and stopped talking.
Every previous mark — Song Shijun's palm print, Yang Heying's fist print, everything accumulated across two hundred years of ceremonies — was gone. The surface had been flattened and smoothed the way a rough mud wall gets smoothed over by a wet hand. The gong had been many things over two centuries: struck, dented, worn into unevenness. Now it looked like a rough but cleared slate.
The platform went quiet. People exchanged glances. No one quite knew what to say — shock was part of it, but so was a practical reluctance to applaud too loudly with Guangtian Gate and Siqimen standing right there.
Master Jingyuan's perpetually severe expression eased, just slightly.
Venerable Fakong recited a quiet Buddhist phrase and smiled warmly. "Young Master Cai has made remarkable progress over the years." He had known the Cai siblings since Cai Chunqiu was twelve. Old habits of address died hard.
Master Juexing laughed beside him. "The man is nearly forty, Master. Can you still call him young master?" He had taken the tonsure, but a brother-in-law was still a brother-in-law.
Venerable Fakong acknowledged this graciously.
Now that the abbot of Changchun Temple had spoken, others carefully began to offer their own praise — measured, cautious praise. But the way they looked at the Luoying Valley disciples had shifted. Something in their eyes had changed.
Qi Yunke laughed, loudly and genuinely. "Well done, Chunqiu. You've saved me the trouble of sending disciples up there to smooth out the gong."
Song Shijun rolled his eyes and said with a thin smile, "True talent conceals itself. Brother Chunqiu, your skills have come a long way. Your sister was always right about you — she said you had unlimited potential, that no ceiling applied to you."
Cai Chunqiu replied without heat. "In my sister's eyes, everyone has something in them worth finding. No one comes into this world as nothing."
Song Shijun turned away sharply. Zhou Zhizhen laid a hand on Cai Chunqiu's shoulder. Yang Heying's face had gone the color of old ash.
The gong-striking ceremony had ended. People began moving toward the hall. Then a disciple at the outer gate called out loudly: "Taichu Observatory's Master Qiu arrives with his disciples to pay respects to the ancestors!"
A current ran through the crowd. Then came footsteps — measured, unhurried, carrying weight. A procession of Taoists in pale purple robes edged with gold embroidery swept forward in wide sleeves. At the front walked a man around forty, tall and broad-shouldered, his face square and composed. His deep purple robe was stitched with dark gold stars across the chest. Qiu Yuanfeng, master of Taichu Observatory.
The purple-robed disciples parted smoothly to either side, and through the gap came four disciples carrying a bamboo sedan chair. Seated in it was an elderly man with a silver-streaked beard, complexion ruddy, eyes alert and sharp. From the knees downward, both legs were absent.
Qi Yunke and the others moved forward at once, bowing as juniors. "Uncle Cangqiong."
Venerable Fakong and Master Jingyuan came forward to greet him as well.
"I never thought I would see Taoist Cangqiong again after we parted years ago," Venerable Fakong said quietly.
Cangqiong Zi smiled. "This old Taoist was ambushed by Demon Sect villains years back. Lost both legs and thought his remaining years were finished. But my disciple has done well for himself, so I came out to join the festivities. Sect Leader Qi won't turn me away?"
Cangqiong Zi was one of the few surviving elders among the six sects. Turning him away was inconceivable.
Satisfied, Cangqiong Zi looked up at his disciple. "Yuanfeng. Strike the gong."
Qiu Yuanfeng bowed, turned, and struck upward with an easy palm. The dark iron gong answered four times in rapid succession, each echo following the last as if an iron hammer were bouncing off the surface in continuous motion. The crowd went off.
"That must be Taichu Observatory's supreme technique — one palm, four echoes, hard and soft combined into one, projecting power in every direction—"
"If it's hard and soft combined, how is it projecting dominance?"
"Stop picking at the details. Master Qiu's skill stands beside the late Heroine Cai Pingshu — no less."
"No wonder Taichu Observatory has been rising. At this rate they'll overtake Guangtian Gate entirely…"
"Quiet. There are Guangtian Gate disciples everywhere. Watch your mouth."
Song Shijun's face had stopped being pleasant.
Cai Chunqiu's earlier strike had been extraordinary, but Song Shijun had privately believed he could match it if needed. Qiu Yuanfeng's display was something else. Song Shijun wasn't certain he could replicate four clean echoes, and the uncertainty sat badly on him.
Yang Heying read his mood immediately. "Brother Yuanfeng, that's quite a show. But today is the ancestors' memorial — not a battle with the Demon Sect. Why arrive with a small army?"
He had a point. Looking around, people realized that Taichu Observatory had brought considerably more disciples than any other sect. These disciples carried brocade boxes, bundles wrapped in silk, and high ceremonial banners. The effect was deliberately imposing.
Qiu Yuanfeng glanced past Yang Heying entirely and addressed Qi Yunke with a faint smile. "The two hundredth anniversary of the ancestors is rare. Every disciple of Taichu Observatory wanted to pay their respects. I saw their sincerity and brought a few extra. Surely Qingque Sect can find room for them?"
Qi Yunke was displeased, but his voice stayed level. "Qingque Sect can find room. Muwei Palace cannot. During the ceremony in Chaoyang Main Hall, many of your disciples will have to remain outside."
"That's acceptable," Qiu Yuanfeng said, without sounding particularly bothered.
Song Shijun exhaled sharply through his nose. "If you cared so much about honoring this rare anniversary, why crawl in at the last possible moment? It's hard not to take that as deliberate disrespect."
Qiu Yuanfeng smiled. He had been waiting for exactly this.
"Second Senior Brother. Bring it forward."
A composed, dignified middle-aged Taoist stepped out from the group, carrying a red wooden box.
Cai Zhao leaned sideways. "Did he just order around his own senior brother?" She glanced at Chang Ning.
Chang Ning had been watching the middle-aged Taoist. "That's Wang Yuanjing. Second disciple of the late Master Canghuan Zi. Qiu Yuanfeng is the third disciple. The man in the chair — Cangqiong Zi — is the old master's junior brother."
Cai Zhao frowned. "Then where is Canghuan's first disciple?"
"Killed by a Demon Sect elder. Twenty years ago."
Fan Xingjia added quietly, "I heard from Senior Brother Lei that Master Canghuan's first disciple — Wu Yuanying — was genuinely beloved in the martial world. His martial arts were exceptional, but what people remembered was his nature. He used to gather his junior brothers, load up huge wine jars, and take them climbing mountains and crossing rivers just to drink with everyone. That kind of person." He paused. "And then, just like that."
Cai Zhao was quiet for a moment. Then: "Isn't Senior Brother Lei coming out today? Even Senior Brother Li from the outer sect is here."
Fan Xingjia's expression flattened. "Master has invited him. Senior Brother Lei says he's a useless cripple now and doesn't want to embarrass the sect."
While they spoke, Wang Yuanjing placed the red wooden box in the center of the open platform. Song Shijun's frown deepened. "What is this?"
Qiu Yuanfeng waved a hand. "Second Senior Brother, no need to be precious about it. Open it for everyone."
A young Taoist standing near Wang Yuanjing looked furious at Qiu Yuanfeng's casual tone and looked ready to say so, but Wang Yuanjing put a hand on him and stepped forward himself. He opened the box.
The crowd looked in together.
Then came the gasps.
Inside the box was a human head — disheveled hair, tangled beard, the face slack and gray.
Cai Zhao flinched. Her hand came up over her mouth before she could stop it.
Chang Ning noticed she had never seen a dead person before. Something moved in him. His way of expressing it, however, was his own. He leaned in close and said, with complete seriousness: "Don't be afraid. Dead people can't hurt you. It's living ones you have to watch."
Cai Zhao stared at him. "Thank you for that, Senior Brother." She turned sharply away.
Fan Xingjia directed a silent, respectful nod toward Chang Ning.
"Who is this?" Zhou Zhizhen's composure had slipped noticeably. "Uncle Cangqiong, today is the ancestors' memorial. What is the meaning of this?"
Cangqiong Zi waved a hand. "This old Taoist doesn't concern himself with worldly affairs anymore. Yuanfeng runs the observatory now. Everything is up to him." His expression told a different story.
Qiu Yuanfeng watched Song Shijun's face, then spoke slowly. "Brother Zhou may not know this man. But Brother Song certainly does. This is Sima An — leader of Leigong Stronghold."
Leigong Stronghold was a sizable fortress operating within Guangtian Gate's territory, managing a remote stretch of dense forest with a reasonable reputation in the martial world. Sima An had been its newly appointed leader — known for his martial skills and his exceptional ability to make powerful friends happy. Just the previous year, he had traveled personally to Guangtian Gate to present Song Shijun with expensive birthday gifts.
The crowd was deeply confused.
Song Shijun moved forward. "What exactly does Observatory Master Qiu mean by this?"
Qiu Yuanfeng's smile was unhurried. "Our ancestors gave their lives to eliminate evil and protect the innocent. By bringing this man's head here today, I am making an offering to their spirits."
Song Shijun's pupils tightened.
Yang Heying stepped up beside him. "Leigong Stronghold falls within Guangtian Gate's territory. Even if Sima An had done something wrong, it was Brother Song's business to address it. What concern is any of this to Taichu Observatory?"
Qiu Yuanfeng said pleasantly, "We feared there wasn't enough time."
Qi Yunke stepped between them and spoke with quiet force. "What did Sima An do? Brother Yuanfeng. Say it plainly."
Qiu Yuanfeng adjusted his robe. He took a moment, clearly enjoying it, then spoke.
"Leigong Stronghold originally belonged to the Lei family. Years ago, old Master Lei took Sima An in as an adopted son. He saw potential in the boy and taught him everything. When Sima An grew up and proved more talented than the old master's own son, old Master Lei decided to pass the leadership to him and betrothed his beloved daughter to him as well. What this animal did in return was this: coveting the beauty of old Master Lei's daughter-in-law, he arranged for old Master Lei's son to fall from a cliff. Then he poisoned young Miss Lei with a slow illness. If Taichu Observatory had arrived even half a day later, I believe old Master Lei would have followed them both."
The crowd was murmuring, low and disturbed. Yang Heying thought privately that adopted sons and sworn brothers were never quite as trustworthy as flesh and blood — and let his gaze drift briefly to Cai Chunqiu, silently noting that only an unorthodox sect like Luoying Valley would genuinely treat a son-in-law as their own.
Song Shijun's voice dropped. "Why was none of this brought to me?"
Qiu Yuanfeng's smile didn't change. "Actually, someone tried. Old Master Lei's daughter-in-law was clever. Seeing that Sima An controlled the entire stronghold, she played along with him while quietly sending a trusted maid to seek help. But Guangtian Gate is large and successful, and its disciples carry themselves accordingly. They didn't take a shabby, frightened little maid very seriously. From what I understand, they sent her away before she could explain a single word."
"And then this maid crossed paths with Taichu Observatory." Song Shijun's voice was flat.
"Correct." Qiu Yuanfeng couldn't fully contain his satisfaction. "By heaven's grace, justice still found the Lei family."
Cangqiong Zi added from his sedan chair, "It was Yuanfeng's attentiveness that saved the father and daughter."
The Taichu Observatory disciples were visibly pleased. The Guangtian Gate crowd looked as though the light had gone out.
Silence settled over the platform. Everyone present understood what had just happened. Guangtian Gate had been publicly humiliated — not with a weapon, but with a story.
Qi Yunke stood in the middle of it and considered his options:
First — Taichu Observatory had clearly overstepped its jurisdiction.
Second — Taichu Observatory had unambiguously saved two lives.
Third — praising Qiu Yuanfeng meant slapping Song Shijun's face in front of everyone.
Fourth — rebuking Qiu Yuanfeng meant defending a man who had sheltered a murderer.
Fifth — the sect leader's head was beginning to throb.