Volume One: First Steps into the Immortal World Chapter Six: The Mortal Realm Is Filled with Sorrows, While in the Heavens a Pavilion Surveys the World

Youzhou bordered Bingzhou, both lying to the north of Fengyang, and was one of the three great northern gateways, sharing a boundary with the Great Xiongnu as well. Since the founding of Fengyang, the Great Xiongnu frequently raided Youzhou, prompting Fengyang to station troops there. The garrison commander, Mu Yun’ge, was renowned for his steadfast defense; he never ventured out, leaving the Xiongnu helpless. Moreover, the walls of Youzhou were thick and its ramparts high—any assault would be a costly endeavor. Thus, of the three northern provinces, the people of Youzhou enjoyed a relatively better life.

At the gates of the Grand General’s residence in Youzhou, a young man in splendid robes arrived. Folding away his fan with a gentle smile, he approached. The guards, observing his distinguished attire, hurried forward to inquire his purpose. The young man replied with a courteous smile, “I have come to pay my respects to General Mu Yun. Would you kindly announce my visit?”

Sizing him up, the guard nodded respectfully. “Please wait here, sir. I will inform the General at once.” With that, he turned and hurried inside.

Mu Yun’ge was reading in his study when a guard knocked and announced, “General, a young man requests an audience outside.” Mu Yun’ge frowned, ready to rebuke the interruption, but reconsidered and instead said, “Lead him to the parlor. I will attend shortly.”

The guard acknowledged the order and withdrew. Mu Yun’ge closed his book, rose, and made his way out.

Meanwhile, the young man followed the guard to the parlor. He had barely sat down when a maid brought in tea, but before he could drink, someone entered from outside. Setting the cup aside, the young man rose, cupping his hands in greeting: “I am Muyang. Greetings to General Mu Yun.”

Mu Yun’ge appraised him and asked, “Muyang? There’s no one of your name among the eminent families or sects of Fengyang, is there?”

Muyang smiled, half-chanted, half-sang: “The mortal world is ever-changing; above, there is the Pavilion that toys with Heaven.”

At these words, Mu Yun’ge’s body tensed. He murmured, “Pavilion of Heaven’s Play?”

Muyang nodded with a smile, seating himself leisurely. He sipped the tea, then remarked, “This is my first taste of the General’s tea. It appears fine, but the leaves are a bit old.”

Mu Yun’ge ignored the comment and took his seat at the head of the table, his tone cold. “May I ask what brings you to Youzhou? If you cannot provide a satisfactory answer today, I doubt you will leave the general’s residence unscathed.”

Muyang merely smiled, idly playing with his folding fan. “General Mu Yun, your candor is as the rumors say. Still, I doubt the humble gates of Youzhou can hold me back.”

“Enough with the pleasantries. I will be direct: what is it you seek here in Youzhou?” Muyang paused, as if recalling something, glanced distastefully at his teacup, and refrained from drinking.

Mu Yun’ge glanced at him. “From my youth, I have sworn to save the common people from suffering. What do you think I seek?”

Muyang looked at the General and replied, “A noble ambition, General. I shall be frank as well. Fengyang has stood for barely a decade; the realm is far from stable. When the fate of the world was divined, hints of calamity were seen. None shall enjoy peace for long.”

Mu Yun’ge frowned. “So long as I live, I will protect the people. Whoever wishes them harm must reckon with me and my hundred thousand troops.”

Muyang stood, pacing with his fan, as if speaking to himself, “How can a mere Youzhou represent all under heaven? Only with greater power and standing can one truly protect whom one wills.”

Mu Yun’ge’s frown deepened. “If you have business, out with it.”

Muyang turned to him. “Very well, I will be blunt. The young heroes of the land are entering Jianghu; Fengyang’s martial world will soon be lively. When the time comes, I hope General Mu Yun will support the talents of our Pavilion of Heaven’s Play.”

Mu Yun’ge fixed him with a steady gaze. At his level, every decision shaped countless lives. He knew well what it meant to support the Pavilion, but as Youzhou’s commander, should he not weigh the interests carefully?

“What sincerity does your Pavilion offer? My cultivation is not the highest, but not the lowest either. Within Youzhou, none dare defy me. If you think words alone will sway me, you are sorely mistaken.”

Muyang opened his fan with a crisp snap. “The Pavilion holds countless tomes and has immortal elders. If you agree, any text you desire will be yours; the immortals themselves can guide your cultivation. With your talent, you might become one of the foremost figures in the realm.”

Mu Yun’ge set down his cup, voice low. “Martial texts are tempting. Immortal guidance, more so. But I do not seek to be first in the world—I only wish for the world to know peace.”

Hearing this, Muyang frowned. For several breaths, they stared at each other in silence.

“I must confer with my superiors. I will reply soon. For now, I take my leave.” Without waiting for a response, he walked out.

Mu Yun’ge watched him go, turning the teacup in his hand. “So be it—let us play along,” he murmured to the empty air.

“The Pavilion of Heaven’s Play has manipulated the mortal world for a century; their power is undeniable. Yet dynasties rise and fall—who will have the last laugh? Since they have come to us, we might as well cooperate.” A voice echoed faintly in reply.

At the border between the Great Xiongnu and Youzhou, a group of Xiongnu riders advanced slowly. Their leader, a burly man with a stern visage and closed eyes, seemed deep in thought.

“They should be inside by now, yes?” the leader said.

“Banner Lord, unless something went awry, the Fourth Young Master and his group should already be in,” answered a knight behind him.

The Great Xiongnu, like Fengyang, divided their land into provinces—though only seven. The highest official in each was the Banner Lord, followed by the Commanders, Rod Masters, Division Chiefs, and Branch Chiefs.

Unlike Fengyang, the Xiongnu revered strength above all. Regardless of birth or station, the strong earned respect—though this mainly applied to commoners, as nobility still carried status.

The Banner Lord’s name was Lie Ba, ruler of Xiongzhou. Within his domain, his word was law. A few days prior, the Fourth Young Master, Qingzhu, arrived with men from the Dragon Court, requesting Lie Ba to help them enter Fengyang. Lie Ba had no idea what Qingzhu intended, but recognized the Grand Diviner’s ring, so today he aided their passage into Youzhou.

“Speak of this to no one. If word leaks, every man of your division will die,” Lie Ba said flatly.

The hundred riders behind him shivered inwardly, but dared not show it, answering in unison.

Lie Ba glanced back once, said nothing, and spurred his horse toward Xiongzhou City.

In Changsha, Priest Fuming entered the city, carrying a large bundle. Dressed in Daoist robes, he drew no trouble, for Daoism was highly esteemed in Fengyang.

“This city is enormous! So many people—more than I’ve ever seen at Mount Qingyun,” he muttered.

“No matter; first, something good to eat,” he told himself, heading forward.

Walking the streets of Changsha, he passed acrobats, vendors selling candied haws, steamed buns, and even saw a short man hawking sesame cakes with a booming voice. His business thrived; passersby, even if they didn’t buy, greeted him cheerfully: “Big Brother Lang, selling cakes again? Go home early once you’re done.”

Witnessing this, Priest Fuming thought, “This is the true flavor of the mortal world—ordinary life. Even those born small find their way in peaceful times.”

Just then, the crowd parted as a carriage raced wildly down the street, trailed by a dozen mounted servants. The speed knocked down several people.

Incensed, Priest Fuming drew his wooden sword and struck the horse. The animal veered left in pain; only the driver’s quick hands saved the carriage from overturning.

“What’s wrong with you? Can’t even drive a carriage properly?” A disheveled young man emerged from the carriage, kicking the driver and cursing.

“Master, it wasn’t my fault! That Daoist struck the horse with his sword, that’s why it bolted,” the driver pleaded.

The young master turned and saw Priest Fuming, who was inspecting his wooden sword for dents.

“Where did this mangy Daoist come from, daring to hit my horse? Do you have a death wish?” the young man scolded.

With the commotion, the servants dismounted and gathered around, ready to act at their master's command.

Priest Fuming, reassured his sword was undamaged, looked up at the young man and replied, “You were running people down in the street—yet you think you’re in the right?”

Amused, the young master replied, “Well, well, I’ve never met anyone in Changsha who dared speak to me so. You must be new to the city. Do you know who I am? I am Ximen Qing, only son of Changsha’s Prefect.”

Priest Fuming frowned. Though this was his first time down the mountain, he still knew what a Prefect was—a high official.

“So I’ve crossed a scion of privilege,” he muttered.

Ximen Qing, seated on the carriage, watched him with interest. “Little Daoist, I won’t make this hard for you. Since it’s your first time in the city, why don’t you read my fortune?”