Dao Qi Wu Zang Guan Guan: I became a Daoist Master in the 1990s

Chapter 139 The Tomb of Xuanqing
When the mountain fog rises, it is silent, yet it engulfs the surrounding area in an instant.

First, a thin veil floated up in the forest, then gathered into a sea of ​​milk, submerging tree roots and distant peaks.

A few steps away, all the scenery disappeared, leaving only a damp, cold white mist that rushed towards me, and even the soil under my feet gradually disappeared into the haze.

This scene is just like when I was exploring my stomach at Shenxian Mountain at night.

However, Qi Yun at this time was no longer the anxious young man he once was.

His heart skipped a beat; he was not surprised but delighted. He loosely clenched his right hand, and the Crimson Hunting Flame rose from his palm.

The flames burned silently, dispelling the dense fog and illuminating the surrounding area.

Without hesitation, he strode toward Baiyangpo.

Upon reaching the top of the slope, all that could be seen was a vast expanse of wilderness; the campfire and the figure of the old Taoist priest amidst the pine breeze had long since vanished.

In the middle of what should have been an empty hillside, a cluster of building ruins suddenly appeared!
The ruins and charred wood lay scattered about; if it weren't for the missing, imposing alchemy furnace, it would be almost identical to the ruins of the Five Organs Temple on Immortal Mountain.

Qi Yun's eyes sharpened, and he understood immediately. The stone boy must have entered the temple and taken something.

Just as he took the alchemy furnace jade slip that day, causing the Guanyu to collapse!
He frowned and stepped slowly into the desolate ruins.

The crunching sound of broken bricks rubbing against scorched earth came from beneath my feet, each sound particularly jarring in the deathly silence.

A blackened, broken log lay across the middle of the road, forcing him to lift his feet to step over it.

The flames of the Crimson Hunt flickered in his hands, leaving devastation in their wake.

The half-collapsed palace wall leaned precariously, as if it might collapse at any moment.

The beams and pillars crisscrossed haphazardly, resembling the skeleton of a giant beast.

He squeezed sideways between two beams, his clothes getting covered in a layer of black ash.

The deeper you go, the higher the piles of broken tiles become, with some places almost rising up like mounds.

A familiar, musty smell permeated the air, and damp, cold mist clung to the broken walls and ruins, making even the firelight appear hazy.

He weaved through the ruins, when suddenly his foot stepped on something hard. Looking down, he saw a rusty incense burner half-buried in the ashes, its body dented and deformed.

After passing through the ruins of a dilapidated side hall, the space suddenly opened up.

He raised the crimson hunting horse high, and the firelight flickered and flowed forward, illuminating a desolate garden.

Dead vines entwined the broken pergola like spider webs, and wild grass sprouted from the cracks in the broken bricks, growing up to waist height.

In the center of the garden, where the wild grass grew most lush, stood a solitary grave.

Qi Yun's figure suddenly stopped, as if he had been nailed to the spot by an invisible bolt of lightning.

The firelight trembled slightly in his hand, illuminating the lonely stone tablet in front of him.

He walked forward step by step, each step heavy, as if the ground beneath his feet was not soil, but a thousand pounds of memories.

The stone tablet is dark brown and mottled with moss, like a lament written by the hands of time itself.

Four large, chiseled characters immediately catch the eye:

The Tomb of Xuanqing!

Besides that, there were no other words, as clean as a farewell that was never fully spoken.

Qi Yun stood there for a long time, the mountain mist swirling around him like countless lingering souls. He raised his hand, his fingertips trembling as he brushed away the dust accumulated on the monument. The engravings were cold, penetrating his fingertips.

"Uncle-Master," his voice was low and hoarse, almost swallowed by the mist, "our parting ways has led us to the ends of the earth."

As the words fell, all was silent.

He took three steps back, straightened his clothes and composed himself, then suddenly lifted his robe and knelt down.

This kneeling gesture swept away the dust on the ground, and also released the grief he had been suppressing for so long.

"Disciple Qi Yungui Temple, kowtows to Uncle-Master Xuanqing!" He bowed three times, his forehead touching the cold earth.

As he first touched the ground, he caught a glimpse of tiny characters engraved on the stone at the bottom of the stele.

Without pausing, he respectfully kowtowed three times.

Only after the third knock was finished did he step forward, raise the torch, and examine the object closely.

The flickering firelight illuminated several lines of elegant small regular script:
"I have never been able to give the sword to my young friend Qi Yun, which I deeply regret. It is now buried under this stele, waiting for someone destined to retrieve it."

Every word was clear, yet every word pierced the heart.

The laughter of yesteryear seemed to echo in his ears as his martial uncle declared loudly, "When I return, I will surely find you a fine sword as a gift!"

The words still echo in my ears, but the man is now buried in the yellow earth, and the sword is buried deep in the desolate mountains.

The laughter of the past and the lonely grave of today tore at him back and forth between the two lifetimes. He closed his eyes, and the composure he had forcibly maintained before was now cracking. The stagnant pain in his chest surged, almost bursting out of his throat.

But he only took a deep breath, and the cold mountain mist filled his lungs, stinging painfully.

“Young friend Qi Yun, it seems that my martial uncle did not perish in the Three Yang Prefecture.”

He muttered to himself, his voice steady as if he were speaking to the mountain, the mist, and the stele, "After returning to the mountain and seeing Master Xuanji, everything became clear!"

Although his voice was steady, his clenched fingertips dug into his palm, leaving deep crescent-shaped marks.

He bent down and dug into the soil with his bare hands; the soil was cold and damp, staining his robe sleeves.

A short while later, my fingertips touched a hard object.

It is a stone box, about a foot long, simple and unadorned.

The moment the lid is opened, a faint scent of pine resin wafts out, and a sword lies quietly inside, its scabbard wrapped in bluish-brown pine patterns, as if the passage of time has been hidden within its texture.

Qi Yun grasped the sword and felt its weight and composure were just right.

He slowly drew his blade, and a clear hum broke through the mist. The blade was covered with flowing, cold patterns, its spine was distinct, and the blade gleamed like an autumn pool, reflecting the red corners of his eyes, yet his gaze was forcibly suppressed.

Upon closer inspection of the sword hilt, two characters are engraved:

"Chengyun"

The brushstrokes are vigorous and powerful, conveying a profound meaning, as if a message is hidden within them.

"Riding the clouds...is it receiving a mandate from heaven?"

He murmured to himself, his arm and wrist flicking slightly, the sword's long, drawn-out sound echoing across the fields, as if responding, or as if bidding farewell.

He retreated to the open space in front of the grave, lowered his shoulders and slouch, and immediately wielded the Five Elements Thunderclap Sword, personally taught by Xuanqing.

The sword flashed, like a golden rainbow splitting the mist; the figure spun, like a pine tree swaying in the wind.

As the sword moves flowed, the essence of wood emerged, the flames spread, the virtue of earth settled, the sharpness of metal advanced, the water element stretched out, the five elements circulated, and thunder roared in the background.

Each move was learned from Xuanqing in the past, and each move is what he is performing today.

The crimson fire followed the sword, its flames swirling and cutting through the thick fog like slicing silk, also tearing open the heavy curtain of memory.

After finishing the final move, Qi Yun sheathed his sword and stood still, his breath steady, except for the bloodshot eyes, like spider webs in the dark night.

The sword tip pointed diagonally at the ground, trembling slightly, as if it possessed a spirit and also harbored resentment.

He turned to the lonely grave, sword in hand, bowed deeply, and spoke in a clear, resounding voice, each word like a vow:

"Disciple Qi Yun thanks Martial Uncle for the sword. I will humbly follow Martial Uncle's teachings!"

The sound echoed through the sea of ​​mist, and the mountain spirits listened in silence.

(End of this chapter)