Retirement begins with summoning Yuan Tiangang

Late at night.

Meanwhile, somewhere in space...

The Jixia Academy, bathed in moonlight, resembled a sleeping giant beast.

Those exquisitely crafted wooden pavilions and palaces, with their upturned eaves and overlapping corners, stretch from the foot of the mountain all the way to the mountainside.

Each one is ornately decorated and magnificent, with the golden characters on the plaques gleaming serenely in the moonlight.

That was the place where great Confucian scholars of all dynasties lectured, a sacred place that countless enlightened scholars longed to visit, both in their dreams and in reality.

But deep within the academy lies an inconspicuous little bamboo building.

The bamboo house is hidden in the bamboo forest.

The bamboo forest is located in a mountain valley behind the Confucian temple. To reach it, one must traverse three paths, two streams, and a wild camphor forest shrouded in mist year-round.

Most people in the academy don't know about this place, and those who do rarely come, or perhaps they can't come.

The bamboo house is not big.

You could even say they are rather short.

With bamboo walls, bamboo roofs, and bamboo floors, the bamboo has developed a deep brown luster over the years, resembling an old teapot that has been steeped in tea countless times.

The furnishings in the hall were so simple they were almost shabby.

A bamboo couch, covered with an old straw mat.

A bamboo table with a set of rough porcelain teaware on it. The teapot has a crooked spout, and one of the cups has a chip.

A bookshelf stood in the corner, crammed full of books—bamboo slips, silk scrolls, and paper books, a mix of old and new, stacked crookedly.

Moonlight seeped in through the gaps in the bamboo wall, falling on the bookshelf, on the bamboo table, and on that person.

The man sat cross-legged on the bamboo couch with his eyes closed.

He was wearing a plain white linen outfit, faded from washing, with frayed edges on the cuffs.

Her hair was gray, casually tied up with a wooden hairpin, with a few loose strands hanging down beside her ears.

His beard had turned white and was very long, hanging down to his chest, swaying gently in the night breeze.

His face was wrinkled like a dried walnut, giving him a somewhat amiable appearance, but there was something indescribable about his eyes and brows.

It's not about authority.

It's not about momentum.

It is a kind of...cleanliness.

Like an old spring in the mountains, clear and transparent, you can see right to the bottom.

But you don't know how deep the water is, or what's hidden at the bottom.

He just sat there, not moving at all.

The moonlight moved slowly across him, from his shoulders to his knees, and then from his knees to his feet.

This person is the seventeenth generation Chancellor of the Jixia Academy in the present day.

The pillar of the Jixia Academy, the legendary Confucian sage Yan Wujiu, who is said to have entered the Eastern Wilderness alone and used a single volume of the Spring and Autumn Annals to repel a demonic tide of 300,000.

I don't know how much time passed.

He opened his eyes.

Those eyes were ordinary, neither bright nor deep, just like any other old farmer's eyes in the countryside.

But the moment I opened my eyes, something in the bamboo house trembled slightly. The books in the corner, the bamboo slips, the pages of paper, rustled for a moment as if blown by the wind.

Then silence.

He looked at the empty space three feet in front of him, his lips moving slightly:

"Fellow Daoist."

The voice was very soft, as if afraid of startling someone.

In the void, a figure materialized from the ethereal.

The man was dressed in a black, close-fitting outfit. He stood upright with a resolute and cold expression, like a drawn sword standing in the bamboo building.

The man who arrived was none other than Yuan Tiangang.

The moonlight fell on him, but it couldn't illuminate his shadow.

Yan Wujiu looked at the newcomer with a calm expression, as if he were looking at an old friend who had come to visit late at night.

"I don't know," he began, his voice aged but each word clear and distinct. "What do you want to tell me?"

Yuan Tiangang did not answer immediately.

His gaze swept over the simple bamboo house, the crooked teapot, the chipped teacup, and the worn-out edges of the straw mat.

Then he looked at the old man on the bamboo couch.

"Come with me."

Three words.

After he finished speaking, his figure vanished, as if melting into the moonlight.

Yan Wujiu sat on the couch and remained silent for a while.

Then he slowly got up.

The movement of getting up was very slow. He supported himself on the bamboo couch with both hands, straightened his waist little by little, and straightened his knees little by little.

Like any elderly person, his bones and joints made a soft cracking sound.

After he steadied himself, he looked down at his clothes, the faded linen garment, and gently patted it. There wasn't much dust on it.

Then his figure disappeared.

The bamboo house is empty.

The moonlight continued to seep in, falling on the empty bamboo couch, on the crooked teapot, and on the books in the corner.

The pages rustled for a moment.

Then silence.

That night, thunder rumbled for a quarter of an hour over several major states.

This wasn't the usual spring or summer thunder; it was the kind of thunder that came and went quickly, a loud rumble followed by rain, and then it stopped.

The thunder this night was different.

The thunder rolled from the horizon to the horizon, then pressed down from overhead, muffled and heavy, like giants grinding grain in the clouds.

The sound wasn't loud, but each thud sent shivers down one's spine—not out of fear, but out of an instinctive, inexplicable awe.

Someone was startled awake from their sleep and lifted the curtain to look out the window.

The moon was still hanging outside the window, clear and bright, without a single cloud.

But the thunder was still ringing.

"Damn it," the man muttered, shrinking back under the covers. "Is God having a fit?"

Some people were still awake, standing in the courtyard, looking up at the sky.

Those people were dressed in all sorts of clothes: the silk of wealthy merchants, the martial arts attire of wandering swordsmen, the robes of officials, and the cassocks of monks.

They were scattered across several states, strangers to each other, yet at the same moment, they performed the same action:

look up.

The same image was reflected in their eyes.

Above the clouds, two enormous Dharma images faced each other across a thousand miles of void.

A figure entirely black, like a god descending to earth, surrounded by chaotic mist.

He held a giant sword, its tip pointing to the sky, and a faint light flowed across its blade.

The other statue was pure white, surrounded by countless golden runes. The runes flowed and transformed into scrolls of books and lines of text, spreading out in the void like a flowing river of words.

The two deities faced each other.

It didn't move.

But each clap of thunder is an unseen confrontation.

The thunder was muffled because the battle was taking place in the heavens, high enough that mortals could not see it.

Only those whose cultivation has reached a certain level can vaguely glimpse those two towering figures through the clouds.

On a mountaintop somewhere in the central courtyard, an old man in a grey robe stood with his hands behind his back, gazing at the sky, and murmured:

"Jixia Academy...The Bad Guys..."

"How did these two run into each other?"

Yanjing, Lin Mansion.

Lin Tian stood with his hands behind his back under the eaves of the backyard.

He didn't look up, or rather, he didn't need to.

His gaze pierced through the clouds and the void, landing directly on the two opposing Dharma images.

The moonlight shone on him, but it couldn't reveal his expression.

He just watched.

Thunder rumbled in waves.

Occasionally, a bright light would flash through the clouds. It wasn't lightning, but the aftershocks of the collision of the overflowing energy from two clashing emanations.

The aftershocks pierced through the clouds and fell to the earth.

The moment it falls, it transforms into fine raindrops.

The rain was light, drizzling down, dripping onto the eaves.

But on some barren land, with each drop of rain, tiny tender grass begins to sprout from the once-dry soil, and the same scene appears in various places where rain falls.

In some places, the flowers and plants sway gently without any wind, as if they are giving thanks to heaven for its blessings.

Lin Tian reached out and caught a few drops.

Raindrops fell into my palm, cool to the touch.

He looked down.

Nothing special.

Where the rain falls, all things flourish.

Those flowers, plants, and trees that got rained on will be incredibly lush when they wake up tomorrow morning.

Those mortals who get caught in the rain will be free from illness and disaster, and will be strong and healthy.

But nobody knows why.

The rain continued to fall.

Lin Tian remained standing under the eaves, motionless.

Fifteen minutes later, the thunder stopped.

A crack appeared in the clouds, and moonlight shone down again, illuminating the damp roof tiles, making them sparkle.

Behind Lin Tian, ​​a figure materialized.

Yuan Tiangang.

He was still wearing that black outfit, his back straight, his face cold and stern.

I was dressed the same way when I left, and I came back in the same way; not a single stain was on my clothes.

He walked three steps behind Lin Tian and stopped.

拱手。

"Young master."

The voice was deep and steady, with no trace of anything unusual.

Lin Tian did not turn around.

"Um."

Just one word.

Yuan Tiangang took something out of his pocket.

It is a calligraphy brush.

The penholder is made of bamboo, ordinary old bamboo, yellowish in color, with fine cracks.

The brush hairs are made of sheep hair, grayish-white, and have become somewhat stiff after long use.

A red string was tied to the top of the pen, but the string had faded and become frayed.

The pen itself is unremarkable.

It's the kind of old pen you can find on the desk of any old teacher in a private school.

Yuan Tiangang held the pen in both hands and bowed slightly.

"This is an apology."

Lin Tian withdrew his gaze and slowly turned around.

He looked down at the pen for a while.

Then he reached out and took it.

The pen landed lightly in my palm, like a feather.

But the moment he held it, Lin Tian felt a warm and gentle feeling, like the afternoon sun in spring, like the scent of ink when turning the pages of an old book, like the warmth of the teacher's palm when he was a child and lying on the desk in school.

He twirled the pen in his hand.

"Yan Wujiu's pen," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Yuan Tiangang replied.

Lin Tian nodded and said nothing more.

He put the pen into his sleeve.

Then he waved.

Yuan Tiangang bowed, took a step back, and his figure disappeared into the moonlight.

Lin Tian was the only one left in the courtyard.

He turned around again and looked at the night sky.

The clouds had completely dispersed, the moon was round and white, and the stars were shining one by one.

A gentle night breeze carries the scent of damp earth after the rain.

Lin Tian stood there for a while, then suddenly lowered his head and smiled.

She smiled faintly, her lips curving only slightly.

Then he turned around and slowly walked back into the house.

Footsteps echoed softly on the bluestone slabs, once, twice, three times.

The door was closed.

Jixia Academy, bamboo building on the back mountain.

The moonlight continued to flow quietly, seeping through the cracks in the bamboo wall, falling on the bamboo couch, the bamboo table, and on that person.

Yan Wujiu is back.

He stood in the center of the bamboo building for a long time.

Then he started walking.

From the doorway, I walked to the bamboo couch.

It's about three meters away.

He walked for half a minute.

Every step was slow.

Step out with your left foot, land firmly, and then slowly follow with your right foot.

It seems like they are using a lot of force.

He stopped in front of the bamboo couch.

He looked down at the bamboo bed covered with an old straw mat and took a few breaths.

Then he slowly sat down.

Sitting down is slower than walking.

He braced himself against the edge of the tatami mat, bending his waist and knees little by little, and finally let out a long breath the moment his buttocks touched the straw mat.

He sat on the tatami for a while.

The moonlight shone on him and on his linen clothes.

The linen garment was torn in several places; the tears were fresh, and the edges still had some scorch marks.

There were several spots covered in dust, with specks of dark red mixed in with the dust.

His face was expressionless.

It was still that wrinkled face, like a walnut, and those unremarkable eyes.

But his face was pale.

Whiter than moonlight.

He raised his hand and looked at it.

His fingers trembled slightly, and a cut appeared between his thumb and forefinger, the blood of which had congealed into a dark red scab.

He looked at it for a while, then put his hand down.

Then he slowly lay down.

The movement of lying down is even slower.

He leaned back little by little, tilting his head back until the back of his head finally touched the straw mat, at which point he let out a long breath.

The moonlight shone on his face.

He closed his eyes.

A pale face, tightly closed eyes, and a heaving chest.

It was very quiet inside the bamboo house.

Only the moonlight continues to flow silently.

After flowing for an unknown amount of time, he suddenly opened his eyes and looked at the top of the bamboo building.

His lips moved.

The voice was very soft, like talking to oneself:

"...We can't beat them."

He paused for a moment.

"...It really hurts."

Then the corners of his mouth curved up, whether it was a smile or something else was unclear.

He closed his eyes again.

This time, it didn't open its eyes again.

The moonlight continued to flow, flowing over him, over the tattered hemp clothing, over his trembling hands, and over the blood-clotting wound between his thumb and forefinger.

Outside the bamboo house, the bamboo grove rustled.

As the night wind blew, the raindrops accumulating on the bamboo leaves fell softly, pattering onto the soil.

New bamboo shoots will grow the next day in the places where the rain has fallen.

It's very tender.