Volume One: The Turmoil of Yan and Yun Chapter Sixty-Seven: Secrets

Empress Xuan and Empress Wu were, in truth, the same person—only one title was official, the other a posthumous honor. Normally, posthumous titles merely add a few embellishing words to the original, and she was no exception. Whether “Xuan” or “Wu,” each was but one among a long string of honorifics, the difference lying only in emphasis.

Yet, to the old generation of Ascendant Masters, these two names signified worlds apart.

Empress Xuan was the Saintess of the Red Kylin Pavilion, lively and forthright, with a hidden spiritual elegance.

Empress Wu was the Holy Empress of the House of Dugu, refined, graceful, with resolute decisiveness.

The crimson gown she brought down from Red Kylin Mountain had subdued the pride of countless prodigies. Even the dazzling Dugu Feiyun, or the ruthless Lord of the Weeping Blood Pavilion, could not maintain their aloofness before that red dress.

“Though I’ve heard of Empress Wu’s contributions to humanity from many sources, I never expected to hear her praised in such a way,” Feng Yang said, feeling out of his depth, like a country bumpkin entering a grand mansion. “Master, if we pursue this line of thought, it might tarnish the late emperor’s illustrious reputation…”

“Dugu Feiyun was indeed incomparably strong,” the Abbot softly interrupted him. “Before his ascension, my junior and I once tried to divine the true extent of his power.”

Feng Yang wondered—could such strength truly be deduced?

The Abbot’s voice was gentle: “I asked my junior, in all of history, how many have matched Dugu Feiyun’s might. He pondered for a long time and finally named only three.”

“Three people?” Feng Yang was so astonished he could hardly speak. “There were actually three who could rival the late emperor?”

The Abbot replied, “Of these three, one is already dead, the other two live yet… If you one day reach that height, you’ll meet them yourself.”

The one who died must be Wei Sanmu, whose fate was always shrouded in mystery—but if Master says so, then he must indeed be dead.

Two still remain in the world… He wondered if the Demon Lord could be counted as one; if so, there would be little difference between them.

But the last one… who could it be?

Li Jinxing’s lifespan was long and his wisdom unmatched, but he was never famed for martial prowess. When the Sword Saint of Snowcloud broke through, he nearly killed Li Jinxing with three strikes. The Sword Saint and the Saint of Taixuan Dao had always been evenly matched, so they too could be excluded.

Apart from these, none of the other living Ascendant Masters were worth considering. The Mistress of Yihua Palace was said to have the strongest attack in the mortal world, yet she never dared challenge Snowcloud Sect or Taixuan Mountain—otherwise, Yihua Palace would not have been confined to a corner for so many years.

“I know your mind is racing, but this has nothing to do with what we’re discussing now. Set it aside,” the Abbot interrupted Feng Yang again.

The first time was his voice.

The second, his thoughts.

Feng Yang frowned, sensing something odd about his master today.

The Abbot glanced at him, offered no explanation, and continued, “Dugu Feiyun was indeed formidable, but his strength was bought with Empress Xuan’s life.”

There is a saying in the distant stars: “to shake the very heavens.” This was likely what it meant.

Feng Yang found the statement incredible, instinctively wanting to protest, but swallowed his words. If even the Abbot of Daoming Monastery did not know the truth of events a thousand years past, how could he, a mere junior, dare to argue?

“Quite clever,” the Abbot said softly. “I know most people hold Dugu Feiyun in high esteem; even I am no exception. But some things he did were wrong. We cannot pretend they were right.”

Yet Feng Yang still did not understand why his master was telling him these things.

In terms of experience, he had but scratched the surface of the Way, and the books he had read were a mere drop in the ocean. Naturally, he could not grasp such ancient secrets.

In terms of cultivation, he had not even formed his Yuan Mansion, the path to Ascension hadn’t opened its gates to him—how could he presume to judge the affairs of Ascendant Masters?

He voiced his confusion.

The Abbot smiled, reached out and patted his head gently. “Empress Xuan and the late emperor did leave descendants.”

Feng Yang was momentarily stunned. Could that be?

The Abbot looked toward Bohai, sighing, “Yes, Bohai is the direct bloodline of Empress Xuan.”

Feng Yang gazed into his master’s eyes, and when he was certain these were not mere words, he was left speechless.

“If that is so, why did the late emperor let the throne fall to another?” Feng Yang persisted. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“If Dugu Feiyun had followed his own will, most likely the King of Bohai would have inherited the throne. But a parent’s will is not only the father’s.”

“You mean—it was Empress Xuan’s wish?”

“She said that in this life, she had done enough for her people, for all living beings, for the world. If she had a child, she hoped he could live a peaceful life, free from burdens, never again forced to fight to the death against the northern demons.”

“But what of the world’s opinion? How could it be ignored?”

“To answer, Dugu Feiyun established a consort, and Bohai’s bloodline was attributed to her.”

“That defies logic.”

“What is illogical? Empress Xuan followed the late emperor through countless campaigns—departing Wuyang, entering the Northern Territories, pacifying Heavenly Mountain, descending to the Southern Seas—her brilliance legendary, yet her injuries mounting. Every top healer of the age had treated her at some point.”

“If, at a certain moment, one such healer discovered she was pregnant but kept it hidden, even claiming she was too gravely injured to ever…”

“Yes, then all under heaven would believe it.”

“That is, unless the healer’s skill and reputation were unmatched.”

“If it’s martial prowess, I may not count myself among the greatest, but in medicine—even Ke Chenyi was no match for me.”

Feng Yang took a deep breath, feeling he finally understood.

So few knew of such secrets, yet his master spoke of them so casually—he must have been one of the witnesses.

“But I still don’t know, Master: why do you tell me this?”

The Abbot looked at him quietly, saying nothing.

A young acolyte stumbled into Daoming Monastery, too flustered to wipe away the sweat pouring down his face, and saluted the Abbot. “Someone waits at the foot of the mountain, claiming to be Senior Mingji’s elder, and asks that he descend at once.”

Feng Yang looked at his master. “Did you already know this would happen?”

The Abbot smiled. “I also know that you will go down the mountain.”

Feng Yang was silent for a long time, then rose, bowed, and left without another word.

Stepping out of the monastery, he suddenly heard his master’s voice.

“Return soon. Don’t keep your master waiting too long.”

With the voice came a bamboo scroll, simple and unadorned, inscribed with four characters:

“Move only from stillness.”

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