Li Ning, his daughter Yingqiong, and Zhou Chun bid farewell to the villagers and set off for Mount Emei. Apart from Yingqiong—who was eager to reach the mountain early to learn swordplay—none of them had any worries or ties to bind them. They wandered along, admiring the scenery, and by the time the sun began to sink in the west, they finally reached the foot of Mount Emei.

  The area was bustling with activity: inns lined the road, and countless pilgrims filled the streets, all come to pay homage to the sacred mountain. The three found a modest inn to stay for the night, planning to buy supplies the next morning before ascending—preparations for a long stay. The night passed uneventfully.

  The next day, they divided their tasks. Li Ning was in charge of purchasing daily necessities: oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, rice, flour, wine, and meat. Zhou Chun took care of books, writing brushes, ink, and kitchen utensils—stoves, buckets, and the like. Before finishing, he also bought a thick hemp rope several zhang long. “What's that for?” Yingqiong asked, her curiosity piqued. Zhou Chun smiled mysteriously: “You'll see soon enough—it has many uses.”

  Though their original luggage was light, the new supplies added up quickly. They hired porters to carry everything up the mountain. Pilgrims they passed stared in confusion—most were carrying only incense and small bundles, not piles of daily goods and a massive hemp rope. The three paid them no mind, pressing onward.

  The initial path was narrow but manageable, winding through dense forests and past small temples. But as they climbed higher, the trail grew steeper and more perilous, while the scenery became increasingly breathtaking. White clouds swirled around them, thick enough to obscure their vision at times. “This is amazing!” Yingqiong exclaimed, her eyes wide with wonder.

  Zhou Chun's expression turned serious: “There was no sign of rain when we started, but look at all this mist—it's pouring down at the foot of the mountain. We must be careful walking in this fog. One wrong step, and we'll plunge to our deaths.”

  They walked another half li (approx. 0.25 km), and soon reached Sacrifice Cliff. Looking back down the mountain, all they could see was a vast sea of mist—no villages, no temples, nothing but a shapeless gray expanse. Above them, the sun shone through the clouds, casting colorful rays of light that danced across the fog. Yingqiong was transfixed, leaning against the cliff edge to get a better look.

  “Guests,” one of the porters said, his voice trembling slightly, “we've reached Sacrifice Cliff. Beyond this is Devil's Fear, and there's no path forward. We can't go any further. With this mist, there's sure to be heavy rain halfway up the mountain. We won't be able to go down today, and that will cost us a day's work. Please, be generous with our payment.”

  Zhou Chun nodded: “We only hired you to bring us here. Wait a moment. I'll climb to the top of the cliff, pull the luggage up with the rope, and I'll add extra silver for your trouble.” Without another word, he leaped onto a towering ancient cypress beside them, then clambered from the tree to the cliff's peak. He took out the hemp rope, tied it to a sturdy rock, and lowered the other end. One by one, he pulled the luggage and supplies up the cliff.

  Next, he lowered the rope for Yingqiong. As she was being pulled up, she glanced down—and felt her heart race. The cliff was sheer, dropping hundreds of zhang (approx. 333+ meters) to a dark pool below. Even with her courage, she felt dizzy, clinging tightly to the rope. Once she reached the top, Li Ning gave the porters an extra tael of silver as a reward, then leaped up the cliff with ease, his movements graceful and strong despite his white hair.

  The three gathered their breath, then discussed how to move the luggage. “I've been here many times—I know the way,” Zhou Chun said. “I'll take you and Yingqiong to the cave first, then come back for the supplies.” Li Ning, unfamiliar with the terrain, agreed. They each picked up a light bundle and navigated a series of steep cliffs. After walking about three li, they reached the cave entrance.

  Carved into the cliff wall were four Chinese characters: “Shu Shi Qi Yun” (Wash Stones, Dwelling in Clouds). They stepped inside and found four stone chambers: three for sleeping, and one with plenty of light, which they decided to use as a study and meditation room. Zhou Chun made three trips to fetch the remaining supplies, and by the time everything was unpacked and arranged, the sun was setting behind the mountain peaks.

  They ate a simple meal of dried food and preserved meat, then sealed the cave entrance with large stones to keep out wild beasts. Exhausted from the day's climb, they lay down to rest, their minds filled with thoughts of the days ahead—especially Yingqiong, who tossed and turned, eager to begin her sword training at dawn.

  The next morning, the first light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the stone seal. Li Ning woke early and set a strict schedule for Yingqiong: first, she would learn to cultivate her spiritual energy and focus her mind, laying the foundation for internal skills. Yingqiong was extremely talented—she mastered all the basic flexible exercises in a surprisingly short time.

  But she was also impulsive. Every day, she pestered Li Ning and Zhou Chun to teach her swordplay. Zhou Chun, impressed by her rapid progress, thought she was ready. Li Ning, however, refused firmly, insisting “the time is not yet right.”

  One day, Zhou Chun spoke up on Yingqiong's behalf. “Brother, you only see one side of this,” Li Ning replied, his voice earnest. “Do you think I don't know she's ready to start learning the sword? But the more talented a person is, the stronger their foundation must be. Yingqiong's talent far exceeds my own—I am not worthy to be her true teacher. That's why I'm focusing on strengthening her foundation now. When the right opportunity comes, she will meet a master who can help her reach her full potential.”

  He paused, his gaze softening as he looked at his daughter, who stood nearby, her head down in disappointment. “If I rush her now, even if I teach her everything I know, she will never be unbeatable. Besides, she has a fiery temper and refuses to back down easily. There are countless warriors in the world stronger than us. If she meets one before she's ready, she will be in great danger. I would rather she not learn at all than learn half-heartedly. I want her to be not just good—but invincible in the mortal world, if not as ethereal as the ancient Sword Immortals.”

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  “I initially refused to teach her because of her impatience and my own limited skills,” Li Ning added. Zhou Chun fell silent, realizing his friend's wisdom. He could not argue further. But Yingqiong was beside herself with frustration—how could she wait when swordplay was all she thought about?

  The mountain was beautiful, but it had one flaw: water was scarce. Fortunately, about a li from the cave, there was a waterfall cascading down a cliff, feeding a clear stream below. The water was pure and sweet, perfect for drinking and cooking. Li Ning and Zhou Chun took turns fetching water every two days.

  To keep their skills sharp, the two men practiced swordplay and boxing every morning in the open space outside the cave. Yingqiong, forbidden to join, watched quietly from the sidelines, memorizing every move. When they were gone, she would practice secretly, mimicking their stances and swings.

  Mount Emei was home to many monkeys, agile and quick as they leaped from tree to tree. One day, Yingqiong watched them dart across the cliffs, their movements effortless—and an idea struck her. She took two ropes from their supplies, tied each end to a tree, and practiced walking across them, balancing carefully. She pestered Li Ning and Zhou Chun to teach her lightness skills, and with their guidance, her natural strength and talent shone through. Soon, she could move as lightly as a swallow, her strength greater than most grown men.

  Every month, Zhou Chun would descend the mountain to visit his disciple Zhao Yan'er, teaching him new martial arts moves. On one such morning, he was walking toward Sacrifice Cliff when he saw a familiar figure running toward him—Yan'er, his face flushed, holding a letter tightly in his hand.

  “Master!” Yan'er gasped, collapsing onto the ground to catch his breath. “I have to tell you something—something terrible.” Zhou Chun's heart sank. He took the letter, his hands trembling slightly as he unfolded it. It was from Ma Xiang, the scholar who had taken over his tutoring work in the village.

  As Zhou Chun read, his face grew paler by the second. The letter said: “Three days ago, a monk arrived in the village. He is extremely fierce-looking, carrying an iron wooden fish weighing about three to four hundred jin (approx. 200-267 kg), begging for alms. He claims to be from Wutai Mountain, named Miaotong, traveling the world to find a friend surnamed Zhou.”

  “The villagers, though frightened by his appearance, let him stay—he begged politely and caused no trouble. When he learned there was no one surnamed Zhou in the village, he planned to leave yesterday. But a talkative villager mentioned you, and he asked for your name and appearance. After hearing, he said, 'It must be him! I never thought I would meet Zhou Laosan, the Flying Crane of the Clouds, in this life!' His face turned terrifyingly dark.”

  Zhou Chun's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. He read on: “He was asking where you were when Yan'er and I walked by. The talkative villager told him to ask us. The monk questioned me closely, but I sensed ill intent. I told him you had gone to Chengdu to teach, not mentioning Mount Emei. He left the village today—surely heading to Chengdu to find you. I fear he means you harm, so I write to warn you. Prepare yourself.”

  Zhou Chun's face was ashen as he finished reading the letter. “Come with me to the cave,” he said to Yan'er, his voice tight with urgency. He grabbed the boy's hand and leaped up the cliff, his movements faster than usual, driven by fear. Within moments, they reached the cave entrance. Yan'er bowed to Li Ning and Yingqiong, then turned to Zhou Chun, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Master, I didn't just come with the letter,” Yan'er said, taking a deep breath to steady his voice. “When Teacher Ma told me the monk meant you harm, I snuck into the inn where he was staying that night to spy on him. It was midnight when I climbed onto his roof. Using the 'Pearl Curtain Hook' stance—hanging upside down like a delicate hook on a curtain rod—I peered through the window and saw him meditating.”

  “After sitting for a while, he stood up and took two dried human fingers from his iron wooden fish. He stared at them for a long time, then held up his right hand, comparing it to the fingers. His right hand only has three fingers—his ring finger and middle finger were cut off, probably by a blade.”

  Yingqiong gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Li Ning frowned, his eyes narrowing as he listened. Yan'er continued, his voice dropping to a whisper: “Then he took out a small cloth bag and pulled out a clay statue. It looked exactly like you, Master—white robes, sword at your waist, but with what seemed like two wings on its back. When he saw the statue, he ground his teeth in anger, cursing it over and over again.”

  “I was so angry,” Yan'er said, his fists clenched. “I was about to jump down and demand to know what grudge he had against you. If he refused to explain, I would have beaten him half to death. But just as I was about to move, someone pinched the back of my neck—I couldn't speak, and suddenly I felt myself lifted into the air.”

  “When I landed, I was near the Three Official Temple. I was terrified. I had snuck out without telling my mother—I was afraid she would wake up and worry. I rushed home, and she was still asleep. On the table, there was a note, written in beautiful calligraphy. It said: 'Yan'er, you are too bold, sneaking out to risk your life. Go to Mount Emei tomorrow morning—deliver this message to your master, and do not delay.'”

  “I thought about it all night,” Yan'er said. “I have a mother to take care of—I shouldn't have risked my life. From the note, it's clear the monk is very powerful—I stand no chance against him. The person who lifted me into the air must have been trying to warn me. The next day, I told my mother, and she told me to deliver the message at once.”

  “It was exam week at school, and I was afraid Teacher Ma wouldn't let me go. But when I arrived at the schoolhouse, he pulled me aside before I could even ask. He told me to deliver the letter to you, and gave me three qian (approx. 11 grams) of silver for travel expenses. I left immediately.”

  Yan'er paused, his voice shaking: “I had walked about ten li when I saw two men arguing ahead. I looked closely—and one of them was the monk! The other was a Taoist priest. I was terrified, but they didn't notice me because we were far apart. So I left the main road, climbed over the hillside, and took the mountain path to get here as fast as I could.”

  He looked up at Zhou Chun, his eyes filled with fear and confusion: “Master, do you know who this monk is? What grudge does he have against you?”

  Zhou Chun stood frozen, his gaze fixed on the ground. The name Miaotong echoed in his mind, bringing back a flood of painful memories—memories of betrayal, bloodshed, and a vow of revenge. His hands trembled, and his face turned a deathly pale. After a long, tense silence, he slowly raised his head, his eyes cold and filled with hatred.

  “I know him,” Zhou Chun whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and hatred. “A ghost from my past... a debt of blood that I thought was buried forever. He has found me.”

  Li Ning stepped forward, placing a hand on Zhou Chun's shoulder. “Brother, what happened? What is this grudge between you?” But Zhou Chun did not answer. He stared out at the mist-shrouded mountains, his jaw tight, as if staring at an invisible enemy. Somewhere below, the monk Miaotong was closing in—and the first strike of a long-awaited revenge was about to fall.