Chapter One: The Duke’s Mansion

Year twelve of the Kaiyuan era. The first day of winter. Snow fell in thick, swirling flurries.

The imperial capital, Chang’an, of the Grand Yuan Dynasty, lay shrouded in white, as if the world itself had been cloaked in silver.

“Blossoms of plum trees fill the courtyard with sudden fragrance; a single breath of scent born from bitter cold…”

In the Marquis of Founding’s estate, beneath the pavilion by the plum trees, Yang Nan stood cradling a scroll. Snowflakes danced in the air, and one crystalline flake landed gently atop his head. He lifted his small hand, delicately pinched the snowflake, and gently recited a line of ancient verse, his clear, youthful voice suddenly faltering.

He gazed at the snow-laden branches of the plum trees outside the pavilion. The proud, defiant blossoms fell into his dark, shining eyes, yet stirred no sense of pride or fragrance in his heart. Instead, a trace of confusion flickered in Yang Nan’s eyes. He stood in silence for a long time. Not far off, the maids and servants, standing with solemn decorum, noticed the young master’s reading had ceased. In haste, they gathered around him with incense burners and fox-fur cloaks.

Yang Nan waved them away, signaling not to disturb him. He sighed inwardly and glanced down at the small body he had inhabited for twelve years…

Reincarnation? Rebirth? Transmigration?

He had been utterly destroyed in that gas explosion—how could he have awoken, memories intact, in this strange new world?

Was it that talisman the old Taoist had drawn, or the odd stone Ren Xue had given him?

And if he’d truly been reborn, why did he still possess those two relics from his former life?

He’d pondered this for twelve years without finding an answer. Still, to be alive was a blessing in itself.

The past life now felt like a fleeting dream, and what did it matter if he forgot?

After musing a while, Yang Nan cast aside his tangled thoughts, raised the poetry scroll once more, and resumed his reading:

“Where does the soul return beyond the Three Passes? Not seeing the mountains and frontiers, the heart breaks in vain…”

His recitation drifted into the hall, reaching the ears of a dignified elderly man in embroidered robes, his hair snowy white. He stood in silence, watching the swirling snow outside, his expression grave and commanding. A few snowflakes drifted to his side; he raised his palm, and a crystalline flake landed softly. In that instant, a sharp gleam flashed in his aged eyes, growing keener as he gazed at the snow—he seemed to make a silent decision.

Behind him stood several men in black, each with a sword at his side. Their faces were cold and impassive, as chill as the winter outside, but when their eyes fell upon the elder, a flicker of fervor broke through their icy reserve.

A servant in blue entered and reported respectfully, “Master, your guest has arrived.”

The elder flicked the snowflake from his palm, replying, “Show him in.”

The servant withdrew. Soon, a man in a black robe strode in. He bore himself with stern resolve, his tall frame exuding youthful vigor and unswerving strength. As he crossed the wooden floor, his steps made no sound. Reaching the elder, he knelt and saluted: “Chiyang pays respects to the Marquis!”

“Chiyang, you are here? Rise.” The elder gestured, and one of the sword-bearers presented a brocade box to Chiyang. “Take this first.”

Chiyang looked up, puzzled. “Master, why this gift…”

The elder waved his hand, his eyes flashing with determination. “Chiyang, you have served by my side for over ten years, haven’t you?”

Chiyang bowed deeply. “Master, it has been twelve years, three months, and twenty-one days. From the age of ten I trained in the arts upon the mountain, and at twenty I descended, ever under your protection. My family owes you everything. Each day, each year, I keep your kindness close to my heart.”

A faint smile softened the elder’s stern face. “You remember well.”

A look of fervor kindled in Chiyang’s eyes. “The Marquis saved my entire family from disaster, and admitted me to the Xuantian Sect to learn my skills. Such grace is equal to rebirth itself; in this life, I shall never forget your favor!”

The elder nodded. “I summoned you back with eight hundred-mile relay horses for a purpose. Accept this thousand taels of gold, the silk-threaded armor, and the Fireyuan Sword.”

Without pausing to look at the boxes, Chiyang bowed his head. “Master, I await your command. As long as I draw breath, I shall not let you down!”

The elder nodded, deeply satisfied, then sighed. “My days are numbered… I have served as an official for fifty years, my students and disciples are scattered across the land, yet at life’s end I find no one I can truly entrust. Chiyang, though I am a Grand Master of the Confucian tradition, I could never guide my wayward sons. Though my eldest, Yang Yuan, died early, he left me a grandson, Yang Nan. I do not fear death, but after I’m gone…”

At this, Chiyang’s eyes showed understanding. The Marquis Yang Pu had enjoyed nearly eighty years of wealth and honor. Now, as Imperial Preceptor and Confucian Grand Master, he had served three emperors, his prestige and influence unmatched.

Yet he had thirteen sons! The most rightful heir, his eldest, Yang Yuan, and his wife had both perished under mysterious circumstances ten years ago. The other twelve, sons of concubines, upon seeing the legitimate heir’s sudden death and the title within reach, fought each other fiercely.

But though the son was dead, a legitimate grandson remained. Had Yang Yuan not left the boy behind out of pity for the Marquis’s lonely old age, the grandson might well have come to a mysterious end himself.

Even under Yang Pu’s protection, survival was not easy for the legitimate heir. Once the old lord died, twelve cunning uncles would have little trouble disposing of a twelve-year-old boy.

Noting Chiyang’s understanding, the elder nodded approvingly. Chiyang was the confidant he had painstakingly cultivated—loyal and passionate, incapable of betrayal. The elder sighed, “Those wretches hold real power—governing provinces, commanding armies. If the Emperor were still wise, I would not fear rebellion after my death. But now, the Emperor is lost in alchemy, neglects governance; imperial authority can no longer restrain them…”

Speaking of state affairs, a note of resignation crept into his words. Age had left him powerless to intervene…

Chiyang’s thick brows drew together, perplexed. “Master, what are you implying?”

Yang Pu grew solemn. “Worldly power is but fleeting smoke. My grandson Yang Nan is extraordinary, bearing the Yin Soldiers and Azure Water aspects. Strangely, though born to a family of scholars, he lacks the aura of a true Confucian—he is no heir to our tradition. I, as one of the Three Saints of the Confucian school, lack the knowledge of Daoist, Military, or Legalist arts. The Military line is far to the east, atop Mount Kunlun; the Legalist line is deep in the southern Underworld. Though I am unacquainted with the Grandmaster of Kunlun, Master Xuanxu, I know the Kunlun Sect has long mourned the loss of the Xuan Yan Sword, a divine weapon. I spent decades to recover it, intending to use it as my grandson’s token for entry. I doubt they would refuse.”

Chiyang nodded, understanding well how much the old lord had sacrificed for his grandson. Ordinary men studied literature or martial arts to serve the imperial house, but to enter an immortal sect required both rare spiritual endowment and great fortune.

He himself, possessing the Fire Yang aspect, had been admitted to Xuantian.

But Xuantian was a second-rate sect, mixing military and legalist arts. Kunlun, by contrast, was a true orthodox school, rivaled only by the Underworld’s Legalist sect. Admission to such places was beyond the reach of mortal power.

Immortal sects only accepted disciples with exceptional talent, and even then, only if the sect elders personally took interest. Without a reason, even arriving at Kunlun would only see one turned away.

In mortal hands, the Xuan Yan Sword was but a peerless blade; but among cultivators, it was a divine treasure. The previous head of Kunlun, Master Qingfeng, had fallen in battle with the demon-saint Mara, and the sword vanished—a humiliation for Kunlun. If the Marquis returned it, not only would they accept his grandson, but any other request would be granted as well.

The elder waved his hand, and a black-clad man produced a jade box, less than a foot long. Opening it, a crimson light burst forth, the entire hall awash in fiery glow. A stream of radiance, lithe as a spirit serpent, danced through the air as if alive.

The Xuan Yan Sword was serpent-shaped, its body aflame, just under a foot in length. As Chiyang, a master of the military arts, approached, the sword resonated with his own natal weapon, as if yearning to dance together.

“What a divine treasure!” At a glance, Chiyang sensed the boundless power sealed within. He reverently accepted the jade box and tucked it away, nodding solemnly to the expectant elder. “Rest assured, Master. As long as I draw breath, I will see the young master to the foot of Kunlun!”

The elder smiled in relief and bade Yang Da, “Go and fetch the young master.”

The cold-faced Yang Da obeyed, soon returning with Yang Nan, who was only twelve. Yang Nan, summoned while reading, was filled with confusion. In twelve years at the marquisate, he had rarely stepped beyond its gates. He studied, rode, and practiced archery, but was never allowed outside.

The old lord was strict, fearing for his safety—though Chang’an was the capital, dangers abounded. Until Yang Nan came of age, the Marquis forbade him from leaving.

“Why does grandfather seem strange today?” Yang Nan wondered, but followed Yang Da into the hall.

He saluted, book in hand, “Grandson pays respects to grandfather. Is your health well today?”

Though his soul had lived over thirty years across two lives, the word “grandfather” was spoken with genuine affection—after all, in this world, perhaps only this upright old man truly cared for him.

At twelve, Yang Nan stood tall, his youthful form brimming with energy. Though still a boy, a sharp, martial air flickered between his brows—little wonder the Marquis found him lacking in the gentleness of a scholar. Confucian disciples were known for calm and poise; Yang Nan, young as he was, seemed more a drawn sword, his spirit keen and unyielding.

Yang Pu’s sternness faded into grandfatherly warmth. He beckoned, “Come here, let grandfather have a good look at you…”

Yang Nan’s heart fluttered with an odd premonition. The old man had always been strict, demanding mastery in all things—study, poetry, martial arts. Life in the marquisate was luxurious, but each day brought a new round of tutors, making for a grueling existence.

It was said the crown prince’s days were even harsher, with twelve teachers cycling through every hour, teaching everything from astronomy to governance. The life of an imperial heir was truly a sorrowful one!

By comparison, Yang Nan considered himself fortunate. Though bound by strict rules, he understood his grandfather’s intentions.

If not for the burden of succession, would the old man have been so exacting?

With the memories of his past life, he could read at three, recite poems at five, and by seven had mastered the classics. He was versed in all the arts, and even his martial skills were impressive—a feat impossible without the advantage of reincarnation.

Yet even so, the formidable old man was unsatisfied, claiming: “You have no talent for prime ministership, no ability to govern the realm, and could never become a Confucian Grandmaster!”

After all, this old man had spoken at one, written essays at seven, composed masterpieces at ten, and at thirteen, rivaled the greatest scholars as a royal companion. By fifteen, he was the youngest top scholar in history; he married a princess, governed, and became a marquis within ten years. For over fifty years, he served three emperors, a true elder statesman.

Even the Emperor called him “Old Preceptor” and “Beloved Teacher.” In the golden hall, while others stood, he sat—when he grew angry, even the Emperor was afraid.

The righteous arts of Confucianism were wondrous indeed, able to dispel evil and ghosts. The old man had lived to eighty without illness, a true sage and Grandmaster.

His disciples numbered in the thousands; even household servants were sometimes made county magistrates! In both military and civil spheres, the name Marquis Yang Pu commanded universal respect. Had he focused on cultivation, he might even have ascended to sainthood.

Such a life seemed almost otherworldly. Sometimes, Yang Nan wondered if his grandfather, too, had transmigrated!

The Marquis’s reputation and authority were at their zenith, yet he never tolerated corruption, punishing wrongdoing among his followers more harshly than any other. Even after his disciples became officials, he showed no mercy for their misdeeds.

He only ever fostered civil officials, never military men. Though Grand Preceptor, he held no real power in his own hands—perhaps this alone spared him imperial suspicion.

With such an illustrious grandfather, Yang Nan’s own “genius” was nothing remarkable. Even his twelve less-talented uncles were noteworthy figures in their own right.

“Grandfather must have something important to say,” Yang Nan thought, forcing a smile. “Grandfather, what brings you to summon me today?”

Sitting beside the old man, Yang Nan took his withered hand, gently tracing the bulging veins. A wave of sorrow washed over him—his grandfather, over eighty, might not have long left.

Looking at his eldest son’s only surviving bloodline, Yang Pu caressed Yang Nan’s hair with affection. “Grandson, what are your thoughts on the title of Marquis?”

Sensing a hidden meaning, Yang Nan hesitated before replying, “I have no desire for wealth or rank, just enough to live on. If my uncles press me, I have no regrets relinquishing the title, as long as I can remain by your side. While I don’t disdain honor, neither do I crave it.”

A sharp light flashed in Yang Pu’s eyes. “Is that truly your heart?”

Yang Nan nodded without hesitation. He had never yearned for power—only responsibility compelled him to accept the title. Under his grandfather’s stern hand, he had endured as best he could.

Yang Pu smiled gently. After twelve years together, he understood his grandson’s heart well. Squeezing Yang Nan’s hand, he sighed, “Very well. Tomorrow I will request the Emperor to name your second uncle, Yang He, as my heir. You cannot remain at the marquisate. I know you long for the immortal path; of all the sacred mountains, Kunlun is peerless. Tonight, you will depart for Kunlun.”

Yang Nan trembled. “Grandfather, I am still young, and you are already advanced in years. Why this sudden decision…” The old man’s tone was that of a final farewell—how could Yang Nan not be shaken?

Leaving for Kunlun? Though he had dreamed of it, he never expected it to happen so soon. Clutching the old man’s hand, an ominous feeling grew—perhaps this really was a last farewell…

Yang Pu smiled faintly. “Twelve years ago, a demon star streaked across the heavens. The Celestial Star moved, the Supreme Star shattered, and the Central Plains were bathed in blood. Monsters and spirits appeared, and chaos loomed. The world’s righteous energy rests with Confucianism, but Masters Fang Yuan and Zuo Wang have both passed. Righteousness wanes, and evil flourishes. Monsters roam unchecked. Now, my time has come. Without great chaos, there can be no great order. Grandson, remember: if you lack the power to protect yourself, never descend the mountain! Even if you fail in the immortal path, you will carry on the Yang line. Do you understand?”

The old man’s foreboding words left Yang Nan even more bewildered. He protested, “I remember, but your health has always been strong, protected by the righteous arts. How could anything go wrong?”

Yang Pu shook his head, his aged face shadowed with sorrow. “All mortals must die. Even emperors cannot escape. Only by mastering the heavenly way can one transcend the cycle of rebirth. The imperial star dims, the heavens are in turmoil—you will understand in time. Come, greet your Brother Chiyang. From this day, you will accompany him. Treat him as you would me. Until you reach Kunlun, you must not act rashly—do you hear?”

Yang Nan’s heart ached. The old man’s mastery over the arcane allowed him to foresee his end, but that made it no less painful. Seeing the look of expectation on his grandfather’s face, he forced himself to nod. Turning to Chiyang, he bowed, “Yang Nan greets Brother Chiyang. Forgive the trouble I cause you.”

He had met Chiyang before, but never understood why his grandfather would entrust him to this loyal retainer. Was he never to show himself in public again?

Chiyang hurried to help him up. “Young master, there’s no need for such formality. How could I be worthy of ‘brother’?”

Yang Pu’s sharp gaze swept over them. “Outside the marquisate, he is but a commoner. Brother suits you well. Chiyang, my grandson is in your hands. Tonight, you will leave through the secret path. Fast horses await outside the city. Remember, travel swiftly, do not reveal your identities. Until you reach Kunlun, do not expose yourselves—your lives depend on it.”

Chiyang’s heart tightened. The old lord feared his ruthless sons would act, so he answered, “I have traveled the martial world for years, Master. Rest assured, even in death, I will protect the young master.”

With Chiyang’s formidable skills, Yang Pu was reassured. Seeing Yang Nan calm and composed, he was quietly pleased—the boy had the bearing of a true scion, no childish weeping. He waved his hand, and four servants stepped forward, awaiting orders.

As the old man softly instructed them, Yang Nan sighed. He knew his grandfather had arranged everything; the four servants, who had grown up in the estate, surely had their own roles. With such foresight, even if he did not reach Kunlun, he would be safe enough in the mortal world. Still, the old man’s urgency in sending him away suggested his end was near.

His grandfather, always stern, had spent his last efforts ensuring his safety—yet Yang Nan could do nothing in return. The feeling was crushing.

Soon, Yang Da, Yang Er, Yang San, and Yang Si set off, disappearing on swift horses. Chiyang, seeing Yang Nan’s somber expression, gently reassured him, “Young master, the old lord has his reasons. Do not be too grieved.”

Meeting Chiyang’s bright, determined gaze, Yang Nan nodded. The old man’s chosen people were unimpeachable; this Brother Chiyang, with his strange skills and steadfast nature, would be fully capable of carrying out his charge.

Who would guess that this small frame housed a mature soul? Yang Nan squeezed Chiyang’s hand, saying sincerely, “Brother Chiyang, from now on, call me Anan. I am no longer a young master. Grandfather trusts you, and so do I—please, do not stand on ceremony. In the days to come, I will rely on you.”

What use was the title of Marquis or young master? In the end, a man’s worth was in his character. Yang Nan was no fool, and showed no airs before the skilled Chiyang.

Chiyang, though aware of the boy’s brilliance, was still startled. He nodded without hesitation, “Very well. From now on, I’ll call you Anan.”