Chapter 116 — Tianshui Stockade

He wondered whether the sky over the southern borderlands was always this overcast at this time of year. After emerging from that little hill, the two of them and the monkey, guided by Xiaobai, headed west of the Fénxiá Valley.

That night, the volcano in the Black Fire Altar of the Fénxiá Valley had erupted, shaking heaven and earth with tremendous force, and the disturbance had been felt for a hundred li around. Several days later, the great hole torn in the gloomy southern sky by the molten rock that had shot searing into the heavens was gone, yet a vast patch of cloud still hung in the sky above the Fénxiá Valley, tinged a scorched reddish-yellow—an eerie sight.

Such a cataclysm of heaven and earth would have drawn notice in any case; that it had occurred within the ever-discreet and mysterious Fénxiá Valley, and in a place of such standing among the orthodox cultivators of the Dao, made the whole world turn its eyes.

For a time rumors flew across the realm, all speculating as to what on earth had happened in the Fénxiá Valley.

Within mere days, on the once placid wilds of the southern borderlands, strangers began to gather—countless public and hidden factions and personages, openly or covertly probing into what had happened.

Such a state of affairs was naturally far from welcome to the Fénxiá Valley; on the contrary, for reasons known to none, the Fénxiá Valley was furious about it.

On one hand, the valley received the disciples sent by the great orthodox sects—the Canglan Gate, the Brahma Sound Temple, and others—with genial courtesy, plying them with fine tea and good water, and at the end fobbing them off with a tale of natural disaster. On the other hand, toward the covert probings of the three great factions of the demon cult, the Fénxiá Valley showed no mercy within its own sphere of influence; for a time, across the wide lands of the southern borderlands centered on the valley, the glint of blades and swords flickered without cease.

Yet whether orthodox or demon cult, all sensed faintly that beneath the valley's aura of mystery lurked something unusual. This time the valley seemed to have been dealt a tremendous shock; nearly every disciple in the valley had been mobilized, searching day and night without rest across the southern borderlands. As for whom or what they sought, that they kept veiled and unspoken.

After several days, the gloomy sky over the southern borderlands had grown lively; dazzling, beautiful beams of light were often seen streaking across the heavens—outstanding disciples of the Fénxiá Valley in pursuit of something.

And with them, rumors rose in swarms.

A rare beast had emerged, some said; or a mysterious treasure had burst from the volcano's mouth into the sky—such tales, in endless variety.

More absurd still, some told with relish of internal strife within the Fénxiá Valley, of renegade disciples who had slain the valley master, Yun Yifeng. And as if to confirm it, Yun Yifeng indeed did not appear for several days. In the end the rumor grew so strident that within days it reached Daoist Yanyan of the Canglan Gate and Master Pucheng of the Brahma Sound Temple, who jointly sent disciples hurrying to the Fénxiá Valley to inquire. The valley, caught between laughter and tears, could only explain that the valley master was in secluded cultivation and could not appear.

When definite word came back, the Canglan Gate and the Brahma Sound Temple were set at ease—but the heads of these two great sects were men of no ordinary caliber; how could they fail to guess that something fishy lay behind it all? They secretly ordered their messenger disciples not to hurry back to the mountain, but to probe in secret on the spot.

With the realm in turmoil and demons running rampant, with the Fénxiá Valley ever mysterious and equivocal, and with the valley having conspicuously sat out the Battle of Qingyun in years past, one could not help but draw certain inferences. Thus an act—Ming Li's unwitting release of the Nine-Tailed Celestial Fox, imprisoned for three hundred years—set the great currents of the world churning beneath the surface, and gathered the winds and clouds over the southern borderlands.

Because the Fénxiá Valley had dispatched countless disciples to track and interrogate all comers, Ming Li and Xiaobai, given their cultivation, had no fear of such disciples. But the thought that their trail might be discovered and bring endless trouble, and that should the great personages of the valley be alerted and come in force, they might well be hard put to withstand them—for the Fénxiá Valley was a sect a thousand years old, its depths unfathomable—gave them pause.

Ming Li reflected that the foremost task now was still to track down the Black Sorcerer clan, who might save Bilu.

So after descending from that little hill, at Xiaobai's suggestion, Ming Li found a remote village and bought with money and goods two sets of local clothing, one for a man and one for a woman, and he and Xiaobai changed into them.

The customs of these far southern borderlands differed from those of the Central Plains; even ordinary garments had a flavor all their own compared with the robes and coats of the Central Plains folk.

Since the clothes were bought from a remote village, their coarse workmanship was only to be expected. Beyond the difference in cut, the greatest difference from Central Plains garb was their relatively vivid colors: the man's garment was of deep blue, while the woman's was of intricate and dazzling hues.

To evade the eyes and ears of the Fénxiá Valley, Ming Li and his companion could not travel by air. Anxious as Ming Li was, Xiaobai reasoned with him: they had waited ten years—could they not wait a few days more when the matter was so close at hand? If haste drew pursuers from the valley, the confusion would only delay them further, and who knew how long they would have to wait then.

Anxious as he was, Ming Li could not deny that Xiaobai had the right of it, and the two proceeded at a slow pace.

Clad in southern border garb, they walked on at an easy pace. Along the way they encountered several bands of Fénxiá Valley disciples searching the roads, yet were not recognized—at most, a few glanced twice at Xiaohui for its strange appearance.

The crucial point was that on that night, neither Ming Li nor Xiaohui had shown themselves, so the men of the Fénxiá Valley did not know their faces; they merely interrogated suspicious strangers, and thus overlooked them.

By now, Ming Li and Xiaobai were walking an ancient road some three hundred li from the Fénxiá Valley, deep in the wilds, with not a soul in sight. Only half an hour before, they had swaggered past a band of Fénxiá Valley disciples.

The sky was overcast, dark clouds drifting slowly. Ming Li walked on, his brows slightly knit. Beside him, by contrast, Xiaobai wore a constant smile, in high spirits, gazing this way and that along the road, taking in the southern border scenery; even the bleak, desolate hills and ancient road seemed to her the most beautiful of vistas.

Ming Li glanced at her. The monkey Xiaohui sat on Xiaobai's shoulder, wholly at ease. Perhaps because both were rare spirit creatures in this world, Xiaohui had taken a great liking to Xiaobai, the Nine-Tailed Celestial Fox in human form, and in recent days had spent more time clinging to her than not.

Watching Xiaohui and Xiaobai at their games, the monkey chirping with laughter, Ming Li suddenly thought: if his old friend on Mount Canglan, Zeng Shuyan, could see this, he would surely be envious.

Xiaobai wore the ordinary dress of a southern border woman, no different in cut from what any other woman wore; yet on her, with her peerless beauty, the plain garment seemed to glow and burn, revealing a grace never seen before—as though this woman had been born to wear such clothes, every line of them betraying the particular charm of a southern border woman.