Chapter Five: Upon the Immortal Cloud Mountain

To the north of the Eastern Tomb Kingdom, about a hundred miles from the capital, there stretches a range of mountains. The peaks there are lofty and cloaked in snow all year round, making them inaccessible to ordinary folk. So high are these mountains that, at a glance, they seem to touch the sky, their outlines blurred where clouds and mists entwine, leaving one unable to distinguish one from the other. People call these heights the Celestial Cloud Mountains.

Countless martial heroes are drawn to ascend Celestial Cloud Mountain, yearning to experience the sensation of soaring among the clouds like immortals. Yet, due to the perpetual snow and biting cold, even the most skilled masters cannot withstand the chill. Many attempt to scale the slopes using their lightness skills, but by the halfway point, their strength fails them. Thus, in the world of martial arts, the ability to reach the summit of Celestial Cloud Mountain has become a benchmark for true mastery.

It is said that every selection for the position of Martial Alliance Leader is held upon these peaks. Any aspirant must first reach the summit to qualify for the contest—those who cannot ascend are not even permitted to spectate.

At this very moment, the Martial Alliance is preparing to select a new leader. A band of martial artists races toward Celestial Cloud Mountain. With a single bound, many figures turn into black dots, speeding toward the summit. A quarter of an hour later, a large group tumbles back from the mountainside, their robes dusted with snow, faces ashen with cold. It seems this year’s selection will elude them once more. Some sigh in resignation, some express regret, and in the eyes of others, determination flickers—they resolve to train for another five years and try again.

“Gentlemen, since we cannot ascend, let us return to the Alliance Leader’s Manor and await the outcome,” a young gentleman advised. He was Du Haiming, the eldest son of the current Martial Alliance Leader, Du Qunying.

Everyone murmured their agreement and dispersed. They knew that those who had succeeded in reaching the summit would not descend for two or three days at least, and lingering here exposed them to the relentless cold.

At the mountain’s peak, however, the scene was entirely different. Those gathered here had reached the top with apparent ease, alighting gracefully upon the snow, marking them as masters among masters. Each harbored the hope of besting the others and becoming the next Martial Alliance Leader, for power is ever a coveted prize.

“The time for succession has come again,” Du Qunying spoke slowly, his gaze sweeping over the assembly. “It gladdens me to see so many talents gathered today.”

“Leader Du is too modest,” replied a middle-aged man with polite deference. “We have come drawn by your fame, eager to witness your unrivaled skills.”

Du Qunying laughed heartily. “Heroes arise in every generation. I am growing old; may a worthy successor lead our martial world from this day onward.”

“Well said, well said,” the others responded, bowing their heads in respect.

“Now, I declare the contest begins!” Du Qunying’s voice thundered, resonant and powerful, as if it might pierce the clouds and reach the heavens.

All present marveled—truly, the Alliance Leader’s martial arts were profound.

Suddenly, a burst of laughter rang out. “Hahaha… There’s no need for a contest today. The seat of Alliance Leader is mine alone!”

“Who are you, to be so brazen?” Du Qunying demanded, his tone grave.

A man in a grey brocade robe drifted forward to stand before the crowd. “Naturally, I am the next Alliance Leader. Isn’t that why you’re all here? Since you, old man, are weary of the position, it’s time for me to take over.” His words were bold and unashamed.

“If you wish to be Alliance Leader, you must first pass through me,” an elder Daoist challenged.

The grey-robed man laughed coldly. “None of you will move today. As I came up, I scattered a colorless, odorless Dispersing Skill Powder over the summit. Within a quarter hour, you’ll not only lose your martial strength—you’ll be unable to descend at all. Fools, the lot of you!”

Faces turned pale as everyone tried to muster their inner strength, only to find their energy ebbing away, the cold biting deeper.

“Hand over the Alliance Token at once,” the grey-robed man demanded arrogantly. “If I’m in a good mood, perhaps I’ll spare your lives.”

“That man is Mo Qing, leader of the Thousand Poisons Cult!” someone cried, finally recognizing him.

“Ah, you’ve recognized your master at last. Very good. I’ll see to it your deaths are swift and not too painful,” Mo Qing replied with a chilling smile, utterly unconcerned at being unmasked.

“Mo Qing, you despicable villain! Your demonic cult has committed countless atrocities—you will face retribution!”

“Hmph. The dying have no say. Even if I am punished, none of you will live to see it!” Mo Qing sneered.

Just as Mo Qing was about to strike, a clear, melodious flute sounded from the opposite peak. All eyes turned to see a young man in a jet-black robe seated upon a boulder, playing his flute with unhurried grace. The life-and-death struggle unfolding nearby seemed not to touch him; the music flowed on, serene and unbroken, as if nothing in the world could distract him.

“Hey, you must have a death wish! Don’t you know I’m inheriting the Alliance today? Who allowed you to meddle here? I won’t hesitate to send you to join the others,” Mo Qing shouted with wild arrogance, convinced that no witness would leave Celestial Cloud Mountain alive.

The young man slowly turned, his gaze drifting lazily to Mo Qing’s face. Those who saw him noted his jade-like features, his handsome visage exuding an ethereal calm. He seemed more like an immortal descended from the heavens than a man of this world—so refined was his bearing, so untouched by mortal dust, that his very presence in the human realm seemed almost a sacrilege.