The Ascent to Van Lac
In the wake of the crucible by the stream, Giang Long dared not linger. Guided by the ancient glyphs upon the tiger's hide, he tracked a narrow trail climbing toward cloud-wreathed peaks.
Mount Van Lac grew increasingly treacherous with every step. Cliffs rose like blades cleaving the void. Ancient pines clustered thick, their roots gripping the crags like flood-dragons surviving unnumbered kalpas. White mist surged from the valleys, an infinite sea of vapor washing away all traces of the mortal realm. The roar of torrents blending with the wind wove a grand anthem of heaven and earth.
With every stride, Giang Long felt himself shedding another layer of mortal dust. Within his chest, the Jade of Celestial Whispers radiated a gentle warmth, pulsing like a second heartbeat to guide the bearer of the ancient covenant.
The Elder of the Precipice
As the sun dipped behind the clouds, casting crimson rays across the horizon, Giang Long stepped into a pine forest. An eerie silence held the air. Then, he froze.
Ahead, upon a stone plinth carpeted in moss, sat a figure as motionless as a carved effigy. Snow-white hair cascaded over gaunt shoulders clad in a weathered gray Taoist robe. His entire being radiated a profound aura—the bearing of a practitioner long immersed in samadhi.
Before the youth could speak, the Taoist slowly opened his eyes. Boundlessly deep, they seemed to hold ten thousand leagues of starlight, yet within lay a faint weariness—the exhaustion of a traveler who had journeyed through ages without finding his final anchorage.
His voice arose, resonant like a bronze bell:
“Young man... you bear within you the imperishable destiny of a primordial bloodline.”
Giang Long started, hastily clasping his hands in reverence. The Taoist regarded him, his glance piercing flesh and bone, looking directly into the surging bloodline and the covenant bound to the youth's soul.
“But the road ahead,” he murmured, each word dropping heavily, “is far less yielding than you imagine.”
The Taoist exhaled a soft sigh, gazing toward the void. “I have cultivated for two hundred grueling years. I once roamed the realms unfettered, arrogant in my belief that with sufficient talent and proper methods, I could transcend the Three Realms and sever the chains of samsara. But I was mistaken. Celestial mysteries are not so easily measured by a mortal mind.”
His gaunt hand tightened around his wooden staff. “I once stood upon the very threshold of Bich Van Terrace. Yet, in the end, I was broken by the grand array, my meridians shattered, leaving me stranded in this earthly realm for a century. Do you know why?”
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Giang Long held his breath, his heart hammering. The Taoist turned back, looking straight into the youth’s eyes:
“I lacked... Faith.”
The Lesson of the Fallen
The surrounding wilderness plunged into silence; the forest gale died, holding its breath for the elder’s confession.
“I hesitated before the gates of Truth,” the Taoist said, his voice heavy. “I feared losing everything I had built over two centuries—my cultivation, my longevity, my memories. With that single strand of selfishness and doubt... the grand array sealed itself, casting me out.”
He offered a wry smile, steeped in a century of regret. “Thus, I remained here, reduced to a keeper of time, using this decaying frame to wait. Waiting for one who possesses the undying faith that I surrendered.”
His eyes flared like torches. Looking at the emerald glow radiating through the youth's robe, he nodded slowly. “Your family’s prophecy was not false. You are chosen to mend the severed lineage of transmission.”
He rose, leaning upon his staff. Skeletal yet erect against the gray sky, he loomed tall like an ancient pagoda. Extending a gaunt arm, he pointed toward the highest peak submerged beneath a churning sea of clouds:
“Ascend the mountain. Pierce the shroud of mist and find Bich Van Terrace. There, the opportunity to encounter the Great Fa shall unfold. But mark my words: it is no place for fame or fortune; it is the most ruthless crucible of one's spiritual nature. Only he who preserves his righteous thoughts until his final breath can touch the Truth.”
Dissolving into the Mist
As his voice faded, the mountain forest shuddered. Within his chest, Giang Long felt his heart leap with unprecedented fervor—a sacred resonance bridging his mortal bloodline and the primordial covenant.
He bowed low to the earth. “This junior offers boundless gratitude to Senior for guiding me through the maze.”
When Giang Long raised his head, the Taoist’s silhouette was thinning, dissolving into the ancient pines and drifting mist like smoke. From the wooden staff suspended in the void, a faint spark flickered and died, leaving behind only the pure fragrance of sandalwood.
The fading echoes of his voice rolled with the wind:
“Remember… cultivation is not a pursuit to dominate others. It is the resolve never to betray your original faith.”
Giang Long stood motionless in the desolate forest. He looked up at the towering peak where dark clouds swirled. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but the light of the prophecy and the Taoist's counsel had fused into an unshakeable will.
He strode forward. Each footstep upon the mountain slope rang clear and resolute, like a war drum heralding the dawn of a grand journey.
CANTO XXV: THE TAOIST OF THE MOUNTAIN DEPTHS
The white-haired Taoist, in the mountain's embrace,
Two centuries of practice, witnessed by space.
Lacking a grain of faith, the gates of Truth slammed fast,
A moment’s hesitation, and destiny passed.
The youth strides onward, eyes flashing iron light,
The jade tablet glows, the prophecy burning bright.
The phantom fades away, as sandalwood softly sighs,
The high peaks beckon beneath the stormy skies.