Chapter Forty-Eight: Destiny

Old Hei and Zhang Fu both fell silent. Old Hei sighed, "I'm afraid I won't last through this year. My organs are failing; lately, I've been coughing up blood every day. Master Lu gave me two doses, but he said it's only treating the symptoms, not the root."

Zhou Qian found himself at a loss for words. The internal organs are the most fragile part of the human body. Even those who have undergone profound martial transformation, if stricken here, will see their skills wasted. Thus, martial artists are often masters of health and medicine.

"How much longer can you hold on?" Zhou Qian asked hoarsely.

"Less than half a month," Zhang Fu replied, his voice low.

"Haha!" Old Hei laughed heartily, "Birth, aging, sickness, and death are the way of the world. Our ancestors on the grasslands used to sing a poem: Before I grow old, I will ride a fine steed to the edge of the earth. Before I grow old, I will wander the plains and feast on the fattest cattle and sheep. Before I die, I will marry the most beautiful woman and father the strongest sons. Thus, I can close my eyes, feel the call of the god of the dead, and return to the embrace of darkness!"

Old Hei's voice was vast and desolate, drawing Zhou Qian and Zhang Fu into a world empty and lonely. Both felt their spirits lifted, as if birth, aging, sickness, and death no longer haunted them. Yet Zhou Qian felt a faint reluctance in his heart. Is this cycle truly the fate one must endure? With a sword in hand, could he not carve out another path?

"No matter my master's illness, I will see the Green Bamboo Porridge made for him!" Zhang Fu declared firmly.

"I’ll help you," Zhou Qian added.

"Haha, that's how young men should be!" Old Hei laughed again with satisfaction.

A thousand feet above Luodu City, a flaming sword light darted among hundreds of sword energies. The fire was red tinged with purple—the True Purple Flame, a formidable spell only cultivators who have survived a heavenly tribulation can refine, burning anything. The wielder had cultivated one of Emei's six secret arts, the Purple Palace Scripture, to its thirteenth level, where the fire takes true form. Faces seemed to flicker in the flames, laughing, cursing, chattering. The sword light split, and dozens of fiery figures pounced on the rippling sword energies, devouring and breaking them in an instant.

The sword wielder sensed trouble and summoned a yellow, worn gourd from the void. From its mouth, thousands of green sword energies burst forth, encircling the flames and arranging dozens of fierce sword formations. Beasts and serpents roiled within the formations. The fiery figures could not escape.

As the wielder hesitated to unleash more power, or to detonate his flame avatars, his opponent struck first. The sword energies condensed into thousands of razor-sharp threads—approaching the legendary "Sword Qi as Silk" realm—and shredded the flame avatars into waves of fire. The cultivator of the Purple Palace groaned, clearly bested, and muttered a spell. The flames converged into a giant fire deity, fierce and wild, with bulging eyes, fangs, armored body, and massive hands several yards wide, reaching for the sword formation.

"Heh! Solar True Form!? That’s the fourteenth level of the Purple Palace Scripture. I’m not playing anymore." A sly voice echoed from the gourd, and it transformed into a green sword light, fleeing toward Luodu. Sword flight is the signature skill of sword immortals, and Qingcheng’s Xuanshao Sword Escape is a peerless technique. Though the Purple Palace is powerful, it is not adept at flying spells. The fire giant turned, becoming a red-robed, red-bearded elder, and snorted angrily.

"Tian Puzi! Enjoying the spectacle, are you?"

A nearby white cloud transformed into a lazy young man, though his deep eyes betrayed no true age.

He replied helplessly, "The feud between Qingcheng and Emei is no concern of Dragon-Tiger Maoshan. Besides, I supported the plan to lure the serpent with the Golden Crow's child. The Drunken Daoist merely took the opportunity to grumble. The seven great sects have always been united; don’t let petty matters ruin our camaraderie!"

"Hmph! People of Dragon-Tiger Maoshan are always cunning!" The red elder snorted and vanished in a flame toward Luodu.

"This fellow Tianhuo," Tian Puzi shook his head, "grows ever more arrogant!"

"Master Hei, you said the porridge lacks a fragrance, but there are many kinds of fragrance—herbal, grassy, culinary. Which is it?"

"I don’t know," Old Hei shook his head. "It’s a faint aroma, but unforgettable. I stole a taste once, and I’ve never forgotten it all my life!"

---

"Bad news! Master is coughing blood again!" A frantic, rotund man burst in—Chang Yi, famed disciple known for his unmatched ladle skills in Jiangnan.

"What!" The three faces changed. Old Hei barked, "Didn’t he just take medicine and lie down?"

"Yes, but at noon, Master insisted on watering the courtyard flowers. We tried to dissuade him, but dared not defy him. We thought a stroll wouldn’t hurt. But as soon as he stepped outside..."

"You useless lot!" Old Hei scolded.

The three hurried to Master Yi Shan’s room. He was already wasted away, nothing like his former appearance—now a withered husk.

"Quiet," said the renowned physician Lu Xu, frowning. Zhou Qian’s eyes flickered with surprise, but he shook his head. Lu Xu nodded, understanding.

"Master Yi Shan won’t last three days," Lu Xu sighed. "His old illness worsened with age. I have no remedy. I can offer medicine to ease his last hours."

Despair swept through the crowd. Several elderly cooks wept, and even Old Hei sighed. Zhang Fu suddenly shoved through the crowd and rushed out.

"I’ll go after him," Zhou Qian said, passing through the courtyard, catching a familiar faint aroma.

He found Zhang Fu in the kitchen, pots and pans in disarray. Zhang Fu stared blankly, muttering, his cooking now worse than a novice’s.

"What are you doing?" Zhou Qian frowned.

"What are you doing?" Zhou Qian asked loudly when Zhang Fu ignored him.

Smack! Zhou Qian slapped Zhang Fu hard, knocking him to the floor. "Enough! Master Yi Shan is dying! No one can change that. You’re his favorite student; do you have the right to collapse now? Can you face his years of teaching?"

Zhang Fu lay stunned for a while, then burst into tears. "Master won’t live much longer! I haven’t fulfilled his last wish. I’m useless, I deserve death!"

"There’s still time! There’s still a chance!" Zhou Qian said, word by word.

"Is it enough? It’s already too late!" Zhang Fu despaired.

"Do your best, accept fate, do your best! Do your best!" Zhou Qian said firmly.

"Help me!" Zhang Fu pleaded.

Zhou Qian nodded fiercely, as if challenging destiny itself.

"How are the children?" Yi Shan opened weary eyes, gazing at the half-dark sky outside.

---

"They must be resting," Old Hei quickly helped Yi Shan sit up, propped him against cushions, and several night-watch cooks gathered, fussing over him.

"Temur, my time is short, isn’t it?" Yi Shan said softly. "I feel I’ve one foot in the grave."

Old Hei was silent. Yi Shan said again, "Help me up. I’d like to walk outside, one last time."

They couldn’t dissuade him, so Old Hei gently supported Yi Shan, who inhaled the faint scent of flowers in the courtyard. He spoke slowly, "Jingxiang Pavilion was built by us. After my death, it should pass to you, but your identity can’t be revealed, hence the wager. Do you prefer Zhang Fu or your young Zhou?"

"Neither is suitable," Old Hei shook his head. "Zhang Fu is too rebellious and vain—a fine cook, but not a manager. Zhou Qian's heart isn't in this; he doesn’t wish to inherit Jingxiang Pavilion. Besides, Zhou Xun, the great swordsman, wouldn’t let his prized apprentice become a lifelong cook."

"Haha," Yi Shan chuckled, "I thought you didn’t know Zhou’s identity, but you’ve known all along!"

"That man struck terror in my tribe; how could I not know? Zhou Qian’s name and skills match Zhou Xun’s apprentice—how could I not pay attention?" Old Hei smiled bitterly. "Who’d have thought this young swordsman would come to Jingxiang Pavilion to learn cooking?"

"It’s poetic justice," Yi Shan smiled. "Why is the kitchen still lit?"

The two quietly entered the kitchen, witnessing a scene of bustling activity.

"Qi Huan! What’s taking you so long to chop those vegetables?"

"Fatty, isn’t your Rolling Ladle the best in Jiangnan? Can’t you manage a simple Qingping Soup?"

"Fourth Brother, Brother Puyuan, aren’t you the experts in observing tastes? Why haven’t you deduced Master’s preferred flavor?"

All sixty-seven members of Jingxiang Pavilion were there, sweating and working with utmost diligence under the hoarse commands of Li Sanshan, each giving their all to their tasks.

"They haven’t given up yet," Old Hei whispered, "They still hope to recreate the Green Bamboo Porridge from thirty years ago for you."

"This devotion, this devotion is worth a thousand times more than any flavor!" Yi Shan’s voice trembled.

"They’ve been at it for half an hour. In so short a time, I wonder if they’ll succeed," Old Hei said with concern.