Chapter 23: Studying Martial Arts at the Sword Cottage of Nine Luminaries Mountain

Zhejiang has long been known for the saying, “seven parts mountain, one part water, two parts farmland.” The land is crisscrossed by ranges, and it took nearly five days for Yi Fan and his companions, who journeyed with frequent stops, to finally reach the vicinity of Hangzhou.

As they drew near the city, the official road grew crowded with all manner of travelers, from high-ranking officials and nobility to humble peddlers and laborers, a constant flow of humanity. Patrols of government officers added to the bustle.

Upon reaching a relay station, they found a travelers’ inn nearby. Yi Fan ordered wine and dishes, booked rooms, and played host to the grandfather and grandson.

“These days on the road, I am deeply grateful for your care, Daoist,” the old man said, raising his cup in a toast before drinking it down.

As their paths were about to part, Yi Fan announced he would head toward Jiuyao Mountain, a dozen miles away, where the Sword Hermitage lay hidden. The old man and his grandson, meanwhile, would seek their livelihood within Hangzhou. With the new year approaching and the winter chill in the air, storytelling was in high demand—a prosperous season for their trade.

“There is no need for such formality, Elder. Fate has brought us together, and given fate, we are bound to meet again,” Yi Fan replied, draining his cup.

After the meal, the grandfather and grandson prepared to set off, hoping to find lodging outside Hangzhou’s walls so they could enter the city early the next day. As they were about to say their farewells, the child clung tightly to Yi Fan’s leg, head lowered in silence.

“Chong’er, don’t be naughty,” the old man chided, scooping up the boy despite his struggles, bidding his farewell, and leaving the doorway. Not far off, the sounds of the child’s wailing could be heard.

Yi Fan was not one for sentimentality. He sat for a while, finished his wine, then sent the inn boy to purchase fruits and snacks to be brought to his room before retiring.

The Baneful Ghost crouched on a stool, head tilted listlessly. Upon seeing Yi Fan enter, it greeted him weakly before dropping its head again.

Since entering the more populous regions, Yi Fan had severely restricted its movements. Whenever they went out, it was required to wear a heavy robe and cloak, and forbidden to interact with anyone without his permission.

After several days of this, the Baneful Ghost could hardly bear it. Intimidated by Yi Fan’s authority, it dared not act out, instead sulking in the room, neither eating nor drinking.

Yi Fan shook his head and offered a few words of comfort, when a knock at the door signaled the arrival of the fruit. Dismissing the inn boy, he set the fruit on the table. “All right, tomorrow morning we’ll head to Jiuyao Mountain. The mountain is vast and thickly forested—you can roam as you please without frightening anyone.”

At these words, the Baneful Ghost perked up, its ears standing straight. Revived, it jumped from the stool and eagerly began eating the fruit.

The night passed uneventfully. At dawn, travelers bustled about, accompanied by the cries of cattle, sheep, and the rattling of carts. After settling his account, Yi Fan left the inn with the Baneful Ghost. He glanced towards the relay station, which was quieter than the main road. A few carriages waited outside, likely belonging to officials within.

The relay station did not serve travelers but was responsible for transmitting official documents and providing food, lodging, and fresh horses to officials en route. As a result, inns and small markets had sprung up around it.

Without lingering, Yi Fan pulled his cloak tighter and led the Baneful Ghost away.

At this time, West Lake stretched broad and beautiful, its waters teeming with aquatic life. Though fishermen made a living there and occasional scholars took pleasure cruises, the lake was mostly deserted, giving rise to many legends and an air of enchantment.

Jiuyao Mountain, the highest peak surrounding West Lake, was not particularly tall—just over two hundred meters—but covered a large area. From its summit, one could gaze over the entirety of the lake, the scenery breathtaking. The Sword Hermitage was set within the mountain. Guided by the information provided by Yan Chixia, Yi Fan arrived at a dam where fishermen cast their nets. Before he could call out, a boatman rowed over.

“Daoist, do you require a ferry?” the boatman inquired.

“I do. Thank you, boatman,” Yi Fan replied, boarding with the Baneful Ghost and directing, “Please take us to the other shore, to that building there.”

He pointed across the lake, where a structure could be seen peeking through the trees, a short distance from a deserted dock.

The boatman paused, eyeing Yi Fan and the Baneful Ghost carefully. “You look unfamiliar, Daoist. Is this your first time in Hangzhou?”

“You have sharp eyes, boatman. I come from Guobei County at another’s request, bearing a brocade pouch to be delivered.”

Yi Fan did not conceal the truth, suspecting the man was of the Sword Hermitage. Indeed, upon hearing this, the boatman nodded and began to row.

Half an hour later, they reached the dock on the opposite shore. The boatman took out a whistle and blew a sharp, piercing note. Instantly, a sword-bearing Daoist leapt into view, striding over in the blink of an eye.

“Uncle Bo, thank you for your trouble,” the swordsman greeted the boatman, then turned to study Yi Fan and especially the cloaked Baneful Ghost. “I am Chen Jiansheng of the Sword Hermitage. Greetings, Daoist.”

Yi Fan returned the courtesy. “I am Yi Fan. Well met, Daoist Chen.”

After exchanging formalities, Chen Jiansheng asked, “May I ask what brings you here, Daoist Yi?”

“I am here at another’s request to deliver a brocade pouch,” Yi Fan answered, taking out the pouch Yan Chixia had given him and offering it to Chen Jiansheng. But Chen did not accept it; instead, his expression changed, and he stepped back respectfully. “So you are a friend of Master Yan Chixia. Forgive my earlier discourtesy.”

He then said, “Please come with me, Daoist Yi. It is best you present the pouch directly to the head of the Sword Hermitage.”

Unfamiliar with the customs, Yi Fan followed him.

Though not tall, Jiuyao Mountain boasted delightful scenery—arched bridges, winding streams, elegant pavilions, and the lively sounds of young Daoists practicing swordplay.

Seeing Yi Fan’s curiosity, Chen Jiansheng explained, “Do not take offense, Daoist Yi. The Sword Hermitage is an affiliated college of the Mount Shu Sword Sect. We recruit secular disciples here; those with outstanding talent are selected to enter the main sect and learn higher arts.” There was a hint of pride in his explanation, but he quickly became more reserved, pointing out sights along the way. The two soon grew familiar.

Before long, they neared the summit, where several halls stood. Chen asked the Baneful Ghost to wait outside, then led Yi Fan into one of the halls, where three or four people were already gathered.

“Chen Jiansheng greets the Venerable Masters and the Head of the Sword Hermitage.”

The leader, an elderly Daoist of over sixty, nodded and turned to Yi Fan. “I am the head of this Sword Hermitage. May I ask how you know Uncle Yan Chixia?”

It was unsurprising that he already knew of Yi Fan’s arrival, but Yi Fan was taken aback to discover that Yan Chixia’s seniority was such that even the head addressed him as ‘Uncle.’

Yi Fan briefly recounted the events at Lanruo Temple, then produced the brocade pouch. “This pouch was entrusted to me by Elder Yan himself, to deliver to the Sword Hermitage.”

The head nodded, accepted the pouch, and withdrew a jade piece from within. With a shake, a letter slipped out. He read it carefully, his face growing somber, then passed the pouch to the others.

After they had all read it, the head deliberated for a moment. “In Elder Yan’s letter, he has made arrangements. You are permitted to study swordsmanship and martial arts here at the Sword Hermitage for three months.”

Yi Fan was taken aback, then delighted, and bowed. “Thank you, Daoist.”

Martial skill had always been his greatest weakness. Though he possessed the Thunder Palm, a formidable technique, it was insufficient. Should he encounter powerful demons or skilled martial artists, he would be helpless.

He recalled Commander Xiahou of the imperial guards—an unparalleled swordsman, swift as lightning. Ordinary demons fell like grass before his blade, and even formidable monsters could be matched in battle. Such was the measure of true strength.