Chapter Nine: The Divine Platform of Nine Dragons

In the early morning, Mount Mao welcomed its first ray of sunlight. After a night of settling, the wild and desolate aura had quieted all the strange phenomena of the previous evening. The grand avenue of Mount Mao was bathed in sunlight, suffused with a serene and harmonious air. Before the main hall, the thousand slabs of green stone had been transformed. Each one radiated a gentle, emerald glow, resembling jade immersed in water, casting a tranquil verdancy upon the eyes.

Jiang Pingchuan, refreshed and clear-minded, stood up, leapt lightly from the stone slabs, and landed on the ground with a muffled thud—yet not a single bird, insect, speck of dust, or mote of earth was disturbed. Behind him, the thousand jade-like slabs retracted their glow and once again became ordinary, water-stained and gently cracked green stones.

The amethyst light in Jiang Pingchuan’s eyes faded away. He looked up at the stray cat lying not far off. The difference from yesterday was stark: what had been a scrawny, dying creature was now a round ball of fur, plump and arrogant in demeanor.

Brushing the morning dew from his clothes, Jiang Pingchuan flexed his hands, grinning as he approached the fat cat, intending to pick it up. To his surprise, he found himself unable to move the furball at all. Embarrassed, he glanced at the lazy, indifferent cat, flushed a little, and, seeing his affections unreturned, whistled and turned away.

“Time for breakfast!” he called, whistling a jaunty tune as he made his way home. The fat cat glanced back at his retreating figure, its beastly eyes rolling, then, with a resigned sigh, slapped a plump paw on the ground and followed him at a languid pace.

Sensing the cat catching up behind him, Jiang Pingchuan’s face bloomed with smug satisfaction as he hummed his tune, man and cat moving in similar postures, one after the other.

“Brother, brother!” As soon as Jiang Pingchuan stepped inside, he began calling for his elder brother, Jiang Yulong, eager to share last night’s events. But his brother was nowhere to be seen. This puzzled him, for normally, if Jiang Yulong awoke to find him absent, he would surely wait in the house.

Yet dawn had only just broken, the morning rooster still crowed, but Jiang Yulong was already gone. Unease pricked at Jiang Pingchuan’s heart, and the fat cat, too, seemed confused. Having met Jiang Yulong only yesterday, the cat sensed the brotherly bond between them was the strongest in the world—how could an elder brother allow his younger sibling to be left alone?

Casting about, Jiang Pingchuan noticed that the ancient sword—his parents’ legacy—was also missing. Panic tightening in his chest, he rushed outside, only to be bounced back with a thud at the threshold. Rubbing his forehead, he looked up to see the old man standing before him.

“Grandfather, my brother is missing!” Jiang Pingchuan cried, anxiety in his voice. There had always been a faint connection between him and Jiang Yulong, but now, aside from a vague unease, he could sense none of his brother’s presence. Seeing his grandfather, Jiang Xingtian, standing at the door, he clung to the hope of rescue.

“Pingchuan, your brother has left,” Jiang Xingtian replied, gently ruffling his grandson’s hair with a smile, though his heart was heavy.

“Where did brother go? Why didn’t he tell me?” Jiang Pingchuan’s eyelids drooped; he was clearly upset. He could not believe his brother would leave without a word.

“Yulong has gone into seclusion in Mount Mao’s forbidden land. He did not want you to worry, so he said nothing,” Jiang Xingtian explained, sitting on the threshold and drawing Pingchuan into his arms. His two grandsons had followed him faithfully, yet had never known a day’s favor; their parents vanished without a trace just after Pingchuan’s birth.

“Grandfather, is the forbidden land dangerous?” Pingchuan asked softly, nestled in his grandfather’s embrace.

He remembered not long ago, the Master of the Sutra Pavilion, Yan Qingxia, had come out from the rear mountain’s forbidden land, battered and wounded. Recalling Yan Qingxia’s wretched state, Pingchuan could not help but imagine his brother, bloodied and injured, emerging from those mountains. Tears welled in his eyes.

“The rear mountain is both a forbidden place and a land of opportunity. Yulong insisted on going—once inside, his fate will depend on his own fortune,” Jiang Xingtian replied, his tone full of reluctance. He himself had once sought fortune there; opportunity and peril coexisted. Even with his current strength, every step in the forbidden land was fraught with difficulty. He could scarcely imagine how his eldest grandson, not yet eight, could survive in such a place.

The sect leader, Hongwu, had told him that every cultivator has their own destiny, and whether they seize it depends on their own fortune. Each of his grandsons had their own choices; how far they could go would depend on themselves.

“Grandfather, did brother say when he’d return?” Pingchuan had long guessed at the dangers of the forbidden land, but he also knew Yulong’s temperament. Since his brother was determined to go, he must possess the means to protect himself.

“Your brother said that if he cannot emerge from the forbidden land at the time of the Elite Tournament in three years, he may never return,” said Jiang Xingtian, gazing at the sun climbing over the mountain, his eyes clouded with sorrow.

“Oh.” Pingchuan stepped out of his grandfather’s arms with a sigh, standing on the stone steps as he gazed into the distance. Guilt gnawed at him—he believed his brother’s departure was entirely his fault, that his own weakness had dragged Yulong down.

“Grandfather, I want to go to the Sutra Pavilion,” Pingchuan said, turning with a determined look. The fat cat sprawled on the ground looked at him with utter disdain—if Pingchuan had truly mended his ways, it would sooner believe in flying pigs.

Jiang Xingtian nodded. He did not know what his youngest grandson intended, but since he asked to go to the Sutra Pavilion, it must be for the scriptures. Now that Mount Mao was in decline, few qualified to enter the Sutra Pavilion. Only those who had reached the second stage of Qi Cultivation were permitted entry. However, as the Elder of Discipline, Jiang Xingtian had his ways to let Pingchuan in.

Seeing his grandfather stride away, Pingchuan’s amethyst eyes flickered. He easily scooped up the fat cat and hurried after Jiang Xingtian. The cat, stunned to find itself so easily lifted, was at a loss.

They arrived at the ancient path before the Sutra Pavilion. The scenery here was strange—the vegetation was all withered, devoid of life. In contrast to the lush green forests elsewhere, this place seemed scorched by fire.

The withered grasses were uneven, and the bare branches bore only a few yellowing leaves rattling in the wind, like the labored breathing of a dying elder. As Pingchuan walked the ancient path, the green stone slabs had vanished, the whole road buried under rotting leaves, exuding a stench of decay.

Following Jiang Xingtian to the Pavilion gate, Pingchuan saw nothing alive along the way. Never had he imagined that the most important part of Mount Mao, the Sutra Pavilion, would be set in such a lifeless place. The fat cat wriggled free and landed at his feet, gazing up at the massive stone gate, above which hung a plaque of gilded lettering.

The characters “Sutra Pavilion” gleamed on a black wooden board, polished to a shine. The golden letters exuded an awe-inspiring aura, starkly different from the deathly air of the ancient path. Pingchuan could not understand why he felt two opposing energies here.

With a thunderous rumble, the stone doors opened of their own accord. As they parted, dust billowed and immortal mist seemed to swirl, yet both Pingchuan and the cat sneezed and coughed as they entered the courtyard. A chill wind swept through, making the fat cat yowl and puff up before leaping into Pingchuan’s arms.

Pingchuan shivered, but Jiang Xingtian clasped his small hand. Warmth flowed into him, and even the cat yawned contentedly, patting its furry mouth with a paw.

“Elder Jiang, what brings you here today?” A hollow voice echoed across the tranquil courtyard. Pingchuan recognized it as Yan Qingxia, the Master of the Sutra Pavilion. Yan had spent his life guarding the Pavilion and, now nearly ninety, lounged daily in a rattan chair, no longer reading the scriptures.

Pingchuan once asked why he did not continue to seek higher realms through the texts. Yan Qingxia, proud as ever, had replied that he remembered every word, every line of the entire Pavilion.

“Master Yan, my grandson Pingchuan wishes to enter the Sutra Pavilion to study and seek enlightenment. May I trouble you to grant him this convenience?” Jiang Xingtian bowed deeply to the empty courtyard.

Pingchuan and the cat widened their eyes in amazement. The once-empty space now trembled, and before them appeared a grand, ancient hall exuding a profound aura. Its dark red exterior could not conceal its rich and majestic presence.

In awe, Pingchuan realized this was the Sutra Pavilion of Mount Mao—a repository of thousands of years, containing the myriad arts of the world. It was the foundation of the sect, its legacy; as long as the Pavilion endured, so too would Mount Mao.

“That is no trouble at all. As long as Pingchuan has reached the second stage of Qi Cultivation, the Sutra Pavilion will acknowledge him and grant him entry. If his strength is lacking, I am powerless to assist.” At the great hall’s entrance stood Yan Qingxia in golden robes, his face kind and gentle. His words were true, though Jiang Xingtian wondered whether this was truly the only way for Pingchuan to enter.

Pingchuan had not yet broken through his physical limitations to reach even the first stage of Qi Cultivation, let alone the second. Jiang Xingtian hung his head in frustration, but Pingchuan patted his grandfather’s hand, smiled, and, carrying the cat, approached Yan Qingxia.

“May I ask, Master Yan, how one might be acknowledged by the Sutra Pavilion?” Pingchuan bowed, his voice calm and composed.

“You wish to try?” Yan Qingxia chuckled, amused by the notorious troublemaker’s request. Yet, seeing the eager hope in Pingchuan’s eyes, he could not bring himself to refuse. Even knowing Pingchuan would likely fail, he wanted to let the boy try.

“I will try,” Pingchuan replied with quiet determination. Yan Qingxia was struck by his certainty—the boy did not say he wanted to try, but that he would, as if he truly believed he could succeed. Yan pointed to a square platform in the courtyard.

The platform was encircled by nine dragons, Sanskrit characters carved along its sides. On its surface, the dragons danced. Pingchuan stepped onto the platform, but nothing happened. Yan Qingxia shook his head with resignation.

“This is the Nine-Dragon Spirit Platform. It reveals the rank of any cultivator who stands upon it. Those able to manifest nine dragon pillars are at the Supreme Realm; others are judged by the clarity and completeness of the pillars. The second stage of Qi Cultivation should reveal a faint half-pillar. Since there is no manifestation, Pingchuan has not been acknowledged by the Pavilion,” Yan Qingxia explained softly, regretful though unsurprised. Both Jiang Yulong and Jiang Pingchuan were born with extraordinary talent.

“Farewell.” Disappointed, Pingchuan looked behind him—there was not even a shadow of a dragon pillar. He had overestimated himself. He stepped down, saluted Yan Qingxia, and turned to leave.

A thunderous sound rumbled behind him.

“Wait—”