Volume One: Flames on the Frontier Chapter Seventeen: The Classic of Inner Peace

“Next year, we’ll buy a young servant, and Lady Deng’er will become mistress of the household,” He Yu sprawled lazily on the kang bed, indulging in pleasant thoughts, his words tinged with boastfulness.

“Ha, I don’t want that at all. We’re not a lord’s family—why would we need servants? I can manage just fine myself.” Deng’er pursed her lips in a smile, making her opposition clear.

The heated kang was wide, and as Deng’er was He Yu’s betrothed, they slept together at his request. However, since Lin Su had not yet passed his seven-week mourning period, Deng’er strictly observed the ancient customs, keeping to her own bedding.

The high kang, the shared blanket, beauty so near yet unreachable—this left He Yu somewhat frustrated.

Deng’er’s purity and filial devotion moved He Yu deeply; his love for her grew, and he would never act rashly.

Previously, they slept in separate rooms, retiring as soon as night fell. Now, only an arm’s length apart, they found endless conversation each evening. As a result, Deng’er lamented, “I thought with the heated kang, I could weave more cloth—but who could have guessed… oh…” Embarrassed, she could not finish.

He Yu took shifts guarding the south gate every other day, bonding with his fellow retainers, earning their respect with generosity and martial prowess.

Time passed quickly; it had been forty-nine days since Lin Su’s misfortune. On the day marking the end of mourning, He Yu and Deng’er prepared food, wine, candles, and paper offerings, conducting a reverent ceremony. Deng’er, recalling her grandfather, wept bitterly. According to custom, as an unmarried granddaughter, Deng’er should observe five months of mourning, but the Lin family’s status as servants in the manor meant the rules were less strict; after the seven-week period, Deng’er resumed her duties in the inner fortress.

The season approached the Qingming festival; the air gradually warmed. He Yu planned to invite elders from the manor, host a banquet, and arrange for his wedding with Deng’er.

With no close relatives left, the wedding would be simple and modest. When he consulted Deng’er, she bashfully nodded, unable to meet his gaze. Despite their long acquaintance, Deng’er was still easily embarrassed, which left He Yu both amused and exasperated.

He Yu, with his modern mindset, found marriage entirely natural and wondered why Deng’er was so shy. He’d read that people in the Eastern Jin were open-minded, but it was not quite so.

He Yu continued his duties while preparing for the wedding. Deng’er hurried to sew bright red festive garments for herself and her brother, meticulously striving for perfection. As the wedding approached, she felt light-footed, her heart sweet yet inexplicably anxious. Often, she would fall into a daze, secretly smiling.

A wedding is the highlight of a woman’s life. Though both lacked close kin, He Yu was determined not to be careless, wishing to give his beloved Deng’er a grand ceremony within his means.

One bright day, while He Yu was off duty, he harnessed the ox cart early in the morning and headed to the northern hills for firewood. The preparations for the wedding banquet were nearly complete, lacking only fuel.

Walking along, He Yu mused, “If grandfather were alive, these trivial matters would have been settled long ago, and the wedding would surely have been held already.” He felt a pang of sorrow.

Since becoming a retainer, He Yu hadn’t gone to the mountains for firewood in some time. Today was a chance to enjoy the scenery and stretch his limbs. He deliberately ventured farther, reaching the foot of a great mountain.

He Yu had slain two Xianbei scouts, causing quite a stir throughout Guangwu County. He had acted cleanly, leaving no trace. The military’s investigation yielded nothing, and the matter faded away.

Some speculated that the two soldiers, equipped with weapons and horses, had deserted. In ancient times, desertion was common. With war imminent and strict discipline, Xianbei cavalry were nowhere to be seen.

Others’ wars held no interest for He Yu. He cared little for why the Murong Xianbei fought the Tuoba Xianbei—he’d heard something about betrayal and withheld envoys, but he found none of them admirable.

He Yu parked the cart in a secluded spot, climbed the ridge, and selected a place to chop wood.

He chose a small tree and swung his axe. Suddenly, the ground shook, a deafening roar erupted, yellow dust billowed, trees fell, and massive stones tumbled down.

An earthquake!

He Yu cried out, instinctively dodging and leaping away. A huge boulder, slicing through the air, shot past him and crashed down the slope with terrifying force, pulverizing anything in its path.

Shaken, He Yu was about to flee downhill when he looked up and saw that half the mountain wall had collapsed, revealing a cave. Its position was so concealed that only a keen eye could spot it.

He waited until the dust settled—it was not an earthquake, just a landslide.

Relieved, He Yu craned his neck at the cave, which glowed with faint light. Was there treasure inside?

His curiosity piqued, he noted the remaining mountain wall, sheer and sturdy as if cut by knife and axe. The cave, halfway up the slope, could only be discovered by chance.

He tucked his wood-axe at his waist, gripped roots and rocks, and climbed up. Fortunately, his training as a special forces soldier made such climbing second nature. Even so, by the time he reached the cave entrance, sweat soaked his back. Looking down, the ox cart was now a tiny black dot.

Gripping the cave edge, He Yu swung himself inside. The cave faced south and was actually a stone chamber, now half-collapsed. Against the north wall stood a stone bed, upon which sat a tall, snow-white skeleton. Embedded in the chamber’s ceiling was a luminous pearl the size of a hen’s egg, emitting a greenish glow.

He Yu gazed up in delight. “Such a large luminous pearl, shining so brightly—this must be a treasure.”

Scanning the chamber, he saw inscriptions on the stone wall behind the skeleton. The strokes started bold and ended carelessly, as if written with fading strength. The script was archaic, but legible.

He Yu drew closer to read:

“Stone-dweller failed in his quest for enlightenment; bones and sinews shattered. Vast heavens, why are you so harsh to me?”

Another line:

“After my death, a Blood Spirit Pearl will form. It contains my lifelong cultivation. Whoever finds my bones, cherish and consume it; its wondrous uses are endless.”

Another line:

“Whoever consumes my Blood Spirit Pearl must honor me as master. When your skills are perfected, descend the mountain and kill the traitorous disciple Zhang Jiao. Do not disobey my command.”

Below this was a small inscription, rough and unclear, but he could make out four characters: “The Old Man of Taiping.”

He Yu, fingers tracing the carved words, was struck with awe—the letters had been scratched with a fingertip. Such supernatural skill was only mentioned in martial novels, yet here it was, real.

The person who carved these words was surely the skeleton known as the Old Man of Taiping. Judging by the inscriptions, he had secluded himself here to cultivate a high-level art, but failed, and left these words with his last strength, first with his finger, then with a stone as his energy waned. The writing with the stone was shallow, blurred by time.

He Yu felt a surge of respect and examined the carvings along the walls, resembling a scripture.

On the east and west walls were originally four murals, showing the front and back of the human body, dotted with acupoints and meridians, annotated with small characters, akin to later diagrams of Chinese medicine. Due to the collapse, only the western mural remained clear.

This was the final mural, annotated “Taiping Inner Canon: The Art of Guiding Qi.”

He Yu pondered, “If this is the art of guiding qi, then the ruined murals must have contained the art of nourishing qi. If only they hadn’t fallen into the valley—what a pity.”

Taiping Inner Canon? Zhang Jiao? What could this mean?

He Yu thought carefully, and a thread began to unravel. This Zhang Jiao was likely the leader of the “Yellow Turban Army” in the late Eastern Han, founder of the Taiping Dao.

He raised the slogan “Heaven is dead, Yellow Heaven shall rise; the year is Jiazi, the world is auspicious,” called himself the “General of Heaven,” and led the people in revolt, known as the Yellow Turban Uprising.

Legend had it that Zhang Jiao received the “Taiping Qingling Book” from the Daoist Yu Ji in the mountains (later known as the “Taiping Jing”).

So, the Old Man of Taiping, calling himself the Stone-dweller, could be Yu Ji, Zhang Jiao’s master. He called Zhang Jiao a traitor and ordered his death, clearly their relationship soured, though the reason remained unknown.

“The Taiping Jing is just an ordinary Daoist text, but its Inner Canon is an advanced cultivation method—how unexpected.”

He Yu mused as he studied the murals, following the acupoints and meridians, practicing breathing as instructed. In moments, he felt a sphere of energy in his lower abdomen, tumbling and rising.

He followed the notes, guiding this qi sphere from his “dan tian” up the Ren meridian to the chest’s “Shanzhong” point, through “Zhongfu” below the shoulder, and along the arm through “Yunmen,” “Tianfu,” “Jiabai,” “Chize,” “Kongzui,” “Lieque,” “Yuji,” “Shaoshang,” traversing the twelve meridians. Wherever he needed strength, he directed the qi, feeling no obstruction.

After the qi coursed through his body, he felt invigorated, cool and refreshed, all fatigue vanished.

Falling off a cliff and acquiring a secret manual—such clichéd plot twists from novels had come true.

He Yu was left speechless. He memorized the cultivation method, thinking, “Since fate has granted me this fragment of the Taiping Inner Canon, I am, in effect, the Old Man of Taiping’s disciple across time. I should pay my respects and bury his bones. As for Zhang Jiao, technically my senior brother, he died more than two hundred years ago unless I cross time again, it’s impossible to avenge the master. Surely the Old Man will forgive me.”

With this thought, He Yu knelt and bowed, “Master Taiping, your disciple He Yu pays his respects.”

Thud… thud… he knocked his head several times.

At that moment, a mountain breeze swept in from nowhere. The skeleton, upright for centuries, suddenly collapsed, bones scattering; from the skull’s “Baihui” point leapt a dark red pearl.