Chapter Forty-One: You Are a Disciple of a Great Sect

The floor was strewn with unconscious palace maids, struck down and insensible. The empress gazed deeply at Chen Heng, uttered no cry, but reached out to check the maids’ breath. Only when she found them alive did she breathe a sigh of relief.

“Who are you, sir, and why do you disturb the bedchamber in the dead of night?”

At this moment, even if Chen Heng claimed he wandered in by mistake, it would sound like a feeble excuse. Embarrassed, he hid his feelings beneath the bamboo mask that covered his brows and face, giving him an air of indifference.

“With such supernatural skills, surely you’re one of the cultivators hired by the Grand Marshal—so is Tong Gaolu so impatient, so heedless of propriety and ethics?”

Suddenly, the empress lifted her delicate face, her voice mournful, every word bleeding sorrow: “The Kingdom of Rong is not yet fallen, and he would have you abduct me, the empress, to his mansion? Such debauchery and lawlessness—can a man like him truly be fit to rule a nation?”

“Who told you I answer to Tong Gaolu?” Chen Heng frowned.

The empress was taken aback.

“I am here tonight to join forces with you—to remove the Grand Marshal.”

“Sir… why?”

“Because from childhood, I have harbored loyalty to the sovereign and devotion to the country, never forgetting it day or night.”

Chen Heng wished not to speak further, shaking his head: “Call your own cultivator here. Let him meet me.”

The empress hesitated for a moment, then wrapped her arms around herself, composed her expression, and withdrew into the warm chamber.

Before long, she returned, fully dressed in regal attire, her hair piled high—a striking beauty.

She invited Chen Heng to sit in a hall, poured him wine herself, secretly hoping to glimpse the features beneath his mask. Yet Chen Heng did not lift the cup, thwarting her intentions.

“If Your Majesty has questions, please ask.”

“Sir… are you of Rong?”

She studied Chen Heng’s eyes, cautious.

“Tong Gaolu is a cultivator of the seventh stage, and he has recruited several wandering cultivators as retainers. Sir, are you confident you can defeat him?”

“No.”

“Then…” The empress grew anxious.

“But won’t you also contribute? With the aid of the royal cultivator, victory or defeat hangs in the balance.” Chen Heng’s expression was almost a smile, almost not: “This kingdom is not mine. Do you expect me to fight to the death for you?”

The empress was momentarily silenced.

Before she could reply, a sudden gale tore through the hall. Chen Heng glanced outside, seeing two brilliant streams of energy, arching like rainbows from the sky, descending sharply into the hall.

When the streams dispersed, two elderly men stood within, calmly gathering their breath, their vital energy sinking back into their bodies.

One, towering at twelve feet, with bushy white beard and hair, his arms nearly reaching his knees, looked immensely robust—a venerable hunter whose sheer strength could tear tigers and crush bears by hand.

Now, he was sizing up Chen Heng, his gaze full of disdain, clearly regarding him as a mere charlatan.

The other was refined, his long beard reaching his belly, his face round and well-fed, the image of worldly prosperity.

He glanced at Chen Heng, his eyes showing surprise and suspicion.

“Greetings, fellow Daoists.”

Seeing them descend on beams of light, Chen Heng gave a formal bow.

“Why not remove your mask, ghost—”

The burly elder snorted, about to mock, but his companion yanked his sleeve, forcing him silent.

“I am Rong Tuo. This is my younger brother, Rong Xuantao. He was born to be a general, and though he later entered cultivation, his rustic temperament remains. Please, forgive him.”

Rong Tuo offered a apologetic smile, bowed to Chen Heng, and earnestly asked, “Which great sect do you hail from, sir? Why descend the mountain to toy with us mortals?”

At these words, everyone in the hall was astonished.

...

After the ninth stage of cultivation, one can refine true energy and achieve the first realm of Foundation Establishment.

Though each person’s method of cultivation varies, and the number of breaths required differs greatly, in general, each increase in stage and breath is a communion with heaven and earth, a process of uniting and refining the body.

Rong Tuo was at the eighth stage, only a few steps from true energy and Foundation Establishment; thus his spiritual sense was keen. One glance at Chen Heng and he knew he was extraordinary.

Chen Heng’s energy was light as mist, yet heavy as mountains; standing motionless, he seemed to move with the world, ready to vanish into the void, one with all.

In the realm of cultivation, only once before had Rong Tuo felt such presence—fifteen years ago, when he and other wandering cultivators visited “Cloudfall Lake,” and saw disciples of the Crimson Bright Sect.

At that time, a monstrous beast ravaged the southern lands, destroying many small sects. A master from Crimson Bright led disciples, riding the Six Geng Nine Clouds carriage, to subdue it.

Rong Tuo had no right to approach the master; he merely watched from a distance, catching a glimpse of a young girl playing with a white cat on the carriage.

The girl’s energy was vast and deep, like a bottomless abyss. Though different from Chen Heng’s, it was equally unfathomable.

After that sight, Rong Tuo’s heart grew cold, realizing the gulf between himself and sect disciples, losing all desire to risk his life as a wandering cultivator, and returned home, never venturing out again.

Fifteen years later, he never expected to encounter such overwhelming energy again, and his heart trembled with awe.

After Rong Tuo spoke, the atmosphere grew tense; everyone was surprised, even Chen Heng, who wondered how he’d suddenly been mistaken for a sect disciple.

He thought for a moment and realized: “He must have sensed my breath. This elder’s perception is sharp. If I have the chance, I should learn a technique to conceal my energy.”

Despite his thoughts, Chen Heng maintained his aloof facade, saying nothing.

He had never met sect disciples and didn’t know their manners; the less he said, the fewer mistakes.

The bamboo mask was meant to prevent the royal family from shrinking away, to hide his true face and avoid trouble.

But since Rong Tuo mistook him for a sect disciple, Chen Heng decided to let the misunderstanding stand—and keep the mask firmly in place.

...

Before being tricked into Little Gan Mountain by Yan Zhen, his fame for beauty and talent had graced all nations; even his portrait was coveted by noble ladies, worth a fortune.

If he removed the mask, his identity would be exposed at once.

Sect disciple? That would be impossible to maintain…

Yet Chen Heng’s cold demeanor only made Rong Tuo more convinced; those high sects often had disciples as proud and aloof as this.

Remembering he was only a wandering cultivator, and that Chen Heng had called him “Daoist friend,” Rong Tuo felt a secret delight, and his attitude grew more respectful.

“Since you are traveling, Daoist friend, is there anything this old man might assist you with?”

Rong Tuo bowed slightly, tugging at Rong Xuantao, afraid he might speak out of turn again.

“I came especially to rid the nation of a traitor for you, Daoist friend.”

Chen Heng tossed a pouch into the air, revealing several magical artifacts, glittering and dazzling.

“That’s the Thunderfire Pearl of the Yangshan Daoist? And the Green Bamboo Thorn—and the Essence Jade… These belonged to Tong Yi, that wretch!”

Rong Xuantao glanced and was shocked.

“Well, are these artifacts enough to earn your trust? If you doubt, Tong Yi is missing an arm, and currently imprisoned in a mansion in Yuanjing.”

Chen Heng waved his sleeve, collecting the artifacts, and smiled lightly.

“…”

Rong Tuo hesitated for a long time before asking, voice trembling, “If you truly mean to help, is it because you bear enmity to Tong Gaolu, or seek profit from this?”

“Naturally, both.”

Rong Tuo grew even more uncertain, unable to reply. Chen Heng caught his expression, sneered inwardly, and turned to leave.

Seeing Chen Heng rise, Rong Xuantao and the empress paled, while Rong Tuo’s brow remained tightly knit, indecisive.

As Chen Heng reached the hall’s threshold, as he expected, Rong Tuo hurriedly spoke to stop him.

“Forgive me, Daoist friend, forgive me—such grave matters of life and death, I must think carefully, must think carefully!”

Rong Tuo apologized repeatedly, blocking Chen Heng’s way.

“So it seems you do need my assistance?”

“Of course, of course—with you on our side, Tong Gaolu is but a paper tiger, not worth mentioning—”

“My help does not come cheaply.”

Before Rong Tuo could finish his compliments, Chen Heng calmly interjected.

Beneath the bamboo mask, his eyes showed not the slightest ripple.

Caught in that gaze, Rong Tuo’s heart gave a violent lurch.