Chapter 70: The Profound Mysteries of Daoist Arts

The patriarchs of Fengyang and Dragonhook both appeared as elders, their chests bare, muscles bulging, exuding a fierce aura. Yet a single glance revealed the truth: all those seated were white-haired, their brows and eyes unable to conceal a heavy weariness. The current Emperor Fu was so powerful that, over the past hundred thousand years, the entire Fuxi clan gradually lost their vigilance. Then calamity struck: not only was their treasured artifact stolen, but even the heir was killed. Now, the Fuxi clan faced a gap between generations, with few able to fill the void. It was little wonder that this old Feng kept thinking about Zhong Shenxiu after meeting him.

Chen Yang, unceremonious, brought his disciple over and sat himself down heavily, finding the seat uncomfortable and shoving Old Feng aside. "Is your backside really that big?" Old Feng glared at Chen Yang. Chen Yang chuckled, stretched his legs, and replied, "I do as I please." Old Feng blew his beard in annoyance, but after seeing Zhong Shenxiu, his face softened and he asked a few questions about how Zhong had been living lately. Zhong Shenxiu said little, only nodding or shaking his head.

Zhong Shenxiu had always been this way; even with Chen Yang, his master, he spoke more than usual. With outsiders, he was mostly silent, his expression cold, never engaging in small talk. Words were not his strength—killing was.

Old Feng took no offense and, after a few questions, turned to introduce Zhong Shenxiu to the Fengyang patriarch: "This is Daoist Yuanyang, a clansman newly arrived from the lower realm, and his disciple—the talented child I’ve mentioned to you."

Chen Yang had no wish to cause a rift. The Fuxi clan was in dire straits, and if he made trouble now, it would only add insult to injury, bringing internal chaos atop external woes. He would be cast as a traitor. Yet Old Feng’s persistent interest in his prized disciple was intolerable.

The Fengyang patriarch nodded, about to speak, when Chen Yang suddenly laughed aloud: "We have dragon meat, but no celestial wine—what a disappointment!" The high-ranking members of Fengyang, who had been quietly conversing or heartily eating, all frowned and looked at him. Chen Yang merely smiled and met their gaze boldly.

The patriarch was unfazed, laughing instead: "You’re right—good meat deserves good wine." He called to a man behind him: "Bring out the fine wine bestowed by His Majesty—tonight we drink together!"

"Why trouble yourself? Allow me to show my skill," Chen Yang interrupted, intent on displaying his abilities so that Old Feng and the Fengyang clan would abandon any notion of taking his disciple. He picked up two bamboo chopsticks from before him, tossing them casually into the air.

The chopsticks soared, and the moon above seemed to be forcibly pulled down, growing larger in everyone's eyes. Within the moon, a palace could be glimpsed, fairy music drifting faintly. Two shadows entered the palace, and when they emerged, they were two celestial maidens, each carrying a jade vessel on a tray.

Clad in pale skirts, they floated down from the moon. The rough men of Fengyang had never seen such magical arts; they rubbed their eyes in disbelief.

"Greetings, Immortal," the two maidens bowed gracefully to Chen Yang. He laughed and waved: "Pour the wine." "Yes, master."

The maidens, their demeanor both elegant and ethereal, moved among the crowd, pouring from their jade vessels—wine endlessly flowing, never emptying.

"Excellent wine," someone exclaimed after a sip, recognizing it as true celestial brew. "Is this not illusion?" another muttered, scrutinizing the maidens from head to toe, inside and out, but finding no flaw.

"Remarkable," the two patriarchs exchanged glances and raised their clay cups. Neither could find the slightest trace of illusion; the maidens and the wine were real beyond doubt, even the enormous moon hanging above seemed impossibly genuine.

The Fuxi clan’s powers were mighty, capable of slaying true dragons and unmatched among their peers, yet in subtlety and mystery, they could not rival the Daoist arts of Mount Shu—especially those practiced by Chen Yang, who cultivated both Dao and magic, blending spirit and mind, forging his own unique path as a grandmaster.

The principle behind this technique was simple: Chen Yang distinguished vital energy with his spirit, gathered what he needed, and, using Daoist alchemy, instantly brewed celestial wine. Then, through his own will, he influenced all present—even the world itself.

What I see is real; what I do not see is illusion.

With spirit and thought joined, wielding both celestial and demonic arts, he could perform these seemingly unfathomable miracles. The logic was simple, but its simplicity made it all the more extraordinary.

"Gentlemen, please," Chen Yang smiled, raising his cup. Strength is the true prerequisite for respect—pretending to be weak for amusement is merely self-degradation. The ability to bend and endure is not the same.

Chen Yang’s display left no room for doubt; when he raised his cup, all followed suit without delay.

"A fine wine, truly fine," they exclaimed, draining their cups. The two maidens, moving with unhurried grace, refilled everyone’s cups in an instant.

"You’re so petty," Old Feng grumbled, knowing full well Chen Yang’s intentions, after downing several bowls.

"This child’s talent is exceptional, his senses sharply attuned. In the ancestral temple remains a drop of Wind Ancestor’s blood, which could refine his lineage. I had hoped to ask the patriarch to allow its use..." Chen Yang smiled and waved him off: "Your intentions are good, but my disciple has his own path to walk. Don’t trouble yourself."

"Ungrateful!" Old Feng huffed, beard bristling. Chen Yang shook his head with a smile, ignoring him.

Thanks to Chen Yang, the banquet was lively and full of wonder. Men ate and drank heartily, thoroughly enjoying themselves.

When the moon began to fade, Chen Yang withdrew his magic; the celestial maidens bowed and returned to the palace, the moon rising swiftly back to the heavens. The chopsticks fell, prompting renewed amazement among the Fengyang elders.

These clansmen, inheritors of the ancient path of Taihao, bore the ways of antiquity. They were not without cunning, but never used it against their own, instead treating their kin with sincerity. It was a virtue, but also a flaw.

As dawn approached, the gathering ended, and people departed one by one, leaving only the patriarchs of Fengyang and Dragonhook behind.

Both were at the Grand Completion stage, having cultivated their true Fuxi forms—among the spirit world’s highest masters, second only to true spirits.

Though Chen Yang’s arts were mysterious, he bore no desire to pry, instead rejoicing at the emergence of such a promising youth among his kin.

The two old men, bowl for bowl, reminisced about their younger days, finishing every drop of wine and dragon meat before departing arm in arm.

With the moon now vanished and night deep, Fengyang, once lively, fell eerily silent—a quiet so profound it stirred unease in the heart.