Chapter 6: Beating an Immortal

  The sun bled into the western horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and red.

  In the courtyard of the Liu Clan, time seemed to curdle. The air was thick, heavy with the cloying scent of decaying vegetation. The Heaven-Reaching Tree, once a vibrant beacon of emerald and violet, now stood as a grotesque monument to death. Its grey branches clawed at the darkening sky like the fingers of a skeleton, and with every gust of wind, a dry rattle echoed through the silent estate.

  Liu Changsheng sat on the cold stone steps of the veranda. He had not moved for four hours.

  To the servants peeking nervously from the corridor corners, he looked like a statue of a child abandoned in the twilight. His silk robes, embroidered with golden threads worth a city’s tax revenue, were stained with the ash of the fallen leaves.

  But if one looked closer, the illusion of a sulking child evaporated.

  Changsheng’s chest did not rise and fall with the rhythm of a toddler. It moved with the slow, tectonic deepness of a breathing technique. His eyes were not wet with tears; they were dry, unblinking, and terrifyingly focused.

  Inside his mind, the Human Soul of the Jade Emperor was running a simulation of violence.

  The thief used a Summoning Art, Changsheng calculated, his internal voice cold and metallic. To move Seven Treasures instantly requires a cultivation base of at least the Core Formation realm. But a thief is still a thief. They return to the scene. Greed is a circle.

  He stared at the dead trunk. He was the hunter. The world was his trap.

  The twilight deepened. Shadows stretched across the courtyard, turning the piles of dead leaves into mounds of darkness.

  Drip.

  A sound broke the silence.

  It was distinct, heavy, and wet. It was not the sound of a leaf falling. It was the sound of liquid striking stone with heavy intent.

  Changsheng’s eyes snapped to a patch of paving stones three paces to his left. A dark wet spot had appeared there.

  He inhaled.

  The scent hit him instantly. It wasn't the metallic tang of rain. It was rich, pungent, and layered. Aged rice wine. Fermented sorghum. And beneath that... the faint, unmistakable smell of ozone and thunder.

  "You have a very intense stare for someone who still smells of milk," a voice drifted down from the canopy of the dead tree.

  Changsheng did not jump. He did not gasp. He slowly, deliberately tilted his head back.

  Perched on a withered branch, sitting as casually as a bird, was a figure.

  He was an aesthetic disaster. He wore a Daoist robe that was more hole than fabric, a patchwork quilt of grey and brown that looked like it had been dragged through a swamp. A battered straw hat obscured the upper half of his face, casting a shadow over everything but a mouth that was currently curled into a lazy, mocking grin. In his hand, he dangled a yellow gourd.

  He took a swig, the liquid gurgling loudly in the silence, then wiped his mouth with a sleeve that was stiffer than tree bark.

  "Young Master Liu," the priest wheezed, his voice sounding like dry leaves rasping together. "You sit in the dark. You mourn a piece of wood. Is this how the prodigy of the South spends his time?"

  Changsheng stood up.

  He didn't rush. He smoothed the creases of his silk robe.

  "You are late," Changsheng said.

  The priest paused mid-sip. He tilted the straw hat back just an inch, revealing a glimpse of a jawline that seemed too sharp for a beggar. "Late? I was not aware I had an appointment."

  "Thieves always have an appointment with judgment," Changsheng replied. His voice was soft, devoid of childish timbre. It carried the absolute authority of a decree.

  The priest laughed. It was a wheezing, relaxed sound that grated on Changsheng’s nerves like sand in a bearing. The priest hopped down from the branch. He didn't land with a thud; he touched the ground as lightly as a feather, disturbing not a single grain of dust.

  "Thief?" The priest scratched his chest, sending a small cloud of dirt into the air. "That is a heavy word, Little Master. I am just a poor monk passing by. I smelled incense. I heard the heart of a child screaming about lost toys. I thought I would offer comfort."

  "Comfort?"

  Changsheng took a step forward. The air around him began to shimmer. The rage that had been condensing in his dantian for hours finally found its target.

  "You entered my estate without invitation," Changsheng listed the crimes, his voice dropping an octave. "You hover above my property. And you smell of the very ozone that vanished along with my treasures."

  Changsheng pointed a small, accusing finger at the priest.

  "You used a Summoning Art to extract the spirits of the Seven Treasures while I was bowing. You thought that because I am a child, I would not notice the fluctuation in Qi."

  The priest sighed, shaking his head. "Young Master, your imagination is as active as your ego. Perhaps the treasures left because they did not like the landlord. Have you considered that?"

  Snap.

  The final restraint in Changsheng’s mind fractured.

  To be robbed was an insult. To be mocked by a beggar in his own home was blasphemy. He was the Jade Emperor. He was the Sovereign of the 33 Heavens. Even if he was currently trapped in a mortal shell, his dignity was not something a wandering Daoist could trample on.

  "Kneel," Changsheng commanded.

  The priest didn't move. He took another drink.

  "I said, kneel!"

  The shout carried a trace of the Dragon Roar technique, a subconscious manifestation of his soul's power. The dead leaves on the ground swirled outward in a circle.

  The priest merely burped.

  "No," the priest said simply.

  Changsheng’s eyes darted to the right. Leaning against the weapon rack near the corridor was a training staff. It wasn't a toy. It was made of Black Ironwood—a timber so dense it sank in water, used to train the elite guards of the Liu estate. It was heavy, hard as rock, and taller than Changsheng.

  He didn't hesitate.

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  Changsheng lunged.

  His movement was a blur of golden silk. His small hands grabbed the heavy staff. A normal three-year-old could not have lifted it. Changsheng didn't just lift it; he spun it.

  His dantian, naturally open since birth, flooded his meridians with essence. The air whistled as he whipped the staff around.

  "Pay with your life!"

  Changsheng leaped. He used the momentum of his rotation to fuel a horizontal sweep. He didn't aim for the legs to incapacitate. He aimed for the temple.

  It was a killing blow.

  The physics of the strike were perfect. The leverage, the speed, the angle—it was a strike honed by aeons of watching celestial generals spar.

  The priest didn't dodge. He didn't raise his hand to block. He didn't even look up from his gourd.

  He stood there, a slouching figure of poverty, inviting the blow.

  WHAM!

  The sound was not the wet crunch of bone. It was the sharp, violent crack of timber failing catastrophic stress.

  Changsheng landed on his feet, skidding backward two meters. His hands stung violently, the vibrations traveling up his arms and rattling his teeth.

  He looked up, expecting to see a corpse. Expecting to see the beggar’s head caved in, blood staining the stone.

  Instead, he saw sawdust floating in the twilight air.

  The Black Ironwood staff—a weapon capable of breaking a horse’s spine—had snapped cleanly in half. The top section spun through the air, clattering loudly onto the tiles. The bottom half remained in Changsheng’s trembling grip, the splintered end looking like a jagged claw.

  The priest stood motionless. The straw hat sat undisturbed on his head. There was no blood. There was no bruise. There wasn't even a red mark on his dirty skin.

  Slowly, the priest reached up and brushed a speck of wood dust from his ear.

  "Wood," the priest tutted, clicking his tongue in disappointment. "So aggressive. And yet, so soft."

  Changsheng stared at the broken stick in his hand. His brain stalled.

  Impossible.

  He knew the density of Ironwood. To break it on a skull without the skull fracturing meant the target was harder than the wood. Significantly harder.

  "Hard Qigong?" Changsheng hissed, dropping the broken staff. It clattered to the floor, echoing his failure. "You cultivate the Iron Shirt method? You have hardened your skin with Qi?"

  The priest shrugged. "Something like that. My skin has weathered many storms, Little Master. A stick is just a stick."

  Fear should have taken root. A normal child would have run. A normal cultivator would have reassessed the threat.

  But Changsheng was not normal. He was arrogance incarnate. The failure didn't make him afraid; it made him furious. It made him want to escalate until the world broke.

  "Fine," Changsheng spat, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Iron Shirt protects against blunt force. It relies on dispersing the impact."

  He took a deep breath, the air whistling through his gritted teeth.

  "Let us see how your technique fares against a cutting edge."

  He turned and sprinted to the rack. He ignored the wooden weapons. He reached for the centerpiece.

  The General’s Broadsword.

  It was a masterpiece of the forge, crafted from Hundred-Folded Cold Steel. The blade shimmered with a deadly blue light, sharp enough to slice a falling silk scarf in two. It weighed forty pounds.

  Changsheng grabbed the hilt with both hands. His veins bulged against his baby-soft skin. With a grunt of exertion that tore from his throat, he dragged the massive weapon off the rack.

  Scrape.

  The tip of the blade carved a line of sparks into the stone floor as he dragged it.

  "You think you are invulnerable?" Changsheng growled, hefting the blade up. He had to spread his feet wide to support the weight. "There is no skin in the mortal realm that can withstand Cold Steel."

  The priest watched him. For the first time, the lazy grin faded. Under the shadow of the hat, his eyes softened with a strange, pitying light.

  "Young Master," the priest said softly. "Violence is a cycle. If you strike steel against a rock, the rock does not weep. The steel breaks."

  "Shut up!"

  Changsheng didn't want a lecture. He wanted blood.

  He channeled every ounce of his prodigy strength. He flooded his meridians until they felt like they would burst.

  "DIE!"

  Changsheng leaped. He used gravity, torque, and pure hatred. He brought the broadsword down in a vertical chop.

  The target: The junction between the priest’s neck and shoulder.

  The intent: Decapitation. Bifurcation. Total destruction.

  The blade whistled. It was a perfect strike. It carried enough force to split a boulder.

  The priest did not move. He stood there, a fragile figure of flesh and blood against a falling guillotine.

  CLANG!

  The sound was not of this world.

  It was a high-pitched, resonant ringing, like a temple bell being struck by a hammer of gods. A shockwave of white sound blasted through the courtyard, blowing the dead leaves away in a violent radius.

  Changsheng felt the impact travel through the hilt, through his arms, and explode in his spine.

  He was thrown backward, flying through the air like a ragdoll. He slammed into the stone steps of the veranda, rolling twice before coming to a stop.

  He gasped, the air knocked out of his small lungs. His vision swam.

  He looked up.

  The hilt of the broadsword was still in his hand. But the blade...

  The blade was gone.

  Shards of Hundred-Folded Cold Steel lay scattered across the courtyard like broken ice. The weapon had shattered into a dozen pieces.

  Changsheng’s eyes traveled to the priest.

  The priest stood unharmed. The dirty patch on his shoulder, where the blade had struck, was not cut. There wasn't even a crease in the fabric.

  "Steel," the priest murmured, shaking his head slowly. "Still too brittle."

  Changsheng scrambled backward, pushing himself across the stones with his heels. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.

  This defied the laws of physics. This defied the laws of cultivation. Even a Grandmaster of the Martial Dao would bleed. Even a body of iron would scratch.

  To shatter steel with flesh?

  "What... what are you?" Changsheng whispered. The arrogance finally cracked, revealing the first tremor of genuine horror.

  The priest stood up straight.

  As he rose, the twilight seemed to recoil. The shadows in the courtyard dissolved.

  "You struck me with wood, and the wood broke," the priest said. His voice changed. It was no longer the wheeze of an old beggar. It was resonant, multi-layered, the voice of a choir chanting in a cathedral.

  "You struck me with steel, and the steel shattered."

  The priest took a step forward. He didn't walk on the stones. He walked on the air, hovering an inch above the dust.

  "Do you not understand, Liu Changsheng?"

  FLASH.

  The dirty robes disintegrated into particles of light. The straw hat burned away in a flash of gold.

  The beggar vanished.

  Standing in his place was a towering figure wreathed in seven-colored flames. His skin was like burnished gold, translucent and perfect. He was eight feet tall, his chest bare, adorned with necklaces of prayer beads that shone like stars. Behind his head, a halo of golden fire rotated slowly, humming with the power of the Dharma.

  The pressure descending on the courtyard was immense. The dead tree groaned. The stone tiles cracked. Changsheng felt like a mountain had been placed on his shoulders.

  "A Golden Body..." Changsheng gasped, shielding his eyes from the blinding radiance. "An Arhat? No... a Bodhisattva?"

  The entity looked down at the boy. His eyes were pools of molten gold, holding no anger, only a terrifying, infinite calm.

  "I am the manifestation of the Seven Treasures," the entity announced. "I am the light you coveted. I am the thief you sought to kill."

  Changsheng sat in the dirt, surrounded by the shards of his broken sword. He looked at the giant. He looked at the shattered steel.

  He realized, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, that he was an ant trying to chew on a diamond.

  "You..." Changsheng scrambled to his knees. The greed in his soul was so potent it temporarily overrode the fear. "You are the spirit of the tree? You are real?"

  "I was," the Immortal corrected. "But the tree is dead. It died of your greed. And now, I return to the West."

  "No!" Changsheng reached out, grabbing at the empty air. "You cannot leave! I am Liu Changsheng! I am the Master of this House! You belong to me!"

  The Immortal looked down at the screaming child with pity.

  "You possess nothing, child. You are trapped in the dust of the mortal world, blinded by the very desire that brought you here. You try to cut the sky with a rusty sword. You try to hold water in a clenched fist."

  The Immortal turned his back on the boy, facing the clouds.

  "The Heavens are full," the entity’s voice boomed, shaking the foundations of the estate. "We have no need for your wood. We have no need for your worship."

  "Take me with you!" Changsheng screamed. He didn't care about the danger. He saw the light. He saw the power. He wanted it. "If the tree is dead, take me! I will not stay in this mud!"

  The Immortal paused. He looked back over his shoulder.

  "You wish to ascend?"

  "Yes!"

  "You wish to leave your parents? To leave your comfort? To leave your name?"

  "I want the treasure!" Changsheng roared.

  The Immortal smiled. It was a smile that promised pain.

  "Very well," the Immortal said. "If you wish to find the gold, you must go where the gold is refined."

  The Immortal raised a single hand.

  "The wind rises."

  Suddenly, the air in the courtyard began to spin. It wasn't a breeze. It was a cyclone. A dark cloud descended from the Ninth Heaven, swirling around the estate with the sound of a thousand screaming eagles.

  Changsheng’s silk robes whipped around him. His feet lifted off the ground.

  "Wait," Changsheng realized the scale of the magic. "Wait!"

  But the wind did not wait. It grabbed him. It yanked him into the sky, away from the safety of the earth, away from the shattered sword, and into the dark, churning belly of the storm.

  Author’s Note: The "Golden Body" (Vajra)

  In this chapter, we see the classic "Indestructible Golden Body" (or Vajra Body) trope. In high-level Cultivation and Buddhist mythology, an enlightened entity’s body is no longer made of flesh and blood, but of condensed Law and Energy.

  When Changsheng attacks with the sword, he isn't hitting skin; he is hitting a metaphysical concept of "permanence." The sword, being a mortal object of "impermanence," naturally shatters.