IDWBE -Chapter 389 One Step, One Heaven

Some things cannot be delayed. If you wait too long, you grow accustomed to them.

He recalled a line he had learned at the academy from Lord Xie Zan:

“If one has the means to reach it yet fails to do so, others may mock him, and he himself will regret it. But if one exhausts his will and still cannot reach it, then he may be without regret.”

The monk climbed step after step.

The sharp, urgent sound of a zither grew clearer in his ears. A murderous aura swept through the bamboo forest, encircling him. The closer he approached, the more violently his mind stirred.

Higher and higher he went. Soon the mist fell away, and all the mountains emerged into view.

Before him lay a vast plaza. Behind it stood a sprawling mansion—buildings lined in neat rows, countless in number, yet not a single person could be seen entering or leaving.

In the enormous square sat only one man.

Dressed in white, middle-aged, refined and elegant, he played the zither with closed eyes. His fingers moved faster and faster.

“White-haired in pursuit of fame.
Old hills, pine and bamboo aged, blocking the road home.
I wish to entrust my heart’s thoughts to the jade zither.
But with so few who understand—
If the strings break, who will listen?”

After chanting the verse with a sway of his head, the man opened his eyes and stopped playing. He looked the monk up and down, then smiled.

“For so many years, you are the first who has listened to my entire piece. I am Xie Baishou, Vice Minister of Rites. I receive guests with silk and bamboo—are you satisfied, head monk?”

“With sound as sword, with music as killing intent—your methods are indeed extraordinary,” the monk said, bowing with one hand. “I admire it.”

Xie Baishou lifted his chin proudly.

“‘Weapons are instruments of ill omen, not tools of a gentleman; only when unavoidable are they used, and serenity is supreme.’ The sound of silk and bamboo is like lofty mountains and flowing rivers—gentle, fluid, yet heroic. It lets one forget the world. A guest might die a little more peacefully.”

“You are greatly mistaken,” the monk replied calmly. “If one hears sound yet awakens not to the Way, how can one see color and clarify the heart?”

“You heard my zither and still refuse to die?”

Xie Baishou frowned. “Not good. Not good.”

The monk smiled faintly. “I wish to deliver all sentient beings. I cannot simply lower my brows and fold my hands, dying as others do.”

“Fine. Then what did you comprehend from my music?”

Xie Baishou’s tone grew irritable.

“The Great Way is nameless; the greatest sound is scarcely heard. In your music, sir, the killing intent is too heavy—resting birds cannot find peace in their nests,” said the monk seriously. “To exhaust one’s spirit so, to labor the mind in vain, is like grinding a brick to make a mirror, or twisting stone into rope.”

“Nonsense!” Xie Baishou snapped. “If it is a killing art, how can it lack killing intent?”

“You are attached to appearances. The greatest sound leaves no trace; it should be pure and clear, before Heaven and Earth,” the monk stepped forward. “Have you not heard of living in drunken dreams? The body remains, but the soul departs—seeking purity, as if ascending to the Western Paradise.”

“Enough of this babble! Let us see whose skill prevails—let me send you on that Western road!”

His fingers struck the strings again. At first the notes fell like pearls on jade, refreshing the heart. Then the strings trembled violently; the sound buzzed and rang, exploding in midair.

“Banners circle the pagoda in four bright hues,
Bells and drums resound thrice as scriptures open.
Brahma chants proclaim wondrous tones,
All who hear rejoice in delight.”

The monk’s voice boomed like a great bell, overwhelming the zither in an instant.

Xie Baishou’s body trembled. The music stopped abruptly. His pupils rolled upward, leaving only white. He froze, unmoving.

The monk walked past him, crossed the plaza, climbed the steps, and continued upward.

Before long, another plaza appeared.

In its center stood a burly man in black clothes and straw sandals, holding a longsword.

“You, a mere sixth rank, managed to escape from Xie Baishou. Quite lucky.”

The monk pressed his palms together. “Might you allow me to pass?”

“I forgot to introduce myself,” the man grinned. “I am Xie Tiancai—Vice Minister of War. In Chunshan City, we first offer courtesy, then arms. Since Xie Baishou failed to keep you with courtesy, I shall keep you with arms.”

“How may I pass?”

“Simple. Walk beneath my sword. If you reach those steps, I will not pursue further. Above them is Xie Changjie, Vice Minister of Revenue, ninth rank. His iron abacus accounts clearly and precisely. But I doubt you’ll see him.”

“That would be most fortunate.”

The monk nodded and walked toward the steps.

Xie Tiancai snorted. His sword flashed from its sheath and stabbed toward the monk’s back. It should have pierced straight through—

Yet at the moment of impact, it fell short by a hair’s breadth.

“Where do you think you’re going?!”

The monk continued walking calmly. Xie Tiancai chased, but the distance between them only widened.

In frustration, he unleashed a storm of sword light—yet not one ray enveloped the monk.

The monk stepped onto the stairs, turned, and bowed. “Many thanks.”

“Impossible! What kind of footwork is that?!”

He was ninth rank!

How had a sixth-rank monk escaped so lightly from his hands?

“Farewell.”

The monk continued upward.

This time, he did not look back.

Waterfalls and hanging springs adorned the path. The scenery was exquisite—but he had no time to admire it.

As promised, atop the steps stood a man wielding an iron abacus. The abacus flew at him, yet could not delay him even a moment. He crossed the plaza and ascended.

Behind him came furious curses. He paid no heed.

Ministry after ministry—Personnel, Works, Justice, Rites, Treasury—each he passed the same way.

At last, before a final plaza, he saw two large characters: Department of Provisions.

He frowned.

By name, it managed food and ritual feasts.

From the mountain’s base upward, the guardians had grown ever stronger.

Should not the strongest guard Rites or Justice? Why provisions?

“I am but an old cook,” a short, plump woman in apron and wielding a spatula smiled at him. Her flesh trembled as she spoke.

“This used to be Works. I surpassed them, so it became Provisions. Rules are rules.”

The monk bowed. “After this, is it the City Lord’s residence?”

“Indeed.”

Her eyes nearly vanished when she smiled. “Though I dislike that wretch Xie Anlan, I admit she’s strong—ninth rank peak. She can fight me evenly. You, mere sixth rank, reached here. You must have some peculiar method. Go on—I won’t trouble myself.”

“Thank you.”

She suddenly asked, “One more question—did Xie Anlan die?”

The monk shook his head honestly. “I did not fight her. I came straight up.”

“You didn’t kill her?”

Her face darkened.

“Why should I?”

As he turned to leave, her spatula chopped down. He did not dodge—yet it struck only air.

By the time she reacted, he had ascended.

“Who are you?!”

“Forgive me.”

He walked on, step by steady step.

Soon, he saw the gilded characters: City Lord’s Residence.

Only three steps remained.

“Amitabha.”

He wiped blood from his lips. The oppressive aura pressing on him lightened slightly.

“Let no dust invade the heart—Yet fear that only Qu Yuan awakens alone.”

He raised his right foot. Blood seeped from his eyes, yet he stepped forward without hesitation.

“When yin reaches its extreme, yang is born; When strength is spent, position turns.”

His left foot followed. His organs churned, blood surged. He coughed; blood trickled from his ears.

“You foolish monk!”

Xie Jiuyun suddenly shouted. “Turn back now! I’ll beg Master to spare your life!”

“Thank you for your kindness.”

He smiled faintly.

He glanced at her—then at the white-clad woman beside her.

One thought arose: this woman was stronger than Hong Ying.

If he guessed correctly, she was Zhaoyao—the master of Xie Jiuyun and Xie Xiaoqing.

He had not expected her to be so young. So beautiful.

But recalling the Princess and Consort Wen, he no longer found it strange.

Before Xie Jiuyun’s stunned gaze, he stepped onto the final stair—his body soaked in blood. Even his pores bled.

“Marvelous pivot turns—The gate of life and death is broken.”

As he finished the verse, true qi surged through his limbs like a breached flood. The oppressive force vanished.

Silence fell before the City Lord’s residence. One could hear a pin drop.

A mere sixth rank had stormed nine ministries.

And now—his aura had changed, unfathomable.

What rank was he now?

No one knew.

Yet many sneered. However powerful, he would die here.

“Master,” Xie Jiuyun looked to Zhaoyao.

“One step, one heaven. One thought, and one reaches the Innate,” Zhaoyao said solemnly.

None understood her meaning.

The monk walked to a mountain stream, filled his alms bowl, and calmly washed the blood from his face.

Was he mad?

At such a moment, he cared about cleanliness?

Unhurried, he finished, stored the bowl, and stood. He pressed his palms together.

“My respects.”

Zhaoyao approached gracefully. “Interesting monk. Why leave the capital, serving that useless prince, to come to Chunshan City?”

“Mind your words.”

For the first time, displeasure touched his face.

A woman in purple barked, “Know your place! It’s your fortune our City Lord speaks kindly to you! Kneel! Even your worthless prince would bow before her!”

Before she finished, pain struck her chest. Blood rose in her throat. She caught it—red staining her palm.

She met the monk’s calm eyes. Her face turned pale.

She was eighth rank!

Even their City Lord could not injure her without moving.

“Amitabha. I was presumptuous,” the monk said lightly. “Remember—my prince must not be insulted.”

She dared not speak again.

“Withdraw,” Zhaoyao ordered.

When she was carried away, Zhaoyao studied him.

“Your cultivation resembles Vajra Platform—yet your qi flow is strange. Tell me your master. Speak, and you may take Xie Xiaoqing away today.”

Shock rippled through the crowd.

Since when was their City Lord so generous?

The monk replied honestly, “I know monks of Vajra Platform, but I did not learn their arts. My master is the chief steward of Prince He’s residence. I learned the Lion’s Roar.”

“Truly?”

“Monastics do not lie.”

“Bring that rebellious disciple,” Zhaoyao ordered.

Soon, shackled and drenched, Xie Xiaoqing was dragged forth. Clothes disheveled, face pale, eyes vacant.

Seeing the monk, her face turned ashen.

She collapsed before Zhaoyao.

“Master! Spare him! It has nothing to do with him—I seduced him! Master—”

Her voice was hoarse, choking with tears.

“Amitabha.”

The monk approached her. His trembling hand reached out—yet hesitated to touch.

How had the innocent girl he once knew become this?

His heart twisted.

“What a pair of lovesick fools,”

Zhaoyao snorted. “You may leave.”

“Master!”

Xie Jiuyun protested. “She has shamed our sect—how can she be spared?”

Zhaoyao merely turned her gaze. Xie Jiuyun lowered her head at once.

When she looked up again, the monk and Xie Xiaoqing were already descending the steps, farther and farther away.