Volume One: The Hidden Dragon in the Abyss Chapter 14: Myth

Zhong Bo felt as if time was rushing past him, the seasons turning in dizzying cycles. In reality, barely the time it would take for an incense stick to burn had passed since Wang Chuan made his move. The manipulation of time itself was incomprehensible—like a fleeting dream in which a whole lifetime passes in an instant.

Yet the changes in his body were undeniable. His withered, yellowed teeth began to fall out, replaced by new ones; his hair darkened; the shriveled, thin skin on his body smoothed and softened, shedding every sign of age and growing ever more youthful. Even his very breath carried the vigorous energy of a young man.

At last, Wang Chuan placed his palm upon Zhong Bo’s crown. It was as if some ineffable force instantly coursed through him, piercing flesh and soul alike. Jolted by the sensation, Zhong Bo awoke with a start and spat out a clot of foul, stale blood—old congestion that had festered within him. Suddenly, his whole body felt clear and light, as if he were a youth once more, agile and refreshed.

His body, in every function, now matched that of a thirty-year-old man. Bones, organs, muscles, meridians—all were renewed.

Overwhelmed by joy and anxiety as he observed these changes, Zhong Bo exclaimed, “Your Highness, this is nothing less than the work of creation itself! If word of such an art were to spread, the world would be shaken! All who seek longevity would flock to you in madness!”

It was nothing short of a miracle, and Zhong Bo found himself ever more convinced that this was truly the enlightenment of a sage.

Indeed, if there were such a method for immortality in this world, all people would be driven mad for it.

“It’s of no concern,” Wang Chuan replied with a shake of his head, utterly indifferent. “You have always maintained your health, suffered no grave illnesses, practiced martial arts, and diligently nurtured your vitality. Though aged, your life force remains robust. I merely regulated your metabolism and delayed your aging.”

“Ordinary folk who do not practice martial arts or cultivate their energy are truly exhausted in old age—there’s nothing I could do for them. Otherwise, that would be to defy the natural order and alter fate itself. What I’ve done skirts the edge: it’s like replacing the battery in an old phone—performance improves, but if you swap out all the hardware, it’s no longer the same device.”

“The pursuit of immortality, this greed, surpasses all power and wealth. Yet some understand nothing of true strength! I have met many who have grasped the mysteries of life and reincarnation and reached such heights. If a commoner earns the world’s wrath, what is it to me? Tell me, who in this world could challenge me, or take anything from me?”

Seeing through it all, Wang Chuan remained utterly unconcerned—indeed, he seemed almost contemptuous.

To Zhong Bo, there was now an air of loneliness at such heights of power. The prince had grown so formidable, so isolated.

Though Zhong Bo had never seen the gods of heaven, he now thought that, if such deities did exist, they would surely appear just as Wang Chuan did now.

“Come, let’s be on our way,” Wang Chuan said. “Westward—we travel ever west!”

With those words, he vanished in a flicker, his command becoming reality. Zhong Bo hurried to follow, feeling as light as a swallow.

...

“In the heavens stands the City of White Jade, twelve towers and five walled citadels. The Immortal touched my crown, and from that day I was granted eternal youth—this tells us that the world holds more than just hidden orders like the Inscription Academy. In ancient times, the human race flourished, with saints and demigods dominating the land. There were places like the City of White Jade, recorded in unofficial histories, though over time, such places faded from public consciousness, less renowned than the Inscription Academy.”

“As for Prince Wang Chuan of Jin, he must be the reincarnation of a sage. Thus, he received the favor of the ancients, was enlightened, and became a saint on the spot. They say he shattered the void and ascended…”

“Everyone knows what happened that day—Prince Wang Chuan was at the brink of death… Of course, some say he had already died! The Lord of Wei, believing it inauspicious for him to die in Wei, quietly sent his body back to Jin, lest it become a pretext for war. The escort was nearing the border, just about to leave Wei. At the same time, the Lord of Jin was approaching the border with thirty thousand guards. Many were present that day; I have a distant relative among the Jin lord’s guards, who witnessed it himself. Even now, he recalls it with complicated feelings, as if it were yesterday. Prince Wang Chuan was being sent home when suddenly a great fog rose along the road—a fog so thick no one could see.”

“We all knew the weather should not have produced fog that night—a light rain had fallen, it was cold, but there should have been no mist. Nowhere else nearby did it appear, only around the prince’s carriage. Later, we learned that it was an immortal riding the winds, traveling on clouds. He happened to pass by, saw the dying prince, and at a glance recognized the reincarnated sage. So he intervened—such a miracle, to revive the dead! Who else in this world could perform such a feat? Or perhaps Prince Wang Chuan already possessed the secret of immortality, and when the immortal enlightened him, he awakened fully, recalled his past lives, heard the Way at dawn, and attained sainthood on the spot. Remember the poem I mentioned? Some say the immortal recited it, others that the prince himself composed it upon recovering his memories: ‘In the heavens stands the City of White Jade, twelve towers and five walled citadels. The Immortal touched my crown, and from that day I was granted eternal youth…’ It speaks of the prince’s origins—born in heavenly palaces, raised in the City of White Jade, blessed by the touch of an immortal as a child, and granted the art of longevity! Yet, longing for mortal life, he descended and was reborn among us…”

The storyteller in the teahouse spoke at length, drinking bowl after bowl of tea and clearly relishing the performance.

Since Wang Chuan’s departure, riding the wind and clouds, neither Wei nor Jin had heard from him again. Yet among all the rumors, this tale spread the furthest.

The crown prince of Jin was said to be an immortal reborn, who, upon meeting a passing immortal, was enlightened and vanished into the sky. Not only those present from both kingdoms but also the local villagers witnessed strange happenings that night.

A miracle had occurred there. The next day, a sea of flowers bloomed across the fields, their fragrance wafting for miles. The story grew ever more fantastical with each retelling.

“Old Zhang, that can’t be right,” someone interjected. “I heard that prince from Jin was a fool who couldn’t even eat meat porridge, with no great talent or ability.”

“That’s not so,” the storyteller retorted. “His Highness is a sage reincarnate—how could ordinary people discern his true nature? A born saint is not to be judged by mere aptitude! As for not eating meat, that was just an act to avoid drawing attention. And as for his talents, Wang Chuan’s poetry is divinely inspired; under the auspices of the literary star, who could compare?”

“Besides, there’s something you don’t know,” the storyteller added conspiratorially, lowering his voice to build suspense. “You’ve all heard of the loyal old servant who accompanied His Highness, haven’t you?”

“We have,” several voices affirmed.

“Well, that servant, having served the prince for many years, was blessed as well. The immortal, in his generosity, made him young again. Many saw it that day: the two of them rose on the wind, and the servant, too, now appeared as young and strong as ever.”

“This is no ordinary magic—it’s the power to revive the dead and restore youth. No mortal cultivator could ever hope to achieve such feats!”

“If you travel to Wei, you’ll see for yourself—the place where it happened is now a sea of flowers for ten miles around. Villagers report seeing clouds and rainbow lights lingering on the mountain top year-round. All regard it as a miracle, and pilgrims come from far and wide to pray for their wishes—and often, those wishes are granted. In no time, the fame of that place spread, and worshippers have come in an endless stream!”

After his performance, the storyteller disguised himself and slipped into a nearby inn called “The Purple Radiance Pavilion,” frowning slightly at the sign.

In the private room as arranged, a meticulous middle-aged man was waiting and handed over a red envelope. The man then ascended to the best private room in the house.

It was mealtime, but the inn was unusually quiet. Yang Hao sat inside, wearing plain clothes, his demeanor precise as ever. He was nearly finished eating, and, as was his habit, after the last bite, he would ladle a spoonful of broth into his bowl to clean every last grain of rice—a reflection of his thoroughness in all things.

“The Purple Radiance Pavilion never uses bad oil,” Yang Hao said as he set down his bowl. “But what does it matter? If others say it does, then in the public mind, it does. People only believe what benefits them. Rumors, repeated, become the truth.”

“This inn likely won’t be able to keep going. Long ago, I realized that in business and in life, if you get a chance, there’s no harm in undermining others—just be careful not to be undermined yourself. I don’t care about others; as long as I’m well, all is well.”

The steward nodded. In just over a decade, his master had risen to become one of the nation’s top merchants—clearly a man of extraordinary insight and ability.

Whether in vision or in means.

“The true dragon has soared to the heavens and did not return home—his ambitions are far greater than most, the time is not yet ripe,” Yang Hao mused. “It’s the same with this event—truth and falsehood aren’t what matter, but which version of the story is more compelling. If you mix truth and lies, say seven parts truth and three parts fiction, people will find it plausible. And if you shout it loudly enough, you win.”

“Continue. Go to the villages and markets, keep telling the tale—let the world know how it happened…”

...

On the second floor, Wang Chuan sipped his tea, his spirit wandering far beyond the mundane. Zhong Bo stood by, able to hear the lively commotion below and the storyteller’s impassioned voice.

The subject of the story was right there, almost within reach.

Throughout, Wang Chuan’s expression remained unchanged; he seemed to listen quietly, yet also as if he were lost in thought, unmoved by the world.

His gaze drifted out the window, up at the sky, his expression calm, as if savoring something only he could perceive.

Like the cicada that senses the autumn wind before it stirs—such was his perception, deep and profound.

The green tea passed slowly down his throat, cup after cup, until at last his cup was empty and the crowd below had dispersed.

Zhong Bo tried to pour more, but the pot was dry.

“Shall I order another pot, young master?” he offered.

Since coming to the Yu Kingdom, they had hidden their identities and traveled in simple garb by night. Titles were no longer used as before. Zhong Bo still had no idea what Wang Chuan’s purpose was, but he followed obediently, doing whatever was asked.

Wang Chuan shook his head. Drinking tea was just for show. “Zhong Bo, even though you never ask, you must be curious—why don’t I go back?”

“What would be the point of my return? To play the dutiful brother, the loving son, the filial subject? Ha… No one is more heartless than the royal family, do you not understand?”

“I will return, but the time has not yet come.”

Zhong Bo nodded at once.

“That Yang Hao is efficient, but for that very reason, I am all the more wary,” Wang Chuan said. “He is an excellent businessman—there’s a phrase, ‘people-oriented.’ I once heard of a workshop that burned down; the workers did not worry about lost wages or overtime, but only about how long operations would be halted and how they could help restore it. If a family can be like this, why not a nation?”

“A leader like that is worthy of respect and loyalty.”

“On the other hand, if, when invaded at the border, all you care about is your lost property and blame the enemy, and nothing more… well, that’s human nature. But few ever concern themselves with the fate of the nation or the people…”

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