Volume One: Carefree Journey Amidst Indistinguishable Leaves Chapter Nineteen: The Carefree Journey

Sunlight poured over the waterfall, and its dazzling reflection cast brilliant hues into the stone chamber, filling it with shimmering radiance. Yang Ning shifted his gaze away from the skeleton and fixed his attention on the stone wall before him.

To his surprise, the wall was remarkably smooth, devoid of jagged rocks or uneven surfaces—its polished face gleamed like a mirror. The other two walls were much the same.

Smooth stone walls were not especially unusual, but what caught his eye were the numerous murals carved upon all three surfaces, intricate yet orderly, forming distinct panels. They appeared to depict a dance; above the waist, the figures were rendered with minimalist strokes, their gender indiscernible, but below the waist, the details were painstakingly precise. By his estimation, the murals totaled forty or fifty hand-carved panels across the walls.

Yang Ning glanced at the skeleton and surmised that these carvings must have been etched by the person during their lifetime. Alone in this mountain cave, perhaps overwhelmed by solitude, they had passed the time by carving these murals.

Yet, if this person found their way into the cave, they surely knew how to leave. Whether escaping through the fissure or leaping down the waterfall, both routes seemed feasible. Why, then, did they remain?

Such elaborate murals could not have been carved in a day. Even to their dying breath, the person stayed within this stone chamber—Yang Ning could not fathom the reason.

He cared little for dance, so he returned to the stone table. The chest atop it was covered in thick dust, with cobwebs clinging to its edges. He brushed away the grime with his sleeve and discovered that the chest was made of brass, its lid adorned with a lotus-shaped motif. The chest was a deep golden hue, but the lotus was painted black, appearing as a black lotus blossom.

The chest was unlocked. Opening it, Yang Ning found it filled with writing implements: brushes, ink, paper, and a stone ink slab. The sheaf of paper was yellowing and brittle.

"So this person was a scholar after all," Yang Ning mused. He had hoped for treasure, but found only ordinary writing tools. Chuckling, he cleared a spot on the table and began to unpack the chest: two calligraphy brushes, an ink slab, several ink blocks, and a thick pile of aged paper. Beneath these, he discovered a short blade.

He picked up the dagger; the sheath was simple and unadorned. With a firm grip, he drew the blade—bright light flashed, almost blinding, and a wave of cold swept over him.

Yang Ning shuddered involuntarily.

It resembled a dagger, but was slightly longer than usual. Its edge exuded sharpness. He pressed a finger to the blade—it was icy, like touching frozen steel, so cold it stung. "What a strange thing," he muttered.

He was no stranger to knives, but had never encountered such a chilling blade.

"Could it be that these murals were carved with this dagger?" Yang Ning wondered. The blade was gleaming, flawless, unmarred by the years. He brought it to the stone wall, found a blank spot, and drew the edge across it. Instantly, a deep groove appeared, clean and sharp, yet the blade remained unscathed.

"A rare treasure indeed," Yang Ning rejoiced. He had always had a fondness for knives, particularly short blades, and had collected many in his previous life.

To the untrained eye, the quality of blades might go unnoticed, but experts knew their secrets well.

In terms of craftsmanship and sharpness, Yang Ning could tell this dagger was one in a million—a masterpiece that, in modern times, would be priceless.

He sheathed the blade and tucked it into his breast before returning to the table. He leafed through the stack of paper; about half bore writing. Though ancient script was challenging for him, Yang Ning could discern the writer's bold, sweeping strokes—a free and vigorous style, mostly poems and essays.

Suddenly, he found a sheet resembling a letter. Squinting, he deciphered: "My heart is troubled by doubts, yet half a lifetime's bonds cannot break this predicament. Only by withdrawing from the world and clinging to the past can I endure." A little further down: "I have eradicated all threats, severed every pillar. There will be no reunion, for our strength is far apart. Though I cannot match their achievement, my wandering brings me freedom—none can harm me!"

Yang Ning was baffled; he had no idea what the letter meant.

He repacked the writing implements into the brass chest, then took out the scroll he carried. He spread it on the stone table, thinking that the Wood God had been obsessed with this scroll—there must be more to the Sixfold Divine Art than met the eye.

He had memorized the first six diagrams out of the eleven. With time to spare, he began studying the seventh, hoping his wit might uncover its mysteries.

Yang Ning had no thought to leave immediately.

He knew for certain that the Wood God would not rest until the scroll was found, likely lurking nearby. If Yang Ning ventured out now, he would surely die.

Perhaps the Wood God believed him dead, but would not give up so easily—not until every last chance was exhausted. He would not simply walk away after seeing Yang Ning fall from the cliff.

Yang Ning realized his hope of catching up with the escort team and finding Little Butterfly was almost gone. But with his own life in jeopardy, he could only prioritize survival.

If he rushed out and ran into the Wood God, he would be doomed, let alone rescue Little Butterfly. Only by staying alive would he have a chance to save her.

He spent half a day identifying the acupoints traced by the red lines in the remaining five diagrams. Though he finished all eleven, he still could not discern the art's true secret, but he memorized the path of the red lines and their acupoints well.

By midday, his stomach was aching with hunger. He searched the stone chamber but found no food, and wondered how the skeleton's owner had survived. Could they have starved to death in this chamber?

He could only drink from the waterfall, filling his belly with cold, sweet water to stave off hunger.

He wandered the chamber, examining each mural. On a second circuit, he realized the first mural on the left wall was identical to the last on the right wall. The dance began with the first pose and returned to it at the end.

Upon closer inspection of the final mural, he noticed several lines of text etched in a corner—a poem: "Ten thousand miles of sand, the great wind sweeps the forest. Within the world and sky, I alone wander free."

"I alone wander free?" Yang Ning murmured, recalling the mysterious passage from the yellowed letter. Could there be a connection between the carvings and the letter?

Was this dance called "Wandering Free"?

There was little else to occupy him, so Yang Ning tried standing in the pose depicted in the first mural, then moved according to the second. After seven or eight panels, he found the steps peculiar; each movement was clear, but their transitions were odd. For example, one step required a half-circle turn to shift into the next pose.

He alternated between studying the carvings and mimicking the movements. The transitions became more awkward, sometimes requiring forward or backward arcs, sometimes slanting left or half-rotating right. It seemed easy enough when viewing the murals, but performing them was far more difficult.

Yang Ning struggled to replicate the steps; his movements were stiff, utterly lacking the graceful flair shown in the murals. He wondered if the carvings had omitted many steps.

After ten or so steps, he grew frustrated—not from impatience, but from the awkwardness of each motion. They looked ugly, and he could not evoke the elegance of the dance. Disheartened, he gave up and lay down to sleep.

Yet, his mind would not rest. The diagrams' complex acupoints and the strange steps haunted him. He pondered how he might move with the same elegance as the murals.

Restless, he rose and practiced the steps again, only to become discouraged and stop, but after a while, he resumed. The dance seemed to possess a strange allure—the odd steps beckoned him to ponder and practice.

Though nearly fifty murals adorned the chamber, it amounted to forty or fifty steps. But those steps were bizarre, and walking them left Yang Ning drenched in sweat.

Over the next two days, Yang Ning repeatedly practiced the dance, traversing the steps countless times. He grew familiar with their sequence, though he still could not capture the effortless grace. Still, compared to his early stiffness, he improved markedly.

By the third evening, hunger overwhelmed him. He had subsisted on waterfall water, but it could not restore his strength. Exhausted from days of practicing Wandering Free, his energy was spent—he was dizzy and faint, and knew he would soon starve if he remained.

Three days had passed; surely even the Wood God’s patience was spent, and he had moved on. Now was the time to leave.

There were two ways out: through the fissure, climbing vines up the cliff; or the straightforward, perilous option—jumping down the waterfall.

A drop of ten meters was dangerous. Yang Ning knew the impact could break bones or kill him outright.

But if he took the fissure, he would end up atop the cliff, which was unsafe.

He peered out from the cave; the cliff below was steep. He could try climbing down, and if he slipped, the pool below might save him.

Without hesitation, Yang Ning carefully crawled from the cave. Remembering the sharp ice blade at his side, he drew it and drove it into the cliff—it cut through stone like butter, allowing him to descend several meters.

As he withdrew the blade to drive it in again, his foot slipped and he tumbled downward. He flung out his arms, and with a splash, his feet struck first, plunging him into the pool below. At the moment of impact, his body convulsed, his organs churned, and his head spun with dizziness.

The pool was deep. He paused underwater, then paddled to the surface and swam to the bank. Crawling ashore, he found himself drenched, still shaken from the fall, but unharmed and safe.

He looked around. He was in a mountain valley, surrounded by towering peaks and lush greenery.

His hunger was acute; he sought wild fruit and soon found a grove. Dusk was falling, but he quickly located fruit trees, picked their bounty, and ate beneath their branches.

After six or seven fruits, his hunger was eased. He rose and stretched, when suddenly a rustling sound came from nearby. Turning, he met a pair of eyes sharp as blades, fixed on him—a figure stood just a few paces away, the posture of a predator who had found its prey.

It was the Wood God!