Chapter 75: Ascending the Mountain
The mountain path was narrow, yet today’s weather was particularly fine. Though winter had settled upon the land and the New Year approached, the sun hung high in the sky, and the usual damp chill that often clung to the mountain air was nowhere to be found.
Two carriages came to a halt at the mountain’s base. A small party disembarked and began their ascent along the winding trail. The mountain itself was not insignificant in scale—its breadth stretched across four or five miles, and it boasted three lesser peaks. Though the altitude was not towering, the ridgeline stretched in a rolling, undulating fashion, giving the land a quiet, enduring presence.
It was here, in the village nestled at the mountain’s foot, that the He Clan had dwelled for over three centuries. To the southwest lay a particular peak—sacred ground where only the He Clan’s direct bloodline was permitted to be interred. The closer branches of the family were laid to rest along the eastern peak or midway up the mountain slope.
This land held no precious minerals or riches, and so it had remained untouched by the imperial court’s grasp. The mountain stood as it had for generations, preserved by time and the will of those who called it home. Some years prior, the He Clan had pooled their resources, gathering enough wealth to formally purchase this land through official channels. Though the pretext had been agricultural development—an orchard or a mountain goods business—its true purpose was to safeguard their ancestral burial ground.
The southern mountains of this land were not steep, but they were wild. The trail, though frequently trodden, was little more than a worn footpath flanked by tangled undergrowth. Tree branches stretched outwards, barring the way like silent sentinels.
As they climbed higher, Chu Ke Qing, despite her strong-willed nature, could not conceal her exhaustion. By the time they reached the midway point, her steps grew unsteady, her breath labored.
Chen Yan, walking beside her, cast a fleeting glance in her direction—silent, yet knowing. The Cloud Sect’s cultivation method she practiced had a flaw: it lacked the refinement needed to nurture the physical body. Though she had advanced to the Returning to Origin Realm, her strength was confined to her inner energy alone. Her flesh remained fragile, little stronger than an ordinary mortal’s.
He, on the other hand, strode effortlessly. Not a single bead of sweat marred his brow, his breathing as steady as if he were still walking on level ground.
Fortunately for Chu Ke Qing, her assistant was a trained practitioner. The woman lent her support, allowing her mistress to conserve her strength. A heavy pack was strapped to the assistant’s back, her boots stained with the soil of the trail.
Chen Yan reached the final slope. There, by the roadside, he found a patch of wild grass and wiped the dust from his shoes before stepping forward.
Atop the slope lay the He Clan’s ancestral burial ground, the tombs arranged in an elegant yet solemn pattern, stretching from the high ground downward. Some tombstones had stood for centuries, their inscriptions renewed over the years. A few of the grander, ancient burial sites had been reinforced with cement, their structures repaired by later generations to endure the passage of time.
When Chu Ke Qing finally reached the summit, she paused, panting lightly. Chen Yan considered her state before wordlessly offering a bottle of spring water.
“Thank you, Senior,” she murmured, her voice hushed with restrained gratitude. Taking the bottle, she twisted the cap open and drank deeply.
Ahead, Chairman He had already approached the burial site. His expression was dark, his features drawn tight with anger and sorrow.
Following his gaze, Chen Yan swiftly located the grave of the late Old Madam He—a solitary mound at the edge of the burial ground.
The tomb had collapsed.
A recent landslide, triggered by heavy rainfall, had caused the earth to fracture. Mud and shattered branches had surged down the slope, tearing through the burial site. The stone marker had crumbled, its foundation shattered. Even after a laborious effort to excavate and clear the debris, the scene remained one of devastation and ruin.
Chen Yan sighed softly. It was no wonder Chairman He was seething with fury. A man known for his deep filial piety, he had been utterly devoted to his mother. Her passing had already left him grieving, but to see her final resting place defiled in such a manner—it was a wound upon his very soul.
As the group approached, Chu Ke Qing took in the scene. Her brow furrowed, her mind calculating swiftly. Chen Yan followed her gaze, nodding slightly.
This burial site—this very spot—had been chosen by Chu Ke Qing herself. And it had been no ordinary decision. She was no charlatan; her mastery in Feng Shui Divination was genuine.
The tomb’s placement was deliberate: nestled in the southern slope, overlooking a winding stream below. The waters coursed from west to east, forming the shape of a soaring dragon chasing the sun—a rare and auspicious omen.
Moreover, the stream’s course appeared to coil around the burial site, as if guarding it, embracing it.
On either side of the tomb, twin peaks stood vigil. The left peak towered higher than its twin to the right—a crucial aspect. Had the right peak been taller, it would have reversed the balance of Azure Dragon and White Tiger, creating a dire and inauspicious formation known as the White Tiger Turning Head, an omen of misfortune and calamity.
When Chen Yan had first inquired about this site, Chu Ke Qing had spoken with absolute confidence.
“A blessed site,” she had declared.
Yet now, fate had proved otherwise.
Chairman He stood before the ruined grave, lost in thought. Then, with a grim expression, he turned to Chu Ke Qing and nodded solemnly.
“Miss Chu, I ask you to assess it.”
She straightened, her demeanor serious. “I will.”
Her assistant stepped forward, carrying a wooden case, but before she could present it, Chen Yan raised a hand to halt her. He took the box himself. The assistant hesitated for but a moment before conceding, stepping back respectfully.
Chen Yan brought the case to Chu Ke Qing’s side. She cast him a glance, then opened the box, retrieving an elegant white jade compass from within.
The jade was of the finest mutton-fat quality—far beyond the crude imitations found in the common marketplace. Chen Yan could not help but acknowledge its worth; it surpassed the tools he himself had purchased online many times over.
With the compass in one hand and her fingers weaving through intricate calculations in the other, Chu Ke Qing stepped forward. She moved in a slow, measured pace, circling the burial site.
Chen Yan, still holding the wooden case, followed closely behind, his eyes scanning the land with the Qi-Observing Technique. He took in every detail, nodding subtly to himself as he deciphered the mountain’s hidden energies.
The truth of this place was about to be unveiled.
Beneath the heavens, the He Family Ancestral Tomb stood upon a land of auspicious geomantic fortune. The natural veins of the earth converged here, the currents of primordial qi faintly gathering, drawn by the lay of the land. Though it lacked the refinement of a proper Spirit-Gathering Formation, the slow passage of time would inevitably deepen its aura, reinforcing its presence with the quiet accumulation of centuries.
Gazing through the Heavenly Eye Qi-Observing Technique, Chen Yan narrowed his eyes, seeing the drifting strands of heaven and earth’s breath drawn toward this sacred ground. Subtle, nearly imperceptible, yet undeniably real. This was no mere coincidence—whoever had chosen this site for the He Family must have been well-versed in the profound arts of Feng Shui Divination.
By the graveside, two coffins lay in stark contrast. One, an aged vessel, bore the scars of time—its lacquer peeling, its wood cracked. The other, a newer construct, stood whole and unblemished, evidently crafted as a replacement.
Chen Yan cast a glance at Chu Ke Qing. She understood at once, stepping forward without hesitation. Seizing the opportunity, Chen Yan followed closely behind.
The old coffin’s lid bore marks where nails had been pried loose. Though it remained covered, traces of past disturbance were evident. A subtle shift in qi confirmed what was already suspected—this grave had been opened before.
Chen Yan extended his senses but found no lingering Sinister Yin Energy. Death’s remnants, the final echoes of life’s departure, always left traces behind. Yet here, the air was devoid of such whispers.
Chu Ke Qing, fingers forming a mystical seal, murmured an incantation under her breath, her gaze sweeping across the scene. Then, a soft nudge against her heel. She turned to find Chen Yan motioning toward the coffin lid, his meaning clear.
Understanding, Chu Ke Qing spoke, her voice steady. “Chairman He, I must open the coffin to investigate.”
A grave expression crossed He Jian Bo’s face. He hesitated briefly but nodded. “Do it. My mother’s remains have vanished; there is no disrespect greater than that. If you can uncover the truth, you may examine anything you wish.”
Chu Ke Qing inclined her head in acknowledgment before turning to Chen Yan. “Assist me in opening it.”
He Jian Bo’s gaze flickered toward Chen Yan, then to his two attendants. He gestured for them to assist, but Chu Ke Qing promptly intervened. “No need,” she said firmly. “Opening a coffin follows strict rites. Your men mustn’t interfere, lest they disrupt the process.”
Though puzzled, He Jian Bo respected her expertise and waved his men away.
Chen Yan stepped forward, drawing a deep breath as he channeled his qi. His fingers slipped into his pocket, pressing against a concealed Ward Evil Talisman. With a subtle pulse of qi, he activated the charm and affixed it to his leg before reaching for the coffin lid.
With a groan of ancient wood, the lid slid open, revealing the emptiness within. No remains, only the burial silk, undisturbed yet absent of the body it once cradled. Scattered around were remnants of funerary incense, untouched by decay.
Chen Yan inhaled deeply, exchanging a look with Chu Ke Qing. She remained silent, eyes narrowing in thought.
His fingers traced the inner corners of the coffin, brushing against something unseen. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, rubbing his fingertips together. A faint trace, an almost imperceptible residue. His lips curled slightly.
Searching further, he reached into the coffin once more before finally exhaling and stepping back to stand beside Chu Ke Qing.
They stood in silence for several moments. Then, Chu Ke Qing lifted her gaze to meet Chen Yan’s. He shook his head ever so slightly.
She sighed. “Close it.”
Stepping away from the grave, she drew a deep breath, collecting herself. Her assistant approached, retrieving a small silver basin from a backpack—no larger than a wide bowl. Uncorking a bottle, she poured water into it.
Chu Ke Qing came forward, producing a talisman and snapping her fingers. The charm ignited, its ashes dissolving into the water with a whisper of unseen power.
She dipped her hands into the basin, rubbing them together before turning to He Jian Bo. “Chairman He, come cleanse your hands as well.”
He hesitated briefly, then complied, submerging his hands in the cool water. “What is this?” he asked.
“Rootless Water,” she explained. “Purified with talismanic power. After walking through a graveyard, one should always cleanse themselves. Lest unseen things linger.”
His brows twitched, but he said nothing more, simply nodding.
One by one, the group followed suit, washing away unseen taints before beginning their descent.
As they left, Chen Yan noticed He Jian Bo turning back time and again, his gaze lingering upon his mother’s violated resting place. The slight redness in his eyes did not escape notice.
A quiet sigh escaped Chen Yan. Grief is the same in all men.
Memories stirred—his own mourning, his own loss. That bitter sorrow, the pain of bidding farewell to one who would never return.
Their vehicles rumbled down the mountain path. But before they had traveled far, a new procession appeared upon the winding village road.
A funeral march—white banners fluttering, mourners clad in grief’s pale robes. The steady rhythm of drum and flute, the crackle of firecrackers splitting the air.
Another soul ascending the mountain to rest.
Fate’s hand moved unseen, weaving a tapestry of the living and the dead.
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