"Is Daoism cursed or something? How come everyone who joins ends up... off?" Dong Jun watched Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn in his daily ritual of needling Xue Nu, her heart sinking. Thank heavens his sights aren't set on me.
You might think it's torturous enough having him sip tea idly while you train, or dangling the promise of more dishes right after you've stuffed yourself, brewing fresh resentment.
No—Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn would inform you: these were mere preludes. He'd drone on that your form was futile, better to flop back down and lounge. He'd rave about a dish's exquisite flavors until you cracked, only for him to snatch the last bite. And even those were just openers. He'd "guide" your swordplay, and by session's end, your limbs would boast a motley assortment: arms and legs of wildly mismatched girth and length.
You'd get your longed-for vest line, sure. Collarbones deep enough to float goldfish? Check. But you'd also sprout Popeye-the-Sailor forearms from all that spinach, paired with one beefy thigh and its scrawny twin. And you'd have no clue if his pointers were gospel or guile. Confront him, and he'd fire back:
"Got those long legs you crave?"
Fine, one of them counts.
"Collarbones for goldfish?"
Yeah, okay—plus a bonus pair of Qilin arms.
"Abs like a vest?"
Agony. True enough, just swap in a tiger-back and bear-waist for the full package.
Worst of all, Dong Jun had bought into his spiel at first, training alongside Xue Nu. Then... one set of Qilin arms later, she knew she'd been played.
"You know why your master stuck to the sword back in the day, only switching to Dao arts after Xiao Meng showed up?" Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn asked.
"I don't wanna hear it!" Xue Nu clamped down; she couldn't risk another layer of his honeyed poison. Who could sift truth from trap anymore?
"Fair enough—new question. Ever wonder why the world's top swordsmen are all bachelors?" Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn probed.
Dong Jun, Li Hai Mo, and the others leaned in. Huh, he's onto something. Six-Fingered Black Xia? Solo. Fu Nian? Solo. Yan Lu? Solo. Jing Ke? Solo. Even Gai Nie and Wei Zhuang stayed unattached.
"Never mind—another pivot. Why do famed swordsmen vanish from the jianghu the moment they couple up, fading into obscurity?" Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn pressed on.
"What's the reason?" Xue Nu's curiosity finally snagged; she had to know.
"Because women only slow down my sword-drawing speed!" Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn flashed a devilish grin.
"So I reckon Lord Long Yang's destined for top sword in the world—no man or woman to cramp his draw!" Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn praised.
Lord Long Yang, en route with a fresh sturgeon delivery, overheard and froze mid-stride, staring at his hands. Is that really it? Sounds... spot-on.
Wei State's premier swordmaster, Gong Sun Yu, had been jianghu royalty pre-marriage—neck-and-neck with Six-Fingered Black Xia. Wedded, he retreated to Wei as grand general, sheathing his blade for good. Never touched heaven-human unity. Meanwhile, his contemporary Black Xia ascended to it, claiming Mohist giant status and the world's finest sword arm.
Take Luo Wang's Yan Ri Lao Ai, one of Yue Wang's Eight Swords. Before bedding Zhao's Dowager Queen, he'd been Qin's blade incarnate. Now a heaven-human expert, yet run through and gravely wounded by Jing Ke—not even half-step heaven-human.
"That's why your master's ditched the sword for Dao arts—his draw's gotten sluggish!" Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn told Xue Nu.
"Is that for real?" Xue Nu turned pleading eyes on Li Hai Mo.
Li Hai Mo eyed Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn. Big shot—untouchable, especially sans my cultivation. Gotta rely on him for protection. Swallowing his conscience, he muttered: "There's... some truth to it."
Xiao Meng rubbed her smooth brow. Xue Nu's done for. Worse—the truth-knowers are too chicken to spill.Where does he pull these cons from? A scheming chef can't forge a killer guard?
Straight-up IQ and guile stomp, Li Hai Mo mourned inwardly for Xue Nu. Glass-hearted like Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn? Doomed, iced, bury the girl.
"So the Luo Wang Grade-A assassin Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn's this kind of guy." Lord Long Yang felt his worldview shatter. A proper killer swordsman—cool, detached vibe. Why ruin it?
"Maybe it's not Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn—more Daoism's fault," Dong Jun ventured. She'd crossed paths with Lord Long Yang; no way she'd scrap with someone who could single-hand her defeat.
"Total self-indulgence—unleashing true nature!" Lord Long Yang agreed, nodding at the Great Dao Epiphyllum cradled in Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn's arms.
The pair shared a knowing glance. Spot on—not the man's glitch; Daoism's.Cultivate the Daoist Scripture, and you're either mad or daft. Hēi Bái Xuán Jiǎn's just been warped by that Great Dao flower—prime killer turned fragile ego.
Then both recalled Daoism's Xin Zheng overseer, Mo: a solid outer-sect senior, yet post-Wu Chen Zi brush, he'd launched a city-center hotpot empire—slaughter nonstop, rolling out exotic wild game and seafood specials. If you hadn't seen it yourself, could you buy a Daoist outer elite, Xin Zheng steward, hawking such fare?
Countless Seven States nobles trekked miles to Xin Zheng for his flavor-packed pots. Now, reservations were mythical. Mo's edict? "As a Daoist, I can't abide killing—each slaying heaps sin. So, two hundred tables daily max; the rest? Cultivation, chanting the Supreme Cave-Mystic Numinous Treasure Scripture of Salvation from Suffering to absolve souls and lighten my load—for your karmic cleanse too."
The more he preached it, the more flocked in, deifying Mo as a sage—shouldering sins to purify theirs. Even Mohist God Nong Hall's copycat pots couldn't compete; diners swore by "Daoist hotpot"—only that brand eased the bloodshed's weight, letting indulgence sit guilt-free.
From there, Daoist outer disciples popped hotpot joints in every Seven States capital. All flew the Daoist banner bold as brass—eaters wouldn't bite otherwise. And who'd dare fake a Hundred Schools banner like Daoism's?
"You lot just let this slide?" Dong Jun had once grilled Li Hai Mo. Daoists hole up in wilds for decades—high-profile like this okay?
His reply? "Grand concealment in court, mid in the markets, petty in the wilds. They've hit mid-level—we can't touch 'em; our realms fall short."
Cue Yin-Yang School, Mohists, and Qi State as Daoist hotpot suppliers. Yin-Yang's oddball ingredients always hit flavor gold. Mohist wanderers—swordsmen, rangers—hunted deep woods for quick gold: fair prices, spot cash, no tricks. Qi monopolized seafood, seaside bounty theirs by birthright.
Thus, Daoist hotpot hubs sprouted from capitals to county seats. Bottleneck? Not enough Daoists venturing out—most clung to mountain hermitages, far from "mid-concealment" savvy.
That left Mohist God Nong Hall scraps in the counties, ceding capitals wholesale to Daoism.
In "kindness," Daoism levied franchise fees: "Your pots reek of sin—needs our masters' periodic purge. So, this sin-absolution toll... due?"
Mohist scoffed at first—what'll you do, sue? Daoist capital shops fired back: "That joint? Sin-soaked—patrons risk karmic backlash: health woes, family curses."
Mohist sneered—superstitious bunk; flavor draws crowds. But hearts are tangled webs. Diners who braved Mohist pots, hit by setbacks or illness? Straight to "it's the sin from that meal." Whispers spread circles; the places emptied overnight.
Mohist gritted teeth, coughed up the steep fee. Now, first and fifteenth each month: Daoist disciples hit Mohist spots for solemn rites, chanting the Supreme Cave-Mystic Numinous Treasure Scripture of Salvation from Suffering to scour sins. Diners? Back in droves, bellies merry.
"Confucians tout the six arts for gentlemen: rites, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, math. But Daoists? Seems they master everything!" Dong Jun marveled.
Fair—rites aside (Daoists scorned the rigmarole as soul-stifling fluff). Astronomy? Theirs—state star-wardens, Daoist stock. Geography? Hydrology, grave-siting feng shui—old Daoist bread-and-butter. Divination? Auspices, omens—their wheelhouse. Medicine? Huangdi Nei Jing basics. Crafts? Gong Shu clan knew: Lu Ban, Daoist root, his Lu Ban Jing a later Daoist canon.
Now Daoism preached to the masses: We do business. And shrewdly—Ding the Butcher's kin wept in outhouses. Exclusive suppliers, tiered agents—concepts eons ahead, Daoist-brainchild. Brand loyalty, scarcity hype, luxury lane? Nailed. Best: bellies full, they looped in the needy—Yin-Yang, Mohist, Mohist, Qi—shoving aid they couldn't refuse.
Pre-Qin inns? A lone "wine" or "eat" flag. Daoist flair? One "fire" glyph—boom, hotpot haven confirmed.
_
If you want to support me and read advanced 100+ chapters and also other stories: patreon.com/Caluem