The five set out at dawn, hearts set on the legendary god‐clay of Huangshan. Though Master Cui had described its pale lustre and silken feel, the mountain's countless ravines held no clear trail. They dug wherever chance led, earth tossed carelessly aside. None more desperately than Zhao Ye—bound by life‐and‐death oath to Xu Yi Fei, he would have gladly offered his own body in the sorcerer's stead. Yet fate answered with nothing but soil.
After an hour's frantic toil, Zhao Ye's small spade rang against iron. He straightened, glimpsed no companion nearby, then crouched to brush away loosened dirt. Beneath lay a small iron ring affixed to a pitch‐black lid. Fearful it might seal a trapped demon, he covered it back over.
Fatigue drove him to rest on a nearby boulder. But curiosity seized him again. He re‐excavated the spot, lifted the lid—finding a foot‐wide black aperture leading into unfathomable darkness. He hesitated to close it, then felt fine tendrils of mist curling up. At first wispy, then billowing in a frothy tide that swelled until the nearby peaks vanished in white cloud.
Straining to slam the lid shut, Zhao Ye found the updrafts too fierce. Panicked, he abandoned the hole and scrambled to the Five Elders Peak. There he found the others, equally breathless and coated in dust.
Qi Ziegler grinned. "Where did this fog come from?"
Lan Xuan chuckled. "Not a bad introduction to a sea of clouds, is it?"
They gazed across the mist, which stretched beneath them like a roiling ocean, mountain summits emerging as solitary isles.
Jiang Hui's eyes shone. "It's beautiful… Hey—look! A boat!"
Sure enough, a small skiff drifted through the vapor, carrying a table, chairs—and a lone figure swathed in Taoist robes, three dark beard-strands framing his solemn face.
"Who opened the Cloud Aperture?" the Daoist boomed. "Admit it!"
They exchanged startled glances. The Daoist jabbed a finger at Zhao Ye: "One of you released this sea of clouds! Confess!"
Zhao Ye swallowed. "It was my error—I dug into the Qi channel." As he explained, the Daoist's stern expression softened.
With a wave, he declared, "Then since the mist is here, ride with me on the Cloud Sea."
Qi Ziegler raised an eyebrow. "That boat looks too small for us all."
The Daoist laughed. "This vessel can carry heaven and earth! I am Master Yu—I've dwelt on Huangshan these countless years." With introductions made, they climbed aboard. Though it seemed cramped, the boat felt spacious once they settled in. Master Yu grasped two oars and glided into the endless white expanse.
Among the swirling mists, peaks drifted like coral reefs. Mountain breezes heaved great waves of cloud around them as Master Yu guided them to hidden gullies and hermit's groves—secluded havens of pine and stone, untouched by mortal hands.
After a time, Master Yu paused and pointed far ahead. "My nieces arrive."
He traced the vapour, and two figures streaked through the clouds like comets. In an instant they alighted on the bow—two maidens in flowing white, auras of light about them.
"Ling Shuang, Sheng Xue—welcome!" Master Yu greeted them with delight. The sisters curtsied and revealed their tokens: two long, glossy feathers. "Crested crane plumes for your emerald cloak," Sheng Xue announced.
Master Yu beamed as he clasped the gifts. Ling Shuang explained, "It took three days tracking its nesting grounds to gather these."
They were disciples of the Celestial Nymph Palace on Divine Maiden Peak, entrusted with talismans that let them soar eight hundred li each day. Zhao Ye's heart fluttered.
Master Yu laughed. "Such rare treasures—what do you seek from this old hermit?"
Sheng Xue answered, "The Crimson Snow Sword, last of the Four Blades of the Elements."
Master Yu stroked his beard. "Wind, Frost, and Rain Swords we hold—Crimson Snow was kept hidden by my ill‐fated student Zhu Feixue. Before her tragic death on Lotus Peak, she concealed it. As the verse tells: 'It lies within these mountains, shrouded in unfathomable mists.'"
"Her lover?" Sheng Xue dared ask.
"In grief, he stole her body and leapt from the cliffs—his fate unknown," Master Yu replied softly.
Ling Shuang and Sheng Xue fell silent. Zhao Ye echoed her longing, drawing blushes all around.
"We'll search Lotus Peak," Ling Shuang resolved. The boat turned, sailing forth like a bird into the clouds.
Approaching the peak, the craft descended into a hidden valley. They disembarked; Master Yu flicked his sleeve—and the boat transformed into a mighty eagle, wings unfurled skywards, vanishing among the clouds.
"Your plan?" he called back.
Zhao Ye replied, "We continue seeking divine clay and watch for the sword's glint." Sheng Xue and Ling Shuang nodded, hearts set on both quests.
They fanned out, but hours of searching yielded no sword. Master Yu, still seated on a stone, offered solace: "Rest—and I shall play a melody for you."
"You must!" Ling Shuang exclaimed. "We crave your zither more than a blade."
Master Yu chuckled: "You both think to test me—and I shall respond!" He swept his hands over the air, and seven gossamer strings of light appeared, arching like twilight rays. His right hand plucked, and crystalline notes rang like gem‐struck chimes. The melody soared, then sank into poignant sorrow. As final notes quivered, both sisters had tears glistening in their eyes.
Silence reigned. At last Lan Xuan whispered Meng Jiao's lines: "Thirty years the Way pursued, yet life and death still weigh; One night's tune unites all hearts, heaven and earth made sway."
Master Yu beamed: "You know its name—'Pheasant's Morning Flight.' Do you know its tale?"
Lan Xuan shook his head. Master Yu recounted: In the Spring–Autumn era, the princess of Wei mourned her betrothed prince's death. Her teacher urged her to complete the rites, but after the funeral she succumbed to sorrow. At her tomb, he played her zither. From the grave flew two pheasants, as if reborn. Moved, he composed this dirge to honor her spirit's flight.
At once, Ling Shuang exclaimed, "The pheasants come!"
Across a snowy slope, two pheasants perched—brown bodies, gray-black crests, red faces, white neck plumes, rust-colored tail-feathers trailing like horsetails.
"Copper pheasants," Master Yu explained. "Fierce and rare; their manes prized."
"Must you replace your emerald cloak's feathers?" Sheng Xue asked.
Master Yu shook his head. Ling Shuang, determined, bounded forward, blocking their path to coax them into shedding—but the startled birds fled.
"Let me try," Zhao Ye said, circling behind. The pheasants panicked and dashed past him, dropping two tail-feathers in midflight.
"Success!" he called, scooping them up—but the second pheasant's wing‐gust blew them apart, drifting into vines by a hidden pit.
Zhao Ye retrieved the two plumes, then stooped for a closer look—and broke through the vines into a concealed chasm.
Sheng Xue and Ling Shuang rushed to the edge. The pit's mouth yawned ten meters wide, its depths swallowed light.
"Why no sunlight pierces here?" Sheng Xue wondered, fear in her voice.
They called to Zhao Ye, but before long the chasm roared with a thunderous blast. A crimson beam shot upward—that unmistakable glint: the Crimson Snow Sword!
It soared like lightning—but two other blades burst from the clouds, one white and one black, converging on the crimson sword.
In mid‐air, the four blades flashed and clashed: arcs of azure, ivory, ebony, and scarlet danced in lethal ballet. Though beset by three attackers, the Crimson Snow Sword resisted, its crimson sheen undimmed.
But the azure blade—a sister's sword—was knocked aside, nicking its edge. She gasped, gathering her qi, tears welling as she recalled Master Yu's words: the sword's spirit would heal itself.
Above, Ling Shuang's Snow Frost Sword and Jia Feng's Dark Wind Sword, sweat‐slick and weary, fought on, each aware that if the crimson blade escaped, its hiding place might never be found again.
Below on the misty cliff, Lan Xuan and the others watched the aerial duel, powerless without flying swords of their own—hearts pounding as steel and spirit clashed among the drifting clouds.