Chapter 12: A Flock of Geese Below the Mountain

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The mountain gate of Zhongnan Mountain is a single ancient stele pavilion with six pillars and five openings, standing three zhang and three chi tall and seven zhang wide. Its design draws inspiration from the saying: “Begin with one, establish with three, complete with five, flourish with seven.” The gate features six pillars, flanked by a double-eaved hexagonal pavilion, located about six li from Chongyang Palace. Its name cleverly uses a homophone of “stay,” urging enemies to halt and friends to linger. Carved atop the pavilion are the words “Zhongnan Quanzhen” in small seal script, harmonizing with the surrounding mountain contours, enhancing its ancient and solemn aura.

Admittedly, it’s somewhat embarrassing, but after many such moments, it hardly matters. This was actually Qiu Zhiqing’s first time seeing the Quanzhen Taoist mountain gate. He had ventured deeper into the back mountains more often than he had approached the gates of Chongyang Palace.

Don’t misunderstand; most of the time, his visits were not out of affection for the adorable animals but to provide free medical care to displaced villagers who had moved into the mountains. Occasionally, he also mediated disputes. Recognized as the “little divine doctor” of the newly established mountain villages, he had earned a modest reputation.

After a somewhat vain tour of his own mountain gate, Qiu Zhiqing left satisfied. Beyond this, sixty li to the north lay the famed Jingzhao Prefecture, the original Chang’an city, known as Yongxing Military Road during the Northern Song dynasty.

However, nearly 240 years had passed since Huang Chao’s massacre and the burning of Chang’an. The prosperous city was forever frozen in history by that great fire, leaving only endless imagination for future generations.

According to his master, Qiu Zhiqing was to take the Shangyu Ancient Road, pass Wuguan, go through Dengzhou to Xiangyang, and then board a boat all the way to Lin’an City. Qiu Zhiqing nodded repeatedly at the time, though inwardly he felt uncertain. He had heard of Wuguan, but who could tell him where the Shangyu Ancient Road was or where Dengzhou lay?

Fortunately, his beloved Sixth Uncle Hao Datong gave him clear directions—to visit Mount Hua and see if Old Daoist Chen was there. He thoughtfully delineated the area: roughly around Yuquan Temple, Zhenyue Palace, Yuntai Temple, or on one of the Five Peaks of Mount Hua.

Hao Datong was clearly teasing Qiu Zhiqing for never having left the mountain. Later, upon reaching Mount Hua, Qiu realized that these were indeed the main places where Taoists dwelled. Hao had named them all in one breath and added that numerous reclusive masters resided on Mount Hua, perfect for Qiu’s love of philosophical discourse—they were more than capable of satisfying his thirst for spiritual debate.

Qiu Zhiqing traveled leisurely, rarely entering cities. He mostly lodged in villages, never spending money, simply treating illnesses. The medicines he prescribed were often herbs common along the farm paths.

Don’t be surprised; most itinerant Taoist doctors source their medicines locally. This not only cures ailments but also avoids burdening the farmers.

Many so-called folk remedies originated this way. Those raised in the countryside know that many weeds have medicinal value—only few recognize them, including the author.

The naive young Taoist believed his medical skills would at least guarantee him a decent living, if not great wealth. But reality proved otherwise. Wealthy families had their own trusted in-house doctors.

Moreover, his skills were not necessarily superior to those of established doctors. Many common folk, even when ill, chose to endure.

Qiu Zhiqing could only sigh at his own youth.

From Zhongnan Mountain to Huazhou was two hundred li. Traveling slowly for over twenty days, after many mistaken directions from well-meaning villagers, he finally reached Weinan County under Huazhou’s jurisdiction. Sixty li remained to Huazhou.

On the eighth day of the fourth month in the thirteenth year of Jiading, Qiu Zhiqing lodged as usual in a village called Xihe Fort. The village was small, with about a hundred households, built along a river, with the Qinling mountain range to the south—a fine location.

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After completing his evening prayers, Qiu Zhiqing prepared to sleep. Just past the hour of You (early evening), sudden commotion erupted in the village. Having spent nearly a month in the mountains and keenly aware of the era’s characteristics, Qiu Zhiqing did not slacken. Swiftly, he strapped on his sword, grabbed his fly whisk, and deftly kicked his small bundle onto the wardrobe.

Then, he leapt out the back door and silently ascended to lie flat upon the roof. His movements were fluid and soundless, his breath controlled to the minimum.

Soon enough, the sound of a door breaking open echoed from inside the house, followed by retreating footsteps—heavy and labored. Qiu judged the intruders had some external martial skill, but not much.

Peering cautiously from the roof, he saw villagers gathered in the middle of the grain-drying yard, with several corpses lying nearby.

The yard, usually used to dry red sorghum and white wheat, was now soaked with red blood and white brain matter. Sob cries and children’s whimpers filled the air.

Qiu Zhiqing had never witnessed such a scene before. His body trembled, veins bulged on his forehead, teeth clenched audibly. Listening to the suffocating sobs and wails, his indignation and anger overcame fear and timidity.

Silently, he crept closer on the roof. With a clang, his long sword was drawn! The ringleader, who had been laughing madly just moments before...

His laughter abruptly ceased as he clutched his throat, emitting a strange “goose-goose-goose” sound.

Simultaneously, two riders nearby fell to the ground. Taken by surprise, the remaining dozen drew swords and charged, while six others nocked arrows to fire cold shots. One turned his horse and galloped out of the village.

Years of Taoist cultivation bore fruit at this moment. After the initial surge of impulse, Qiu Zhiqing forced himself into a calm meditative state.

Judging by appearances, these were Mongol cavalry. Setting aside why Mongol troops would appear in the Guanzhong region of the Jin dynasty, the count came to about twenty riders. They had ambushed and killed three, leaving seventeen—one had ridden off.

Clearly, the one who left was not fleeing but likely seeking reinforcements or reporting to superiors.

The situation was dire. Observing villagers rushing inside with practiced urgency was heartbreaking. A swift and decisive battle was necessary.

Fortunately, the grain-drying yard was small. Before ten riders arrived, the stench of blood was overwhelming. Their swift, coordinated half-moon encirclement revealed them as seasoned veterans.

A direct clash was impossible. Qiu Zhiqing lightly leapt, aiming for the rooftop, but three sharp arrows sliced through the air with deadly precision, barring his ascent from all directions.

With no support in the air, he employed the Golden Goose Technique, stepping lightly thrice mid-air. Flicking his sword, he deflected an arrow ahead. With a circle and sweep of his fly whisk, he trapped two arrows, then flung them back into the charging cavalry, striking one down.

At that moment, three more arrows hurtled toward him. Qiu knew even if he reached the rooftop, the six archers at a distance would treat him as a moving target. He could not hope they'd run out of arrows.

A heavy object fell to the ground—the stone swept up by his fly whisk. The six archers were momentarily blocked by the ten riders in front, who were maneuvering.

Now was the moment!

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Qiu Zhiqing swept a stone used to weigh down tarps beside the grain yard with his fly whisk. The stone shot forward, aiming not at men but at horse legs. The result was gratifying: three horses collapsed, throwing two riders.

No time for extra moves, the remaining four riders closed in. Qiu leapt up, thrusting his sword straight. Though the tip pierced a rider, the man was sent flying as if struck by a tidal wave, crashing into three other riders who had just risen, killing them instantly and ending their evil lives.

This was the “Vast Waves” technique.

As he knocked one rider away, three slashes of blade light flashed. Qiu stepped lightly four times midair, evading the strikes while entangling one man with his fly whisk. Landing, he whipped the whisk, spinning the unlucky bound rider into the air.

However, three blood blossoms burst forth—three arrows pierced through his body. With a flick, Qiu cast the corpse backward, striking one of the two riders behind.

Without pause, he seized the moment. Moving with his sword, flashes like flowing stars appeared, the wind rising and suddenly stilling—this was the “Star River Turning” form.

The five riders previously knocked down were all dead. Ten steps to kill one, leaving no trace for a thousand miles! It was not that he wished to keep them alive, but he had to escape. At that moment, the sound of arrows slicing the air came as expected. Qiu executed a kill, backflip, spin, and direct thrust all in one fluid motion.

He dodged three arrows and a rear rider’s blade, stabbing the man’s heart.

Turning over without pause, no surprise that three more arrows appeared on the rider’s body. Qiu’s fly whisk was left empty.

Seizing the gap, he leapt onto the rooftop. The sound of rushing air followed again. Without looking closely, he flicked his sword, sending a tile flying, and rolled up his fly whisk, narrowly avoiding danger once more.

Just as Qiu prepared to counterattack, the man who had gone for reinforcements returned, shouting something. The remaining seven riders turned their horses to flee.

Qiu could not let them escape. Sheathing his sword, he jumped down, grabbed a Mongol bow and arrow left behind, and nocked an arrow. Moments later, he discarded the bow—damn, he didn’t know how to use it.

Mounting a horse, he tried to chase, but the horse only circled in place, refusing to move. Watching the eight riders about to escape, Qiu angrily prodded the horse with his nose.

Dismounting, he hooked his foot, snagging a quiver. Grabbing ten arrows, he drew and released with all his might—ten arrows whistled through the air.

The three riders trailing behind clutched their pierced necks, uttering incomprehensible “goose-goose-goose” cries before falling from their mounts...