A Heroic Life Among Immortals Chapter 1

A monk lay inside a ruined temple. Nine ordination scars marked his shaved head. His robe was filthy, blackened, and covered in so many patches that it had become a patchwork garment. A pair of monk’s shoes covered his grimy feet. He was clearly a monk.
The temple roof had almost entirely fallen in. What remained looked like a rag washed thousands of times, its original painted colors impossible to make out. Half the altar had collapsed. Time and neglect had eaten away at the goddess draped in faded red cloth. Once a beautiful, noble celestial maiden, she now looked like an old woman nearing the end of her life.
Behind the altar, murals of the Celestial Palace had decayed. So had the painted blue phoenixes around it and the jade maidens and immortal children standing on either side. Endless years had reduced them all to ruin.
The monk quietly studied the paintings on the rafters.
This temple cannot be more than fourteen years old. Before that, this land stood across the enemy border.
It had once shone brightly, becoming a pillar of hope for the people along this barren frontier. Perhaps a few boys just discovering love had even dreamed of the lovely goddess. Now the temple could not keep the wind off its own walls.
Fourteen years ago, the monk had been a free-spirited, honorable wanderer who rode boldly along the borders of two kingdoms.
He shook his head and gave a scornful laugh. Picking up a hard, tasteless flatbread made from mixed grains, he struggled to bite off a piece. He chewed slowly, mixed it with saliva, and forced it down.
With his eyes closed, he could still see his younger self: a proud, reckless face beneath a traveler’s hat, green robes streaming through the dust as a chestnut horse raced onward. Everything else had been gray, but the saber in his hand had always shone, swift as thunder and quick as lightning.
The statue on the altar resembled the monk. Its clothes were filthy and torn. Rain and wind had stripped the paint from its face until, like the dark-skinned monk, its features could no longer be seen clearly.
The statue was missing an arm. Perhaps a mischievous child had knocked it off with a rock. Perhaps a thug had cut it off to prove his courage.
Ah. The arm was beneath the monk’s scarred head, serving as a pillow.
The dark monk wore a robe that had been washed, patched, washed, and patched again. He looked every bit an ascetic. Even if he was not an enlightened master, he was certainly a poor and humble member of the clergy. Dirty toes poked through his thick-soled cloth shoes.
Dirt covered his body, face, and hands. It hid his natural complexion, his age, and even whether he was a man or a woman. Beneath his shaved scalp were two thin, drooping brows. His eyes were closed, and his lashes were so short that they looked as if they had been shaved away.
Outside the temple, a cold wind howled across a wilderness of dead grass. One or two thin sparrows gave weak cries among the scattered, sickly trees. Everything else was silent.
The temple doors hung half open. The narrow gap between them seemed to conceal danger, yet in this desolate place, it also looked perfectly ordinary.
The monk closed his eyes and thought.
Three days and fourteen hours ago, I was asleep in a gold-painted alcove bed decorated with the Hundred Children. A silly little lotus purse newly embroidered by my daughter hung from the golden curtains. My head rested on the softest velvet pillow, and a gauze quilt as light as air covered me. A short saber lay in the gap beside the bed, exactly where my hand could reach it fastest. Four female guards slept on the carpet nearby. If I felt cold, someone shut the window. If I felt warm, someone brought a fan. One cough brought warm water, and if I had to rise at night, someone carried over the chamber pot.
Now I am fleeing through the wilderness like a hunted animal.
The monk lifted his robe, revealing bandages around his abdomen. The heavy smell of blood hung in the air, thick enough to suggest death.
He seemed unaware of the pain. His face remained calm and silent, his expression thoughtful. Only the occasional twitch beneath his lowered eyelids showed that he was alive. His breathing was too faint to hear, and more than two hours could pass without his body moving once.
He thought. He forced himself to think. At present, he could do nothing else.
Why have I fallen into this state? Because I was wounded. Who wounded me? My husband. My beloved partner, the man my younger brother and I raised together.
Why did he try to kill me? I do not know. He never showed any dissatisfaction. There was no conflict of interest between us, and we were close. I was not blocking his path, and there was nowhere higher for him to rise. Even if he wanted to become emperor, he had no reason to kill me. With his authority, position, and the emperor’s favor, he was already a king in all but name. My death brings him no benefit.
Then why did he try to kill me?
There was no answer.
Any woman would be left unable to think after the husband she had loved for more than twenty years and married for over ten drove a sword through her abdomen. She might remain dazed for days, or her thoughts might be too tangled to make sense of anything. That would be perfectly normal.
But Imperial Princess Fang did not consider herself normal. An ordinary woman could never have achieved what she had achieved, done what she had done, or stood as an equal beside her husband.
Her failure to understand his actions was still a failure. Three days had passed, and she had not solved it.
An unforgivable failure.
She could not tolerate even the smallest defeat. In her life, most defeats had meant that she would never need to worry or think again.
They had meant death.
Yes. This bald, dark, ugly monk, lying with a terrible wound exposed across the abdomen, was a woman.
Only two days earlier, she had been noble, graceful, and magnificent. She possessed greater authority and bearing than an empress, yet enjoyed the rank and honor of an imperial princess. Fine carriages, swift horses, warm furs, and grand mansions had surrounded her with the highest luxury the mortal world could offer.
Even now, she held a priceless Spirit-Stabilizing Pearl beneath her tongue. As long as an injured person did not starve, die of thirst, or rot away, this rare treasure could preserve their life until the wound healed.
The medicine spread across her abdomen came from the last bottle of wound salve left behind by the Medicine God. Naturally, it was hundreds of times more effective than any ordinary medicine. The white cloth wrapped around her wound was Fire-Cleansed Cloth, a fabric rare even in the imperial palace. Flames could not damage it. Instead, fire washed it clean.
Even the dry, nearly inedible flatbread was no common food. It was a large medicinal tablet made to fill the stomach and restore blood and energy.
Only these treasures had kept her alive for three days and fourteen hours after a poisoned sword pierced her abdomen and damaged her spine.
It had now been sixteen hours.
She moved with great difficulty, pushing up her upper body with one arm so she could glance outside. The land remained bleak.
Fortunately, there were no wolves or other wild animals. The impoverished people living nearby had eaten them all. Not even a mouse remained. Otherwise, paralyzed and badly wounded, she could only have trusted the smell of her medicinal powders to keep the animals from gnawing her to the bone while she still lived.
My sons handled my wounds well. Once they were young masters. Now they are young generals. Children thoughtful enough to make these arrangements have probably been dealt with by now.
What should she do next?
No. There was nothing she could do. Even if she reached the enemy kingdom and received help and treatment, she would arrive weak and helpless. They would confine her and use her. Worse, once she entered enemy territory, every supporter and force she had left in her homeland would be watched and prepared for destruction.
She had several choices.
First, she could struggle to live. Her final adopted son might die, and she might not survive much longer, but her husband would not escape unharmed.
Second, she could give everything to Wang Qian and have him live in her place, avenge her in her place, and kill her husband in her place.
Third, she could meet death without fear and save Wang Qian’s life, though that would mean Chen Liang, Jin Heiniang, and Tenth Lady had died for nothing.
A youth dressed as a hunter strode nimbly into the temple. He carried two thin, nearly featherless old sparrows in one hand and a bundle of dry wood in the other. He had the unmistakable air of a soldier. Dust covered his face, and exhaustion showed around his eyes, but neither could hide his capable, commanding manner.
“Godfather, these two scraps were all I could find. We can each have one.”
“Eat them both. My medicine is enough.” The monk’s voice was dry and hoarse. “We are out of water.”
The young man frowned. “I could not find any.”
He shook the leather water pouch at his waist. It was empty too.
With practiced hands, he cut the sparrows’ necks and drained their blood into a small golden bowl he carried. He lifted the monk’s scarred head, brought the bowl to her lips, and fed her half of the blood.
Blood was no substitute for water, but it was better than nothing. Princess Fang’s thirst eased after she drank. When the young man saw the relief on her face, he happily helped her lie down again, moving with great care. Then he raised the bowl, opened his mouth wide, and tipped the last few drops of blood onto his tongue.
He moved downwind, lit a fire, and quietly began roasting the sparrows.
“Your mother cannot bear to part with you,” Princess Fang said. Her hoarse voice drifted through the ruined temple. “I never had a childhood like ordinary people, but I know that a boy your age should be roaming free. You should carry a sword through the martial world, write poetry, debate great ideas, and chase romance wherever you please.”