Chapter 10: Farewell Promise

Dawn broke over Xuanqing Mountain in a blaze of gold and crimson, as if the heavens themselves were marking the significance of the day. Zhao Yang had risen before first light, completing his final meditation as a resident disciple of Xuanqing Palace. Now, dressed in the special protective robe his nine senior sisters had crafted for him, he stood at the threshold of his modest pavilion, taking a moment to commit every detail to memory.

Five years. It seemed both an eternity and an instant since he had first arrived, a frightened orphan seeking shelter from a world that had taken everything from him. Now he prepared to return to that world, not as a victim, but as a cultivator with purpose—though that purpose remained shrouded in mystery and unanswered questions.

A soft knock interrupted his contemplation. Opening the door, he found all nine of his senior sisters waiting outside, formally dressed in the ceremonial robes of Xuanqing Palace. Even Yan Ruoxue had foregone her usual exuberance for ceremonial dignity, though her eyes shone with barely contained emotions.

"It is time, Junior Brother," Lin Shuoyue announced, her perfect features composed despite the solemnity of the occasion. "Master awaits at the Descending Path Gate."

Together they walked through the familiar grounds of Xuanqing Palace, following paths Zhao Yang had traversed thousands of times during his training. Each vista, each pavilion, each garden seemed to call to him with memories—his first successful energy cultivation with Fourth Sister Bai Bingxue by the Frost Pond; music lessons with Fifth Sister Hua Lige in the Resonating Bamboo Hall; countless combat training sessions with Seventh Sister Qin Shuoyue in the Stone Circle Arena.

Disciples paused in their morning activities to watch the procession, some offering respectful bows, others merely observing with curiosity or, in a few cases, lingering resentment at the male disciple's privileged position. Zhao Yang acknowledged them all with equanimity, having long since learned that others' opinions of his presence were beyond his control.

As they approached the Descending Path Gate—a simple stone archway marking the beginning of the long stairway down the mountain—Zhao Yang saw a small gathering awaiting them. Murong Qingxue stood at the center, flanked by the seven Elders of Xuanqing Palace. Nearby, servants held the provisions prepared for his journey: a modest pack containing essential supplies, a sword in plain scabbard that concealed its extraordinary quality, and a small chest that likely contained additional items his master deemed necessary for his mission.

The Nine Sisters formed a semicircle behind Zhao Yang as he approached and knelt before Murong Qingxue in the traditional farewell ceremony.

"Disciple Zhao Yang presents himself for departure, having received the honored Mistress's permission to journey into the mortal realm," he recited, his voice clear and steady despite the emotions churning beneath his composed exterior.

Murong Qingxue regarded him with her usual inscrutable expression, though he thought he detected a subtle softening around her eyes—a gentleness few would notice without years of careful observation.

"Rise, Disciple Zhao Yang," she commanded. As he stood, she continued, "You leave Xuanqing Palace not merely as a disciple seeking experience, but as an envoy with purpose. Remember your training, maintain your disciplines, and return when your tasks are complete."

She gestured to the servants, who stepped forward with his provisions. As Zhao Yang accepted the pack and sword, Murong Qingxue personally handed him the small chest, their fingers briefly touching in the exchange—a seemingly insignificant contact that nevertheless sent a jolt of recognition through his cultivation core, as if their energies remembered each other from some ancient connection.

"This contains additional resources for your journey," she explained. "Sacred texts, specialized talismans, and communication tools that will allow you to send reports of your progress. Study them in privacy once you have left the mountain."

Zhao Yang bowed deeply. "I will honor your trust, Master."

"Before you descend," Murong Qingxue continued, "the Elders wish to offer their blessings for your journey."

One by one, the ancient cultivators stepped forward. Most provided brief, formal blessings, their expressions revealing varying degrees of reservation about his mission. Elder Bai, his most consistent critic over the years, was the last to approach.

"Five years ago, I opposed your acceptance into Xuanqing Palace," she said without preamble, her voice creaking like old bamboo in wind. "I believed a male disciple would disrupt the harmonies carefully maintained here for millennia."

She paused, her ancient eyes studying him with penetrating intensity. "I cannot claim my concerns were unfounded—your presence has indeed changed our sect in ways both subtle and profound. Yet I have observed your dedication, your respect for our traditions, and your unique contributions to our understanding of cultivation principles."

With surprising grace for one so ancient, Elder Bai removed a small jade pendant from her sleeve—a simple circle of pale green stone inscribed with protection runes. "Take this token of Xuanqing Palace's oldest lineage. It will remind you of your responsibilities as you walk among those who understand nothing of our ways."

Stunned by this unexpected gesture from his most vocal critic, Zhao Yang accepted the pendant with a deep bow. "I am honored beyond words, Elder Bai. I will strive to be worthy of this trust."

A ghost of a smile touched the ancient woman's lips. "See that you do, unusual disciple. Our sect has invested much in your development. We expect significant returns."

With the formal blessings complete, Murong Qingxue nodded toward the Nine Sisters. "You may offer your farewells before Disciple Zhao Yang begins his descent."

The formality of the occasion dissolved slightly as the sisters approached. Yan Ruoxue could contain herself no longer, rushing forward to throw her arms around Zhao Yang in an impulsive embrace that would have scandalized the more traditional elders had they not discreetly averted their eyes.

"Don't forget your promise to return with stories," she whispered fiercely, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "The most detailed, exciting stories of the outside world!"

"I promise, Ninth Sister," he replied warmly, returning her embrace briefly before she stepped back, wiping surreptitiously at her eyes.

Each sister offered her own farewell in characteristic fashion: Lin Shuoyue with dignified reserve that nonetheless conveyed genuine concern; Su Mengyan with a teasing wink that masked deeper emotions; Ye Qingzhu with a gentle reminder to use the medicinal knowledge she had imparted; Bai Bingxue with cool practical advice about weather patterns in the valleys below.

Hua Lige pressed a small jade flute into his hand, explaining that playing specific melodies would help maintain his spiritual balance in chaotic environments. Liu Ruyan reminded him of the poison-detecting techniques she had taught, her usual serene expression touched with worry. Qin Shuoyue reviewed key defensive maneuvers one final time, her warrior's concern focused on practical protection.

Shen Qingcheng was the last to approach, presenting him with a compass that appeared ordinary but contained subtle formation engravings. "This will help you locate the fragments marked on your map," she explained quietly. "It responds to the unique energy signature of First Age artifacts."

With the individual farewells complete, the Nine Sisters formed a circle around Zhao Yang and joined hands. Together, they performed a brief blessing ritual, channeling supportive energy into his cultivation core—a final gift to strengthen and protect him on his journey.

As the ritual concluded, Murong Qingxue stepped forward once more. "The hour of auspicious departure approaches. Are you prepared, Disciple Zhao Yang?"

He nodded, shouldering his pack and securing the sword at his waist. "I am ready, Master."

"Then begin your descent. At the foot of the mountain, near the Crescent Moon Inn, your guide awaits. Look for..." She paused, as if reconsidering her words. "You will recognize each other when the time comes."

This cryptic instruction only deepened Zhao Yang's curiosity about the mysterious guide, but he simply bowed in acknowledgment. "I understand, Master."

Murong Qingxue raised her hand in formal blessing. "May your path be clear, your purpose steadfast, and your return swift."

With these traditional words of farewell, the ceremony concluded. Zhao Yang turned toward the Descending Path Gate, taking his first step toward the stairway that would lead him back to the mortal world he had left behind five years ago.

He had gone only a few paces when an unexpected voice called after him.

"Zhao Yang."

He turned in surprise. Murong Qingxue had addressed him by name alone—not as "disciple" or "unruly one"—a significant break from her usual formal address, especially in such a public setting.

She had stepped away from the Elders and approached the gate, her expression still composed but somehow more open than he had ever seen it. "There is one more thing you should know before you leave."

He waited expectantly as she seemed to weigh her words with unusual care.

"The fragments you seek... they are not merely historical curiosities or cultivation tools. Together, they tell a story—one that has been deliberately scattered and hidden to prevent its full understanding." Her voice lowered, though not enough to prevent the closest observers from hearing. "It is your story, in ways you cannot yet comprehend."

Before Zhao Yang could question this cryptic statement, she continued, "When the final fragment is secured, you will face a choice—a crossroads with profound implications not just for your own path, but for the future of cultivation itself. When that moment comes, remember not just your training, but your heart."

She reached out, touching his jade pendant briefly. "This has guided you thus far, though you understood not how. Continue to trust its resonance."

Stunned by this unprecedented disclosure in such a public setting, Zhao Yang could only bow deeply. "I will remember, Master."

Something flickered in Murong Qingxue's eyes—an emotion so complex and fleeting he couldn't begin to interpret it. Then her usual composed mask returned, and she stepped back with formal dignity. "Go now. The auspicious hour will not wait."

With a final bow to his master and the assembled company, Zhao Yang turned and walked through the Descending Path Gate. The ancient stone stairway stretched before him, winding down the mountainside through mist and forest toward the mortal world below.

He did not look back as he began his descent, though he felt the weight of many gazes upon him—the Nine Sisters watching with mingled pride and concern, the Elders with their ancient, evaluating eyes, and most intensely, his master's inscrutable yet somehow profound attention.

The mist closed around him as he descended, the familiar spiritual energy of Xuanqing Palace gradually diminishing with each step. By midmorning, he had passed through the first boundary ward—a subtle energy barrier that helped conceal the sect from mundane eyes. The air felt different beyond it, heavier somehow, less charged with spiritual essence.

As noon approached, he reached a small plateau that offered his last clear view of Xuanqing Palace. From this distance, the sect appeared as it did to ordinary travelers—a collection of mist-shrouded pavilions barely visible among the mountain peaks, easily mistaken for clouds or rock formations by those without spiritual perception.

Zhao Yang paused there, taking a moment to center himself as his master had taught him. The world he was entering would be simultaneously familiar and foreign—the same mortal realm he had left as a child, yet now perceived through the cultivated senses and understanding he had developed over five years of intensive training.

His hand went to the jade pendant at his neck—the one he had carried since before his arrival at Xuanqing Palace, not Elder Bai's recent gift. Its surface felt warm against his skin, pulsing faintly with an energy that seemed to strengthen as he faced the world below. Whatever connection it held to his mysterious origins and the fragments he sought, he sensed its significance would only grow in the days ahead.

As he prepared to continue his journey, a flicker of movement on the path above caught his attention. Turning, he glimpsed a figure standing at the edge of the mist—tall, slender, unmistakably feminine despite the distance. Though he could not make out her features clearly, he knew instinctively it was Murong Qingxue, watching his descent from beyond the boundary ward.

Had she followed him this far? It was unprecedented for the Mistress of Xuanqing Palace to leave the sect's inner grounds for such a purpose. Yet there she stood, a solitary silhouette against the mountain mist, observing his departure with an intensity he could feel even across the distance.

Impulsively, Zhao Yang raised his hand in a final farewell—not the formal salute of disciple to master, but a simpler, more personal gesture. For a long moment, the figure remained motionless. Then, just as he was about to turn away, she returned the gesture, her arm lifting in a graceful arc that somehow conveyed more emotion than her composed features ever revealed.

The sight stirred something deep within him—a complex mixture of gratitude, respect, and an indefinable connection that transcended their formal relationship. Whatever her reasons for accepting him into Xuanqing Palace five years ago, whatever secrets still lay between them about his origins and purpose, in this moment he felt a certainty that her guidance had been driven by something far more profound than mere duty or prophecy.

With this understanding warming his heart, Zhao Yang continued his descent. The path grew steeper as it wound through ancient forests where massive trees blocked much of the sunlight, creating a perpetual twilight realm populated by birds and small animals that regarded him with curious eyes as he passed.

By late afternoon, he had reached the lower slopes where human presence became more evident—abandoned shrines, occasional woodcutters' huts, and finally the first cultivated fields that marked the transition to settled lands. The spiritual energy continued to thin, requiring adjustment of his perception techniques.

As dusk approached, he caught his first glimpse of truly mundane civilization—the village of Three Bridges that served as the gateway to Xuanqing Mountain for the few pilgrims and traders brave enough to approach the legendary female cultivation sect. Lights glimmered in windows, smoke rose from cooking fires, and the distant sounds of human activity reached his ears—ordinary yet somehow novel after years in the rarefied atmosphere of Xuanqing Palace.

Just beyond the village lay his first destination—the Crescent Moon Inn where his mysterious guide awaited. Who had Murong Qingxue selected for this role? A disguised disciple from another sect? A mortal with special connections? Perhaps even one of the sect's secret observers who had lived for years in the outside world?

As twilight deepened into true night, Zhao Yang approached the outskirts of Three Bridges village. He paused to activate the energy-masking aspects of his protective robe, carefully concealing his cultivation aura to appear as an ordinary traveler to any spiritually sensitive observers.

The last rays of sunset illuminated his face as he looked back up the mountain path one final time. Somewhere up there, beyond the mist and boundary wards, nine extraordinary women who had become his sisters in all but blood were presumably going about their evening activities—Lin Shuoyue practicing her perfect sword forms, Su Mengyan experimenting with new illusion techniques, Ye Qingzhu tending her medicinal herbs.

And his master—enigmatic, demanding, somehow both distant and intimately connected to his fate—what was she doing in this moment? Meditating in her private chamber? Consulting ancient texts for guidance on the mission she had assigned him? Or perhaps, just perhaps, standing at some vantage point, watching the distant figure of her unusual disciple disappear into the gathering darkness of the mortal world?

"I will find these fragments," Zhao Yang promised softly, his words carried away by the evening breeze. "I will discover the truth about my origins, about the portrait, about this prophecy that seems to center on me without my understanding why."

His hand closed around his jade pendant once more, drawing strength from its reassuring warmth. "And I will return to Xuanqing Palace—to my nine senior sisters, to my master, to the only true home I have known."

With this promise filling his heart, Zhao Yang turned resolutely toward the lights of Three Bridges village and the Crescent Moon Inn beyond, where the next chapter of his journey awaited in the form of a still-unknown guide and the first steps toward uncovering the scattered fragments of his mysterious destiny.