Chapter Text
Jiuhua Mountain was alive with festivity. Today was Sect Master Zhou's forty-fifth birthday, and for days martial world figures had been streaming up the mountain to pay their respects. The heads of every major sect came in person, or dispatched senior disciples bearing gifts; the comings and goings were ceaseless, the atmosphere jubilant.
"It's only my forty-fifth — was all this pageantry really necessary?" Zhou Zijiang shook his head with a rueful smile as he changed into his formal robes.
"Star Moon Lake devastated the martial world. It's only in these last two years that things have begun to look right again. They've come in good faith — you're the Sect Master of the foremost sect in all the martial world, and every eye is on you." Ling Yaqin pressed her lips together in a smile, her lovely face blooming like a spring flower. She had just turned thirty-six. The couple's renown stood at its zenith; everything was as it should be — no wonder her heart brimmed with joy.
She fastened a Confucian cap on her husband's head, then stepped back to admire his commanding, dignified figure, her eyes full of warmth.
"It's nearly time. Come with me."
"Let me finish getting ready. I'll come over with Shuo'er in a bit."
Zhou Zijiang nodded and turned to the handsome young man standing beside them — poised and graceful as a jade tree in the wind. "Shuo'er, no sword practice today. Keep your shiniang company and enjoy yourself."
Long Shuo bowed. "Yes, Shifu."
Zhou Zijiang strode out of Lingfeng Hall. Nearly a hundred voices rang out in unison: "May Sect Master Zhou live as long as the southern mountains!" These were the Jiuhua disciples who had assembled outside to escort the Sect Master to the main hall.
When the crowd had gone, Ling Yaqin sat down at her dressing table and let out a quiet sigh.
Long Shuo gently rubbed her shoulders. "Shiniang, what's the matter?"
"Oh — your shifu and I are getting old. Crow's feet are showing."
"Where?" Long Shuo searched for a long time before finding a single, faint line — invisible unless you looked for it. He laughed. "Shiniang, you look twenty-something. Young and beautiful — very alluring."
Color rose to Ling Yaqin's cheeks and she swatted his hand. "Such a smooth talker — where did you pick that up on your trip down the mountain? Just wait till I tell your mother."
"I mean it." Long Shuo leaned his head close to hers. "Look, Shiniang — we could be sisters."
Ling Yaqin was about to reply, but her gaze caught the two faces in the mirror and she froze. Shuo'er's delicate brows and cherry lips were every bit the equal of her own — the face of a ravishing girl. No matter how hard he tried to project masculinity, nothing could dispel the innate, bewitching allure written between his brows.
She turned and gently brushed the hair from his face. "Shuo'er," she said tenderly, "you've had it so hard..."
The corner of Long Shuo's mouth moved — he wanted to smile, but couldn't. He knew what she meant. In childhood, no one had paid attention, but past sixteen his beard never came, and his voice remained a clear, lovely soprano without a trace of manhood. He went to extraordinary lengths to conceal his body's strangeness: outside the company of his shifu and shiniang, he pitched his voice down artificially whenever he spoke. The effort was exhausting beyond description.
Long Shuo's heart churned with bitter complexity. His body was neither male nor female. He had declared he wanted to become a woman, but that was only for revenge. Deep down, he never forgot that he was — that he should have been — a man, straightforward and whole. Yet this anguish he could confide to no one; he could only bury it and taste the bitterness alone.
He held on as long as he could, but the tears came at last. He threw himself into Ling Yaqin's arms and cried: "Mother." The tears poured down.
A pang of sorrow pierced Ling Yaqin's heart. She held his shaking shoulders and whispered: "Child..." She who was destined never to bear a son — how she longed to see her beloved disciple marry, have children, live a full and happy life. Would she ever have that chance?
The Jiuhua Sword Sect's fame had resounded through the martial world for years. Fully half the sects south of the Yangtze had emerged directly from Jiuhua, or were connected to it in some way. For the Sect Master's birthday, the eminent of the realm had converged from every quarter — not only from the Song territories, but from the northern states of Yan, Qin, Liang, and Xia as well. Thousands of guests packed the great Sword Court to bursting.
Jiuhua boasted genuine talent among its disciples, and despite the multitude, everything was organized to perfection. Each time a distinguished guest arrived, an attending disciple escorted them in, while Zhou Zijiang and Ling Yaqin received them personally at the gate. Even Long Shuo, who usually shunned public occasions, stood behind his shifu and shiniang, exchanging courtesies with the guests.
The couple — he in blue, she in yellow — cut magnificent figures: one poised and urbane, the picture of grandeur; the other radiant and regal, her beauty beyond compare. They drew the admiration of all who saw them. And the elegant young man at their backs set tongues wagging in quiet amazement.
Before noon, the Sword Court was overflowing. Among the guests were scores of gang leaders and sect masters of renown.
Now another party arrived in haste. At their head, a ruddy-faced elder called out from a distance: "Sect Master Zhou — congratulations, congratulations!"
Zhou Zijiang descended the steps and clasped his fists. "I failed to meet you on the road — forgive my discourtesy. Old Hero Hua,[1] please come in."
At the name, Long Shuo's heart clenched. He looked past the old man at once.
In the crowd, a young swordsman was already looking his way. Their eyes met, and a spark flared between them.
"Master Hua, how do you do." Long Shuo bowed at the waist, the picture of respect.
"Oh —" Old Hero Hua was taken aback by the young man's striking beauty. After a beat he said: "So this is your disciple. A hero in the bloom of youth indeed — you've raised a fine pupil, Sect Master Zhou."
Zhou Zijiang laughed. "He still has much to learn from his elders. Shuo'er, come greet your martial brothers."
The group exchanged names. Long Shuo bowed to each in turn. "Brother Xu."
"Brother Mu."
"Brother Shen."
When he came to that particular face, Long Shuo smiled and bowed. "Brother Yuan, how do you do." His voice was clear and bright — unmistakably male.
Yuan Ying stared at him, dumbstruck, until a martial brother nudged him from behind. He returned the bow in a fluster, his mind churning with confusion.
At first glance, he had been certain he was looking at Jingyan. The face, the features — stamped from the same mold. But one was the beloved disciple of the Jiuhua Sword Sect's Sect Master; the other, a wandering pleasure-girl any man in the martial world could toy with. And one was male, the other female — how could they possibly be the same person? ... But the resemblance was uncanny.
Yuan Ying could not help glancing back. Long Shuo was lifting his head with a smile, and on the jade-carved earlobe, barely visible, was a tiny piercing.
At that moment, a gong sounded outside the courtyard, and a voice announced: "Abbot Juqu of Dafu Lingjiu Temple has arrived!"[2]
For centuries, Dafu Lingjiu Temple had led the martial world. In recent years its stature had diminished somewhat, but its prestige endured. Juqu — the Master — had lost an arm in his youth to a treacherous foe. He later entered the Lingjiu Temple as a disciple and within a few short years rose to the rank of Abbot — a remarkable feat. His valor and righteousness were universally admired; over the years he had mediated countless disputes. Though he had a Dharma name, the martial world simply called him Master Juqu. When word spread that the Abbot himself had come to offer birthday greetings, the courtyard fell silent. The whisper went around: Sect Master Zhou commands serious respect.
Zhou Zijiang and Ling Yaqin had known Master Juqu for many years. Hearing that he had traveled all the way from Cool Clarity Mountain, their delight was plain; they descended the steps together to welcome him.
Before the man himself appeared, a mild voice reached the Sword Court: "This poor monk has arrived shamefully late. I beg your pardon." The voice was not loud, yet every one of the thousands gathered heard it clearly — unhurried, perfectly composed.
Long Shuo looked up. A tall, stately monk in a kasaya entered at an even pace. His long beard was jet-black; compared to the dashing figure of years past, he now carried an added gravity and serenity.
A flash — a snow-white little face passing through his mind. Qingxue — does he know where Qingxue is?
Long Shuo stepped forward and bowed. "Master Juqu, how do you do."
The Master regarded him with appreciation. "Your disciple has uncommon bearing. He will surely bring great honor to your sect."
Zhou Zijiang smiled. "The Master is too kind. Please, come in."
Master Juqu chuckled, then turned. "For Sect Master Zhou's birthday, our humble temple has nothing worthy to offer — only a trifling gift. Please accept it."
Four monks entered bearing an enormous object between them. Dafu Lingjiu Temple abounded in masters, and these four were formidable martial artists in their own right — yet under the weight of this gift, their steps were labored. Plainly, it was no trifle.
When the silk covering was drawn away, every eye in the hall gleamed. Before them stood a white jade Guanyin, lifesize, carved from a single block of mutton-fat jade. The Bodhisattva wore a flowing white silk robe, one hand resting beneath her cheek, the other at her waist, thumb and forefinger forming the sacred mudra. Her eyes were half-closed, her body reclining on a couch of carved rosewood.
The figure's lines were exquisitely graceful, the expression so lifelike as to seem real, the sacred dignity palpable, a luminous sheen flowing across the entire surface. In these times of ceaseless war, the Buddhist faith had flourished as never before, and the jade block alone — a single, unbroken mass — would have been worth a fortune. The craftsmanship was beyond compare: a treasure beyond price.
"This — this is far too generous." Even Ling Yaqin was stunned by the rare masterwork. Looking more closely, she was startled to realize that the Guanyin's face and form bore a distinct resemblance to her own.
Long Shuo was puzzling over why anyone would give a Buddha statue as a gift when a prickle of alarm ran through him. A gaze from nearby — undisguised, scorching with desire — swept over his body with naked greed.
"We've met before."
Long Shuo was about to slip into the rear hall when Yuan Ying intercepted him.
Yuan Ying sidled closer, a brazen look on his face. "You didn't look like this back then."
Long Shuo had never encountered anyone so stupid. What was the man after? Had he discovered a great secret and meant to blackmail him?
"I found out what you asked about." Yuan Ying pressed closer still, leaning in to whisper: "His name is Dongfang Qing."
Long Shuo's face was expressionless, but his silence confirmed Yuan Ying's guess. "Want to know where he is?" Yuan Ying took his hand with suggestive familiarity, his fingers tracing slow circles on the soft palm. "I'll tell you tonight — how about it?"
Several pairs of eyes turned their way, apparently wondering why the two men were standing so intimately close. Even between men, this was too much.
"Why are you dressed as a man?" The memory of her body set Yuan Ying's blood on fire. One hand crept to her waist and he murmured: "Did you think this disguise could fool me? Jing —"
Before the name left his lips, Long Shuo snatched a pair of chopsticks from the table and drove them through his throat like twin bolts of lightning.
Yuan Ying's eyes went round with disbelief. He stared at the small, snow-white hand, his throat clicking faintly, a string of bloody foam spilling from his lips. One hand was still frozen behind Long Shuo's waist, held in that suggestive posture.
The sudden violence shocked the room into paralysis. A heartbeat later, Yuan Ying's martial brothers leapt to their feet. Old Hero Hua, seeing his disciple struck dead before him, roared in fury and swung his saber at Long Shuo's hand.
Long Shuo did not dodge or flinch. He regarded the oncoming blade as though it did not exist. His handsome face flushed red, then white — the expression of someone who had suffered an unbearable humiliation.
"Stop!" A sharp feminine shout rang out as a streak of pale gold flashed across the room. A palm struck the flat of the blade.
Old Hero Hua felt his hand go light. The saber shattered into several pieces, leaving nothing but the bare hilt. His face drained of color. He had always been proud of his skill — he had never imagined being disarmed in a single exchange, his renowned weapon smashed to fragments. Who was this master?
He looked up warily and saw a beautiful figure standing between them — Ling Yaqin, the "Qin-Song Among Flower Shadows." He cradled his numb wrist, thinking: I'd heard that the Twin Heroes of Qin and Sword were extraordinary. I had no idea just how extraordinary.
"Shuo'er!" Ling Yaqin seized Long Shuo's shoulders, her voice tight with alarm. "What happened? Speak to me!"
A thin line of blood trailed down his pale wrist — a falling shard of the broken blade had nicked his skin. Long Shuo's face was white as paper. His hand opened, dropping the body, and in a flash he was out of the hall.
The speed of his lightness technique drew another wave of astonishment. No one had guessed that this girl-like youth could move so fast. Jiuhua's disciples were formidable indeed.
Ling Yaqin gave chase without a moment's thought. But Zhou Zijiang stood with a face like carved stone. His own disciple, at the birthday banquet, before the assembled heroes of the martial world — had murdered a man in cold blood. Shuo'er... have you lost your mind?
"Shige... he's been kneeling outside for three days."
"Tell him to get out! I have no such disciple!" Zhou Zijiang's fury had not abated. He hurled his teacup against the wall, where it shattered.
Ling Yaqin's eyes were red. The couple had only this one disciple; they loved him more than their own lives. The tears they had shed over the decision to expel him were beyond counting.
"Shige —" When her husband's anger had cooled somewhat, Ling Yaqin spoke softly. "What Shuo'er did was wrong, but... that Yuan Ying actually..."
Ling Yaqin's tears fell as she spoke. Long Shuo had said nothing about what had happened, but the onlookers had seen it clearly: Yuan Ying had cornered him, talking and groping at the same time...
"Shige, you know Shuo'er's body... what he hates most is being looked at that way. He even refused to compete in the sword tournament because of it... Yuan Ying took one look at Shuo'er and his eyes were already — and then he..." She wept. "Shuo'er has always been gentle and well-mannered. If Yuan Ying hadn't gone too far, he would never have —"
"And still you defend that wretch!" Zhou Zijiang slammed the table.
Ling Yaqin's heart felt as though a blade were twisting in it. She collapsed over the desk, sobbing.
A long silence. Then Zhou Zijiang let out a deep sigh. "Whatever Yuan Ying did, it was not a crime deserving death. Shuo'er's internal cultivation grows stronger by the day, yet he cannot govern his own temper. A man's life was taken — the fact that I have not demanded his own life in return is already leniency."
"But you can't expel him! He's our only disciple — what will we say to Fan Xueshao?"
Zhou Zijiang was silent for a time. At last he said: "There is one way he can stay."
"Shige!" Ling Yaqin's face lit with desperate hope.
"I will destroy his martial arts and hand him over to Old Hero Hua for judgment. If Hua spares his life, he may spend the rest of his days in Lingfeng Hall."
Zhou Zijiang left the room. Only Ling Yaqin remained, and the white jade Guanyin that had just been moved into the hall. In the cold moonlight, the Bodhisattva's serene expression held a trace of unspeakable compassion.
Long Shuo knelt rigidly before the hall. The food and water beside him were untouched.
Ling Yaqin relayed her husband's terms, then took Long Shuo's hand. "Star Moon Lake vanished long ago. Fate has already avenged your family — even without martial arts, it doesn't matter so much. Your shiniang and your shifu will take good care of you..."
Long Shuo gazed at the distant sky. The new moon hung like an eyebrow; the heavens were thick with stars, so close it seemed he could reach up and touch them. If everyone in the world were as upright and earnest as his shifu, there would be far less injustice. But the world was not that way. It never would be.
"Shiniang, even if my martial arts are destroyed, I still want to remain at Jiuhua."
"You agree?" Ling Yaqin's eyes brightened — then her heart ached. Shuo'er had trained so hard for so many years. To have it all taken away...
"But first, your disciple must go and take his revenge." His voice was calm. He kowtowed three times with deliberate care. "When I have finished, whatever punishment Shifu decides — be it death or the knife — your disciple will accept it."
Long Shuo rose on stiff, numb legs. He cast one long, deep look at his shiniang's anxious face, then turned and swept down the mountain. In moments, he had vanished into the vast darkness.
Fan Xueshao rolled her sleeves to the elbow and tied them with silk ribbons, baring both snow-white arms. She held a clean white cloth and gently wiped Long Shuo's forehead. "Are you ready?"
Long Shuo lay naked on the couch, a white cloth beneath his hips, his shapely body a study in flowing curves. He nodded and closed his eyes.
Three days earlier he had arrived at Liuyin Creek, pushed open the door, and made a single demand: his adoptive mother was to implant a male organ first. When she asked why, he said: "With a phallus, I can harvest true yin directly. The yield will be fifty percent — meaning fewer women harmed." Then he added, with emphasis: "I am a man."
Neither reason nor feeling allowed Fan Xueshao to refuse. But there was a more urgent consideration: Long Shuo had been cultivating the Fangxin Xingjian for six years, and both the yang-fire and yin-essence within him were showing signs of stirring. The Fangxin Xingjian was profoundly aberrant — in any practitioner, male or female, it would eventually generate both sets of sexual organs. She estimated the process would be prolonged and fraught with danger. Since Long Shuo possessed neither, the demonic energy latent in his body could erupt at any time before the organs manifested on their own: at best, total loss of cultivation; at worst, death. Implanting the appropriate organ now was the safest course.
When they had first agreed to transform Long Shuo into a woman's body, Fan Xueshao had set a firm rule: no lives were to be taken. The female organ could only be harvested from a woman who had recently died and whose body was intact. Because the dimensional requirements were exceedingly strict, six years of searching had yielded nothing. By comparison, implanting a male organ was far simpler — it need not even come from a human body.
And yet... the thought that the organ she was about to implant with her own hands would be used to drain women of their vital essence sent a shiver through Fan Xueshao's core. To defy heaven's order like this — retribution would come. She could only pray it fell on her alone.
Fan Xueshao raised her hands. Ten jade-pale fingers swept over Long Shuo's body like a light breeze. Over the years she had watched his body grow more and more feminine. No Adam's apple, no beard, not a single strand of body hair — only those breasts, which never stopped developing. Perhaps to compensate for what should never have existed, they had swelled with the Fangxin Xingjian's growing power — from small, pigeon-egg buds to full, round globes — and were still growing. Fan Xueshao thought: It will only get harder for him. Breasts that large are terribly inconvenient.
She drew a breath, cleared the tangle of thoughts from her mind, and flicked her jade fingers. In a blink, she had struck thirty-six acupoints across Long Shuo's body. She had not sealed them fully — only injected half her zhenqi into each, slowing the blood to a crawl.
Next she took up a silver needle and inserted them one by one along the Belt Meridian. Her technique was peerlessly swift, her point-location unerring. In a flash, seven needles stood in a precise row below Long Shuo's abdomen, each protruding barely an inch. She rarely displayed her martial skill, but this single demonstration of needle-work revealed the mastery of a grandmaster without peer.
When the last needle went in, all sensation vanished from Long Shuo's lower body — from waist to thigh, as though the entire region had been severed from the rest of him. Then a wave of drowsiness washed over him. He yawned and sank into a deep sleep.
Fan Xueshao had struck his sleep point — not only to spare him pain, but because sleep would slow his heartbeat and reduce blood loss.
With a cloth boiled in hot water, she carefully wiped the smooth, white skin of his lower belly. The pale, plump mound had grown more prominent than ever — soft and fleshy, with nothing below it at all.
When the skin was clean, Fan Xueshao raised the ring finger of her right hand, pressed it to the inguinal crease, and slowly channeled zhenqi inward, reading the flow of his blood. Beside her lay no rows of medicine bottles or surgical instruments — only a bronze scalpel in a silver tray, several silver needles, and a long, narrow wooden case.
She lifted the lid. Inside lay an object, slender in shape and blood-red in color. This was the phallus of a young stag. A mature stag's erect member exceeded a foot in length; this one, from an animal barely grown, measured over seven inches. Fortunately, a stag's member was not overly thick — it could enter the cervix to draw out vital essence without requiring excessive force.
In medicine, sentiment is the enemy. Fan Xueshao had now become the divine physician in full, all worry and hesitation purged from her mind. Her bare hand touched the silver tray and came away with the scalpel balanced on her fingertip — a blade as wide as a finger and thin as paper. A turn of her wrist, and the gleaming edge descended on the jade-smooth skin of Long Shuo's lower belly, bisecting the pale mound.
Long Shuo's body stirred faintly, then his breathing steadied into a deep, even rhythm. Beneath Fan Xueshao's hands, the intricate web of blood vessels and meridians aligned with flawless precision, fusing into one. In his sleep, the yang-fire that had long smoldered within him began to release — thread by thread, flowing into the newly grafted flesh, then returning to his body bearing strange new blood.
The red sun rose past the eastern window, then sank into the dense forest to the west. Before nightfall, Fan Xueshao had joined the last blood vessel. Under her Jialuo Zhenqi, the blood flow had been slowed almost to a standstill; the loss was remarkably slight. A wipe of the silk cloth, and the mound was smooth as jade once more. She ground a white pill to powder and dusted it over the surgical site, then sank back against the table in exhaustion.
Darkness poured into the cottage like a living beast, roaring, devouring everything. Fan Xueshao's body trembled. In a low voice she began to chant:
"When in ages past I was dismembered joint from joint — had I clung to the notion of self, of person, of being, of life, wrath would have arisen... Through all those lives: no self, no person, no being, no lifespan. Therefore, Subhuti, the Bodhi must relinquish all appearances..."[3]
In the heavy darkness, that gentle voice was like a solitary lamp, flickering and swaying against the tide of night.
When Long Shuo opened his eyes, this was what he saw: a single oil lamp on the table, illuminating a woman in white as snow. His adoptive mother leaned against the table, her beautiful eyes lowered, one hand forming a sacred mudra as she silently recited the Diamond Sutra...
"Mother."
Fan Xueshao looked up and gave a faint smile. "You're awake."
"Mm." Long Shuo propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at his belly. His eyes went round as coins, a word caught in his throat; for a long time he could not speak.
Apart from the bare, smooth mound, there was nothing there at all.
Translator's Notes
[1] Hua Laoyingxiong — "Old Hero Hua." A respectful form of address in the martial world for a senior figure surnamed Hua (华). Yuan Ying's master. [↺ go back]
[2] Juqu (沮渠, Jǔqú) — Abbot of Dafu Lingjiu Temple, the martial world's most venerable Buddhist institution. He lost an arm in his youth to a treacherous foe, later entered the temple as a disciple, and rose to Abbot within a few short years. Though he has a Dharma name, the martial world simply calls him Master Juqu. [↺ go back]
[3] From the Diamond Sutra (金刚经, Jīngāng Jīng), one of the most important texts in Mahayana Buddhism. The passage concerns the Bodhisattva's transcendence of all ego-attachments: even when dismembered, a true Bodhisattva feels no wrath, for there is no "self" to be harmed. Fan Xueshao chants it as penance — knowing that the surgery she has performed will enable acts that defy heaven's order. [↺ go back]