Chapter 441: The Storyteller and the Name of Spirit Masters (Side Story)

The storyteller slid the wooden clapper to the front of the table. His withered, bamboo-like fingers hovered above it as he spoke slowly to his twelve-year-old grandson seated across from him:

"Watch closely. This is called ’Suspended but not falling.’"

"When a storyteller strikes the clapper, the audience’s hearts must be left hanging along with it."

His wrist suddenly dropped.

Pa!

A crisp sound echoed through the courtyard.

"This is called ’Dropping on a Jade Plate.’"

He guided his grandson’s hand to rest on the clapper.

"It must be heavy, and it must be sharp—like a stone thrown into a deep pool!"

He then picked up his folding fan.

"When you open the fan, it’s like unfurling a painted scroll. When you close it, it’s like gathering wind and clouds."

"When speaking of a general charging on horseback, slash diagonally like this—"

The fan cut through the air.

"When speaking of a beauty shedding tears, tap gently like this—"

The tip of the fan traced an imaginary circle three inches before the boy’s brow.

The little grandson mimicked him clumsily, yet within those childish movements there was already a hint of rhythm.

When the lesson was done,

the storyteller looked toward the horizon, where clouds of molten gold and flowing silver drifted, and quietly tucked the folding fan into his sleeve.

"It’s time. Come with Grandpa to the teahouse."

"Grandpa, you’ve already earned the favor of the Creation God—why do you still insist on going onstage yourself?"

The boy clutched the old man’s sleeve, his eyes filled with confusion.

The storyteller lightly tapped his grandson’s head with the folded fan.

"Storytelling was never a noble profession."

"From telling stories daily to speaking three times a month—that’s already taking it easy."

"If you want to tell stories that truly reach people’s hearts, you can’t leave behind the smoke and fire of the mortal world."

Supported by his grandson, he stepped over the threshold.

On the bluestone road, two long shadows stretched behind them.

"If Grandpa hadn’t presided over Lord Sword Wine’s wedding back then, your father would never have allowed you to inherit my storyteller’s mantle."

He gazed at the wine flags fluttering at the alley’s mouth, his voice sinking into the dusk.

"Today’s performance... will be Grandpa’s final one."

...

The teahouse buzzed with voices. The aroma of tea and the scent of wine intertwined, filling the room with warmth.

The owner of this teahouse

was none other than the former waiter who used to receive frequent tips from Li Zhexian.

Back then, after Li Zhexian once joked, "Still a waiter after all these years?"

he’d laughed it off, saying, "I’m used to being a waiter."

Yet in truth, he sat by the river all night long.

In the end, using the twelve gold coins and twenty-six silver coins Li Zhexian had tipped him over the years, he set up a small tea stall.

Now—

this "Clear Melody Pavilion" stood shoulder to shoulder with the century-old establishment "Fragrant Pavilion."

"The master has arrived—please, sir, take the stage!"

"Master, you must be ninety-nine this year, right? Look at you—still so sturdy, your voice booming like a bell! Truly blessed!"

"This old gentleman has been to the Divine Realm and personally received immortal fruit from the Creation God! Living a hundred years is only natural!"

Pa!

The sharp crack of the clapper rang out.

In an instant, it suppressed the din of the hall.

Though the storyteller’s hair and beard were snow-white, with the clapper in hand his back straightened instinctively.

The poise accumulated over a century flowed out naturally—without another word, he had already commanded the room.

"Today..."

"It will still be the Legend of Sword Wine..."

At once,

the hall erupted in applause.

Since Lord Sword Wine’s ascension, the

Legend of Sword Wine

had been told for decades—and listened to for decades.

The audience had changed again and again, and the story itself had grown ever richer and more legendary through countless embellishments by skilled folk storytellers—much like the ever-increasing number of divine statues within the central shrine of Heaven Dou City...

That gilded statue of the youth at the center was said to have already been celebrated across the myriad worlds.

Thus, no one found it tiresome.

Old listeners swayed as they listened, proudly boasting to newcomers:

"Let me tell you—Lord Wine Sword once ate

my

steamed buns!"

New listeners, meanwhile, were utterly entranced, marveling at an era long past—yet made ever more brilliant through word of mouth.

...

When the storytelling ended,

he returned home.

After finishing his meal, the storyteller returned to his room.

From the bottom of his chest, he took out a blue cloth robe that had been washed until it faded and mended with countless patches. His withered fingers gently rubbed the fabric before he slipped it on.

"Father, why did you take out that old robe?"

His son looked at him in surprise.

"It’s comfortable to wear. Don’t worry about me."

The old man waved his hand and slowly walked into the courtyard, settling down on the bamboo chair he had polished smooth from years of sitting.

Night deepened.

Stars glittered across the sky.

He tilted his head back. In his clouded old eyes, starlight reflected, and memories began to flicker past like a revolving lantern...

He had squandered most of his life. Even in old age, he had achieved nothing of note. Half his life was spent clutching a clapper, telling stories of heroes across the land—yet he couldn’t even earn enough for a modest coffin. When his wife fell ill and passed away, all he could do was find a roll of straw matting and bury her himself on a desolate slope outside the city.

The gossip of the neighbors fell like endless autumn rain:

"What future is there in storytelling? He should’ve changed to a proper trade long ago."

On that moonless night, he buried the clapper that had accompanied him for half his life beneath the old locust tree in the backyard. He dug three inches down, regretted it, dug it back up—over and over again—until his fingers were caked with mud.

At last, he remembered that young man in Heaven Dou City who had only just begun to show his brilliance. He wrote a new manuscript overnight, thinking that after telling this final story, he would seal his lips forever and find another way to make a living.

Who would have thought—

from that very day on,

his dim life would be lit anew.

That youth named Li Zhexian not only became a beacon illuminating the continent’s eternal night, but also the dawn that brightened the remainder of his life.

In his twilight years, he was able to witness Heaven Dou’s golden age, a thousand households lit by lanterns, and gaze from afar at the radiant immortal blossoms above the clouds of the Divine Realm.

"Thank you, Lord Sword Wine..."

The night breeze brushed through his grizzled beard and hair. The blue cloth robe glowed softly beneath the starlight.

"This old man has no regrets in this life..."

The storyteller slowly closed his eyes, his arm falling limply to his side.

The clapper that had accompanied him for a lifetime was still clutched tightly in his hand.

Just as his consciousness was about to sink into eternal darkness—

he suddenly felt his body grow light.

The dimness before his eyes gradually brightened.

When his vision cleared, he found himself standing amid swirling auspicious clouds in the Divine Realm.

The white-robed youth smiled and bowed to him.

"I, Zhexian, should also thank you, sir, for traveling the continent back then and telling my story to the world."

"Th-this..."

The storyteller hurriedly returned the bow, his voice trembling.

"Lord Sword Wine, you honor this old man too greatly!"

He lifted his gaze in confusion, looking toward the Spirit Master standing behind the youth, who held a scroll in his hands.

The Spirit Master smiled and clasped his fists.

"Congratulations, sir. You have attained the position of Divine Officer."

The storyteller’s eloquent tongue—once capable of weaving lotus blossoms from words—now stumbled in excitement.

"This old one... this old one is but a mortal, never cultivated even a fraction... how could I... how could I be worthy of a Divine Officer’s post..."

Li Zhexian smiled faintly. His voice carried the authority of heaven as he issued another divine decree:

"You drifted through life, witnessing all the forms of the mortal world, telling tales of sorrow and joy, partings and reunions. Today, I appoint you as the Divine Officer of the Floating World."

"You may roam the heavens, recording the deepest and truest emotions of the world, recounting that vast sea of mortal life to the gods, so that they may show compassion for all living beings."

As the divine voice fell,

ten thousand rays of radiant light descended,

enveloping the storyteller within.

He was still an old man with white hair and wrinkled skin, yet his aged eyes now shone as brightly as stars.

His blue robe fluttered gently in the wind.

The clapper in his hand flowed with a warm, profound glow.

"Thank you, Creation God, for your gracious decree!"

The Spirit Master stepped forward and said:

"I am the Kindling Divine Officer in charge of records. From now on, I’ll be working alongside you again."

Li Zhexian nodded in satisfaction and swept his sleeve.

A tome engraved with the stars of the heavens appeared in midair—the Cosmic Divine Register that recorded the names of all gods.

The storyteller and the Spirit Master stepped forward.

With solemn care, they inscribed their names upon the divine register:

"Meng Songgu."

"Li Youwei."