Chapter 9: The Hundred Cranes Chessboard
The moonlight was cool as water, the starry river in eternal slumber.
Though spring had arrived, the night breeze atop the Star-Plucking Tower carried a chill, amplified by the smooth, icy jade tiles.
To Zong Ji, this was trivial. At his high cultivation level, his body and divine sense were so enhanced that neither cold nor heat, water nor fire, could faze him.
Relaxed, he hefted the wine jar, gulping heartily with bold, unrestrained movements, a stark contrast to the aloof persona he maintained publicly.
Since transmigrating and building his faction per the plot, he’d secretly ordered subordinates to seek any relics or texts tied to spatial manipulation, sparing no cost.
Though he created this world, like all who wandered far from home, Zong Ji yearned for his birthplace—the beautiful blue planet of Earth.
He hadn’t died to transmigrate; one day, he simply woke as a babbling infant in Carefree. Upon mastering divine sense, he carefully preserved his fading pre-transmigration memories deep in his consciousness.
Even after so long, he could revisit his Carefree memories—typing at his computer, recalling Earth—to remind himself of his origins.
Zong Ji didn’t strictly follow Carefree’s scripted path. Like a butterfly in South America stirring Siberian winds, he altered the world, founding the peacekeeping Dark Hall and quelling countless wars from the original story.
This influence was mutual. The world shaped him too—his kind yet quirky master, the stern but rebellious junior brother, the doting Tai Xu elders who treated him like a grandson, and the cold yet endearing sword cultivators.
Human hearts are flesh. Bonds formed aren’t easily severed.
Zong Ji’s distinct fingers glowed faintly, wiping cold wine from his lips. Pausing, he raised the jar again, letting the liquor slide down his throat, dripping onto his collar, where steaming spiritual energy turned it into warm wine vapor.
Silver moonlight cascaded, casting shadows along his robes’ folds. The starry sky shifted, faint glimmers flickering.
Tonight’s sky was odd—perhaps a storm brewed, or someone broke through. Zong Ji wasn’t in the mood to ponder.
Before finding clues to breaking the void, he could hold onto hope, sidestepping the issue. But now—
A path home had appeared.
In Carefree’s original setting, the enigmatic Heavenly Mechanism Sect had no more than three direct disciples per generation, called Heavenly Mechanism Heirs. Their training was harsh, requiring emotional detachment surpassing even Buddhist monks, using secret arts to strip disciples of desires.
The continent’s jade slips were managed by this sect. Its elites were near-synonymous with the Heavenly Dao, able to glimpse fate.
The paper came from a Heavenly Mechanism Heir, the current Saint Son, per Zong Ji’s orders.
Four-Square Lock.
Repeating the words, Zong Ji scoured his Carefree memories, but despite the intense familiarity, he found nothing, leaving him to brood atop the tower with wine.
Tonight, the Star-Plucking Tower hosted an auction, its entrance bustling. Though the Dark Hall avoided commerce, it maintained ties with major chambers, renting floors for auctions.
Zong Ji sat high on the eaves, his black hair blending with starlight. His gold-embroidered boots tread on the city’s glow, vast and ethereal, as if he might fall.
Autumn Dew White was rare, an imperial wine of the Eastern Kingdom, served only at state banquets, with no more than twenty jars released yearly. Zong Ji, smitten after one taste, infiltrated the heavily guarded palace, memorized the recipe with his photographic memory, and had his guards replicate it.
All-purpose Dark Hall: …
With its diverse talent pool, the Dark Hall succeeded, though the finicky recipe—morning dew in jade bowls, midnight snow, and silver flowers—meant limited stock, booked in advance, a jar worth thousands, priceless.
Tonight, Zong Ji drank thousands’ worth.
Even he, rarely drunk, felt tipsy. Yet he drank on, unsealing jars, toasting the moon, letting the breeze cleanse his soul.
“Hall Master, a guest has solved the first floor’s Hundred Cranes Chessboard.”
Time blurred—Shengyang never slept, its lights eternal. A uniformed guard, blending with the night, reported softly, wary of disturbing the moonlit figure.
“Hundred Cranes Chessboard?”
Zong Ji, his mind dulled by wine, paused.
When building the Star-Plucking Tower, to maintain mystique (and show off), he placed a chessboard on the first floor, declaring: Solve it, and the Dark Hall grants one request, no conditions.
The proclamation stunned Xuanshu.
The Dark Hall, an intelligence hub, didn’t trade top secrets for money—only for items or other secrets. Heaven-tier intelligence, it was said, could unleash chaos if revealed.
As the creator, Zong Ji knew the world’s secrets best. The Dark Hall’s Heaven-tier slips held his original outlines and future events.
When the tower opened, crowds—chess masters and faction leaders—flocked to crack it, to no avail.
Named for the cranes etched on its corners, the Hundred Cranes Chessboard was Zong Ji’s take on an ancient “Thousand-Layer Pagoda” puzzle, meant as a publicity stunt. Once achieved, he forgot his bold promise.
Yet today, someone claimed to have solved it?
“Who solved it?”
“The… Sword Sovereign of Tai Shu Sect.”
Tai Shu Sect’s Sword Sovereign?!
Zong Ji raised a brow, laughing abruptly.
He thought his tolerance was high, but he was clearly drunk.
Very drunk.
There was no Tai Shu Sect in Carefree.
Tai Shu Sect was the top sect in One Sword to Immortality.