When the heavy snow fell, Song Qianji was fleeing for his life.
He soared on his Lifebound Flying Sword, traversing vast deserts and crossing countless mountains and valleys, escaping from the easternmost ocean of the continent to the westernmost snow plains.
Thus, his enemies surged toward the snow plains from all directions, like raging waves determined to submerge a solitary island.
Countless Flying Magical Artifacts densely filled the sky, their multicolored Mystic Treasures' halos intertwining to form brilliant, shimmering veils of light.
The swirling snowflakes, illuminated by these radiances, took on a dazzling array of colors.
This pursuit and encirclement lasted three days, obscuring the sky and earth, blotting out the sun and moon—a spectacle to behold.
Song Qianji’s blood had nearly drained away; he felt no pain, only cold.
His Lifebound Flying Sword wobbled unsteadily, finally succumbing to the strain and plummeting like a bird with broken wings, crashing into the snow with a thunderous spray.
Song Qianji struggled to his feet from the snowdrift and scanned his surroundings—enemies filled the sky and earth, their encirclement rapidly tightening around him.
It felt as if the entire world were spinning around him, dizzying his vision and blurring his sight.
Wiping the blood from his lips, he cast a bitter, self-mocking smile toward the heavens:
"So many people really came? This isn’t a temple fair—was it necessary?"
The same question had been asked by those who came to kill him.
"Four Great Immortal Sects collaborating, deploying an inescapable net for three days and nights, just to kill one person—isn’t that a bit excessive?"
From the highest Cloud Ship in the sky, the will of the operation’s initiator was conveyed:
"It is not excessive, because he is Song Qianji, the one who never falls in a hundred battles. Give him but a sliver of hope, and he will rise again."
Only after exhausting themselves in the chase and questioning their very existence did the cultivators realize the truth of these words.
"How can a Great Adept like Song Qianji be so adept at Evasion Arts?! In three days, we’ve failed seven times to close our formations—each time, he broke through our encirclement."
"Ha! Did you think he was born into nobility? He started as a Rogue Cultivator from the mud! If he hadn’t mastered escaping, he’d have reincarnated long ago!"
Song Qianji leaned on his sword, straightening his back. A faint intuition whispered within him—this was the final stand.
No escape to the heavens, no refuge in the earth.
The end of the road.
Amid the fierce wind and heavy snow, the sky felt like a prison. Though individual features were indistinct, every face bore the same expression:
Righteous indignation, united in hatred.
Proud to contribute to this great cause, yet thrilled to witness the fall of a Great Adept.
Song Qianji’s gaze swept over the crowd—some faces familiar, others strangers—and his expression gradually grew calm.
He asked, "Where is Miaoyan? I alone am responsible for my actions. There is no need for you to trouble her."
No one answered him.
A figure like Song Qianji, even cornered, might still unleash a deadly final strike—who could predict what tricks he had left?
Wary, the cultivators halted over twenty zhang away, advancing no further. Instead, they shouted through the thick curtain of snow, some urging, others cursing.
"Surrender the Pure Bottle! Hand over the Fountain of Immortality!"
"The Sky-Supporting Tree withers—this world stands at the brink of survival! Cease your obstinacy!"
Amid the chaos, a sudden melody of a pipa arose, its notes urgent and sorrowful, piercing through the wind and snow, drowning out the voices like a celestial harmony descending to the mortal realm.
The music carried profound depth, subtly imbued with the essence of Esoteric Arts. The cultivators, shaken to their cores, fell silent.
Human voices faded; the sounds of wind and snow softened. Only the pipa’s melody grew ever more intense, ever more tragic, until it resonated through heaven and earth.Song Qianji was momentarily dazed, murmuring: "A song before ten thousand troops. What a 'The Conqueror Doffs His Armor'—it shatters one's heart and liver."
His unfocused gaze suddenly sharpened, piercing through the dense crowd toward the source of the music, as he shouted sharply:
"Miaoyan, since you've come, why not show yourself!"
Though Song Qianji had reached his end, his fierce cry still carried the aura of one who once looked down upon the world, unmatched by ten thousand.
The pipa's melody seemed to meet a thunderclap, abruptly ceasing.
The cultivators awoke as if from a dream.
"It's actually Fairy Miaoyan who has arrived!" "The fairy is righteous indeed, coming to personally end this demon!"
The crowd stirred, parting to both sides to reveal a luxurious carriage.
A woman lifted the gauze curtain with orchid-like fingers.
Miaoyan descended from the carriage holding her pipa, moving with light, lotus-like steps. Her white dress and arm veils fluttered in the wind, ethereal as mist.
Many forgot they were on a battlefield, gazing at her with infatuation.
Song Qianji said coldly: "Have you come to kill me too?"
Miaoyan's almond eyes blinked, tears falling silently.
The number one beauty of the Cultivation World lived up to her reputation. She was eternally beautiful, every smile and frown seemingly calculated at the perfect angle, flawless.
This tear was no different—dampening her long, curled lashes, tracing a path down her porcelain-white cheek, striking the lake of Song Qianji's heart.
His questioning died on his lips. The wounds all over his body, once numb, suddenly began to ache piercingly.
Miaoyan's voice was soft and beautiful, slightly choked: "Qianji, I'm sorry."
The glow from the magical artifacts in the hands of the cultivators spread out behind her like a burning fire, or like a stretch of sunset.
Tormented by excruciating pain, Song Qianji's mind grew hazy, and he unexpectedly recalled the day he first met Miaoyan—also a sunset day.
He was born in a mundane small town, a mortal child from birth. His childhood was poor but happy.
It wasn't until cultivators from the Huawel Sect came to test for Spirit Roots and recruit disciples that he naively left his homeland. Crowded with thousands of children and youths on the Cloud Ship, he flew toward an unknown destiny.
As dusk fell, a cluster of red light flew across the sky, instantly sweeping over the Cloud Ship, painting their faces crimson.
Some children cried out in panic, saying the sky was on fire. The senior brothers guiding them laughed and said:
"That's the trail of Fairy Miaoyan's Jet-Black Gold Carriage. They say she's the number one beauty in the Cultivation World... You're too young to understand such things. If you could see her with your own eyes someday, your lives would not have been in vain."
The Jet-Black Gold Carriage cut through the clouds, leaving a faint red arc of light that eventually vanished at the horizon, where the sunset was most intense.
Everyone on the Cloud Ship's deck looked up, their faces filled with yearning.
Song Qianji was among those looking up.
Just beginning to explore the path of immortality, the curtain of a new world was drawn before him, revealing a magnificent, richly colored silhouette.
Soaring through clouds and mist, traveling a thousand miles in a day, with mountains and rivers beneath one's feet—what mortal wouldn't feel their head grow hot, their heart filled with soaring ambition?
So there were things higher and more beautiful than the Cloud Ship. The number one beauty.
He thought, he would no longer muddle through life, born to grow old, fall ill, and die.
If one is to be a person, be a cultivator; if one is to take a wife, marry Fairy Miaoyan!
Countless people had fantasized this way. What set Song Qianji apart from other daydreaming youths was that he actually achieved it.
Originally possessing a useless fake Spirit Root, he failed to enter the Inner Sect but refused to leave the mountain. He toiled for years doing odd jobs in the Outer Sect. Later, competing for a spot in the Inner Sect, he was framed and sentenced to death. He fled, becoming a Rogue Cultivator.
Rogue Cultivators had no one to rely on; anyone could step on them. When meeting enemies in narrow paths, they could only compete in who had more tricks and who was more ruthless.He braved the Imprisoned Doom Mountain six times, slaughtered his way through the Blood River Valley seven times, and ventured into the Secret Realm of the Dead Sea eight times, surviving countless near-deaths to attain his current level of cultivation.
As fortune’s wheel turns, a century passed in the blink of an eye. Through countless battles, Song Qianji emerged unscathed and ascended to the Transformation Stage, becoming a Great Adept.
The Huawel Sect, which had once issued an extermination order against him, declined from its peak and came begging for his forgiveness.
Fairy Miaoyan, who had once treated him with cold indifference, now set a wedding date with him and showered him with tender affection.
Sect masters and elders across the cultivation world, though inwardly scornful of his origins as a Rogue Cultivator, outwardly respected and feared him, vying to recruit him as a Guest Elder.
Status, power, wealth, beauty—everything fate had denied him, he seized for himself.
Just as Song Qianji’s life reached its zenith, the fate of the cultivation world—and indeed, all of humanity—took the opposite turn.
A great calamity was approaching.
Over the past year, the world’s Spirit Qi had been depleting rapidly, with frequent earthquakes, roaring mountains, and raging seas, plunging all cultivators into deep dread.
At the edge of the continent, the Sky-Supporting Tree, which propped up the heavens, was nearing the end of its vitality. If its roots shattered and its crown withered, the continent would fracture and the sky would collapse.
Song Qianji had endured immense hardships to reach the pinnacle, only to find the world on the brink of destruction before he could even savor his success?
He refused to accept this. He would save the world.
Those stronger than him were still in seclusion, while those weaker lacked the capability to step forward.
So he called upon all sect cultivators to set aside old grudges and unite to overcome the crisis.
He scoured ancient texts and revisited primordial secret realms in search of a way to save the world. Perseverance paid off: venturing alone into the depths of the Dead Sea, he retrieved a Fountain of Immortality brimming with vital energy and stored it in a Pure Bottle he had crafted himself.
This was the last hope to revive the Sky-Supporting Tree and the final turning point for humanity’s fate.
At the worst of times, everyone saw Song Qianji as their savior, following his lead without question.
But once a glimmer of hope appeared, factions began scheming, and people grew wary, questioning his motives.
Rumors emerged from nowhere, claiming that Song Qianji intended to use the Fountain of Immortality in the Pure Bottle to create his own Small World, where he would reign as its creator and master, abandoning this world to its doom.
“Song Qianji, as a Rogue Cultivator, has always acted alone and recklessly. Why would he willingly sacrifice his cultivation to seek the Fountain of Immortality without seeking anything in return, all to save the world?”
“Exactly. He rose to power through ruthless means. I always suspected he had ulterior motives. We’ve all been used—we’re just pawns in his game.”
Anxiety spread like wildfire, turning from doubt to fury.
With instigators adding fuel to the fire and schemers sowing discord, an unprecedented hunt unfolded. The entire cultivation world united as never before, rallying behind the cry:
“Kill Song Qianji, seize the Fountain of Immortality, save the world and ourselves!”
Song Qianji, keenly perceptive, sensed the shifting tides before things spiraled beyond repair.
Injured from his venture into the Dead Sea, his best option was to hand over the Pure Bottle—clearing his name of selfish intentions and shedding the burden while he recuperated in seclusion.
But he trusted no one else with the salvation artifact. He trusted only himself.
He soared on Sword Kinesis Flight, cutting through encirclements, determined to reach the Sky-Supporting Tree at the continent’s edge and see this through with his own hands.
Yet, on the verge of success, he was intercepted on the snow plains and forced to listen to half a melody of “The Conqueror Lays Down His Armor.”
Seeing Song Qianji lost in thought and silent, Miaoyan took a deep breath and declared loudly for all to hear: “If you hand the Pure Bottle to me, I swear upon my Dao heart to guarantee your safety! From this day forth, anyone who seeks your life shall be my enemy.”"Who taught you to say that?" Song Qianji looked up at the sky, where the Flying Magical Artifacts still hovered high above. He couldn't help but laugh. "Since when has my life ever needed others to protect?"
The hot blood from his wounds had already congealed. All his resentment and indignation scattered with the wind and snow, leaving only bitter amusement.
What a farce it all was.
So Song Qianji threw back his head and laughed, the sound reverberating so powerfully that distant snowdrifts cascaded down the surrounding cliffs.
"In this lifetime, I've schemed endlessly. Others distrusted me, and I trusted no one. That I've come to this end is entirely my own doing—I blame no one... Yet my attempts to save this world were done with a clear conscience. This I dare swear to heaven and earth, unafraid of gods or ghosts!"
He laughed even as he coughed up blood, the crimson staining his robes in a ghastly spectacle.
Naturally handsome, his pale face now stained with blood at the lips, his dark hair and black robes whipping in the wind, he possessed a chilling, devastating beauty that struck at the heart.
The cultivators instinctively retreated several steps, an indescribable oppression in their chests. They were unwilling, or perhaps unable, to meet his gaze.
Miaoyan's tears fell like a torrent, her lips parting without words.
Song Qianji's laughter ceased, his expression softening.
"I thought power alone could place me at the peak, that the Fountain of Immortality could restore the Sky-Supporting Tree. I was wrong. The method to overcome calamity lies not in divine weapons nor in cultivation level. My failure today stems from human nature alone."
"After my death, the world will surely descend into chaos. I've hidden my Esoteric Arts inheritance along my path of exile. Go and seek it. Turbulent times create heroes. May there be one who can uphold the collapsing edifice, whom the people will follow, who will not shirk responsibility!"
Miaoyan's expression suddenly changed. Forgetting all decorum, she screamed, "No!"
Before her cry faded, a deafening explosion shook heaven and earth, blinding light illuminating half the sky.
Song Qianji had self-destructed.
His lifetime of cultivation transformed into a timely snowfall that descended upon the land, benefiting all living beings.
Three days and nights of pursuit, three days and nights of snowfall. When the skies finally cleared, an echo seemed to linger between heaven and earth—
"Whom the people will follow, who will not shirk responsibility."
※※※
Song Qianji had assumed death meant the end of everything. Yet after the excruciating pain, he could still feel his consciousness existing.
Darkness, emptiness, without boundaries or time. Was this the afterlife, or was he not truly dead?
A cold voice spoke, striking his mind like an electric current:
"Song Qianji, a formidable figure for a generation, met an untimely end. During his exile, he hid his substantial legacy within the vast snow sea, becoming the first stepping stone for Wei Zhenyu's ascent on the immortal path. Thus began the journey of Wei Zhenyu, the hero who would save the world..."
Song Qianji: "Wait?"
The cold voice paused: "You can hear me?"
Song Qianji: "...Shouldn't I be able to?"
The voice stammered: "Well, not really. This is the first time someone has actually spoken to me."
Having experienced many extraordinary situations, Song Qianji forced himself to remain calm: "Are you the Heavenly Dao?"
"No, I'm the narration. The essence of this world is a story. I am the story's narration. Can you understand that?"
Song Qianji fell silent.
A dead tool character and an invisible narrator, facing each other without words.
Song Qianji thought: This "narration" is neither human nor object, likely some kind of spiritual existence. Its speech resembles an observer's perspective, similar to his current situation. How should he test it... Wait, I'm already dead. I have nothing left to lose. What is there to fear?
He asked bluntly: "What exactly is going on here?! Even if this is a story, what happens after I die?"
The narration seemed startled by his directness, muttering quietly: "Perhaps you should see for yourself."Countless points of light shimmered, revealing upon closer inspection a series of familiar yet strange scenes, converging into a dazzling river surging before him.
Song Qianji witnessed countless fragments of the future.
While he was alive, people didn't believe in him. Only after he truly abandoned his duties and died completely did everyone remember his virtues, attacking each other under the banner of avenging him.
Lower-level cultivators and mortals suffered immensely, treating his final words as prophecies and waiting for a "savior" to appear.
When catastrophe struck, a cultivator named Wei Zhenyu stepped forward, discovered the legacy Song Qianji left behind, reversed the situation, revived the Sky-Supporting Tree, ended the mortal realm's calamity, then ascended to a high position, married Miaoyan, enjoyed the worship and offerings of countless people, and ascended to immortality in broad daylight.
Standing before the river of time, Song Qianji transitioned from shock to indignation, then fell into silent speechlessness.
His first reaction was: How could Miaoyan still be the number one beauty ten years after his death? The aesthetic standards of the Cultivation World really hadn't progressed at all.
His second reaction was: Where did this Wei Zhenyu come from?
When Song Qianji was alive, this person was unknown. After his death, this person suddenly rose to fame, with endless luck converging upon him. Wherever he went, treasures would inevitably drop—he didn't need to seek them out, heaven would deliver them. This guy wasn't a "savior," he was the "King of Opportunists."
Song Qianji couldn't help but curse.
The narrator advised him: "Be civil. The world can only have one protagonist; all other living beings exist to provide him with life experiences. You were a good prop."
Song Qianji: "I struggled my whole life, just to end up as a prop?"
Narrator: "Many people want to be props and don't even get the chance!"
Song Qianji calmed his anger: "Forget it, I don't want to watch anymore. Everything is already void. Send me to reincarnate quickly."
The narrator said weakly: "Sorry, in this story, there's no setting for 'sending someone to reincarnate.' I can't do that. Since you can't leave on your own, how about we keep each other company and make do?"
Song Qianji flung his sleeve in fury: "Who wants to live with you!"
...
Not long after, Song Qianji changed his tune.
Sprawled on a soft couch covered in brocade quilts, cracking melon seeds and eating pastries, he ordered the narrator: "Bring more fruit—grapes, lychees, cherries, iced."
Things not in the setting, the narrator couldn't do. But "food, clothing, and daily necessities" were all part of the setting, so the narrator could provide them effortlessly.
Besides, with countless stories to watch in the river of time and the narrator to chat, boast, and banter with, there was no more need for fighting, killing, striving for fame and profit, or exhausting mental efforts until going bald.
Once he accepted this setup, life became too comfortable—he wouldn't trade it even for ascending to immortality.
After watching enough, even when he saw his past self, it felt like watching someone else's story. Not only did he not feel heartache, he could ruthlessly mock it.
Watching the thirteen-year-old "Song Qianji" refuse to pay the Outer Sect protection fee, beaten until he lay on the ground vomiting blood like a dog.
"What an idiot. Who told you to stubbornly resist? How many heads do you have?"
Watching the fourteen-year-old "Song Qianji" fail to recognize valuable items, cheated out of his entire fortune.
"Such a fool. Do you really think a lucky opportunity would come to you? Just because your face is paler than others?"
Watching the fifteen-year-old "Song Qianji," who had already shed his foolish and naive appearance, inviting a companion to the cliff's edge to admire the moon and chat, smiling and talking cheerfully on the surface while battling internally.
On a dark and windy night, above a bottomless abyss, he gritted his teeth and reached out toward his companion's back, unable to suppress his trembling.Song Qianji, spitting out melon seeds, cursed loudly: "Thinking you're so clever! The Inner Sect admission spots are predetermined. Even with one less of him, it wouldn't be your turn. Push him down, and you'll face endless troubles from now on, forced to walk a single dark path with no turning back!"
Speaking with agitation, he instinctively reached out to stop it.
His fingertips pierced through the scene. The entire long river trembled violently, countless fragmented images swirling into a massive vortex that descended upon him.
Song Qianji felt breathless, the world spinning around him.
When he opened his eyes again, the soft couch was gone, the fruits were gone, the narration was gone. A long-missed evening breeze brushed through his hair, and he heard the sound of forest waves, smelling the scents of grass and soil.
"Ah!!" His young companion was plummeting rapidly toward the bottom of the cliff, screaming miserably.
And he stood at the cliff's edge, still maintaining the posture of reaching out to push, his expression complex and tangled.
This was originally the first stepping stone on Song Qianji's long path of immortality.
The starry sky coldly looked down upon him, the bottomless abyss stared at him, watching as he began here, stepping onto a path of no return forged in blood and fire.
Song Qianji shuddered back to awareness, panickedly looking around, then cursed at the sky: "Damn!"
He leaped headlong into the abyss.
OpenNovel