Song Qianji sat in the reclining chair, looking up at the sky. Night had fallen, yet the mystical phenomena signaling the opening of the secret realm had not dissipated.
The sky above him was split in two.
One half swirled with interwoven dark red halos, resembling a blood-red sea with hidden undercurrents.
The other half was the usual ink-blue night sky, dotted with silver stars, beautiful and serene, like the white magnolia blossoms quietly blooming and falling beside him.
Such intense spiritual energy fluctuations indicated a vast secret realm with abundant resources.
"Senior Brother Song, everyone has gathered," Meng Heze said.
"Good." Song Qianji nodded, his gaze shifting to the courtyard. "Take care on this journey."
Familiar faces crowded Song Courtyard. They had long shed their youthful innocence, maturing from boys and girls into resolute cultivators.
As Thousand-Ditch Prefecture began mining Spirit Stones and grew increasingly prosperous, Thousand Canals disciples no longer worried about money.
Although major sects and noble families had substantial resources, most were allocated to supporting powerful elders and covering massive sect expenses.
Song Qianji's personal expenses were solely for studying farming techniques. The resources available to Thousand Canals disciples even surpassed those of ordinary junior disciples in major sects.
"Farewell, Senior Brother Song," Ji Chen said.
Song Qianji wasn't quite accustomed to his sudden formality and instinctively straightened his back.
When sitting in this chair, he usually leaned against soft cushions, completely relaxed.
But now, with his hands resting on the armrests, steady as a mountain, he truly resembled a sect master at first glance.
"Farewell, Senior Brother Song."
The Thousand Canals disciples stepped forward one by one, bowing to him with bright, determined eyes.
Song Qianji was very familiar with this eager expression—a mix of anticipation for adventure and reluctance to leave home.
No more words needed to be said. He had already given his instructions over the past three years, and he had long provided these young people with everything they needed to bring.
The young cultivators had diligently improved their cultivation, honed their techniques and combat skills—all for this moment.
They would encounter opportunities, but no matter how much preparation they made or how many trump cards they kept, they would still face dangers, traversing life and death, water and fire.
"Go ahead," he said with a smile. "Go see that sky."
Thus, Ji Chen and Meng Heze also stopped looking back.
Countless streaks of light shot through the night clouds, flying toward the half-dark red sky.
From the ground, only thin white lines could be seen, soon vanishing without a trace.
"Between heaven and earth, life is but a fleeting traveler," Song Qianji murmured.
Plop.
A white magnolia blossom fell from the branch, landing on the damp soil by his feet.
The Immortal Official Manor was empty and silent, with only a lone lamp flickering like a bean.
Song Qianji stood up, suddenly craving noodles.
...
Mealtime had passed, but a bowl of steaming hot noodle soup was placed on the table.
Song Qianji recalled a night three years ago when he had also cooked noodles alone, waiting for the steward to return.
Now, transformed, he no longer used multiple seasonings to pursue complex flavors or added medicinal dregs for nourishment. Simple salt and vinegar, appropriately measured, gave the noodles a clean, normal taste.
His practiced kneading and pulling techniques made each strand of noodles chewy and smooth, no longer soft, mushy, or clumped together.
Most importantly, no matter how well the cilantro in the field grew, he wouldn’t add half a bowl of it."Though I'm no culinary genius, cooking noodles is fundamentally no different from mastering formations, talismans, sword dao, and other arts—diligence can compensate for clumsiness."
Song Qianji thought with a hint of delight that if someone were willing to take a bite now, they probably wouldn't complain, "This is truly awful."
He picked up his chopsticks and lowered his head to eat.
A cool spring breeze brushed through his hair, and the white steam rising from the noodle bowl blurred his vision for a moment.
Under the candlelight, the clear broth reflected his face, the blossoms on the branch, and—
A figure perched among the branches.
"Whoosh!"
Without hesitation, Song Qianji flicked his wrist, sending the chopsticks flying sideways!
Though ordinary bamboo chopsticks, they cleanly split three drifting petals into four before continuing unabated into the depths of the flowering tree.
"Clang!"
The chopsticks were caught, producing a sharp metallic ring like clashing blades.
When Song Qianji struck, he'd infused two strands of sword qi into the bamboo chopsticks. For someone to catch them bare-handed was no different from catching naked blades.
To infiltrate the heavily warded Song Courtyard undetected, and to catch his strike with such ease—it shouldn't be possible. His perception within these walls was supremely acute; if he wished, every plant and tree could serve as his eyes and ears.
He could sense a flower blooming or a dewdrop forming.
Yet he couldn't sense this person. Because the other refused to be perceived.
A pinnacle expert—stronger than everyone he'd ever met in this lifetime combined.
Song Qianji's heart sank, his good mood for noodles utterly vanished.
The tranquil night shattered as wind rustled through tiered flower stands, making blossoms tremble—white magnolias, peach blossoms, apricot flowers—while potato sprouts in the vegetable patch bowed low.
"It's you." Song Qianji's voice turned strained, his expression bitter, unconsciously raising a hand to touch the mark above his brow.
The man leaped down from the peach tree, scattering petals as he landed, and immediately scolded: "What 'you'? No respect! Can't you even call me 'Master'?"
The moment he spoke, his dangerous aura dissipated, and the courtyard plants ceased their trembling.
Song Qianji thought, So the spring wind could be this cold after all.
You might escape the first day, but never the fifteenth. What's coming will come. He'd avoided this for three years—being found only tonight counted as luck.
"At least you remembered to invite your master for midnight snacks." The man strode over, still holding the chopsticks, sat at the stone table, lifted the noodle bowl, and began eating voraciously.
His eating pace and manner seemed oddly familiar. After a moment, Song Qianji realized it somewhat resembled Wei Zhenyu's style.
No wonder those two had become master and disciple in their previous life.
By the faint candlelight, Song Qianji observed him from the corner of his eye without direct gaze.
Last time in the fake Hua Wei City, everything was too chaotic for a proper look.
Now he saw Xian Jianchen glowing with vitality like he'd just woken from ample sleep, yet a trace of weariness flickered in his eyes.
Looking closer, that weariness vanished.
He wasn't wearing his old robes but new clothes, with a fresh wine gourd at his waist.
Song Qianji noticed he carried no scent of alcohol, unusually saturated instead with floral fragrance—a stark mismatch with his presence.
Just like Xian Jianchen clashing with the lush, birdsong-filled Song Courtyard. Incompatible.
Song Qianji smiled politely, distantly: "What brings you here so late, Senior?"
Xian Jianchen slammed the empty bowl down with a clatter: "There's no such thing as a free midnight snack. Didn't you know?"Song Qianji’s heart ached for the white porcelain bowl, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "I understand, Senior."
He had borrowed Xian Jianchen’s name to avoid trouble, but he had also taken in the "working spirits" of the Wheat Field Domain. He thought they were even, but according to Xian Jianchen’s logic, he still owed him a "midnight snack."
Why had this person come on the eve of the secret realm’s opening? What did he want?
Xian Jianchen, now full and satisfied, stood up and broke off a small branch of blooming peach blossoms.
Song Qianji’s hair stood on end, and he couldn’t help but shout, "Stop!"
He even mobilized the Fountain of Immortality, ready to unleash his Domain at a moment’s notice.
No one had ever dared to pick flowers he had planted right under his nose without his permission.
Xian Jianchen tucked the peach blossom branch into his lapel, straightened his collar, and said in an irritating tone, "It’s just a flower, not your life."
Song Qianji’s smile vanished. "You come to my home, eat my noodles, pick my flowers, and then say you don’t want my life?"
The spring breeze grew colder.
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