The spirit fields of Huawel Mountain were built encircling the slopes, with winding ridges and embankments that resembled layers of soft, undulating waves from a distance.
The varying shades of green climbed higher and higher until they reached the mountainside, where they were shrouded in white mist, becoming indistinct.
Each tier of the fields grew different spirit plants and spirit rice, with over twenty young men in Outer Sect disciple uniforms moving among them.
They tucked the hems of their robes into their belts, rolled up their sleeves to reveal sturdy forearms, and bent over to harvest with focused determination.
Few paused to chat. Finishing early meant they could return sooner to cultivate.
Once they bent down, there was seldom time to straighten up again.
At the foot of the mountain stood a pavilion where five or six low-ranking Deacons were overseeing the work.
They gazed at the clearly defined terraced fields, sipping tea and cracking melon seeds, wearing smug, contented smiles as if they were on a spring outing, ready at any moment to lay out a set of dominoes.
Yet whenever a higher-ranking Deacon came to inspect or an Inner Sect elder passed by occasionally, these men would startle like birds frightened by a bowstring, darting swiftly toward the terraced fields.
Some bent down to help personally, others wiped sweat from the Outer Sect disciples' brows, while some shouted encouragingly, "You've worked hard, everyone! Let's put in more effort here!"
At that moment, one of them called out, "Is that Song Qianji?"
The chatter and laughter in the pavilion ceased abruptly.
Song Qianji was a very special Outer Sect disciple. Orders from above stated that he no longer needed to work, and whatever he wished to do—as long as it didn't violate sect rules—was to be ignored.
The Deacons watched as Song Qianji walked toward the terraced fields, a red figure chasing after him, their hearts filled with surprise and doubt.
"Why has the young lady come too?"
They hurriedly rose, set down their teacups, spat out melon seed shells, and rushed out of the pavilion to greet her.
Chen Hongzhu raised a hand to signal them to stop, then shot a glance filled with a silent warning.
The Deacons, unsure whether to approach or sit back down, felt more uncomfortable than the laboring disciples.
"What are you doing here?" Chen Hongzhu asked.
Song Qianji replied, "Just looking."
He circled the terraced fields, sometimes lowering his head, sometimes raising it, observing the operation of the formations on the ground and the fluctuations of Spirit Qi in the air.
The spirit fields of Huawel Sect required no concern for sunlight, rain, water, or soil fertility. Multiple formations were set up in the fields and atop the mountain, capable of regulating Spirit Qi, summoning clouds and rain, and accelerating the growth of spirit plants overnight.
Outer Sect disciples planted and transplanted one day, then harvested and gathered the next.
Only common spirit plants and rice were grown here to supply the Inner Sect. Rare varieties used for medicine or alchemy, delicate and precious, taking decades or even a century to bloom and bear fruit, were cultivated by specialized physicians or alchemists.
Song Qianji pulled up a stalk of plump spirit rice and frowned slightly.
Spirit plants accelerated by formations, though lush in growth, felt rigid and lifeless compared to the vibrant vitality of his own vegetable garden.
He had no prior farming experience, learning purely through trial and error, and was still in the process of mastering it.
Daily nurturing of life in his garden had, without him realizing, softened his approach to the world.
Perhaps the old monk of Red Leaf Temple was right—creating life is harder than destroying it.
Saving one person is more difficult than killing one.
Chen Hongzhu followed behind Song Qianji, enduring the curious stares of the surrounding disciples all the way, her questions held back, suppressing her doubts.
Seeing his focused expression, she assumed he didn't want to be disturbed and kept silent.
Her restraint didn't mean others would do the same.
"Senior Brother Song, please wait!"
The call came from an Outer Sect disciple, his voice ringing with what seemed like great courage.
But when Song Qianji actually stopped and turned around, the disciple was startled, stammering a quiet greeting."Senior Brother Song, hello, I have a small matter I'd like to trouble you with..."
Chen Hongzhu, already irritated, snapped: "If you have something to say, just say it! Why hesitate?"
The disciple was startled by her and turned to flee, but then seemed to remember something. Taking a deep breath:
"I, I heard from Senior Sister Zhou that if you offer Senior Brother a bag of seeds, you can receive a word of guidance from him..."
Song Qianji was taken aback, about to say there was no such arrangement.
Meng Heze and his friends helped him collect seeds, and occasionally when they encountered cultivation difficulties, he would offer some advice.
Just brief pointers—no transmission of Esoteric Arts, no lengthy explanations.
It was simply a casual gesture, easier than picking up a fallen oil bottle.
The disciple had clearly steeled himself. Having spoken his piece, he went all in, pulling a storage bag from his sleeve:
"I apologize for any past offenses against you, Senior Brother. Today I offer a bag of impatiens seeds, and boldly ask for your guidance!"
Though he spoke firmly, his heart was filled with anxiety. He had just signed up for the exhibition match and hoped for a chance to turn his fortunes around and secure a future.
Was Zhou Xiaoyun playing a trick on me?
Or have I become so desperate that I misheard "offer a bag of Spirit Stones" as "offer a bag of seeds"?
Recently, several disciples who had interacted with Song Qianji had made remarkable progress in their cultivation, enough to make anyone envious. Aside from Meng Heze's innate talent, the others were originally quite ordinary.
Outer sect disciples had no masters; they relied on their own comprehension and diligent practice. The Inner Sect not only monopolized resources like secret manuals and Magical Artifacts but also held a monopoly on enlightenment techniques and cultivation experience.
When Outer sect disciples attended lectures or visited the library, the elders were invariably cold and impatient.
Even when willing to speak, they preferred to be cryptic, leaving behind two or three "profound sayings" for you to ponder slowly.
Just as Song Qianji was about to say "no," he suddenly heard the words "impatiens seeds."
Clearing his throat, he continued: "It's not impossible. Ask away."
These were new seeds he hadn't collected yet, perfect for planting by the entrance.
The disciple hadn't expected it to be so easy. Approaching Song Qianji, he flushed with excitement: "Thank you, Senior Brother!"
Chen Hongzhu, seeing this, muttered about what he could possibly know about cultivation but walked aside to admire the terraced fields, showing she wouldn't eavesdrop.
"My Spirit Qi is abundant, and there's no stagnation when I meditate and circulate it," the young disciple whispered. "I feel I've perfected the second level of Qi Refining, so why can't I break through to the third level?"
As he was about to elaborate, Song Qianji glanced at him and interrupted: "You have indeed perfected it. Over the past half month, has your Spirit Qi only circulated within your body, never being expended?"
The disciple was slightly surprised: "I've been preparing to break through at any moment, being cautious in everything, not daring to expend it."
"Spirit Qi flows through the Meridians like water through field channels. If you don't use it, it becomes stagnant water—how can there be vitality? The full moon wanes, and overflowing water spills. Expend all the Spirit Qi in your body, replace the old with the new, and it will happen naturally."
The disciple stood dazed for a moment, then his eyes suddenly brightened. He bowed deeply: "Thank you, Senior Brother."
"You're welcome."
Song Qianji took the storage bag, opened it to inspect the contents, and was quite satisfied to find the seeds full of vitality.
Song Qianji turned and left. Chen Hongzhu chased after him: "Finished so quickly? Wait for me!"
The Deacons by the pavilion withdrew their gazes and exchanged glances.
Remembering Chen Hongzhu's fierce temper, they weren't sure whether to feel envy or sympathy.
Before Song Courtyard, peach blossoms fell like rain, and the two vegetable plots by the entrance flourished lush and green.Song Qianji approached and saw several bean sprout vines climbing up the thin wooden stakes he had set, their tendrils and leaves reaching half a person's height.
The spring breeze rustled through the triangular, tender green leaves, swaying like a group of children waving, welcoming him home.
Song Qianji felt deeply content.
Chen Hongzhu couldn't understand why this person was so happy.
He should have been a complicated man, yet his joy came so simply and easily.
Suddenly, a crane's cry echoed from the clouds.
Chen Hongzhu looked up. A crane emerged from the clouds, circling above the two before gracefully descending. It affectionately nuzzled her shoulder but took two steps back upon seeing Song Qianji, its eyes wary and fearful, as if possessing spiritual awareness.
"This is my senior brother's crane. He's calling me back to help," Chen Hongzhu said.
The Huawel Sect had been receiving guests recently, with different members assigned to greet them based on their status.
Chen Hongzhu was responsible for hosting female cultivators of similar age and background.
After a day of observation, she had accepted that Song Qianji's temperament had drastically changed and he now cared only about farming. She decided to try a different approach.
After a moment's thought, she took out a red paper crane: "This is my communication talisman. All three halls recognize it. If you want to go to the market at the foot of the mountain to buy seeds, just bring this along."
Members of the three halls and Inner Sect disciples could bring people down the mountain anytime—like Qiu Dacheng and Xu Kanshan from the Discipline Hall, who were more familiar with the gambling dens below than their own homes.
Zhao Jiheng had a token issued by the Deacon Hall and could take his followers to sleep in brothels every night without consequence.
Only ordinary Outer Sect disciples would be stopped and inspected by Enforcement Hall patrols when leaving the mountain gate.
"From now until the Grand Audience Assembly, if anyone causes you trouble because of Miaoyan, use this talisman to contact me anytime. Within the Huawel Sect, I can arrive in an instant with my true token. Outside the sect, I'll come on crane-back, definitely faster than 'that person'."
"They don't know you have connections with 'that person'! What if—I'm just saying what if, not cursing you—you lose your life? Death ends everything. That person wanders the world, and by the time they find out and come to avenge you, what good would it do?"
Chen Hongzhu talked until her mouth was dry and finally saw Song Qianji take the red paper crane, examining it closely.
She laughed cheerfully: "I'm being so good to you, aren't you deeply moved? Do you want to show me your sword skills now?"
Song Qianji: "If I'm not mistaken, this should be a dual-purpose talisman—it can both transmit messages and track locations, with a trace of your spiritual awareness on it. If I carry it with me, you'll know everywhere I go."
"You understand talismans too?" Chen Hongzhu was startled, scratching her hair bun somewhat awkwardly. "Did that person teach you? Just how much did they teach you?"
Song Qianji smiled without answering.
Chen Hongzhu quickly regained her confidence: "You can carry this talisman when you go shopping down the mountain. It only shows your location—I wouldn't know what seeds you buy, who you meet, or what you say. That's not too much to ask, is it!"
"If I don't carry it, you'll just find other ways to keep watch over me. That would be a waste of energy and time." Song Qianji advised seriously, "If your mind isn't focused for even a day, you won't touch the threshold of Core Condensation."
Chen Hongzhu was speechless, her face darkening.
She mounted the crane and flew off in a huff.
※※※
Song Qianji's small courtyard had undergone earth-shaking changes.When he first returned to this world, the place was dark, dilapidated, and covered in dust. Now the courtyard walls had been repaired, the floor tiles relaid, and the furniture replaced. Every wall was draped with climbing vines, and every flower stand along them hosted growing plants. Beneath the stands were fenced vegetable patches, each vegetable fresh and tender.
This lush greenery, layered and uneven, created a rich sense of depth when viewed from afar.
The entire small courtyard felt natural, fresh, and brimming with vitality.
After a day’s work, Song Qianji slumped into the rocking chair gifted by Zhao Jiheng, enjoying the cool breeze and bright moon as he waited for his noodles.
He had begun fasting early and didn’t prioritize culinary pleasures, but the spring onions he had planted were thriving—if not harvested soon, they would grow too old.
Meng Heze volunteered upon seeing them, claiming he knew how to make scallion oil noodles.
Just then, an Outer Sect disciple came to visit.
“Senior Brother Song, I have a request,” the disciple greeted him with a bow but didn’t state his purpose directly. Instead, he proudly presented a Storage Bag. “I’ve brought a bag of wisteria seeds, carefully selected—not a single bad one among them. They’ll sprout as soon as you sow them.”
Many had seen Song Qianji inspecting the spirit fields.
The one who had come earlier to offer seeds successfully broke through to Qi Refining Level 3 upon returning after his inquiry.
There were no secrets in the Outer Sect—news spread like wildfire.
Song Qianji thought, Wisteria… I don’t have any yet. Not bad at all.
Leaning back in his rocking chair, he said, “Go on.”
The disciple stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Senior Brother, please take a look. This has been passed down in my family, but our clan fell into decline… I don’t think it’s a Magical Artifact, and I have no idea what it’s for.”
The disciple looked both expectant and nervous.
He feared Song Qianji might say he didn’t know, and even more that he might ask why it hadn’t been submitted to the Deacon Hall for appraisal.
If it truly was a spiritual object, handing it over to the Deacon Hall would mean he’d never see it again.
Fortunately, Song Qianji only glanced at it and asked nothing.
“A jade slip. It’s not an artifact—it’s likely a Cultivation Method. The text will reveal itself once you reach Foundation Establishment.”
Overjoyed, the disciple repeatedly expressed his gratitude. “Thank you, Senior Brother! Thank you!”
Song Qianji accepted the seeds. “No need. You may go.”
“Senior Brother Song,” the disciple hesitated, stammering, “In the past, I…”
“Is there something else?”
“…No.”
Puzzled, Song Qianji asked, “Then why are you still here? Waiting for me to invite you to dinner?”
Hearing this, Meng Heze rushed out, brandishing a large strainer with a fierce expression. “Who’s staying for dinner? We have no extra bowls, and no extra food!”
The usually helpful and upright Senior Brother Meng had suddenly switched moods.
Recalling Meng Heze’s ferocity during the Outer Sect assessment, the disciple stumbled backward in panic, fell, and scurried out of the courtyard gate.
Meng Heze snorted coldly.
This very person had been the first to coin the nickname “Song the Fallen.” But perhaps Song Qianji had long forgotten.
“Are the noodles ready?” Song Qianji asked.
“Coming, coming!”
A bowl of fine noodles was placed on the stone table.
Drizzled with scallion oil, the noodles glistened with an enticing brown hue, their aroma wafting richly.
“Senior Brother Song, you’re too kind, too easygoing. These people just take advantage of you.”
Meng Heze suddenly fell silent, clenching the hem of his clothes. He remembered how he, too, had joined in the laughter and teasing when others called Song Qianji “the Fallen.”
Later, he himself had benefited often—wasn’t that also relying on Song Qianji’s good nature? What difference was there between him and these others? Was he truly worthy of being called a gentleman?
Unaware of Meng Heze’s sensitive shift in mood, Song Qianji simply lowered his head to eat, mumbling around a mouthful of noodles, “It was no trouble.”
He thought, I’m the one who got the seeds—aren’t I the one taking advantage here?
This is me taking advantage!
※※※The enthusiasm for cultivation among the outer sect disciples reached unprecedented heights, and they even worked with more vigor.
Before anyone realized, no one called him "Song Luo" anymore—only "Senior Brother Song."
And this title specifically referred to Song Qianji alone. Other outer sect disciples with the surname Song voluntarily referred to themselves as junior brothers.
Because everyone knew that when faced with doubts and confusion, unable to understand Daoist scriptures or cultivation methods, and when the elders in the lecture hall couldn’t be bothered to help, all you needed was a bag of good seeds to receive Senior Brother Song’s invaluable guidance and heartfelt assistance.
If you asked him to appraise a treasure, he would never covet it.
Your family’s cultivation method was less important to him than eating noodles.
All in all, he was hailed as "selflessly aiding the needy."
Although Senior Brother Meng was fierce and intimidating, as long as you got your answer and left without lingering, without eating his noodles, he wouldn’t give you a hard time.
Despite being so capable, Song Qianji had chosen calligraphy and painting, which posed no conflict of interest with other disciples preparing for the exhibition matches. Instead, he reduced competition for them.
When a person becomes useful, all their past flaws turn into virtues.
His solitary and aloof nature was seen as a cold exterior hiding a warm heart, indifferent to gossip. We had misunderstood him—truly, we shouldn’t have.
His inability to distinguish beauty from ugliness was regarded as a transcendent state, unswayed by appearances. We had judged by looks—far too shallow.
Song Qianji became the most respected and beloved figure in the outer sect.
When people saw him from afar, they would bow in greeting.
Song Qianji felt genuine happiness because the seeds in his hands kept multiplying, enough for him to plant for many years after descending the mountain.
As for others’ opinions and judgments of him, they mattered no more than the spring onions sprouting in his field.
※※※
On the ground, some diligently cultivated their skills, while others tilled the soil and planted crops.
In the clouds above, immortal cranes led the way, and azure birds pulled carriages.
Disciples from various sects arrived at Huawel Sect one after another, their attire and styles vastly different, suddenly adding splashes of color to the emerald mountains.
This spring was destined to be like Song Qianji’s vegetable garden—a hundred flowers blooming, vibrant and full of life.
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