Song Qianji was unaware that two people were already waiting at his courtyard gate, even betting on whether he would return tonight.
Descending over fifty steps in the darkness, the light suddenly brightened—not the warm glow of lanterns or candles, but a soft radiance emitted by the cold walls on all sides.
The walls were embedded with thousands of luminous pearls, making one feel as if adrift in a sea of stars. The lavish display was both extravagant and spectacular.
Song Qianji moved through this starry expanse, passing three doors inscribed with the words:
"Spirit Herbs and Elixirs," "Cultivation Methods and Secret Manuals," "Magical Artifacts and Materials..."
Each door was engraved with arrays, leaving only a bowl-sized opening.
He stopped at the fourth door and knocked.
A cold, aged voice echoed from the opening:
"Buying or selling?"
"Selling Talismans."
"Qi Nourishing Talisman two hundred, Qi Gathering Talisman two hundred fifty, Tracking Talisman three hundred..."
Song Qianji interrupted, "I only sell Qi Nourishing Talismans."
"How many do you have?"
"One."
Silence fell behind the door.
Song Qianji could almost sense the other's frustration: Is this trivial business, smaller than a mosquito's leg, worth bringing to the black market shop?
"Pass it in," the aged voice said weakly.
Song Qianji rubbed his nose. "I don't have it on me..."
Before the voice inside could respond, the old shopkeeper's low growl sounded from behind: "Young man, I don't care which family's junior you are. Did your elders not warn you that toying with the black market comes at a price?"
Song Qianji turned to him. "May I borrow some Talisman paper, cinnabar ink, and a Talisman brush?"
"You're going to write it here and now?" The voice behind the door rose sharply.
"It'll be done in a moment," Song Qianji nodded.
Young Talismasters, before crafting Talismans, would often seclude themselves, bathe and burn incense, meditate for days to focus their spirits, striving to reach peak mental condition.
When their energy was full, they would write multiple Talismans in one go, stopping only when their Divine Sense was overwhelmed or their Spirit Qi depleted. The slightest distraction or lack of precision in brushwork would render a Talisman useless.
Most Talismasters dared not attempt instant Talisman creation until they had formed a Golden Core.
"Hah, then I must witness this. Xiao Zhuo, fetch them for him."
The old shopkeeper clearly didn't believe that a young man at the Qi Refining Stage—so poor he couldn't afford a zither—could produce anything of value. He had seen much in his time, but if there truly were a Talismaster this destitute, it would be an insult to the entire profession.
The young assistant brought over a tray. Besides the requested items, it held an incense burner, a bowl of clear water, and a clean towel.
Song Qianji did not purify his hands nor light any incense.
He pressed the pale yellow Talisman paper against the door with one hand and lifted the brush with the other, dipping it fully into the vermilion cinnabar ink.
He didn't even stand fully upright, as if scribbling an IOU for a breakfast vendor at a roadside stall.
Suspending his wrist, he closed his eyes briefly, then began to write.
Where the brush passed, an extraordinarily wondrous aura sprang to life on the paper. Spirit Qi surged like a spring, flowing from Song Qianji's Purple Palace, coursing through his Meridians and energy points, converging at the brush tip with the cinnabar ink, and finally infusing the Talisman paper with each stroke.
Song Qianji withdrew the brush. The vermilion lines on the Talisman paper glowed faintly, as though gaining substance.
"Done." He passed the Talisman through the opening. The entire process had taken only the blink of an eye.
Smooth and seamless, ready on the spot.
The old shopkeeper fell silent, the young assistant was at a loss, unsure if the Talisman had even succeeded.
Not a sound came from behind the door.
Song Qianji urged, "Pay up."
"I didn't see it clearly. Write another one!" The shopkeeper was the first to regain his composure, his gaze turning fervent once more. "We'll supply the paper, three hundred for it! What other Talismans can you make?"Song Qianji shook his head: "Two hundred per talisman, as agreed."
"Apart from the qin, you must need other things!" The shopkeeper grew somewhat anxious.
"Nothing else." Song Qianji said.
"Young man, we have everything here—pearl hairpins, rouge, youth-preserving pills—all perfect gifts for female cultivators to pair with a qin. Think carefully, you'll surely remember something you need!"
Song Qianji felt slightly impatient. It was getting late.
"I want a mountain." He raised an eyebrow, "Can you provide that?"
"A mountain?" The shopkeeper was stunned.
The kind of mountain he was thinking of...?
This request was truly unexpected.
"If it's a mountain, I'll need to seek approval. Come back at this time tomorrow."
Song Qianji thought to himself, wouldn't it be more comfortable to lie in his small courtyard stargazing tomorrow at this hour? Why bother looking at these fake stars covering the walls here.
"Payment." He knocked on the door again, urging.
A storage bag was passed out from the cave, accompanied by a surprised voice: "You're really a talismaster? But you clearly carry no aura of talismans."
Just as sword cultivators bear sword energy, those who frequently wield brushes carry a different demeanor in their movements compared to ordinary people.
"I don't really count, I only know a little." Song Qianji weighed it in his hand, satisfied, then tossed it to the shopkeeper, "For the qin."
"If this is 'knowing a little,' then all these years I..." The voice in the cave muttered something else, but Song Qianji had already started up the stairs and didn't catch it clearly.
He only heard the assistant Xiao Zhuo banging on the door and shouting:
"Old Zheng, the waves behind drive on those ahead! Don't do anything rash!"
The shopkeeper also felt somewhat unsettled.
This person's bone age was at most fifteen, his cultivation at most late Qi Refining stage. He wore the outer sect disciple robe of the Huawel Sect, didn't care about appearance, was poor and stingy.
He shouldn't have come to be a sword-for-hire, shouldn't know how to make talismans, and especially shouldn't know about the existence of this black market shop.
Full of mysteries.
According to the three-no-ask rule—"don't ask origins, don't ask destination, don't ask life or death"—he absolutely couldn't ask the person to stay. The other party seemed equally certain he would strictly abide by the rules, completely unconcerned, and left without looking back.
He had seen many secrets in the cultivation world. The secrets of great families, major sects, and powerful seniors were often more terrifying, more shocking and unspeakable, reeking of decay and filth, soon to be buried with them.
This secret was different—full of vitality and vigor, like a seed breaking through the soil. It made him unbearably curious.
It was the first time he had seen such a young talismaster perform such refined talisman techniques. Among the young scholars of Green Cliff who practiced brushwork day and night, not one could surpass this person in the talisman path.
An absolute genius, why was he unknown, uninterested in wealth or fame, reduced to hiring out as a sword to trade for a qin?
"Fifteen or sixteen."
After Song Qianji left, the shopkeeper murmured to himself, lost in memories.
The old master probably first formed talismans with a brush around that age too.
...
The night grew darker, the moon brighter.
Even the stray cats and dogs were tired and asleep. On the long street, only the night wind howled back and forth.
Song Qianji carried the qin case on his back, walking under the moonlight.
In his previous life, he had often dealt with this place and understood the professional integrity of the black market people. He truly wasn't worried.
The lanterns in front of the pawnshop flickered like two will-o'-the-wisps.
Another person approached from the end of the street.
That person wore ragged coarse linen clothes, had lost one shoe, staggered and swayed, nearly falling flat several times but stabilizing at the last moment.
The soft spring wind carried the scent of alcohol from him to Song Qianji's nose.
Song Qianji thought, a drunken little ruffian. Already so drunk he's lost his way.No matter how well-governed a city is, it will always have its share of rogues and vagrants. As long as they don’t provoke cultivators or disrupt the common folk’s offerings of incense, the Huawel Sect couldn’t be bothered to intervene.
Huawel City had plenty of such petty troublemakers.
In his previous life, Song Qianji had become quite familiar with their kind during his escapes—stealing chickens, swiping dogs, drinking cheap liquor, gathering for brawls, causing trouble, and sleeping under bridges without a fixed home. They never committed serious crimes but were never content to stay quiet either.
The street held only the two of them.
A young ruffian suddenly stumbled toward him. Song Qianji sidestepped and reached out to steady him:
“Watch your step.”
The other man swayed again, narrowly avoiding his hand. He muttered something indistinct in response—less a thank you and more a drunken mumble, eyes still shut.
As they passed each other, Song Qianji instinctively glanced at the man’s face.
It was young, plain, and utterly forgettable.
Three steps later, Song Qianji’s mind stirred, and he frowned.
What exactly felt off?
Ah, that was it—even though he had just seen the man clearly, he had already forgotten what he looked like!
As if he had never truly seen that face at all!
“Invisibility Art—he’s a cultivator!”
Just like himself, a cultivator visiting a shady shop late at night.
The surprise in Song Qianji’s heart vanished as quickly as it came, but his steps didn’t falter, and he didn’t look back.
What did it matter who the other man was?
Handing the zither to He Qingqing and stopping that young girl from crying in his vegetable patch—that was what truly mattered now.
The drunken ruffian staggered into the pawnshop entrance.
“Wei Ping! You’re here.” Xiao Zhuo grinned with schadenfreude, leaning in. “What, your sword broke again?”
The youth named Wei Ping climbed to his feet:
“If my sword didn’t break, you’d be out of business, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m not boasting—business has been great today. Someone even came to buy a zither earlier.”
Wei Ping didn’t believe it. His gaze fell upon the table.
The zithers covering the table hadn’t been put away yet. Amid the dazzling array of jewels and radiant treasures, one unremarkable longsword stood out.
Old, plain, utterly ordinary.
Like a pheasant among phoenixes—no, even calling it a pheasant was too generous, Wei Ping thought.
“How much for this… chicken—no, this sword?” Wei Ping asked.
“Twenty Spirit Stones!” Xiao Zhuo said.
“Nonsense! Ten at most!” The ruffian named Wei Ping was clearly short on funds too, but he had far thicker skin than Song Qianji. With a laugh, he slapped down ten Spirit Stones, snatched the sword, and turned to leave. “Not a single Stone more!”
“No.” The shopkeeper, lost in thought until now, snapped back to reality and saw Wei Ping toying with the old sword Song Qianji had left behind. “I don’t want to sell this one. Pick another.”
Wei Ping glanced back, raising an eyebrow with a smile:
“No swapping. I like this one—it suits my fancy. Payment’s made, so it’s mine now.”
That smile suddenly lit up his seemingly ordinary features with a brilliant radiance.
Outshining even the resplendent glow of the zithers filling the room.
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