"Senior Brother Song, don't be afraid." Meng Heze moved with the nimble grace of a skimming swallow, his feet barely touching the ground as he swiftly pulled Song Qianji onto his back. "This time, I'll save you!"
What had once appeared as a sheer cliff face with no footholds now seemed as traversable as level ground.
Meng Heze hadn't expected that in this moment of extreme crisis, his latent potential would erupt, allowing him to execute the Light Body Technique that Song Qianji had just taught him.
The night deepened, the wind grew fiercer, and the chorus of insect chirps and beastly roars continued unabated.
In the latter half of the night, dark clouds rolled in, obscuring the bright moon.
The forest roared like surging waves. A dull thunderclap sounded, and the night wind carried chilly raindrops.
In the drizzle, a dark figure carrying another person leaped and bounded, dislodging stones and stirring up clouds of dust with each movement.
Song Qianji progressed from shock to speechlessness.
He had been careless.
This was a model youth who hadn't yet been hardened by the harsh realities of the Cultivation World, possessing an unusually strong sense of moral responsibility.
In his previous life, aside from swordsmanship and artifact forging, Song Qianji had also mastered first-rate escape and self-healing techniques. But now he couldn't use healing cultivation methods, having to rely on the Fountain of Immortality within his Purple Palace to slowly repair his injuries. If he recovered too quickly, it would arouse Meng Heze's suspicion, and if the Huawel Sect found out, it would create unnecessary complications.
Since Song Qianji had no intention of silencing the witness permanently, he couldn't afford to reveal any flaws.
His plans to descend the mountain and take up farming would have to be reconsidered...
"Right now there must be Deacon Zhao's people guarding the cliff top. We go downward." Song Qianji instructed, "Follow the direction I point."
"Understood!" Meng Heze responded with complete trust.
The night rain fell steadily, making the mountain walls slippery and difficult to traverse, yet Meng Heze's footsteps remained sure.
Braving the fine rain, he carried Song Qianji into a cave and produced a fire talisman to illuminate their surroundings.
The cave was covered in dust and cobwebs, but contained scattered bones and dried grass remnants - likely an abandoned den of mountain beasts.
Meng Heze diligently lit a campfire, cleared a clean space, and fashioned a soft bedding of grass for Song Qianji to lean against and rest.
Once settled, he slapped his forehead: "Oh no! I forgot your dagger. I'll go back for it!"
Song Qianji lounged lazily against the grass pile, waving his hand: "No need. The edge is already rolled - it's useless even if retrieved."
"I'll find an artifact forger to repair it for you!"
Song Qianji wondered: "Do you have spirit stones?"
"I, I..." Meng Heze stammered, crestfallen and embarrassed.
Song Qianji laughed heartily: "So you're broke! Nothing to be ashamed of!"
For outer sect disciples, owning one or two weapons with inscribed runes that could barely qualify as "magical artifacts" was already considered rare valuable property. Meng Heze thought about how this single night had cost Senior Brother Song both injuries to his sword-wielding right arm and the loss of his self-defense dagger. Too tragic.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled something from his robe and pressed it into Song Qianji's hand, declaring solemnly: "Senior Brother Song, I'm giving this to you. Wear it - it will help your injuries."
The object felt smooth and refined to the touch. Song Qianji looked down.
It was a string of red spirit jade beads with white tassels attached to the clasp. The eighteen beads glistened with crystalline luster, under the firelight revealing dark red radiance that seemed to pulse with blood-like veins within the jewels.
The two central beads were carved with ancient characters.
Song Qianji read them aloud: "Zheng, Xian?"
"My style name is 'Zhengxian.' Before coming to Huawel Sect to cultivate, my family lived in Qinglu County, Tiannan Province. My family called me Meng Zhengxian."Meng Heze revealed an embarrassed, shy smile, speaking to Song Qianji with utter sincerity, "When I was young, I met a Buddhist cultivator who said I had the wisdom to pursue cultivation. This string of spirit jade prayer beads was given to me by that master, who promised I could seek him out at Tianmen Temple in the future. But what’s the point of becoming a monk? I ended up sneaking away to the Huawel Sect to seek my immortal fate."
Song Qianji stared at the beads, lost in thought: "Tiannan Province, Qinglu County, surname Meng, courtesy name Zhengxian, becoming a monk…"
Such a familiar object, such a familiar name and origin.
He couldn’t help but sit up straighter, taking a fresh look at Meng Heze. The youth’s frame had yet to fully develop, yet his back was as straight as a pine tree. His features were delicate and clean, his gaze resolute, with a hint of youthful innocence still lingering between his brows.
Suddenly, a flash of insight struck him, but an inexplicable chill ran up Song Qianji’s spine as the honest young face overlapped with another, sinister visage.
Startled, he blurted out, "You’re the Evil Buddha!"
Meng Heze looked down: "My shoes what?"
Song Qianji, still in disbelief, muttered to himself, "You’re Meng Zhengxian."
Meng Heze was Meng Zhengxian. The first stepping stone he had pushed off the cliff in his previous life was none other than the future cultivation world’s greatest demon lord, the Lord of the heretical path, the Joyful Zen Meng Zhengxian, seventy years later.
Song Qianji felt like cursing the heavens.
Damn you, treacherous heavens! I thought you returned the Fountain of Immortality to me because you’d grown a conscience?
Turns out you were saving your big move, waiting for me right here!
"It’s the courtesy name my parents gave me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been home to see them. Once I join the Inner Sect, I’ll return in glory." Meng Heze said sheepishly.
Song Qianji: "You still have parents? How old are you this year?"
"I’m fourteen." Meng Heze beamed with joy. "Senior Brother Song, you’re so funny. It’s not like I popped out of a rock. Who isn’t born with parents?"
No, I’m not being funny, Song Qianji thought. According to rumors, Meng Zhengxian witnessed his entire family slaughtered at sixteen, leading to his Qi Deviation and fall into the heretical path.
There are still two years left. Your parents are still alive.
In your previous life, the cultivation method you practiced was called "Joyful Zen," yet you never had a joyful expression.
You’d kill at the slightest disagreement, deep and cold without a smile, as if everyone owed you ten million Spirit Stones, unpaid for a hundred years.
Against the unscrupulous backdrop of the heretical cultivator Meng Zhengxian, even the Rogue Cultivator Song Qianji seemed virtuous.
In terms of manner of death, his was even more gruesome than Song Qianji’s. While Song Qianji’s self-destruction was painful, it was at least quick and clean. Meng Zhengxian, however, died after suffering a thousand cuts.
The legacy he left behind was discovered by the protagonist, Wei Zhenyu. The savior took the Magical Artifact inheritance but didn’t practice the shortcut-obsessed heretical method. Instead, he refined the cultivation method, removing the flaws and preserving the essence, turning it into a true divine technique.
A sense of "fellow tools under the same sky" welled up in Song Qianji’s heart.
He nodded: "You’re right. I lost my composure."
No one is born without parents, and no one is born a demon. In this life, Meng Zhengxian is still called Meng Heze. He hasn’t been pushed off a cliff, nor has he suffered the calamity of his family’s massacre.
The malice of fate lies hidden, all disasters yet to occur.
Seeing Song Qianji’s complex expression, Meng Heze thought for a moment and sincerely apologized, "Senior Brother Song, I’m sorry." I forgot you’re an orphan. My words were hurtful and not what a gentleman would do."
"Heh." Song Qianji forced a smile. "It’s fine."
The Lord of the heretical path talking to him about bullshit "gentlemanly conduct"—this world is too surreal.
While Song Qianji and Meng Heze took shelter from the rain in a cave, Deacon Zhao lit a glass lamp and sat by the window brewing tea.Whether friend or foe, within Huawel Sect, all listened to the same spring rain.
The night rain began as a gentle patter, falling through the woods like a swarm of hungry silkworms gnawing on mulberry leaves, emitting an extremely fine rustling sound.
Soon the rain intensified, streams swelled, and waterfalls roared. The heavy rain beat against countless eaves and tiles, now light, now heavy, like a musician striking earthen drums.
Deacon Zhao brewed tea while listening to the rain.
The half-open window admitted the night rain accompanied by cool wind, causing the flame in the boiling water stove to flicker uncertainly.
Peering through the pearl-like curtain of rain, the black silhouettes of Huawel Sect's mountain ranges dissolved into the rain curtain, appearing more distant and silent.
The Deacon Hall was situated halfway up the mountain, with Deacon Zhao enjoying exclusive use of a five-story tower—the only such privilege in the entire hall.
Sitting by the window and looking down, he could overlook the clusters of low, humble dwellings in the valley.
These were the residences of outer sect disciples, their gray tiles and white walls exposed to wind and rain, their small windows emitting faint, scattered lights like stars.
Suddenly, two or three white cranes took flight, soaring gracefully even through the rain.
These mounts were no ordinary creatures; they were usually tended by specialized caretakers, fed on vermilion fruits and watered from spiritual springs, living more humanely than outer sect disciples.
The immortal cranes ascended elegantly, disappearing among the layered palaces atop the mountain peaks.
These were the dwellings of the mount owners—inner sect disciples, elders, and Great Adepts—far above the gloomy rain clouds, bathed in starlight and moonlight, like celestial palaces of the Jasper Pool, utterly unattainable.
High and low are always relative.
When Deacon Zhao first entered Huawel Sect as a child, his family elder had advised him with just one phrase: "Know your place."
This principle, he firmly believed.
He hailed from the Zhao Family of Qing'an County, Northern Sky Continent, albeit from a collateral branch.
He cultivated within Huawel Sect, receiving monthly Spirit Stones and Elixirs, though only as a deacon managing outer sect affairs and serving the inner sect.
Yet with these two advantages, he far surpassed countless insignificant beings in the mortal world and the lower echelons of the Cultivation World.
A stone falling from the mountain would be a towering peak if it landed on him.
A breath he exhaled would become a violent storm if it struck outer sect disciples.
"Deacon Zhao."
A young deacon entered, standing five steps away, addressing him softly.
Zhao Yuping glanced down at the tea liquor: "Speak."
"I followed Song Qianji and Meng Heze to Broken Mountain Cliff. As you predicted, the evidence has been retrieved."
The man respectfully presented a white jade disc with both hands.
Zhao Yuping uttered another single word: "Play."
The circular jade disc glowed, projecting a beam of light that coalesced into a blurry image vaguely recognizable as Song Qianji and Meng Heze.
Zhao Yuping lifted his eyelids for a glance: "Stop."
The young deacon tucked away the Recording Disc as if carrying a fortune. Rarely did he handle such a valuable Magical Artifact, though it could only be used once.
He flattered with a smile: "After Song Qianji pushed Meng Heze down, he cursed one word—likely vulgar. I dared not record it, fearing it would offend your ears."
Zhao Yuping leaned back, smiling contentedly, finally speaking more than monosyllables: "Oh, he regrets it. What use is regret? Once he took that first wrong step, it meant eternal damnation."
The young deacon hastily cupped his hands: "How wise you are. He jumped down after Meng Heze—truly eternal damnation!"
"Oh, he followed... What?!" Zhao Yuping sprang up, his expression shifting dramatically. "What did you say?!"
Tea utensils overturned, staining his pristine sleeves with tea liquor, precious glassware shattering across the floor.
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