In the springtime, Wei Ping walked along the main street of Hua Wei City.
The street was shaded by lush green trees on both sides, where birds chirped among the branches, and vendors pushed their carts beneath, hawking their wares.
The excitement of the Grand Assembly of Distinguished Appraisals had not yet subsided. Cultivators without invitations to Hua Wei Mountain could only gather in the city.
They wore attire from various regions, spoke in diverse accents, and carried an assortment of weapons.
Any cultivator, capable of cultivation, inevitably possessed an aura and traits that set them apart from ordinary mortals, drawing attention.
Except for Wei Ping.
His gait was lazy, his face unremarkable, and his clothes shabby. Even if you brushed past him, you would never glance back a second time.
Clad in straw sandals and clutching a worn-out sword, he moved like a fish swimming against the current, weaving through the crowd before turning into a quiet, old street.
Deep in the old street, the pawnshop—a den of iniquity—had long been closed. Fallen petals lay unswept on the steps, occasionally lifted by the spring breeze.
The world had lost yet another place where he could swindle and deceive, scrounging for Spirit Stones and Cultivation Methods.
Wei Ping stood at the entrance for a while, then suddenly laughed:
"Who in this world can rival a true hero? Seeking immortality is not as good as—drinking a cup of wine!"
He was still thinking about the Hero Summons.
Song Qianji, who had written that poem, had caught the attention of those two old fellows—truly the unluckiest soul in the world.
Saving the world? Is that a job for humans?
Wei Ping felt a mix of schadenfreude and a tinge of loss.
It was as if those two old fellows were telling him to his face, "Did you think you were a peerless genius, that the world couldn't be saved without you?"
"You're not as good as Song Qianji. What you cannot accomplish, he can."
The wayward youth muttered to himself, "No amount of gold can buy true freedom. The Purple Cloud Temple and Azure Cliff Academy are both dull and tasteless places. How could they compare to the comfort of sleeping in a brothel?"
Even so, when he had money, he slept in brothels with beauties; when he was broke, he slept in ditches with rats. Wherever he was, he could always fall asleep.
The youth had left home, abandoned everything, broken free from rules, changed his name, and concealed his appearance.
He came and went alone, like fallen petals in the spring breeze or a stray cat in a deep alley.
Even if he taught a thousand Li Ergous or made ten thousand cultivators famous, no one would recognize him. He was just scraping together a few Spirit Stones to spend.
Wei Ping loved this life—far freer and happier than when he was Wei Zhenyu.
He left the old street and plunged headfirst into a gambling den.
The gambling hall was resplendent and bustling, filled with a cacophony of voices. Just as Li Ergou had said, people were betting on who Song Qianji would choose as his master.
In the center of the hall hung a replica of the "Hero Summons." Spirit Stones flowed like water onto the gambling tables.
The croupier shouted loudly, "Those betting on the Calligrapher Sage, place your bets on this table. Those betting on the Chess Devil, place them on that one."
Wei Ping stood between the two tables.
He hadn't met Song Qianji yet and was curious about what kind of person he was.
But that man was now at the peak of his fame, radiant with glory, and soon to depart for the Purple Cloud Temple or Azure Cliff Academy, elevated and revered by thousands.
Meeting him would likely be no easy feat.
"Are there only two paths in this world?" Wei Ping suddenly cried out. "Is there no third?"
Must one only follow family rules and rely on the power of sects? Couldn't a person forge their own path?
This question had haunted him since he left home, and he had yet to find an answer.
His shabby appearance and apparent lack of money meant no one paid him any mind in a place like the gambling den.
Only two people responded: "Yes, you can also bet that he won't choose either!"
"Ten-to-one odds—high, yes, but only a fool would take that bet!"Wei Ping turned his head and saw two people wearing the uniforms of Huawel Sect's Discipline Hall, winking and exchanging glances with excited expressions, more enthusiastic and invested than the bookmakers.
"Who are you two?"
"I am Qiu Dacheng."
"I am Xu Kanshan. Fellow Daoist, you're a newcomer, right? Newcomers have strong hands and the best luck. Can you take us along for a few rounds later?"
The two led him to a corner and pointed at a small, low table: "Bet on him not bowing to either of them—place your stake there."
"I'll bet." Wei Ping wagered one Spirit Stone.
"One isn't enough for a bet." The dealer at the table glanced at him and tossed the Spirit Stone back as if shooing a beggar.
"I only have one." Wei Ping scratched his head, wishing he had saved a bit more last night.
"Minimum bet is three. Fellow Daoist, can you find two more?" Xu Kanshan said. "If not, there's a pawnshop next door. Your low-grade sword can be pawned for ten."
Wei Ping rummaged through his pockets, searching everywhere. "Wait a moment."
"Got it, got it!" He finally pulled out a Storage Bag and tossed it to Qiu and Xu. "Help me place a bet."
Last month's payment for that assassination job hadn't been spent yet—he'd completely forgotten he still had money.
Qiu Dacheng readily agreed: "Sure!"
The dealer weighed the bag, hurriedly opened it, and his expression suddenly changed, his voice trembling slightly: "T-ten thousand?!"
"What ten thousand?" Xu Kanshan was stunned. "You mean ten thousand?!"
He had only wanted to pick a greenhorn to chat up. Based on years of experience in gambling dens, such people often had the best luck.
Just like following Song Qianji to bet on all the martial trials' odds, he and Qiu Dacheng loved betting alongside this type of person.
The dealer announced loudly: "These two have wagered ten thousand, betting that Song Qianji will bow to no one!"
The bustling gambling den fell into dead silence, countless astonished gazes fixed on the two.
As if looking at the biggest fools around.
Oh, it's Huawel Sect's most notorious gambling addicts. Never mind, then.
Xu Kanshan hurriedly waved his hands: "No, it wasn't us! It was—"
He turned around, but in the sea of people, the young man who had placed the bet was nowhere to be seen.
"Did he introduce himself earlier?!" Qiu Dacheng asked.
"No!" Xu Kanshan panicked. "Do you remember what he looked like?"
Qiu Dacheng shook his head like a rattle-drum: "No!"
...
Song Qianji walked toward Song Courtyard with the mood of visiting a grave.
No one followed behind him. The powerful figures from Purple Cloud Temple and Azure Cliff Academy, led by their respective heads, waited silently outside the flower-lined path.
The area around the small courtyard was quiet. The small wooden plaque engraved with "Song Courtyard" swayed gently in the wind, like a beautiful wind chime.
He could sense two immensely powerful and profound auras, transmitted through the door panels to the brass knockers, touching his hand as he pushed the door open.
He still pushed the door open.
After all, he was the master of Song Courtyard.
A black-robed elder stood under the eaves, looking down at the graceful coin leaves and the smooth, colorful Yuhua stones in the water vat.
A white-robed elder stood under the flower trellis, looking up at the full frame of wisteria blossoms and the white butterflies flitting among them.
The moment he opened the door, both turned their heads simultaneously, staring straight at him.
"Greetings, Seniors." Song Qianji endured their scorching gazes, like blazing sunlight, and took the initiative to greet them.
He placed a half-rolled chess manual and a treasure box on the stone table.
This scene really resembles a full moon drawing lots ceremony. He suddenly felt like laughing but suppressed it.
"This old man—" "I—"
The two elders spoke at the same time, neither yielding, and glared coldly at each other.Song Qianji: "Let me speak first. I already know why you two esteemed seniors have come. I'm honored—"
"Indeed, I've long wished to meet you." The Calligrapher Sage interrupted him with a smile. "For the Calligraphy and Painting Examination at the elegant gathering, I truly came because of you."
The Chess Devil sneered inwardly. What use was hinting he arrived first at a time like this?
Taking on a disciple wasn't like hosting a banquet—why bother with order of arrival?
"I'm honored by your misplaced—"
Song Qianji spoke again, only to be cut off once more by the Calligrapher Sage:
"I heard you want a mountain? Once you become my disciple, forget Painted Spring Mountain—I'll use my divine powers to refine an Overseas Immortal Mountain for you, naming it Frozen Autumn. Then you'll have two Spatial Artifacts!"
Song Qianji was speechless.
Old sir, what proper mountain fits in a box?
If it fits in a box, can it even be a proper mountain?
Ahem, are two Spatial Artifacts so impressive? They can only fly out and smash people!" the Chess Devil roared. "The pinnacle of formations allows you to control the wind's direction and water's flow within the array. The space inside belongs to you, and the life or death of all beings within rests on your whim—isn't that far more exhilarating? Cough, cough, cough!"
Before he could finish, a fit of violent, earth-shaking coughing seized him, as if he were hacking up his internal organs.
Startled, Song Qianji hurriedly poured him hot tea. "Old sir, take it slow."
The tea was coarse, carrying an astringent flavor; the water was well water, still bearing an earthy smell. The cup had a small crack.
The Chess Devil had never drunk—nor had anyone dared offer him—such poor tea.
But he raised the cup and drained it in one gulp, sighing with a smile, "What a clear, sweet disciple tea. What a fine young man."
Cough, cough, cough. This time, it was Song Qianji's turn to cough.
The Calligrapher Sage pointed at the Chess Devil's nose and scolded, "You—you and your deceitful tricks again!"
"Like I said last time, I'm called the Chess Devil. If I don't use deceitful tricks, what should I use? Seduction?"
Song Qianji listened to their bickering.
In his previous life, he had died before ever needing disciples or successors.
Though he didn't fully understand their mindset, he could sense their unwavering resolve.
"I'm honored by your misplaced affection!" he suddenly raised his voice, cutting off their argument entirely. "This junior has no intention of studying under either of you esteemed seniors, nor will I become your disciple."
"What did you say?" The Calligrapher Sage stared at him in disbelief. "Don't be afraid of this old devil, and don't fear offending me. Who do you truly wish to learn from? Speak honestly. This concerns your future—don't ruin it yourself."
Song Qianji shook his head. "I don't want to." He turned to the equally stunned black-robed elder. "Last night, I wrote it. Seeking immortality is not as good as—"
Planting potatoes. The Chess Devil finished the thought inwardly. These three words, unknown to the world, he had witnessed with his own eyes.
He looked down and saw two potato flowers swaying proudly in the vegetable patch, tender and lovely under the sunlight.
The old man frowned, the corner of his eye twitching slightly as if suppressing pain.
In the end, he only murmured softly, "Actually, I had a feeling. You too, right? Sentimental One."
His voice carried a note of weariness.
The Calligrapher Sage fell silent.
He recalled Song Qianji's examination paper for the Calligraphy and Painting Examination—a single potato flower. The affection and vitality in it nearly burst through the paper.
In the vegetable garden, the two potato flowers trembled slightly, their pale yellow stamens dotted with glistening dew.
He could feel the burgeoning life beneath the soil.
Ever since stepping into this garden, that vitality had overwhelmed him, almost giving an aging man the illusion of returning to his prime.Song Qianji smiled slightly: "The Huawel Sect has granted me a prefecture. I shall descend the mountain tonight to claim my mortal fiefdom. From now on, I shall dwell eternally in the mundane world, detached from the affairs of the Cultivation World."
"You can bear to give it all up?" The Chess Devil gazed at him with profound intensity.
The Calligrapher Sage fixed him with a piercing stare.
Could he truly relinquish the peak of fame known throughout the land? Forsake the wealth, resources, and power that could have been his?
"One cannot relinquish what was never held," Song Qianji replied.
The Calligrapher Sage stared blankly before releasing a long sigh. "Well said! Well said!"
Song Qianji extended a treasure box with one hand and a chess manual with the other, offering them to the two men respectively. "For you, esteemed seniors."
"Absolutely not!" The Chess Devil refused to accept it, suddenly exclaiming, "For someone of your caliber to remain unguided is nothing short of squandering heaven's gift—a betrayal of divine favor!"
The Calligrapher Sage instantly grasped his meaning. If the most gifted junior lacked instruction from the strongest masters, who could save the world a century from now?
Where would the turning point for humanity's destiny lie?
The Calligrapher Sage declared, "You need not formally acknowledge us as masters nor address us as teachers. But you cannot be without guidance, support, and mentorship."
Song Qianji was bewildered by this line of reasoning.
How did this suddenly concern divine providence? The stakes had been raised far too abruptly.
I'm destined to be a rogue cultivator trudging through the mud—even the abbot of Purple Cloud Temple said I'm ruthless and tenacious enough to be rejected by the King of Hell. Do I truly need someone to "support" me?
"I dare not trouble you two esteemed seniors. This junior already has a mentor."
"Who?!" The Chess Devil and Calligrapher Sage spoke simultaneously.
Song Qianji thought, You forced my hand.
Xian Jianchen, how many crimes are committed in thy name!
Gritting his teeth, he uttered: "The Sword God!"
"Xian Jianchen?!" The Chess Devil slammed the table. "He's still alive?!"
"He deserves to be struck by lightning!" The Calligrapher Sage cursed at the sky. "Do you hear this? You beat us to breaking through the Transformation Stage, and now you snatch a disciple ahead of us too? Are you rushing to be reborn?"
Song Qianji was startled. Just how deep was their grudge?
But as their expressions shifted between rage and resentment, their auras gradually calmed, until their features settled into something resembling relief.
"If he's involved in this matter..." the Chess Devil murmured thoughtfully.
The Calligrapher Sage continued: "Then this old man can rest somewhat assured."
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