Cold moonlight illuminates the lingering snow, as a thousand mountains don silvery radiance.

When Song Qian Ji left, he said he was going to “look at some flowers.”

Ji Chen found this strange: “Where would you find flowers in the dead of winter, in the middle of the night?”

Lin Fei Yuan thought he was too carefree—even while in enemy territory, he couldn’t break his habit of admiring flowers and plants.

Song Qian Ji pointed out the window: “Not far.”

Meng He Ze and Ji Chen insisted on following.

The three ascended the broken cliff at night.

The accumulated snow on the mountain felt soft underfoot, making a gentle “crunch, crunch” sound that was quite endearing. Ji Chen, playful by nature, made a snowball and threw it at Meng He Ze from behind.

Meng He Ze tilted his head slightly, and the snowball flew into the deep abyss, with not even the faintest echo returning.

At the bottom of the cliff, white mist swirled upward, making it impossible to see the bottom.

An ancient pine grew crookedly along the cliff’s edge, its needles half-withered, covered by a thick layer of snow-like clouds.

Song Qian Ji knew this was the oldest tree on Hua Wei Mountain, though its appearance wasn’t particularly majestic or tall.

It remained unchanged through the seasons. In spring, insects chirped and birds sang while light rain added touches of emerald, yet it did not become more lush.

At the winter solstice, when birds vanished and the mountains were pierced by cold, it still did not wither.

Over thousands of years, it had endured wind and frost, rain and snow, lightning strikes, and raging fires. Its roots reached deep underground, spreading in all directions, almost becoming one with Hua Wei Mountain.

It was like the oldest elder in a great family—not possessing the strongest power, but having the deepest foundation.

Song Qian Ji touched the rough trunk and took a drop of the Immortal Spring from his vase, extending his hand to place it on the treetop.

His relationship with the Immortal Spring was getting better and better.

At first, he couldn’t touch it at all. Later, he could extract the misty vapor from the bottle’s mouth. Now he could use a drop of the true spring.

Meng He Ze and Ji Chen knew he liked to touch plants and thought nothing of it.

They kept their distance from Song Qian Ji, not wanting to disturb him.

“This is where I truly got to know Senior Brother Song,” Meng He Ze said to Ji Chen.

“I know, you’ve told me before—facing life and death together, narrowly escaping death, matching wits and courage with Steward Zhao. That’s why you’ve always been grateful to him…” Ji Chen was still playing with snowballs.

Meng He Ze shook his head: “It’s not gratitude anymore. If I had to name the feeling, it would be comfort.”

He caught the snowball Ji Chen tossed him: “When I’m out there amid the flash of blades and swords, just thinking that Senior Brother Song is steadily and peacefully living in Song Garden, growing vegetables and tending flowers, makes me feel settled. No matter how far I wander or how difficult the world becomes, there’s always a place to return to…”

“Then as soon as I returned to Qian Qu, I heard that Senior Brother was attacked and even took a sword blow for Wei Ping. What was I thinking then? That Wei Ping was unforgivable!” Just as Ji Chen was about to console him, he heard Meng He Ze say softly:

“But now I wish he were here.”

Ji Chen let out a sigh of relief: “Me too. He’s not a bad person, and quite pitiful after being rejected by the girl he liked…”

Meng He Ze became alert: “What did you say? What girl?”

Ji Chen immediately covered his mouth, eyes showing terror: “I didn’t say anything!”

“You just did.”

“You misheard!”

Snowballs were thrown high into the air, falling like meteors. The two chased each other, running away from Song Qian Ji, but suddenly stopped in their tracks.

The thrown snowballs were knocked back.

With forceful energy, they exploded into crystalline powder.

Both Meng and Ji changed expressions instantly.

Song Qian Ji patted the old tree as a farewell.

“Don’t move,” he walked forward several steps, gesturing for Meng He Ze to sheathe his sword.

In the darkness, the sound of wind being cut was sharp and brief, with flashes of bright light.

“Is someone practicing sword over there?” Ji Chen asked curiously.

“Not a sword, a knife,” Song Qian Ji said. “One person practicing with a knife, two people standing guard nearby.”

“Senior Brother, do you know them?” Meng He Ze was somewhat surprised. “That’s a sharp knife wind.”

Song Qian Ji nodded.

Midnight Manjusri habitually practiced his knife at midnight in secluded places.

With Hua Wei Sect inviting many guests, everywhere was lively, and there was no place more desolate than where Song Qian Ji stood.

Midnight Manjusri’s black knife was named “Snow Blade.”

Seeing this person once in the height of summer would bring cool relief and mental clarity but in winter…

Who would want to see him in winter? Wasn’t the snow cold enough?

Song Qian Ji turned and left, with Meng He Ze and Ji Chen hurriedly following.

This seemingly discourteous behavior was the most sensible and trouble-free approach, directly indicating “no intention to disturb.”

Among cultivators, if they weren’t from the same sect or weren’t friends, watching another practice their techniques was impolite and could easily offend.

If one accidentally encountered such a scene, it was like accidentally entering an occupied hot spring—best to pretend you never saw it.

Song Qian Ji walked on the snow with crunching sounds, thinking that Midnight Manjusri’s cultivation had advanced again. It was stronger than at this time in his previous life.

Why had such a genius never caught Xian Jian Chen’s attention?

Because he was taciturn, solid as a rock, with every word and action as straight as a ruler, never making mistakes.

He was the type of person Xian Jian Chen hated most.

—Midnight Manjusri had “boring” written all over his face. No, he was “boring” personified.

Looking along the river of time, Xian Jian Chen was extremely self-centered, choosing disciples not just for talent but for compatible temperaments.

Even Wei Zhen Yu, the world-saving hero who studied the sword under him, suffered terribly from his treatment.

Xian Jian Chen’s character flaws and eccentricities were numerous enough to terrify those with trypophobia, acting purely on a whim, impossible to predict.

Song Qian Ji would rather deal with a hundred Xu Yuns than have any connection with him.

Listening to the knife sounds behind him, he fell into deep thought.

As long as he maintained a cultivation level similar to Midnight Manjusri’s but always stayed one step behind, he could reduce the chances of being targeted by Xian Jian Chen.

If he ever did meet Xian Jian Chen, he would immediately pretend to be Midnight Manjusri.

Good idea!

The sound of walking on snow stopped. Song Qian Ji waited quietly, allowing the moon’s shadow to shift westward, the night breeze to blow, and the cold dew to descend. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Brother Song, what’s wrong?” Ji Chen asked.

“I have some business to attend to. You two go back first.”

The two didn’t leave.

Finally, the knife wind behind them ceased. Song Qian Ji turned around, strode forward, and called out loudly: “I am Song Qian Ji. Greetings, Daoist Midnight. This is our first meeting, forgive my intrusion—”

Meng He Ze and Ji Chen exchanged glances, seeing shock in each other’s eyes.

The knife practitioner was Midnight Manjusri—why was Song Qian Ji actively greeting him?

He never actively sought acquaintance with other cultivators. Could it be that the Qing Cliff Academy Monitor was a hidden expert in cultivation?

One was the youngest Element Formation cultivator of his time, a genius renowned for years.

The other had rapidly risen, taking only a short year from the Deng Wen Conference to weathering the Lightning Tribulation.

In front of Song Qian Ji, others avoided mentioning Midnight Manjusri.

In front of Midnight Manjusri, the Qing Cliff crowd didn’t mention Song Qian Ji.

The two had a certain “kings don’t meet kings” quality about them.

Song Qian Ji had returned without reason.

The two people beside Midnight Manjusri were more alert than Meng He Ze and Ji Chen.

“Academy Monitor, what does Song Qian Ji want?” asked a scholar dressed in dark cyan robes.

“He’s brought two people with him. Look, that one is ‘Editor Ji’!” said the scholar in light purple robes.

Meng He Ze had taken a trip outside and brought back an outer disciple of Hua Wei Sect, earning great fame.

Ji Chen, without setting foot outside, had a reputation at Qing Cliff that surpassed Meng He Ze, all because of several sets of test papers bearing his name.

The Qing Cliff scholars prided themselves on their extensive reading and universal knowledge, while the Qian Qu test papers were known for their varied questions and extreme difficulty.

The strongest group of problem-solvers in the cultivation world would never easily admit defeat.

The test papers that helped outer disciples and unaffiliated cultivators enter the sect were simple for them. After completing them, they would mock and ridicule:

“The questions were indeed novel, and there were a few that made one scratch one’s head and exclaim in admiration, but they weren’t really difficult.”

“Only bumpkins who’ve never seen the world would find these precious.”

Before long, these rumors reached Wei Ping’s ears. He wasn’t angry, nor did he argue that the tests were indeed basics for “bumpkins.” He merely smiled slightly and produced an “advanced version,” still bearing Ji Chen’s name.

The nightmare began then, as the Qing Cliff scholars were repeatedly mentally tortured.

Through countless nights of burning the midnight oil in a desperate struggle, they all cursed Ji Chen’s name.

Now seeing Ji Chen in person, how could they not have complex feelings?

As for Song Qian Ji, their feelings were even more complicated.

There were many who admired and respected him for his “Hero’s Invitation” calligraphy. But Song Qian Ji was far away, while the Academy Monitor was close at hand. The Monitor’s prestige had accumulated over the years and was almost divine in the hearts of the Qing Cliff scholars, not easily shaken by a single piece of calligraphy.

When the two were repeatedly discussed and compared by outsiders, Midnight Manjusri’s many supporters inevitably developed a subtle hostility and wariness toward Song Qian Ji.

The “Snow Blade” reflected the moonlight, a cold gleam shining on the snow, cooler than the moonlight itself.

With a harsh noise, Midnight Manjusri sheathed his knife: “At the Lakeside Pavilion, I’ve seen you before.”

This was a rebuttal to the other’s claim of “first meeting.”

Song Qian Ji walked closer, smiling and exchanging pleasantries: “We meet again, what a coincidence.”

Midnight Manjusri looked up, staring directly at him.

The moon above, snow below, and a man in black clothes with a black knife.

The man stood leaning on his knife, clearly defined in black and white.

His skin was pale, his lips thin and lacking color. If not for the faint blue veins visible at his neck, he would have looked like a white jade statue.

His brow ridges were high, eye sockets slightly sunken, covered by thick eyelashes, making his gaze seem deeper.

Song Qian Ji understood the meaning of this gaze—

Do you have something to say?

Feeling the familiar coldness, Song Qian Ji took a deep breath: “Daoist Midnight, I’ve come to discuss something with you.”

He didn’t waste more words, beat around the bush, or try to establish connections.

Midnight Manjusri uttered two more words: “Please speak.”

Song Qian Ji smiled: “Before your future breakthroughs, could you send me a message to let me know?”

This time, before Midnight Manjusri could speak, the cyan-robed scholar beside him exclaimed:

“Official Song, what kind of request is this?!”

In the competition for the Great Dao, cultivators sought speed and strength.

There could only be one acknowledged first, while countless could claim to be second.

“I don’t want to attract attention. I want to always be half a step behind you,” Song Qian Ji sincerely said to Midnight Manjusri. “Of course, I won’t let you trouble yourself for nothing. If you need magical tools, talismans…”

The two Qing Cliff scholars heard this as if Song Qian Ji was deliberately boasting about stealing the spotlight with his breakthrough and also flaunting the abundant resources of Qian Qu County and his now-considerable wealth.

The purple-robed scholar interrupted: “Don’t be too overbearing! Our Qing Cliff doesn’t need those few things from your Qian Qu!”

“Qing Zhai, Zi Mo,” Midnight Manjusri said.

The two fell silent, glaring at Song Qian Ji, still indignant.

Ji and Meng glared back.

Four pairs of eyes battled like fighting roosters.

Song Qian Ji walked even closer.

Midnight Manjusri disliked strangers approaching and initially wanted to block him with his knife, but for some unknown reason, he didn’t act.

“Daoist Midnight, I’m sincere. Could you please consider it?” Song Qian Ji approached empty-handed, his aura relaxed, completely unguarded.

Midnight Manjusri frowned slightly as if puzzled:

“Did we know each other before?”

Song Qian Ji faltered: “A single meeting doesn’t count as knowing each other.”

Indeed, they didn’t know each other in this life.

In his previous life, they met in the Blood River Valley Secret Realm, forced by crisis to travel together for a month—a talented scion of a famous sect and a rough unaffiliated cultivator.

During that month, they stayed awake day and night, using every means to cooperate for survival, while also using every means to guard against each other.

To call them friends would be too forced. Their personalities were vastly different, and when tempers flared, they hurled many harsh words at each other.

To call them enemies—before Midnight Manjusri died, he had a chance to kill Song Qian Ji, yet he didn’t act.

After Midnight Manjusri’s death, for a while when Song Qian Ji thought back, he still felt a kind of lonely solitude of having no worthy opponents.