When the heavy snow fell, Song Qian Ji was fleeing for his life.

He rode his sword, crossing vast deserts, traversing countless mountains and valleys, escaping from the easternmost ocean of the continent toward the westernmost snowfields.

Thus his enemies surged toward the snowfields from all directions, like raging waves rushing forward, determined to submerge a lonely island.

Various flying magical instruments densely filled the sky, and the auras of magical treasures intertwined, forming layers of brilliant light curtains.

The fluttering white snow everywhere was illuminated in dazzling, multicolored splendor.

This pursuit and encirclement lasted three days, fought until heaven and earth lost their original colors, with sun and moon nowhere to be seen, truly a spectacular sight.

Song Qian Ji’s blood had nearly drained away; he no longer felt pain, only cold.

His natal flying sword wavered and tilted, finally unable to bear the burden, falling like a bird with broken wings, crashing down and splashing up a cloud of snow dust.

Song Qian Ji climbed up from the snow, and looking around, he saw enemies in all directions, above and below, as the encirclement rapidly closed in on him.

It seemed as if everything in the world was spinning around him, turning until he felt dizzy, his vision blurring.

He wiped away the blood from his lips and looked up at the sky with self-mockery:

“So many people came, huh? It’s not like you’re rushing to a temple fair. Is this necessary?”

The same question had been asked by those who came to kill him.

“The four great immortal sects working together, setting up a heavenly net and earthly web for three days and three nights, all to kill just one person—isn’t that a bit excessive?”

From the highest cloud ship in the sky came the will of the action’s initiator:

“Not excessive, because he is the Undying in a Hundred Battles, Song Qian Ji. If given even the slightest chance to live, he could stage a comeback.”

The cultivators who had pursued him to the point of exhaustion and questioning their life choices finally understood this statement was no exaggeration.

“How can the mighty Song Qian Ji be so skilled in escape techniques?! In three days, we’ve failed to close our formation seven times, and each time he broke through and escaped.”

“Ha! Do you think he was born noble and precious? He started as a rogue cultivator, a commoner! If he didn’t know how to escape, he’d have been reincarnated long ago!”

Song Qian Ji supported himself with his sword, straightening his back. In his heart, he had a vague intuition that this would be the last time.

No way to ascend to heaven, no door to enter the earth.

The end of the road.

The wind was strong and the snow fierce; the sky seemed like a cage. The facial features of every one were unclear, yet their expressions were identical:

Righteous indignation united against a common enemy.

Proud to participate in this great event and contribute, excited to witness the fall of a powerful cultivator.

Song Qian Ji’s gaze swept over faces both strange and familiar, his expression gradually becoming calm.

He asked: “Where is Miao Yan? I alone will bear responsibility for my actions. You need not trouble her.”

No one answered him.

For someone of Song Qian Ji’s caliber, even if cornered, who knew what formidable last resort he might have?

The cultivators remained cautious, stopping more than twenty zhang away, not daring to approach further, only shouting at him across the vast curtain of snow, some persuading, some cursing.

“Hand over the Purification Bottle! Hand over the Immortal Spring!”

“The World Tree is dying, this world has reached the brink of existence! Stop being so obstinate!”

Amidst the chaos, suddenly the sound of a pipa rang out, cutting through everything, sorrowful and pleading, penetrating the wind and snow, drowning out human voices, like heavenly music descending to the mortal realm.

The melody was profound, containing the true essence of the Dao, greatly shaking the cultivators’ spirits, silencing them.

Human voices faded, and even the sounds of wind and snow diminished, leaving only the pipa music growing increasingly impassioned, increasingly tragic until it shook heaven and earth.

Song Qian Ji was momentarily stunned, murmuring: “A song played before a vast army. What a fine ‘Hegemon Discards His Armor,’ breaking one’s heart and liver.”

His unfocused eyes suddenly sharpened, piercing through the crowds toward the source of the music, as he shouted:

“Miao Yan, since you’ve come, why not show yourself!”

Though Song Qian Ji was at his end, his shout still carried the imposing aura of one who had once looked down upon the world, whom ten thousand men could not oppose.

The pipa music, as if struck by thunder, abruptly ceased.

The cultivators awakened as if from a dream.

“It’s Immortal Maiden Miao Yan who has arrived!” “The Immortal Maiden is righteous, wanting to end this demon herself!”

The crowd stirred, parting to reveal an ornate carriage.

A woman with fingers like orchids lightly lifted the gauze curtain.

Miao Yan cradled the pipa as she descended from the carriage, her steps light as lotus, her white dress and arm gauze billowing in the wind, like smoke and mist.

Many forgot they were on a battlefield, staring at her in fascination.

Song Qian Ji said coldly: “You’ve also come to kill me?”

Miao Yan’s almond eyes blinked, tears falling silently.

The number one beauty of the cultivation world deserved her reputation. She was always so beautiful, every smile and frown seemingly calculated for the perfect angle, flawless.

This teardrop was the same, moistening her long curled eyelashes, sliding down her porcelain-white face, and crashing into Song Qian Ji’s heart lake.

His accusation could no longer be voiced; his wounds, though numb, suddenly pierced him to the core.

Miao Yan’s voice was soft and lovely, slightly choked: “Qian Ji, I’m sorry.”

The glow of magical instruments in the hands of the cultivators spread out endlessly behind her, like a burning fire, like an evening glow.

Song Qian Ji, tormented by excruciating pain, found his mind wandering to the day he first saw Miao Yan—it was also an evening with a sunset glow.

He was born in a small mortal town, born with a mortal body. His childhood was poor but happy.

It wasn’t until cultivators from the Hua Wei Sect came to test spiritual roots and recruit disciples that he left his hometown in confusion, squeezed onto a cloud ship with thousands of children and youths, flying toward an unknown destiny.

At dusk, a red light flew from the horizon, instantly passing over the cloud ship, making their faces glow red.

Some children cried out in panic that the sky was on fire. But the senior brothers who came to guide them laughed and said:

“That’s the trail of Immortal Maiden Miao Yan’s black gold carriage. Legend has it she’s the number one beauty in the cultivation world… You’re too young to understand these things. If you can see her once in the future, your life won’t be in vain.”

The black gold carriage soared through the clouds, leaving a faint red arc that finally disappeared at the edge of the sky, where the sunset glow was thickest.

Everyone on the cloud ship deck looked up, revealing expressions of longing.

Song Qian Ji was among those looking up.

Taking his first step on the immortal path, a new world’s curtain was pulled back before his eyes, revealing a magnificent, colorful silhouette.

Riding clouds and mist, traveling thousands of miles a day, with mountains and rivers beneath one’s feet—what mortal wouldn’t get light-headed and feel surging ambition?

So there were things higher and more beautiful than cloud ships in the world. The number one beauty.

He thought he would no longer live in muddle-headed confusion, growing old, getting sick, and dying.

To be a person, one should be a cultivator; to marry, one should marry Immortal Maiden Miao Yan!

Countless people had fantasized this way. Different from other daydreaming youths, Song Qian Ji achieved it.

He originally had a false spiritual root, unable to enter the inner sect, unwilling to go down the mountain, and toiling for years doing odd jobs in the outer sect. Later, to compete for a place in the inner sect, he was framed and sentenced to death. He fled and became a rogue cultivator.

Rogue cultivators have no support, anyone can step on them. When meeting enemies at a narrow path, one can only compete with who has more methods, and who has a crueler heart.

He broke into Imprisonment Mountain six times, was killed seven times in Blood River Valley, explored the Dead Sea Secret Realm eight times, and survived nine deaths, to achieve today’s cultivation.

Fortune’s wheel turned, and a hundred years passed in the blink of an eye. Song Qian Ji, undying after a hundred battles, advanced to become a powerful Transformation Stage cultivator.

The Hua Wei Sect, which had once issued a kill order against him, declined from prosperity and came seeking his forgiveness.

Immortal Maiden Miao Yan, who had once treated him coldly, set a wedding date with him and now treated him with tender affection.

Sect leaders and elders from various major sects secretly despised his rogue cultivator background, but on the surface, they respected and feared him, competing to recruit him as a guest elder.

Status, power, wealth, beauty—what fate didn’t give him, he seized for himself.

Song Qian Ji’s life finally reached its glorious moment, but the fate of the cultivation world, even the entire human race, was just the opposite.

A calamity was about to descend.

In the past year, the world’s spiritual energy had been increasingly depleted, earthquakes occurred frequently, mountains roared and seas surged, and cultivators were deeply anxious.

At the edge of the continent, the “World Tree” supporting the sky was dying. If the World Tree’s root system broke and its crown withered, the continent would fracture and the sky would collapse.

Song Qian Ji had endured countless hardships to finally reach the peak, yet hardly had time to enjoy it before the world was to end.

This he would not accept. He would save the world.

Those stronger than him were all in seclusion, those weaker couldn’t step forward.

So he called on cultivators from all sects to put aside old grudges, forget past grievances, and overcome difficulties together.

He searched through ancient classics and revisited ancient secret realms, seeking a way to save the world. His efforts paid off—he ventured alone into the depths of the Dead Sea and found a powerful “Immortal Spring” with strong vitality, storing it in the Purification Bottle he had personally refined.

This was the last hope to revive the World Tree, and also the last turning point in human destiny.

In the worst of times, people regarded Song Qian Ji as a savior, following his lead.

Once the darkness cleared and a way out appeared, various forces harbored their thoughts, and people began to be wary of him, speculating about his motives.

Rumors arose from unknown sources, claiming Song Qian Ji would use the Immortal Spring in the Purification Bottle to create his small world, becoming its creator and ruler, not caring if this world died.

“Song Qian Ji relies on being a rogue cultivator, always coming and going alone, acting recklessly. How would he be willing to sacrifice his cultivation to find the Immortal Spring, seeking no return, just to save the world?”

“True, he got to where he is today by using unscrupulous means. I long suspected he had ill intentions and other calculations. We’ve all been used, all just his pawns.”

Hearts were anxious, from doubt to anger.

With some people adding fuel to the fire, setting traps, and sowing discord, this unprecedented pursuit and killing began. The entire cultivation world united in an unprecedented way, shouting the slogan:

“Kill Song Qian Ji, seize the Immortal Spring, save the world and ourselves!”

Song Qian Ji, with his keen senses, had already detected some signs before things developed beyond redemption.

Having just been injured in the Dead Sea, his best choice would have been to hand over the Purification Bottle, which would clear his name, prove he had no selfish intentions, and allow him to step back and heal his injuries in seclusion.

But he didn’t trust anyone to handle the world-saving treasure, no matter who he gave it to. He only trusted himself.

He rode his sword, breaking through encirclements, intending to reach the World Tree at the edge of the continent to complete this task personally.

Unfortunately, he failed at the last moment, intercepted in the snowfield, listening to half of “Hegemon Discards His Armor.”

Seeing Song Qian Ji lost in thought and silence, Miao Yan took a deep breath and said loudly for all to hear: “As long as you hand the Purification Bottle to me, I am willing to swear by my Dao’s heart to protect your life! Today, whoever still wants to kill you will be my enemy.”

“Who taught you to say this?” Song Qian Ji looked up at the sky, seeing those flying magical instruments still high above, and couldn’t help but smile: “When has my life ever needed others to protect?”

The hot blood from his wounds had already congealed, and all dissatisfaction and resentment scattered with the wind and snow. He just found it amusing.

It was truly a joke.

So Song Qian Ji laughed to the heavens, his voice echoing and trembling, causing accumulated snow on distant mountain cliffs to fall.

“All my life I’ve schemed and calculated. People don’t trust me, I don’t trust people. Reaching this point today is all my fault, I blame no one… But for the act of saving the world, I am without guilt in my heart. These words dare to be judged by heaven and earth, without fear of ghosts or gods!”

He laughed while coughing blood, his fresh blood soaking his robes, a miserable and frightening sight.

Born with handsome features, now with a pale face, thin lips stained with blood, his ink-black hair and black robe fluttering wildly, he possessed a cold, stern, heart-stopping beauty.

The cultivators unconsciously retreated several steps, feeling an indescribable oppression in their hearts, unwilling or unable to meet his gaze.

Miao Yan’s tears flowed like a spring; she tried to speak but stopped.

Song Qian Ji stopped laughing, his expression becoming gentle.

“I thought having power meant standing at the peak, having the Immortal Spring meant saving the World Tree. I was wrong. The way to survive this calamity is not in divine weapons, not in cultivation. My failure today is only in the human heart.”

“After my death, the world will certainly fall into chaos. My Dao teachings are hidden along my exile path—go find them. Chaotic times create heroes. May there eventually be one person who can save the great edifice from collapse, one who is supported by all hearts, one who takes responsibility without hesitation!”

Miao Yan’s expression suddenly changed; forgetting propriety, she screamed: “No!”

Before her voice fell, a thunderous explosion shook heaven and earth, and a blinding light illuminated half the sky.

Song Qian Ji had self-detonated and perished.

His lifetime of cultivation transformed into auspicious snow, descending upon the earth, benefiting all living beings.

The pursuit lasted three days and nights; the snow fell for three days and nights as well. When the sky cleared, it seemed as if an echo still lingered in heaven and earth—

“Supported by all hearts, take responsibility without hesitation.”

***

Song Qian Ji had thought that death would end everything, but after the excruciating pain, he still felt his consciousness existing.

Darkness, emptiness, no boundaries or time. Was this the afterlife, or was he not dead?

An icy voice sounded, striking his mind like an electric current:

“Song Qian Ji, a hero in life, did not meet a good end. He hid his rich legacy in the vast snow sea during his exile, becoming the first stepping stone for Wei Zhen Yu’s climb to the immortal path. The journey of world-saving hero Wei Zhen Yu, from now on…”

Song Qian Ji: “Wait, what?”

That icy voice paused: “You can hear me speaking?”

Song Qian Ji: “…I shouldn’t be able to?”

The voice stammered: “It seems, not really, this is the first time someone has conversed with me.”

Song Qian Ji, having seen many grand scenes, forced himself to remain calm: “Are you the Heavenly Dao?”

“No, I am the Narrator. The essence of this world is a story, and I am the story’s narrator. Can you understand?”

Song Qian Ji fell silent.

The dead tool character and the invisible narrator, are wordless in the face of each other.

Song Qian Ji thought, this “Narrator” was neither human nor object, seemingly a kind of spiritual existence, speaking from an observer’s perspective, similar to his current situation. How should he probe… No, wait, I’m already dead, I have nothing more to lose, so what am I afraid of?

He asked bluntly: “What exactly is happening now?! Even if it’s a story, what about after I die?”

The Narrator was startled by him, mumbling: “You’d better see for yourself.”

Countless tiny lights appeared, revealing familiar yet strange scenes, converging into a brilliant river flowing past him.

Song Qian Ji saw countless future fragments.

When he was alive, people didn’t trust him. After he truly gave up and died completely, everyone remembered his good qualities, attacking each other under the banner of avenging him.

Lower-level cultivators and mortals suffered greatly, treating his last words as prophecy, waiting for a “savior” to appear.

In a time of great crisis, a cultivator named Wei Zhen Yu stepped forward, found the legacy left by Song Qian Ji, turned the tide, revived the World Tree, ended the human calamity, then ascended to high position, married Miao Yan, enjoyed the worship of countless people, and eventually ascended to heaven.

Song Qian Ji stood before the river of time, moving from shock to indignation, and finally to silent resignation.

His first reaction was to wonder how, ten years after his death, the number one beauty was still Miao Yan.

The cultivation world’s aesthetic standards hadn’t progressed much.

His second reaction was to wonder who this Wei Zhen Yu was.

When he was alive, this person was utterly unknown. After his death, this person suddenly rose to fame, with countless fortunes converging on him—wherever he went, treasures would fall, and even if he didn’t want them, heaven would still drop them. This fellow shouldn’t be called a “savior” but rather the “King of Free Rides.”

Song Qian Ji couldn’t help but curse.

The Narrator advised him: “Be civilized. The world can only have one protagonist; the rest of the countless mortals are here to provide him with life experiences. You are a good prop.”

Song Qian Ji: “I struggled all my life, only to end up as a prop?”

Narrator: “How many people wish to be props but don’t get the chance!”

Song Qian Ji calmed his anger: “Forget it, I’ve seen enough. All is emptiness now, quickly send me to reincarnate.”

The Narrator weakly said: “I’m sorry, but in this story, there’s no ‘let someone reincarnate’ setting. I can’t do that. Since you can’t leave on your own, let’s keep each other company and make do.”

Song Qian Ji angrily waved his sleeve: “Who wants to stay with you!”

…

Before long, Song Qian Ji changed his tune.

He lounged on a silk fur couch, cracking melon seeds, eating snacks, and ordering the Narrator: “Bring more fruit, grapes, lychees, cherries, and make sure they’re iced.”

Things without settings, the Narrator couldn’t do. But “food, clothing, and daily necessities” all had settings, and the Narrator could provide them effortlessly.

Besides, there were countless stories in the river of time to watch, and the Narrator to chat, boast, and gossip with. No more fighting and killing, competing for fame and fortune, exhausting his mind until his head went bald.

Once he accepted this setting, life became too easy, so good that even becoming an immortal couldn’t tempt him to trade.

Having watched so much, even seeing his past self was like watching someone else’s story. Not only did he not feel pain, but he could also mercilessly mock himself.

Seeing the 13-year-old “Song Qian Ji” unwilling to pay the outer sect protection fee, beaten like a dog and lying on the ground spitting blood.

“You’re sick. Why did you have to be so stubborn and confront them directly? How many heads do you have?”

Seeing the 14-year-old “Song Qian Ji” duped out of all his possessions because he couldn’t recognize value.

“You idiot. As if you’d ever be lucky enough to get a bargain. Just because your face is whiter than others?”

Seeing the 15-year-old “Song Qian Ji,” who had shed his stupid and naive appearance, inviting a companion to the cliff edge to appreciate the moon and talk, outwardly laughing and chatting, inwardly battling with himself.

On a dark and windy night, by a ten-thousand-foot-deep abyss, he gritted his teeth and reached out toward his companion’s back, unable to control his trembling.

The melon seed-cracking Song Qian Ji cursed loudly: “Too clever for your good! The inner sect quota was predetermined; even without him, it wouldn’t be your turn. Push him down, and you’ll have endless trouble afterward, forced to go down a single path of no return!”

He spoke so excitedly that he unconsciously reached out, trying to stop it.

His fingertips penetrated the scene, and the entire river shook violently, countless broken scenes spinning, turning into a huge vortex, enveloping him.

Song Qian Ji felt suffocated, the world spinning.

When he opened his eyes again, the couch was gone, the fruits were gone, the Narrator was gone. The long-absent evening breeze blew through his hair, and he heard the sound of forest waves, smelled grass, wood, and earth.

“Ahhh!!” The young companion fell rapidly toward the bottom of the cliff, screaming miserably.

And he stood at the cliff edge, still maintaining the posture of pushing someone, with a complex, tangled expression.

This was originally the first stepping stone on Song Qian Ji’s long immortal path.

The countless stars coldly looked down at him, the bottomless abyss gazed at him, watching him start from here, stepping onto a path of no return forged by blood and fire.

Song Qian Ji came to his senses with a shudder, looking around in panic, cursing at the sky: “Damn it!”

He leaped into the abyss.