“Senior Brother Song, it seems we’ve arrived too early,” Ji Chen looked around, seeing only morning mist in all directions.

The sky had just begun to show a thin ice-blue color, and the moon’s fading image had not yet disappeared.

The Song Garden group was already fully prepared, waiting like hunters for rabbits.

This spot was a three-way intersection, also the necessary path for Qing Cliff scholars heading to the main peak.

By the roadside stood a pavilion called ‘Hundred Flowers Pavilion.’ In spring, it would be hidden among blooming flowers.

Inner disciples of the Hua Wei Sect often came here together to play and enjoy the scenery.

Unfortunately, now in the bitter winter, there were no floating blossoms or delicate buds, only vast expanses of accumulated snow.

Song Qian Ji sat in the mist-filled pavilion: “Not early, he’ll be here soon.”

Zi Ye Wen Shu practiced with his knife at midnight, then meditated afterward, finishing his cultivation at dawn.

Then he would take out a small booklet he carried with him and begin earnestly writing in his diary, usually finishing in half an incense stick’s time.

Unless he encountered danger midway, was seriously injured, or faced other emergencies, he maintained this boring yet regular routine.

Song Qian Ji was curious about that diary but had never peeked at it.

Back then, though they traveled together, their relationship fluctuated. He feared seeing Zi Ye Wen Shu drawing circles in his notebook, cursing him to an early death.

Song Qian Ji once thought that all major disciples from large sects were like Zi Ye Wen Shu—organizing cultivation insights daily was a required course, and masters would check them at home. Proper people all kept diaries.

Later he learned this wasn’t the case.

Lin Fei Yuan bent down to arrange the hem of his ceremonial robe, like a dutiful guard disciple, but fiercely transmitted:

“I sewed this stitch by stitch, don’t wrinkle it! Can you sit properly? Do you think you’re planting crops in Song Garden?!”

Song Qian Ji admitted his mistake: “Sorry.”

He straightened his back, raised his chin slightly, and assumed the bearing of a great cultivator from his previous life.

Soon after, he heard a light call. A clear, young girl’s voice broke the quiet morning like birdsong:

“Senior Brother Song, is that you?”

The head of Zi Yun Pavilion hadn’t come; Li Ying led more than ten Zi Yun Pavilion disciples to attend the banquet.

Arriving at the Hundred Flowers Pavilion, through the faint cold mist, they spotted someone in the pavilion.

That person hadn’t changed much; his profile was still handsome, he seemed taller, and his figure more upright.

The down-and-out drunkard from that spring night had transformed into a cultivator of noble bearing.

The girl in a goose-yellow silk dress ran toward the pavilion. The Zi Yun Pavilion disciples behind her tried to stop her but were a step too late and had to let her go.

Everyone knew she was young, yet she was of the same generation as the pavilion master, staying by the Chess Ghost’s side, unrestrained and accustomed to freedom.

The girl’s smile was like flowers, her figure graceful, her skirt flying in the wind like a swallow returning to the forest. It brightened the eyes of all the Qian Qu disciples.

“Another one,” Ji Chen raised his eyebrows and blinked, while Meng He Ze nudged him with his scabbard.

Song Qian Ji stood up and properly greeted: “Greetings, Daoist Li.”

“It is you! I almost didn’t recognize you!” Li Ying blinked. “What are you calling me? You should either call me by my name or call me Junior Sister Li. What do you mean by ‘Daoist’? Don’t you recognize me?”

Song Qian Ji felt somewhat embarrassed. This young girl had seen him acting drunk and seemed to have been scared to tears.

He gently said: “Of course, I recognize you, Junior Sister Li.”

Li Ying said happily: “I didn’t expect you to come. Could you write another poem for me?”

She was impulsive, taking out a small pinbrush used for recording chess games and a notebook, immediately wanting Song Qian Ji to write something.

“Another poem?” Song Qian Ji was embarrassed: “I can’t.”

He had no fondness for literary pursuits and could at most write doggerel with irregular meter and mismatched rhymes.

Before she could speak, he changed the subject: “How is Master Chess Ghost?”

Li Ying’s smile froze slightly, nodding then shaking her head: “Good and not good.”

After the Deng Wen Conference ended, her master seemed to have fulfilled a wish, feeling content and often smiling. Yet his body weakened day by day, with less and less time spent lucid.

Zi Yun Pavilion was not unified, and many previously nonexistent problems arose one after another, forcing Li Ying to face them.

When physically and mentally exhausted, she would take out the three characters “Plant Potatoes” to look at, always finding herself amused.

The paper had already yellowed and developed frayed edges, yet she still treasured it, carrying it with her and carefully examining it.

Each time she looked, she thought: “The ‘Hero’s Invitation’ that shocked the world was originally written for me. The last three characters were only for me, none of them knows, none of them can guess!”

Thinking of this, she suddenly transmitted to Song Qian Ji: “Come with me to enter the hall for the banquet. Sit beside me, and when Hua Wei Sect sees, they’ll suspect you still have connections with my master and won’t dare trouble you at the feast.”

Song Qian Ji found her naive and adorable, but said: “Thank you, Junior Sister Li, but that won’t be necessary.”

Li Ying was about to say something more when a coquettish shout came from the distance: “Official Song!”

A white tiger emerged from the morning mist. It was almost as tall as a person, with no single stray hair except for the flame-like pattern on its forehead.

Its eyes were red as blood, strange and majestic.

A purple-clad woman leaped down from the tiger’s back, and the gorgeous jade flower at her temple trembled, dropping two or three petals.

Song Qian Ji was slightly startled and walked out of the pavilion to greet her: “Greetings, Daoist Feng.”

Feng Zi Yi hadn’t traveled with the Da Yan Sect disciples.

She enjoyed entertainment and, taking advantage of the gathering of various sects for Chen Hong Zhu’s engagement ceremony, had spent the previous night playing cards with seven or eight female cultivators she was friendly with, only heading to the banquet together this morning.

Li Ying saw the “Da Yan Sect Princess,” and Feng Zi Yi also saw the “Little Madam of Zi Yun Pavilion.”

The two exchanged courtesies, creating a somewhat subtle atmosphere.

Song Qian Ji felt he shouldn’t have entered this pavilion today; even its name was inauspicious.

But who was to blame for this?

If anyone, it would be Zi Ye Wen Shu.

What important matter did he have yesterday that made him write in his diary so slowly this morning?

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Ji Chen’s smile withered, nearly crying as he tugged at Meng He Ze’s shoulder: “Another one?! Is this fair? I still don’t have anyone!”

Meng He Ze impartially pushed him down.

“Official Song, since we parted at the Deng Wen Conference, I haven’t had the chance to congratulate you on your breakthrough,” Feng Zi Yi said straightforwardly. “My female iron-eating beast has given birth. I’ll send one of the cubs to your Qian Qu County later. When you raise it to adulthood, it can serve as your mount—consider it a congratulatory gift!”

Her white tiger lay quietly beside her, like a lazy large cat.

“I appreciate the Fairy’s kindness,” Song Qian Ji said, “but iron-eating beasts are precious, and I couldn’t maintain one.”

The cats in Song Garden were all fed by Lin Fei Yuan, and he himself still relied on Wei Ping for meals.

Such a valuable spiritual beast as an iron-eating beast should be left to cultivators skilled in beast taming.

Ji Chen couldn’t help but ask curiously: “I’ve heard that iron-eating beasts are ancient strange species that eat both iron and bamboo, ferocious and brave in battle—is that true?”

“Of course it’s true!” Feng Zi Yi smiled. “Master Ji is indeed knowledgeable, truly worthy of the title Editor.”

Ji Chen became even more excited: “And iron-eating beasts have black and white fur, which is very special…”

Song Qian Ji coughed lightly: “The real black and white has arrived.”

Everyone turned to see more than twenty people from Qing Cliff walking with heads high and chests out, sleeves fluttering, coming from another mountain path.

Leading them was Zi Ye Wen Shu, his aura contained, wearing black clothes, carrying a black knife, with pale skin.

“How fitting,” Li Ying giggled.

Feng Zi Yi was momentarily stunned, then burst into laughter. The female cultivators behind her covered their mouths and laughed together.

Before the Qing Cliff group approached, they first heard the warbler-like laughter, followed by rising and falling light laughter, like pearls falling on jade plates.

Then they saw the lively and youthful Li Ying, the bright and straightforward Feng Zi Yi, and seven or eight female cultivators.

It was like spring returning to the earth, with flowers blooming on white snow, all competing in beauty.

Looking more carefully, under the plaque of “Hundred Flowers Pavilion” stood a slender figure.

Around him were emerald-feathered yellow robes and various shades of purple and red, while he smiled faintly, either helplessly or calmly.

The Qing Cliff scholars immediately became alert, secretly transmitting:

“What are they laughing at? Are they laughing at us? Or at the Academy Monitor?”

“That person must be Song Qian Ji, Official Song.”

“What ‘Hero’s Invitation’? I see a hero fall into a pile of makeup. Joking with female cultivators early in the morning, truly promiscuous.”

Qing Zhai was inexplicably angry: “He was pestering our Master last night, and now he’s having it all, riding the spring breeze.”

Zi Ye Wen Shu continued walking forward, his gaze fixed ahead.

Despite all the beautiful colors in the world, his eyes seemed to see only black and white.

Mindful of the Academy Monitor’s presence, the Qing Cliff crowd remained silent, but their eyes stared at Song Qian Ji, openly expressing contempt and disdain, with hints of envy.

Just then, Song Qian Ji called out: “Daoist Zi Ye, wait.”

Zi Mo felt a premonition of trouble and hurriedly asked: “What do you want now?”

Zi Ye Wen Shu stopped and looked at Song Qian Ji.

Song Qian Ji stepped out from the crowd: “Good morning, have you eaten? We meet again.”

Zi Ye Wen Shu wasn’t good at small talk and barely managed to utter one word: “Coincidence.”

“Not a coincidence, I’ve been waiting for you,” Song Qian Ji smiled. “I’ve been standing here for the time it takes to drink a cup of tea. You’ve finally arrived.”

“Those two, are they close?” Feng Zi Yi murmured.

Li Ying shook her head in confusion: “I’ve never heard they knew each other.”

Zi Ye Wen Shu frowned slightly, feeling puzzled: “Why?”

With no fighting intent, why cling to him?

With no malice, why make strange requests?

Without receiving any response, why persist so stubbornly, refusing to give up?

Song Qian Ji cupped his hands: “With you in front, I feel more at ease.”

Zi Ye Wen Shu was momentarily stunned: “Unreasonable.”

He left with his disciples.

The words exchanged between the two seemed like riddles, incomprehensible to others.

Song Qian Ji hurried after them.

Meng He Ze waved his hand, and the Qian Qu disciples followed with high spirits and large strides.

Ji Chen lagged a few steps behind, pulling Lin Fei Yuan from the back row to transmit: “Could you find time to make a set of training clothes for everyone? When we travel the cultivation world, it would reflect the spirit of our Qian Qu disciples…”

Lin Fei Yuan laughed angrily: “Little boy, I’m the head of assassins. What do you take me for? Your family tailor?!”

Ji Chen scratched his head: “I’m sorry, I just saw that the others were dressed uniformly, even their headbands are the same color. We look like a dye vat, lacking momentum…”

Although the guard disciples originated from the Hua Wei Sect, they were unwilling to wear the outer disciple robes of the Hua Wei Sect anymore.

Coming to the banquet this time, they all wore their best clothes, in all styles and colors.

Lin Fei Yuan glared at him: “We’ll talk after taking measurements when we return.”

While the two were transmitting, Meng He Ze looked back. Though he didn’t know what they were discussing, from their expressions, it certainly wasn’t serious business.

The thought of self-reproach flashed in his mind again—Wei Ping was still more reliable.

Song Qian Ji continued to persuade: “You know, I’m serious, and this matter only benefits you with no downsides! Why not?”

Zi Ye Wen Shu needed the reputation of being the number one genius, or rather, the entire Qing Cliff needed this reputation.

Zi Ye Wen Shu shook his head: “There are benefits, but it’s unreasonable.”

Song Qian Ji smiled: “Yes, yes, you have principles, ‘without reason, action cannot be taken.’ But on this joyous day, can’t you make an exception?”

Zi Ye Wen Shu gave him a strange look.

Without speaking, Song Qian Ji already understood the meaning of this look and was momentarily speechless—someone else’s joyous occasion has nothing to do with you. It’s not your engagement.

The wide road to the main peak allowed Song Qian Ji and Zi Ye Wen Shu to walk side by side at the front.

Behind them, the Qing Cliff disciples and Qian Qu disciples formed twelve rows, wary of each other.

At the very back were Li Ying, Feng Zi Yi, and others.

“When did those two become so close?”

Li Ying couldn’t figure it out. “Their personalities are completely different, their paths have never intersected.”

She wasn’t the only one thinking this. When the two walked side by side toward the great hall, even the hosts were shocked—since when had Zi Ye Wen Shu been friendly with Song Qian Ji?