Song Qian Ji sat in his lounge chair looking up, night had fallen, but the anomaly of the secret realm opening had not yet disappeared.

The sky above his head was divided into two halves.

One half was interwoven with dark red halos, like a blood-red sea with surging dark currents.

The other half was a normal ink-blue night sky adorned with silver stars, beautiful and serene, like the white magnolia flowers silently blooming and falling beside him.

Such intense spiritual energy fluctuations indicated that the secret realm was vast in scope and rich in resources.

“Master Brother Song, everyone has arrived,” Meng He Ze said.

“Good,” Song Qian Ji nodded, turning his gaze to the courtyard. “Take care on this journey.”

Familiar faces filled Song’s courtyard. They had long shed their immaturity, growing from boys and girls into resolute cultivators.

As Qian Qu County discovered spirit stone mines and grew increasingly prosperous, Qian Qu disciples no longer worried about finances.

Although sect families had abundant wealth, most resources were used to support powerful elders and maintain the enormous expenses of the sect.

Song Qian Ji’s expenses only involved research on farming. The resources available to Qian Qu disciples were even better than those for ordinary junior disciples in major sects.

“Bidding farewell to Master Brother Song,” Ji Chen said.

Song Qian Ji was uncomfortable with his sudden solemnity and involuntarily straightened his back.

When sitting in this chair, he usually leaned against the soft cushion, completely relaxed.

But now his hands rested on the armrests, steady as a mountain, suddenly appearing to have the bearing of a true master.

“Bidding farewell to Master Brother Song.”

The Qian Qu disciples came forward one by one, bowing to him, their eyes bright and determined.

Song Qian Ji was very familiar with this eager expression, a mixture of anticipation for adventure and reluctance to leave home.

No more words needed to be said; what needed saying he had already instructed over the past three years, and what they needed to bring, he had already given to these young people.

The young cultivators had diligently improved their cultivation, and honed their techniques and battle skills, all for this moment.

They would encounter opportunities, but no matter how much preparation they had made, how many hidden cards they held, they would still face dangers, walking through life and death, water and fire.

“Go,” he smiled. “Go see that sky.”

So Ji Chen and Meng He Ze no longer looked back.

Countless streaks of light swept across the night clouds, flying toward the half-crimson curtain of sky.

From the ground, one could only see thin white lines, which quickly disappeared.

“Life between heaven and earth, suddenly like a distant traveler,” Song Qian Ji murmured.

Plop.

A white magnolia flower fell from its branch, landing on the damp soil at his feet.

The Immortal Official’s Mansion was empty, no more voices, a single small light.

Song Qian Ji stood up, suddenly feeling like eating noodles.

…

The mealtime had passed, and a steaming bowl of noodle soup was placed on the table.

Song Qian Ji remembered a night three years ago when he had cooked noodles just like this, waiting for the steward to return and eat.

Now he was transformed, no longer adding multiple seasonings to pursue complex flavors, nor adding medicinal residue for nourishment. Simple salt and vinegar in proper proportions made the noodles taste refreshingly normal.

His skilled kneading and pulling techniques made each noodle strand firm and smooth, no longer soft, sticky, or clumping together.

Most importantly, no matter how well the cilantro grew in his garden, he would no longer add half a bowl of it.

“Although I’m not a cooking genius, making noodles is like formations, talismans, sword techniques, and other methods—there’s no essential difference. Diligence makes up for lack of talent.”

Song Qian Ji thought happily that if someone were willing to take a bite now, they probably wouldn’t criticize it as “truly terrible.”

He picked up his chopsticks, lowering his head to eat.

The slightly cool spring night wind blew through his hair, and the white steam rising from the noodle bowl momentarily blurred his vision.

In the candlelight, the clear soup reflected his face, the flowers on the branches, and—

A figure in the branches.

“Swoosh!”

Without hesitation, Song Qian Ji twisted his wrist, sending the chopsticks flying diagonally!

The two ordinary bamboo chopsticks sliced three gently falling flower petals into four pieces, their speed undiminished as they shot toward the depths of the flowering tree.

“Zing!”

The chopsticks were caught, producing a crisp sound like clashing swords.

When Song Qian Ji made his move, he released two sword energies. For that person to catch the bamboo chopsticks bare-handed was no different from catching a naked blade.

To enter Song’s courtyard with its layers of formations without a sound and his detection; to catch his sword energy with such ease—it should not be possible. His perception of Song’s courtyard was extremely keen; if he wished, every blade of grass and tree could be his eyes and ears.

He could feel how a flower bloomed, how a dewdrop condensed.

But he could not sense this person. Because the other refused to be sensed.

A supreme master, stronger than everyone he had met in this life combined.

Song Qian Ji’s heart sank, and his good mood for eating noodles was completely gone.

The peaceful night was broken, the wind blowing through the varied heights of flower trellises, making rustling sounds.

White magnolias, peach blossoms, and apricot flowers trembled in the wind, while potato seedlings in the vegetable garden bent low.

“It’s you,” Song Qian Ji’s voice was rough, his expression bitter, he couldn’t help raising his hand to touch the mark above his eyebrow.

The person jumped down from the peach tree, raising a shower of falling blossoms, and immediately cursed: “What do you mean ‘you’? So disrespectful, can’t even call me ‘Master’!”

As soon as he spoke, the dangerous aura naturally receded, and the plants in Song’s courtyard no longer trembled.

Song Qian Ji thought the spring wind was this cold.

You may avoid the first day, but not the fifteenth. What’s meant to come will come. He had already escaped for three years; that he was only found tonight was already fortunate.

“At least you know to offer your master a midnight snack.” The man, holding a pair of chopsticks, walked straight over, sat at the stone table, picked up the noodle bowl, and began eating.

He ate quickly, in large mouthfuls. His manner of eating, his speed, seemed strangely familiar to Song Qian Ji. After careful thought, he realized it was somewhat like Wei Zhen Yu.

No wonder these two became masters and disciples in their previous lives.

By the faint candlelight on the table, Song Qian Ji observed him with his peripheral vision, not directly looking at the other.

During the previous encounter in the fake Hua Wei City, the scene had been chaotic, and Song Qian Ji hadn’t seen clearly.

He saw that Xian Jian Chen’s complexion was ruddy and his spirit vigorous as if he had just awakened from a good sleep, yet his eyes seemed to hold a trace of weariness.

Looking more carefully, that hint of weariness had disappeared.

He wasn’t wearing his old robe but had changed into new clothes with a new wine gourd hanging at his waist.

Song Qian Ji noticed he didn’t smell of alcohol, but was unusually filled with the scent of flowers.

This fragrance was extremely inconsistent with the person.

Just like Xian Jian Chen in Song’s courtyard with its verdant grass and trees, bird songs, and flower fragrance. It didn’t match.

Song Qian Ji smiled, a polite yet distant smile: “Senior, visiting so late at night, may I ask what important matter brings you here?”

Xian Jian Chen put down the noodle bowl with a “clang”: “There’s no such thing as a free midnight snack in this world, don’t you know?”

Song Qian Ji winced for his white porcelain bowl, his lips twitching slightly: “Junior understands.”

He had borrowed Xian Jian Chen’s name to avoid trouble, but he had also sheltered the “working souls” in his wheat field domain. He thought they should be even, but according to Xian Jian Chen’s logic, he still owed the other a “midnight snack.”

On the eve of the secret realm opening, why had this person come? What did he want?

Having eaten and drunk his fill, Xian Jian Chen stood up satisfied and broke off a small branch of brightly blooming peach blossoms.

Song Qian Ji’s hair stood on end, and he couldn’t help shouting: “Stop!”

He even mobilized the Immortal Spring, his domain ready to unleash.

No one had ever dared, right before his eyes, without his permission, to pick his flowers.

Xian Jian Chen tucked the peach blossom branch on his lapel and adjusted his collar, his voice annoying: “It’s just a branch of flowers, not asking for your life.”

The smile disappeared from Song Qian Ji’s face: “You come to my home, eat my noodles, pick my flowers, and still say you’re not asking for my life?”

The spring wind grew colder.