When Zhao Ji Heng was escorted to the Steward’s Hall, he was still shouting angrily:

“How dare you treat me like this! I’ll tell my uncle!”

“Enough!” Zhao Yu Ping rubbed his brow.

Though they were of similar age, why was Song Qian Ji so deep in thought and difficult to deal with? And when Meng He Ze became vicious, he was not like a living person but like a red-eyed beast.

Only his nephew was the most foolish and idiotic, eagerly delivering himself to others like a meal on a platter.

Fortunately, their family had many outstanding younger generations, successors aplenty—they didn’t lack for one Zhao Ji Heng. This thought gave him some comfort.

He came from the Zhao family of Qing’an County in North Tianzhou, though from a branch line. Zhao Tai Ji, the master of Chishui Peak in Hua Wei Sect, was the one from the main family with pure lineage.

However, the Zhao family was a cultivation clan, a prestigious family that controlled the entire Qing’an County. Even a branch family member had a strong backing, making it easier to rise than ordinary cultivators.

“Don’t provoke Song Qian Ji again. If you encounter him in the future, pretend not to see him, understand?” Zhao Yu Ping intended to offer some guidance, but seeing his younger relative’s angry, wronged, tearful eyes, he could only sigh tiredly again:

“Forget it, go play. Don’t come back too late. You’ve just entered the inner sect, you should leave a good impression on your masters and senior brothers.”

Zhao Ji Heng received a heavy bag of spirit stones, his expression of resentment instantly changing. Muttering “I wonder how the girls have been after not seeing them for days,” he walked away with light steps, his robes fluttering as he rushed down the stairs.

“Congratulations to you,” a young steward finally dared to approach with flattery.

“What is there to congratulate?” Zhao Yu Ping sneered. “Do you think that because Ji Heng has entered the inner sect, we’ve also made peace with Song Qian Ji, and now everything is fine?”

“Song Qian Ji just accepted the gifts and thanked us very politely…”

“Did you carefully observe his eyes?” Zhao Yu Ping shook his head. “A person like him has deep thoughts and many tactics. Once a grudge is formed, he can’t be allowed to remain. If you don’t act against him, sooner or later he’ll kill you!”

The young steward’s heart tightened, breaking out in a cold sweat. If something happened to Zhao Yu Ping, they, the small fry, would be the first to be scapegoated.

“What are you afraid of? This isn’t my idea.” Zhao Yu Ping pointed upward with one hand. “It’s from above.”

The young steward quickly glanced in the direction of Chishui Peak, then lowered his head again.

In Qian Kun Hall, Zhao Tai Ji had developed murderous intent toward Song Qian Ji and angrily drew his sword. Later, when True Master Xu Yun changed his mind and kept Song Qian Ji until the Grand Assembly, it undoubtedly left him very dissatisfied.

Few people knew about this. Apart from the seven people in the hall that night, only Zhao Yu Ping knew.

Suddenly, a steward hurried in and whispered something in Zhao Yu Ping’s ear.

Zhao Yu Ping was slightly startled, his expression bewildered, and then he laughed loudly:

“He said that?”

“True! Almost all outer sect disciples and over ten Disciplinary Hall disciples heard it.”

Zhao Yu Ping narrowed his eyes.

Just when he was worried about not finding a suitable blade, Song Qian Ji handed him one—too considerate indeed.

Without fanatical followers from prestigious backgrounds, how could Miao Yan’s reputation as the “Number One Beauty” have emerged?

Many people considered Fairy Miao Yan’s reputation more important than their own.

Disrespect toward Fairy Miao Yan was more serious than disrespect toward themselves.

They controlled the narrative among the younger generation in the cultivation world. When they expressed their admiration, they didn’t allow others to express dislike.

If male cultivators said anything negative about Miao Yan, they would go “reason” with them; if female cultivators criticized Miao Yan, they would be labeled as narrow-minded and jealous of talent.

Over time, no one was willing to speak ill of Miao Yan in public.

Only Song Qian Ji, not knowing what madness had seized him again.

This wasn’t like jumping off Broken Mountain Cliff, which seemed suicidal but could open up a path to survival.

Song Qian Ji’s momentary verbal indulgence would inevitably bring endless trouble.

“Some people always arrive early for the Grand Assembly,” Zhao Yu Ping asked. “When will the people from Qingya Academy and Celestial Sound Sect arrive?”

“In ten days.”

“Too slow. Arrange cloud ships to receive them.”

The young steward nodded repeatedly.

Zhao Yu Ping took out tea utensils and began boiling water, giving his final instructions:

“Before they arrive, I want everyone in Hua Wei Sect, both inner and outer sect, from top to bottom, to know about what Song Qian Ji said.”

A carved five-colored glass cup paired with new spring tea.

The amber tea reflected the delicate pink peach blossoms outside the window. Even before drinking, he was already intoxicated.

What a fine “rouge-covered skull” indeed.

****

Song Qian Ji was sharpening bamboo strips and making a fence.

Meng He Ze rotated his wheelchair to follow him, wanting to help but unable to, only occasionally handing over a hemp rope or scissors.

“Senior Brother Song, aren’t you practicing swordsmanship?” After following for a while, Meng He Ze couldn’t help but ask curiously. “Don’t you absorb spiritual energy or meditate to cultivate?”

“Not practicing.”

“Is it because I’m here and it’s inconvenient? Then I’ll leave immediately.”

Song Qian Ji could only explain: “I just don’t feel like practicing today.”

Meng He Ze felt troubled.

Not wanting to cultivate was a terrible thing. For anyone else, he would definitely urge them to stand up—laziness never led to a good outcome!

But this person was Senior Brother Song.

Senior Brother Song had been too diligent and self-disciplined before; he really should take a break.

If he truly didn’t want to practice, it didn’t matter. He would cultivate hard himself to protect him. Work hard to save money to buy pills and spirit herbs for him.

Become stronger to help him find a dao companion… uh, that might not work yet.

But in any case, he could help him on the path to immortality.

Meng He Ze had come to terms with Song Qian Ji’s unusual behavior through self-consolation, but one thing still stuck in his mind:

“Senior Brother Song, why did you say that sentence earlier?”

“Which one?”

“Rouge-covered skull, what’s so… miao…” The latter half was something he could hardly bring himself to say, whispering with meowing sounds.

His meowing made Song Qian Ji laugh heartily, his hands shaking, ruining a strip of emerald bamboo.

Meng He Ze became anxious: “Why don’t you like Fairy Miao Yan? She’s the most beautiful in the world!”

Song Qian Ji asked in return: “What is beauty?”

Meng He Ze was momentarily confused by the question, staring at him in surprise.

Song Qian Ji changed his approach: “Why do you think Miao Yan is beautiful?”

“Does this need a reason? We’ve known this since entering the cultivation world.”

Meng He Ze originally thought that, just like the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, or that cultivation requires spirit stones, Miao Yan’s beauty was also basic common knowledge. “Her appearance is flawless, her talent is high, she understands music, she’s kind and gentle…”

“Are these all true?” Song Qian Ji rapidly sharpened the bamboo strips. “Have you seen her with your own eyes? Your understanding of her is far less than your understanding of Zhou Xiao Yun, so why don’t you think Zhou Xiao Yun is the most beautiful in the world?”

Meng He Ze said in a daze: “But everyone says she’s beautiful.”

“Because many people praise and admire her, so you think she’s beautiful?” Song Qian Ji said. “Then are you fond of her, or are you fond of others’ adoration, fond of her reputation?”

“I don’t know. This matter doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. You’re making me confused!”

Meng He Ze frowned in distress.

He couldn’t answer Song Qian Ji’s questions.

What is beauty? Who decreed that Miao Yan embodies beauty?

I’ve never even seen her, how do I know if she matches my aesthetic?

A flash of insight struck Meng He Ze, and he suddenly exclaimed: “No, I don’t even have aesthetic standards!”

Miao Yan represented the upper-class cultivators’ aesthetic. In this world, beauty and ugliness were determined by them.

A slightly bitter taste arose in his heart. We lower-level cultivators already have hard enough lives, working for you every day. Why must you also set the standards for “beauty”?

Song Qian Ji wrapped hemp rope around the bamboo strips, tying them one by one:

“Miao Yan is proficient in the Celestial Sound Technique. Although her level is high, she doesn’t have strong offensive capabilities. Listening to her zither can enhance one’s cultivation; her appearance is beautiful yet understanding, and she won’t argue with you about right or wrong; she comes from a noble background yet is quiet and gentle, seeming not to care about matters beyond her music…

“So to sum it up in nine words: looks beautiful, has many uses, causes few problems.”

Meng He Ze was astounded by this description: “So they don’t truly like Miao Yan either, they only praise her because she benefits them.”

“The more a female cultivator resembles Miao Yan, the more easily she’ll be praised.” Song Qian Ji bent down to adjust the fence position, calmly saying, “Miao Yan is a measuring stick for perfection, a virtual shadow for projected fantasies, but never a real person. This is unfair to her, but it’s also what she chose for herself.”

“Why do I feel like you know her so well?” Meng He Ze murmured.

Song Qian Ji had already set up two rows of bamboo fences.

He didn’t have seeds yet. After searching his entire home, he only found three potatoes.

The potatoes had sprouted several clusters of pale green shoots. The more he looked at them, the more adorable he found them, and decided to plant them first.

“Senior Brother Song, since you don’t like Miao Yan!” Meng He Ze wanted to share his resentment, “From today on, I also don’t don’t li…”

The young man stammered for a long time, finding it difficult to say something contrary to his heart.

Song Qian Ji finally put down his precious potatoes and turned to look at him.

“If you were forty or four hundred years old, I might advise you to let it go. But you’re only fourteen. So whatever you like, say it loudly. Whatever you want, fight for it with all your might.

“If you make a mistake, correct it. If you cause trouble, bear it. Don’t worry about anyone, especially not about me.”

Heaven is vast, earth is vast, but a youth’s dreams are the vastest of all.

As long as Meng He Ze didn’t become the Master of the Evil Path in this lifetime, he could do whatever he pleased.

The youth’s eyes brightened, and he shouted: “I want to participate in the Grand Assembly!”

“That’s good.”

“I want to take the most powerful master as my teacher!”

“Not bad.”

“I want to become a great figure!”

“You can.”

Meng He Ze’s voice suddenly lowered: “I also want to marry a beautiful dao companion. Being envied by everyone is better than being bullied by everyone.”

“I’m not your father!” Song Qian Ji threw the potatoes. “You don’t need to tell me everything!”

After throwing them, he quickly picked them up again.

Song Qian Ji stroked the small tender sprouts, saying with concern: “Hope I didn’t damage them.”

The newly turned soil was soft and clean, warmed by the gentle sunlight, like a fluffy cotton quilt, emanating the unique fragrance of earth.

He cut the sprouting potatoes into pieces, each with a few eyes, dug holes, and buried them in the soil.

Spring was a good time to plant potatoes.

Just a few spring rains, and they would grow into verdant leaves and bloom with light purple flowers.

Much like the current Meng He Ze, covered in dust and dreaming unrealistic dreams.

But given a favorable wind, he could soar upward, shooting straight to the sky.

“Senior Brother Song, I was wrong, please don’t be angry.” Seated in his wheelchair, watching Song Qian Ji personally shoveling soil, Meng He Ze felt even more guilty:

“When my injuries heal, I’ll plant for Senior Brother!”

Song Qian Ji was shocked.

I was kindly consoling you, yet you covet my land?

I have just this palm-sized vegetable garden. If you plant in it, what will I plant?!

“Go back to the medical hall to recuperate,” Song Qian Ji smiled, sincerely trying to dissuade him. “Before you’re healed, don’t come here anymore.”

Meng He Ze nodded repeatedly, moved by his concern.

Song Qian Ji had forgotten that this youngster had the Red Jade Buddhist Beads by his side. Although not as potent as the “Immortal Spring,” it was still a fine magical artifact that protected its owner and enhanced healing.

Combined with Meng He Ze’s strong foundation, in just two short days, he led a group of outer sect disciples, full of energy, returning in force.

“Senior Brother Song, the news about the Grand Literary Assembly was announced at the Steward’s Hall today.” Zhou Xiao Yun proudly presented a piece of paper like a treasure. “We made a copy for you. All the rules for the assembly are here, without a single word missing or extra!”

Song Qian Ji was watering the potatoes in the ground. Although this paper was useless to him, he still received it with both hands and expressed his thanks.

Days ago, rumors had already spread from the inner sect. When the news of the assembly was officially announced, it still caused a huge sensation in the outer sect.

The cultivation world’s grand event held once every decade—this time it was Hua Wei Sect’s turn to host.

Even outer sect disciples of the host could register to participate. Even if not competing, being an ordinary spectator throughout would be eye-opening enough to reminisce for the rest of one’s life.

Meng He Ze was radiant, showing no trace of injury, except that he seemed to have grown taller and his physique appeared more robust:

“There are four main events: zither, chess, calligraphy and painting, and performance competition. I’ve looked carefully, and the performance competition is best for us. Senior Brother Song, let me register for you.”

Song Qian Ji: “I’ll register for calligraphy and painting.”

Meng He Ze was shocked: “No way!”

“Before coming to the mountain, I also liked to draw birds, flowers, fish, and insects at home.” Zhou Xiao Yun gently discouraged him: “But this calligraphy and painting is different from ordinary art. Those who register for this event are mostly scholars from Qingya Academy who specialize in talisman drawing, with a force that penetrates paper. We amateur enthusiasts can’t compete with them.”

Meng He Ze continued to persuade: “There are also the zither and chess events. On the surface, they’re about playing the zither and chess, but they test the Celestial Sound Technique, formations, and calculations. Most participants are cultivators from Celestial Sound Sect and Purple Cloud Observatory—we’re not up to that either.”

“Ascending to fame” meant climbing high mountains to become known throughout the world.

As for “literary gathering,” whether truly refined in taste or merely pretentious, it had many formalities and couldn’t be like a martial arts contest with flesh and blood flying.

They could directly compare Celestial Sound Technique, formation mastery, or talisman drawing skills, but they insisted on comparing music performance, chess playing, and calligraphy and painting.

The only performance competition left for martial cultivators to display their skills also required fighting pleasingly to be called a “performance.”

Song Qian Ji could understand. If those disciples from prestigious families also had to fight bloodily and risk their lives for a magical artifact or a piece of land, how would they be different from scattered cultivators like them with mud on their legs?

“It’s fine. I’ll just register for calligraphy and painting.”

Whether playing an entire piece of music or completing a whole game of chess, both were too slow and troublesome. Only the rules for calligraphy and painting were simplest, allowing one to casually write or draw a few strokes.

Meng He Ze looked worried: “Do you know how to draw talismans?”

Song Qian Ji: “A little bit.”

Coming from a scattered cultivator background, his techniques were learned haphazardly—he knew a bit of everything.

But this kind of leisurely gathering had nothing to do with his previous life.

He was always escaping, rushing somewhere, fighting for survival, battling—never willing to stop, never able to stop.

Song Qian Ji thought, Chen Hong Zhu only said she wanted me to stay until the end of the Grand Assembly.

But I refuse to use my sword, and they can’t do anything about it.

They all fear Xian Jian Chen.

Song Qian Ji didn’t fear him. Because even until his last desperate escape across the snowy wilderness in his previous life, there had been no news of Xian Jian Chen, alive or dead.

That’s what happens when the “savior” Wei Zhen Yu is the true son of the Heavenly Way.

Once the Sword God had set up his golden finger, he should have retired after completing his mission, not stealing his spotlight.

It wasn’t just Xian Jian Chen.

When Song Qian Ji was still struggling at the bottom, the cultivation world had a saying about “One Immortal, One Ghost, One Saint, One God,” referring to four powerful cultivators at the Form Transformation Realm: “Zither Immortal, Chess Ghost, Calligraphy Saint, and Sword God.”

These four extraordinary masters, simply because of “fate,” passed on their lifelong learning to the savior, asking nothing in return.

After leaving their legacy, some died of natural causes, some perished from illness, some went into seclusion…

Later, it was time for the younger generation to flourish.

“Master of the Evil Path” Meng Zheng Xian stirred up trouble, “Undying in a Hundred Battles” Song Qian Ji commanded the heroes.

After a brief period of glory, they fell like meteors.

Through the sifting of the great waves, the savior Wei Zhen Yu arrived late, saving the great edifice from collapse, and winning the hearts of all under heaven.

After his death, Song Qian Ji saw fragments of the river of time and, based on details, determined that Wei Zhen Yu was at most a few years younger than him, likely from the same generation.

But how could someone so fortunate have remained unknown in the early stages?

After being reborn, he understood. If Meng Zheng Xian could originally be named Meng He Ze, then Wei Zhen Yu might have changed his name too.

He likely wore a disguise, following a low-key path of great achievement in the early stages, which allowed him to explode onto the scene later.

At the Grand Literary Assembly, many people who wanted to kill him in his previous life, or whom he had killed, were about to appear again.

Song Qian Ji didn’t want to see any of them.

He only wanted to catch a glimpse from afar of that darling of the Heavenly Way, that child of fortune.

Wei Zhen Yu, would he come?