The vast Western Sea stretched endlessly, with ink-black waves rolling angrily under the shroud of night fog as howling winds raged.

A flying sword wobbled unsteadily, streaking across the night sky like a meteor.

Two people were on the sword, one standing, one sitting.

The swordsman at the front was covered in wounds, yet his posture remained upright as he gritted his teeth to maintain the flying sword at maximum speed, letting his fresh blood scatter into the pitch-black sea.

The person sitting behind him was completely unharmed, legs swinging lightly as if sitting on a railing enjoying the moon and breeze:

“Song Qian Ji, this world is so vast, where do you intend to take This Seat?”

One man seemed like a fugitive fleeing for his life, the other like someone on a leisurely outing, yet they appeared on the same sword.

“Back to Thousand Channels,” Song Qian Ji answered, then began talking to himself.

This time the two were extremely close, with no laughing, singing, or dancing around them—only the howling sea winds. Meng Zheng Xian finally heard that indistinct sentence:

“Want to return to Thousand Channels to farm.”

What nonsense was this?

Meng Zheng Xian narrowed his eyes slightly: “Interesting.”

The Mortal Realm Wine could amplify desires, causing people to expose their true nature.

Meng Zheng Xian firmly believed human nature was inherently evil. Year after year at Golden Palace’s night banquets, so many seemingly righteous cultivators from orthodox paths removed their human skin, revealing their ugly nature.

Distinguished orthodox sects? He held them in contempt.

But Song Qian Ji had drunk the wine, talked about wanting to farm, drawn his sword to fight his way out, and even said he wanted to save him.

If Song Qian Ji wasn’t drunk, why was he speaking words Meng Zheng Xian couldn’t understand, rambling incoherently, and confused?

If he was drunk, how could he still design an escape route based on years of experience, evading “pursuers”?

“Where is Thousand Channels?” This time Meng Zheng Xian was truly curious. “Could it be the Thousand Channels County in Hua Wei Sect’s territory in the Western Continent?”

Song Qian Ji nodded.

Meng Zheng Xian asked: “Why?”

Born among mortals, he paid more attention to the mortal world than cultivators born in the cultivation world.

He had heard that in recent years, Thousand Channels had suffered continuous drought, with plagues and famine running rampant, people barely surviving. Because the temples couldn’t collect incense offerings, Hua Wei Sect didn’t bother caring whether the local mortals lived or died.

A desolate land depleted of spiritual energy—why would a drunkard be so obsessed with such a place?

Song Qian Ji found Meng Zheng Xian’s question strange:

“Aren’t you going home? Your parents, your household manager and cook, and your friends are all there… You’ve been gone for so long, don’t you miss them?”

Meng Zheng Xian was thunderstruck, his expression changing dramatically: “How dare you mock This Seat!”

He angrily waved his sleeve, about to shatter the skull of the man before him with one palm strike.

Before his words faded, the raging sea churned, and clouds and water surged violently!

A water spout shot skyward, and more than ten black shadows rode the waves, breaking through the sea surface.

The person leading the charge was nine feet tall, wielding a trident wreathed in black energy, smashing it down toward the flying sword:

“Old thief Song! Release the Evil Buddha immediately, and I’ll spare your life!”

The others shouted in unison: “Master, your servants are late in coming to your rescue!”

This strike carried the force of a thousand jun.

Song Qian Ji’s flying sword spun lightly, avoiding it like a swimming fish, and he waved his sleeve, throwing out a stack of explosive talismans: “Western Sea Yaksha! When did you gain the right to interfere when I take someone out to sea?”

The talismans instantly detonated, creating bursts of light and rolling thunder sounds over the sea.

“Since you refuse the easy way, don’t blame us for taking your head as a drinking snack!” The attacker cursed loudly, “Form the array!”

Song Qian Ji laughed heartily: “My head is right here. Whoever has the ability, come and take it!”

He suddenly turned back, his expression becoming gentle: “Little Meng, hold tight. Senior Brother will fight our way out.”

Meng Zheng Xian withdrew his palm and pulled back his sleeve, his gaze subtly changing as he coldly watched Song Qian Ji fight while bathed in blood.

The unorthodox cultivators excelled in parasites and poisons, striking without mercy.

Crimson poison mist and hideous poisonous insects coordinated with various vicious techniques, attacking Song Qian Ji relentlessly.

For a time, evil winds howled, and black clouds obscured the moon.

The flying sword rose and fell between water and sky, like an injured silver snake, its wild bloodlust further provoked.

Song Qian Ji fought fiercely in all directions, identifying weaknesses and attaching three “Light Cloud Talismans” to the flying sword.

The sword became swift as the wind, breaking through the formation in an instant.

The pursuers chased for ten li but couldn’t catch up, cursing Song Qian Ji loudly.

The Yaksha shouted: “Master, your servant is incompetent! We will regroup and come to rescue you! Please take care of yourself!”

Meng Zheng Xian gave a light chuckle, thinking what fools they were.

Those on the unorthodox path in the Western Sea couldn’t possibly know that he had dismissed Jin Dao and Jin Lü, voluntarily leaving with Song Qian Ji.

They merely wanted to take the opportunity to show their loyalty, pretending to risk their lives to rescue their master, hoping to gain some benefits in the future.

“You are indeed formidable,” Meng Zheng Xian said languidly, “but your spiritual energy is nearly depleted. We won’t be able to fly out of this sea.”

Song Qian Ji wiped blood from his lips with the back of his hand: “I have a concealment armor in my storage bag. Put it on and run westward.”

“And what about you?” Meng Zheng Xian probed.

“I’ll run east, leaving traces along the way to draw away the pursuers. Then we’ll circle and meet in Thousand Channels in three days.”

“But you’re injured,” Meng Zheng Xian’s gaze fell on the ghastly wound on Song Qian Ji’s chest and abdomen.

“Just a minor wound.” Song Qian Ji tilted his head back and swallowed a medicinal pill.

Meng Zheng Xian glanced at it—an inferior-quality energy-restoring and blood-stanching pill.

Truly a poor independent cultivator.

“What exactly are you after?” Meng Zheng Xian asked.

Song Qian Ji didn’t want treasures or power; he couldn’t see through him.

“What am I after?” Song Qian Ji asked in return.

“Why are you treating me this way?”

The blood and smoke were left behind, and the sea surface returned to calmness.

A full moon emerged from the layered clouds, illuminating Song Qian Ji’s blood-spattered profile.

Meng Zheng Xian saw him sigh helplessly:

“I don’t want this either. I originally just wanted to farm a little land, grow some flowers, and live leisurely good days. But since you called me Senior Brother, I have no choice but to take extra care of you.”

At this moment, Meng Zheng Xian felt extremely absurd.

Song Qian Ji was truly drunk.

“Senior Brother? Take care of… me?” Meng Zheng Xian muttered, “I, the supreme Lord of the Unorthodox Path, the greatest demon lord of this age, am being protected by a drunkard one day.”

He laughed self-mockingly: “Ha, so there’s still one person in this world willing to risk his life to protect me.”

The moon was perfectly round, like an enormous silver plate.

Colorful clouds drifted, and sea breezes caressed their faces.

Meng Zheng Xian slowly spoke: “I hold banquets during the full moon, and every year countless assassins come to kill me. Because on this night, I suffer a backlash from my cultivation technique—every meridian and bone ache as if being scraped by a thousand knives and gnawed by ten thousand ants in my heart. Everyone knows the opportunity is fleeting; if they want my life, they must seize the chance.”

“The moon waxes and wanes. From the fifteenth day of the eighth month to the first day of the ninth month is precisely my weakest time each year. You’ve taken me away like this, and once we leave the Western Sea, the whole world is filled with people who want to kill me. You’re just an independent cultivator—what can you do…”

Song Qian Ji thought for a moment after listening, then simply said: “Then we can’t split up. We must stay together.”

Meng Zheng Xian’s gaze was deep: “You want to protect me, aren’t you afraid of being condemned by thousands, accused of consorting with a demon lord?!”

Song Qian Ji shook his head: “I’m not afraid.”

“Aren’t you afraid of the heavy pursuit, with no way to turn back?”

“Not afraid.”

“Aren’t you afraid of falling into eternal calamity, dying with no place for burial?”

“Not afraid.”

Meng Zheng Xian smiled, and despite his three thousand strands of silver hair, his smile held a hint of youthful innocence:

“Then let’s go together. Let’s see how far we can go.”

He wanted to see exactly how far Song Qian Ji could go.

He only hoped this man wouldn’t regret it after sobering up.

“Good.” Song Qian Ji’s eyes were hazy with drunkenness. “Back to Thousand Channels.”

…

“The Master wants us to pretend to hunt him down? How could this be?”

After the great battle, the once-glorious fairy island was reduced to ruins.

Four people gathered in an underground secret chamber, carefully examining the Evil Buddha’s secret order.

“What should we do?” Golden Peach asked.

Jin Lü said: “What else can we do? Just follow the Master’s instructions.”

Golden Hairpin shuddered: “Has the Master discovered something? How could Song Qian Ji…”

Jin Dao shouted: “If the Master had discovered anything, how would we still be alive?!”