After three days and nights of fleeing, Meng Zheng Xian had truly witnessed Song Qian Ji’s genuine abilities.

He neither exerted effort nor did any work, relying entirely on Song Qian Ji to carry him through one blockade after another, shaking off pursuers, hiding here and there.

Countless times between life and death, he thought Song Qian Ji would abandon him, yet that man still stood before him, wielding his sword with all his might.

Song Qian Ji sat under a tree, meditating and regulating his breath, holding his sword as he kept watch at night, while Meng Zheng Xian sat in the tree, leaning against the rough trunk, truly falling asleep for the first time.

In the late night, cold rain fell in the mountains. Song Qian Ji woke him up and found an abandoned grass hut that belonged to a hunter.

“Why don’t you use protective spiritual energy to ward off the cold, instead of sheltering from the rain like a mortal?” Meng Zheng Xian asked, puzzled.

“When fleeing in the wilderness, spiritual energy recovers slowly, and talismans and pills are limited. Save where you can.”

Song Qian Ji didn’t use a talisman to light a fire but took out a flint from his storage bag.

“Hmph, can this even be called a cultivator’s life?” The Lord of the Unorthodox Path showed disdain in his eyes.

“Since pushing you off that broken mountain cliff, this is the kind of life I’ve lived for these years,” Song Qian Ji said indifferently.

Meng Zheng Xian fell silent.

A rainy night in a thatched cottage, with just a tiny light.

The two lit a fire to boil water, sitting by the window listening to the rain.

Autumn mountains layer upon layer, autumn rain falling steadily.

Meng Zheng Xian had jumped out from the resplendent Golden Palace, rushing about day after day, temporarily forgetting the grudges and disputes, rights and wrongs of the cultivation world.

Where had they come from? From Golden Palace.

Where were they going? To Thousand Channels.

They had flown across the Western Sea, crossed the wasteland, and traversed mountains and ridges, knowing only that they were heading to Thousand Channels.

It was as if Thousand Channels was no longer a real desolate place, but a dreamland they could never reach.

“What would I do in Thousand Channels when it rains?” Meng Zheng Xian asked.

“What else would you do? Have water fights with Little Ji and the others.” Song Qian Ji was laying out a straw mat when he heard this and thought for a moment. “On rainy days, the seeds in the granary easily get damp, and you would help dry them.”

“Impossible.” Meng Zheng Xian shook his head.

But for some reason, he found himself vaguely unwilling for the other to sober up.

In Song Qian Ji’s drunken dream world, there was no Evil Buddha Meng Zheng Xian, only Meng He Ze of Thousand Channels.

He gathered friends, went hunting and on outings, acted chivalrously, and was quite happy.

The young disciples adored him, the local people respected him, and both his parents were alive—his father liked to play chess at the street corner, and go fishing at Thousand Channels River on sunny days, while his mother loved to visit Thousand Channels Market and would make clothes for him.

It was truly a dream.

Song Qian Ji: “If I remember correctly, you would also practice your sword in the rain, observing the rain to refine your sword intent…”

His voice gradually lowered, yet he still forced himself to set up alert formations inside the thatched cottage.

Meng Zheng Xian snorted with laughter, rotating the prayer beads on his wrist: “I practice Blissful Zen, never the sword.”

He suddenly moved, striking Song Qian Ji’s back, attaching a talisman.

Having traveled with him for these days, Song Qian Ji had no defenses against him and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

Meng Zheng Xian helped him onto the straw mat and fed him a spirit pill: “Sleep now.”

He then took out a fire cloud bead that dispelled cold and provided warmth, placing it in Song Qian Ji’s palm.

After everything was properly arranged, he walked to the eaves, facing alone the curtain of autumn rain.

He quietly listened to the sound of rain for a moment, and when the person inside was fast asleep, he spoke: “Come out.”

The previously empty dark rainy night suddenly revealed more than ten silhouettes, kneeling with cupped fists: “Master!”

Meng Zheng Xian frowned: “Lower your voices.”

The arrivals shuddered, becoming even more cautious:

“The reconstruction plan for Golden Palace awaits your review, Master.”

“The affairs of the Western Sea await your decision, Master.”

Jade slips were handed to Meng Zheng Xian. Standing under the eaves, he gave a few instructions and orders, finally stopping the group as they were about to leave:

“Wait, go find some things for This Seat.”

…

When Song Qian Ji woke up, the rain had stopped. Clear, transparent sunlight penetrated the dense forest, shining through the old window frame, and sprinkling light spots all over him.

Birds chirped outside, their sounds light and cheerful.

A bowl of noodles appeared on the table, steaming with white vapor.

“You’re awake. Get up and eat the noodles.” Meng Zheng Xian sat at the table, his back to him, speaking softly:

“When I was young, I was playful and active, always fighting with the neighborhood children. If I won, my father would beat me, scolding me for causing trouble. If I lost, my mother would make me a bowl of noodles, saying that with a full stomach, the body wouldn’t hurt anymore.”

Song Qian Ji rubbed his eyes, slowly rising, and discovered he was covered with a soft, snow-white fleece blanket, and his clothes had been changed to brand-new high-level ceremonial robes. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was: “It doesn’t hurt anymore. Strange.”

His spiritual energy was abundant, his old wounds healed, his entire body comfortable.

Meng Zheng Xian was still talking to himself, his voice even lower:

“After surviving the cliff fall, I didn’t want to return to Hua Wei Sect. I wanted to go home, but the Southern Continent was too far from the Western Continent, with an ocean in between. The world was dangerous, and my cultivation was weak. By the time I returned home, two years had passed.”

“The day I arrived home was the fifteenth of the eighth month, the night of reunion. I saw my entire family die before my eyes. I remember the night sky was red, with orange flames, bright red blood, purple-red moon…”

“A monk saved me and asked if I wanted revenge. You know, revenge is something that must be taken early, or else by the time your enemies have all been killed by others, you’re still just a low-level cultivator. Orthodox cultivation methods progressed too slowly, and I had nowhere to learn, so I learned an evil technique from that monk. Evil path cultivation methods are good—kill a person every ten steps, exactly what I needed. Three years later, I killed those evil cultivators, avenging my entire family.”

“Everything has a price. The stronger the cultivation method I practiced, the more severe the backlash during the full moon each year. In recent years, reciting sutras can no longer suppress my killing intent. If I stop practicing, my enemies will come to kill me; if I continue practicing, I will eventually lose my sanity and become a monster.”

“Lord of the Unorthodox Path—I’ve grown somewhat tired of it. Song Qian Ji, where did you come from…”

Song Qian Ji put on his clothes and got out of bed, sitting opposite Meng Zheng Xian: “Little Meng, are you reciting sutras again? Did you just call my name?”

Though the Evil Buddha was a false monk, he fingered prayer beads, meditated, and recited sutras every night.

Meng Zheng Xian turned around, looking out the window: “What can I talk about with a drunk? Eat your noodles!”

Green scallions, rich chicken broth, drops of fragrant oil.

Song Qian Ji drank two mouthfuls of soup and praised: “Your cooking skills haven’t deteriorated.”

Meng Zheng Xian sighed, not knowing whether he was angry at Song Qian Ji or himself:

“I regret it now. Had I known, I shouldn’t have let you drink the Mortal Realm Wine. After you finish this bowl of noodles, you should leave.”

Ordinary cultivators who drank the Mortal Realm Wine would be drunk and indulgent for three days, but Song Qian Ji’s alcohol tolerance seemed particularly poor.

“Weren’t we supposed to go together?” Song Qian Ji leisurely finished the noodles and asked with puzzlement, “Are you tired from walking? Want to rest a bit?”

Meng Zheng Xian’s back remained still as if he had suddenly made some kind of determination, softly saying “Forget it.”

Song Qian Ji said: “After crossing these two mountains, once we reach Thousand Channels, everything will be fine. Thousand Channels has good feng shui. In spring, there are green fields, and flowers blooming everywhere. In summer, there’s green shade from trees full of birdsong, and you lead hunting parties to the poisonous miasma forest. In autumn during harvest, you help dry the grain. In winter when heavy snow falls, you and Little Ji and the others throw snowballs…”

“Enough! There is no Thousand Channels in this world!” Meng Zheng Xian suddenly turned around, his eyes crimson. “I am not Meng He Ze, and you are not my senior brother!”

Song Qian Ji couldn’t help but be startled.

He saw the Evil Buddha with snow-white hair and tears in his eyes.

“Leave now!” Meng Zheng Xian shouted harshly. “This Seat is the majestic Lord of the Unorthodox Path. I don’t have an independent cultivator senior brother like you!”

“I’ll leave then.” Song Qian Ji grabbed his sword and left without any attachment. “Why are you shouting? So rebellious.”

The sunlight was clear, and the scent of wet leaves was fresh and clean.

This mountain ridge had received a night of rain, and unique white jade spirit mushrooms had sprouted beneath the trees. These mushrooms were delicious and could replenish spiritual energy.

Song Qian Ji had been worn out from these days of rushing about and was too lazy to deal with Meng He Ze anymore. He decided to let the other quietly cry for a while, giving himself time to calm down.

He gathered more than thirty small spirit mushrooms, carrying them in his outer robe as he returned fully loaded when he suddenly felt spiritual energy fluctuations coming from the direction of the thatched cottage.

“Who touched my formation? The aura isn’t Meng He Ze’s. Outsiders have come, more than one person.”

Song Qian Ji’s expression slightly changed as he sprinted madly.

…