Song Qian Ji fell rapidly, the wild wind howling in his ears. He instinctively summoned his natal flying sword to save the person: “Come!”

Nothing happened. The falling youth’s screams continued.

It seemed the most unbearable thing wasn’t “self-detonation at a dead end,” but “joy turning to sorrow after rebirth.”

The current “Song Qian Ji” was an outer disciple of the Hua Wei Sect, with shallow cultivation and limited Dao abilities.

That natal sword that came at his call and swept across the world would only be forged a hundred years later.

Song Qian Ji gritted his teeth, forcefully kicked against the cliff face to gain momentum, and shot like an arrow toward the falling youth.

Extending his long arm, he caught a piece of the other’s sleeve. Before the fabric could tear, he firmly grasped the youth’s wrist, while simultaneously drawing a short dagger from his bosom and driving it fiercely into the cliff face.

Rocks splattered, grazing his face as they flew past.

Their fall abruptly stopped, and the screaming ceased. Finally, silence.

The youth gasped for breath, clutching Song Qian Ji’s right wrist tightly. They wore similar clothes—the standard outer disciple uniforms of the Hua Wei Sect, nothing more than coarse white robes with indigo waistbands. At this moment, with their long sleeves filled with night wind, swaying in the air, they looked like two hanged ghosts.

The weight of both “ghosts” pressed entirely on Song Qian Ji’s left hand, which gripped the dagger with bulging veins.

The round moon shone coldly, illuminating thousands of peaks, yet unable to penetrate the bottomless abyss.

This cliff area had special earth veins that naturally suppressed cultivators’ spiritual energy circulation, making it an ideal place for murder and body disposal.

Beast roars thundered through the mountains, and white mist rose from the bottom of the cliff. Ten zhang away on the rock face, a lush ancient tree jutted out at an angle.

Song Qian Ji called out: “Hold tight!”

The youth was anxious, his palms slick with cold sweat, babbling through choked sobs: “I can’t hold on, I can’t do it. Father, Mother, I’ve failed you.”

“Do you see that tree? I’ll count to three and swing you over.”

Song Qian Ji looked down. In the pale moonlight, he met a bloodless, pale face.

Thirteen or fourteen years old, with delicate, childish features, and eyes full of despair.

For a moment, he couldn’t remember the other’s name. This first stepping stone should be a nameless person, and given the time that had passed, naturally, his impression was vague.

“Song Qian Ji!” The other called out his name first, red-eyed, “I, Meng He Ze, have always acted honorably, never harmed anyone, and have no grudge against you. Why would you…”

Song Qian Ji began counting: “Three, two.” He drew out all the sparse spiritual energy in his body and exerted himself suddenly. “One!”

The youth named Meng He Ze soared through the air, tracing an arc: “Ah!”

The old tree branches shook violently, leaves rustling down.

Meng He Ze clung to the branch with all four limbs, still in shock, shouting in breakdown:

“Are you sick?! Throwing me just like that—couldn’t you give me some mental preparation? What if you hadn’t thrown accurately? I nearly died!”

But turning back, he saw Song Qian Ji’s right arm hanging unnaturally, twisted at a strange angle.

It was broken.

Song Qian Ji’s forehead was covered in cold sweat, but his expression remained calm, only slightly pursing his lips to endure the pain, clearly having anticipated this.

Meng He Ze was stunned, his anger dissipating: “Hey, are you all right?”

Tonight’s life-threatening ups and downs had left his mind in a jumble.

Song Qian Ji had unhesitatingly injured his arm to save him.

And it was his sword arm—the right one.

Everyone in the outer sect knew that Song Qian Ji practiced the sword diligently, through all seasons, rain or shine, to the point of abnormal hardship, all to pass the assessment and enter the inner sect.

Tomorrow morning was the outer sect competition, yet tonight he had broken his arm and fallen from a cliff, effectively destroying his future and severing his immortal path.

If Song Qian Ji’s right arm hadn’t been injured, he could have climbed up using just the dagger. No, Song Qian Ji wouldn’t have needed to jump down at all.

Why?

Could it be that he liked me, and since he couldn’t “share a fur coat in life,” he sought to “share a grave in death,” planning to kill me first, then jump off the cliff in devotion, only to have a change of heart after taking action, then risking his life to save me?

But I’m not into cut sleeves. Meng He Ze felt conflicted: “Senior Brother Song, are you all right?”

If Song Qian Ji knew what was going through the other’s mind, he would certainly have cursed loudly: A teenager’s dog brain with nothing proper in it, all filled with romantic nonsense!

But he couldn’t respond for the moment. Not because of the pain—he had endured all kinds of suffering in his previous life, and this little injury was nothing to him.

Rather, he was astounded.

Just now, when his right arm was dislocated, he discovered that although this body had extremely shallow foundations, unable to even use a lightening technique, there was a shimmering light in his cinnabar field, seemingly nurturing a powerful magical artifact. A warm, flowing current seeped from his cinnabar field, quietly nourishing the meridians of his right arm. It was a healing artifact.

This shouldn’t be possible. The fifteen-year-old Song Qian Ji had never even touched a real magical artifact.

He only had a low-grade sword, bought from the inner sect steward, made from the leftover waste materials of personal disciples’ sword forging, which had exhausted all his savings.

Not being a magical artifact, it naturally couldn’t be refined and stored in his cinnabar field for nurturing. Every day after sword practice, Song Qian Ji would carefully wipe it clean, store it in a box, and only carry a short dagger for self-defense when going out—the very one now embedded in the cliff face.

Poverty is deadly. If the sword were damaged, he had no money to repair or reforge it. What would he use for the outer sect assessment?

Song Qian Ji carefully sensed his cinnabar field, his spiritual perception still weak, barely able to employ the meditation technique of self-observation. He saw only a blurry white outline, shaped like a treasure bottle.

It was the Purification Bottle!

That spatial artifact he had personally refined to hold the Immortal Spring, capable of preserving spiritual energy without dissipation and keeping flowing water from corruption.

Song Qian Ji trembled slightly as he saw the five-colored light emanating from the bottle.

No one was more familiar with the contents than he—the Immortal Spring. He had sought it through nine deaths and one life, attracting worldwide pursuit and contention, a supreme treasure of heaven and earth containing boundless vitality.

It should have perished with his self-detonation, yet now it still floated quietly in his cinnabar field, radiating a soft glow.

In his previous life, until his death, Song Qian Ji had never discovered the healing effects of the Immortal Spring, or rather, he had never attempted to explore its other uses.

People suspected he wanted to keep the treasure for himself, but he had always considered it “public property,” not even storing it in his cinnabar field, but keeping it in a spatial artifact on his person.

Song Qian Ji tried to withdraw the Purification Bottle, but his spiritual perception burned with excruciating pain. The treasure had spiritual pressure, similar to the aura of a powerful cultivator. With his current meager cultivation and weak spiritual perception, he could not touch an artifact of this level.

A treasure mountain within reach, yet untouchable.

Song Qian Ji wasn’t anxious; he only sighed deeply, filled with emotions.

Since heaven had predetermined the savior, the fate of humanity wasn’t his concern. Better to find a quiet, remote place in the mortal world—with the endless vitality of the Immortal Spring, any desolate mountain could become a paradise beyond the world.

The average mortal lifespan was fifty years; with proper care, he could live to ninety. The calamity of heaven and earth would not begin for another one hundred and twenty years. Before the natural disaster, in times of peace and prosperity, he still had many good days ahead.

A brand new path appeared before him. A path without bloody slaughter, only fertile fields, a flock of chickens and ducks, a large house…

He hung in mid-air, clutching the dagger, swaying in the mountain wind, looking disheveled.

Yet his heart was extremely content as if a great wind had blown away the burdens in his chest, truly giving him a new life.

Let whoever wants to cultivate the immortal path do so. Let whoever wants to support this heaven and earth do so.

Tonight, leave Hua Wei Mountain, blend into the mortal world as a mortal, raise dogs, fight cocks, farm the land, and live a short but carefree life.

“Senior Brother Song, say something!” Meng He Ze called to him persistently.

“I’m fine.” Song Qian Ji opened his eyes, in a good mood. “This place has special earth veins, the mountain and river formations create a ‘trapped dragon lock.’ Your previous spiritual energy pathway won’t work here. I’ll teach you a set of new lightning technique incantations. Remember them carefully. Once you learn them, you can come and go as you please.”

“Why did you try to kill me, then save me, and now teach me techniques?” Meng He Ze’s expression was complex.

Song Qian Ji: “Focus your spirit, embrace the primal, guard the unity.”

Meng He Ze, unwilling to miss this opportunity, sat cross-legged on the branch in proper meditation. At first half-believing, he grew increasingly astonished as he listened. This was no ordinary incantation. Profound and exquisite, yet accessible, he wondered where Song Qian Ji had obtained it.

Outer sect disciples were disciples in name only, with a status no different from menial servants within the sect. Planting spirit fields, feeding spirit beasts, mining spirit stones, serving inner disciples and stewards—all to exchange for meager spirit stones to purchase cultivation methods. Apart from the most basic food and clothing, the sect provided nothing.

In the cultivation world, techniques, spirit stones, and precious lands were firmly controlled by the major sects and clans, divided up completely, almost cutting off the path of ascension for those at the bottom.

If you didn’t want to work as a servant in exchange for resources, it didn’t matter—without you, countless mortals were waiting for the chance to step onto the immortal path.

Meng He Ze felt indescribable emotions. This exquisite lightning technique from Senior Brother Song must have been obtained through great effort, prepared as a “trump card” for tomorrow’s outer sect assessment, yet now he was imparting it to him unreservedly.

“Have you memorized it all?” Song Qian Ji frowned, dissatisfied with the other’s distraction.

“Word for word, thank you for passing on the teaching, Senior Brother.”

Song Qian Ji’s expression softened. He hadn’t expected this youngster to have such good aptitude, able to remember everything even while multitasking.

Considering the “thank you, Senior Brother” and seeing the child was teachable, he decided to finish what he started:

“Find a place to get a good night’s sleep. Don’t see anyone. Wait until tomorrow’s assessment is over before showing your face.”

Meng He Ze was shocked: “You want me to miss the assessment? With your right arm injured and my absence, wouldn’t the inner sect position just be handed to that Zhao fellow? I can’t accept that—can you?”

Song Qian Ji thought about his previous life experience and felt an immense headache: “Zhao Ji Heng is a family nephew of Steward Zhao from the inner sect. Steward Zhao has served the Hua Wei Sect for fifty years; dealing with a few outer disciples is as easy as turning his palm. This assessment is just a formality; Zhao Ji Heng is practically guaranteed a spot. Understand? Otherwise, why do you think we’re both hanging here in the wind late at night instead of sleeping? Just enjoying the breeze?”

In his previous life, following someone’s instigation, he had made a deal with Steward Zhao, thinking that eliminating Meng He Ze would secure him an opportunity to enter the inner sect.

At the assessment assembly, images of Song Qian Ji pushing someone off the cliff were repeatedly played, publicly punishing him.

Amid public outrage, he was universally condemned. With his death sentence determined, he received three hundred strikes of the spirit whip on the spot.

Zhao Ji Heng was smoothly selected and gained the reputation of upholding justice for his fellow disciples. As for Meng He Ze, who was pushed into the deep abyss, no one truly cared whether he lived or died, let alone searched the mountain for his corpse.

Song Qian Ji escaped prison at the risk of his life and became a rogue cultivator from then on.

Meng He Ze wasn’t stupid; he immediately understood: “So Zhao Ji Heng has this relationship with Steward Zhao? No wonder. Steward Zhao wanted you to eliminate me, and if you hadn’t pretended to agree, he would have used other means. So you turned the tables, making them think we’re dead. Once the assessment is over, we’ll be safe.” His expression became slightly embarrassed. “Senior Brother Song has such profound intentions. I thought you…”

Song Qian Ji didn’t understand: “You thought I what?”

“No, nothing!” Meng He Ze changed the subject. “After this incident, I truly recognize Senior Brother Song’s character. Senior Brother’s conduct is noble and pure, disdaining to associate with villains or be corrupted. Saving my life, teaching me techniques—I had many misconceptions about you before.”

“Misunderstanding!” Song Qian Ji hastily interrupted. “It’s not like that! Just consider that I owed you in my past life, all right?”

Given Meng He Ze’s aptitude, if he hadn’t died falling off the cliff in his previous life, he should have become a person of significance.

He suddenly felt a sincere appreciation for talent and earnestly advised:

“The immortal path is long; don’t be too concerned with momentary gains and losses. What regret is there in missing a mere outer sect assessment? The third day of next month is the Ascending Fame Gathering held once every ten years, with Hua Wei Sect hosting this time. Even outer disciples can participate. Prepare early, conserve your strength until then, and you won’t lack opportunities to stand out.”

Having said what needed to be said and what could be said, it was time to fake his death, leave the mountain, and farm!

Song Qian Ji was full of ambition as his five fingers released their grip.

Meng He Ze was moved by what he heard. Such important information, Song Qian Ji shared without reservation, pointing out a path for him. He didn’t even seek gratitude in return, saying nonsense like “consider that I owed you in my past life.”

He wanted to thank heaven and earth, thank the evil force Steward Zhao, thank the second-generation cultivator Senior Brother Zhao, for allowing him to make a true friend in the outer sect where people typically fawned over the powerful and stepped on the weak.

“Good, let’s wait for the Ascending Fame Assembly. You and I, brothers working together…”

Before he could finish, he suddenly saw Song Qian Ji smile weakly, his left hand slipping from the dagger, falling straight into the abyss.

The cliff’s tree branches jutted out at angles; he broke through seven or eight on his way down, yet his momentum remained undiminished.

“Senior Brother Song!” Meng He Ze’s smile instantly froze, all color draining from his face.

The youth’s heart-wrenching cry echoed in the deep abyss: “No—”

Song Qian Ji wanted nothing more than to laugh uproariously.

Goodbye, little brat!

Goodbye, Hua Wei Sect!

Wait… Damn it, why is he jumping after me?!

Can’t young people have some independence? Even following trends when jumping off cliffs?!