Song Qian Ji didn’t know that two people were already waiting at his courtyard gate, even wagering on whether he would return tonight.

After descending more than fifty steps in darkness, the light suddenly appeared—not the warm glow of lanterns or candles, but a soft luminescence emanating from the cold walls on all sides.

The walls were embedded with thousands of bright pearls. Standing among them was like falling into a sea of stars—extravagant and magnificent.

Song Qian Ji traversed through this star sea, passing three doors. The doors were labeled:

Spiritual Herbs and Pills, Cultivation Methods and Secret Manuals, Magical Tools and Materials…

Each door was inscribed with formations, leaving only a hole the size of a bowl.

He stopped at the fourth door and raised his hand to knock.

A cold, aged voice came through the opening:

“Buying or selling?”

“Selling talismans.”

“Energy-Nourishing Talisman, two hundred; Energy-Gathering Talisman, two hundred fifty; Tracking Talisman, three hundred…”

Song Qian Ji interrupted: “I’m only selling an Energy-Nourishing Talisman.”

“How many do you have?”

“One.”

Silence behind the door.

Song Qian Ji could almost feel the other person’s frustration: Why would you come to a black shop for a transaction smaller than a mosquito’s leg?

“Pass it in,” the aged voice said weakly.

Song Qian Ji rubbed his nose: “I don’t have it with me…”

Before the person inside could respond, the old shopkeeper’s low shout came from behind: “Young man, I don’t care whose descendant you are. Didn’t your elders tell you that toying with a black shop comes at a price?”

Song Qian Ji turned to look at him: “May I borrow some talisman paper, cinnabar sand, and a talisman brush?”

“You want to write it here, now?” The voice from behind the door raised in pitch.

“I’ll be quick,” Song Qian Ji nodded.

Young talisman masters typically closed their doors to visitors before crafting, bathing and burning incense, then sitting in meditation for days to reach their peak mental state.

They would take advantage of their fullest spiritual energy to write many talismans consecutively, only stopping when their spiritual consciousness couldn’t bear the burden or when their spiritual energy was exhausted. If their concentration wavered slightly or their brush-strokes lacked power, the talisman would be ruined.

Generally, talisman masters wouldn’t dare attempt to create talismans until they had formed their Golden Core.

“Hmph, I’d like to see this. Xiao Zhuo, give him what he needs.”

The old shopkeeper didn’t believe that this young man—only at the Qi Condensation stage and too poor to afford a zither—could create anything worthwhile. He had seen much in his life, but if there was such a shoddy talisman master, it would be an insult to the entire profession.

The young assistant brought over a tray. Besides what Song Qian Ji had requested, there was also an incense holder, a bowl of clear water, and a clean towel.

Song Qian Ji didn’t cleanse his hands, nor did he light incense.

With one hand, he pressed the pale yellow talisman paper against the door panel; with the other, he took up the brush, dipping it generously in vermilion cinnabar sand.

He didn’t even stand completely straight, as if he were jotting down an IOU for a roadside breakfast vendor after eating on credit.

He raised his wrist, closed his eyes briefly, and then began to write.

Where the brush tip passed, an extremely marvelous energy appeared on the paper. Spiritual energy gushed like a spring from Song Qian Ji’s spiritual palace, flowing through his body’s meridians and energy points, gathering at the brush tip in the cinnabar sand, and finally infusing into the talisman paper with each stroke.

Song Qian Ji lifted his brush, and the vermilion lines on the talisman paper flashed briefly, seeming to gain weight.

“Done.” He passed the talisman through the hole, the entire process taking only the blink of an eye.

Completed in one breath, ready for immediate collection.

The old shopkeeper was speechless, the young assistant bewildered, neither knowing if the talisman had been successful.

Not a sound came from behind the door.

Song Qian Ji urged: “Pay up.”

“I didn’t see clearly. Write another one!” The shopkeeper was the first to regain his senses, his gaze becoming eager again. “Talisman paper is on us, and I’ll give you three hundred! What other talismans can you make?”

Song Qian Ji shook his head: “Two hundred for one, as agreed.”

“Besides the zither, surely you need something else!” The shopkeeper grew somewhat anxious.

“Nothing else,” Song Qian Ji said.

“Young man, we have hairpins, cosmetics, beauty pills, everything you could want—perfect companions to a zither when gifting a female cultivator. Think carefully, you just need something else!”

Song Qian Ji felt slightly impatient; it was getting late.

“I want a mountain,” he raised an eyebrow. “Can you provide that?”

“A mountain?” The shopkeeper was dumbfounded.

Did he mean… an actual mountain?

This request was truly unexpected.

“For a mountain, I need to consult my superiors. Come back at this time tomorrow.”

Song Qian Ji thought to himself, wouldn’t I be more comfortable lying in my courtyard watching stars tomorrow at this time? Why would I need to look at your wall of fake stars?

“Pay up,” he knocked on the door again, urging.

A storage pouch was passed through the hole, accompanied by a surprised voice: “Are you a talisman master? But there’s no talisman aura about you.”

Just as sword cultivators emanated sword energy, someone who frequently wielded a brush would have a distinct quality different from ordinary people.

“I’m not one, I just know a little,” Song Qian Ji weighed the pouch, satisfied, and tossed it to the shopkeeper. “To buy a zither.”

“This is what you call ‘knowing a little,’ then all these years I’ve…” The voice inside said something else softly, but Song Qian Ji had already started heading upstairs and didn’t hear clearly.

He only heard the assistant Xiao Zhuo banging on the door and shouting:

“Master Zheng, the new waves of the Yangtze push the old ones forward—please don’t do anything rash!”

The shopkeeper was also feeling somewhat despondent.

This person was at most fifteen by his bone age, with cultivation no higher than late-stage Qi Condensation. Wearing the robe of a Huawei Sect outer disciple, not caring about his appearance, poor and frugal.

He shouldn’t have come to pawn a sword, shouldn’t know how to create talismans, and especially shouldn’t know of the black shop’s existence.

A body full of mysteries.

According to the three principles—”don’t ask about origins, don’t ask about destinations, don’t ask about life or death”—he absolutely could not open his mouth to detain the visitor. The other party also seemed confident he would adhere to the rules and departed without worry.

He had seen many secrets in the cultivation world. The secrets of great families, major sects, and senior powerhouses were often more terrifying, more appalling, and hidden from public view, exuding a rotten, polluted stench, ready to be buried.

This secret was different, full of vitality and energy, like a seed breaking through the soil, making him intensely curious.

For the first time, he had personally witnessed such a young talisman master demonstrating such mature talisman-crafting skills. Even among the younger generation at Qingya Academy, those scholars who spent days practicing calligraphy, none could surpass this person in the talisman arts.

An absolute genius—why was he so obscure, not loving wealth, not seeking fame, reduced to pawning a sword for a zither?

“Fifteen or sixteen.”

After Song Qian Ji left, the shopkeeper murmured, sinking into memories.

The old master had also begun creating talismans at about that age.

…

The night grew deeper, the bright moon brighter.

Even the stray cats and dogs had tired and gone to sleep. On the long street, only the night wind howled back and forth.

Song Qian Ji carried the zither case on his back, walking under the moonlight.

Having dealt with this place frequently in his previous life, he understood the professional integrity of the black shop’s people and truly wasn’t worried.

The lanterns in front of the pawnshop flickered like two ghostly flames, dimming and brightening.

Another person approached from the end of the street.

The person wore tattered coarse hemp clothes, had lost one shoe, and was staggering from side to side, stumbling several times, nearly falling flat, yet somehow regaining balance at the last moment.

The gentle spring breeze carried the smell of alcohol from him to Song Qian Ji’s nose.

Song Qian Ji thought a drunken ruffian who had lost his way.

No matter how good a city’s security, there would always be various unsavory characters. As long as they didn’t bother cultivators or interfere with commoners paying tribute, Huawei Sect couldn’t be bothered to deal with them.

Huawei City had many such ruffians.

In his previous life while on the run, Song Qian Ji had been very familiar with such people—stealing chickens and dogs, drinking fake alcohol, gathering to fight and act shamelessly, having no fixed abode, and sleeping under bridges. They never committed major crimes but were never law-abiding either.

Only the two of them were on the street.

The ruffian suddenly stumbled toward him. Song Qian Ji stepped aside to avoid him, reaching out to steady him:

“Be careful.”

The other person swayed again, precisely avoiding his hand. His mouth mumbled something unintelligible, not sounding like thanks, too drunk to open his eyes.

As they passed each other, Song Qian Ji instinctively glanced at the person’s face.

A very young, very ordinary face, easy to forget.

After walking three steps away, Song Qian Ji’s mind stirred, and he frowned.

What exactly was wrong?

He realized that although he had just seen the face, he had already forgotten what the person looked like!

It was as if he had never clearly seen that face!

“Face-concealing technique—a cultivator!”

Like himself, a cultivator visiting the black shop late at night.

Song Qian Ji’s surprise flashed and disappeared, but his steps didn’t falter, nor did he look back.

Who that person was, and what connection did they have to him?

Delivering the zither to He Qing Qing, ensuring that the young girl didn’t cry in his vegetable garden—these were the important matters at hand.

The drunken ruffian stumbled into the pawnshop.

“Wei Ping! You’re here.” Xiao Zhuo smiled gleefully, leaning close to say, “What now, did your sword break again?”

The young man called Wei Ping stood up from the ground:

“If my sword didn’t break, wouldn’t you be out of business?”

“I’m not exaggerating, but our business has been great today. Someone just came to buy a zither.”

Wei Ping didn’t believe it. His gaze fell on the table.

The zithers had not yet been put away. Amid the dazzling brilliance and splendor lay an inconspicuous sword.

Old and plain, utterly ordinary.

Like a pheasant among phoenixes—no, calling it a pheasant would be giving it too much credit, Wei Ping thought.

“This chick—no, this sword, how much?” Wei Ping asked.

“Twenty spirit stones for you!” Xiao Zhuo said.

“Nonsense, ten at most!” The ruffian called Wei Ping was also short on funds but had much thicker skin than Song Qian Ji. He laughed, slapping down ten spirit stones and snatching up the sword. “Not a single stone more!”

“No.” The shopkeeper, having been lost in thought about many things, finally came to his senses and saw Wei Ping playing with the old sword Song Qian Ji had left behind. “I don’t want to sell this one. Choose another.”

Wei Ping turned back, raising an eyebrow with a smile:

“No, I like this one, I’m particularly fond of it. Money and goods exchanged, it’s mine now.”

With that smile, his seemingly ordinary face suddenly radiated a brilliant light.

It even outshone the dazzling brilliance of the zithers throughout the room.