“Don’t be afraid, Senior Brother Song.” Meng He Ze moved as nimbly and swiftly as a swallow skimming water, his body like an agile ape barely touching the ground. He grabbed Song Qian Ji in one motion and carried him on his back. “This time I’ll save you!”

The previously sheer cliff with nowhere to step now seemed like level ground to him.

Meng He Ze hadn’t expected that in a moment of extreme crisis, his potential would burst forth, allowing him to execute the lightning technique Song Qian Ji had just taught him.

The night grew deeper, the wind stronger, and the sounds of insects and beasts never ceased.

In the latter half of the night, dark clouds surged, obscuring the bright moon.

The forest roared like waves. Sudden thunder cracked, and the night wind brought cool rain threads.

In the fine rain, a black shadow carrying another person leaped up and down, causing stones to fall and dust to rise in bursts.

Song Qian Ji went from shock to speechlessness.

He had underestimated.

This was an exemplary youth who hadn’t yet been beaten down by the cultivation world, with an extraordinarily strong sense of moral responsibility.

In his previous life, besides sword techniques and artifact refining, Song Qian Ji’s abilities to escape and self-heal were first-rate. But now he couldn’t use healing techniques and could only rely on the Immortal Spring in his cinnabar field to slowly repair his injuries. Otherwise, recovering too quickly would arouse Meng He Ze’s suspicions. If the Hua Wei Sect found out, it would create unnecessary complications.

Since Song Qian Ji had no intention of silencing him permanently, he couldn’t reveal any flaws.

The plan to go down the mountain to farm would have to be reconsidered carefully…

“There must be Steward Zhao’s people guarding the cliff top now. Let’s go down,” Song Qian Ji said. “Follow the direction I indicate.”

“All right!” Meng He Ze was completely trusting.

The night rain pattered, making the cliff face slippery and difficult to traverse, yet Meng He Ze’s footsteps remained steady.

In the fine rain, he carried Song Qian Ji into a mountain cave, took out a fire talisman, and illuminated their surroundings.

The cave was covered in dust and cobwebs, but there were scattered bones and dry grass remnants, likely an abandoned lair of some mountain beast.

Meng He Ze diligently lit a bonfire, cleared a clean space, and piled up soft grass to make a comfortable place for Song Qian Ji to rest against.

Just as they settled in, he slapped his forehead: “Oh no. I forgot your dagger. I’ll go back and get it!”

Song Qian Ji lounged lazily against the grass pile, waving his hand: “Don’t bother. It’s already blunted; it would be useless even if retrieved.”

“I’ll find a refining master to repair it for you!”

Song Qian Ji was puzzled: “Do you have spirit stones?”

“I, I…” Meng He Ze stammered, dejected and embarrassed.

Song Qian Ji laughed heartily: “Not having money isn’t shameful!”

For an outer disciple, having one or two weapons inscribed with spell formations, barely qualifying as “magical artifacts,” was already a precious possession. Meng He Ze thought, that one night, Senior Brother Song had injured his right arm for wielding swords and lost his dagger in self-defense. Too miserable.

He gritted his teeth, pulled something from his bosom, placed it in Song Qian Ji’s hand, and solemnly said: “Senior Brother Song, this is for you. Please wear it; it will help your injuries.”

It felt smooth and delicate in his hand. Song Qian Ji looked down.

It was a string of red spirit jade beads with white tassels adorning the loop. Eighteen beads, lustrous and moist, were in the firelight, emitting a deep red brilliance, with what appeared to be blood veins flowing inside.

The two center beads were each carved with an ancient character.

Song Qian Ji read: “Zheng, Xian?”

“My style name is ‘Zheng Xian.’ Before coming to the Hua Wei Sect to cultivate, I lived in Qinglu County of the Southern Heavenly Prefecture. My family called me Meng Zheng Xian.”

Meng He Ze revealed a shy, embarrassed smile, speaking from the heart to Song Qian Ji, “When I was young, I met a Buddhist cultivator who said I had the spiritual roots to cultivate. This string of spirit jade prayer beads was a gift from that master, promising that I could find him at Tianmen Temple in the future. But what’s the point of becoming a monk? I still ran away to seek immortal fate at the Hua Wei Sect.”

Song Qian Ji stared at the bead string, lost in thought: “Southern Heavenly Prefecture, Qinglu County, surname Meng, style name Zheng Xian, becoming a monk…”

Such familiar items, familiar names, and backgrounds.

He couldn’t help but sit up straight, re-examining Meng He Ze. The youth’s height wasn’t fully developed, but his back was as straight as a pine. His features were clean and handsome, his gaze determined, with some childishness remaining between his brows.

Suddenly, a flash of insight came, and a strange chill ran up Song Qian Ji’s spine as the upright youth’s face overlapped with another demonic countenance.

He was startled and blurted out: “You’re the Evil Buddha!”

Meng He Ze looked down at himself: “My what?”

Song Qian Ji still couldn’t believe it, muttering: “You are Meng Zheng Xian.”

Meng He Ze was Meng Zheng Xian. The first stepping stone of his previous life, whom he had pushed off the cliff, was the cultivation world’s number one devil seventy years later, the master of the evil path, Blissful Zen Meng Zheng Xian.

Song Qian Ji wanted to curse at the heavens.

Well played, treacherous Heaven! I thought you returned the Immortal Spring to me because your conscience was acting up.

So you were holding back a big move, waiting for me here!

“It’s the name my parents gave me. Come to think of it, I haven’t gone home to see them in a long time. Once I enter the inner sect, I’ll return home in glory,” Meng He Ze said bashfully.

Song Qian Ji: “You still have parents? How old are you this year?”

“I’m fourteen.” Meng He Ze beamed with joy: “Senior Brother Song, you’re so funny. I didn’t spring out of a rock; who’s born without parents?”

No, I’m not being funny, thought Song Qian Ji. According to rumors, Meng Zheng Xian witnessed the slaughter of his entire family at sixteen, went mad with rage, and fell into the evil path.

There are still two years to go; you still have both parents.

In your past life, your cultivation method was called “Blissful Zen,” yet you never had a blissful appearance.

You killed people at the slightest provocation, coldly and ruthlessly, never smiling, as if everyone owed you ten million spirit stones that they hadn’t repaid for a hundred years.

Against the backdrop of the unprincipled evil cultivator Meng Zheng Xian, even the rogue cultivator Song Qian Ji appeared morally noble.

Speaking of deaths, his was more miserable than Song Qian Ji’s. Although Song Qian Ji’s self-detonation was painful, at least it was clean and swift. Meng Zheng Xian died after suffering a thousand cuts.

After his death, his legacy was discovered by the protagonist Wei Zhen Yu. The world-saving hero took the magical artifact inheritance but didn’t cultivate the evil techniques that sought quick advancement. Instead, he improved the cultivation method, removing the dross and keeping the essence, turning it into a truly divine technique.

Song Qian Ji felt a sense of “fellow tools under heaven” empathy.

He nodded: “You’re right. I lost my composure.”

No one is born without parents, and no one is born an evil demon. In this life, Meng Zheng Xian was still called Meng He Ze. He hadn’t been pushed off the cliff and hadn’t experienced the calamity of family extermination.

The malice of fate was showing its signs, but all disasters had yet to occur.

Seeing his complex expression, Meng He Ze thought briefly and sincerely apologized: “Senior Brother Song, I’m sorry. I forgot you’re an orphan. My words were hurtful, truly not befitting a gentleman.”

“Hehe.” Song Qian Ji forced a smile. “It’s fine.”

The master of the evil path lecturing him about the “way of the gentleman”—this world was too surreal.

****

While Song Qian Ji and Meng He Ze ducked into the mountain cave to escape the rain, Steward Zhao lit a glass lamp and sat by the window brewing tea.

Whether enemies or friends, dwelling in the Hua Wei Sect meant listening to the same spring rain.

The night rain initially drizzled, hitting the forest like hungry silkworms gnawing on mulberry leaves, making an extremely fine, rustling sound.

Before long, the rain intensified, streams swelled, and waterfalls roared. The heavy rain beat against thousands of eaves and tiles, sometimes light, sometimes heavy, like musicians striking drums.

Steward Zhao listened to the rain while brewing tea.

The window was half-open, allowing the night rain and cool wind to pour in, making the fire in the brewing stove flicker.

Looking through a pearl-like rain curtain, the black silhouette of the Hua Wei Sect mountains dissolved into the rain screen, appearing higher, more distant, and silent.

The steward’s hall was located halfway up the mountain, and Steward Zhao had exclusive rights to a five-story building. This was a unique honor in the entire steward’s hall.

Sitting by the window, looking down, he could overlook clusters of low houses in the valley below.

Those were the residences of the outer disciples—gray-tiled, white-walled structures exposed to wind and rain, with dim lights twinkling from small windows.

Suddenly, two or three white cranes flapped their wings and took flight, still graceful despite flying in the rain.

These mounts were no ordinary creatures. Normally, they were specially raised and cared for, fed cinnabar fruits and spiritual spring water, living more humanely than the outer disciples.

The cranes soared upward, disappearing among the layers of palaces at the mountain peak.

Those were the dwellings of the mount owners—inner disciples and powerful elders—far above the gloomy rain clouds, bathed in starlight and moonlight, like fairy palaces in the Jade Pool, unattainably high.

High and low are always relative.

Zhao Yu Ping had entered the Hua Wei Sect as a child, and his family elders had only admonished him with one sentence—”Know your place.”

This principle, he believed without doubt.

He came from the Zhao family of Qingan County in the Northern Heavenly Prefecture, although only from a branch line.

He cultivated in the Hua Wei Sect, receiving monthly spirit stones and pills, even though he was merely a steward managing outer sect affairs and serving the inner sect.

But based on these two points, he was far superior to countless commoners and bottom-dwellers in the mortal and cultivation worlds.

A stone falling from the mountain and landing on his head was like a towering mountain.

A breath blown by him, hitting the outer disciples, was like a violent storm.

“Steward Zhao.”

A young steward walked in, standing five paces away, calling him softly.

Zhao Yu Ping lowered his gaze to the tea: “Speak.”

“This humble one followed Song Qian Ji and Meng He Ze to Broken Mountain Cliff. As you predicted, the evidence has been obtained.”

The man held out a white jade disc with both hands, respectfully presenting it.

Zhao Yu Ping uttered another word: “Play.”

The ring-shaped jade disc lit up, projecting a beam towards the air, condensing into an image where the faces of Song Qian Ji and Meng He Ze were vaguely recognizable.

Zhao Yu Ping raised his eyelids to glance at it: “Stop.”

The young steward tucked the image-capturing disc away as if it were worth a fortune. It was rare to handle such a precious magical artifact, though it could only be used once.

He smiled obsequiously: “After Song Qian Ji pushed Meng He Ze down, he cursed with one word, probably profanity. I didn’t dare record it, fearing it would offend your ears.”

Zhao Yu Ping leaned back, smiling with satisfaction, finally speaking more than a single word: “Oh, he regretted it. What use is regret? Once he takes the first wrong step, he’s beyond redemption.”

The young steward hurriedly cupped his hands: “You are wise. He jumped down after Meng He Ze, truly beyond redemption!”

“Oh, he followed… What?!” Zhao Yu Ping suddenly stood up, his expression changing drastically. “What did you say?!”

The tea set overturned, his pristine white sleeves stained with tea, and valuable glassware shattered on the floor.