The lights were bright in the Flying Cloud Tower.

The Calligraphy Saint sat before his desk, eyes half-closed, quietly listening to the report.

“…That is how the matter transpired, please consider it carefully. Although Song Qian Ji has deep relationships with many female cultivators and is at ease in the Flower Viewing Tower, laughing and talking freely, he is a true gentleman who cherishes flowers but is not lustful.

“We have exhausted all our tricks and truly can do nothing about him anymore.” Shopkeeper Hua lamented, “As for what to do next, we can only ask for your instructions.”

After listening, the Calligraphy Saint opened his eyes. He was delighted, but deliberately spoke in a grave tone: “So you’ve admitted defeat?”

The atmosphere grew tense as everyone gritted their teeth: “We are truly convinced!”

The Calligraphy Saint burst into hearty laughter, slapping the table as he laughed, causing the ink in the ancient inkstone to tremble slightly:

“Good, good, thank you all for your hard work!”

The shopkeepers and assistants all said they didn’t deserve such praise, but seeing the Calligraphy Saint’s joy, they also began to smile.

“However, there is one strange thing,” Shopkeeper Hua hesitated.

The Calligraphy Saint waved his hand grandly: “Speak freely!”

“I suggested to Song Qian Ji that I could teach him the ‘Appearance Concealment Technique,’ but he refused without a second thought. This makes me feel that he doesn’t seem very interested in practicing techniques or improving his cultivation level…”

As Shopkeeper Hua spoke, his voice grew progressively lower.

After Wei Ping became acquainted with the shady shop crowd, he would learn the Appearance Concealment Technique from him one day, learn tool refinement from Blacksmith Zhang the next, then seek out the medicine shop owner to learn pill concoction—essentially engaging in all sorts of deception to trick them into teaching their expertise.

But Wei Ping, self-styled as a wanderer, absolutely refused to learn talisman techniques, nor did he want to bear the identity of “disciple of a certain powerful master.”

Song Qian Ji was even a stranger, claiming to be just a farmer.

What kind of cultivator had no interest in learning techniques and only wanted to farm?

Shopkeeper Hua didn’t have the heart to voice a certain possibility—the disciples you’ve chosen don’t want to follow you.

For the elderly Calligraphy Saint, this would be too cruel.

Survival and reproduction are the two most inseparable desires of humans, innate and carved into flesh and blood.

It was common for cultivators to have no blood descendants, but having no disciples to inherit one’s legacy would truly mean leaving no successors.

Although the Calligraphy Saint could not ascend to immortality, his life had been magnificent and glorious, and he should not depart with regrets.

How many people like Wei Ping and Song Qian Ji remained in the world, and how much time did the Calligraphy Saint have left to seek and train disciples?

Shopkeeper Hua felt a pang of sadness.

The Calligraphy Saint’s expression stiffened slightly, but then he spoke with firm conviction:

“Song Qian Ji is simply not interested in the Appearance Concealment Technique! Unlike that boy Wei Ping who wants everything.”

He seemed to be explaining, or perhaps convincing himself: “Song Qian Ji already knows how to write talismans, and even dares to challenge me for my mountain peak, and has voluntarily signed up for the ‘calligraphy and painting examination.’ Rest assured, he is coming for me. Just wait for the calligraphy and painting competition three days from now. He will certainly display his brush skills and compete for the championship!”

****

The bright moon emerged from behind the clouds, illuminating thousands of peaks.

The Hall of Heaven and Earth bathed in silver moonlight, with its glazed tiles and carved beams gleaming brightly.

Five-colored carp swam toward the depths of the clouds and mist.

Before the main peak’s plaza, the sea of people remained.

The other platforms had already determined their winners. Thus, everyone gathered around “Heaven Platform Number Two,” waiting for this final victor.

The opponent Meng He Ze faced in this round was slightly higher in the cultivation realm than him and more experienced, unlike the previous opponent who was easily angered.

His opponent’s sword technique was thorough and well-rounded, forming an impenetrable iron wall, but Meng He Ze was like a man holding a sharp blade breaking through barriers, repeatedly finding weaknesses to attack.

The more he fought, the more courageous he became, determined to break through even walls of copper and iron.

Cheers continuously erupted from below the platform.

Meng He Ze remained clear-headed and calm, not letting the imminent victory go to his head.

As his opponent’s sword movements began to show signs of retreat, he launched a fierce counterattack.

Just at that moment, a mocking voice transmitted into Meng He Ze’s ear:

“You look so impressive fighting up there, but your Senior Brother Song is about to be beyond saving!”

Meng He Ze was startled.

He shouldn’t have been able to hear it. Each platform was surrounded by a barrier formation, monitored by officials at the sidelines. But the officials remained unmoved.

According to the competition rules, spectators below the platform were forbidden from transmitting messages to those on stage, to prevent anyone from secretly giving instructions or disturbing the participants.

The voice was familiar, like one he had heard at Song’s courtyard gate.

In that moment of distraction, his opponent’s sword technique suddenly changed!

Meng He Ze couldn’t react in time and instinctively blocked the sword edge, but his chest and abdomen took a heavy punch.

He let out a muffled groan, with blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

The sword was just a feint, while the first was the killing blow. His opponent spread his five fingers, revealing a gleaming silver glove.

The glove was a mid-grade magical tool.

As his opponent withdrew, he said in a low voice: “Taking money to handle someone else’s troubles. Pardon me.”

“Senior Brother Meng, be careful!”

The battle situation reversed unexpectedly.

The outer disciples below the platform cried out in concern:

“What’s happening? Senior Brother Meng seems distracted!”

Meng He Ze’s eyes turned cold as he gripped his sword tightly and delivered a fierce slash.

In an instant, sword shadows crisscrossed as they exchanged over twenty moves.

Another voice transmission reached his ears: “Such a capable Foundation Establishment cultivator like you—we found twelve of them, and they’ve all gone to Yaoguang Lake to attack Song Qian Ji, haha!”

Who would harm Senior Brother Song?

Who would dare harm Senior Brother Song?!

Meng He Ze hastily turned his head amid battle, seeing the surging crowd below with vague green shadows moving about.

He suddenly curled up, bending over sharply like a shrimp, appearing utterly pathetic.

His opponent withdrew his fist, looking smug.

Meng He Ze’s eye twitched slightly.

He suddenly realized something, and anger ignited in his heart.

They were all in this together—the officials at the side, the voice transmissions from below, and his opponent on stage.

From the moment he stepped onto this platform, he had been a trapped beast in a cage.

The malicious laughing voice transmissions alternated with waves of exclamations from below.

Meng He Ze’s abdomen was in severe pain, and his throat was filled with a sweet, metallic taste. He couldn’t help but cough up blood.

Having fought three hundred consecutive battles before, he had accumulated rich combat experience, but even more experience with injuries.

Two ribs were probably broken, he thought, but his internal organs should be fine.

The elegant flower rain from the previous match seemed like just a dream, and now the dream was over.

The cultivator world had torn off its mask, revealing the cruel truth.

He had fallen from the celestial ladder, continuously dropping downward until he plunged into the fires of hell, his body incinerated, and his liver and gallbladder burned through.

Another voice transmission came: “Just forfeit, it’s time to take your Senior Brother to the medical pavilion!”

“Ah—”

Meng He Ze’s eyes turned bloodshot as he rose with his sword and let out a long howl toward the heavens!

Sword energy surged, and his robes billowed.

His opponent was shocked by his sudden burst of pressure.

Retreating two steps and before regaining balance, he saw the long sword slashing down toward his head.

“I forfeit!” Sensing trouble, his opponent shouted.

But Meng He Ze was one step faster.

He had never struck so quickly or so ruthlessly before.

All along, he had believed himself to be an upright gentleman, a good person who followed principles and propriety.

He had constrained himself with strict standards, trying hard to suppress the extreme and radical shadows in his character.

A piercing scream rang out.

His opponent was thrown off the platform with all four limbs broken.

Some female cultivators below covered their faces and screamed.

Medical cultivators arrived with stretchers. The night wind couldn’t disperse the smell of blood.

Meng He Ze looked around coldly and said: “If anything happens to my Senior Brother, I’ll make you pay blood for blood.”

His voice wasn’t loud, just a bit hoarse.

Which made it all the more terrifying.

The crowd below fell silent, everyone shocked and speechless.

No one knew what he was talking about.

They only saw his vicious and frightening expression, his blood-red eyes like those of a bloodthirsty beast.

The officials at the edge of the platform met his gaze but didn’t dare approach, and no one announced the winner.

Meng He Ze leaped off the platform, ignoring the astonished crowd.

The plaza was packed to the point where not even water could trickle through, but he was like a bird, sweeping over everyone’s heads in one swift movement.

Yaoguang Lake was pitch black, the water quiet, with no one around.

He turned into a blur, rushing toward Song’s courtyard in the outer sect.

Pushing open the vermilion door, he found the small courtyard empty.

“Senior Brother Song—”

Meng He Ze’s heart sank continuously, his chaotic spiritual energy almost bursting his meridians, as images of himself on a killing spree flashed through his mind.

“Are you looking for me?”

A familiar voice sounded. Meng He Ze whirled around.

“You run quite fast,” Song Qian Ji smiled.

Meng He Ze stared intently at Song Qian Ji’s face. He seemed incredulous, as if not recognizing the person before him.

After a while, the blood-red in his eyes receded, his crazed expression returned to normal, and his eyes regained their brilliance as he exclaimed with delight:

“Senior Brother Song, you, you’re alright?!”

Song Qian Ji walked into the small courtyard and corrected him: “I do have something to do. I need to plant lotus roots.”

Meng He Ze murmured: “You’re fine, you’re fine, that’s wonderful…”

His eyes blinked, and he almost shed tears.

“I’m fine, why are you crying?” Song Qian Ji noticed something was wrong and patted his shoulder, asking softly, “Who bullied you? Did they hurt you?”

Song Qian Ji felt helpless yet amused.

In your past life, whoever made you unhappy, you could kick down their mountain, smash their cave dwelling, and kill their entire family including their wet nurse, but in this life, you can only go home and complain to your father—

“They won’t play with me.”

“They’re speaking ill of me behind my back, boohoo.”

This was probably the only downside to not being a master of the evil path.

“It’s good that Senior Brother is fine!” Meng He Ze wiped his face and broke into a smile through his tears: “I’m sorry, I was just too happy.”

A false alarm was more worth celebrating than unexpected good fortune.

“Tell me the truth,” Song Qian Ji said.

“While I was on the platform, someone transmitted a message to me…” Meng He Ze briefly explained, omitting his reaction at the time.

“I see,” Song Qian Ji smiled, “I just went to Yaoguang Lake to collect some mud, and didn’t encounter any ambush. They were lying to you, trying to make you lose your composure. Don’t believe them next time. Are you injured? Let me see.”

“Just minor injuries, they’ll be fine after a night’s sleep.” Meng He Ze lowered his head, somewhat regretful: “I was too impulsive and fell for the enemy’s scheme. I shouldn’t have been so harsh just now. I know that ‘exhibition matches’ should be entertaining, should make people enjoy watching, but I couldn’t control myself.”

“Did you kill someone?” Song Qian Ji frowned.

“No,” Meng He Ze said, “I broke his arms.”

He thought, probably a few other bones too.

“Then it’s fine, go home and get some rest,” Song Qian Ji said, “Conserve your energy for tomorrow’s match.”

He looked at the lotus root seeds in the clear water, feeling an irresistible itch.

Having resolved Meng He Ze’s problem, Song Qian Ji could finally approach the large vats and fill them with mud.

The mud felt soft and full of vitality. Using it to splash someone would truly be a waste of good resources.

To ensure enough space for the lotus roots to grow, after careful selection, he planted only two seeds in each large vat.

The sprouting ends were positioned upright, looking quite vigorous.

Then he heard Meng He Ze say: “Let me cook you a bowl of noodles before I go, is that alright?”

The young man looked at him with hopeful eyes.

Song Qian Ji was speechless: “Fine, I’ll eat it.”

The meals I’ve eaten in my past life of over a hundred years don’t compare to these few months since being reborn!