At the end of Shishui Bridge stood two men. In the light white mist, blue robes and purple Daoist garments fluttered in the wind.

“Elders, what is this?” Song Qian Ji was stunned, unable to decide whether to laugh or cry. “Afraid I’ll run away?”

“Just to be safe, let senior brother escort junior brother back to his courtyard,” said the Chancellor.

The Abbot said, “I dare not neglect the task my master entrusted to me. Please come, junior brother.”

The two flanked him on either side, with Song Qian Ji walking in the middle.

Behind them followed two groups totaling over forty people, one from the Academy and one from Purple Cloud Temple.

Outwardly friendly but secretly vigilant, each feared the other might snatch the person midway with some trick.

The grand procession attracted attention all along the way.

This reminded Song Qian Ji of his previous visit to Qiankun Hall when Xu Kanshan and Qiu Dacheng had escorted him.

“The two elders need not call me junior brother. I cannot accept such honor,” Song Qian Ji said.

“You once said you wanted a mountain peak. Wasn’t that expressing your wish to take the Writing Saint as your master?”

Seeing Song Qian Ji’s blank expression, the Chancellor kindly reminded him, “Huachun Mountain is also a mountain peak.”

“How can Huachun Mountain be considered a mountain peak?”

This was the first time Song Qian Ji had heard such an assertion, and he found it absurd. “A normal mountain peak can be cultivated, can be watered, cannot be placed in a box, and certainly won’t suddenly fly out and kill someone!”

The Chancellor, rigorous in his academic attitude, replied: “From a distance, it’s a mountain, up close it’s still a mountain. In essence, it is a mountain. You can say it’s ‘too normal,’ but you can’t say it’s ‘not normal.'”

Song Qian Ji clenched his fist in his sleeve, trying hard to describe: “I mean the kind that just stays there every day, doesn’t move, can be planted on at any time—an ‘ordinary normal’ mountain peak. Do you understand, Elder?”

“Oh—I understand now, senior brother,” the Chancellor sighed.

To think that Huachun Mountain was disliked for being “too normal and not ordinary enough.”

He smiled at Song Qian Ji: “Unfortunately, it’s too late. My master has made up his mind.”

“Don’t listen to his nonsense, junior brother! It’s not too late at all!” True Immortal Qingwei, the Abbot, spoke up. “The two Saints have reached an agreement to let you choose for yourself. If you choose Purple Cloud Temple, the Academy wouldn’t dare do anything to you.”

“I choose neither,” Song Qian Ji replied without hesitation. “My aspirations lie elsewhere.”

True Immortal Qingwei was momentarily stunned.

Song Qian Ji tried to persuade him: “I was born a mortal, my cultivation is low, and my talent is ordinary. I am unworthy; this is not suitable.”

“Junior brother is being modest,” Qingwei smiled. “Junior brother has lofty interests—chess, calligraphy, painting, and flowers—excelling in everything. Everyone knows that you command the outer court disciples through virtue, not by force.”

“I-I don’t deserve such praise,” Song Qian Ji felt embarrassed.

He fell silent, walking the entire way without further words.

“Wang Tugen combined with Bai Lianlan” had appeared before the official start of the Announcement Assembly. He had been targeted since then.

Apart from writing talismans at the pawnshop in Huawei City, he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary.

Guests follow the rules, and the shopkeeper “asks no questions”—this is how black market shops operate sustainably.

In his previous life, entering black market shops had been like returning home. He had done plenty of illegal business selling stolen goods without ever having issues.

This life, he crashed on his first attempt.

Not only that, but everything was different now.

At this point in his previous life, he had been hiding in Huawei City disguised as a beggar, pretending to be disabled, escaping death many times to avoid the Huawei Sect’s kill order.

In this life, he was about to leave openly and rightfully through the front gate.

In his previous life, the cultivation world had feared him, calling him “Hundred Battles Undying Song Qian Ji.” But in the hearts of cultivators from major sects and noble families, he had always been a “lone cultivator with muddy legs,” only able to subjugate others through force, similar to nouveau riche or uncouth figures in the mortal world.

In this life, he had somehow become a man of talent and elegance who enjoyed chess, poetry, and flower cultivation but avoided fighting.

Absurd, truly absurd.

The Chess Demon’s array of technique manuals, the Writing Saint’s Huachun Mountain, the Zither Immortal’s Seven String Zither, and the Sword God’s most powerful sword techniques—these should all belong to the savior Wei Zhen Yu.

Besides this absolute protagonist, who else could receive such enormous opportunities, such hot potatoes?

What was the savior busy with now? Why didn’t he come to quietly acquire this fortune?

Wei Zhen Yu, you’re truly useless!

Song Qian Ji cursed inwardly.

…

At the Ruyi Pavilion in Huawei City below the mountain.

The sleeping Wei Ping twitched his nose, and softly sneezed, expelling strong alcohol fumes.

“Who’s cursing me?”

He mumbled, pulling up the soft brocade blanket over his head, like an ostrich burrowing into sand.

“Wei Ping, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Suddenly someone burst into the room, dragging him from his warm nest.

The window was opened, spring breeze entered, dispersing the room’s mixed fragrance of alcohol and cosmetics.

Wei Ping reluctantly opened his eyes.

Though he had just awakened, with his features still disguised by a concealment technique, his eyes were black and bright, dazzling like the morning star.

Li Er Gou was stunned, instinctively releasing his hands.

The light in Wei Ping’s eyes flashed and disappeared.

He glared at the visitor: “People come to brothels to find girls. Why are you looking for me?!”

After a scolding, Wei Ping kicked away the blanket and got out of bed.

His clothes were disheveled, casually revealing a clean, firm chest. He grabbed the wine pot from the table and drank deeply to quench his thirst.

“I participated in the chess trial as you taught me, but the decisive game I played wasn’t the most exquisite chess match of this Announcement Assembly,” Li Er Gou said.

Wei Ping was gulping down wine, his Adam’s apple moving rapidly. Upon hearing this, he choked and coughed repeatedly:

“What-what did you say? *cough cough cough*!”

Li Er Gou hurriedly patted his back.

Wei Ping wiped his mouth with the back of his hand: “If not you, who else could it be? Did a star fall from the sky?”

“I first defeated Yao An, then won against Zhao Lin, but I couldn’t beat this person,” Li Er Gou took out a jade slip from his bosom and handed it to him with both hands:

“Purple Cloud Temple has released news that on the night of the chess trial, the Chess Demon played a game of blind chess with a young junior at Xingzhai Terrace. It was an extraordinary game that happens only once in a hundred years, with three cycles. The game record is here.”

A well-crafted jade slip game record sold for just one spirit stone—practically a giveaway for many array masters.

Some bought it to study, others for collection. When the first batch of jade slips came out, they were instantly sold out.

Li Er Gou treasured this record greatly and held out both hands, waiting to receive it back.

He recalled Wei Ping’s expression when making his promise—casually indifferent yet incredibly arrogant—and feared the other might become furiously embarrassed and smash the jade slip.

They were chance acquaintances, and he couldn’t gauge Wei Ping’s temperament or guess his background.

Wei Ping wasn’t angry. He frowned while examining it for a moment. The haziness from his hangover gradually receded, his eyes growing brighter:

“Interesting, interesting!”

“This game is called ‘Three Cycles of Star Plucking,'” Li Er Gou felt admiration. After getting the game record, it had taken him a full half hour to work out its brilliance. “Now in the cultivation world, wherever there are brushes and ink, everyone strives to copy the Hero’s Note; wherever there is a chess board, everyone tries to play the Star Plucking Record.”

“What is this Hero’s Note?” Wei Ping asked.

“The entire cultivation world knows, yet you don’t?” Li Er Gou said in surprise. “The Hero’s Note is the four-line poem that Song Qian Ji left at Xingzhai Terrace. The rubbing is here.”

Wei Ping opened it: “I’d use the spring breeze to add to the wine’s intoxication…”

After reading the four lines, his intoxication had completely cleared.

“Why are three characters missing? What is better than seeking immortality?” Wei Ping fumed.

“This is an incomplete piece! Who sold you this thing? Even the rubbing is incomplete—despicable!”

“It was originally incomplete. No one can guess the last three characters. Perhaps even the person who wrote this poem doesn’t know,” Li Er Gou scratched his head, his smile honest. “I think the writer intentionally left it blank. Perhaps he means that although we cultivators seek truth and longevity, we should always have something or someone in our hearts more important than seeking immortality. If we abandon everything for the immortal path, even if we achieve the Dao, we won’t find fulfillment…”

Wei Ping said nothing, thinking that the brush intent hadn’t been broken—there must be more characters. They were either erased or hidden.

Li Er Gou continued: “Because of those three blank characters, everyone who copies the Hero’s Note sees themselves, not the original poet. This note will be passed down for hundreds of generations, just like the unfinished ‘Wind and Snow Battle March.'”

Wei Ping set down the jade slip and rubbed, sighing softly: “I thought that after learning my chess techniques, though insufficient to contend with powerful elders, you would be invincible among your peers… I missed my move by one.”

“No, it’s not your fault!” Li Er Gou said. “Song Qian Ji was previously low in cultivation and unknown until he burst onto the scene at the Announcement Assembly—this was unpredictable. The Hero’s Note was written by him, the Three Cycles of Star Plucking was played by him, and Meng He Ze was taught by him. Except for the Immortal Maiden He who won the zither trial, he has outshone everyone in the other three trials.”

Wei Ping raised an eyebrow with a smile, curious: “What did you say his name was? Say it again.”

“Song Qian Ji. ‘Qian’ as in the hidden dragon in the abyss, ‘Ji’ as in divine ingenuity,” Li Er Gou said.

“Song Qian Ji,” Wei Ping repeated softly. “Have you seen him in person?”

“I haven’t had the fortune,” Li Er Gou said. “It’s said that both elders, the Writing Saint and the Chess Demon, intend to take him as a disciple. Everyone is guessing his choice and betting pools have already been set up. If you get dressed now and bring enough spirit stones downstairs, you can still place a bet!”

Wei Ping was stunned, genuinely happy, and relieved, yet with a faint sense of loss and bewilderment.

His smile suddenly disappeared, his expression troubled as he glared at Li Er Gou: “According to our previous agreement, if things didn’t work out, you’d come find me here, and I’d return twenty spirit stones to you. Now I have no money—what else do you want to learn?”

Li Er Gou shook his head: “What you’ve taught me is already enough. More than this, I wouldn’t be able to learn anyway.”

Wei Ping impatiently said: “Well then, shall I kill someone for you? Pick an enemy—the kind worth twenty spirit stones!”

“That’s not necessary!” Li Er Gou was startled. “I’m very grateful to you. If I hadn’t met you, I would just be a poor cultivator from a declining sect without a copper to my name. From water’s end and mountain’s exhaustion to a meteoric rise—I dare not ask for more.”

Wei Ping smiled faintly: “If that’s the case, why haven’t you left yet?”

Hearing this blunt dismissal, Li Er Gou felt complex emotions: “I don’t understand. With your abilities, why do you live this kind of life? If you appeared, you might be able to surpass that Song Qian Ji! Meeting a worthy opponent—don’t you want to face him?”

Wei Ping was truly strange, shrouded in mystery.

Like a vagrant who lived meal to meal, occasionally helping others gain fame or killing for them, earning a few spirit stones to spend, doing things entirely on a whim.

His interest came quickly and departed even faster.

“Wei Ping isn’t your real name, is it?” Li Er Gou asked.

“Wei Truth or Wei Falsehood, Wei Peace or Wei Ordinary—does it matter? Is there a difference?” Wei Ping took another sip of wine, his gaze growing sharp. “Once you leave this door, you’ve never seen me.”

“I understand,” Li Er Gou said no more, nodding with difficulty. “Anyway, I don’t remember your appearance and have no one to tell. Take care of yourself.”

After Li Er Gou left, Wei Ping admired the jade slip and rubbing while finishing a pot of wine.

Then he leisurely got up and knocked on the wall:

“Friend next door, pressing against the wall to eavesdrop on others’ conversations isn’t very polite, is it?”

From beyond the wall came a dull thud, as if something heavy had fallen.

A moment later, a richly dressed young cultivator adorned with pearls and jewels pushed open the door, smiling apologetically: “I didn’t mean to. The building is designed this way, convenient for guests to listen through walls for excitement.”

For Zhao Ji Heng, the Ruyi Pavilion was like a second home.

He spent more time here than at Huawei Sect. He was familiar with every blade of grass and tree, every type of wine, every tune, every guest room—more so than the Huawei Sect techniques he could recite.

Seeing the chess trial champion go upstairs, he thought he had met a kindred spirit, but the other’s serious expression didn’t look like someone seeking female company.

After Li Er Gou entered the room, he curiously slipped into the adjacent room and quietly opened the sound pipe to listen.

Now seeing that Wei Ping wasn’t angry, his smile deepened, with the excitement of discovering a secret:

“You taught Li Er Gou his chess skills, didn’t you?”

Wei Ping also smiled: “Would you like to learn?”

“I…” Just as Zhao Ji Heng began to speak, his neck turned cold and his whole body stiffened.

An icy sword energy penetrated his skin and seeped into his marrow. His hair instantly stood on end, as if grasped tightly by a giant hand.

Looking down, he saw a sword.

How could a low-grade sword render him immobile?

In this critical moment, Zhao Ji Heng’s rusty mind spun rapidly.

This sword looked familiar!

Where had he seen it before?

“Who are you? Why do you have Song Qian Ji’s sword?!”

Wei Ping was stunned: “Whose sword?”

That night at the black market pawnshop, this worn, low-grade sword had been displayed on the table alongside several dazzling famous zithers inlaid with jewels and gems.

Like a drab mountain pheasant among phoenixes, it was entirely unremarkable.

But he had taken a liking to it at first sight, finding it appealing, and had behaved unreasonably to buy it from the pawnshop.

So Song Qian Ji had also visited the black market shop that night and left a “Swindler Talisman.”

So they had almost met.

“Song Qian Ji, that’s Song Qian Ji’s sword!” Zhao Ji Heng was nearly crying. “Did he send you to kill me?”

Wei Ping withdrew his hand, caressing the sword with a smile, murmuring to himself: “Truly destined, indeed.”

Zhao Ji Heng’s legs went weak. He gasped violently, his face ashen.

Having escaped danger, he crawled up using both hands and feet: “I have—I have many spirit stones, all for you! Help me once, just like you helped Li Er Gou, alright?!”

He thought Wei Ping meant they were destined.

Wei Ping smiled, looking at him: “What do you want?”

Zhao Ji Heng: “Help me kill Song Qian Ji?”

The hateful Song Qian Ji, the frightening Song Qian Ji.

This thought had lingered in his mind for a long time, and today it finally slipped out.

But Wei Ping said: “No.”

“Why? Are you afraid of him?!”

“It’s not that I’m not strong enough, it’s just that the spring wind on Huawei Mountain is too cool!” Wei Ping stretched lazily, straightening his disheveled clothes. “Let’s talk about it in midsummer.”

“Meals can wait, but this matter cannot!” Zhao Ji Heng reached out to grab the hem of his clothes.

But the figure flashed and floated out the window.

Zhao Ji Heng rushed to the window and looked down.

The long street remained as before, crowded with people, and bustling with traffic.

That person had merged into the crowd, like a drop of water into the sea, leaving no trace.

He vaguely heard laughter and a few off-key verses of the song: “A thousand joys and ten thousand intoxications, a wanderer on earth, an immortal in heaven.”*

Zhao Ji Heng held onto the window frame, shaking his head vigorously.

He was shocked to discover that he could no longer remember what the person looked like.

No matter how hard he tried to recall, that ordinary face remained a blur.

Had it all been a dream?

There had never been a strange person called Wei Ping, and the chess trial champion Li Er Gou had never come.

My intoxication hasn’t cleared yet.

Zhao Ji Heng walked downstairs in a daze, almost stumbling.

Friends called out to him along the way, beauties tried to stop him, but he was oblivious, standing blankly in the street.

Suddenly a cloud of dust rose, and a person wearing a Huawei Sect steward’s uniform rushed toward him: “Steward Zhao is severely injured. Stop playing and come back with me quickly!”

Zhao Ji Heng was greatly alarmed, instantly casting the strange events to the winds:

“If it’s so urgent, what use is finding me? Hurry to Chiwater Peak and find Peak Master Zhao Ji Heng for a life-saving Resurrection Pill!”

The messenger’s face changed from blue to white, crying in distress: “The—the person was injured by Peak Master Zhao in anger.”

“How is that possible?!” Zhao Ji Heng murmured. “I must still be dreaming.”

This terrifying cultivation world!