The pastries made by Wei Ping weren’t only delivered to Qianqu’s chicken delivery team. Agricultural Officer Liu the Carpenter, Works Officer Iron San Niu, the construction team leader, the village chief of the threshing ground, and other mortals all received beautifully carved food boxes.

With a tap on the box lid, three layers would automatically open, like a lotus flower blooming, revealing brightly colored, sweet-smelling, petal-shaped pastries.

Qianqu was backward and simple; few people had seen such exquisitely presented things with hidden ingenuity, causing them to exclaim in wonder.

Being able to eat food personally made by Immortal Official Song’s steward, Immortal Master Wei, not only satisfied their appetites but was also a special honor.

After finishing his meal, Iron San Niu squatted by the ditch, smoking a pipe and daydreaming, pulling out a dry tobacco pipe from his bosom.

Wei Ping adapted to local customs, also lifting his robe hem to squat beside him, and even leaning forward to help light his pipe.

Iron San Niu was so startled he almost dropped his pipe: “Immortal Master, how could you do this?”

“I’ve just arrived in Qianqu and don’t understand the ways of the world or anything about the waterways. I need to learn from everyone,” Wei Ping asked with a smile, “I heard that you drew the waterway blueprints? May I see them?”

Iron San Niu repeatedly agreed.

Wei Ping obtained the blueprints and asked questions about controlling water volume and flood prevention, listening attentively throughout and addressing the other as “brother.”

Finally, he asked seemingly casually: “The layout of these seven waterways was requested by Sir Song, right?”

“Of course not. This layout is currently the most reasonable. It maximizes the waterways’ effectiveness. Qianqu is vast with much dust, and we need to not only solve irrigation but also distribute water, remove sand, and ensure clear water flow. This is the best design I selected from all plans. Immortal Official Song saw it and just nodded.”

Wei Ping was startled but carefully observed the other’s expression without showing his surprise.

He wasn’t lying.

Could it just be a coincidence? Song Qian Ji had no intention of undertaking major construction to increase his luck and fortune. He only wanted to channel water for irrigation, benefiting Qianqu and its people.

He suddenly laughed heartily: “I originally thought it was for good luck! When completed according to the blueprints and filled with water, cultivators flying over on swords or magical devices will see—since Qianqu has no tall buildings and the Yellow Mud Plain stretches endlessly—only seven waterways forming the character ‘Song.’ In the vast heavens and earth, using the boundless wilderness as paper and the surging river as ink—only this could highlight Immortal Official Song’s unique position in Qianqu and his power above all.”

“Song? Let me see… Hey, it does look like Song! I hadn’t noticed until you mentioned it, haha! Brother, you have good eyesight!”

Iron San Niu excitedly called to Liu the Carpenter: “Old Liu, come quickly! There’s a discovery that Steward Wei spotted!”

Soon, the river workers put down their rice bowls to pass around the blueprints. Exclamations rose from the crowd:

“The more I look, the more it resembles Song!”

“This is Heaven’s will.”

Wei Ping slightly raised his eyebrows.

He had a sensitive intuition for space, patterns, and character structures, otherwise, he wouldn’t have been recognized by the Calligraphy Saint or discovered the trick in the “Swindler’s Talisman” at the black pawnshop.

Song Qian Ji, without intention or awareness, had achieved this result—could it mean he was indeed blessed by heaven’s mandate and fortune?

The people of Qianqu all called it an “auspicious sign” and went home to worship miniature statues of the Immortal Official.

Only Meng He Ze was rather disdainful: “Wei Ping, your thoughts are impure and far-fetched. Do you think this will please Senior Brother Song? My Senior Brother is an upright gentleman who never seeks fame or glory, and never engages in such empty, showy things.”

 If Wei Ping had been a female cultivator, he would have accused her of being a seductress trying to bewitch their leader, then pushed her into the large water vat used for growing lotus flowers to sober up.

Wei Ping was arranging dishes for Song Qian Ji and, hearing this, looked up at Meng He Ze with a wronged yet gentle smile: “Senior Brother’s words are harsh. I wouldn’t dare.”

Today, Song Qian Ji was eating southern cuisine. When eating, he was always focused and wouldn’t be distracted by others’ verbal sparring.

Three crystal-clear shrimp dumplings, three fragrant black bean sauce phoenix claws, three soft and glutinous fresh meat siu mai, a small plate of crisp and refreshing blanched Chinese kale, accompanied by a bowl of black chicken, wolfberry, and old ginseng soup that had been simmered for six hours without interruption, and finally a fresh, palate-cleansing Buddha’s hand tea cake.

—Made with green tea freshly picked this year from beside the spirit spring of the Great Extension Sect.

The utensils and presentation were exquisite, arranged in a flowery, splendid pattern. Song Qian Ji ate everything clean.

Ignoring Meng He Ze’s glare, Wei Ping continued:

“Sir Song, I heard you received a Seven Perfections Qin from the Qin Immortal, which can transform into a treasure ship. When all the waterways are completed, will you take me for a ride to see how magnificent this ‘Song’ character waterway looks from above?”

Song Qian Ji wiped his fingers clean, instinctively feeling something strange about the other’s tone as if he had heard it somewhere in his previous life.

He still seriously corrected the other:

“Qianqu will not always be without tall buildings, will not always have only yellow earth and windblown sand. In the future, looking down from the sky while riding a sword, in spring one will see green fields everywhere, willow trees and painted bridges; in autumn, yellow and red leaves interspersed, golden farmland with rolling waves of wheat; in winter, vast expanses of snow, silver decorations and plain garments.

“Not as you described—boundless wilderness with just a single character. If after the waterways are completed, Qianqu still has nothing, and my name stands alone written between heaven and earth, what meaning would that have?”

Wei Ping’s hand, which was collecting the silk cloth, suddenly trembled.

He abruptly looked up, gazing at Song Qian Ji with a strange, shocked expression.

Tens of thousands of people worshipped him as a divine savior, and tens of thousands of hearts bore this “Song” character.

But in Song Qian Ji’s heart, there was no “Song” character, no empty fame or prestige, no power or status.

Only Qianqu, only its people.

“Is it worth it?” Wei Ping heard his voice turn somewhat cold.

“Worth what?” Song Qian Ji didn’t understand.

He thought, I came down the mountain to enjoy the pleasure of farming and dug waterways still for farming. If the land isn’t properly cultivated but my name is written out first, how embarrassing.

“Nothing,” Wei Ping restored his smile and cleared away the dishes.

With his diligent hands, sweet mouth, ordinary and youthful face, plus occasional pitiful expressions, within half a month, Wei Ping had won the hearts of people both close and distant.

Except for Meng He Ze, who stubbornly resisted and firmly refused to eat the pastries, everyone’s preferences—whether they liked sweet, spicy, or sour—were all thoroughly understood by Wei Ping.

When Meng He Ze was so angry he nearly bit his teeth to pieces and shattered his sword, Ji Chen finally arrived with good news, his hair as messy as a chicken’s nest:

“I went through the four city gates’ formation recordings and found he entered through the west gate, talking with several wandering cultivators along the way. Following this clue and tracing it back step by step, I uncovered something.”

“You’re impressive! You’ve got skills!” Meng He Ze said.

“It’s not that I have skills; money makes the ghosts turn the millstone,” Ji Chen slapped down a stack of messy papers: “He came from Fenlin City, a good-for-nothing hooligan who drank, gambled, and no one ever saw him with friends or family.”

Meng He Ze no longer despised Ji Chen’s ugly handwriting and committed every word firmly to memory, then crumpled the paper, imagining he was crushing Wei Ping’s head:

“I believe his tragic past is all lies!”

“What exactly is wrong with this person?” Ji Chen asked.

“Everything is wrong!” Meng He Ze explained the whole situation in detail.

He hadn’t originally counted on Ji Chen’s help, considering the young master lacking in sense—foolish and stupid, needing protection—and thought that to deal with Wei Ping, Ji Chen was ten thousand times less capable than himself.

Unexpectedly, the young master understood better:

“When I was at home, my uncles all married many wives and concubines. Those ladies, with nothing to do in the deep courtyards, liked to compete for a favor, suppress others, show off, and create misunderstandings, all to gain more love from their husbands. Listen to his tone of speech, see his methods and tricks of feigning innocence and grievance—don’t you understand yet?”

“Under-understand what?” Meng He Ze blinked.

What connection was there between these two things?

Ji Chen poked his forehead: “That Wei Ping isn’t a wandering cultivator or a sword cultivator; he’s a bitter, resentful concubine!”

The fog before Meng He Ze’s eyes finally cleared: “I knew something wasn’t right—I’ve never encountered this kind of opponent! What method can break his tactics?”

Wei Ping’s appearance rapidly warmed the relationship between Meng He Ze and Ji Chen.

Although Meng He Ze wouldn’t admit it verbally, in his heart, he already considered Ji Chen a close friend worth risking his life for.

Ji Chen slapped his thigh: “I’ve only heard Wei Ping’s great name without meeting the person. Let me meet him. You stay nearby to support me!”

Meng He Ze slapped his precious sword: “Good, drive out the villain and restore my Senior Brother!”

…

Today, Wei Ping returned to Xiao Lan Village with Liu the Carpenter to help at the threshing ground.

After half a year of hard work, harvest time had finally arrived. During the autumn harvest, the entire village, young and old, worked together, as joyful as during the New Year.

Wei Ping had high aptitude and learned quickly. After watching for just a moment, he could already independently use the flail to thresh and remove the grain. Having just started, Liu the Carpenter praised him for working steadily with a skilled posture.

Using his talent of mastering everything by understanding one thing in this way, Wei Ping found it amusing and somewhat absurd.

Whether cultivating at home, drinking heavily in flower pavilions, or killing people for money outside, he had never imagined that one day, he would personally do farm work.

But Qianqu had too many mysteries, and he couldn’t fathom Song Qian Ji’s true nature.

Wei Zhan Yang was wrong. It wasn’t only when Meng He Ze was by Song Qian Ji’s side that Song gained an extra life.

As long as Song Qian Ji was among the people, he had countless lives, because countless people were loyal to him and willing to sacrifice themselves to save him.

Half a day of farm work quickly brought Wei Ping closer to Liu the Carpenter, reaching the point where they could pat each other’s shoulders.

At this time, the questions he wanted to ask could receive truthful answers.

“I heard that during Qianqu’s great drought, Immortal Official Song knew a cultivation technique that could make withered seedlings sprout?”

“That’s right! Immortal Official Song has great abilities. He can nourish grain seedlings, wheat seedlings, and tree seedlings with his spiritual power. At that time, he walked all over Qianqu without rest, and whenever he reached a place, he would squat down and cast spells like this.” Liu the Carpenter knelt on one knee, making a gesture of pressing five fingers to the ground. “People even saw him in the fields late at night.”

Wei Ping exclaimed admiringly: “No wonder everyone is so grateful to him.”

“Not just that, he also waited for rain. Ever since the first rainfall, Qianqu’s rain increased. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have grain to thresh today—we’d be digging for wild vegetables.”

“Waiting for rain?”

“Yes, with sincere hearts, heaven responds! Heaven has eyes!” Liu the Carpenter smiled honestly.

Wei Ping smiled too.

Rather than believing in the power of sincerity, he was more inclined to believe that Song Qian Ji had forcibly used some extremely draining technique to summon clouds and rain within a certain range, defying the natural timing and inevitably paying a great price.

What kind of path did Song Qian Ji ultimately want to walk?

Wei Ping had never been an Immortal Official, but he prided himself on having seen enough to understand the twists and turns of how Immortal Officials managed their territories.

Should cultivators rely on smoke offerings and the power of faith and wishes to enhance their fortune, thus saving the suffering and protecting the mortal realm?

The experience of family clans and major sects in the cultivation world told cultivators they couldn’t do this. What the Zhao family did was excessive exploitation and overdraft, which was not conducive to healthy development and was an anomaly in the cultivation world.

According to common sense, there should be balance: five parts extraction, four parts giving, and the remaining one part left to its natural course, depending on heaven.

Otherwise, without illness or disaster, who would worship at temples?

Without pain or suffering, who would seek the Immortal Official?

Cultivators seeking the Great Dao were constantly competing—competing with their peers for resources, competing with the Heavenly Dao for time.

Like Song Qian Ji, spending all his time benefiting Qianqu, the input was destined to be disproportionate to the return.

When Qianqu enjoyed favorable weather and everyone lived in peace and prosperity, people would take everything for granted and expect more.

Human desires were endless: after having a thatched hut, they wanted a tile-roofed house; after having a tile-roofed house, they wanted a grand mansion with three sections.

After having a mansion, they wondered why others had precious horses and carriages.

At that time, the Immortal Official would no longer be able to satisfy everyone’s desires. Instead, mortals would grow resentful, blaming him for no longer providing.

Song Qian Ji was delaying his cultivation path. Was Qianqu, for which he sacrificed everything, really worth it?

Would this path, that no one had walked before, really lead anywhere?

Liu the Carpenter stood up and patted the dust from his knees.

The sun was setting in the west, its golden light illuminating the high piles of grain. The dry, fresh fragrance of grain was carried by the wind, dispersing the flowing sweat. Wives wiped the sweat for their husbands, children brought water to their mothers. Though busy and laborious, everyone was happy together, with smiles radiating from every face.

These smiles were too similar, too dazzling.

Wei Ping finally asked that question: “What if one day, Immortal Official Song can’t give you what you want?”

“Huh?” Liu the Carpenter didn’t understand.

Wei Ping repeated the question.

He really wanted to know if, when Song Qian Ji no longer provided, would he lose offerings, lose faith, lose everything.

“Immortal Official Song has never provided anything,” Liu the Carpenter’s smile faded, his expression serious.

The setting sun’s glow made his dark skin and the wrinkles etched on his face by life’s hardships appear even deeper.

He said to Wei Ping:

“Look at the river here, the road there—they weren’t created by Immortal Official Song with a wave of his sleeve. They were carried basket by basket, dug shovel by shovel, with our own hands! Women cooked at home, and men went out to work. When fathers ran out of strength, their sons took over. Every household was the same. Qianqu was once prosperous; our ancestors passed down both farming and scholarship. We just want to live as humans should!”

“On the first day Immortal Official Song arrived, he told us not to kneel or worship at temples. He said he would not fulfill any of our wishes.”

He turned his head, facing the direction of Tian City in the glow of the setting sun:

“Everyone worships him not to ask for wealth or possessions, not to ask for handouts, but only to wish him long life and peace year after year.”

Seeing Little Tiger playing and chasing with his companions by the grain pile, Liu the Carpenter seemed to awaken from a dream, laughingly scolding as he went to hold his son.

Only Wei Ping remained stunned as if struck by lightning: “Only wishing him long life and peace year after year…”

The fierce western wind blew his robes, carrying him to Huawei City in spring.

At that time, the Grand Assembly had just ended. With a rubbing of the hero’s invitation and Star Plucking Bureau’s chess manual in his pocket, he approached the noisy gambling den. Looking up, he saw the options of “Calligraphy Saint” and “Chess Ghost,” as if seeing two dead-end paths leading to the same destination.

With sword drawn, he looked around in confusion, so he shouted and placed a heavy bet.

It turned out that he had won that gamble with its thousand-gold stake.

Wei Ping murmured: “The third path, the third path exists!”

Two figures approached from not far away.

“Is that him? Are you sure?” Ji Chen asked.

Meng He Ze nodded firmly.

Ji Chen hesitated: “Isn’t he just a possessed fool? The two of us are champions, with wealth and looks. Bullying a fool isn’t moral, is it?”