Entering the Mortal World Once Again

The Way itself has no question; a question itself has no answer.

These words drifted through his mind, lingering relentlessly. He sighed, shook his head with a bitter smile.

Gazing at the familiar furnishings of the Sword Hut, he unconsciously stretched out a hand, grasping at empty air.

Lowering his head, he slowly opened his palm, only to find nothing there.

“To seek the Way, to prove the Way—how arduous! Even following the path that already exists is fraught with hardship at every turn.”

But then—

“Heh!”

He gave a light, self-mocking chuckle. Here he was, not even having built his foundation yet, already pondering matters unimaginably distant from himself. To think he could make sense of it—what a joke.

After today’s alchemy gathering, at his own request, Master Su had agreed to refine a Profound Mysterium Pill for Wantong, finally resolving Fang Mu’s lingering worry.

Yet when Master Su learned he was a disciple of Fu Luan, there was a complex look in his eyes, deep with unspoken meaning.

That gaze at parting lingered long in his mind, stamped there, refusing to fade.

Forcefully casting aside these distractions, he calmed his spirit and entered meditation.

Unknowingly, dawn arrived.

Dew moistened the window paper, leaving it mottled and damp.

For days now, something had been stuck in his heart like a fishbone caught in his throat.

Previously, his cultivation was lacking, and he had no time to spare for it. Now, with his cultivation having made some progress and the time ripe, he refused to delay any longer.

Gui Qi still clung quietly to his left wrist, recuperating. The forced awakening yesterday to save Hu from peril had left him even weaker. Even when Qin Chuan reached out with his mind, there was no response.

The poisonous pills he’d devoured the day before had finally shown some effect, yet in just a day, any benefit—and more—was repaid.

His right hand touched his left wrist, tracing the ribbon-like mark pressed to his skin like a tattoo, his heart filled with guilt.

He summoned his companion, as usual scraping the milky ointment from his body and carefully storing it in a jade bowl.

Pushing open the door, he walked southeast.

Few people were on the road—none of them familiar, mostly unfamiliar outer sect disciples.

Green Mountain Sect was recruiting more and more disciples lately, for reasons unknown.

As he neared Linluo Mountain, the number of these low-level disciples increased.

Linluo was called a mountain, but in truth, it was little more than a high hill, utterly unremarkable among the vast range of a hundred thousand green peaks.

No clouds wreathed its heights, no waterfalls thundered down its slopes. It was just an ordinary woodland, with occasional patches of bare yellow earth and rock—nothing special.

Atop the hill stood a tall redwood building, seven or eight stories high. Two upright screens stood on either side, guarding the entrance.

For outer sect disciples, it was required to complete at least one task every month. As for tasks that took two or three months, how those were counted was not his concern.

As an inner sect disciple, he need not worry about such things unless the sect gave a direct order.

He produced his light red waist token and handed it to the disciple opposite.

“Qin Chuan, accepting task number one thousand one hundred and eleven…”

Though it was his first time here, the procedure was simple. After watching others accept their tasks, he understood it perfectly.

He retrieved his waist token and a white jade slip from the disciple and left the task hall, heading straight for the sect gates.

“Butcher’s Camp, Ten-Thousand Faces?”

Qin Chuan read the information on the jade slip, a cold smile curling at his lips.

Ten-Thousand Faces was the nickname of the bandit chief.

It was true, as the old saying went: ‘Bad lands breed wicked men.’ The hundred thousand green mountains were a haven for scoundrels; good people did not dwell long in such places.

Among the mountains, bandit camps were everywhere, highwaymen abounded. When commoners committed crimes, they fled to the hills, hoisted banners, and became mountain kings, living off robbery and plunder.

Qin Chuan had crossed mountains and rivers from the southern lands to reach Green Mountain Sect, and he’d encountered many such types.

On his journey, he’d heard of many infamous bandit dens. Butcher’s Camp was one of them. It was said the chief, Ten-Thousand Faces, delighted in flaying the faces of his victims; his notoriety was such that even children ceased crying at the mention of his name.

Thirty years fortunes east, thirty years fortunes west—now, the cautious, careful Qin Chuan returned.

He said nothing as he walked to the mountain gate, showed his jade slip, and was permitted to leave the sect.

Beyond the pass, between two valleys, he saw a town spread out like a flat cake. This was where ordinary people lived. Because it neighbored Green Mountain Sect, it was one of the few suitable places for mortals to dwell.

Yet Qin Chuan did not approach immediately. Instead, he climbed high to survey the land, his gaze sweeping the terrain—suddenly, his eyes brightened.

A thin waterfall coursed through the dense woods, barely visible. If not for his keen eyesight, he would have missed it.

The place was deserted. Sword in hand, he sliced away low-hanging branches and brambles with a flick of his wrist, tapped his storage pouch, and swallowed a common insect-repelling pill. Unhurried, he pressed on.

The sound of water striking stone grew louder, and joy lit his eyes.

He formed a quick seal, sending blades of wind from his sleeve—an application of the Gale Art, now transformed under his refined spiritual energy.

The tips of the wind blades gleamed coldly, edged with metallic light, like the wings of a bee, humming at high frequency, sharp as razors.

The branches, no thicker than a thumb, were sheared cleanly, leaving smooth cross-sections that fell to the ground with a soft patter, forming a narrow path for one.

Qin Chuan saw the water ahead—a spring clear as glass—and delight shone on his brow. He tore off his Daoist robe, tossed it onto a mossy boulder, and dove headlong into the water with a splash, sending up cool droplets.

Naked, he swam like a pale fish, teasing the shrimp and crabs, surfacing at last with a shout of exhilaration.

The spring’s spray blurred his vision, the roar of water drowning out the birdsong in the hills.

He let out a long breath, expelling his confusion, leaving only resolve in his eyes.

He finally took a clean robe from his storage pouch, put it on, and tidied himself. Now, he looked no more than a handsome youth in his early twenties.

Though spells could cleanse the body just as well, none could match the refreshing coolness of a mountain spring.

Qin Chuan was, after all, a child of mountain villages, wild by nature, though the hardships of recent years had forced him to suppress it.

The tattered Daoist robe he once wore was now gone, consigned to flames.

He plucked a long-leaved blade to dangle from his lips, looking every bit the carefree wanderer.

As he entered the town, sights and sounds pressed in on every side.

He strolled the streets paved with blue stone, his heart full of feeling.

The townsfolk moved with an easy grace, lazily tending their work—farmers in the fields, merchants at their stalls, women washing clothes, and elders scolding their juniors while sipping tea with a smile, watching the younger generation blush and bow at their side…