When Chen Ping'an awoke, he found the oil lamp on the table extinguished, and dawn was just breaking outside the window. All he could recall were five phrases spoken by the tall woman.
"All the secret truths I revealed before—once you awaken from this dream, you will forget them entirely. There's no need to try and remember; I merely wished to speak."
"If I were to remain in this world now, even if sages from all realms did not come to suppress us, your current body and spirit simply could not endure—it would only harm, never help you. That is why we set a hundred-year deadline: as long as you ascend to the tenth level of the Qi Cultivator within this century, you may return to the stone arch bridge in the town and claim the iron sword."
"Choosing you as my master, you must neither grow arrogant nor belittle yourself because of this. Over eight thousand years, I have witnessed countless prodigies gracing the heavens—recent examples like Cao Xi, Xie Shi, and Ma Kuxuan did not even catch my eye. Selecting you was not a choice born of desperation as my end nears."
"Though I cannot fight by your side for now, I must offer a token of acquaintance: three thousand years ago, during the great dragon-slaying battle, I idly watched children brawling—an uproarious scene with treasures strewn about. I picked up a modest white jade plaque—plain yet elegant, unadorned, delicate and compact, suitable for holding objects. It is a relic of some age, superior in rank to the now-fashionable 'Square Inch Armory' and 'Square Inch Sword Tomb.' Its spatial capacity is roughly equal to your ancestral home in Clay Bottle Lane, and it need not be worn openly; it may be preserved within a secret chamber. I have attuned it to your spirit—by a mere thought upon touching it, you can draw it into your hidden space. Only an ascended cultivator's force could break it. The only drawback is that you must reach mid-Five Realms cultivation to wield it."
"Lastly, the title 'Immortal Sister' resonates deeply with me, so I have embedded three slender strands of sword qi within you."
Chen Ping'an sat stunned, as if transported to another world. All he wished was to return home, light a lamp, and stay awake until dawn—a chance to make up for the New Year's Eve vigil he had missed. His head ached. Forget the tenth floor of Qi Cultivators or the mid-Five Realms; his battered body was like a dilapidated hut buffeted by wind and rain, incapable of gathering qi. How could he cultivate to become an immortal? He was doomed not only to fail in cultivation but also to survive only by nurturing his body through martial arts.
Ning Yao had once casually remarked that damaging a person's foundational marrow and acupoints was easy, like how Cai Jinjian forcibly opened Chen Ping'an's acupoints. But restoring a complete body suitable for cultivation was far harder than ascending to the heavens. The analogy was simple—a child wielding a kitchen knife might break a door with effort, but repairing that ruined door to pristine condition was a monumental task.
What troubled Chen Ping'an most was that after promising to escort Li Baoping to the cliffside academy—a journey far and arduous—he could not guarantee his survival, and yet now there was this added burden of a century-long pact. Although he had been honest with the white-robed woman, she dismissed him with a single phrase: "I have no regrets anymore. I have chosen you, Chen Ping'an, as my master. If you perish, so be it—I will await my end. When that ancient sword finally sinks into the stream and my spirit dissolves, don't feel indebted to me; blame only my own blindness."
Chen Ping'an thought, If you say so, how can I have peace of conscience? And what do you mean, "blame no one else"? It's just the two of us. He had no idea what the tenth floor of Qi Cultivators entailed, nor the true nature of 'inch-sized objects' or 'square-inch objects.' Beyond the inexplicable weight on his shoulders, the boy secretly felt a flicker of joy—after today, there was one more soul in this world who must rely on himself.
At the dream's end, Chen Ping'an remembered sitting shoulder to shoulder with the white-robed woman on an endless golden stone arch bridge, stretching beyond sight like a dragon weaving through the clouds.
Taking a deep breath, he rested his head on the table and recalled the old man Yao's words, which made everything easier to understand: "What is meant to be yours, take it and don't lose it. What is not, don't even think about."
Chen Ping'an packed the scattered items he needed—a slingshot, fishing hooks and lines, flint stones—into a small backpack. At the bottom of a clay jar, he carefully retrieved a small cloth bag filled with shards of broken porcelain. Though scattered, the collection was substantial yet lightweight. Traveling long distances—as he had before on mountain trails spanning hundreds of miles—required light burdens. One must learn to live off the land and water.
Locking his door after securing the bundle, he hesitated upon seeing a locust branch leaning against the wall, then reopened the door to bring it inside, shielding it from the elements to prevent premature decay.
With two taels of silver earned from gathering herbs on his person, Chen Ping'an visited Xinghua Lane and Qilong Lane. The sky was still early, and the straw-shoed boy patiently waited outside a closed shop. Once the owner yawned and opened, he bought incense, paper money, and a pot of peach blossom spring wine from the tavern. He intended to buy a packet of bitter knot cake from the New Year's shop—his mother had once said it was delicious and promised to buy it again for his fifth birthday. Yet at the shop, the clerk said they no longer made the cake, and the old master baker had long since retired to the capital. Resigned, Chen Ping'an purchased a packet of peach blossom cake gifted yesterday by Ruan Xiu to Li Baoping instead.
Leaving the town, he passed the small temple where he and Ning Yao once fled from the Mountain-Moving Apes and pressed onward to a low hill. Only then did he begin ascending. Midway up was a fallow field with two small earthen mounds, clear of weeds. Chen Ping'an knelt before the mounds, set down his backpack, and arranged the ancestral offerings.
For a thousand years and more, whether from the beginning or by later custom, townsfolk of all ranks did not kneel or kowtow at graves, only lighting three incense sticks and bowing thrice sufficed. As one nurtured by four years of family tradition in Clay Bottle Lane, Chen Ping'an followed suit but before lighting incense, he symbolically gathered a handful of soil at his feet to add and gently press atop the graves—this time hastily sourced nearby, though usually he collected soil from various mountain peaks to bring here, a small act of peace for his conscience.
He had always felt he had never truly repaid his parents' kindness and thus found solace in this ritual, especially since Old Man Yao once said that generations of porcelain burners upheld such customs.
The two small graves nestled closely, no tombstones. After lighting the incense and bowing thrice facing the graves, Chen Ping'an poured out the wine before them. Then, standing with eyes closed and hands clasped, he spoke heartfelt words to his parents—telling them of this journey with Li Baoping, unsure how far from home they would travel.
A delicate youth stood within the temple, gazing at the myriad names scrawled unevenly in charcoal upon the walls—names small and large, perhaps dismissed by townsfolk as mere children's frolic, yet to him they shimmered like a brilliant river of history.
Lizhudongtian, in the skies over the Great Li realm of Eastern Baoping Continent, is the smallest of the thirty-six minor heavens—a land spanning mere thousands of miles. Without magical restrictions, it offers little to sky-riding cultivators beyond scenic views. Yet its treasures left by sages and martyrs of yore, along with the extraordinary beings it has nurtured, make it unparalleled elsewhere.
Consider two great cultivators bonded as destined companions whose offspring inevitably reach mid-Five Realms, with chances of ascending further rivaling those from the town's select children. How many people live in such a town? It is akin to dragons emerging from a pond, one or two each generation.
Thus, with the shattering descent of Lizhudongtian, rulers across Eastern Baoping's kingdoms, mindful of their survival, must feel relief. The Great Li Song clan's severance of this celestial vein will inevitably influence the southern expansion of their iron cavalry.
Cui Can lingered gazing with a complex heart. Since ancient times, imperial exams forged bonds of classmates, contemporaries, and hometown kinship; the path of cultivation was no different. Lizhudongtian's fate was sealed through the sacrifice of one, securing a modest ending.
All great cultivators emerging from Lizhudongtian will cherish this spiritual legacy, with varying degrees of attachment. The four clans and their powerful backers are no exception.
Regrettably, the Great Li Song clan neither lost nor gained credit amid this upheaval. They might have shown more tact—for instance, they should not have so readily granted Ruan Qiong's early access to Lizhudongtian. Nor, knowing Qi Jingchun ultimately refrained from wielding his full heavenly power and defied the great lords with mere words, should the Ministry of Rites have so easily acceded to the four clans' demands to retrieve saint
ly relics.
Each action deepened conflict. But this was Lizhudongtian's destined course, and the stronger grew, the more fragile the balance.
The great struggle for power within the realms pressed inexorably on—yet amid this turmoil, smaller voices and forgotten figures persist, waiting for their moment.