Chapter Four: The Autumn Winds Begin

Shen Lian stayed at the inn for three days, wandering around the town all the while, and finally managed to unravel some of the mysteries. The people of this small town were, for the most part, descendants of certain disciples from Qingxuan, or individuals who, by chance, had come here and become part of the town’s daily life.

For these people, gaining admittance to the Qingxuan Sect was far more convenient, and indeed, there were some who managed to join the sect. Yet, for the most part, their talent or nature fell short, and they never received the true teachings. The young men at the inn, hailing from martial clans or secluded schools, were mostly descendants of former ordinary disciples of Qingxuan.

After failing to ascend the path of cultivation within Qingxuan, some of these ordinary disciples would descend the mountain, marry, start families, and, after a life of pleasure in the mundane world, leave behind a legacy. Lacking the true teachings, they knew only a few basic methods of refining their internal energy. Among mortals, this sufficed for an easy life, but when the final day came, they too would return to dust and bones.

Some had acquired a few minor arcane arts and styled themselves as demigods among men—like those on the so-called Immortal Flight Island. In truth, very few of these arts could rival the strangeness of the Annihilating God Sword Scripture.

For what the orthodox immortal lineages truly relied upon were not these minor tricks. If one considered the purple-clad maiden encountered that day, she was the genuine inheritor of immortal arts.

Since arriving in this world, Shen Lian had met many formidable figures, but the one who most deeply shook his understanding of immortality was that mysterious purple-robed girl. He wondered what position she held within Qingxuan.

The inn’s owner never showed himself, but the waiter from the other day proved to be quite resourceful. Some of what Shen Lian had learned came from him.

His gaze often fell to the far end of the main street, where clouds and mist swirled—sometimes seeming close, sometimes distant. It was said that this was a forbidden cloud barrier, separating the mortal from the immortal realms.

Those of Qingxuan could pass freely, but outsiders could not, unless under special circumstances.

Other than the townsfolk, who enjoyed a natural advantage, Qingxuan only accepted ten disciples every fifty years.

Among these, not one might reach the hope of immortality.

The path to the immortal was harsh beyond words.

Yet none wished to relinquish this rare chance.

With each passing day, more newcomers arrived in the town.

Shen Lian maintained his routine, refining his inner energy, steadying his mind, ready to face whatever might come.

Everyone knew that only ten would be chosen by Qingxuan, and there were rumors—truth uncertain—that if a candidate managed to be among the first ten to arrive, he was truly fated, and that the so-called “heart-testing” was merely a way to weed out those not among the chosen ten.

If, before the sect’s gates opened, one could eliminate the competition leaving only the ten, then the hope of being admitted would greatly increase.

Whether true or not, there were always those willing to try.

This, the waiter said, was why so many here were marked for death.

Shen Lian did not take this to heart, but he knew there would be some who did.

The stratagem of “two peaches to kill three scholars” often succeeded, for it only required a single greedy soul.

Lone wanderers like Shen Lian were prime targets—easy prey.

However, those who arrived in groups were not all of one mind; they split into factions, and ten places were not enough for all.

Those who made it here were greedy but not fools; with so many clever people, few were likely to serve as mere stepping stones for others.

Thus, it was often the reckless who struck first, rather than the so-called wise.

With the onset of autumn, all things felt the chill of killing intent.

In his inn room, Shen Lian sensed a sharp murderous aura.

He had anticipated this. Only now, after all this time, had someone come for him—clearly, these were not ordinary opponents.

Since his arrival, strangers appeared in town daily, yet the number of outsiders never increased.

For the new arrivals were always fewer than the dead.

Having opened his Ren and Du meridians, every gesture exuded confidence; to others, his depth was unfathomable. Many feared him.

He was recognized at the inn as one of the very top experts—there were even a couple who seemed to know his background.

He did not cower, surrounded by wolves; he considered it a kind of training.

His spirit did not grow stronger, but with each trial, his restlessness was worn away, leaving him more stable. His inner energy, after more than a month, grew ever purer.

To outsiders, he appeared lofty and aloof.

Leaves began to fall in the courtyard; beneath their rustling came heavy footsteps.

The visitors could have concealed their arrival, but chose not to—seeking to exert psychological pressure.

There were three sets of footsteps.

It’s said that once martial arts reach a certain level, you can tell a person’s school and skill by their steps.

Shen Lian’s knowledge of the world’s martial arts was limited; keen as he was, he could not always judge accurately.

But he knew the origins of these visitors: even if they were not named Xiao, they must be connected to Immortal Flight Island or Cloud Return Manor.

Their internal energy was identical to Xiao Zhu’s.

Thinking of Xiao Zhu, Shen Lian remembered Ye Liuyun, who had not arrived.

He felt certain that Ye Liuyun would not be coming to Qingxuan.

Among all those vying for entry, some might match his or even Ye Liuyun’s skill, but in terms of character, none could compare.

Shen Lian knew that had he lost his legs from childhood, he could never have achieved what Ye Liuyun had.

Through hardship, one is forged.

The bloom of success is often admired for its current brilliance, yet its bud was once soaked in tears of struggle and watered with the blood of sacrifice. Shen Lian had read this in the works of the great poet Bing Xin in his former life, but it was Ye Liuyun who made him truly understand its depth.

Without a breeze, the main door swung open. Shen Lian stood poised on the steps.

His gaze swept the three men before him, paying little heed to their features.

“Shen Lian, return my cousin’s life!” The speaker bore a threefold resemblance to Xiao Zhu.

Before the words had faded, two flashes of cold steel sliced through the air—his companions struck as he spoke.

One wielded a curved saber; the other, a saber resembling a Tang blade, also with a curve.

The curved saber’s moves were strange and hard to defend against.

But the Tang blade, with its arc, was even deadlier—its blows ruthless and swift.

The blades tore through the air, their chill so fierce it was hard to keep one’s eyes open.

The faint gleam of their blades betrayed the depth of their skill.

Not yet twenty, to possess such strength meant they had received the finest guidance and many medicines to strengthen their foundation.

Yet such men had never faced the test of blood and fire.

Shen Lian reached out, seemingly by chance, to meet their blades barehanded.

The man who spoke first had yet to make a move, waiting for his companions to corner Shen Lian before striking for glory.

His schemes were clever, but fate had other plans.

In a flash of white light, none could see what happened.

The blades never met Shen Lian’s flesh, but clashed against each other.

Equally sharp, equally unstoppable.

The outcome: both blades were severed in two.

Shen Lian so effortlessly seized their openings.

Nothing in this world is without flaw—be it arcane arts or immortal techniques.

To see a flaw is one thing; to seize it, another.

His display of perception and strength inspired fear and awe.

He did not kill the three, not out of softness, kindness, or guilt over Xiao Zhu’s death.

Rather, they had already received their punishment.

For a cultivator, nothing is harsher than having one’s tendons cut and dantian destroyed.

It is not easy for one to be born into this world; Shen Lian would not lightly take a life.

But neither would he feign magnanimity and let them go—for if you repay a grudge with virtue, how will you repay virtue? Thus, he met enmity with righteousness.

From that day until the Double Ninth Festival, no one else came to trouble Shen Lian.