High in the air, the astral winds howled like a blade.
Lin Dong carried Mo Fan like a sack of ragged clothes, hurtling through the sky at a reckless flying speed.
The fierce wind cut across Mo Fan's face like a knife, but he barely registered it.
His mind was running at full capacity, frantically cycling through every possible scenario at breakneck speed.
Should I just go all out against this old man?
The dangerous thought surfaced and was immediately crushed.
After running the numbers every way he could, Mo Fan arrived at a conclusion that was bleak, thorough, and utterly without hope:
No matter what tactic he used, the outcome was the same. A single path to crushing defeat.
In the Mystic Realm, a gap of minor cultivation stages could sometimes be bridged—dirty tricks, equipment, a well-timed explosive burst.
But the gulf between major realms? That was the difference between clouds and mud. A complete dimensional strike!
If Foundation Establishment cultivators were "humans who had just learned to use torches," then Golden Core and beyond was "humans already sitting comfortably in an air-conditioned room eating barbecue."
It didn't matter if he caught him off guard. It didn't matter if he summoned his Soul Wings and bolted.
It didn't matter if he threw everything he had—dragged every single skeleton out of his [ Necrotic Realm ] and played human-wave tactics.
Against absolute, overwhelming power, the result would be the same: annihilation. Not even ashes left behind.
It's over. Completely, thoroughly over.
Mo Fan closed his eyes in midair and let his heart turn to cold ashes.
There was nothing left to do but give up the struggle. Accept it.
Float along like a salted fish, let Lin Dong carry him, and pray quietly in his heart to whatever was listening:
God bless, what if the old man is just in a good mood today? What if he just wants to talk?
What if he takes one look at my unique bone structure and decides to take me on as an honorary disciple?
It's not like I've done anything recently to plant any weird red flags for myself...
The thought had barely finished forming before several thick black lines crawled onto Mo Fan's forehead.
His expression darkened to a shade that would have made the bottom of a cooking pot look pale.
He had just remembered.
Last night. The post-battle dinner in the ruins of Hundred Forging Peak. Full stomachs, good wine, warm company.
And himself, patting his chest with complete confidence, making a solemn pledge to A-Song:
"Once this assembly is over tomorrow, we'll head down the mountain together to see Old Lü."
...Holy shit.
Mo Fan let out a silent, internal scream of despair.
That sentence. That single, cursed sentence.
It had the same destructive power as the most famous poisoned-milk jinx in any mortal battlefield—the one statistically proven by countless fallen soldiers to get you killed:
"Once this battle is over, I'm going back to my hometown to get married."
The most classic. The most lethal. The death flag to end all death flags!
My own fucking stinking mouth!
He had no one to blame. He could only silently endure the backlash of the flag he'd planted himself.
Eventually, the howling wind by his ears died down.
THUD.
Mo Fan felt himself wrapped in some invisible force and dropped heavily onto solid ground.
"Ow—"
The moment he landed, Lin Dong seemed to suddenly realize he'd been holding something. He slapped his own forehead with theatrical exaggeration.
"Oh my, my! A sin, a sin! When I get to thinking, I lose track of everything. How did I forget you were there!"
He tossed Mo Fan aside like a ragdoll onto a nearby bluestone slab and moved on without further comment.
Mo Fan hit the stone, rattled himself back together, and scrambled upright...
Immediately yanking his wide sleeve up to cover his face dead tight before the old madman could get a clear look at him.
He took a quick, cautious look around.
This was nothing like the cramped little courtyards where Wu Mang and the others lived.
The Peak Master's residence was somewhat grand and majestic.
It was a massive stone hall, ancient, its walls threaded through with vines and worn smooth by decades of weather.
It had clearly seen better days. But beneath the decay, that archaic, weathered majesty still rushed at his face.
Before Mo Fan could finish taking it in, Lin Dong was already in his face, his complexion glowing red.
Those deep-set eyes were blazing with the fanatical fervor of a man who had just unearthed a once-in-a-generation piece of unpolished jade.
"Excellent! Excellent! Excellent!"
Lin Dong nodded rapidly, his words tumbling out in barely-contained excitement, even somewhat incoherent.
"Child, your blood-qi is so abundant, brimming with vitality, simply as if made by nature! Very good, very good!"
"I originally envisioned needing three disciples to assist in order to complete this research. Looking at you now... with your quality, one is more than enough!"
He paused, rubbing his hands together, and asked with a beaming smile:
"Right—what is your honorable name? You must come to this old man's place often in the future!"
Hiding behind his sleeve, Mo Fan was complaining endlessly inside.
He knew this type. An old urchin who had lived for heaven knows how long, whose thought patterns had long since departed from anything resembling normal.
With someone like this, acting coy and spinning lies would only raise their vigilance—or worse, enrage them.
Better a short pain than a long one.
Stretch the neck out and it's a strike, shrink the neck back and it's still a strike. Might as well risk it!
Mo Fan steeled himself. Closed his eyes. Dropped the sleeve.
Squared his shoulders with the expression of a man facing a firing squad, and confessed at full volume like pouring beans from a bamboo tube.
"Elder! This disciple is Lu Xiaoqi!"
"We had an encounter when I was a child. The other day on the high mountain, that imposter young master—that was also me!"
He was already committed. No point stopping now.
"I know my mistakes! Whether you want to kill me or hack me to pieces—whatever you decide, Elder, please mete out the punishment!"
The air in the stone hall fell into a death-like silence.
Mo Fan squeezed his eyes shut tight, bracing for the thunderclap. The explosive rage. The stormy punishment raining down from above.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
The anticipated attack did not arrive.
He carefully cracked one eye open.
Lin Dong had not exploded. He had not moved at all.
He looked like someone had pressed a pause button on him—frozen in place, staring at nothing, somewhere very far away inside his own head.
Several long seconds passed before he finally snapped out of some deep contemplation.
When he did, he seemed to have completely set aside the matter of being scammed by Mo Fan previously.
His brow furrowed slightly, and using an extremely bizarre tone, he repeated the name in a murmur—the tone of a man reaching for a distant memory.
"Xiaoqi?"
Mo Fan could only bite the bullet and nod stiffly, forcing out an awkward smile.
"Y-Yes... that's right. You are of noble status, handling myriad affairs every day—you've probably long since forgotten a disciple like me..."
Lin Dong shook his head.
Extremely seriously.
The cloudiness in his old eyes cleared—and what replaced it was an extremely dazzling, sudden intensity, sharp as a blade catching light!
He took a step forward. Locked eyes with Mo Fan. His hands began to tremble uncontrollably.
"How could I forget? Xiaoqi ah..."
His voice filled the empty stone hall, each word landing like a heavy hammer smashing viciously against Mo Fan's heart.
"You are a Heavenly Spirit Root, after all."
He stared at Mo Fan, trembling.
"How could this old man possibly forget?"