The main gate of Black Tiger Stronghold was built from massive pine logs lashed together, wrapped in thick iron plating, and bristling with sharp iron spikes along the edges.
At Wu Feng's command, two burly bandits strained to push the heavy gates open. The massive doors creaked apart slowly. Wu Feng strode out with the tiger-head broadsword resting on his shoulder, followed by dozens of fierce bandits gripping their weapons, murderous intent rolling off them in waves.
Sure enough, an old Daoist stood in the clearing just outside the gate.
He appeared to be in his forties or fifties, dressed in a simple moon-white Daoist robe that was spotless despite its plainness. A green silk sash was tied around his waist, from which hung an ancient wooden plaque. A jade hairpin held his hair in place. His face was lean and refined, his eyes bright and piercing, and three long strands of beard fluttered gently in the wind. Though he wasn't deliberately showing off, an ethereal, otherworldly aura clung to him—an immortal bearing that clashed sharply with the bandit-filled stronghold.
Wu Feng halted three zhang away, slammed the tiger-head blade into the ground with a heavy thud, and buried half the blade in the dirt. The carved tiger head on the hilt glared upward defiantly.
He narrowed his eyes and studied the Daoist from head to toe before speaking. "Old man, you've got some nerve barging into my Black Tiger Stronghold and injuring my brothers. What the hell do you want?"
The surrounding bandits gripped their weapons tighter, glaring furiously. At a single word from Wu Feng, they were ready to swarm the old Daoist and chop him into mincemeat.
Yet the old Daoist faced dozens of armed men and Wu Feng's killing intent without the slightest trace of fear. He simply nodded politely, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. His voice was clear and calm:
"This poor Daoist is Qingyangzi. While wandering the world, I passed through this area and idly cast a divination. It revealed that a person of unparalleled immortal destiny resides within Black Tiger Stronghold. I have come up the mountain specifically to find him and guide him onto the path of immortal cultivation."
"Immortal destiny?" Wu Feng burst out laughing as if he had heard the funniest joke in the world. His rough, grating laughter shook the grass and trees around them.
He slapped his own chest, then pointed at the bandits behind him, his eyes full of mockery. "Old Daoist, have you lost your mind? Every single man in my Black Tiger Stronghold is a murderous bandit who's spilled enough blood to flood this mountain. Where the hell would any 'immortal destiny' come from? Go on, tell me—which one of us has this so-called immortal destiny?"
The bandits roared with laughter too, looking at the old Daoist with ridicule, treating him like a swindling charlatan.
Someone muttered mockingly, "This old Daoist must be tired of living. Trying to make a fool out of our Great King?"
Another cracked his knuckles. "Once the Great King gives the order, I'll break both his legs. Immortal? What bullshit immortal exists in this world?"
Qingyangzi remained completely unfazed. His smile stayed mild as he slowly raised a hand to stroke his long beard. His gaze cut straight through the noisy crowd and locked onto Wu Feng with absolute certainty. "In the eyes of this poor Daoist, only you, Great King, possess supreme immortal destiny. You are a one-in-ten-thousand cultivation prodigy."
The smile on Wu Feng's face froze instantly. His eyes sharpened like knives.
He looked the old Daoist up and down again, searching for any hint of mockery or deceit, but Qingyangzi's gaze was clear and sincere, without the slightest trace of falsehood.
Wu Feng frowned, tightened his grip on the tiger-head blade, and asked warily, "Who the hell are you really? Spouting nonsense like this—what's your scheme?"
Qingyangzi gave a slight bow, his bearing graceful and dignified. "This poor Daoist is a cultivator from the Thousand Peaks Sect of the East Spirit Continent. I am traveling the world precisely to seek those with immortal destiny and pass on my sect's orthodox teachings."
"East Spirit Continent? Thousand Peaks Sect?" Wu Feng's frown deepened. He had never heard those names before—not in any storyteller's tale, nor in the ten years he had spent carving out a bloody path through this chaotic world.
He said in a deep voice, "What East Spirit Continent? All my life I've only known places like Qing Province and Cang Province. I've never heard of any East Spirit Continent. Are you trying to trick me?"
Qingyangzi's eyes flashed with understanding. He explained patiently, "It's perfectly normal that the Great King does not know. This world is vast beyond imagination. It is not limited to the few regions you are familiar with. In truth, it is divided into four great continents!"
"They are the East Spirit Continent, the North Wilderness Continent, the South Sea Continent, and the West Chuan Continent." He gestured toward the mountains around them.
"The land you currently stand upon belongs to the West Chuan Continent. Of the four continents, West Chuan is the most barren and remote. It is far from the other three, with poor transportation, thin spiritual energy, and few cultivators. News travels slowly here, so ordinary people naturally have no knowledge of the four continents."
These words hit Wu Feng like a thunderclap. The bandits exchanged stunned glances, their faces full of disbelief.
They had never imagined the world could be so enormous, that there were four continents, or that such miraculous things as immortal cultivators even existed.
A storm raged inside Wu Feng. For ten years since his transmigration, he had believed this was nothing more than an ordinary martial-arts world of blades, blood, and survival of the fittest. He had never dreamed that something as mystical as immortal cultivation lay hidden beneath it all.
He suppressed his shock, stared hard at Qingyangzi, and said coldly, "So according to you, you're one of these so-called immortal cultivators? Words are cheap. How do I know you're telling the truth? If you want me to believe you, you'd better show some real skill."
Having survived years in this chaotic world, Wu Feng trusted only what he could see with his own eyes. If the old Daoist couldn't prove himself, he would never believe him—and would instead suspect this was some trap sent by the authorities to assassinate him.
Qingyangzi smiled faintly, completely at ease. "Proving it is simple."
As soon as he finished speaking, he slowly raised his right hand and extended a single finger.
A faint glow flickered at his fingertip. A fist-sized ball of crimson flame appeared out of thin air, dancing with heat that warped the surrounding air.
The fireball hovered gently above his finger like an obedient pet—neither spreading nor dying out—radiating an indescribable sense of mystery.
Every person present froze. The mockery and ridicule on their faces vanished instantly, replaced by utter shock and disbelief.
The bandits stared wide-eyed, mouths hanging open, transfixed by the fireball on Qingyangzi's fingertip as if witnessing the most impossible thing in the world.
They had spent their entire lives around swords, spears, and brute force. None of them had ever seen anything like this—someone conjuring fire from nothing!
Wu Feng's pupils shrank sharply. His hand tightened unconsciously around the tiger-head blade.
He could clearly feel the scorching heat radiating from the fireball. This was no ordinary flame, and certainly not some cheap trick from the jianghu.
Qingyangzi paid no attention to their shock. With a casual flick of his wrist, the fireball shot forward like a meteor and struck a nearby pine tree as thick as a bowl.
Boom!
The moment the fireball hit the trunk, it exploded. Raging flames engulfed the entire tree in an instant. The pine burned as though it had been doused in oil, crackling fiercely, thick black smoke billowing upward. In mere moments, the whole tree was reduced to charred remains.
This was no ordinary old Daoist—this was an immortal descended to the mortal world!
The bandits instinctively retreated several steps. They no longer dared look at Qingyangzi with their previous contempt; they didn't even dare breathe loudly.
Wu Feng's shock was beyond words. He stared blankly at the burning tree, then turned back to Qingyangzi, his expression complicated.
In his entire life, the most powerful people he had ever seen were elite martial artists who could split boulders with a single blade strike—and even that was extremely rare.
Yet this Qingyangzi could create fire from thin air and incinerate a massive tree with one strike. Such power was clearly beyond anything a mortal could achieve.
It seemed the talk of immortal cultivation… was real.