Song Liang truly had not meant to make him angry enough to leave. After all, he had gone to considerable trouble to coax him into coming along, pleading that he was only a mortal and that Xiushui City was so large—and had a demon lurking in it—that he was frightened. He had even hoped to use the outing to bring them closer. Instead, one careless remark had driven the man away.
And this was an immortal venerable of profound cultivation. Even the Spirit-Locking Ring could not seal all his spiritual energy. A mortal like Song Liang had no hope of chasing after him.
With a helpless sigh, he jogged a few steps to catch up with Chen You and Jing Feishuang.
“Please wait, you two. Let me accompany you for a while.”
Chen You looked puzzled. “Where is Fellow Daoist Song?”
Song Liang sighed.
“Don’t ask. I said the wrong thing and upset him. He left.”
Chen You was astonished.
“He’s a guest retainer in your household, supported by your spirit stones, yet he dares treat you like that?”
“What can I do? I’m the one who needs his help.”
“Nascent Soul cultivators may be difficult to find, but they aren’t nonexistent. Why not recruit another retainer?”
“Better not. I like his face more than his cultivation. I’m rather reluctant to part with him.”
Chen You had no reply. Mortals could never escape the snares of drink, lust, wealth, and vanity, he thought. Apparently, this young lord was no exception.
Jing Feishuang said nothing, but became even more certain that the white-robed retainer was not her master. Her master’s Dao heart was unwavering, his sword intent clear and pure. He would never storm off over a few words from someone else.
“If you wish to accompany us, Young Lord, we would be delighted.”
…
As one of the Qingyun Empire’s twenty-eight principal cities, Xiushui was among the rare great cities of the mortal empires in both size and population. Its abundant spiritual energy had also drawn numerous cultivation sects to the surrounding area. Now that rumors placed both a Demon King–level creature and Immortal Venerable Shuanghua, the foremost cultivator of the Nine Provinces, within its walls, visitors arrived in an endless stream.
In less than a month, Xiushui’s inns had filled with cultivators. Even some teahouses were packed, and people throughout the streets were asking after the Demon King and Immortal Venerable Shuanghua.
Chen You and Jing Feishuang split their disciples into four groups. Led by guards from the city lord’s residence, they headed to the eastern, western, southern, and northern streets to distribute demon-suppressing talismans under the guise of handing out wealth talismans.
Upon learning that sword cultivators could fight opponents above their own cultivation realm, Song Liang unhesitatingly chose to follow Jing Feishuang. He even declared in a delicate, helpless manner that his dear elder sister must be sure to protect him.
Jing Feishuang was forty. Her appearance had simply ceased to age after she established her foundation, leaving her looking nineteen. Given their actual ages, there was nothing particularly unreasonable about Song Liang calling her his elder sister.
She had a fairly favorable impression of the young lord and readily agreed to protect him, provided he did not wander off.
Deeply moved, Song Liang then asked whether she would like a junior martial brother like him.
Jing Feishuang felt helpless. She knew he had not abandoned the idea. Once again, she explained that without spiritual roots, even becoming a quasi-saint’s disciple would be useless.
Song Liang responded with another question: Was it truly impossible for someone without spiritual roots to cultivate? Could spiritual roots not be acquired through some other means?
They were having this conversation in the same teahouse where they had first met. Around them, patrons discussed the recent rumors sweeping Xiushui City: the Demon King, Immortal Venerable Shuanghua, and the gathering of the great sects. Seated amid that crowd, Jing Feishuang’s expression shifted slightly at his question.
“Mortals are as dust, but before the prodigies of their generation and the fate ordained by Heaven, cultivators are dust as well. They, too, struggle to survive. We merely walk different paths. Why cling to this so stubbornly, Young Lord?”
“Mortals may be dust, but mortals regard ants as dust in turn, while cultivators and demons regard mortals as ants.”
Leaning against the railing on the teahouse’s second floor, Song Liang idly waved his fan of gold and jade and smiled at her.
“Since you believe mortals and cultivators are no different, Miss Jing, would you be willing to relinquish your cultivation and become a mortal?”
Jing Feishuang was struck speechless.
Song Liang smiled.
“See? Even you wouldn’t.”
“Because you have flown by sword over ten thousand miles of mountains and rivers, witnessed the splendor of the Nine Provinces, transcended the mortal trials of aging and death, and wielded extraordinary power that lets you slay demons and villains with a wave of your hand. That is why you have no wish to become one of the countless ordinary souls drowning in the sea of suffering.”
“And the only reason you can advise me so calmly is that you are not me. You are Jing Feishuang, a disciple of the Yaoshang Sect.”
“…”
Jing Feishuang remained stunned for a long time before finally sighing.
“I offer that advice because someone with your disposition and gifts, Young Lord, might stray onto a wicked path if consumed by obsession—and bring calamity upon countless lives.”
“So there really have been people without spiritual roots who entered cultivation through demonic methods?”
“…”
Jing Feishuang choked on her reply. She was a Golden Core cultivator, older and more experienced, yet this young man kept drawing information out of her.
“No,” she said stiffly.
With an ambiguous smile, Song Liang waved his fan and turned to watch the crowds outside the teahouse. A moment later, his gaze abruptly caught on something.
Jing Feishuang followed his line of sight and widened her eyes. She was about to blurt out “Master” when she suddenly remembered herself.
“Is that Fellow Daoist Song?”
On a rooftop across from the teahouse stood Song Yan—the guest retainer who had supposedly stormed off after a few words from the young lord—speaking with a woman. She wore robes in the colors of sunset, with an arrangement of jade pendants at her waist and a phoenix-tail hairpin securing her dark hair behind her head. Her features were lovely, her bearing otherworldly. She was the sort of woman a mortal truly might call a fairy descended from Heaven.
“He actually knows someone from the Tianluo Dharma Sect?”
“Knows her?”
“Yes.” Jing Feishuang nodded. “That is Fellow Daoist Yun Yao, the Tianluo Dharma Sect’s Holy Maiden. In his youth, my master traveled widely, seeking the Dao and testing his sword against others. He has few friends, but he does share something of a friendship with her.”
“Something of a friendship? What kind of friendship?”
“…”
Something about the question sounded distinctly off. Jing Feishuang could not help glancing at him. The young lord’s smile had faded until it no longer reached his eyes; only the faint, uncertain curve of his mouth remained, carrying a trace of cold mockery.
“Kindred spirits, perhaps?” Jing Feishuang was not entirely certain. Her master hardly seemed to have any friends.
Kindred. Spirits.
Song Liang turned those words over in his mind, watching the two figures standing face-to-face in the distance like a celestial couple. Holy Maiden Yun Yao suddenly offered something to Xue Yan. He glanced at it but did not accept.
Yun Yao gave a helpless smile, the gesture carrying the easy familiarity of a long acquaintance. Only after she said something else did Xue Yan reach out and take it.
Song Liang found the sight rather grating. Without turning, he extended a hand toward Jing Feishuang.
“Miss Jing, could you lend me some spiritual energy? Just a little.”
Though puzzled, Jing Feishuang held her hand above his palm and sent a thread of spiritual energy into it.
Song Liang paused, turning to look at her hovering hand.
“You can transfer spiritual energy like this?”
“Of course.” Jing Feishuang looked confused. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing.” Song Liang smiled briefly, then looked back at the pair on the nearby rooftop. His gaze settled on the tall figure in blue and white. His smile vanished, and his intent stirred.
Almost at that same moment, the blue-and-white figure on the opposite rooftop abruptly stilled. Raising a hand to his neck, he turned to look behind him.
He spotted Song Liang in the teahouse across the street at once. His expression faltered, his brows drawing slightly together.
Surprised by the sudden change in his face, Yun Yao instinctively followed his gaze. She soon saw the two figures on the teahouse’s second floor: Xue Yan’s disciple, Jing Feishuang, and a… mortal youth?
She was still wondering who the young man might be when he approached the railing, looking straight toward them. He gave them—no, the man beside her—an ambiguous smile, then abruptly tipped backward over the railing.
Yun Yao started. Before she could understand why the boy had suddenly chosen to throw his life away, Xue Yan transformed into a streak of prismatic light and shot forward.
The bustling street fell silent for a heartbeat. Everyone stared, stunned, at the tall masked man who had appeared out of nowhere, carrying someone in his arms.
Above them, Jing Feishuang leaned out from the teahouse’s second floor, looking down in alarm.
“Young Lord, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Without looking up, Song Liang waved a hand at her. His gaze rested lazily on the angry green eyes above him. “What’s wrong? Did I interrupt your reunion?”
Xue Yan glared down at him, cold with fury, sorely tempted to drop him straight onto the ground.
“Do you truly want to die?”
“Not at all. I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
Even as he spoke, Song Liang glanced aside. Holy Maiden Yun Yao of the Tianluo Dharma Sect had followed them and was staring at the pair in bewilderment.
Song Liang looped an arm around Xue Yan’s neck, drew him closer, and lifted his face to kiss him.
Yun Yao’s expression instantly turned to astonishment.
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