1: Chapter 1 A Traveler Returns Home on a Snowy Night

The Spirit Stone rolled halfway across the bluestone table, and when it stopped, the faint, grayish light on its surface dimmed completely, like a charcoal fire doused with water.

Wang Tong picked up the stone with two fingers, glanced at it, and tossed it back. The stone hit the edge of the table with a dull thud.

"Lu Zhao, no Spiritual Root."

His voice was low, carrying that lazy air of someone raking ashes in the charcoal brazier in the back hall.

As he spoke, his eyelids drooped. He didn't look at the person standing in the hall, only stared at the gaps in his fingernails—he had left some crumbs there from cracking melon seeds earlier.

Outside the hall, the wind whistled past, and snowflakes mixed with ice shards pelted against the window paper with a rhythmic pfft-pfft sound.

The cold air seeping in from under the door crack crawled along the ground, reaching the feet of the few servants, who shrank their necks and wrapped their cotton-padded jackets tighter.

Lu Zhao stood in the center of the hall, his blue cloth robe washed until it had faded to white, the cuffs frayed at the edges.

He looked down at his palm—where he had pressed against the Spirit Stone, the chill of the stone remained, seeping from his skin into his bones.

Three years of Transmigration: the well water of the servant quarters had frozen his hands, the axe handles in the woodshed had blistered his palms, and the bluestone bricks of the training grounds had cracked his knees. He had waited and waited, only to wait for this stone, and these five words as dead and gray as the stone itself.

"The servant quarters need someone to shovel manure." Wang Tong finally lifted his eyes, his gaze shifting from his fingernails to Lu Zhao's face, as if sizing up an object that had been placed in the wrong spot. "Will you go, or not?"

He paused, then curled his lips. "If you don't go, I'll throw you down the mountain to feed the wolves."

A spark popped from the charcoal brazier in the corner of the hall.

Lu Zhao slowly took a breath, the stagnation in his chest easing slightly with the inhale. He looked up, his gaze steady as he replied, "I am willing to go."

His voice was clear, his words enunciated firmly.

Wang Tong's eyebrows twitched, as if he hadn't expected this ant to dare answer back.

"But I would like to ask," Lu Zhao continued, his speaking pace steady, each word filtered through his throat before being spoken, "three hundred years ago, when the Ancestral Master Qingxuan founded this sect, what was the rule established?"

The hall fell silent for a moment.

The wind suddenly grew stronger, rushing in and causing the candlelight to flicker wildly. The few servants glanced at each other and lowered their heads—these words were too hot to handle; they dared not listen.

Wang Tong narrowed his eyes.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his palm pressing down on the Spirit Stone. "You, what do you mean? Are you worthy of testing me?"

"The first rule of the sect rules." Lu Zhao stood straight, his shoulders square. The wind and snow rolled in from the crack in the door, sweeping across his face, his hair sticking to his cheek, but he did not brush it away. " 'The Dao has no favorites, but it is always with the good.' "

He paused. "It does not say, only with those who have a Spiritual Root."

"Pfft—"

Someone laughed out loud—it was the two Disciple attendants standing behind Wang Tong. One had a long, thin face, the other a round nose; both were holding their arms, their mouths twisted in an ugly sneer.

The long-faced one spoke first: "Ignorant brat, do you really think someone without a Spiritual Root is worthy of talking about the Dao?"

The round-nosed one scoffed, "Do you have any idea what kind of thing you are?"

Wang Tong did not laugh.

His expression darkened, as if covered by a layer of frost. He lifted his hand from the table, the Spirit Stone held between his fingers, gently turning it. He rotated it halfway and stopped.

"Drag him out."

The three words were squeezed out from between his teeth.

"Thirty lashes, then throw him down the mountain." He stared at Lu Zhao, the malevolence in his eyes coalescing into ice shards. "I want to see if an ant without a Spiritual Root can survive this snowy night."

Two servants stepped forward, grabbing Lu Zhao's arms from left and right. Their grip was strong, their fingernails digging into his flesh.

Lu Zhao did not struggle, letting them drag him. As they passed over the threshold, the soles of his boots scraped against the stone, creating a sharp, short sound.

Outside, the wind and snow rushed at his face.

The whip was made of water-soaked cowhide, whistling through the air as it swung.

The first lash landed on his back; the sound of tearing cloth and the sound of skin splitting mixed together, dull yet sharp.

Lu Zhao clenched his teeth, a vein on his forehead throbbing violently.

The second lash, the third lash.

Blood seeped out, quickly soaking through his blue cloth robe, mixing with the melting snow as it dripped onto the snowy ground, blooming into a small patch of dark red. The wind blew over, instantly stripping away the warmth from his wounds, leaving only a bone-chilling cold.

He kept his head bowed, looking at the patch of snow in front of his feet.

The snow was so white, blindingly white.

The whip continued to fall, but he felt the sound grow distant, as if separated by a layer of something.

The pain also grew distant, turning into a dull vibration that traveled from his skin to his bones, and from his bones into his heart.

That place in his heart, instead, grew quiet.

He was thinking—what if the rules of this world were wrong from the very root?

If something is wrong, should one just kneel and accept it?

The twenty-seventh lash.

His knees buckled, but he immediately straightened them again. The servants holding him were breathing heavily, and the one wielding the whip had also slowed down, the tip of the whip dragging in the snow, leaving a trail.

"Is... is that enough?" the round-nosed Disciple asked, shrinking his neck and shouting toward the hall.

Wang Tong's voice drifted out from the door crack, wrapped in the scent of charcoal: "Throw him."

The three words were light and airy.

Lu Zhao was dragged to the edge of the cliff. Beneath his feet was darkness, bottomless, and the wind swirled up from below with a wailing tone. Snowflakes flew sideways into his eyes, and he blinked.

His last thought was as clear as if carved by a knife—

The rules are wrong.

Then break them.

The servants let go.

A sense of weightlessness suddenly seized his entire body, and the wind whistled into sharp lines by his ears. Falling, falling endlessly, the darkness pressed in from all directions, mixing with snow foam and choking his nose.

Cold.

The cold penetrated even into the gaps of his bones.

His consciousness began to dissipate, like ink dripping into water, dissolving thread by thread. Just as that spark of light was about to be extinguished completely—

Deep within his spiritual platform, a faint light suddenly bloomed.

It was not a light he saw, but a light he "sensed." It was cold, but possessed a strange rhythm, like a heartbeat, or like the tides, rippling out in waves.

Then, a chill poured into his crown.

It was not the cold of the wind and snow, but another kind of cold—crisp, sharp, piercing straight into the deepest part of his Sea of Consciousness. Countless fragmented images, words, and trajectories surged in like a dam bursting—

"Nine Yang Divine Skill."

Volume One, The Chapter of Misty Purple Qi.

The incantation was not long, only a hundred or so characters, each word like iron strokes and silver hooks, branded into his consciousness. Following it came a warm current, originating from his Dantian in his lower abdomen. At first, it was as thin as a strand of hair, trembling as it traveled. Wherever it passed, his frozen Meridians thawed like spring earth, feeling slightly tingly.

Lu Zhao's heart shook violently, and he let out a low cry from his throat. The frustration and unwillingness that had accumulated in his eyes for three years transformed into a blazing light: A Golden Finger! It was actually a Golden Finger! Three years of endurance, three years of bitter waiting, three years of longing and yearning—today, his wish was finally granted, you have finally come!

The fall continued.

But the warm current grew stronger and stronger, turning from a strand of hair into a stream, surging through his entire body. The chill at the wounds on his back was dispelled, the blood slowly stopped, and scabs formed. His heartbeat went from weak to strong, thump, thump, pounding in his chest.

In the sound of the wind at the bottom of the cliff, other noises suddenly mixed in.

Clop, clop, clop.

The sound of horse hooves stepping on snow, coming from far to near.

And the barking of dogs, short and urgent, one after another, tearing through the wind and snow.

Lu Zhao's last bit of consciousness thought vaguely—

In this desolate mountain wilderness, where would horses come from?