When the heavy snow fell, Song Qian Ji was fleeing for his life.
He rode his sword, crossing vast deserts, traversing countless mountains and valleys, escaping from the easternmost ocean of the continent toward the westernmost snowfields.
Thus his enemies surged toward the snowfields from all directions, like raging waves rushing forward, determined to submerge a lonely island.
Various flying magical instruments densely filled the sky, and the auras of magical treasures intertwined, forming layers of brilliant light curtains.
The fluttering white snow everywhere was illuminated in dazzling, multicolored splendor.
This pursuit and encirclement lasted three days, fought until heaven and earth lost their original colors, with sun and moon nowhere to be seen, truly a spectacular sight.
Song Qian Ji’s blood had nearly drained away; he no longer felt pain, only cold.
His natal flying sword wavered and tilted, finally unable to bear the burden, falling like a bird with broken wings, crashing down and splashing up a cloud of snow dust.
Song Qian Ji climbed up from the snow, and looking around, he saw enemies in all directions, above and below, as the encirclement rapidly closed in on him.
It seemed as if everything in the world was spinning around him, turning until he felt dizzy, his vision blurring.
He wiped away the blood from his lips and looked up at the sky with self-mockery:
“So many people came, huh? It’s not like you’re rushing to a temple fair. Is this necessary?”
The same question had been asked by those who came to kill him.
“The four great immortal sects working together, setting up a heavenly net and earthly web for three days and three nights, all to kill just one person—isn’t that a bit excessive?”
From the highest cloud ship in the sky came the will of the action’s initiator:
“Not excessive, because he is the Undying in a Hundred Battles, Song Qian Ji. If given even the slightest chance to live, he could stage a comeback.”
The cultivators who had pursued him to the point of exhaustion and questioning their life choices finally understood this statement was no exaggeration.
“How can the mighty Song Qian Ji be so skilled in escape techniques?! In three days, we’ve failed to close our formation seven times, and each time he broke through and escaped.”
“Ha! Do you think he was born noble and precious? He started as a rogue cultivator, a commoner! If he didn’t know how to escape, he’d have been reincarnated long ago!”
Song Qian Ji supported himself with his sword, straightening his back. In his heart, he had a vague intuition that this would be the last time.
No way to ascend to heaven, no door to enter the earth.
The end of the road.
The wind was strong and the snow fierce; the sky seemed like a cage. The facial features of every one were unclear, yet their expressions were identical:
Righteous indignation united against a common enemy.
Proud to participate in this great event and contribute, excited to witness the fall of a powerful cultivator.
Song Qian Ji’s gaze swept over faces both strange and familiar, his expression gradually becoming calm.
He asked: “Where is Miao Yan? I alone will bear responsibility for my actions. You need not trouble her.”
No one answered him.
For someone of Song Qian Ji’s caliber, even if cornered, who knew what formidable last resort he might have?
The cultivators remained cautious, stopping more than twenty zhang away, not daring to approach further, only shouting at him across the vast curtain of snow, some persuading, some cursing.
“Hand over the Purification Bottle! Hand over the Immortal Spring!”
“The World Tree is dying, this world has reached the brink of existence! Stop being so obstinate!”
Amidst the chaos, suddenly the sound of a pipa rang out, cutting through everything, sorrowful and pleading, penetrating the wind and snow, drowning out human voices, like heavenly music descending to the mortal realm.
The melody was profound, containing the true essence of the Dao, greatly shaking the cultivators’ spirits, silencing them.
Human voices faded, and even the sounds of wind and snow diminished, leaving only the pipa music growing increasingly impassioned, increasingly tragic until it shook heaven and earth.
Song Qian Ji was momentarily stunned, murmuring: “A song played before a vast army. What a fine ‘Hegemon Discards His Armor,’ breaking one’s heart and liver.”
His unfocused eyes suddenly sharpened, piercing through the crowds toward the source of the music, as he shouted:
“Miao Yan, since you’ve come, why not show yourself!”
Though Song Qian Ji was at his end, his shout still carried the imposing aura of one who had once looked down upon the world, whom ten thousand men could not oppose.
The pipa music, as if struck by thunder, abruptly ceased.
The cultivators awakened as if from a dream.
“It’s Immortal Maiden Miao Yan who has arrived!” “The Immortal Maiden is righteous, wanting to end this demon herself!”
The crowd stirred, parting to reveal an ornate carriage.
A woman with fingers like orchids lightly lifted the gauze curtain.
Miao Yan cradled the pipa as she descended from the carriage, her steps light as lotus, her white dress and arm gauze billowing in the wind, like smoke and mist.
Many forgot they were on a battlefield, staring at her in fascination.
Song Qian Ji said coldly: “You’ve also come to kill me?”
Miao Yan’s almond eyes blinked, tears falling silently.
The number one beauty of the cultivation world deserved her reputation. She was always so beautiful, every smile and frown seemingly calculated for the perfect angle, flawless.
This teardrop was the same, moistening her long curled eyelashes, sliding down her porcelain-white face, and crashing into Song Qian Ji’s heart lake.