Song Qian Ji quickly replaced the gate to his courtyard.
A wooden door of peach wood, painted with bright vermilion lacquer and fitted with gleaming bronze rings.
Two green gauze lanterns hung before the door, the silk decorated with slanted peach blossom branches, exuding an elegant charm.
When the spring breeze blew, they swayed gently.
Like the petals from the spring peach tree outside the courtyard gate, inadvertently sticking to the surface of the lanterns.
Meng He Ze’s friends were swift and efficient, delivering and installing everything, achieving much with many hands.
Zhou Xiao Yun even hung a delicate small wooden plaque by the door. On it were two neatly carved characters: Song Yuan (Song’s Courtyard).
Song Qian Ji had to admit that female cultivators’ aesthetic taste was indeed far superior to rough men like himself.
Meng He Ze nodded from his wheelchair: “Not bad, quite impressive.”
“Quite impressive” was a modest way of putting it. Now the entrance to Song Qian Ji’s residence was undoubtedly the most impressive in the entire outer sect.
However, once the door opened, the contrast between the outside and inside only emphasized how empty and sparse the courtyard was.
The chair Chen Hong Zhu had sat on and the teacup she had used had been thrown away. The ground had been turned over by Song Qian Ji, clearing away broken stones and weeds, but he hadn’t yet had time to set up a fence or plant flowers and vegetable seedlings.
Everything needed rebuilding, just like this spring of his rebirth.
While satisfied, Song Qian Ji felt somewhat wistful.
In his previous life, many people had scrambled to do things for him. Let alone wanting to replace a door, even if he wanted a new palace, people would have offered it with both hands.
But that was because they feared him or wanted something from him.
They spoke of benefits and exchanges, but never of loyalty or sincerity.
“Thank you all,” Song Qian Ji said.
“What’s there to thank!” Zhou Xiao Yun beamed with joy: “Senior Brother Song, you’re too polite. We need to go work now, but we’ll come back tomorrow to replace your other furniture!”
Hua Wei Sect enrolled a thousand outer sect disciples, essentially recruiting a group of low-paid miscellaneous workers with room and board provided.
They went to the Steward’s Hall every day to receive tasks, such as mining spirit stones, grooming and cleaning up after spiritual beasts, running errands for outer sect disciples, and so on, earning meager spirit stones based on task completion.
Performing sect tasks was jokingly referred to as “working.”
Unless, like Zhao Ji Heng, one didn’t lack money and viewed the outer sect merely as a stepping stone, purely for experiencing life.
Otherwise, “cultivation” and “working” formed an irreconcilable contradiction in the lives of outer sect disciples.
Without working, there were no spirit stones to purchase or borrow cultivation methods; with diligent work, there was no time for cultivation.
Meng He Ze, due to his injuries, was temporarily exempt from work for the next few days.
The others were walking out with cheerful conversation when suddenly their footsteps halted and laughter fell silent.
Someone was standing at the door, blocking their way.
The person wore emerald green brocade robes and a jade crown. A sword hung at his waist, its scabbard inlaid with various gems, exceptionally luxurious.
He lifted the wooden plaque by the door with one finger, sneering: “Song… Yuan.”
The spring breeze brought a chill. The joyful atmosphere in the courtyard vanished completely.
Everyone shielded Meng He Ze and Song Qian Ji behind them, glaring vigilantly at the man.
The brocade-clad young master then looked up at the swaying lanterns, still snickering:
“Don’t you know that in the market town below, the night is livelier than the day? When the brothel girls light up peach blossom lanterns at their doors, it signals they’re ready to receive customers. I see this Song Yuan has a similar ingenuity.”
Zhou Xiao Yun’s face flushed red: “Zhao Ji Heng, how vulgar of you!”
“Oh, isn’t this Junior Sister Zhou?” Zhao Ji Heng pretended to just notice her, moving closer in surprise. “Our Hua Wei Sect has so few beautiful female cultivators. For a precious flower like you to mingle with them all day is truly a waste of treasure.”
Meng He Ze coldly asked: “What are you doing here?”
He rotated his wheelchair, emerging from the crowd, seeming more confident than the standing Zhao Ji Heng.
Zhao Ji Heng instinctively stepped back, but remembering the man was severely injured, he smiled again: “I’ve come to deliver a gift! If you don’t show proper hospitality, that’s quite inappropriate, isn’t it?”
With that, he called toward the door: “Bring it in!”
Four of his followers carried in a familiar reclining chair, neatly crossing the threshold.
“Put it down,” Zhao Ji Heng said haughtily. “Song Qian Ji, this sedan chair is a gift for you. Try sitting on it again.”
After the note-passing incident with the Disciplinary Hall that led to seeing the sect leader, Song Qian Ji had become famous among the three halls.
Disciples from the Disciplinary Hall and Enforcement Hall, most of whom had never seen or known him before, would be told whenever someone asked “Which one is Song Qian Ji”:
“He’s the one who was late for the outer sect examination and was carried in a sedan chair.”
When this reached Zhao Ji Heng’s ears, he laughed until he pounded his chest:
“How brilliant was I to have Song Lu paraded around the square? I’m a genius!”
He came today intending to mock and insult his opponent while showing off.
Zhao Ji Heng patted the armrest of the recliner: “Look at you all, going through so much trouble, nearly expelled from the sect, yet I’m the one entering the inner sect. I thought you might have found a patron after meeting the sect leader, but here you are, slinking back to the outer sect?”
Meng He Ze was so angry he almost rose from his wheelchair, grabbed the recliner with one hand, and flung it away.