“Don’t be afraid, Senior Brother Song.” Meng He Ze moved as nimbly and swiftly as a swallow skimming water, his body like an agile ape barely touching the ground. He grabbed Song Qian Ji in one motion and carried him on his back. “This time I’ll save you!”
The previously sheer cliff with nowhere to step now seemed like level ground to him.
Meng He Ze hadn’t expected that in a moment of extreme crisis, his potential would burst forth, allowing him to execute the lightning technique Song Qian Ji had just taught him.
The night grew deeper, the wind stronger, and the sounds of insects and beasts never ceased.
In the latter half of the night, dark clouds surged, obscuring the bright moon.
The forest roared like waves. Sudden thunder cracked, and the night wind brought cool rain threads.
In the fine rain, a black shadow carrying another person leaped up and down, causing stones to fall and dust to rise in bursts.
Song Qian Ji went from shock to speechlessness.
He had underestimated.
This was an exemplary youth who hadn’t yet been beaten down by the cultivation world, with an extraordinarily strong sense of moral responsibility.
In his previous life, besides sword techniques and artifact refining, Song Qian Ji’s abilities to escape and self-heal were first-rate. But now he couldn’t use healing techniques and could only rely on the Immortal Spring in his cinnabar field to slowly repair his injuries. Otherwise, recovering too quickly would arouse Meng He Ze’s suspicions. If the Hua Wei Sect found out, it would create unnecessary complications.
Since Song Qian Ji had no intention of silencing him permanently, he couldn’t reveal any flaws.
The plan to go down the mountain to farm would have to be reconsidered carefully…
“There must be Steward Zhao’s people guarding the cliff top now. Let’s go down,” Song Qian Ji said. “Follow the direction I indicate.”
“All right!” Meng He Ze was completely trusting.
The night rain pattered, making the cliff face slippery and difficult to traverse, yet Meng He Ze’s footsteps remained steady.
In the fine rain, he carried Song Qian Ji into a mountain cave, took out a fire talisman, and illuminated their surroundings.
The cave was covered in dust and cobwebs, but there were scattered bones and dry grass remnants, likely an abandoned lair of some mountain beast.
Meng He Ze diligently lit a bonfire, cleared a clean space, and piled up soft grass to make a comfortable place for Song Qian Ji to rest against.
Just as they settled in, he slapped his forehead: “Oh no. I forgot your dagger. I’ll go back and get it!”
Song Qian Ji lounged lazily against the grass pile, waving his hand: “Don’t bother. It’s already blunted; it would be useless even if retrieved.”
“I’ll find a refining master to repair it for you!”
Song Qian Ji was puzzled: “Do you have spirit stones?”
“I, I…” Meng He Ze stammered, dejected and embarrassed.
Song Qian Ji laughed heartily: “Not having money isn’t shameful!”
For an outer disciple, having one or two weapons inscribed with spell formations, barely qualifying as “magical artifacts,” was already a precious possession. Meng He Ze thought, that one night, Senior Brother Song had injured his right arm for wielding swords and lost his dagger in self-defense. Too miserable.
He gritted his teeth, pulled something from his bosom, placed it in Song Qian Ji’s hand, and solemnly said: “Senior Brother Song, this is for you. Please wear it; it will help your injuries.”
It felt smooth and delicate in his hand. Song Qian Ji looked down.
It was a string of red spirit jade beads with white tassels adorning the loop. Eighteen beads, lustrous and moist, were in the firelight, emitting a deep red brilliance, with what appeared to be blood veins flowing inside.
The two center beads were each carved with an ancient character.
Song Qian Ji read: “Zheng, Xian?”
“My style name is ‘Zheng Xian.’ Before coming to the Hua Wei Sect to cultivate, I lived in Qinglu County of the Southern Heavenly Prefecture. My family called me Meng Zheng Xian.”
Meng He Ze revealed a shy, embarrassed smile, speaking from the heart to Song Qian Ji, “When I was young, I met a Buddhist cultivator who said I had the spiritual roots to cultivate. This string of spirit jade prayer beads was a gift from that master, promising that I could find him at Tianmen Temple in the future. But what’s the point of becoming a monk? I still ran away to seek immortal fate at the Hua Wei Sect.”
Song Qian Ji stared at the bead string, lost in thought: “Southern Heavenly Prefecture, Qinglu County, surname Meng, style name Zheng Xian, becoming a monk…”
Such familiar items, familiar names, and backgrounds.
He couldn’t help but sit up straight, re-examining Meng He Ze. The youth’s height wasn’t fully developed, but his back was as straight as a pine. His features were clean and handsome, his gaze determined, with some childishness remaining between his brows.
Suddenly, a flash of insight came, and a strange chill ran up Song Qian Ji’s spine as the upright youth’s face overlapped with another demonic countenance.
He was startled and blurted out: “You’re the Evil Buddha!”
Meng He Ze looked down at himself: “My what?”
Song Qian Ji still couldn’t believe it, muttering: “You are Meng Zheng Xian.”
Meng He Ze was Meng Zheng Xian. The first stepping stone of his previous life, whom he had pushed off the cliff, was the cultivation world’s number one devil seventy years later, the master of the evil path, Blissful Zen Meng Zheng Xian.
Song Qian Ji wanted to curse at the heavens.
Well played, treacherous Heaven! I thought you returned the Immortal Spring to me because your conscience was acting up.
So you were holding back a big move, waiting for me here!
“It’s the name my parents gave me. Come to think of it, I haven’t gone home to see them in a long time. Once I enter the inner sect, I’ll return home in glory,” Meng He Ze said bashfully.
Song Qian Ji: “You still have parents? How old are you this year?”
“I’m fourteen.” Meng He Ze beamed with joy: “Senior Brother Song, you’re so funny. I didn’t spring out of a rock; who’s born without parents?”
No, I’m not being funny, thought Song Qian Ji. According to rumors, Meng Zheng Xian witnessed the slaughter of his entire family at sixteen, went mad with rage, and fell into the evil path.
There are still two years to go; you still have both parents.
In your past life, your cultivation method was called “Blissful Zen,” yet you never had a blissful appearance.