Song Qian Ji fell rapidly, the wild wind howling in his ears. He instinctively summoned his natal flying sword to save the person: “Come!”
Nothing happened. The falling youth’s screams continued.
It seemed the most unbearable thing wasn’t “self-detonation at a dead end,” but “joy turning to sorrow after rebirth.”
The current “Song Qian Ji” was an outer disciple of the Hua Wei Sect, with shallow cultivation and limited Dao abilities.
That natal sword that came at his call and swept across the world would only be forged a hundred years later.
Song Qian Ji gritted his teeth, forcefully kicked against the cliff face to gain momentum, and shot like an arrow toward the falling youth.
Extending his long arm, he caught a piece of the other’s sleeve. Before the fabric could tear, he firmly grasped the youth’s wrist, while simultaneously drawing a short dagger from his bosom and driving it fiercely into the cliff face.
Rocks splattered, grazing his face as they flew past.
Their fall abruptly stopped, and the screaming ceased. Finally, silence.
The youth gasped for breath, clutching Song Qian Ji’s right wrist tightly. They wore similar clothes—the standard outer disciple uniforms of the Hua Wei Sect, nothing more than coarse white robes with indigo waistbands. At this moment, with their long sleeves filled with night wind, swaying in the air, they looked like two hanged ghosts.
The weight of both “ghosts” pressed entirely on Song Qian Ji’s left hand, which gripped the dagger with bulging veins.
The round moon shone coldly, illuminating thousands of peaks, yet unable to penetrate the bottomless abyss.
This cliff area had special earth veins that naturally suppressed cultivators’ spiritual energy circulation, making it an ideal place for murder and body disposal.
Beast roars thundered through the mountains, and white mist rose from the bottom of the cliff. Ten zhang away on the rock face, a lush ancient tree jutted out at an angle.
Song Qian Ji called out: “Hold tight!”
The youth was anxious, his palms slick with cold sweat, babbling through choked sobs: “I can’t hold on, I can’t do it. Father, Mother, I’ve failed you.”
“Do you see that tree? I’ll count to three and swing you over.”
Song Qian Ji looked down. In the pale moonlight, he met a bloodless, pale face.
Thirteen or fourteen years old, with delicate, childish features, and eyes full of despair.
For a moment, he couldn’t remember the other’s name. This first stepping stone should be a nameless person, and given the time that had passed, naturally, his impression was vague.
“Song Qian Ji!” The other called out his name first, red-eyed, “I, Meng He Ze, have always acted honorably, never harmed anyone, and have no grudge against you. Why would you…”
Song Qian Ji began counting: “Three, two.” He drew out all the sparse spiritual energy in his body and exerted himself suddenly. “One!”
The youth named Meng He Ze soared through the air, tracing an arc: “Ah!”
The old tree branches shook violently, leaves rustling down.
Meng He Ze clung to the branch with all four limbs, still in shock, shouting in breakdown:
“Are you sick?! Throwing me just like that—couldn’t you give me some mental preparation? What if you hadn’t thrown accurately? I nearly died!”
But turning back, he saw Song Qian Ji’s right arm hanging unnaturally, twisted at a strange angle.
It was broken.
Song Qian Ji’s forehead was covered in cold sweat, but his expression remained calm, only slightly pursing his lips to endure the pain, clearly having anticipated this.
Meng He Ze was stunned, his anger dissipating: “Hey, are you all right?”
Tonight’s life-threatening ups and downs had left his mind in a jumble.
Song Qian Ji had unhesitatingly injured his arm to save him.
And it was his sword arm—the right one.
Everyone in the outer sect knew that Song Qian Ji practiced the sword diligently, through all seasons, rain or shine, to the point of abnormal hardship, all to pass the assessment and enter the inner sect.
Tomorrow morning was the outer sect competition, yet tonight he had broken his arm and fallen from a cliff, effectively destroying his future and severing his immortal path.
If Song Qian Ji’s right arm hadn’t been injured, he could have climbed up using just the dagger. No, Song Qian Ji wouldn’t have needed to jump down at all.
Why?
Could it be that he liked me, and since he couldn’t “share a fur coat in life,” he sought to “share a grave in death,” planning to kill me first, then jump off the cliff in devotion, only to have a change of heart after taking action, then risking his life to save me?
But I’m not into cut sleeves. Meng He Ze felt conflicted: “Senior Brother Song, are you all right?”
If Song Qian Ji knew what was going through the other’s mind, he would certainly have cursed loudly: A teenager’s dog brain with nothing proper in it, all filled with romantic nonsense!
But he couldn’t respond for the moment. Not because of the pain—he had endured all kinds of suffering in his previous life, and this little injury was nothing to him.
Rather, he was astounded.
Just now, when his right arm was dislocated, he discovered that although this body had extremely shallow foundations, unable to even use a lightening technique, there was a shimmering light in his cinnabar field, seemingly nurturing a powerful magical artifact. A warm, flowing current seeped from his cinnabar field, quietly nourishing the meridians of his right arm. It was a healing artifact.
This shouldn’t be possible. The fifteen-year-old Song Qian Ji had never even touched a real magical artifact.
He only had a low-grade sword, bought from the inner sect steward, made from the leftover waste materials of personal disciples’ sword forging, which had exhausted all his savings.
Not being a magical artifact, it naturally couldn’t be refined and stored in his cinnabar field for nurturing. Every day after sword practice, Song Qian Ji would carefully wipe it clean, store it in a box, and only carry a short dagger for self-defense when going out—the very one now embedded in the cliff face.
Poverty is deadly. If the sword were damaged, he had no money to repair or reforge it. What would he use for the outer sect assessment?
Song Qian Ji carefully sensed his cinnabar field, his spiritual perception still weak, barely able to employ the meditation technique of self-observation. He saw only a blurry white outline, shaped like a treasure bottle.
It was the Purification Bottle!
That spatial artifact he had personally refined to hold the Immortal Spring, capable of preserving spiritual energy without dissipation and keeping flowing water from corruption.