ongoingHe is called Li Banfeng, the feng of mountain peak, not the feng of going mad, the doctor said he was not mad. To save a friend’s life, he went to Platform 96, boarded Train 1160, and arrived in Pro Province, frozen in the steam age. He met his soulmate in an old phonograph, the peerless beauty in a calendar, the swinging beauty in an old grandfather clock, the transcendent master in a wine gourd. Here are the food cultivators who grow stronger the more they eat, the smoke cultivators who grow stronger the more they smoke, the martial cultivators who grow fiercer the more they kill, the wine cultivators who grow wilder the more they drink. Here are the travel cultivators who want to go everywhere, and the homebound cultivators who want to go nowhere. Among the hundred schools of the world, who can rival them? Among the ten thousand cultivators of Pro, who is the supreme one? Banfeng put on a suit, put on a top hat, picked up a feather duster, and asked seriously: Tell me, who is the master of Pro?