Chapter 78: He Taught Me

Zheng Fa stepped onto the suspension bridge and immediately realized this thing was purely a mind game—it actually swayed when you stepped on it!

The sway wasn’t large, but that unsteady feeling induced intense unease.

Standing on it, fierce, gushing mountain winds slammed into his face, making his clothes flap violently.

A slight downward glance revealed the valleys ahead seemed bottomless.

In such an environment, anyone taking the Talisman Law exam would be nervous, regardless of whether they had acrophobia.

Add to that the time limit on the suspension bridge, and the exam felt downright cruel—there must be a wicked soul in the Nine Mountains Sect!

Zheng Fa took two deep breaths, trying to forget the surroundings and focus solely on the talisman patterns on the next bridge segment.

…

Zhao Fu, Zhang Shijie’s courtyard.

Watching the figures trembling on the suspension bridge in the image, Sun Daoyu’s eyes flickered with nostalgia.

He smiled at Zhang Shijie: “Seeing them reminds me of my own days.”

Zhang Shijie glanced at him: “So? Want to go through it again?”

Sun Daoyu let out a dry laugh: “Not that extreme… Back then, my legs trembled on that bridge too, and I didn’t understand why they’d torment us like this.”

“Now you understand?”

Sun Daoyu nodded, then sighed: “If you can’t stay calm and focus on drawing talismans despite this fake danger and hardship, such a mind wouldn’t survive in a celestial sect. But… it’s better not to understand…”

His words carried a hint of weariness that made Zhang Shijie look up at him.

Sun Daoyu seemed to merely sigh, then praised Zhang Shijie: “According to past Bai Xian Alliance results, crossing two peaks is average, four peaks is excellent. But to enter our Nine Mountains Sect, six peaks are likely the minimum—though if you could walk straight to the Ninth Peak, shattering the ten-thousand-year record for new disciples, you wouldn’t need to worry about this at all. Your shadow still lingers on these nine peaks.”

Hearing this, the Lady and others turned their gazes toward Zhang Shijie.

They had heard of Zhang Shijie’s genius, but now they finally felt it firsthand.

“You say your younger brother is aiming for you?”

But Sun Daoyu shook his head: “He’s still young; ambition is good… but frankly, even our Master doesn’t believe he can match your talent. Your aptitude for talismans is a once-in-ten-thousand-years rarity. Not even in another thousand years will anyone break your record.”

Zhang Shijie shook her head, clearly disagreeing, her gaze fixed on the floating screen, watching Zheng Fa still climbing upward.

…

Zheng Fa had now entered a rhythm of pattern recognition—or rather, though this exam was designed to test new disciples’ mental fortitude,

it happened to suit Zheng Fa perfectly. After days of training, he’d nearly turned talisman pattern recognition into instinct.

Once it became instinct, he could provide correct solutions and find answers without conscious thought or fear.

He almost forgot he was suspended midair; his entire being was filled only with the talisman patterns on the bridge.

The exam’s difficulty increased gradually.

On the first two peaks, matching talismans appeared frequently—one or two out of every ten patterns.

This wasn’t difficult for Zheng Fa, nor for most people here.

From the corner of his eye, he saw over half the candidates had reached the Third Peak.

But starting at the Third Peak, the difficulty suddenly skyrocketed.

Matching talismans appeared far less often—roughly once every twenty patterns.

And the bridge beneath his feet vanished faster—Zheng Fa estimated the time had been cut by a third.

If you didn’t step forward after about forty patterns appeared on the next bridge segment, the spirit runes beneath you would vanish.

This sudden spike in difficulty caught many off guard; the air filled with falling figures, their faces twisted in despair, accompanied by wails echoing through the valleys.

This scene further unsettled others, causing more and more to fail.

Zheng Fa spotted the Seventh Young Master—he’d just reached the Third Peak.

The Seventh Young Master had been staring straight ahead, chin raised, crawling forward with clumsy determination, but hearing the screams around him, he couldn’t help glancing down—and froze.

“Zhao Lao San!”

Zheng Fa called out to him.

“You’re the one who’s Lao San!”

The Seventh Young Master gritted his teeth in reply, but his limbs were clearly trembling; he stayed rooted in place.

“Zhao Jingfan,” Zheng Fa glanced back at him, then asked: “You waited ten years, cursed ten years—is going back really acceptable?”

“…”

Zheng Fa said no more, seemingly unwilling to persuade further, and continued forward.

Watching his back, the Seventh Young Master’s eyes slowly reddened.

Zheng Fa’s state was familiar to him—the numb, obsessive focus of the Pattern Sea tactic.

He exhaled, fixing his gaze on the next bridge segment. His bloodshot eyes saw nothing else—only these patterns he knew, loathed, cursed, yet had poured a decade into.

The two moved forward, one walking, one crawling, numb yet steady, toward the Ninth Peak.

Gradually, most were left far behind.

Zhou Gan, who had been leading, seemed to sense something, turned back, and saw Zheng Fa rapidly closing the distance.

He’d always resented Zheng Fa and harbored a competitive streak. Seeing Zheng Fa catch up, his face tightened with anxiety.

Zheng Fa seemed not to notice him; his eyes were locked on the talismans, utterly indifferent to who stood beside him.

Others slowed, but Zheng Fa grew even more immersed, moving purely on instinct, his pace accelerating.

When he passed Zhou Gan, Zheng Fa didn’t even spare him a glance.

Zhou Gan stared at Zheng Fa’s retreating back, his steps halting.

Then he saw a figure behind Zheng Fa, crawling and rolling but moving swiftly, overtake him.

The man noticed Zhou Gan, stopped, and stood up on trembling legs.

Zhou Gan recognized him—the man who’d always stood beside Zheng Fa muttering, annoying everyone, whom Zhou Gan had never bothered to speak to.

The man made an expression Zhou Gan knew well—the same arrogant look he himself had worn countless times.

“I’m Zhao Jingfan.”

The familiar phrasing and tone confirmed Zhou Gan’s suspicion: this man was deliberately imitating him. He felt a surge of shame and anger.

After saying this, the Seventh Young Master turned to continue forward—then paused, as if remembering something, and pointed at Zheng Fa: “Oh, my talisman art—he taught me.”

Zhou Gan watched him walk away, his expression crumbling piece by piece.

He understood the implication: you went to Zheng Fa’s face to show off?

I’m his disciple—and you still lost.

Zhou Gan clenched his fists and quickened his pace to chase after the two.

…

In Zhang Shijie’s courtyard.

Sun Daoyu watched Zheng Fa’s movements and sighed: “My younger brother… his mind is disturbed…”

Beside him, the Lady and the eldest daughter exchanged a glance, both wearing identical expressions of guilt…