Chapter 27

Su Chen stood before Wuzhuang Temple, his heart churning with countless thoughts.

The couplet, “The immortal’s abode where life never fades, the Daoist’s home that shares heaven’s eternity,” did not exude arrogance, but a calm statement of fact.

As if sharing heaven’s lifespan was, to the temple’s master, nothing more than an ordinary truth.

The gate stood tightly shut, its vermilion wood adorned with ancient bronze rings.

Su Chen could feel that beyond this door lay a world utterly distinct from the outside; the heavy, earthlike Daoic resonance made him feel not the slightest urge to pry.

Knock, or not knock?

If Master Zhenyuan was inside, would a mere Qi Refining-to-Union Daoist’s sudden visit be seen as rude?

No one could say what the Earth Immortal Ancestor’s temper was like.

But if he didn’t knock, was he to wait here idle?

The Heaven’s Mechanism Mirror only said the opportunity lay behind Wuzhuang Temple, not how to enter.

Su Chen even entertained a ridiculous thought: should he mimic Sun Wukong and sneak in stealthily?

The moment the thought arose, he crushed it instantly.

What nonsense—sneaking into Master Zhenyuan’s sacred grounds? That’s like lighting a lamp in a latrine, looking for shit.

He took a deep breath and suppressed all distracting thoughts.

Since the Heaven’s Mechanism Mirror had guided him here, there must be a way forward.

He stepped forward, straightened his Daoist robe, and decided to seek an audience with proper courtesy—this was the safest course.

Yet, just as he raised his hand, about to knock on the door rings—

“Creeeak—”

The heavy vermilion gate swung inward on its own.

Inside, mist swirled, divine aura thickened, obscuring all sight.

Only a pure essence of plant life rushed toward him, invigorating his spirit.

Su Chen’s hand froze midair, his heart tightening.

Just as he was bewildered, two young Daoist acolytes stepped out from within.

On the left, a boy of about ten, clear-eyed and refined, calm and composed, holding a fly whisk, bearing the air of a miniature elder.

On the right, younger still, lips red, teeth white, eyes dark and round with unblinking curiosity as he stared at Su Chen.

They were Qingfeng and Mingyue.

“You’re the one Master mentioned—the destined one?” Mingyue tilted his head, speaking first, voice crisp as jade beads falling on a plate.

Su Chen’s heart stirred slightly, but his face remained impassive; he bowed to the two acolytes: “This humble Daoist, Wuchen, greets you both.”

Qingfeng stepped forward, imitating an elder’s manner in returning the bow, his tone flat: “Daoist Wuchen, no need for formalities. Our Master has left to visit a friend and is not in the temple.”

“But before departing, Master instructed that a destined one would arrive soon; if he found the gate, we were to lead him to the willow tree behind the temple.”

As he spoke, Qingfeng glanced at Mingyue, who was still staring intently at Su Chen, and lightly tapped his head with the fly whisk: “Mingyue, cease your rudeness—lead the Daoist.”

“Alright, alright!” Mingyue rubbed his head, stuck out his tongue at Su Chen, made a face, then turned and bounced into the temple: “Daoist, this way!”

Su Chen followed them, his heart reeling.

Master Zhenyuan had foreseen his coming!

How was that possible?

He bore the Heaven’s Mechanism Mirror, obscuring his fate—even a Sage could not trace his origins.

Yet this Earth Immortal Ancestor, absent in person, had precisely predicted his arrival at Wanshou Mountain, even his exact timing.

Such Daoic mastery was truly unfathomable.

He suppressed his shock and stepped through the gate of Wuzhuang Temple.

Inside, the scene opened before him—no gilded halls, no carved beams or painted rafters.

Only plain brick and stone tiles, ancient and natural.

The courtyard was spacious, planted with strange flowers and herbs Su Chen could not name, each brimming with spiritual energy, clearly no ordinary plants.

Several white cranes strolled leisurely through the yard; seeing a stranger, they showed no alarm, only tilting their heads, black-bead eyes studying him.

Along a distant path, a few sika deer grazed on grass, all serene and tranquil.

Every brick, every inch of soil here merged with the earth itself, radiating an eternal, timeless resonance.

Walking through it, Su Chen felt a peace unlike any he had ever known.

“Daoist, what do you think of our Wuzhuang Temple?” Mingyue, seeing Su Chen’s silence, couldn’t help boasting.

Su Chen sincerely praised: “This place embodies stillness and non-action, follows the Dao naturally—it has reached the pinnacle of returning to simplicity.”

These words made Qingfeng glance at Su Chen again, a flicker of approval in his eyes.

Ordinary cultivators arriving here usually marveled at the abundant spiritual energy, divine birds and beasts; few could perceive the true Daoic meaning at a glance.

After passing several courtyards and circling a simple main hall, the rear garden came into view.

Su Chen’s steps slowed slightly.

There, at the garden’s center, stood a massive ancient tree.

The tree stood no more than thirty feet tall, gnarled and powerful branches, leaves shaped like banana leaves, lush and emerald.

Amid the dense foliage, faintly visible were fruits resembling children under three years old—complete limbs, full features, swaying gently in the breeze.

An indescribable, immense vitality radiated from the ancient tree, nearly solidified.

Merely breathing the faint, sweet scent of the fruits made Su Chen’s Golden Core leap with joy.

One of the Ten Primordial Spirit Roots—the Ginseng Fruit Tree!

Though he had anticipated it, seeing this legendary celestial root with his own eyes still struck his spirit deeply.

This tree seemed the very source of life, the ultimate embodiment of the Dao of “Birth.”

"Daoist, don't stare—that's our Master's treasure, the Ginseng Fruit; smell it and gain three hundred and sixty years of life, eat one and live forty-seven thousand years. But they're precious—only thirty bear fruit every ten thousand years, and we never get to eat them," Mingyue whispered, her voice tinged with grievance.

Su Chen tore his gaze away.

Qingfeng and Mingyue led Su Chen to a spot near the Ginseng Fruit Tree, where a solitary willow stood.

The willow was not tall, even unimpressive.

Its trunk was dry, gray and lifeless; most branches had withered, only a few twigs clinging to yellowed leaves, as if ready to vanish with the wind.

Compared to the vibrant Ginseng Fruit Tree beside it, this willow resembled an old man nearing death, steeped in deathly stillness.

“Daoist, Master instructed that the opportunity you seek lies here,” Qingfeng pointed to the withered willow. “Our duty is done—we’ll leave you now.”

Saying this, Qingfeng pulled Mingyue, who still wanted to speak, and turned away.

The vast rear garden now held only Su Chen alone.

He stood still, staring at the dead willow before him, then at the thriving Ginseng Fruit Tree nearby.

Life and death, flourishing and withering—here, they formed a stark contrast, as if revealing some cosmic truth.

Su Chen’s spirit was utterly drawn to the dead willow.

He sensed a faint yet exquisitely pure Wood Element origin, and something even more mysterious, elusive, hidden within the seemingly lifeless trunk.

Hollow willow—contains the cosmos within.

Slowly, he extended his hand and gently pressed it against the rough bark.