His name is Li Banfeng—“Banfeng” as in the peak of a mountain, not the madness of a lunatic; doctors have even said he isn’t crazy. To save a friend’s life, he went to Platform 96, boarded the 1160 steam locomotive, and arrived in Provo, a land still stuck in the steam era. There he met the red‑cheek confidante inside the old gramophone, the peerless beauty on the month board, the swinging lady in the antique grandfather clock, and the hermit hidden in a wine gourd.

Here there are food cultivators who get stronger the more they eat, smoke cultivators who get tougher the more they puff, martial cultivators who become more ruthless the more they kill, and alcohol cultivators who grow wilder the more they drink. There are travel cultivators who want to go everywhere, and home‑bound cultivators who want to stay nowhere. Among the hundred sects of the world, who can contend?

Among all Provo cultivators, who is the champion? Banfeng dons a suit, tips his top hat, grabs a feather duster, and asks seriously: “Tell me, who is the ruler of Provo?