Chapter 33: Chapter Thirty-Two: The Master of Star Virtue Temple

He called out several times, but no one answered in the hall.

Liu Xiaolou climbed the steps slowly and arrived before the main hall’s door, only to find it locked with an iron chain—apparently the owner was away.

He gently pushed the door, opening a narrow crack; through it, he saw a statue over a zhang tall, stern in appearance, its eyes gleaming brightly.

When Liu Xiaolou’s gaze met the statue’s, a vast, ancient feeling surged over him, leaving him dazed, and he involuntarily stepped back several paces.

The statue was exquisitely carved, truly lifelike.

He steadied himself, snapping out of his daze, and suddenly felt a refreshing clarity seep into his mind.

A mountain breeze swept over him, carrying fine rain like cowhair, reviving his spirit—he could not tell whether the freshness came from the statue’s gaze or the cool mountain rain.

He moved on to the eastern annex and western wing, peering through the door cracks; both were empty, only faintly revealing tables, chairs, beds, cooking stoves, and firewood—everyday necessities.

At the moon gate connecting the annex to the main hall, the hilltop’s edge dropped away; a few steps beyond lay a ten-thousand-zhang abyss. Gazing outward, the sun had set, and the sky was now thick with dark clouds, the world plunged into gloom.

Since he had come, he might as well stay; Liu Xiaolou decided to rest here for a few days and wait for the owner’s return.

The iron lock, of course, could not stop Liu Xiaolou—though large, it yielded to a simple pry—but he had come to seek help, not to force entry, so he sat cross-legged beneath the eastern annex’s eaves, ate two pieces of dried rations, clutched a spirit stone in his palm, and closed his eyes to cultivate.

The nine key acupoints of the Hand Jueyin Meridian—Tianchi and Tianquan—had already been opened, consuming five spirit stones; now he held fifteen, and the remaining seven—Quchi, Ximen, Jianshi, Neiguan, Dalin, Laogong, Zhongchong—remained to be pierced. He wondered how far he could get, and he looked forward to it greatly.

A thread of spiritual power transformed into true qi, flowing past the yuan pools of Tianchi and Tianquan, surging toward Quchi, striking at its acupoint barrier like waves crashing against a dam, spraying foam at the threshold; the acupoint at his elbow pulsed visibly under the qi’s impact.

This was a slow, grinding process—not something achieved overnight; Liu Xiaolou had cultivated for ten years and was long accustomed to it.

The night passed without incident; the next morning, he awoke from cultivation, stretched his stiff limbs, and walked to the hilltop to gaze across the land.

The world was shrouded in mist and clouds, gloomy as yesterday; mountain winds carried fine rain that dampened his skin with a faint chill.

He circled the hilltop, roughly a mu in size, found no sign of the owner’s return, and remained calm, ate some dried rations, drank a few sips of clear water from a large jar in the corner, and resumed pressing against Quchi.

Thus passed several days; the owner never returned, yet Liu Xiaolou gradually grew fond of the place—clouds swirling, undisturbed by others—was this not the perfect place for cultivation?

His dried rations were gone, so he descended into the valley to hunt; fearing the owner might disapprove, he resolved to finish eating the rabbits, pheasants, fish, and crabs before returning.

On the fourteenth night, the spirit stone in his palm yielded not a single drop of spiritual power; with slight effort, it crumbled to dust. One spirit stone spent, Quchi showed no sign of yielding—he judged this acupoint would require three spirit stones to break through.

He loosened his legs, leaned back against the eave, stretched out, and slept deeply.

Seated meditation could refresh the spirit, but the mind could not remain taut forever; over time, fatigue set in, and for Qi Refiners, sleep could not be fully replaced. He had not slept well in half a month—this slumber was exceptionally sweet.

Liu Xiaolou awoke to a blizzard—this year’s first snowfall. Snowflakes drifted endlessly, mountains vanished into white, and the world seemed to hold only him.

After wandering a while, he was about to resume cultivation when a cough echoed from outside the temple gate.

Liu Xiaolou quickly straightened his robes, stood upright, and prepared to greet the owner.

He waited a long time but saw no one; he stepped outside—still no figure, only the winding, rugged path disappearing into the swirling snow.

He had definitely heard the cough—he confirmed it was no hallucination—and followed the trail downward. Around a bend in the ridge, he saw a man lying slumped on stone steps, half-buried by falling snow.

He checked the man’s breath and pulse—he was still alive. Liu Xiaolou turned him over, lifted him with one hand, and carried him back to Star Virtue Temple.

He laid the man beneath the eaves, brushed off the accumulated snow, revealing his appearance: tall, at least half a head taller than Liu Xiaolou, aged roughly forty or fifty, with three elegant beards beneath his cheeks—dignified and refined, even now, though his complexion was ashen, his noble bearing remained unmarred.

Checking his pulse again, he discerned internal injury—likely centered between heart and lungs.

Who was this man?

Liu Xiaolou reached into his pockets and pulled out a jumble of odds and ends, hoping to find something identifying him—or perhaps healing elixirs—but found only several gold ingots, a handful of shattered pearls, two pieces of jade, and two spirit stones.

Huh? These two pieces of jade resembled the jade tablet he carried—both radiated strong spiritual energy.

Liu Xiaolou’s gaze flickered between the two jade pieces and the two spirit stones. Hmm—the gold ingots totaled ten taels, and the shattered pearls were large, perfectly round, clearly no ordinary pearls.

He glanced back at the path down the mountain, then at the swirling snow... Should he...?

As he pondered, the bearded man coughed again, spitting threads of blood; the violent fit jolted him awake, his eyes half-open, and he seized Liu Xiaolou’s arm.

Liu Xiaolou startled, gave a light tug, and broke free—but the man muttered something low, too faint to make out.

His other arm lifted weakly, pointing upward toward the eaves, then fell limp again, sinking back into unconsciousness.

Liu Xiaolou tapped his toe, leapt upward, and found a key beneath the beam the man had indicated.

He tried inserting it into the lock, turned gently—the iron lock clicked open with a soft *click*.

So—it was clear: this bearded man was the temple’s owner. But how many people lived here? Was he Star Virtue Lord?

He pushed open the door. The annex also had three rooms: the main chamber held the octagonal table and two chairs he’d glimpsed through the crack, plus a side table against the wall; the left room held a large bed; the right room’s walls were lined with shelves stacked with various tools.

Liu Xiaolou abandoned other thoughts, carried the bearded man into the bedroom, stripped off his filthy outer robe, laid him on the bed, and found a thick wool blanket in the cabinet to cover him—then sighed in relief.

He thought a moment, then gathered the scattered items from outside and placed them beside the man’s pillow.

I, Dao Master, came seeking an array plate—not to steal. I’ll spare your wealth this time.

So now... what should I do?