Chapter 4: Chapter Three: The Heroic Invitation

It is said that a man does not shed tears easily, only when his heart is broken; Wei Hongqing wept openly before his brothers, showing just how deeply he was wounded.

Liu Xiaolou wanted to stay and keep him company, but was ultimately driven away, returning to Qianzhuling with a heavy heart—not only furious at his good brother’s misfortune, but also lost and uncertain about his own cultivation path, unable to sleep at all.

As a hermit of Wulong Mountain, where was his way forward?

In the long, endless night, he suddenly remembered that spirit ginseng; since Wei Hongqing’s dual-cultivation affair had fallen through, shouldn’t he retrieve it? Even if half had been eaten, there was still more than half left...

Before dawn the next day, he hurried back to Guimeng Cliff.

A sworn brother, suffering such heartbreak, could not be left unattended—he must go and look after him.

Also, when asking for the spirit ginseng, he must be cautious, careful, and thorough—avoid saying anything reckless; the man was already heartbroken, and he must not salt his wounds.

Of course, this was not out of stinginess; Wei Hongqing was just like him, one of the Two Beauties of Wulong Mountain, mediocre in talent but exceptionally handsome, so he would never lack for a good cultivation partner. Retrieving the ginseng and storing it safely, he could polish it up a bit and present it as a wedding gift the next time Wei Hongqing held his dual-cultivation ceremony.

Returning to Guimeng Cliff, the red silk banners still hung, but Wei Hongqing was gone—in his place waited Zuo Gaofeng, Wei Hongqing’s friend from Banmu Gorge.

They bowed to each other, and Zuo Gaofeng spoke first: “Xiaolou, you’ve come... Have you seen Hongqing?”

Liu Xiaolou replied: “I saw him last night. I couldn’t rest easy, so I came back to check on him. Why isn’t he here?”

“He’s not here. I, too, couldn’t rest easy...”

They spoke of Wei Hongqing’s broken engagement, each sighing deeply.

As they talked, others arrived—Xishan Jushi, Lingling Ke, and more—all friends worried about Wei Hongqing.

Even Tan Ba, a disciple of the Tan Clan from beyond Wulong Mountain, had come, his face filled with concern: “I told Hongqing that the wedding hour was ill-chosen—why set it so early in the morning? Bad omen! I urged him to change it, but he wouldn’t listen. Now look what happened!”

Seeing others silent, staring at him, he asked again: “What? Did I say something wrong?”

Zuo Gaofeng asked: “Wait—you said early morning? What hour?”

Tan Ba replied: “The hour of Si. Also, yesterday wasn’t an auspicious day...”

Xishan Jushi interrupted: “No, it was Wu.”

Lingling Ke said: “Shen. He told me it was Shen.”

Liu Xiaolou frowned: “I was told You.”

Zuo Gaofeng blinked: “I was told Xu.”

As they stared at each other, Liu Xiaolou finally asked weakly: “Elders, what gifts did you bring?”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Zuo Gaofeng dashed into the stone cave. The five of them frantically searched, finding only a scrap of yellow paper. On it, Wei Hongqing had written: “To my brothers: I am wounded by love. I resolve to wander the world, never to meet again.”

Looking at the note, Zuo Gaofeng groaned: “My Leopard Fang Sword... mid-grade...”

Tan Ba, Xishan Jushi, and the others each mourned their costly wedding gifts, cursing bitterly. For hermits, every spirit item was precious—gone like this, who wouldn’t grieve?

Only Lingling Ke escaped unscathed. He feigned sympathy and joined the curses, but inwardly felt relieved. He had given a magic talisman—thankfully, he had the nerve and good memory to retrieve it before leaving, foiling Wei Hongqing’s scheme.

Zuo Gaofeng muttered a few reproaches at Lingling Ke, blaming him for not warning anyone. But the words died on his lips—Wei Hongqing had spaced out the wedding hours so no one met another; how could anyone warn him?

Someone asked Xishan Jushi: “Aren’t you good at divination? How did you miss this?” Xishan Jushi was left flustered, stammering: “This is human heart, not celestial timing—how can one divine it?”

Liu Xiaolou was heartbroken—the spirit ginseng was three hundred years old! Three hundred years! Gone forever, truly unforgivable! Even if he wanted to search, the world was vast—where could he even begin?

Wei Hongqing, you bastard—if you wanted the ginseng, why not just ask? Tell me you wanted it! We’re sworn brothers—do you think I’d ever withhold your gift? All those years of friendship—for one ginseng? Was it worth it?

After a day of chaos, Liu Xiaolou returned to Qianzhuling, frustrated and powerless, with nothing to do but brood in silence; days passed before he reluctantly forced himself to let go of the loss.

For several days straight, he lay on the three-foot cool terrace before his thatched hut, fanning himself with a banana leaf, slowly pondering his next step in cultivation.

Today, all major sects had seized the celestial havens and blessed lands. Hermit cultivators without proper lineage could only scramble for scraps discarded by the great sects—every step forward was excruciatingly hard. The path of cultivation was long; even Qi Refining had ten thresholds to cross, and he had barely reached the second step—the road ahead was treacherous indeed!

But for immortality, no matter how treacherous, he must press on.

It was midsummer; months remained before the goose-sheep mountain spirit fields were harvested, so he could not count on that wage. Besides, Zang Family usually hired only twenty hermits each harvest—he might not even land a spot.

Try his luck at the gambling den in Bayi Village? Last time he got beaten black and blue and came away with nothing—definitely a bad idea.

And the Heroic Invitation hadn’t been issued in over half a year—when would the next one come?

As he drifted in thought, the wind chime above the eaves swayed, tinkling, tinkling...

Liu Xiaolou looked toward the mountain path—a figure suddenly appeared from the woods, standing before the wooden gate.

Liu Xiaolou blinked: “Dai Sanren...”

The man wore crimson robes—it was his senior, his master’s close friend, Dai Shenggao, known as Dai Sanren.

Dai Shenggao stared silently at Liu Xiaolou for a moment, then said: “Go see Master’s grave.”

Liu Xiaolou opened the gate and led the way, through the deep bamboo grove, to a humble grave beneath a cluster of emerald bamboos. Before it stood a simple tombstone inscribed: “Tomb of Esteemed Master Sanxuan.”

Dai Shenggao pulled out a bamboo tube, uncorked it, and inside was thick, murky yellow wine.

He sat cross-legged before the tombstone, poured a sip, drank a sip, and drank with the tombstone for a long time until the wine was gone.

After a long silence, he softly asked Liu Xiaolou, who stood solemnly beside him: “How has your cultivation been these past six months?”

Liu Xiaolou answered honestly: “No progress at all.”

Dai Shenggao sighed: “Before, you relied on your master. Now, you must rely on yourself.”

Liu Xiaolou looked at the tombstone and nodded gently: “You are right, Elder.”

Dai Shenggao pulled out a wooden tablet, turning it in his palm: “Wang Laoda is issuing another Heroic Invitation—to break into the Zhang family’s Shanzhuang in southern Xiang.”

Liu Xiaolou perked up instantly: “The estate of Zhang Xianbai, the First Archer of Southern Xiang?”