Chapter 126

Dawn.

Yujing City, Jiangnan Province Dao Alliance Headquarters.

Morning light filtered through the branches of the large wutong tree, casting dappled shadows over the quiet courtyard.

In the third-floor office, Lou Hechuan sipped leisurely at freshly brewed tea; white steam rose, filling the entire room with a fresh, fragrant aroma.

Spring water brewed new tea, laughter dispels sorrow.

Yet at this moment, the Jiangnan Province Dao Alliance Chairman’s thoughts were far from tea; his aged face bore a trace of exhaustion, his cloudy eyes streaked with blood.

Normally, with Lou Hechuan’s cultivation, even three days and nights without sleep, food, or drink—his true yang abundant, essence refined into qi—would leave him vigorous and spirited, showing not a hint of fatigue.

Yet after only one night, he looked like this—clearly, his spirit had been agitated, draining his mental and vital energy.

After all, the news from Suzhou City last night had sent Lou Hechuan into a rage so fierce he nearly collapsed.

Ten years ago, after careful calculations and great effort, he had seized the sealed spirit fragment of Xiao Yuanshen from Longhu Mountain—only for it to vanish now, despite the [Divine Authority Seal of Pacifying Demons] enshrined by Xuanyuan Temple failing to refine it.

A decade of planning, all for nothing—Lou Hechuan felt as if he were on the verge of a cerebral hemorrhage.

He had called Xuanjizi several times, demanding answers, but received no reply.

Thus, Lou Hechuan sat alone in this office, motionless, all night.

Ding ling ling… ding ling ling…

At that moment, a frantic phone ring shattered the morning silence.

“Chairman, it’s Xuanyuan Temple on the line.”

The middle-aged Daoist walked to the sofa and respectfully handed over the phone.

“Finally.”

Lou Hechuan’s aged eyebrows lifted slightly, his gaze sharpening as he took the phone.

“Hello, this is Lou Hechuan…”

“What?”

At once, Lou Hechuan’s expression changed drastically; the teacup shattered in his hand, scalding tea splashed across the table, its spreading trail like an unfathomable fate.

“Xuanjizi… dead!?”

Lou Hechuan’s eyes bulged; he leapt to his feet and demanded confirmation again.

When the voice on the other end confirmed it, Lou Hechuan’s gaze trembled faintly—he could scarcely believe it.

“How is that possible!?”

The Jiangnan Province Dao Alliance Chairman spoke slowly, each word forced through clenched teeth, clearly unable to accept this reality.

“Chairman, is Xuanjizi dead?”

Seeing Lou Hechuan hang up and stand frozen in place, the middle-aged Daoist could no longer hold back his question.

“The end is near… the end is near… that old devil was right again.”

Lou Hechuan’s gaze hardened into a thin line; in his mind rose the image of an aged yet upright figure—a name rising unbidden in his heart.

Jiang Your Majesty, known among Daoists as "Ten Thousand Years," meaning half the Daoist world, eternal and unyielding.

He was an unparalleled master of Baihe Temple, his status equal to Chu Chaoran of Zhenwu Mountain—hence the saying, “South River, North Chu.”

Earlier this year, Lou Hechuan had led the Jiangnan Province Daoist delegation to Beijing to visit Baihe Temple.

Xuanjizi had accompanied him and met Jiang Your Majesty.

At the time, Jiang Your Majesty had looked at Xuanjizi and said he was nearing his end, his life uncertain, that this year his calamity would surely come—only in August or September.

Lou Hechuan’s expression grew grave, lost in thought; he glanced unconsciously at the calendar on the wall—the ritual jar containing Xiao Yuanshen’s fragments had been delivered to Suzhou on August 31; Xuanjizi had died last night, on September 3.

“Calamity will come—only in August or September.” Lou Hechuan murmured softly: “Jiang Your Majesty… that old devil’s cultivation grows ever more unfathomable.”

“Chairman… Chairman…”

At that moment, the middle-aged Daoist softly called out, pulling Lou Hechuan back to reality.

“Siqi, go yourself to Xuanyuan Temple and find out exactly what happened.” Lou Hechuan instructed.

“Yes, I’ll leave at once.” The middle-aged Daoist nodded.

“Wait.”

Lou Hechuan gestured with a finger; the Daoist stepped closer and bent to listen.

“Find out… during last night’s ritual, was there anything unusual about Master Chu’s disciple?”

“Zhang Fan!?” The middle-aged Daoist paused.

“Don’t make a fuss—he’s a disciple of the True Immortal.” Lou Hechuan fixed him with a gaze: “You know how to handle the balance.”

“Understood, Chairman.”

The middle-aged Daoist nodded and turned to leave the office.

…

Noon, Suzhou City.

Xuanyuan Temple.

After a night’s rest, Zhang Fan and the others arrived from the hotel to find the temple draped in white banners and mourning garb.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

“Someone died? Judging by the scene… it’s no ordinary person.”

As Zhang Fan and the others entered Xuanyuan Temple and inquired quietly, they learned a shocking piece of news.

Xuanjizi is dead!?

“He passed away last night,” Sui Chunsheng whispered. “They say he went peacefully.”

When he was found, his body had already stiffened; he sat cross-legged in his room, smiling serenely.

“But he was fine when we left yesterday,” Zhang Fan mused.

“He was old. Sudden exertion could easily drain his last vitality,” Jiang Hu said gravely.

Fate is ordained by heaven—no human effort can alter it.

Many people, though healthy and energetic, with perfect medical checkups, might eat two bowls of rice in the evening, then pass away in their sleep before dawn.

That is fate—lifespan fixed, unrelated to all else.

Even Dao cultivators who manipulate Kan and Li, subdue dragons and tigers, gaze toward immortality—even with peerless powers—cannot defy a fate sealed by heaven.

“Let’s pay our respects.”

Sui Chunsheng called the group toward the Scripture Hall.

Xuanjizi was a senior, especially revered in Jiangnan Province Daoism; as juniors, they must pay homage and offer three sticks of incense.

Inside the Scripture Hall, white banners fluttered, chanting never ceased.

Xuanjizi’s coffin rested at the hall’s center; he wore his Daoist robes, his face serene.

Zhang Fan and the other juniors each lit incense and bowed.

“People… no matter how glorious in life, all end the same…”

Zhang Fan sighed inwardly, suddenly recalling something his best friend Li Yishan once said: “A lifetime lived, at the end, boils down to ‘three bows, three sticks of incense, three ounces of wine offered to the center,’ ‘one grave, one stone tablet, a tray of fruit, a pile of ashes.’”

“Old Li really understands life—he saw through it even before he died.”

Zhang Fan thought to himself: when he returns, he must drag Li Yishan out and make him treat him to a meal.

“Now that this is over, we should head back.”

Sui Chunsheng murmured softly; they had come only to escort the ritual jar. Now that the jar was gone and the great demon escaped, there was no reason to stay.

“Wait a moment—we’ll go say our farewells.”

Sui Chunsheng and Zhan Xinyue represented the Jiangnan Province Dao Alliance; their departure required proper notice.

“Finally over.”

Stepping out of the hall, Jiang Hu exhaled deeply; by all accounts, they’d done nothing in this mission—purely along for the ride.

“Last night, Boss called to check in.”

“What did he ask?” Zhang Fan couldn’t help asking.

“When are we going back?” Jiang Hu rolled his eyes: “We’re still temporarily lent to the Jiangnan Province Dao Alliance… you’re not actually thinking you’re one of their people, are you?”

“…”

“What’s the name of our company again?” Zhang Fan suddenly asked.

“...”

“Ye Bu Liang.”

“What’s our boss’s name again?”

“Bai Bu Ran.” Zhang Fan and Jiang Hu exchanged glances and burst out laughing.

“Are you crazy?”

As laughter erupted, Zhang Fan clapped a hand over Jiang Hu’s mouth, instinctively glancing back at the hall—thankfully, the chanting was deafening, and no one noticed.

“Good, no one heard.” Zhang Fan exhaled in relief.

“Zhang Daoist.”

At that moment, a soft voice came from behind, pulling Zhang Fan back.

Zhang Fan turned to see a young man stepping out of the hall.

“Gu Jingqiu!?”

Zhang Fan recognized him—the young Daoist from Laoshan. Though they’d met only once, the memory stuck, since the man belonged to a prestigious orthodox sect.

“Zhang Daoist, you’re from Zhenwu Mountain. Last night was too rushed—we never had a chance to properly meet.” Gu Jingqiu stepped forward, courteous and composed.

“Meet… meet!?”

Zhang Fan and Jiang Lai exchanged a glance, each seeing something unusual in the other’s eyes.

“Perhaps this is abrupt, but might I ask you a few questions?”

Gu Jingqiu’s eyes held a flicker of anticipation and fervor.

As a True Martial disciple and an heir of the Transcendent Lineage, such a status was no ordinary thing. Having come from Laoshan and seeing such a figure among the younger generation, he naturally felt drawn to him, unable to resist the urge to seek a sparring exchange.

“Sparring? Here? That wouldn’t be appropriate.”

Zhang Fan couldn’t help but glance sideways—people were holding a funeral inside, with mournful music blaring, and you’re blocking the door wanting to fight? That’s just inappropriate.

“I’ve been presumptuous,” Gu Jingqiu murmured softly, his disappointment unmistakable.

Normally, he carried an innate pride within him, but when encountering peers of exceptional skill, he became nothing but fervent, disregarding all else.

“How about… adding each other on Chaoxin?”

Zhang Fan pulled out his phone and immediately displayed his QR code.

“Huh?”

This move left both Jiang Lai and Gu Jingqiu momentarily stunned.

“There’ll be chances in the future. Stay in touch,” Zhang Fan offered a vague promise.

“Future? When?” Gu Jingqiu’s eyes lit up.

“Next time… you come to Yujing City, I’ll treat you properly and fulfill your wish,” Zhang Fan smiled lightly.

A promise like that—most feared the fillings of “next time” or “someday.”

“Definitely,” Gu Jingqiu replied with intense eagerness, pulling out his phone and quickly scanning Zhang Fan’s Chaoxin.

Zhang Fan grinned. More friends meant more paths—especially when the friend came from a prestigious sect, one of the Ten Great Daoist Mountains of the realm. Who could refuse such a friend? “How do you have Qi Ji as a friend?”

Jiang Lai glanced over and suddenly spotted a familiar account in Zhang Fan’s friend list—the last reply read: “Next gathering in Yujing!” “You two have been chatting!?” Jiang Lai said with a strange expression.

“After… the Shen family incident, he kept begging to add me, saying there might be follow-up investigations…” Zhang Fan replied casually.

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“….”

“Master Zhang, today I must return to Laoshan with my Master.”

At that moment, Gu Jingqiu spoke: “Once I return, I’ll enter seclusion for a while, then I’ll definitely come to Yujing City to pay my respects and seek your guidance.”

As he spoke, Gu Jingqiu’s expression grew even more earnest than before.

Laoshan’s rules required all disciples who descended for cultivation trials to enter seclusion upon return, to assimilate their gains.

“Good, good, I’ll be waiting for you in Yujing City.”

“Good wine, good food, and good foot rubs,” Jiang Lai added.

“Foot rubs?”

“Uh… that’s a well-known cultivation and health practice,” Zhang Fan shot him a sharp glare and chuckled awkwardly.

“Gentlemen, Xuanyiao Temple has now become a place of turmoil. If you have no other business, you should leave soon.” Gu Jingqiu whispered.

“A place of turmoil?”

Zhang Fan instinctively glanced toward the coffin of Xuanji Zi inside the Jingbao Hall.

“Let’s speak privately.”

Gu Jingqiu glanced around, then pulled Zhang Fan and Jiang Lai aside.

“What? What’s the inside story?” Jiang Lai couldn’t help asking.

“Everyone says the old abbot passed away from exhaustion and natural causes,” Gu Jingqiu leaned close, lowering his voice.

“But… there’s something suspicious.”

“What kind of situation?” Zhang Fan asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

“The old abbot passed away last night. Besides that…”

Here, Gu Jingqiu paused slightly, his voice sinking even lower. “The [Weiling Zhenmo Golden Seal] of Xuanyiao Temple has gone missing.”

“What!?”

Zhang Fan and Jiang Lai exchanged a glance, both showing expressions of shock.

The Weiling Zhenmo Golden Seal—a Dragon-Tiger Talisman—had been enshrined in Xuanyiao Temple for a hundred years, and now it was gone!?

“The old abbot just died, and this treasure vanishes—think about what that implies,” Gu Jingqiu gave them a look that urged them to draw their own conclusions.

“So… Xuanyiao Temple really has become a place of turmoil.”

If a sect loses its most treasured artifact, won’t they panic? If they don’t leave now, they might even suspect Zhang Fan and Jiang Lai.

“Gentlemen, farewell. Until we meet again in Yujing.”

Gu Jingqiu bowed respectfully, then turned and walked away.

That same day, Zhang Fan’s group did not linger. Although Xuanyiao Temple had lost the [Weiling Zhenmo Golden Seal], since they represented the Jiangnan Dao Alliance, they were not unduly hindered and were allowed to depart without trouble.

They took the afternoon high-speed train back to Yujing City.

“Finally back.”

In the evening, Zhang Fan returned to Hongfu Huayuan; night was falling.

Passing the gate, Zhang Fan glanced at the guard—today it wasn’t Liu Fusheng on duty.

Entering his home, Zhang Fan set down his luggage, as if shedding a heavy burden of fatigue, but the cold, empty house brought a sudden sense of loneliness.

He instinctively pulled out his phone and dialed Zhang Lingzong’s number—still no answer.

Knock knock knock…

At that moment, a knock came at the door.

“Huh? Who is it?”

Zhang Fan rose and opened the door.

“Your package, please sign for it.”

The deliveryman handed him a parcel. Zhang Fan paused—he hadn’t bought anything recently. He checked the name and phone number: they were correct.

“Thanks.”

Zhang Fan took the parcel, closed the door, and shook it—it felt heavy.

He eagerly opened it. Inside was an ordinary wooden box and a card with four characters written on it: Happy Birthday.

“Birthday gift?” Zhang Fan froze.

His birthday was the ninth day of the ninth month—still about a month away.

Ever since ten years ago, when Zhang Lingzong told him that on his birthday, the whole family had gone out for dinner and had a car accident—his mother died on the spot.

Since that day, Zhang Fan had never celebrated his birthday again.

After all, his mother’s death anniversary and his birthday fell on the same day—who, in his place, wouldn’t feel guilt? Who could possibly feel like celebrating?

“Who sent me my birthday gift early?” Zhang Fan’s mind flashed through possibilities.

Li Yi? He knew Zhang Fan’s situation—he wouldn’t do something like this.

His father? That wasn’t his style.

…

Zhang Fan’s brow furrowed into a deep “ Chuan ,” his face filled with confusion, his gaze finally settling on the plain wooden box.

“Let’s see what this birthday gift is.”

Zhang Fan picked up the box—it felt heavy. He opened it, and a heavy golden object fell into his palm: the [Weiling Zhenmo Golden Seal]!! (End of Chapter)