Chapter 387: Too Profitable! Jingming Xi Dongyang Fa Yin

The next day, Bai Yujing International Convention Center.

According to Su Brother Chunsheng, this 【Dao Culture Treasure Exhibition】 was organized and hosted by the Jiangnan Dao Alliance, with Maoshan as co-organizer; the venue was a private exhibition hall inside the complex, not open to the public, and only those within the Daoist sects were eligible to enter—even then, tickets were nearly impossible to obtain.

At eight in the morning, Zhang Fan had already been waiting at the entrance of the convention center.

"You're awfully early."

At that moment, a familiar voice came from beside him; Fang Fang Changle walked over in casual attire, swaggering confidently.

"I'm not waiting for you—I'd have gone in already." Zhang Fan said coolly.

Last night, after learning Zhang Fan had returned to Bai Yujing City, Fang Fang Changle sent him a message, mentioned this exhibition, and invited him to come together.

"Where'd you get your ticket?" Fang Fang Changle couldn't help asking.

He had originally prepared one just for Zhang Fan; though tickets were hard to come by, as a Maoshan disciple, getting three or five wasn't a problem.

"Got it from the Jiangnan Provincial Dao Alliance." Zhang Fan replied offhandedly.

"Tsk tsk, you've basically secured half a iron rice bowl, eating imperial grain now." Fang Fang Changle teased.

He knew Zhang Fan had always maintained good relations with the Jiangnan Provincial Dao Alliance.

"Don't talk nonsense—it's purely a friendship gift ticket."

"Let's go. This exhibition is rare—many treasures here are on loan." Fang Fang Changle smiled lightly.

Wu Wu Qingnang had just taken office and organized this event, calling it a Daoist cultural exchange, a kind of achievement for a new appointee—but time was tight, many treasures were still en route, and the exhibition would last only seven days total.

No one would come any longer; by then, the only event attracting nationwide attention would be the Supreme Immortal's disciple initiation ceremony.

At that time, even the Jiangnan Provincial Dao Alliance itself would have to send a delegation to Zhenwu Mountain to pay respects.

Entering the inner grounds, they arrived at a secluded exhibition hall in the corner, where two staff members in Daoist robes checked tickets and greeted visitors.

Zhang Fan glanced at them—he thought he'd seen them before at the Jiangnan Provincial Dao Alliance; both were at the Spirit Bureau realm, a level of cultivation that counted as a master in the secular world.

"This is quite the spectacle," Zhang Fan couldn't help saying.

"Everyone here today is someone important; your Director Wu takes this very seriously," Fang Fang Changle murmured.

Even the deputy abbot of Maoshan came for the opening ceremony—clearly, the event's stature was extremely high.

Entering the hall, the first thing that caught the eye were two long horizontal scrolls, inscribed with:

Mind like white clouds, ever free; will like flowing water, drifting east or west.

The signature read: Daoist Chen Zhuoqing.

"Chen Zhuoqing… Chen Chen Zhuoqing…" Zhang Fan's eyes narrowed slightly.

That was the abbot of Maoshan.

Seeing the signature, his gaze was drawn again to the two lines—the brushstrokes flowed like dragons and snakes, yet their sharpness was inwardly contained, only a vast, hidden force permeating the characters, as boundless as mountains and rivers, lingering endlessly, vast and unified.

To see the characters was to see the man—he could sense the abbot's unfathomable depth from this single piece alone.

"Extraordinary aura," Zhang Fan couldn't help saying.

He couldn't discern the mystery within the characters, yet the subtle, overwhelming atmosphere that washed over him made him feel increasingly insignificant the longer he stared.

"This was written by my teacher many years ago—just a little added charm for this exhibition," Fang Fang Changle said with a smile.

"It's more than just added charm," Zhang Fan shook his head.

Probably, in the entire exhibition hall, this scroll ranked among the top two most valuable items.

A handwritten piece by the Maoshan abbot—even without its mystical depth, a common person could hang it at home to ward off evil, safeguard the household, and enhance family fortune.

Zhang Fan had heard rumors about the Maoshan abbot.

The abbots of the Ten Great Daoist Sacred Mountains each had their own traits; the abbot of Laoshan, Li Li Chengge, was the youngest and least experienced.

Aside from him, the other eight abbots were roughly the same generation, yet their youthful experiences differed greatly.

For instance, the abbot of Zhongnan Mountain, Zhou Zhou Kongchan, was conventional—unremarkable in youth, but steady and solid in every step, progressing methodically to where he is today, the most consistently reliable student in the class.

The abbot of Qiyun Mountain, Mo Mo Ranchen, had once strayed from the path; once he returned, he surpassed his peers beyond reach—like those students who never studied hard but, when they finally focused, surged ahead and left everyone behind.

The Maoshan abbot, Chen Chen Zhuoqing, was not always called that; his predecessors renamed him Chen Zhuoqing, meaning "purify the turbid," for the path of pure yang—clearly, his predecessors held immense expectations for him.

He was the prodigy from childhood, an exceptional talent, the top student who remained outstanding throughout.

As for Chu Chu Chaoran, he was an oddity—he rarely interacted with classmates, yet was close with people outside the class; he was also the kind who played wildly yet studied brilliantly, a strange anomaly.

He skipped class and fought, yet still ranked among the top in exams.

Such students always gave teachers headaches.

Entering the exhibition hall, the first exhibit made Zhang Fan's expression change—he stopped dead in his tracks.

Inside a transparent glass case stood a wooden sword, bearing minor cracks, appearing utterly ordinary; beside it was a plaque with an inscription.

In the third year of Yuan Zhi Zheng, on Wang Chongyang Night.

In Zhenwu Mountain, a woodcutter saw purple qi rise from the east; eight figures sat cross-legged atop Zhanqi Peak, one of whom, clad in white robes, accidentally dropped his sword, which transformed into a golden light and plunged straight into the cliff face of Nanxuan Palace.

The next day, bells and drums rang continuously for three days throughout Zhenwu Mountain's thirty-six temples and halls.

The legend of the Pure Yang Sword hanging over Zhenwu spread like wildfire, making it famous throughout the land.

It was said that Master Master Zhongfeng once attained enlightenment here, using the "Turtle and Snake Entwined" posture to deduce the cosmos, and used this sword to suppress the dragon vein of Zhenwu Mountain, securing six hundred years of cosmic fortune.

Every year at Jingzhe, vermilion talismans would appear on the blade's surface, marvelously wondrous.

"Pure Yang Sword!?"

"Holy shit, isn't that thing hanging on the cliff wall of Nanxuan Palace at Zhenwu Mountain?" Zhang Fan stared in shock, turning to Fang Fang Changle.

He knew this was a 【Pure Yang Treasure】; he'd seen it once during a trip to Zhenwu Mountain.

"You've got that much clout? Even a Pure Yang Treasure was borrowed?" Zhang Fan marveled.

"What are you imagining? That's a Pure Yang Treasure—how could it possibly be taken down the mountain?" Fang Fang Changle rolled his eyes.

Pure Yang Treasures are the lifeblood of a sect; they're worshipped with utmost care—how could they possibly be displayed for public viewing!?

"This is a one-to-one replica," Fang Fang Changle explained.

"A replica?" Zhang Fan glanced at it—it was too lifelike, the aging process exquisitely detailed, even the patterns and cracks nearly identical; without using the original as a mold, such realism was impossible.

"Do they even have copyright to copy this?" Zhang Fan couldn't help saying.

"It was made by Zhenwu Mountain themselves—a one-to-one replica, crafted from Zhenwu Mountain spruce, limited to one hundred pieces, priced at just 6,888 yuan, with three free Zhenwu Mountain entrance tickets included."

"…."

Zhang Fan was stunned—he'd never heard of a Pure Yang Treasure being copied into collectible merchandise.

"Zhenwu Mountain really produces talent," Zhang Fan finally muttered after a long pause.

He'd bet the person who came up with this idea was a young Daoist.

"Did anyone buy it?"

"You're kidding—sold out the moment it launched," Fang Fang Changle couldn't help saying.

Only one hundred sets total, each with a serial number; ordinary people who took one home didn't need to do anything—just looking at it warded off evil and protected the household.

Even though it was a replica, many cultivation clans and Daoist sects desperately wanted one but couldn't get it.

"Scalpers went crazy—on the black market, one sword's been resold for over a hundred thousand," Fang Fang Changle said casually.

"This…"

Zhang Fan grimaced, not knowing what to say—it wasn't a real treasure, not even a magical artifact, just a modern craft; without the name "Pure Yang Sword," its cost would be around a hundred yuan.

"You guys are…"

"This one's a special edition," Fang Fang Changle said.

"Special edition?"

"Made from lightning-struck wood—only ten exist, each numbered, priced at 58,888 yuan," Fang Fang Changle pointed to the wooden sword in the glass case.

"This one is serial number 003."