Chapter 435

Fujiao Mountain, Jingtu Temple.

Inside the Sword Offering Hall, three incense sticks burned, their blue smoke swirling like clouds, occasionally rising in clear light—truly a treasure realm of the Daoist tradition.

Above the main hall hung an ancient painting: a Daoist immortal, ethereal and serene, held a ritual sword and stood atop emerald waves, where a dragon lay hidden beneath the surging tides, fangs bared, radiating ferocity.

The figure in the painting was none other than Xu Zu, Xu Zhenjun.

At this moment, the Sword Offering Hall was packed with people.

These individuals came from every mountain and temple across Xijiang, all drawn by the same event: the upcoming Dan Yuan Fa Hui.

They had come here to secure Xu Changshou.

After all, he was a master of the Zhai Shou realm; if he became an ally, they could at least vie for a middling-fortunate blessed land.

Thus, within Xijiang, nearly every prominent mountain sect—except for Sanqing Mountain and Gesao Mountain—had dispatched elite cultivators to invite him.

Yet the guest of honor seated at the primary seat was a young man.

“Qu Zhe, Magu Mountain sent you personally? Clearly, they’re determined to claim Xu Guanzhu.”

Suddenly, a soft voice echoed through the hall, drawing every gaze to the young man at the primary seat.

The young man was not dressed in secular attire but wore a Daoist robe, his aura cold and crisp, his brows sharp as blades, his radiance unmistakable—yet utterly incongruous with his icy demeanor.

Qu Zhe, heir of Magu Mountain.

Since ancient times, the Xijiang region has been a flourishing heartland of Daoism, with renowned mountains and great sects emerging one after another.

Aside from Sanqing Mountain and Gesao Mountain, Magu Mountain, Xiling Mountain, and Luyin Mountain were all top-tier.

These great mountains held pivotal positions in Daoist history, each with at least a thousand years of lineage and producing numerous masters of alchemy.

Magu Mountain, also known as Danxia Mountain, was where the great Zhenren Ge Zu once refined elixirs and wrote texts; during the Tang dynasty, it received imperial favor, with Emperor Xuanzong ordering temple renovations, and eight successive Song emperors bestowed honors upon it—its prestige towered above all Daoist sects in the southeast.

Sects with such a thousand-year legacy, alchemical masters, even divine figures backing them, and exalted status within Daoism were like China’s top-tier universities: Double First-Class, Project 985, Project 211.

Ordinary sects, with histories spanning a few centuries and producing a single Tian Shi-level cultivator, were already at their peak—these were ordinary universities.

Those that had never produced a Tian Shi cultivator were merely vocational colleges.

As for solitary cultivators and their temples, they were like technical schools: Zhuanke, New Oriental, Lanxiang.

Qu Zhe, as the heir of Magu Mountain, deserved the primary seat—no one dared challenge him.

“Yu Mian, since I’m here, you should know today’s trip is wasted.” Qu Zhe smiled lightly.

At these words, everyone frowned slightly; though displeased by such confidence, none dared show it.

Qu Zhe paid no mind to their reactions—his gaze was fixed solely on the woman to his right.

Zhuang Yumin, disciple of Luyin Mountain.

Legend held that Luyin Mountain was where Lu Zu secluded himself to ascend to immortality; the great Tang poet Li Taibai had climbed it multiple times, leaving behind many tales.

Among Xijiang Daoist sects, Luyin Mountain could not rival Sanqing, Gesao, or Magu—but nationwide, as a 5A scenic area, it was renowned.

“Xu Guanzhu hasn’t even appeared yet, and you’re so certain?” Zhuang Yumin said coolly.

“It’s not proper to keep esteemed guests from the primary seat,” Qu Zhe smiled. “Yu Mian, don’t you see this yet?”

Given Magu Mountain’s status and Qu Zhe’s reputation among Xijiang’s younger generation, his position at the primary seat was well-deserved.

No one dared contest it, and no one could win it.

Below, the crowd exchanged glances—none had expected this year’s Dan Yuan Fa Hui to draw such fierce competition from solitary cultivators, even prompting a great sect like Magu Mountain to send its heir.

Of course, few here truly knew Xu Changshou’s true nature—if they had, they wouldn’t be so astonished.

Hum…

At that moment, the door opened; a young Daoist acolyte led two newcomers in, instantly drawing all eyes.

Qu Zhe glanced over—two unfamiliar faces, seating themselves quietly at the end, their presence brief, then ignored.

Within Xijiang, only Sanqing Mountain and Gesao Mountain could truly command his attention.

“Quite a crowd!”

Zhang Fan and Zhang Wu entered and took their seats at the end without drawing notice; as newcomers, they attracted virtually no attention.

“At least a dozen sects.”

“I’ve heard Xijiang is one of the most thriving Daoist provinces in the nation—now I see it’s no exaggeration,” Zhang Fan remarked.

“Of course it is—your family made its name right here,” Zhang Wu whispered.

“So did yours,” Zhang Fan grinned.

Can one surname really produce two Zhangs?

The two exchanged a knowing smile, sat quietly, and waited for Xu Changshou’s arrival.

At this moment, no one knew that two disciples of Longhu Mountain’s Zhang family had quietly slipped into the Sword Offering Hall.

One from the south, one from the north—after eighty years, they converged here.

Inside the hall, the buzz continued; most knew they couldn’t outmatch Magu Mountain or Qu Zhe, so they now sought to cultivate ties with the man at the primary seat.

Even cultivators, when entangled in the mortal world, cannot escape social obligations.

The heir of Magu Mountain naturally became the target of everyone’s flattery.

He sat high on the primary seat, exuding the bearing of a thousand-year lineage heir.

“Yu Mian, it seems today’s trip is wasted for us too.”

Beside Zhuang Yumin, a woman in jeans and a cropped leather jacket spoke—her modern attire clashed sharply with the Daoist temple’s atmosphere.

“Haitang, Xiling Mountain is the ancestral seat of the Jingming Sect, descended from Xu Zu—there’s a spiritual bond between you and Xu Changshou. Perhaps you still have a chance,” Zhuang Yumin smiled lightly.

“No thanks—I was dragged back here against my will. If not for the Dan Yuan Fa Hui, I’d be at the Yujing Music Festival right now,” Lin Haitang shook her head.

“Do you know how hard I fought to get an early-bird ticket?”

“Hm?”

Suddenly, Lin Haitang froze—Zhuang Yumin’s expression had changed too, her luminous eyes fixed on something.

She followed the gaze and found it resting on the two figures at the end seat.

“Yu Mian, what are you looking at?”

“When I first entered the sect, my Master told me: ‘The Daoist shines without dazzling, still waters run deep,’” Zhuang Yumin said suddenly.

The brilliant break easily; the quiet endure forever.

“Look at those two—amidst this chaos, they remain calm, their spirit unmoved, not a single thought stirred,” Zhuang Yumin stared at Zhang Fan and Zhang Wu.

They sat there, utterly out of place in the noise, yet unnaturally still—so still it felt wrong to disturb them.

“You’re right,” Lin Haitang’s eyes brightened.

She was a disciple of Xiling Mountain, immersed in the mortal world, yet her cultivation had never slipped.

Now, she too sensed the oddness of Zhang Fan and Zhang Wu.

In this setting, under this pressure, they revealed nothing yet concealed everything—small concealment, yet radiating grandeur.

Such bearing, if not carefully observed, would pass unnoticed—only the most refined orthodox Daoist sects could produce disciples like these.

In comparison, Qu Zhe seemed flashy but hollow.

“Haitang, do you recognize these two?” Zhuang Yumin asked, unable to hold back.