Chapter 436

In Tongluo Mountain, killing intent rose and fell.

That battle, where Nascent Souls clashed, nearly shattered Shen Chanming’s Dao heart, leaving him devoid of confidence.

He had cultivated for over thirty years, proud of his extraordinary talent, considered among the top tier of the realm—yet after witnessing the great battle between Zhang Fan and Yu Xuanji, he developed deep doubts about himself, his sect, and even cultivation itself.

He doubted whether the path he had walked for over thirty years might be a dead end.

Thus, these past days, he had lived in confusion, unease, anxiety, and even terror.

At this very moment, Zhang Fan’s casual question struck like a thunderclap—Shen Chanming’s face turned ashen, as if plunged into an icy abyss, a chilling dread surging up his spine straight to his skull.

He had not forgotten that night, when he had carried the gravely wounded Yu Xuanji into the deep mountains and wilds, barely escaping the horror now before him.

“What did he say? Yu Xuanji? The Yu Xuanji from Sanqing Mountain?”

“He asked if Yu Xuanji was dead?”

A stir rippled through the Sacrificial Sword Hall.

Zhang Fan’s single sentence sparked boundless speculation among the crowd.

Those words held too much information, too many possibilities, too many impossibilities—those with quick minds had already woven a tale of love, hate, passion, life, and death.

This made Zhang Fan seem even more mysterious.

Zhuang Yumian fixed her gaze on Zhang Fan, her beautiful eyes gleaming, unwavering.

Lin Haitang could not help but feel curious.

Qu Zhe furrowed his brows, staring intently at Zhang Fan, his mind racing, unable to fathom his origins.

“I… I…” Shen Chanming’s lips trembled, words caught in his throat, trembling like one walking on thin ice.

Even as the senior disciple of Gezao Mountain, he could not calm his spirit or quiet his thoughts.

After all, even someone as formidable as Yu Xuanji had been hunted like a stray dog by this man—what chance did he have?

A single thread of terror, like a tide, opened a hundred thousand barriers.

“Brother, don’t be nervous.”

At that moment, Zhang Fan rose slowly and walked to Shen Chanming’s side, raising his right hand gently.

Such a subtle motion, caught in Shen Chanming’s peripheral vision, caused him to instinctively shrink his head.

“Is Shen Chanming so afraid of him?”

Zhuang Yumian caught this detail; her suspicions deepened.

Zhang Fan’s palm landed lightly on Shen Chanming’s shoulder and gave a gentle pat.

“Life and death are fated; wealth and honor come by destiny. This is your karmic connection, and it is her fate not to die—yet…”

His light, calm words ended abruptly.

“Please tell her: nothing happens thrice. I’ve let her escape death twice—I will not grant her a third.”

At these words, the hall erupted in shock, everyone’s astonishment deepening.

The implication: Yu Xuanji, the heir of Sanqing Mountain, a renowned figure among the younger generation of the Xijiang Dao sect, had been defeated twice by this mysterious youth—and barely escaped death each time!?

“This… this guy’s just bluffing, right!?”

“Of course he is—look who he’s talking to! If he were bluffing, would Shen Chanming react like this?”

“So it’s true? But who the hell is this guy?”

“A riddler? Driving everyone mad with curiosity—someone tell me what’s really going on here!”

Zhang Fan’s two sentences carried such immense weight they instantly silenced the entire Sacrificial Sword Hall.

Had he spoken alone, no one would have taken him seriously—they’d have dismissed it as wild boasting.

But Shen Chanming’s reaction spoke volumes.

“Fine, I’ll deliver your message.” Shen Chanming nodded firmly.

“Deep pools and abysses harbor true dragons.”

At that moment, a clear, resonant voice shattered the tense atmosphere.

“Mount Luyin, Zhuang Yumian—may I ask your name, brother, and where you cultivate?”

Zhuang Yumian stepped forward; as a disciple of Mount Luyin, her status and cultivation were equal to Qu Zhe’s, and with her sharp intellect and stunning beauty,

she had many admirers both in the secular world and within the Dao sects of Xijiang—yet she remained aloof and rarely appeared in public.

Today, her curiosity about Zhang Fan had driven her to step forward openly before all, seeking to make acquaintance.

As her words fell, all eyes turned toward her.

Zhuang Yumian’s question was also their own.

“I am Zhao Jiexuan—a wandering cultivator.” Zhang Fan spoke softly.

In Xijiang Province, apart from revealing his identity before Xiang Nantian, he always used Zhao Jiexuan as his alias.

“Zhao Jiexuan!?” Shen Chanming’s heart lurched.

In Tongluo Mountain, he had clearly heard Yu Xuanji call him Zhang Fan—this man was clearly from the Zhang family of Longhu Mountain.

But since he claimed to be Zhao Jiexuan, then he was Zhao Jiexuan.

Shen Chanming dared not speak a word.

“Zhao Jiexuan!?”

Zhuang Yumian and Lin Haitang exchanged glances—neither had ever heard of such a person, not just in Xijiang, but across the entire realm.

Qu Zhe frowned slightly, eyes lowered, racking his memory for any clue tied to this name.

“A wandering cultivator!?”

Zhuang Yumian’s mind raced, glancing from Zhang Fan to Zhang Wu.

She had heard that recently, wandering cultivators across Xijiang had been moving frequently, as if converging toward unification.

Now it seemed this was no coincidence—some unseen force was driving it.

“No wonder… no wonder…”

Zhuang Yumian, sharp-witted, instantly connected the dots, weaving together scattered clues that had seemed unrelated.

“It seems, brother, you are no ordinary wandering cultivator.” Zhuang Yumian spoke with hidden meaning.

Zhang Fan looked at Zhuang Yumian and smiled faintly, then swept his gaze across the hall.

“My brother and I wish to establish a new sect on this precious land of Xijiang, to illuminate all who walk the Dao—whether common mortals or mountain spirits, all who seek the Dao shall find an open door before them.”

At these words, the hall fell into stunned silence once more.

“Bold words indeed.”

Suddenly, a deep, aged voice rang out like a tolling bell, deafening and resonant.

Everyone turned instinctively and saw a gaunt Daoist shambling into the Sacrificial Sword Hall—his complexion wan, hair disheveled, two strands of white hair hanging down, his exposed chest sunken, ribs clearly visible.

“Master Xu!”

Everyone bowed in greeting.

The sickly, consumptive-looking Daoist was the abbot of Jingtu Temple…

Xu Changshou!

“Master Xu, long time no see.”

Zhang Fan and Zhang Wu exchanged glances, then stepped forward and bowed respectfully.

“So young, yet possessing the ambition to found a sect—truly, the younger generation is formidable.”

Xu Changshou studied Zhang Fan, then Zhang Wu, and sighed lightly.

“Just trying to make a living,” Zhang Fan replied casually. “We’re young and impetuous; if we’re to truly uphold a sect, we hope you’ll lend us a hand.”

“If you’re not full of vigor, are you even young?” Xu Changshou said coolly.

“Still, I’ve met many young cultivators—some far more arrogant than you.”

“Youngsters, ignorance of heaven and earth is forgivable—but ignorance of your own worth? That’s a step away from death.”

At these words, the hall stirred; everyone’s thoughts churned with varied emotions.

“I already know why you’ve all come,” Xu Changshou changed tone abruptly.

“The Dan Yuan Fa Hui is a major event for the Xijiang Dao sects. Your generous invitation—I shall consider it further.”

As his words ended, the attendees exchanged glances—no wonder they called Xu Changshou an old fox; today, with representatives of all major sects gathered, he was still playing the middle ground.