Chapter 439

The Nascent Soul is the root of life and destiny.

Still, it is the great elixir of immortality; in motion, it is the killing mechanism of heaven and earth.

Zhuang Yumin was originally a disciple of Mount Luyin, and herself possessed cultivation at the Great Master realm; her inner light radiated, her spiritual intent spanned all directions, and any whisper or rustle could be sensed intuitively through spirit and awareness.

Yet…

Zhang Fan’s form suddenly appeared before her, and she felt darkness engulf her vision; in the depths of the unseen, an invisible force surged forth—like a chasm ten thousand zhang deep, like an endless night, where sun and moon sank into oblivion, not a single ray of heaven’s light to be seen.

This force was inconceivable, as if it specifically countered the Nascent Soul.

When Zhuang Yumin finally realized what had happened, her Nascent Soul had already been captured in Zhang Fan’s palm.

“You… what Dao art is this?”

Zhuang Yumin’s Nascent Soul trembled, staring at Zhang Fan in disbelief, her beautiful eyes filled with deep terror.

She had always believed herself gifted beyond measure, her cultivation formidable; among her peers, some were stronger—she could accept that—but within a single step, in the blink of an eye, he had seized her Nascent Soul outright, leaving her not the slightest chance to resist…

Such a method, such a reality, was utterly horrifying, beyond the scope of her understanding.

“Capturing the Soul? Is this the Dao art of the Wuwei Sect?” Zhuang Yumin said gravely.

“One Dao endures, myriad arts arise; all Dao arts under heaven, though different paths, lead to the same destination…” Zhang Fan said calmly.

“Zhenwu Mountain has a technique called [Entangling Soul], Laojun Mountain has one called [Guardian of the Corpse Palace], and even your own Mount Luyin has a method named [Summoning Soul Guide]—all possess the power to capture the Soul.”

“With nothing but empty words, how can you be so certain it’s the Wuwei Sect’s art?”

Zhuang Yumin fell silent. Techniques similar to [Capturing Soul] were known to nearly all major sects with long lineages, yet the Wuwei Sect was naturally branded a heretical path; such techniques, these great sects would never practice—even if they did, they kept them secret, known to few outsiders.

Zhang Fan knew the Dao arts of every sect under heaven as if reciting family heirlooms, even possessing partial knowledge of Mount Luyin’s most guarded secrets.

This made Zhuang Yumin even more curious about Zhang Fan’s identity.

“I’ve long dwelled in the Xijiang region, often deep in the mountains, yet I never knew beyond the heavens there are higher heavens—within the Dao sects, someone like you has emerged.”

Zhuang Yumin sighed, a sense of helplessness settling over her; all her talent, all her pride, all the years of cultivation… seemed to vanish like smoke in that single act of capture by Zhang Fan.

Years of arduous effort, now like a dream—before this man, nothing at all.

At this moment, her inner state was remarkably similar to Shen Mingchan’s that day.

“I am outmatched. Whether you kill me or spare me, Brother Dao… I leave it to your discretion.”

Zhuang Yumin’s emotions returned to calm—no fear, no shock, only serene acceptance of life and death.

“No wonder you’re a top disciple of Mount Luyin—you possess the bearing of a great Xuan sect.” Zhang Fan murmured.

He flicked his finger, and Zhuang Yumin’s Nascent Soul flew out, returning seamlessly to her body.

“You won’t kill me?” Zhuang Yumin’s gaze flickered, curious as she looked at Zhang Fan.

"Do I look like some deranged killer?" Zhang Fan said calmly.

“I merely want you to know there has never been any rivalry—what you now tread…”

“Is my sect’s domain!”

Zhuang Yumin’s spirit trembled slightly, her expression shifting; from his calm words, she saw not arrogant confidence, but what felt like an undeniable truth.

“All beings, the three teachings and nine streams, Daoists of all kinds—I’ve never met anyone like you,” Zhuang Yumin sighed.

In the Pure Land Pavilion’s Sword Altar, this man could hide his glory, content to sit at the lowest seat, seeing no distinction of rank or worth; yet when he chose, his presence became thunderous, domineering, claiming everything.

So contradictory, yet so perfectly whole.

“I won’t kill you for another reason,” Zhang Fan suddenly said.

“What?”

“The End Dharma has arrived; the mortal world grows ever more corrupt. Great cultivators can no longer emerge; Pure Yang is unattainable, immortality a distant dream. In another hundred years, who will pass on the Dao? Who will open the Xuan gates?” Zhang Fan sighed.

“To reach your level is no small feat. To kill you would be a waste.”

“You have such a grand spirit!?” Zhuang Yumin’s eyes trembled, staring at Zhang Fan in astonishment—her disbelief even greater than when her Nascent Soul had been captured.

On Zhang Fan, she saw a compassion, a great compassion—not the kind rooted in worldly ethics, but like the ancient ancestors who gazed upon the Dao shrouded in dust, saw all beings sinking in suffering, vowed to save them, and descended into the mortal realm.

“Are you trying to kowtow to me?”

“…”

Zhang Fan watched Zhuang Yumin’s expression and burst into laughter, sitting down casually.

Zhuang Yumin looked at Zhang Fan, her expression complex.

“You’re a strange man. You carry the shadows of all the great alchemical masters, yet you can’t escape the vulgar stench of the mortal world,” Zhuang Yumin sighed.

“That’s natural. Like the Dao—vast and formless—it includes both good and bad as parts of itself.”

“Just as the masters of every sect in these mountains, though rivals in competition, are also fellow cultivators.”

Zhuang Yumin fell into thought, unconsciously sitting across from Zhang Fan, barely a meter apart.

“Rivals… yet also fellow cultivators…”

“If that’s so, then your enemies and rivals throughout your life are also fellow cultivators—can you let go of your hatred and spare them?” Zhuang Yumin suddenly changed the subject.

Zhang Fan shook his head.

“In plain terms, it’s still desire that comes first,” Zhuang Yumin smiled lightly.

Once the killing intent arises, who cares about fellow cultivator or not?

“The Dao is vast and formless—there is no distinction of good or evil,” Zhang Fan said calmly. “Like tigers eating humans, humans eating tigers…”

“Within this cycle, there is no good or evil, no right or wrong—all simply follows nature, aligns with the Dao.”

“I kill them not because they are good or evil…”

“They provoked me, and so they died. That is nature.”

Standards of good and evil are human constructs; for the Dao, all is done through non-action—like tigers eating humans, humans eating tigers: merely a cycle, merely nature, merely the Dao.

“I kill them because it aligns with the Dao,” Zhang Fan said softly but firmly.

What is sown as cause must bear fruit as effect.

“You…”

Zhuang Yumin stared at Zhang Fan, her expression dazed; on him, she saw an entirely different aura—divine yet tinged with demonic thought, chaotic and unclear, yet mesmerizing, stirring an irresistible urge to explore.

This feeling was unprecedented, leaving her spirit momentarily unsteady.

“Hmm? Your consciousness is agitated,” Zhang Fan suddenly said.

At his level, he could clearly hear her breath had quickened, her thoughts entangled, her Nascent Soul slightly clouded.

“N-no,” Zhuang Yumin turned her head away, her expression unreadable.

“I was just guessing,” Zhang Fan muttered.

His careless remark was like pointing out a girl’s smudged makeup—blunt, textbook straight-man behavior.

“By the way, you’re a disciple of Mount Luyin—does your sect have an elder named…”

“Su Xiangling?” Zhang Fan abruptly asked.

“Huh!?”

Zhuang Yumin’s eyes lit up as she turned to face him: “Do you know my aunt?”

“She’s your aunt?” Zhang Fan snorted.