Chapter 450

A remote mountain village, a small tavern.

Zhang Fan felt as if he had endured a vast dream, the long night seeming but a fleeting instant.

The ancient temple, the divine altar, the Daoist Ancestor, the Three Corpses, the bronze mirror, the ritual sword…

Everything he had seen, heard, touched, pondered, contemplated… was utterly real, not the slightest illusion.

Yet when he regained clarity, he was still in that desolate village tavern, beside him was Zhang Suxin, before him stood the elderly man with snow-white hair.

On the table remained a half-eaten dish of peanuts and half a plate of pork head meat.

“You broke through the [Dream of Floating Life]!?”

On Zhang Suxin’s delicate face, deep solemnity surfaced; her gaze never wavered from Zhang Fan.

The Dream of Floating Life is a unique technique after [Enshrining the Divine Statues]; such a dream, though illusory, is nearly indistinguishable from reality.

Because everything within the dream is utterly real, mirroring the true world in every detail.

Ordinary cultivators trapped within it cannot awaken; over time, they become part of the dream, their Nascent Souls dissolving, never to return to truth.

“Young man, you are truly extraordinary—able to pierce through this floating dream.”

The snow-white-haired elder stared coldly at Zhang Fan, his voice rhythmic, resonating with an uncanny frequency.

“All worldly affairs drift with flowing water; life is but a great dream…”

Zhang Fan murmured: “In ancient times, Master Lu dreamed of millet porridge, using illusion to cultivate truth, thus attaining the wondrous realm of the Earthly Immortal.”

“False becomes true, and true becomes false; within the dream, the dream resides within the self.”

Zhang Fan’s experience was real—yet it was also a great dream.

One is within the dream, yet the dream resides within the self—profound beyond profundity, marvel beyond marvel.

It is a great art that seizes life and death—and yet also a wondrous method to cultivate immortality.

As he spoke, the snow-white-haired elder’s gaze sharpened into a single thread; astonishment mingled with solemn gravity.

“So young, yet such cultivation and bearing… your understanding of the Dao has reached this level…”

“Truly, the younger generation is formidable.”

“Then, do you already know who I am?”

Zhang Fan’s gaze turned sharp, fixing on Zhang Suxin, then on the snow-white-haired elder.

“Who are you? Aren’t you Zhao Jiexuan?” Zhang Suxin said calmly.

“You sought me first, not Zhang Wu—this proves you came with answers.” Zhang Fan replied calmly.

“Clever mind, perceptive as if seeing through fire.” The snow-white-haired elder sighed softly: “Zhao Jiexuan…”

“So you truly are a disciple of the Southern Zhang!”

“My name is Zhang Fan!”

“Zhang Lingzong is my father!”

At these words, the snow-white-haired elder fell silent.

Zhang Suxin’s eyes lit up, reassessing Zhang Fan.

“The Great Lingzong Wang—the one who stood equal to Qianxuan Uncle!?”

Regardless of the feud between the Northern and Southern Zhang branches, merely uttering the name [Zhang Lingzong] made every soul in Northern Zhang territory know it well.

If Zhang Lingzong was the strongest among the third-generation disciples of Southern Zhang,

then Zhang Qianxuan was the foremost among the third-generation disciples of Northern Zhang.

Northern Qianxuan, Southern Lingzong.

The two met as youths, that year when the Zhang clan gathered north and south to perform the [Enshrining the Divine Statues] ceremony.

At that grand gathering, only two among the Northern and Southern Zhang branches received the highest Dao titles: [Lingzong] and [Qianxuan].

From that day forward, their fates, like sworn enemies, began to unfold.

Even after Southern Zhang fell, when Zhang Lingzong fled with Zhang Nanfeng and Zhang Sheng through the rivers and lakes, Zhang Qianxuan shadowed him relentlessly, engaging in countless life-or-death battles.

These bloody trials swiftly transformed the two third-generation Zhang disciples into what they are today.

“The embers of Southern Zhang… he is the son of the Great Lingzong Wang!?”

Zhang Suxin stared at Zhang Fan, her delicate face revealing curiosity.

As a fourth-generation disciple, she had never lived through the era when both branches coexisted, nor knew the old grudges.

Yet, by lineage, she was, in a sense, Zhang Fan’s distant cousin.

“Zhang Fan… you are the grandson of Second Elder Zhang.” The snow-white-haired elder gazed at Zhang Fan, his eyes unfocused, murmuring softly.

“Do you know my grandfather?” Zhang Fan’s heart stirred, unable to help asking.

“I am Zhang Mengsheng. Before your father was born, I already knew your grandfather.” Zhang Mengsheng said gravely.

Though the Zhang clan split north and south, for a long time they lived in harmony, especially among the second-generation disciples who frequently interacted, all sharing the same dream: one day to reopen Longhu Mountain and restore the glory of this thousand-year immortal sect.

“It was a peaceful, tranquil era—though divided north and south, there was no true division…” Zhang Mengsheng murmured, lost in memory.

“We sprang from the same root—how could one brush write two ‘Zhang’ characters?”

“Same root?” Zhang Fan laughed: “Same root, so you stabbed us in the back, slaughtered our Southern Zhang disciples, exterminated our Southern Zhang clan?”

“What a fine ‘same root.’”

A cold voice echoed within the tavern.

Zhang Suxin remained silent; in Northern Zhang, this history was rarely mentioned.

For fourth-generation disciples, it was a taboo topic—known only vaguely: Southern Zhang had taken a wrong path, practiced forbidden arts, deemed abhorrent by the world; Northern Zhang merely cleansed the sect on behalf of the Ancestors, purging evil.

“The events of that time… were fiercely debated within the clan…” Zhang Mengsheng sighed.

Back then, many in Northern Zhang opposed violence, arguing that fratricide always brought ill omen.

Yet their voices were crushed by the war faction’s iron will and bloodied hands.

Zhang Mengsheng himself had once opposed it.

“Individual will cannot stand against the tide of fate.” Zhang Mengsheng sighed.

“What a fine ‘tide of fate.’” Zhang Fan sneered: “Isn’t it simply ambition within, and powerful allies without?”

In Zhang Fan’s view, Northern Zhang sought to seize the true lineage of Longhu Mountain—and just then, Bai He Guan extended its hand.

He would never forget: that white crane had confessed it had torn out Zhang Tiansheng’s heart.

“Were you there when Southern Zhang was destroyed?” Zhang Fan asked the elder before him, coldly.

“I was.”

Zhang Mengsheng nodded, seemingly unwilling to recall the past.

“That night… no one wishes to remember… rivers of blood stained Zhuhu…”

“I was gravely wounded in that great battle—yet your grandfather spared my life.” Zhang Mengsheng sighed.

Southern Zhang had many experts; he had expected to die—but in the end, Zhang Tiansheng did not take his life.

Perhaps, by then, that unconventional genius of Southern Zhang still remembered old debts of kindness.

Hearing this, Zhang Suxin looked up.

She knew Zhang Mengsheng carried a hidden illness; for years, his cultivation had regressed instead of advancing—otherwise, given his seniority, why would he be sent on this mission!?

“Grandfather was truly merciful.” Zhang Fan said coldly, his words sharp.

“Your grandfather was a pure idealist… actually…”

Zhang Mengsheng hesitated, then said: “Without him, Southern Zhang might never have taken this path.”

Southern Zhang sought to unite the entire clan to forge a master who achieved [Three Corpses Mirroring Fate], to ascend as the Master of Wuwei.

This plan had stalled for years—until Zhang Tiansheng emerged, giving Southern Zhang hope, and thus planting the seed of their annihilation.

“To realize this ideal, he would abandon everything—utterly mad.” Zhang Mengsheng sighed gravely.

“Old man, are you still setting a trap for me?”

Suddenly, Zhang Fan’s brow lifted, his gaze exploding like cold stars—the scenery around him dissolved like ink in water.

Look again: where was the tavern? Even the lone village was gone.

Cold mountain winds blew across the wilderness.

Looking up, a great moon hung high; all around lay only weeds and broken stones, a dim yellow lantern hanging from a crooked tree.

Puch…

Zhang Mengsheng’s face turned ghastly, blood oozing from his lips.

“Master’s Granduncle.”

Zhang Suxin’s expression changed instantly; she rushed forward to support him.

“The younger generation is formidable—truly formidable.”

Zhang Mengsheng’s face was as white as paper, his eyes dimmed, fixed on Zhang Fan, unable to stop shaking his head in quiet sigh.

Boom…