Chapter 519

Beyond the pass, winter’s cold locks the northern land in ice.

A towering, wild mountain loomed, its serpentine road winding upward in a zigzag pattern like a gray-white giant snake clinging to its flanks.

In this deep, ancient forest, at the most exposed, wind-lashed shadowed slope, stood an ancient building…

Its square silhouette, flat roof, and old iron-framed green-painted windows—many panes blurred or shattered—were overrun by dead vines frozen solid by ice, stiff as necrotic blood vessels and tendons hanging from the walls.

It seemed a ghost abandoned by time, radiating the outdated, heavy aura of the 1970s and 80s; beside the cement pillars at its entrance hung a heavily rusted iron sign, nearly buried under thick snow, barely revealing five blurred characters:

Natural Research Institute!!!

The wind howled through the building’s empty courtyard, whipping up snow dust, deepening the desolation and mystery.

At its core, inside a vast domed greenhouse, life thrived abundantly.

Even the weak winter sunlight, gathered and amplified by the glass dome, became bright and warm, evenly spilling over every corner.

“That boy has crossed the pass.”

At that moment, a pure yet alluring voice echoed amid the lush flora and strange rocks.

Before a rock garden stood a woman, tall and slender, clad in a form-fitting black leather jacket that accentuated her graceful curves; her long black hair was tied into a neat, tidy bun, revealing a smooth, full forehead and a long, pale neck.

“Someone from the Zhang family…”

Suddenly, an aged voice arose from behind the jagged rock garden; the flourishing plants trembled slightly, as if concealing a figure tending to these unremarkable green shoots.

“Sui, what was that young man’s name again?”

A brief pause, then the aged voice spoke again, calm, as if asking idly, its focus still mostly on the green vines.

“Zhang Fan!” Jiang Sui said firmly.

That day, Zhang Fan had dialed the number in that Nokia phone—the woman before him answered.

“Ah, yes, I remember now—this young man is…” The aged voice trailed off, then paused again.

“He is a disciple of the Southern Zhang!” Jiang Sui reminded.

“Of course—I recall now. The Southern Zhang… he is a descendant of [Zhang Nantian].”

“Zhang Nantian… he was a fine young man indeed.”

The aged voice sighed, as if lost in memory, as if mourning.

Jiang Sui said nothing, but a strange light flickered in her clear eyes.

Eighty years ago, after the Daoist Great Calamity, the incense of Longhu Mountain split north and south.

The first patriarch of the Northern Zhang was Zhang Beiming.

As for the Southern Zhang…

The first patriarch of the Southern Zhang was Zhang Nantian.

After Zhang Nantian, it passed to Zhang Tiansheng; Zhang Tiansheng passed it to Zhang Lingzong; Zhang Lingzong passed it to Zhang Fan.

This is the fourth generation of Southern Zhang’s lineage.

“Find a time to have him come over for a visit.”

The aged voice spoke again, as if stirred by ripples of time.

Jiang Sui pursed her lips and couldn’t help saying, “Director, Zhang Nantian has been dead for many years.”

She paused, then added, “The entire Southern Zhang line is gone.”

“Is that so? Did that young man die so early?”

“Time truly is a heartless thief.”

“What a pity… back then, he once ate my sugar pills.”

The aged voice drifted softly, tinged with nostalgia and regret.

“By the way, where are my sugar pills?”

“Director, you can’t eat sugar anymore—you’re already in Stage Two diabetes.”

Jiang Sui’s delicate brows furrowed, her clear eyes filled with concern: “You should take your medicine.”

As she spoke, her gaze fell on the bottles and jars on the nearby cart.

“I’m old now. I suppose I’m close to death.”

“Director, what nonsense are you speaking? You’re not even three hundred years old—how could you die?” Jiang Sui snapped.

“Everyone dies. How could a mere ordinary person like me live to three hundred?”

“Last year I fell, lay in bed for two months, and my body hasn’t been the same since.”

The aged voice droned on, as if speaking to himself.

Around the rock garden, mist swirled thicker than elsewhere in the greenhouse, nearly forming a faint white fog that drifted slowly—and in the haze, a figure emerged…

“Sui, go and fetch that…”

“Zhang Fan!” Jiang Sui reminded.

“Yes—letting such a young man die out there would make this world far less interesting.”

“After Zhang San, no one has practiced this pill-making art in many years.”

Suddenly, a tall, aged figure slowly emerged from the dense foliage, the surrounding branches and leaves swaying gently without wind.

…

Linji Province, Liangcang Village.

Beyond the Heishui Hills, after racing eight hundred li, human presence grew sparse, until they reached this village all but forgotten by the outside world.

Remote and desolate, all around stretched snow-covered fields and bare mountains; the village held barely two or three dozen households, their low, scattered houses silent except for monthly market days, as if time itself flowed slower here.

“Lord, six hundred li ahead lies the Changbai Mountains.”

Wang Tao parked the car outside the village in the snow, refusing to enter, lest the engine draw unwanted attention.

He followed Zhang Fan, puzzled—why stop here?

“Just in case.”

Zhang Fan scanned the lifeless village, his gaze calm, his voice low but sharp with caution.

Fortune comes from intuition; disaster arises from divine awareness.

Since killing Fan Lingzhou, a faint, oppressive weight had settled in his chest—he sensed this final leg of the journey would not be easy.

The sky had just turned dusk.

The last sliver of daylight struggled and sank behind the distant mountains; the village was swiftly swallowed by deep twilight and silence.

“Truly, the light fades, and roosters and dogs hear each other,” Zhang Fan murmured as he walked through the village.

Every door and window was shut; faint lights glowed inside, no voices rose—only from a nearby courtyard came a few broken, wind-torn barks from a large dog, amplifying the still, lifeless desolation.

“Follow me.”

Zhang Fan walked straight ahead, navigating the snow-laden dirt paths of the village.

He finally stopped before a lone, isolated house at the village’s farthest, most secluded corner.

The yard was more dilapidated than the others—its earthen walls cracked, its wooden door crooked.

“Hm!?”

At the gate, Wang Tao frowned.

A pungent odor drifted faintly from within, seeping into his nostrils.

It smelled like dried cured meat gone rancid, mixed with the stench of a corpse soaked in formaldehyde and the icy, chemical tang of preservatives—deeply unpleasant.