Chapter 12: The Early Spring of Mount Zhongnan Slumbers Deeply

The Three Truths Sect is deeply rooted in the north, with far-reaching influence.

Many sons of prominent families have joined the Three Truths Sect, seeking to avoid disaster amid today’s chaotic world.

Several disciples in the sect say he merely relies on having a talented younger brother.

He’s just sucking up to the ancestral master.

Your mind is calm, neither hurried nor anxious, as you continue your daily cultivation as always.

One day, your master brought you a letter. The envelope bore the name Lu Yu, and the content inside contained only a few brief words: “Father in peril, come quickly.”

Your heart tightened—the handwriting, you recognized at once: this was a letter from Lu Yu.

This past month, news has poured in from below: the two provinces of Hebei have fallen, and iron cavalry have begun crossing the river.

The Daqing Dynasty’s defending generals fled at the first sign of trouble.

Given your father’s nature, he would hardly flee—could it be he is fighting to the death? Since the letter came from Lu Yu, the situation must be dire.

You frowned, staring at the letter in silence for a long while.

Prompt: Today’s Heavenly Reincarnation has ended. Please return tomorrow. Save file recorded.

Friendly reminder: No special item rewards. Collect your reincarnation rewards after the simulation ends.

One day in the mortal world equals ten years inside the cauldron.

With this prompt appearing, Yu Ke’s simulation ended for the day.

This Heavenly Reincarnation also—“anti-addiction?”

His gaze fell on the final message that popped up: the letter from Lu Yu, stating his father was in grave danger.

The letter was an unresolved riddle, once again placing him at a crossroads of choice.

Should he descend the mountain, or continue cultivating in seclusion?

He possesses the destiny of “great achievement comes late”—it seems he must follow the path of slow accumulation and sudden breakthrough.

Ten years of simulation, his cultivation progress has been mediocre—should he stay on the mountain or descend?

After all, if he can influence this Kunxu world, he may earn rewards.

It seems another crucial choice, perfectly timed to coincide with the simulation’s end.

Yu Ke looked out the window—the moonlight was still silent.

He yawned, sleepiness surging over him like a tide.

He wasn’t sure if it was an illusion, but after this simulation ended, he truly felt unprecedented exhaustion, as if his spirit had been drained.

So tired!

He rolled over and fell into a deep sleep.

Yet, as Yu Ke slept, the ancient, simple cauldron in his mind began to slowly rotate, emitting a faint glow.

Around Yu Ke’s body, tiny vortices formed, drawing in threads of spiritual energy.

As the spiritual energy flowed in, the heavy patterns on the [Kunxu Cauldron] seemed to come alive, pulsing with vitality.

…

…

Year Yongxiang 20, early spring.

Mount Zhongnan.

Spring rain fell like silk.

Dense droplets pattered softly against the eaves of a Daoist temple halfway up the mountain.

Water gathered along the tiles, forming fine threads that fell through the air.

Beneath the eaves, a group of young Daoist acolytes of the Three Truths Sect stood with sleeves drawn close, gazing lazily into the distance, their eyes filled with idle appreciation of the lake and mountains.

Outside the temple, the green hills stood dark as ink.

Today’s persistent spring rain had granted the young acolytes a reprieve from morning cultivation—they need not climb up or down the mountain.

They were all barely past their coming-of-age years.

How leisurely.

The rain intensified, droplets like soybeans striking the stone steps, spraying mist into the air; they scattered, afraid of being drenched by the icy spray.

Though it was early spring, the mountain still carried the lingering chill of winter—thick quilts were still needed at night.

At that moment, a sudden voice pierced the quiet of the rain.

“Look, isn’t that Master Lu Chen?”

The wind and rain blurred vision, but one sharp-eyed acolyte spotted the figure first.

All turned to follow the direction of the voice.

There, on the mountain path, a figure struggled downward through the storm.

His clothes were soaked, clinging tightly to his body, revealing a look of dishevelment.

Yet this sight did not stir sympathy—it sparked murmurs and scornful laughter.

“Pfft! Out in this rain to train? Self-inflicted suffering—doesn’t he fear a flash flood?”

“Tsk tsk, just putting on a show,” sneered one acolyte, shaking his head in contempt.

“Exactly. He’s just good at kissing up—has a rich father, some family clout—what’s there to be proud of?”

Remember, even their own master must respectfully address Lu Chen as “Senior Uncle.”

Yet now, with Lu Yu gone,

these young Daoists openly expressed their resentment and mockery toward Lu Chen.

“He has zero talent. Five years of Dao study—he probably can’t even beat me, haha.”

“Speaking of Master Lu Yu—that’s the true hero. He led a group of senior brothers down north. If only I’d been old enough last year, I’d have gone with him.”

“Exactly, exactly!” The other acolytes chorused in agreement.

As Lu Chen neared the temple,

the tallest acolyte stepped forward, scanning the group with a tone dripping with disdain:

“Look at this Senior Uncle Lu Chen—his martial cultivation is mediocre, his courage lacking, too timid even to descend the mountain for trials.”

His voice was quiet, but loud enough for Lu Chen to hear.

No sooner had he finished than all eyes turned again to the figure on the mountain path, waiting for a reaction.

But the figure merely paused slightly, then resumed walking, alone through the storm, as if none of it concerned him.

Lu Chen’s figure grew lonelier in the storm.

He descended into the rain and wind.

“Pfft. Boring.”

Watching Lu Chen’s retreating back, the tall acolyte muttered.

At that moment, a young acolyte with freckles across his face approached—he was small, the youngest among them.

He would reach his coming-of-age year next year, officially entering adulthood.

Amid the chaos of the world, his family had sent him early to this mountain for safety.

He spoke softly, his voice tinged with complex emotion:

“Master Lu Chen is incredibly diligent—three hundred and sixty-five days a year, rain or shine. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night to urinate and seen him practicing his stance alone.”

The tall acolyte snorted dismissively.

“Diligent? What good is that without talent? No matter how hard you train, if you lack talent, you’ll never achieve anything. You know, in cultivation, talent outweighs Mount Tai.”

The young acolyte stared at Lu Chen’s back, his heart stirred:

Could this man truly be as useless as others claimed?

Soon after,

the heavy rain had softened into a gentle drizzle; coolness seeped through his clothes, lightly touching his skin.

Inside the temple, morning cultivation had ended; disciples gathered their robes, preparing for morning lessons.

The figure who had once climbed up and down the mountain had, in their eyes, faded from notice.

Yet no matter how others’ gazes shifted, that figure remained unchanged—steadfast, unwavering.

He completed his morning climb, his movements slowing, finally standing still beside a puddle of rainwater.

The surface rippled slightly, reflecting the calm face of a young boy, his eyes bright.

He entered a small, solitary cabin halfway up the mountain.

On the table inside lay a letter.

The few words on it tugged at the boy’s heart.

“Father in peril, return quickly.”

(End of chapter)