Chapter 582: Feng Xingtong and Wang Bing

“T-that master just now… was he lying to me?”

Feng Baobao, who was usually oblivious, finally realized it.

“Hmm, don’t let me run into him again, or I’ll give him a lesson he won’t forget!”

Realizing she had been deceived, Feng Baobao was furious, clenching her tiny fists and threatening with a fierce expression.

Of course, combined with her harmless demeanor and appearance,

she merely looked like a little cat puffing up its fur—only making people find her adorable.

Zhang Jie knew Feng Baobao wasn’t just raging helplessly; given her initiative,

if she truly encountered that master, another body would soon be buried in the forest behind Longhu Mountain.

Zhang Jie could only wish him luck.

“Let’s go, we’ll sign up.”

After resolving this minor incident, Zhang Jie led the two toward the registration desk.

The registration desk was simple: a Daoist in robes stood behind a table,

and any cultivator wishing to register simply took a form, filling in their name, age, background, and other details.

Since this Luotian Da Jiao was open to the entire cultivator world, even if someone used a false name,

the Tian Shi Fu organizing the event wouldn’t care.

The only requirement was age: all participants must be under thirty.

After all, although people like Zhang Jie who knew the truth understood

that this Luotian Da Jiao was entirely orchestrated by the old Tian Shi to legitimize his protection of Zhang Chulan—

a case of planting the carrot before digging the hole—the public facade was to select the next Tian Shi heir.

If it was about choosing an heir, they certainly wouldn’t pick an octogenarian or nonagenarian.

That old man might be powerful, but who would die first—him or the old Tian Shi—was still uncertain.

“Senior Chen.”

The Tian Shi Fu disciple managing registration was another old acquaintance of Zhang Jie’s.

“Younger brother, I wish you a high ranking.”

The Daoist swiftly collected Zhang Jie’s registration form and offered his blessings.

“Then I’ll take your good wishes to heart.”

Zhang Jie smiled in reply and stepped away.

There were still other cultivators waiting to register—he couldn’t disturb Senior Chen’s work.

“By the way, younger brother, let’s get together tonight!”

Senior Chen extended the invitation, then immediately buried himself back in his work.

Even though he was a cultivator, dealing with so many people at once

left him flustered; even his conversation with Zhang Jie was snatched in stolen moments.

“Hello, you must be Zhang Chulan?”

A young man with short white hair

and clear, pale green eyes approached with effortless familiarity.

“Zhang Chulan—he’s the one who’s been all over the news, the heir of Qitǐ Yuánliú, one of the Eight Marvelous Techniques?”

“Is Qitǐ Yuánliú really on him?”

“If I get the chance…”

As soon as Zhang Chulan’s name was spoken, the surrounding cultivators immediately turned their attention to him,

staring with eagerness, curiosity, even greed; many whispered among themselves.

Zhang Chulan paid no mind to their attention; he had long prepared himself for fame.

As for those coveting Qitǐ Yuánliú—this was Longhu Mountain, and the Daoists of the Tian Shi Fu weren’t amateurs;

anyone who dared draw weapons here would face fists the size of sandbags.

Most importantly, Zhang Jie stood beside him; with Jiege’s protection, he felt utterly secure.

“Who are you?”

Looking at the white-haired youth, Zhang Chulan was puzzled—he didn’t recognize this person.

“Oh, sorry, let me introduce myself—I’m Feng Xingtong of the Tianxia Hui.”

The white-haired youth scratched his head awkwardly and introduced himself.

“Feng…”

Zhang Chulan instantly understood:

“Are you related to Chairman Feng of the Tianxia Hui?”

The Tianxia Hui was no ordinary organization; though it had risen only recently, its growth was rapid, and its strength and wealth

were now comparable to those of the ancient, centuries-old sects of the cultivator world.

Its chairman, Feng Zhenghao, was one of the Ten Elders—the ten most powerful figures in the cultivator world.

Feng Xingtong beamed with pride: “That’s my father.”

Zhang Chulan’s smile widened; his social instincts kicked in:

“So you’re Chairman Feng’s son—pleased to meet you.”

Feng Xingtong flushed with embarrassment and waved his hands:

“I’m no son of a chairman—I’m just an ordinary cultivator.”

‘This is a young man with little worldly experience.’

Zhang Chulan mentally labeled Feng Xingtong.

Young men like this were perfect—he loved dealing with people without ulterior motives.

Zhang Jie watched as Zhang Chulan and Feng Xingtong quickly grew familiar.

Because of his intervention, Zhang Chulan hadn’t stormed off in anger from the Tianxia Hui,

but had directly joined Naidu Tong, so he’d only heard of the Tianxia Hui and its chairman Feng Zhenghao,

and knew little about its members or Feng Zhenghao’s daughter Feng Shayan or son Feng Xingtong.

“Good, you understand you’re just an ordinary cultivator.”

At that moment, a young man with his nose in the air, radiating “I’m the greatest,”

barged in with two bodyguards in black suits—ordinary-looking, clearly extras—and interrupted rudely.

“Who’s this?”

Zhang Chulan was baffled.

He had called Feng Xingtong “young master,” and Feng Xingtong had humbly called himself an ordinary cultivator—

both were social pleasantries—why would someone attack another over this?

Had he swallowed a whole bag of gunpowder?

“Tell him who I am.”

The arrogant youth ignored Zhang Chulan entirely, ordering Feng Xingtong with a haughty sneer.

Feng Xingtong’s face flickered with humiliation, but remembering his father’s words, he bowed respectfully:

“Chulan, this is Wang Bing, the eldest son of the Wang family—one of the Four Great Families of the cultivator world.”

“Wang’s eldest son?”

Zhang Chulan was even more confused.

Even if the Tianxia Hui couldn’t match the Wang family’s centuries-old heritage, why was Feng Xingtong so subservient?

The Wang family did have one of the Ten Elders, Wang Ai—but Feng Xingtong’s father, Feng Zhenghao, was also one of the Ten Elders.

Both were Ten Elders; even if there were differences in strength or seniority,

they should unquestionably belong to the same tier.

Why did Wang Bing treat Feng Xingtong like a feudal servant?

“I hear you were hunted down. Hand over Qitǐ Yuánliú to my Wang family, and you’ll gain our protection.”

Wang Bing didn’t even glance at the respectful Feng Xingtong; he spoke boastfully to Zhang Chulan.

‘Qitǐ Yuánliú… another one coveting it.’

Zhang Chulan sighed inwardly—was he really that much of a soft target? Why did everyone want to take a bite out of him?

“Ahem.”

Seeing Wang Bing’s blatant threat toward Zhang Chulan, Zhang Jie—who had been watching quietly—could no longer stay silent.

What kind of family upbringing could produce such a bizarre creature?

Probably his brain had been fried by residual spirit fragments from the spirits he’d consumed.

“Wang’s eldest son, Zhang Chulan has already joined Naidu Tong Company.”

“Company…”

Hearing the word “company,” even Wang Bing, who had absurd confidence in his lineage, grew wary.

If the Ten Elders were the peaks of the cultivator world, then the Company—representing the state—was its sky!

The Company showed no flashy presence, seemed almost invisible, yet which cultivator dared truly ignore it?

The countless ruffians who vanished into secret fortresses and never reappeared warned every cultivator: the Company’s dignity must not be violated!

“Zhang Chulan, I hope you’ll seriously consider my proposal. Wang Da, Wang Er, let’s go.”

Out of fear of the company, Wang left a threatening remark directed at Zhang Chulan, then walked away with his two followers.