Chapter 565

Along the coast of Langzhou, in a small city’s bustling street, peace and quiet suddenly gave way as five-colored auspicious clouds descended.

At first, the clouds flew high and far, and since they looked entirely real, when passersby spotted them, they merely found them curious and pointed, saying:

“There’s a five-colored cloud up there!”

This drew more and more people to stop and look up, all amazed.

But soon they realized something was wrong—

The five-colored cloud was descending lower and drawing nearer, until it flew over the city’s busy street, hovering above the tiled rooftops of roadside shops, passing directly over their heads, casting shadows and bathing them in colored light, as if the immortal tales of their childhood had come alive before them.

“What’s going on?”

“A divine omen!”

“The immortals are blessing us…”

Countless people stood frozen, gazing upward; countless others prayed sincerely; many even ran alongside the cloud.

Yet the colored cloud kept descending further.

From above the rooftops, it sank to window level, then brushed the ground, landing squarely in the middle of the busy street.

A faint voice could be heard:

“This way!”

It sounded like a child’s voice.

The townsfolk spontaneously cleared a space for it.

The width of the five-colored cloud nearly filled the entire street, its length even longer; its center glowed solid white, like distant clouds on a clear day or cotton wool, while its edges shimmered with naturally graded, shifting hues of rainbow light, giving the impression that stepping upon it would feel soft, and riding it could carry one straight to immortality.

With a soft whoosh, the cloud dissolved into mist and radiant light, flowing left and right into the roadside shops, surging forward and backward to the street’s ends, bringing a cool, damp, refreshing breeze and a sweet, pleasant fragrance.

The whole street was instantly shrouded in fog and auroral glow.

“Where are the immortals?”

As the mist thinned slightly, everyone strained to look.

But the scene was deeply disappointing—

No holy, gentle bodhisattva, no kind, venerable immortal, no mighty heavenly generals or golden boys and jade girls appeared. On the uneven, empty ground they had cleared, lay only about twenty men, all ragged and emaciated, looking exactly like beggars.

All onlookers, and the growing crowd drawn by the commotion, were utterly bewildered.

At that moment, a cough sounded.

“Cough… cough…”

One man slowly opened his eyes and woke up.

The onlookers bent down to look; the man on the ground blinked dazedly, their gazes meeting.

The former could not believe it—after living so many years, he had never seen a miracle from a tale, yet the five-colored cloud had delivered only twenty beggars. The latter could not believe it either—he had been on an island the day before, facing death far from home, and after one sleep, he had truly returned to his homeland, just as he had dreamed these past few years.

He might die far from home at any moment; after one night’s sleep, he truly returned to his homeland, just as he had dreamed these past few years.

“Who are you?”

An onlooker could not help asking.

Hearing their native dialect, the newcomers burst into tears.

Their weeping woke even more people.

Only after hearing their story did the crowd learn that several years ago, the seas had grown turbulent, with many ships vanishing after setting sail. Everyone assumed they had been lost to storms, pirates, or dragged under by sea monsters—deemed dead, all of them. But no one imagined they had been captured by a colossal eight-tentacled sea monster and forced into labor, building its palace.

There were also the Dragon-Lord Giants, who could treat towering trees like grass; giant shrimps and crabs standing a zhang tall; sea monsters of all shapes and forms, whose true identities only veteran fishermen could recognize…

Compared to drowning in storms, being killed by pirates, or becoming monster food, their ordeal lacked some danger but gained a strange wonder.

During this, kindhearted people hurriedly led them to nearby restaurants, urging shopkeepers to serve them first; some diners, upon hearing their tale, immediately brought their own food, wine, and tea to them; officials arrived, saying they would take them to the yamen to verify identities and return them to their hometowns.

When they heard that Lin Zhen and the Nine-Tailed Fox had slain the sea monster and sent them home with a single sleep, everyone was even more astonished.

So the immortals were not on the cloud after all.

And yet, the cloud had truly delivered the immortals.

It had delivered them within the story they told.

Just as they had always heard since childhood.

…

On a distant, desolate island.

Lin Jue looked at his third master’s face: “When did you master illusion arts so thoroughly?”

“Of course not even Lin Zhen can be fooled,” his third master replied with a grin, avoiding the question.

“Of course, no surprise—Master Lin is truly a true immortal. This little trick of mine can’t fool you at all,” Third Senior Brother replied, grinning.

No matter how carefree a person may be, once they feel emotion, they gain attachments, they gain concerns.

His third master, once so free and unrestrained, should have cared nothing for his appearance—even now, at over a hundred, with white hair, he could still play the old fool. But now, with attachments, he chose to preserve his appearance as he was when his loved ones knew him best.

“If you have this heart, why not devote more effort to cultivation? With your talent and disposition, even if you refuse to gather materials to brew pills, a little more diligence could let you attain true immortality sooner. Once you do, won’t you be able to appear as old or young as you wish?”

“If you truly have this intention, why not devote more effort to cultivation? With your talent and disposition, even if you’re too lazy to gather materials and brew pills, just a bit more diligence could let you attain true immortality sooner—once you become a true immortal, won’t you be able to live as long as you wish?”

His third master, one hand holding a Yuanqiu fruit, the other a wine gourd, shook his head and said:

“The body is just a vessel, a mere image in the eye. Before attaining true immortality, I appear thirty or forty; after attaining it, I still appear thirty or forty. Before attaining it, I was not truly thirty or forty; after attaining it, am I truly thirty or forty? Since you also believe I will eventually attain true immortality, whether sooner or later, there is a difference—but not in this.”

His third master glanced at the scattered rocks on the ground—the remains of the colossal eight-tentacled sea monster—and nodded repeatedly:

“Ah, now that’s a difference!”

He paused, then continued:

“If I eventually attain true immortality and live three or five hundred years, and if I attain it late, then naturally I will live three or five hundred years. But if I work harder, spending decades on cultivation, then by the time three or five hundred years pass, won’t I have effectively lost those decades of life?”

Lin Jue listened and nodded.

If I eventually attain true immortality and live three or five hundred years, and if I attain it later, then naturally I’ll live three or five hundred years from then—but if I work harder and spend decades on cultivation, won’t I effectively be shortening my life by those decades?

One seeks length; the other trades width for length.

Time has not only length, but also width and depth.

Someone attains true immortality and lives three or five hundred years—but spends one or two hundred in seclusion, never stepping beyond the door, mind fixed only on the Dao, on laws and rules. How many years did he truly live?

Of the remaining one or two hundred, if he is constantly tormented by worries and sorrows, living a life utterly unlike the one he wanted, how many years is that?

Someone attains true immortality and lives three or five hundred years, but spends one or two hundred of those years in seclusion, never stepping outside, his mind filled only with the Dao’s truth and the rules of arts—how many years did he truly live?

Of the remaining one or two hundred years, if he’s constantly tormented by worries and sorrows, living unhappily and uneasily, utterly unlike the life he wanted—how many years does that count as?

Like his third master, who lived every year as he wished, day and night, free and unrestrained—let alone say anything else, since they descended from Yishan together, those nearly hundred years his third master lived had greater width and depth than his own.

Of course, there were flaws.

Like Third Senior Brother, who lived as many years as he lived freely and lightly, every day and night exactly as he wished—let alone anything else, since we first descended from Yishan together all those years ago, the past century that Third Senior Brother has lived has had far greater depth and richness than mine.

He nearly died here.

If he had died here, his longer lifespan would have vanished forever.

Both ways of thinking hold truth in different people; Lin Jue would never try to convince his third master to change, because for him, this way was right. Even Lin Jue himself, had it not been for Fuyao and Zi Di’s obsession with slaying demons, would have leaned toward his third master’s mindset.

But between brothers, bound as flesh and blood, no persuasion is needed. One can simply state needs, ask for help—blunt honesty may be better.

Just then, his third master asked: “Little brother, are you afraid I can’t keep up with you, trying to convince me to focus more on cultivation?”

But among brothers, bonds are as close as flesh and blood; no persuasion is needed—better to simply and openly state one’s need and ask for help; straightforwardness may be the better choice.

“No. It’s that I will need your help in the future to survive the great calamity.”

His little sister added:

“No—it’s not that I need your help now, but that I will need your aid in the future to survive the great calamity.”

Both spoke with deep sincerity, especially his little sister, who added an extra gravity.

In that instant, both had considered hiding the truth, letting him continue his carefree, natural cultivation toward true immortality. But even if reality had deviated from the Old Man of Heaven’s ten-thousand-year foresight, his third master’s attainment of true immortality was still highly probable. Zi Di’s grand campaign against demons and monsters had stirred the world—he would inevitably think of Fuyao, of Xiao Hua, of the spirits and mountain gods on Fuxiu Peak. His chivalrous heart would never stand idle.

He was already entangled with it.

In that instant, both of them had thought: perhaps they should not tell Third Senior Brother, so he could keep living freely and happily, cultivating naturally, attaining true immortality. But even if reality diverged from the Old Man of Heaven’s ten-thousand-year projections, Third Senior Brother’s attainment of true immortality was still highly probable—the Purple Emperor’s grand campaign against demons and monsters raged far and wide; how could he not think of Fuyao, of Little Flower, of the spirits and demons on Fuxiang Peak, of the non-human mountain gods? With his righteous spirit, he could never stand idly by.

“Rather than risk one more chance of failure and make Lao San regret later,

better urge him to work harder. Honestly, watching him live so carefree every day, I’m jealous too.”

“So great are you, True Immortals, with your heavenly arts—you still need this humble Daoist’s help?”

This was his third master’s reply.

As he spoke, lazily, he finished the Yuanqiu fruit and tossed it aside.

A seed landed on the sand.

He glanced back and muttered:

“Turn to spring mud, to nurture the flowers…”

Princess Hua, clearly corrupted by him, tossed hers aside too.

Two seeds landed on the sand.

Lin Jue was no longer the impoverished True Immortal he had been when he first attained immortality. He now owned ten original dan-fruit trees, ten Yuanqiu Immortal Trees heavy with fruit, an entire mountain, and several laborers—like two immortals deep in their realm, he no longer cared about a few seeds.

Let them go.

If they didn’t sprout, no loss. If they did, though they wouldn’t bear true Yuanqiu fruit, they might one day, centuries hence, become someone’s destiny—still a good thing.

So he didn’t even look.

But Fuyao, his sister, and Xiao Hua kept glancing back, still clinging to the days of hardship.

His third master thought long before speaking:

“Then you’d better cover my meals and lodging!”

Third Senior Brother thought for a long time before speaking: “That depends on whether you cover my meals and lodging!”

What is this supposed to be?

Lin Jue did not hesitate:

“Brother, rest assured! Deep in Dashan, the spiritual aura is profound and mysterious; our Sixth Brother is already there. How could Ji Yang and Ji Yin possibly deprive our Uncle of a meal? If you come to me, I’ve taken on several disciples—my eldest disciple’s cooking is even better than Ji Yang and Ji Yin’s. Whatever you want to eat, just tell them to make it.”