Chapter 48

Qian Chen shouldered his Tian Luo Umbrella again and donned his newly tailored Daoist robe.

Around his waist hung a red leather gourd, filled with the Qi-elixir he had previously refined and the spirit grains and spirit spring water sent by Cui Dan; inside his Qian Kun pouch lay the spirit talismans, spirit pills, magical artifacts, and miscellaneous items left by Miao Kong, as well as the meditation cushion and bed he had purchased last time; tucked in his sleeves were the Two Realms Bronze Tablet, storing only mundane items of little value to him—gold, silver, and weapons.

The Long Que Ring still hung from his wrist, while the Seven Fiend Banners and the Black Jade Black Demon Hook were concealed within the ring.

Since last time he used them to ambush Hong Sihai, Qian Chen had grown increasingly convinced that hiding magical artifacts this way made them far more convenient to deploy.

Dressed in this ensemble, Qian Chen weighed less than ten jin—lighter by far than the heavy baggage of travelers or even Cui Dan’s entire caravan upon taking office.

“How do you even read this map?”

Standing atop the Flying Cloud Sack, dozens of li above the ground, Qian Chen gazed down at the winding mountains and rivers, scrutinizing the map in his hand with a frown.

This map was no satellite image with contour lines and topographical details like those from his past life—it was a map of the Great Jin Dynasty, showing cities, official roads, trade routes, mountains, and rivers, all drawn according to the impressions of merchants and travelers. For instance, a mountain along the route to Jiuzhen Commandery was drawn toweringly large, dwarfing the surrounding peaks by more than a head.

As Qian Chen flew overhead, he paid close attention to these landmarks…

Only after flying over three or five remote, desolate mountains did he realize he had taken a wrong turn—when he finally arrived, the place turned out to be a very low hill, insignificant even among the dozen or so nearby hills, let alone compared to the towering peaks on the map.

Frustrated, Qian Chen halted his cloud and asked for directions, only to learn that this hill was surprisingly well-known among passing merchants.

Upon inquiry, he discovered it was the only passable route along the trade path; had it been truly high and treacherous, no trade road would have crossed it. Its peculiarity lay precisely in its moderate height—too low to detour around profitably, too high to climb without effort, and frequently plagued by bandits lying in wait. Thus, it had become a crucial checkpoint for travelers.

What of the other mountains—were they tall?

Travelers didn’t climb them; what difference did their height make?

Hence, this hill appeared towering on the map, while remote, uninhabited mountains—even if perilous—were merely sketched with faint outlines to suggest rugged terrain, since they lay off the road. Why bother detailing them?

Only then did Qian Chen understand—the map was meant for those traveling on foot, vital for warfare and troop movements, but useless to someone like him who soared through the skies.

Without a flying artifact, even a True Method cultivator could barely fly dozens of li in one breath—such mastery of true qi was already remarkable. To fly hundreds of zhang high, drifting leisurely as Qian Chen did, was an extravagance indeed—equivalent to driving a Maybach down a highway in his past life.

It drew envious glances from every passerby.

Qian Chen rode a flying artifact as rare among cultivators as a supercar—far rarer than common short-range tools like flying swords or cloudships, and one only the orthodox Daoist sects mastered: the Cloud Prohibition Flying Artifact. It was like a Ferrari with noble lineage among supercars—in the world of rogue cultivators, such a possession was so ostentatious it invited heavenly wrath and mortal resentment.

Cloud-prohibition artifacts didn’t fly fast, but offered supreme comfort and consumed little magic power—equivalent to a luxury airship from his past life…

Other cultivators prioritized speed when traveling; the Buddhist sects might prefer stability and defense; rogue cultivators and heterodox sects demanded cheapness, minimal consumption of rare materials, and less arduous refinement…

Thus, flying swords—capable of both defense and offense, and usable for flight—became the top practical choice for heterodox cultivators. Comfort and magic cost were irrelevant. The Buddhists favored lotuses and jeweled canopies—speed didn’t matter; safety did.

Only the orthodox Daoist sects demanded height, stability, and low consumption, for their flying artifacts weren’t merely for travel—they were essential tools for daily cultivation and Qi absorption. Daoist orthodox cultivators often spent hours ascending to absorb the pure, clear Qi of the heavens, a daily ritual requiring flight into the ethereal void.

Moreover, Daoist magic power naturally aligned with the pure, clear Qi of heaven, making the refinement of cloud-prohibition artifacts easier and more harmonious.

Hence, cloud-prohibition artifacts had deep Daoist roots in the Central Lands; outside Daoist sects or their offshoots, only the dragon clans of the distant seas favored refining such flying artifacts. Riding one was like driving a luxury car in his past life—radiating an aura of “don’t touch me.” Rogue cultivators instantly recognized such travelers as having Daoist backing, and thus faced fewer troubles than others.

Qian Chen lowered the cloud’s edge and abandoned the map entirely, flying straight toward Jiuzhen Commandery—he reasoned that if Jiuzhen Commandery had a great marsh, flying in one direction until he reached it would surely lead him there.

As long as he flew low enough, he wouldn’t miss such a prominent landmark.

It was the Qingming season; southern rains drizzled endlessly, and the scenery below was the exquisite Jiangnan landscape. From above, Qian Chen saw endless green fields veiled in misty spring rain, the earth lush and dripping with emerald.

It perfectly matched the saying: “Jiangnan in March is fine, misty rain veils the empty haze…”

Farmers in straw hats and reed capes toiled in the fields; white herons rose from the rice paddies, their clear cries echoing.

The drizzle fell softly, shrouding heaven and earth in mist. Qian Chen flew beneath the clouds, seeing clearly from above; from below, no trace of the Flying Cloud Sack could be discerned.

Even if someone glimpsed a shadow wrapped in wisps of mist drifting through the clouds, they’d merely think they’d imagined it.

After flying for a day and pausing to absorb Qi and cultivate through the night, at dawn the next day, as the rising sun burst forth, Qian Chen saw ahead a glittering expanse—thousands of acres of water stretching endlessly to the horizon, like an ocean. He knew at once: this was a vast lake marsh.

Above the marsh, mist curled like a fine veil, revealing its true face only for a moment at sunrise.

Then, as light rain resumed, the veil slowly closed again.

Qian Chen descended his cloud and landed beside a path near a village. While aloft, the Flying Cloud Sack shielded him from the rain; now on the ground, fine droplets brushed his face like delicate mist, and soon his Daoist robe was soaked.

He opened his Tian Luo Umbrella and walked toward the village through the rain.

“Since this Tian Luo Umbrella came into my hands, this is the first time it’s fulfilled its purpose!”

Qian Chen felt the spring breeze and fine rain—not with annoyance, but with quiet enjoyment, indifferent to his wet robe. He simply activated his true qi, and the raindrops on his skin instantly evaporated into vapor.

Early-rising farmers tended their crops—it was transplanting season—but the hour was still early, dew too heavy; only the most diligent villagers had risen to arrange seedlings. Qian Chen approached an elderly man with white hair beside the field and asked: “Old man! Is this Jiuzhen Commandery? Is that ahead the Jiuzhen Great Marsh?”

The old man, adjusting his straw hat, called from the field: “This is Jiuzhen Commandery. Who are you? What brings you to our village?”

Qian Chen smiled: “Old man, I’m a passing Daoist, heading for the Jiuzhen Great Marsh. I happened upon your fine land and came to ask directions.”

The farmer studied him closely, squinting through the mist to make out his Daoist robe, then half-believed him, waving a hand: “Fine land? This is Sanyang Village. Nearby is Jiaobu Town, which does border the Great Marsh.” He set down his wooden hoe, trudged through the mud to the bank, washed his feet in the irrigation ditch, and walked toward Qian Chen.

Now close enough to see clearly, Qian Chen wore a dark blue Daoist robe, his hair tied simply into a Zi-Wu bun with an ice-jade hairpin.

That is, the pin pierced straight through his forehead to the nape, gathering all his hair into a neat knot.

Qian Chen stood effortlessly, clearly young, radiating a natural Daoist aura.

Seeing his youth, the old man lowered his guard slightly; noticing the fine stitching of the robe and the translucent, icy hairpin—surely expensive—he assumed it was some rare ice jade, unaware it was actually an ice needle formed from Ice Soul true qi. Still, his attire clearly marked him as affluent.

Affluence didn’t guarantee goodness, but it rarely meant open robbery.

The old man bowed: “Young Daoist, the village isn’t far—let me guide you inside.”

“Would it trouble you, old man?” Qian Chen asked, returning the bow.

“No trouble at all… I’m finishing work anyway. Outsiders are rare here; without someone to lead you, you might face trouble.” He spoke truthfully—Jiuzhen Commandery was remote, and rural villages rarely saw strangers. This village lay off the official road; daily faces were familiar. Even passing peddlers were uncommon—suddenly appearing, a stranger would naturally raise suspicion.

Only because Qian Chen looked young, well-spoken, and well-dressed did the old man not rush home to summon the village’s young men. Had he been tattooed and shaven-headed, a barbarian in appearance, the old man would have fled to raise the alarm.

Though Jiuzhen Commandery had few bandits, the strange phenomena within the Jiuzhen Great Marsh and nearby barbarian tribes were a constant threat.

Qian Chen thanked him and followed the old man into the village… The village was sizable. The old man first led Qian Chen to his home, warmly inviting him inside for a drink. Qian Chen saw three tiled houses, and the old man’s wife feeding chickens in the wicker yard—she blushed at the stranger and retreated indoors.

Qian Chen politely declined the invitation; the old man didn’t press, merely returned home to store his straw hat and reed cape.