Inside a humble thatched-roof study, unadorned by any name plaque, the middle-aged Confucian scholar Qi Jingchun sat in weary contemplation, meticulously studying a chess game. It was no immortal masterpiece of strategy, nor a replay of a match between grandmasters of the board.

He paused, his hand hovering over the chessboard, intending to place a white piece. A sigh escaped his lips. The placement, once a certainty, now caused him to waver. He withdrew his hand, yet the chess piece remained suspended in mid-air, an inch above the board.

Qi Jingchun remained upright and composed. As the contemporary sage responsible for safeguarding this place, the former head of Shanya Academy – one of the seventy-two Confucian academies – even in his demotion and penance, Qi Jingchun was undeniably a paragon of Confucian virtue.

To the common folk of the small town, life was a cycle of seasons, a fleeting blink of years. Schoolteachers came and went, differing in appearance and age, yet all shared an indefinable air of scholarship: rigid, demanding, taciturn, and altogether uninteresting. None suspected that these transient teachers were, in fact, the same man. Moreover, beyond the confines of this small town, Qi Jingchun, the reclusive scholar, once held a position of transcendent eminence, and possessed boundless righteous and formidable supernatural powers.

In the next instant, Qi Jingchun’s soul departed his body, embarking on a spirit journey. Like a snow-white celestial being in flowing robes, he broke free from the constraints of his mortal shell and drifted towards a narrow alley in the town.

In the blink of an eye, Qi Jingchun arrived. He first observed the woman lying in a pool of blood: Cai Jinjian of Yunxia Mountain, her three souls and seven spirits flickering and fading like a candle in the wind.

After a moment of observation, Qi Jingchun finally approached the two figures.

The young master of Old Dragon City, adorned in a tall crown and flowing robes, leaned slightly backward, his expression one of utter astonishment. Complex emotions – shock, bewilderment, and despair – were etched upon his jade-like, handsome face.

The youth maintained his dynamic pose, frozen mid-leap in a deadly attack. His left hand clutched a shard of porcelain, its edge as sharp as a blade. Even in this crucial, life-or-death moment, the airborne youth possessed unwavering resolve and a calm countenance, belying his humble origins in a small, mountain village. Perhaps the only aspect befitting his background was the hint of helplessness lurking deep within his eyes. This resignation was familiar to the scholar who had long left his studies; it was akin to watching a farmer dependent on the heavens, squatting on parched, barren land during a drought, gazing up at the scorching sun. There was no gut-wrenching sorrow, only profound helplessness and bewilderment.

As the temporary guardian of this land, Qi Jingchun was, of course, aware of the entire Chen family history, tracing back hundreds, even thousands of years. Even without witnessing the youth’s ancestors, he could deduce their story. It was as simple as a county magistrate investigating the lineage of his subjects by consulting the records in the household registry.

Over three millennia, the small town had flourished, its roots extending far beyond its borders, intertwined and interconnected. Each generation had produced a few extraordinary individuals who, though unable to return home in glory, secretly supported their families, ultimately creating the four dominant clans and ten major families that thrived today.

Chen Ping’an’s family also boasted a long history, having once been prosperous and influential. However, after two periods of dramatic upheaval in the Eastern Treasure Continent, a land of countless kingdoms and dynasties, the family gradually declined, overshadowed by other surnames. Over the centuries, they experienced a steady decline, reaching a nadir with the youth’s father’s generation. The Chen lineage in this small town was utterly destitute, as if a royal decree had forever barred them from officialdom, preventing any possibility of resurgence.

Since arriving to oversee the operation of the great formation, Qi Jingchun had adhered to the four tenets of his teacher’s instruction for over sixty years: “Fairness, uprightness, peace, and harmony.” He refused to arbitrarily alter the destiny of the town’s inhabitants based on personal preferences. Otherwise, in the eyes of this scholar who once detested evil as much as anyone, the town’s wealthy families held too much filth, while the poor lived in utter misery. However, after dispassionate observation, Qi Jingchun had also witnessed the futile struggles of the powerful and the viciousness of the impoverished. Over time, Qi Jingchun had become like a distant deity, neither accepting offerings nor acknowledging favors, simply sitting aloof, indifferent to worldly affairs.

Qi Jingchun showed a hint of surprise and stepped forward, focusing his gaze and nodding gently. It seemed that the impoverished youth, with his imposing aura, had not truly intended to kill Fu Nanhua, despite his seemingly decisive attack. From Qi Jingchun’s vantage, the youth would only slam his wrist onto Fu Nanhua’s neck, a far lighter sentence than Cai Jinjian’s fate. Fu Nanhua should have been sent hurtling into the wall and then have his neck be pinched by the youth, with the porcelain shard only held to his abdomen.

Qi Jingchun wondered why the youth hadn’t struck the fatal blow, wasting a golden opportunity that would be fraught with repercussions. Qi Jingchun, a paragon of Confucianism, adhered to propriety but wasn’t bound by dogma, not a pedantic fool who only knew how to quote scriptures. He was intimately familiar with the likes of Fu Nanhua, their innate talent, temperament, and disposition. Even if the youth had temporarily forced him to abandon his vengeful thoughts in this alley today, this incident would surely be an unprecedented humiliation for the young man, bordering on a demonic corruption of his Daoist heart. The one who would hold a grudge against the youth wouldn’t just be Fu Nanhua himself, but the entire Old Dragon City, ruled by the Lord of the Southern Sea.

Qi Jingchun had intervened to prevent the youth from continuing his killings out of a certain self-interest, but more importantly, for the sake of justice. The town was now like a cracked piece of porcelain, destined to shatter sooner or later. Qi Jingchun had to delay this inevitable process, arranging a safe passage for as many people as possible. Ideally, he wanted to hand it over to the blacksmith “Ruan Shi” in a stable condition, allowing it to endure for another sixty-year cycle, resulting in a happy ending for all. Those on the mountain would obtain their opportunities, while those below would find peace. After all, given the consistent nature of the former, what were the lives of a few hundred or a few thousand ants at the foot of the mountain when paths crumbled, eras shifted, opportunities abounded, and immortality beckoned?

The ruthlessness of a worldly dynasty was insignificant compared to the impersonal nature of the Great Dao that many cultivators revered.

Qi Jingchun pondered for a moment and quietly vanished.

The flow of heaven and earth continued, smooth and unhindered.

The previous state of stagnation quietly shattered.

The youth’s wrist *finally* slammed heavily onto Fu Nanhua’s neck, causing his head to jolt. He crashed into the alley wall, dazed and disoriented by the force. The youth landed and swiftly closed the distance, delivering an elbow strike to Fu Nanhua’s abdomen.

Fu Nanhua hadn’t managed to lean his back against the wall, and the elbow strike nearly forced him to vomit bitter fluid, causing his body to instinctively curl inwards.

The youth then grabbed Fu Nanhua’s neck with one hand, holding the porcelain shard against the young noble’s abdomen with the other.

Fu Nanhua found it hard to believe that the skinny youth, a head shorter than himself, could possess such immense strength in his fingers. Especially the porcelain shard’s sharpness and coldness against his abdomen made the young master of Old Dragon City once again feel the approach of death, a thin line separating life and the afterlife.

Fu Nanhua couldn’t have known the boundless potential that could be unleashed in a child who had to scour the mountains for medicinal herbs, driven by a tenacity stronger than his own survival instinct.

When that youth had accidentally ingested poison and writhed in agony in the alley, that very tenacity had made the child, who should have been learning at the village school, crawl all the way home to bring back that basket of life-saving herbs.

Later, whether it was chopping firewood, burning charcoal, making pottery, or digging and tasting soil, every task tested the youth’s strength and endurance.

Outside the town, Fu Nanhua could casually crush a hundred, even a thousand youths with a flick of his wrist, but to choose to fight to the death with him in the confines of the town meant his good fortune had run out, and he had kicked an iron board.

Struck by a double blow of pain and humiliation, Fu Nanhua’s head swam. He roared with a savage expression: “If you kill me, you’re doomed! If you don’t kill me, you’ll still die! You little bastard, you’re dead either way!”

Chen Ping’an tilted his head slightly, staring at the man’s crazed face. He said: “You know, I don’t want to kill you. I have no grudge against you. You tried to hurt me, so I’m just defending myself.”

Fu Nanhua sneered: “A little bastard like you dares to talk about reason with Fu Nanhua?!”

He emphasized the point with utmost force: “Are you worthy?!”

Chen Ping’an was silent for a moment, then asked: “Do you really want to kill me?”

When Fu Nanhua met the dark youth’s gaze, he suddenly calmed down.

Fu Nanhua’s face, neck choked, was flushed crimson, quickly turning blue and then purple. The youth’s grip hadn’t tightened, but it was enough to suffocate a grown man.

Fu Nanhua struggled to speak, but the words came with great difficulty: “If I swear I won’t kill you, would you believe me? People like us don’t swear lightly.”

He struggled violently for a moment.

But the youth instantly increased the pressure, causing Fu Nanhua’s one arm, which had twitched slightly, to hang limply.

Chen Ping’an shook his head.

Fu Nanhua’s dizziness intensified. Although he desperately wanted to crush the little bastard’s head, he tried to put on a pleasant face, adding: “What if I swear to the heavens? We people cannot just swear as we please.”

Fu Nanhua employed a scheme. Buddhist vows and cultivator oaths did carry considerable weight, but he had only told half the truth. Even if he swore, it would only be a verbal commitment, not a solemn vow “not established in writing, but no different from being carved on the heart-wall of a Daoist chamber,” so whether he kept it would depend on his mood. Furthermore, cultivator oaths could be broken, it only depended on the cost. Generally, the cost was directly related to the cultivator’s cultivation level and the gravity of the vow.

Unexpectedly, the sandal-clad youth shook his head again.

Fu Nanhua, whose breathing became increasingly difficult, lost the energy to haggle, feeling somewhat dazed for no reason.

Was he going to die?

Just like that poor wretch Cai Jinjian, dying at the hands of a little piece of trash?

When the news reached Old Dragon City, would it become the laughingstock of the entire city?

He didn’t even have the chance to trigger the hidden mechanism on his jade belt. The white jade belt around his waist was, in fact, a remnant of a subterranean dragon’s spirit.

“Enough.”

A celestial voice resonated in their ears, a saving grace for Fu Nanhua, though he had passed out and was unsure if it was a hallucination.

Chen Ping’an turned his head in astonishment.

He saw a shimmering, ethereal figure of Qi Jingchun.

The figure smiled silently.

Chen Ping’an’s gaze returned to its unwavering resolve, his right hand never loosening its grip.

Qi Jingchun showed neither irritation at his kindness being unappreciated, nor joy at seeing a promising talent. Instead, he waved his sleeve lightly at the sandal-clad youth, as if “retrieving” an item into his hand.

The Confucian Sage opened his palm and chuckled softly.

A mass of filth, black as ink.

It turned out that the will planted in the youth by someone had been dim and faded, clearly extinguished long ago.

Looking up again at the youth Chen Ping’an, Qi Jingchun felt a pang of regret, and sighed: “No wonder the teacher said that in this world, extraordinary talent is secondary to success, and an unwavering will is the most important. Chen Ping’an, you have taught me another lesson on behalf of the teacher. It is a pity that Qi Jingchun no longer has the opportunity to accept a closed-door disciple.”