Upon realizing Chen Ping’an noticed him, the man showed no surprise, offering a slight smile.

Chen Ping’an nodded in acknowledgement, remaining silent.

It was Xi Ping, a scripture scholar of the Literary Temple.

This Confucian scholar, tasked with guarding the Literary Temple’s gate and the Moral Forest, was actually manifested from the Xi Ping Stone Classics themselves, bearing the weight of righteous literary fortune, akin to a Boundaryless cultivator.

According to his own teacher, though Brother Xi Ping seemed to only handle trivial matters, within the vicinity of the Literary Temple, he could be considered a Fourteenth Realm existence, in harmony with both celestial timing and terrestrial advantage. Dealing with an Ascension Realm cultivator, regardless of strength, would be a trifling matter, a task easily accomplished.

The Grand Thousand Worlds held countless wonders.

Madam Rouge, leading the increasingly faltering Flower Goddess, arrived beside the figure clad in azure robes.

This journey had been quite arduous; Rui Feng’er had actually regretted her decision halfway through, telling Madam Rouge that her coin purse was too meager, and she needed to borrow some money from the Flower Master’s wife. She also argued that it wasn’t appropriate for a sword immortal to interfere in the Hundred Flowers Blessed Land selection, and she shouldn’t squander Madam Rouge’s favor with the mountains.

These were, of course, all excuses. The young Flower Goddess was clearly afraid to meet the volatile sword immortal.

Madam Rouge was exasperated, grabbing the little girl to prevent her escape. “You’re afraid, but am I not?

That fellow is clearly waiting for us by the river. Either we sisters don’t move a step, or we grit our teeth and face him. Changing your mind at the last minute is just unacceptable.”

The Literary Temple continued its deliberations.

And Chen Ping’an, tossed outside a long row of houses by the Ritual Sage, continued his aimless wandering.

He encountered a gaunt old man halfway down the path, sitting on the steps, an old pipe dangling from his tobacco pouch, puffing out clouds of smoke.

Chen Ping’an paused, hesitating whether to exchange a few words. He gazed at the old pipe, a trace of absentmindedness in his eyes.

The old man turned his head, smiling amiably as he asked, “You look unfamiliar, young man. Are you a high-ranking official? Or perhaps a descendant of the Sage’s residence? Helping the Sages of the Literary Temple inspect the progress of each house?”

Certain gentlemen and virtuous individuals within Confucianism held unique official positions within the Literary Temple, separate from those of academy rectors.

Chen Ping’an bowed respectfully, straightening up as he chuckled, “Neither. May I trouble you for a moment, old sir? I’ve been met with quite a few cold stares and unfriendly faces along the way.”

The old man laughed heartily, gesturing to the side. “Sit as you please. The Literary Temple isn’t my home. If it were, young man, you could do as you wished even more freely.”

From a house in the distance, a young man poked his head out, calling, “Mr. Li, there seems to be a discrepancy between the Literary Temple’s old records and Lord Zheng’s new records regarding the width of a certain waterway in the Yiluo River. We need your experienced eye to help us decide.”

“Leave it for now. Let me finish this bowl of tobacco. Can’t expect the donkey to pull the mill without giving it grass to eat.”

The old man waved his hand dismissively, grumbling, “You youngsters are too delicate, complaining about the strong smell of tobacco. If you didn’t, this wouldn’t even be an issue.”

Chen Ping’an had just sat down, his hands tucked into his sleeves. Hearing this, he couldn’t help but turn his head, withdrawing his hands and placing them gently on his knees, astonished. “Old sir, are you by any chance the ‘Supreme Water Immortal,’ Mr. Li?”

Chen Ping’an’s journeys had taken him far and wide, his readings were extensive, and he naturally held a few individuals in his heart with genuine admiration, mostly “people from books.” For example, Li Shilang of the Night-Voyaging Ship, and the stone seal carvings of old Mr. Wang Yuanzhang, who pioneered a new path for the art of seal carving. This Mr. Li, lauded as the “Supreme Water Immortal,” was an elder whom Chen Ping’an held in particular esteem, a sage in Chen Ping’an’s heart, without a doubt.

This was because this old Mr. Li truly managed to read ten thousand scrolls and traverse all the mountains and rivers under heaven, ultimately compiling a “Classic of Mountains and Seas: Commentary,” a book deemed essential and unparalleled in the world. Subsequent works like the “Classic of Mountains and Seas: Records” and “Supplement to the Classic of Mountains and Seas” were essentially its descendants, yet they paled in comparison in terms of content and writing. The founder of Water Scripture Mountain in the Northern Passage Continent was clearly a cultivator who deeply revered old Master Li.

In fact, the owner of the Night-Voyaging Ship had once commented on the ancient records of mountains and rivers, stating, “Supreme is Li, second is Liu, recent is Yuan.” Three surnames, three renowned scholars. Chen Ping’an was still unaware that the former two old masters’ landscape travelogues and poems were the very foundation of the Night-Voyaging Ship’s literary prison, adapted by the ship owner.