Chapter 16

The warm yellow lamplight illuminated a face that seemed too beautiful to exist.
If the girls from Huayu Hall saw him now, there would be ear-splitting screams.
That face, aglow beneath the lamp, belonged to none other than the leading man in storybooks currently causing a sensation among female cultivators, the legendary number one powerhouse of the Demon Spirit Realm, Cen Qianshan.
Right now, Cen Qianshan had his sleeves rolled up, one arm bound in white bandages, as he accepted the Yan family’s ornate calling card bearing their seal from the puppet’s tiny metal hand.
With long, nimble fingers he opened the card, and a gentle, melodious woman’s voice floated out from the embossed golden page:
“No one else can help us except you. Tomorrow at noon, come to the old site on Ten Marvels Street. Bring your answer, and if you agree, the soul artifact of the ancient Ancient God Dongyue is yours. Waiting, hoping, watching for your arrival.”
Cen Qianshan listened, then shut the card and set it back into the puppet’s iron fingers. He turned away, picked up the fine-point chisel he’d just put down, and resumed his work.
The tin puppet waited a good while for a reply. Hearing none, it quietly rolled away.
It had been with its master long enough, even an artificial brain could figure out some patterns:
If Master disagreed, he’d say "No" out loud. When he agreed… he usually just stayed silent.
The puppet’s little feet clicked farther and farther away.
The old house fell into quiet again, leaving only the solitary figure bathed in lamplight.
The space was large, the equipment worn, with two massive worktables dominating the room. Cen Qianshan’s desk was tidy to an extreme, while the other table looked a bit chaotic.
Over there, a half-finished magical artifact lay mid-construction, clean tweezers and pliers laid out neatly on either side, as if the maker had stepped out only moments ago.
Deep into the night, the young man at the lamp finally stopped working. He put every tool carefully in its place, got up, and started scrubbing the room down with cloth and broom.
Dusting, wiping, sweeping, each movement crisp and meticulous.
When he cleaned the second, messier worktable, he handled every tool and beaker with care, wiping them spotless before placing them exactly where they’d been.
The whole time, his expression was peaceful, every gesture smooth and practiced, as if he’d done it thousands of times before.
Outside, snowflakes fell soundlessly onto the courtyard. The wooden-brick house carried the heavy wear of too many years.
All the surrounding street had long since crumbled to ruin, leaving only silent, empty wreckage beyond the gate.
In that pitch-black wasteland, this was the only courtyard that cast out a single yellow glow. Beyond that tiny patch of warmth, the whole world was swallowed by endless, silent darkness.
Then, the last light in the room flickered out.
Only pure white snow fell silently, cloaking the night and the earth.
…
Ten Marvels Street used to be the bustling heart of Fuwang City.
A century ago, a sudden beast tide swept in, nearly destroying the whole city, and leveling every building in this district.
Soon after, cultivators rebuilt the city walls higher and higher just a short distance away. These days, hardly anyone still lives among these ruins.
Jagged stone walls, half-swallowed by weeds, lay scattered with shattered, once-beautiful statues and fragments of colored glass, a silent monument to all the noise and splendor that once was.
Though it was noon, the sky hung low and murky. Hidden behind every broken wall, sharp-eyed, lean demonic cultivators lurked with tension bright in their gaze, clutching their talismans as if war might break out at any moment.
At the center of their wary circle, upon the smoothest patch of ground, stood a striking woman whose poise radiated authority. She idly spun a folding fan in her fingers, as though deliberately waiting for someone.
This was the famous head of the Yan family, everyone in Fuwang knew to call her Manager Yan.
A couple of female cultivators, all resembling her to varying degrees, stood close behind. One spoke up: “Mother, since when has the Yan family ever gone begging to a man? I don’t care how strong he is, what could a guy possibly do that we can’t? Just give me a little more time, I swear, ”
Yan family’s matriarch lifted a pale hand and cut her daughter off. “Swear what? Even if I went myself, I’d be helpless. The most important thing is knowing your limits, heroism isn’t tied to gender, not in our family.”
From the washed-out midday light, a figure approached at a leisurely pace. He was tall, draped in a heavy cloak, and a small iron puppet perched on his shoulder.
With each step, his soft footfalls set every hidden guard on edge.
Manager Yan snapped her fan shut and straightened up, all business.
The man came to a stop a polite distance away and pulled down his hood, finally revealing a dazzlingly handsome, ghost-pale face.
Sharp, elegant eyes; long dark lashes; pupils icy and remote as a frozen wasteland, a hint of weary sorrow fixed in his brows. Beautiful, in that cold way that left you breathless.
Yet every woman present, instead of admiring him, looked honestly frightened. More than a few shuffled backward.
Manager Yan stepped forward with an easy smile and held out her hand. “Mister Cen, thank you for coming all this way.”
Cen Qianshan didn’t take her hand. He just said, cool and curt, “What is it?”
Unbothered, Manager Yan smoothly withdrew her hand, flicked her fan open, and explained, “A few months ago, we discovered an opening at the ruins of the Dongyue Temple. At great expense, we found that hidden within the temple is an Deathless Pool, a black lotus called the Ninefold Nether Lotus grows in its waters.”
Cen Qianshan said nothing, simply waiting for her to continue.
She went on, “That Ninefold Nether Lotus is crucial to the Yan family. Unfortunately, it’s beyond our reach, no matter what we tried, we couldn’t grasp it. I’m here to ask for your help, Young Master Cen.”
Cen Qianshan replied calmly, “Ancient god ruins suppress immortals and demons alike, even if you’re a true demon lord, once you step onto the god-path, you’re as powerless as a novice disciple.”
Manager Yan gave him a look, acknowledging the deadliest aspect outright. “Countless people have tried in the last few months, almost all can only circle the god-path, not get anywhere near the inner sanctum.”
God temples belong to the gods. Their laws of heaven and earth are utterly different; high-level spells and talismans don’t work. Only the simplest artifacts and low-grade puppets powered by something other than qi can do anything at all.
Knowing the routine when hiring Cen Qianshan, Manager Yan studied his face, then drew a violet-gold chime inlaid with dragon clouds from her storage sack.
The bell was engraved with cloud-dragons summoning rain, the base lifted by grinning ghost faces, its long, slender handle carved from ancient sandalwood; there was also a matching copper striker, round at the top and flat at the bottom.
The moment she produced this item, the noon sun seemed to dull, and a faint dragon’s roar trembled in the air, making everyone’s heart shudder.
At last, Cen Qianshan looked up and regarded the bell. He reached out a hand wrapped in white bandages from beneath his cloak, a simple gesture that said, I’ll take the job.
Manager Yan smiled. “This artifact was found in the Dongyue Temple, summons ghosts and gathers lost souls, enormously powerful. We’ll put down a deposit of a hundred thousand spirit stones; once you get us the lotus, it’s yours as a reward. How does that sound?”
Cen Qianshan stayed silent. His hand remained outstretched in the air.
A woman behind Manager Yan abruptly strode forward.
This was Yan Ling, her eldest daughter, the Yan family’s first miss.
She glared furiously. “We lost people for that artifact! You haven’t even done anything for us yet, and you want your reward upfront? Are you for real?”
With a face as cold as winter, Cen Qianshan replied smoothly, “That’s always how I operate. You called me here, I’ve agreed to help, now you hand it over.”
Yan Ling lost her temper. “And if we refuse? What, you think you can just snatch it?”
Cen Qianshan glanced her way. The puppet on his shoulder swiveled its iron head a full one-eighty, its innocent face morphing into something twisted and ferocious.
The ground shuddered and groaned. Most people stumbled, scrambling for their flying artifacts.
A chorus of chanting rose up from nowhere, and a towering six-armed, three-eyed black deity shimmered ominously into view.
The threat of that infernal god crashed down on Yan Ling, nearly crushing her breathless, there was a bitter taste in her throat.
Manager Yan immediately shielded her daughter.
“Let’s talk this out, all right? Mister Cen has a flawless reputation, we trust him.”
She privately thought Cen Qianshan was terrifying, the guy flipped his switch without warning, utterly impossible to reason with.
As the head of her household, Madam Yan was not accustomed to being slighted like this. Fury simmered inside her, but her self-control ran deep, she knew when to bend.
Cen Qianshan had once been a bitter enemy of the Yan family, single-handedly destroying almost half their legacy. She’d pulled every string to reach this truce. She couldn’t bear to make a new, fearsome rival for her clan, not again.
Yan Ling huddled behind her mother’s back, cold sweat prickling down her spine.
She’d been raised the high-and-mighty heiress of the Yan family, arrogant since birth. Yet right now, the person facing her radiated a force, blunt, wild, and utterly unyielding, that left her nowhere to hide.
Staring at the tall figure standing before that monstrous, demonic phantom, Yan Ling was suddenly filled with regret. Of all the provocations, why did she have to rile someone this treacherous, this strong?
Yan Ling’s memory spiraled back, to the very first time she met Cen Qianshan.
Back then, she’d been younger, and this terrifying man had been nothing but a scrawny, lost boy.
It was at a lavish gala. A cousin from the Lian family pointed out the delicate, beautiful boy across the ballroom.
“See him? Born a slave. I spotted him once at the Lei family estate, they only called him over to serve drinks at a small banquet. But he acted all high and mighty, wouldn’t give us the time of day. Then halfway through, he clung to Master Mu’s legs, buttered her up, and convinced her to take him as a disciple.”
Yan Ling, intoxicated, arrogant, and reckless, didn’t care about all the what’s-their-name bigshots. She grabbed a few friends, rounded up the boy, and cornered him in a pitch-black storage room.
“Beat him to a pulp. If it gets out of hand, I’ll take the blame.”
She could still see herself, feet propped up, swaying with drunken pride as she watched her followers pin the frail little boy to the floor.
The truth was, Cen Qianshan had always been fierce; three or four grown men couldn’t hold him down. The more he was beaten, the harder he fought, like a wild, cornered animal.
“What a vicious little brat. No wonder he even killed his own foster father,” sneered the Lian girl from behind,
“Who would actually make you a disciple?”
Just then, Cen Qianshan’s violent resistance suddenly snapped. He fell silent, brittle and small, refusing to beg or struggle, his teeth gritted tight.
“Oh, what’s this? Getting scared now?” The rich kids snickered. Someone bent down and kicked him. “Should we tell your future master, see if she still wants her precious little disciple?”
The slender boy curled tighter on the floor, body rigid with fear.
In Fuwang City, clans of cultivators stood strong by their bloodline.
The more heirs, the better for the family, but the stronger one’s cultivation, the harder it got to pass on that legacy, and weak heirs were no use at all.
Some families adopted, taking in sons, daughters, or even disciples, anything to quickly grow their circle of power.
In this world, fathers and masters reigned supreme, the very pillars of life.
Someone like Cen Qianshan, who’d killed his own foster father? No one would ever admit him as disciple or kin.
The door burst open, slammed aside by Mu Xue, her face stormy with rage.
Only then, as the alcohol haze receded, did Yan Ling recall that this “Master Mu”, usually so low-key, was Fuwang City’s undisputed top artifact refiner. Even Yan Ling’s own mother warned her to treat Mu Xue with utmost care.
Yan Ling stumbled to her feet, trying to grin her way out of it. “Master Mu, it’s really nothing, just a little slave. If something happens to him, I’ll pay you back tenfold.”
Before she finished speaking, Mu Xue’s arms flashed with a coating of black iron scales, her fist smashed into Yan Ling’s face, slamming her against the wall and flattening a whole row of tables and chairs.
By the time Yan Ling crawled up from the chaos, everyone she’d brought lay scattered and groaning.
The furious artifact refiner scooped Cen Qianshan protectively into her arms, fist still wrapped in bristling armor, burning with unrestrained rage.
Yan Ling spat furiously, “You dare lay a finger on the Yan and Lian daughters? Aren’t you afraid my family will crush you?”
“Afraid? Maybe. But right now, the one you really need to fear, is me.” Mu Xue’s punch sent a shockwave blowing toward Yan Ling. If not for someone yanking her back, she would have lost more than just her dignity.
The banquet’s frazzled host came barging in, pleading, arguing, and finally dragging Mu Xue away with desperate insistence.
“Hey! You probably don’t even know, do you?” Yan Ling called after Mu Xue, voice dripping with schadenfreude. “Your precious little disciple? He’s actually an evil devil, a parricide who killed his foster father.”
The bystanders poured in, the whispering swelling around them like a tidal wave.
“Unforgivable.”
“A traitorous snake.”
“People like that should be executed.”
“Why is he even allowed here?”
“Master Mu must be under his spell.”
Cen Qianshan, lost in the crowd, went deathly white. Surrounded by venomous whispers and scornful stares, he hunched his skinny body and clenched his mouth shut, silent.
Mu Xue crouched beside him, running a hand through his soft hair. “What happened?” she asked gently.
Maybe it was the warmth in her touch that did it, that finally let him speak,
Cen Qianshan’s lips were bloodless as he whispered, “That’s not true, Master. He…he hit me. All the time.”
Someone jeered from the crowd, “Shameless! That was your foster father. No matter what, you should take it, children have no right to defy their parents.”
Cen Qianshan looked only at Mu Xue, voice trembling, “He used to just beat me, day and night. But when I got older…he started touching me. Wanted to do things, strange things. I couldn’t let him. I told my foster mother. They fought. In the struggle, she accidentally hurt him.”
His eyes were rimmed red, gaze never leaving Mu Xue’s face, desperate to catch even the subtlest flicker of disgust or pity,
“In the end, they said it was all my fault. Called it parricide, tried me for it, and sold me off as a slave.”
Mu Xue couldn’t help but recall the crisscrossed scars on Cen Qianshan’s back, pain etched into a child’s body through years of suffering.
She let out a quiet sigh. No more questions. She scooped up her little disciple and broke through the crowd, heading out.
Yan Ling called after her, unwilling to give up. “Sheltering a filthy thing like him? Sooner or later, you’ll pay for it.”
Mu Xue halted, not bothering to look back. “He’s not filthy. He’s cleaner than you’ll ever be. If your mother’s paying any price, it’s for having a daughter like you.”
Yan Ling would never forget the way Master Mu carried off that little demon, soft and harmless as a newborn lamb.
But as his Master stepped through the crowd, that so-called “little lamb” looped his arms around her neck and glanced back at Yan Ling over her shoulder, eyes vicious and sharp, a wolf, fierce and grudge-holding.
Back when Master Mu was alive, this little devil never showed his true colors. It wasn’t until Mu Xue was gone that the beast bared his fangs, wreaking havoc, taking revenge like a man gone mad.
After that, the Cen family that once took him in vanished from the map. The Lei family who’d trafficked him crumbled overnight. Even the Yan family was nearly destroyed by his fury.
If not for the beast tide hitting Fuwang City a hundred years ago, forcing everyone to unite against a common foe, not to mention her own mother’s desperate maneuverings, this knot of grudges might still never have been undone.
When Yan Ling snapped out of her memories, her mother and the Cen demon had already struck a deal.
They split the ancient artifact left by the Ancient God Dongyue: the bowl would stay with Cen Qianshan, the striker would remain with the Yan family, to be delivered only after the job was finished.
Cen Qianshan was ruthless, solitary, and cruel, but his word was ironclad. Pay him and the job got done, every time. So at least there was that.
Watching Cen Qianshan’s back as he took his half and left, the Yan family’s senior manager suddenly called after him: “Mister Cen, almost forgot, the ruins of the Dongyue Temple are a twin god realm.”
…
Immortal Spirit Realm, inside the Huayu Hall on Jiulian Mountain.
Just recovered, Mu Xue sat at her desk, pen in hand, carefully writing down four characters: “Dongyue Temple.”
The lecturer today was the Sect Master himself, Danyang, a white-haired elder teaching the history of cultivation to a full house of disciples.
It was a rare thing to see the grandmaster himself give a class, and senior brothers and sisters had packed the hall, filling every seat.
“By the emperor’s order, Xi He became steward of all things under heaven, overseeing seasons, humans and gods, keeping harmony amidst the chaos. Only then was earth and sky truly separated. After that, spiritual energy dwindled, the ancient gods ascended, and all that remained below were their shrines and the myths left behind.”1
Danyang stroked his beard, reciting with reverent flair from the ancient texts.
“In primordial times, Immortal and Demon Spirit Realms were one. Only later did a mighty one split the world in two. Where spirit energy surged, monsters and demons were born: the Demon Spirit Realm. Where the veins ran thin and peace reigned: the Immortal Spirit Realm. The realms are distant, yes, but the ancient gods’ shrines follow their own laws and remain in place. And so, the twin domains were born.”
Ding Lanlan, seated beside Mu Xue, leaned in to whisper, “It means there’s a weird spot where people from both realms can enter from their own sides, but each can only leave from their own entrance.”
“Wait, what does that mean?” Xia Tong whispered, puzzled.
“Like, the Demon Spirit Realm has a Shrine, and so does the Immortal Spirit Realm. Though they’re worlds apart, step inside and, bam, it’s the same place.”
“There’s a catch, though: the entrances are hidden by divine law, only opening a crack once in a blue moon. Normally, you can’t get in no matter what.”